Among the Burmans: A Record of Fifteen Years of Work and its Fruitage. Henry Park Cochrane
is always a source of much distraction. He takes away the soiled linen on Monday, promising to bring it back on Saturday; carries it to the riverside, stands in the water facing the shore, pounds it out on a flat stone with swinging blows, and—brings back what is left. Garments worn perhaps but once, are found on spreading out, to be spoiled by long rents or mildew. Socks that have been filled with sand in order to strike a harder blow, still retain enough sand to cause much discomfort. One or two pieces are missing altogether. He promises to bring them the next time. In the meantime he has probably hired them out to some person of mixed blood and principles, or native aping European habits. The sweeper, waterman, and other native helpers slight their work, or perchance, with the poorest excuse, and that not made known until afterwards—absent themselves altogether. "But why"—some will ask "is it necessary to employ these native cooks, washermen, etc.?
"Many of these women who go to the foreign field as missionaries' wives were accustomed to do much of their own work here at home—why not do the same over there, and so avoid the expense—as many of us who support them have to do?" In the first place, many of the missionaries have only one servant who is paid for full time, that is the cook. All others do a little work night and morning, their wages being made up by serving several different families. Again, it would be a physical impossibility for the missionary's wife to do the cooking and washing, adding the heat and smoke of an open fire to the tropical heat of the atmosphere. Some have tried it, only to give it up as utterly impracticable. Others have persisted in it, only to be laid away in a cemetery in a foreign land, or to return hopelessly broken in health, to the home-land.
It cannot be done. Moreover, it would be the height of folly for the wife to spend her time and strength over cooking utensils, dish-pans and wash-tubs. The wife, as truly as the husband, has consecrated her life to the Master's service. There is work for her to do, among the women and children, that he cannot touch. The missionary's wife whether touring with him among jungle-villages; visiting from house to house in the town; working in the school; making her influence felt in the church; or even when prevented by family cares or failing health—from engaging in active service—she furnishes the object lesson of a well-ordered Christian home, her life is of just as much worth to the cause of Christ as is that of the missionary whose helpmate she is. I can do no better than quote Dr. Herrick's beautiful tribute to her worth: "I never yet saw a missionary's wife whose companionship did not double her husband's usefulness. I have known more than one whose face, as the years of life increase took on that charm, that wondrous beauty that youthful features never wear, the beauty of character, disciplined by suffering, of a life unselfishly devoted to the highest ends. One of the choicest things of missionary work is the unwritten heroism of missionary homes. It is the missionary's wife who, by years of endurance and acquired experience in the foreign field, has made it possible, in these later years, for unmarried women to go abroad and live and work among the people of eastern lands."
When a young man or woman has once settled the burning question: Is it my duty and privilege to go as a missionary? and has become fully pledged to that service, there is an intense desire to get to the scene of action as soon as possible; to enter upon the grand work of proclaiming Christ where He has not been named.
We had not long been in our new home before Burmans, both Christian and heathen, began to call to see the new teachers. They evidently wanted to welcome us as their missionaries; and we, in turn, wanted them to know that love for them, for whom Christ died, had brought us among them. But how helpless we felt! An exchange of smiles, a hand-shake, a few words that neither party could understand—that was all.
We found ourselves utterly powerless to communicate to them one word of all that was burning—had been burning for years, in our hearts. Then it was that the fact fully dawned upon us that before we could hope to do effectively the work to which we had consecrated our lives, a difficult foreign language must be mastered; that we must keep our consecration warm, from the A B C of a strange tongue until the time when, through the medium of that tongue we could tell "the story of Jesus and His love." First in order then, is to get right down to hard boning on the language of the people among whom the missionary is to labour. He who fails to gain a strong hold on the language during the first year, will labour under a disadvantage through all the years of missionary service. Burdens are thrust upon him more than enough to consume all his time and strength. Hundreds of villages in his large district furnish a strong appeal to postpone study.
The climate soon begins to effect him so that he seems to lose the power to study. Inheriting a large organized work he is forced at once into service as a full-fledged missionary, before a pin-feather of experience has had time to start. Interruptions are frequent and unavoidable. How to find time for language study is indeed a serious problem—but he must find it, if his life is to tell for Christ, at its best. Moreover, the missionary must master practically two languages before he is fully equipped for service—the language of the book, and the language of the people. The formal style of classical Burmese would be as out of place in the jungle as the colloquial Burmese would be in the pulpit. In the one case it would not be understood, in the other it would give offense—for one may not "talk down" to even a native audience. Hence, to be effective the missionary must at the same time be faithful to study, and to real contact with the people. It is no easy matter, after one has struggled through all the years of training in the home-land, thumbing Latin, Greek, and Hebrew Lexicons until he fondly thinks that his training has been completed—to get right down again to the A B C of a new language. Here he meets something, that will test the soundness of his consecration and of his staying qualities. From first to last our great missionaries have been men who have thoroughly mastered the language of their people. But it is perfectly wonderful how the natives will listen respectfully to the most laborious attempts to speak to them in their own tongue. Not a smile at the most ridiculous mistakes, not a word or sign to indicate that they are not really understanding what you are driving at. This excessive respect sometimes leads to serious consequences. The missionary, thinking that he has made himself understood, is disappointed and hindered because things do not come to pass. The native is not wanting a sense of humour, and if he feels sure that you will enjoy the joke, he will point out the mistake, and join in the laugh over it.
Unlike other languages of Burma, the construction of a Burmese sentence is the reverse of the English order. Many sentences may be translated backward, word for word, certain connective particles becoming relative pronouns, with a perfect idiomatic English sentence as the result. The eye can soon be trained to take in a printed sentence as a whole, and grasp its meaning, without stopping to render it into English in the reversed order. But to keep this order in mind, in conversation, with the word expressing action left for the last, like the snapper to a whip, is not so easy. In acquiring the language by ear a difficulty arises from the universal habit of kun-chewing. Never careful about enunciating his words, a wad of kun in a Burman's cheek adds to the confusion of sounds. With mouth half full of saliva, chin protruding to keep it from slopping over—a mumbled jargon is what the ear must be trained to interpret as human speech.
By this time the newcomer has seen enough of the climate, and of the side of society in which he will move, to convince him that his Prince Albert coat, in which he has been accustomed to array himself "every day in the week, and twice on Sunday" must be folded away in his trunk until such a time as he takes a furlough in the home-land. A fellow-missionary consoles him with the remark that he once wore back to America the same coat that he wore to Burma eight years before. Missionaries usually arrive in November, the beginning of the "cold season." After that comes the "hot season,"—but it is difficult to tell just where the one leaves off and the other begins.
In any event, the newcomer soon "warms to his work." First the waistcoat is discarded, then the long thick coat gives place to a short thin one. For underwear, gauze flannel and singlets are in demand. Starched shirts and linen collars are reserved for special occasions. High-top shoes are relegated to the corner-closet. Even his watch hangs as an uncomfortable weight in his light clothing. In the old life he hardly perspired once in the year. Now there is hardly once in the year when he is not perspiring. The drinking-water is so warm that it seems to have lost much of its wetness. What would he not give to feel cool again. But he has not long to wait for his wish to be more than realized. Some night, after fanning himself into a restless sleep, he will wake up in