Chapter VI.—THE EUROPEAN INHABITANTS.—

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The European population of Remyo is small, consisting in fact of but four resident ladies, and some dozen resident males; but despite their limited number they form a very friendly and independent little community. Among them are to be found the usual types of Anglo Indian society, but they display characteristics not met with among the dwellers in larger stations.

Remyo is so entirely cut off from civilisation, that the inhabitants must of necessity depend solely upon themselves for amusement, and as entertainments, at which one would invariably meet the same half-dozen guests are apt to become a trifle monotonous, the ladies, deprived of this usual mode of killing time, are compelled to devote themselves to domestic pursuits rather more than is the custom of most Anglo Indians.

The comparative coolness of the climate (Remyo being 3,500 feet above sea level) is conducive to such occupations, and whereas in Rangoon, or Mandalay, housekeeping duties are reduced to a minimum, in Remyo, the ladies, having nothing else to do, engage themselves thus with a zeal and energy worthy of a Dutch housewife.

But, poor souls, they are terribly handicapped!

In the first place, they are mostly unaccustomed to housekeeping themselves; secondly, the servants and household are quite unaccustomed to being "kept"; and thirdly, it is practically impossible for a mistress to do her own marketing unless she possess an unusual knowledge of the language.

She may resolutely keep accounts, lock up stores, walk about all morning in an apron, with a large bunch of keys, and have long confidential conversations with the cook; but in spite of all these possibilities she can only play at housekeeping; the Cook and Head Boy are the real managers of the establishment, and they regard the well meant efforts of their mistress with the kindly amusement one would extend to a child "keeping house." A Remyo lady's morning interview with her cook, usually a Madrassee, is an amusing interlude.

Neither fish nor joints can be procured in the native bazaar, so the poor housekeeper is often at her wits' end to introduce variety into her evening menu.

She begins cheerfully: "Well cook, what have we for dinner to-night?"

Cook replies laconically, "Chicken."

"Chicken," repeats the mistress doubtfully, "yes, perhaps that will do. Did you kill it yesterday?"

"No! missis, not killed yet."

"Oh cook!" in a tone of stern reproach, "missis told you always to kill it the day before, why have you not done so?"

Cook shelters himself behind an unintelligible answer in a mixture of Hindustani and "Pigeon English," and after an unsuccessful attempt to understand him, his mistress is forced to pass from the subject, with a rebuke which he receives with a reproachful look. "Now," she continues, "what have you for soup?"

"Chicken" is again the prompt reply.

"Is there really nothing else?" demands the mistress uneasily.

"No, there is nothing else."

"Well," hopefully, "you must make a very nice little side dish (entrée), what can we have?"

"Nice bit of grilled chicken," suggests cook cheerfully.

"Oh no cook," she cries in despair, "we can't have more chicken."

"What would missis like then?"

Missis has not the vaguest idea of any possible suggestion, so diffidently agrees that perhaps chicken will be nice. She asks about the savoury, but seeing the word "chicken" again hovering on cook's lips, decides to make the savoury herself, and turns to receive the daily accounts.

Then cook rattles off a long account of his expenditure, which his mistress duly enters in her book, fondly hoping that he isn't charging her more than double the cost of each article, but having no means of discovering the truth.

Once or twice, on visits to the bazaar, we asked the price of various things, and triumphantly confronted the cook with the result of our researches, but he was never in the least disconcerted, and at once entered into a long, unintelligible, and quite irrefutable explanation as to why the article was cheaper on that particular day than on any other. It is quite impossible to upset the cheerful sang froid of a Madrassee.

Native servants have the reputation of being most faithful to their master, and perhaps they deserve the character, for they allow no one else to cheat him (unless they get the lion's share of the spoil), but they consider it their special prerogative to cheat him themselves at every opportunity.

A scolding from a mistress makes little impression on a Madrassee servant,—he receives it with an air of gentle reproach, while he most persistently denies the offence, whatever it may be, from a bad dinner, to a broken plate or an undelivered message. It is only the master, who, by a wealth of strong language, and judiciously directed remarks, concerning the origin, parents, and relations of the guilty one, can hope to make the slightest impression upon the impervious native mind.

A further difficulty for the young and ardent housekeeper is the number of servants in her establishment. One man is engaged to sweep the floor, another to dust the furniture, one to fetch the water, a second to pour it into the bath, one to lay the knives and forks, and a companion to hand the plates, and so on through every department of the household work.

This divided duty is exceedingly convenient to the servants, for if anything be wrong the fault can always be laid on the absent one, or a scolding delivered to one can be passed on almost unlimitedly until everyone has enjoyed an opportunity of relieving his feelings. But it is inconvenient for a mistress; such a delay is caused in carrying out an order. For example, if a jug of water be spilled, a first servant picks up the jug, a second dries the table cloth, a third dries the table, a fourth mops up the water from the floor, a fifth rearranges the furniture, a sixth carries out the empty jug, and a seventh fetches the water to refill it.

All orders are delivered to the Head Boy, a most important and dignified personage, and he transmits them through the various ranks of his underlings until they reach the servant whose duty it is to carry them out. During the transmission through so many channels, of course the orders become hopelessly mixed.

We had only fourteen servants, as our house was not large! A few of them, such as the cook, sais, and butler had definite duties, the remainder seemed to be chiefly engaged in getting in one another's way and quarrelling. But I suppose the work of the house could not have been carried on without them, though their number was distinctly inconvenient.

In Rangoon, where servants abound, it would be easy to dismiss and engage a dozen a day, but not so in the remoter stations. The natives of India will not leave the plains unless a strong inducement be offered, and the Burmese much prefer not to work, if they can live without doing so. Burmans are usually excellent servants, but they are slow to learn to speak English, and the young housekeeper, who has probably been accustomed to English, or at least Hindustani-speaking servants in Rangoon, experiences great difficulty in making herself understood.

All our servants, with the exception of the cook, were Burmese, and when my brother happened to be away, and the cook was not at hand to interpret, we felt particularly helpless. Messages brought at such a time had to go undelivered, and many a struggle have I had to understand Po Sin's wants, or to make him understand mine. Housekeeping under such disadvantages is not a happy undertaking.

Another way of passing time in which we indulged, was cooking. It was cooking under difficulties, for the most important part (the baking) had perforce to be entrusted to the tender mercies of the cook, no one else being capable of understanding his intricate oven. And the cook, jealous of our trespass on his prerogative, almost invariably served up our cakes in the guise, either of soft dough, or of black cinders.

The chief objects of our cooking experiments were cakes and savouries. We neither of us knew very much about cooking, but we had cookery books, and did what we could, supplying the place of the innumerable ingredients we did not possess, with any we happened to have on hand. The result was usually distasteful.

I made cakes with exceeding great vigour and confidence during almost the whole of my stay, but nobody ate them save myself from bravado, the dogs from greed, and unsuspecting strangers from innocence.

Cake making was a fashionable subject of conversation at the ladies' "five o'clocks" in Remyo, and everyone gave everyone else recipes. I was astonished to hear my sister (whom I knew to be almost entirely ignorant upon such subjects) glibly confiding recipes for all sorts of things, on one of these occasions. I taxed her with the matter later, but she explained that it was the fashion to give recipes, and so long as she was careful to include an ingredient or two, impossible to obtain, she could safely trust that no one would find her out.

There is one shop in Remyo in addition to the native Bazaar, and the ladies usually pay it a daily visit, in order, I suppose, to add realism to their pretence of housekeeping.

The method adopted on these occasions is remarkable. No one expects to find anything she really wants in the shop, as it is kept by a native of India, but she begins hopefully asking for various articles, each demand being greeted by a shake of the head. She then asks the shopkeeper what he does happen to sell, at which he appears doubtful, but suggests some useless thing such as antimacassars. The purchaser at length makes a tour of the shop, picks out the least useless article she can find, and bears it home in triumph.

The unwise thing to do, is to order an article from Rangoon or Mandalay. One is indeed lucky if it arrives within twelve months after being ordered, and without an expenditure of all one's powers of sarcasm in letters of remonstrance, and a fortune in stamps.

Firstly, there will be received about a dozen letters, with intervals of four days or so between each, demanding fresh descriptions and explanations of the desired article. Then, when more specific description is an impossibility, letters for money will arrive; a request for a rupee for carriage, another request for five annas for something else, for half a rupee that has been overlooked in the first account, and so on for four weeks more. Then the article is announced to be upon the way, but it does not arrive. More letters bring to light the fact that it is lost; has most mysteriously disappeared; cannot be traced anywhere.

New people come upon the scene. Letters from carriers and agents arrive. Weeks elapse, still the article cannot be found. Another is in course of construction, when it is suddenly discovered that by some strange oversight the original was overlooked, never sent off at all, and is still reposing in the same tiresome shop. At length the once desired purchase arrives, but the purchaser has now long ceased to feel any interest in it whatever.

The inhabitants of Remyo live together in apparent peace and friendliness, but there is between them one never ending source of rivalry, i.e. their gardens.

Gardening is one of the most fashionable employments in Remyo. Everyone has a garden, though the uninitiated would probably not recognise the fact, and the amount of time, thought, and energy expended thereon is worthy of better results than those I beheld.

For the "Remyoans" are ambitious folk, and are not content with the flowers, plants and natural products of the country. Their desire is to have a real English garden, and with this end in view, they sow innumerable seeds, set many bulbs, rake, dig and water (or superintend these operations) till life is a burden both to themselves and to their servants. Possibly, I did not remain long enough, but the results I saw were not satisfactory; it required a great stretch of imagination to mark any resemblance between a large bare compound covered with coarse jungle grass, dotted about with flat grey-soiled beds containing a few withered looking plants (half-a-dozen violets perhaps, and a haggard sunflower), and an English garden. Perhaps long absence from home had dulled their recollection of gardens in England.

We were specially unlucky in our garden. Had we been content to confine our efforts to plants in pots and boxes (as did some of our wiser neighbours) we might have been fairly successful. But visions of rose gardens, artistically laid out beds, and mossy violet covered dells dazzled us, and our ambitions in this direction were boundless.

The coarse grass, the poor soil, and the persistent reappearances of unsightly jungle weeds in all sorts of unexpected places should have daunted us, but we had souls above such trifles. Directly we had formed our plans we set to work, scorning the advice of more experienced people, and disregarding all considerations of prepared beds, manure, and seasons. We marked out several intricately shaped beds, dug them up, lightly scattered some good soil over the top, and proceeded to sow our seed with hearty good will.

The first difficulty we met with was with regard to arrangement. Each of us had a favourite plan, the abandonment of which no arguments on the part of the others could persuade. At length, after much useless discussion, we decided each to go our own way, sow our seed where we chose, and leave it to Nature to settle the difficulty. This was so far satisfactory, tho' we felt anxious when we found that nasturtiums had been sown on the top of daffodil bulbs, and one poor little bed of pansies had a border of sweet peas and sunflowers.

For some days after we had laid out the garden, my sister and I had a wearing time. The first thing in the early mornings we hurried out for an eager search after signs of life in our seeds. We divided the day into watches, that someone might always be at hand to defend the precious seed from the marauding crows and pigeons. The cool of the evening, usually given up to tennis and other amusements, was devoted wholly to the fatiguing task of watering.

At last, sooner in fact than we really expected, we were rewarded by a few delicate green shoots, peering cautiously above the ground. How tenderly we cherished these first fruits of our toil; how carefully we shaded them from the sun, watered them, and protected them from the evil onslaught of the pigeons. How angry we were when we discovered they were weeds.

However, we were rewarded at last by the unmistakable appearance of cultivated plants. Nearly every seed sent up its little green shoot, and for a few days we were most unpleasantly proud, and treated our friends with contemptuous pity, while we visited and measured the plants almost every half-hour, to see if they had grown in the interval. But our joy was short lived, for from some cause or another, either the strong sun, the lack of water, or the poor soil, all our plants withered before they put forth flowers.

At first we refused to believe our ill fortune; we told one another that it was always thus at first with delicate plants, that they must have more water and less sun. We covered them over in the heat of the day with waste paper baskets, topees, and cunningly erected tents of straw, and we risked our lives a hundred times, by running out in the hot sun to replace these, when the wind blew them away. We talked bravely of being able soon to gather bunches of daffodils, and to send our neighbours baskets of sweet peas. But we each felt all the time in our heart of hearts, that our hopes were doomed to disappointment.

At last we could keep up the delusion no longer, and owned the fact of our failure to one another; and being now sadder and wiser folk, threw away the withered plants, and made a new garden, following this time the advice of our neighbours.

The only plants which did prosper in this first garden were the nasturtiums (I verily believe they will flourish anywhere) and for several hours a tiny bed round the foot of a tree at the bottom of the compound veritably blazed with the colour afforded by four flourishing nasturtiums; but while we were at the Club that evening, the crows pecked off all the petals of the flowers, and our only success was but a short lived one.

The kitchen garden, which we consigned to the care of Po Sin, our head boy, was rather more successful, our radishes, and mustard and cress being the wonder of the country side.

Then we had good hopes for the peas too; there was one row about ten inches high which looked really promising, and as we sat on the veranda in the evenings contemplating this cheerful sight, we talked longingly of the time when we should have a dish of our own peas for dinner.

But alas for the vanity of human expectations. One morning, my sister had sallied forth to inspect the garden, when I was startled by the despairing cry of "Come, come at once, the peas are flowering;" and upon hurrying to the spot I found it too true; our precocious peas were already in flower, and nothing could be done to discourage them. After a few days the petals fell away, and miniature pea pods, containing microscopic peas appeared in their place. Our wishes were fulfilled; we had a dish, (a very small one) of our own peas for dinner, but alas it consisted of the produce of the entire row.

Another source of much interest was our strawberry plant. I took 100 strawberry runners out with me from England, but, unfortunately, only one survived, which put forth three new shoots, and appeared for a time quite healthy, but never bore fruit. Still, it may yet do so; and in the meantime it is much admired by all the inhabitants of Remyo.

Our second garden, happily, being prepared with more regard to the demands of the climate, was a success, and wiped out the stain of our first failure.

It is well that the Remyo ladies can interest themselves in the manner I have indicated, for between breakfast and tea time the sun is so terribly hot, as to render out-door exercise quite impossible, and in the absence of many books time is sometimes difficult to kill.

Ladies in England, with their hundred and one occupations, their amusements, household duties, and perhaps charities to attend to, can have but a very faint conception of how wearisomely long and lonely are some days, to their Anglo-Indian sisters. Their husbands away, or busy much of the day, deprived of their children's society, with few books, few amusements, and practically no duties, life is far from being an unqualified joy to these exiled women. Let the British matron who would accuse her Eastern sister of idleness, frivolity, and worse, consider these things, and forbear to judge.

The men, with their work and sport to engage their time, are less apt to find the days long; but even they at times feel the same strain. Indeed, I remember one day, when there was no work to be done, my brother and sister, (who had but lately left Rangoon with its constant whirl of gaiety) became so hopelessly and desperately bored, that we were reduced to revive our drooping spirits by making sugar toffee over the spirit kettle.

Before breakfast and after tea are the opportunities for exercise and amusement, and the most is made of these cooler hours.

Remyo boasts a gravel tennis court, and a nine-hole golf course, mostly bunkers. Two more tennis courts, and a cricket and polo ground are in course of construction, preparatory to the arrival of the Great Future to which I have referred. Each form of exercise enjoys about three days popularity at a time. At one time tennis will be the rage, and every one repairs to the Club court, tho' so short are the evenings before sunset, that it is impossible to play more than three sets an afternoon, so we are forced to be content with about three games each. Then the tennis rage dies away, and golf suddenly becomes the fashionable game.

Like most occupations in Remyo, golf is golf under difficulties, though personally, whenever and wherever I play golf, I play under difficulties. The links are chiefly jungle, and a wood axe would probably be the most useful accessory to the enjoyment of the game. The holes are short, and a good player would probably drive on to the green every time, but at Remyo we were not good players. If by some lucky chance one drove perfectly straight, there was nothing worse to fear than a tree, or a deep nullah, filled with reeds and hoof marks, a nullah where might be spent a harassing quarter of an hour, slashing at a half hidden ball, which, in sheer desperation, one was at last compelled to pick out. But if the drive were not straight, then what endless and interesting possibilities or impossibilities were revealed. Heaps of stones, inpenetrable bushes, reeds, rabbit-holes, and every form of acute misery which the golfer's soul can conceive.

Yet the Links are very popular, and are the scene of many an exciting match, in spite of lost balls, broken clubs, and lost tempers. I have seen three clubs broken by one man in an afternoon's match, and he was neither a particularly bad player, nor especially violent.

The Burman is not a success as a caddie. Our loogalays looked upon the game at first with indifference, then with dislike. I think they imagined that we purposely drove the ball into a hopeless tangle of grass and bushes in order to scold them when they could not find it. They could never be induced to make any distinction between the clubs, and looked hurt when we curtly refused to drive with our putters. Their notion of marking balls, too, is very primitive; Po Mya only found one during my stay, which it turned out was an old one lost some days before. In fine, they seemed to think it the greatest folly that we should tramp up and down, and in and out of nullahs, and lose our tempers so unnecessarily, because of a small white ball, when we had plenty more at home.

On some afternoons everyone will repair to the new polo and cricket ground, and walk up and down the new laid turf, discussing solemnly the drainage, and general advantages and disadvantages of the position; or, feeling energetic, will practise cricket, and the knowing ones will give exhibitions of tricky polo strokes.

The making of the polo ground was seriously delayed at first on account of the divergent opinions as to the best site, each declaring his selection to be the only one possible, and showering unlimited contempt upon all others. Every day we were dragged off to inspect a new spot, and all appeared to me so equally lacking in points of advantage, that I had no difficulty in impressing each new discoverer with my knowledge in such matters, by disparaging (in confidence) all other schemes than his.

Finally, a site was chosen, and while the ground was in course of construction, those whose views had been disregarded, derived the satisfaction (always to be had in such cases) of discussing the insurmountable obstacles to the selected proposal.

Some afternoons were devoted to rides. The jungle around Remyo is lovely, tho' not being there during the Rains, I did not see it to perfection. There are delightful rides in every direction, and exquisite views from the hills, whence can be seen for miles nothing but undulating waves of jungle, every colour from deepest reds and browns to the bright pink of the peach blossom, and the pale green of the feathery bamboos. It is a wonderful sight, this unbroken jungle, bordered in the far distance by the shadowy blue hills of the Shan States.

Sometimes we visited quaint pagodas, with their neighbouring pretty, many-roofed kyaungs where the yellow robed hpoongyis, wander in meditation, or study 'neath the shade of the palm and banana groves. The pagodas are all very similar in shape, and near to each is a tazoung full of images of Gaudama, with ever the same calm peaceful smile, denoting a philosophy superior to the cares and artificialities of the world around.

Sometimes we rode along narrow jungle paths, bordered by a tangled mass of bright coloured bushes and undergrowth, or by the tall, waving, jungle grass, which is always whispering. These paths lead to tiny collections of bamboo huts, surrounded by high fences to keep out dacoits and other marauders, where the unambitious native leads a peaceful, contented life, under the shadow of the bamboos and peepul trees; an uneventful existence, enlivened, perhaps, occasionally by a Pwé, or visit to a pagoda feast at a neighbouring village.

I enjoyed these expeditions, tho' they were ever fraught with danger to my limbs. Nothing would induce me again to mount a pony (I had had sufficient experience) so I accompanied the others on my bicycle.

Of late years many wonderful bicycle riders have exhibited their tricks to the public, but I am certain none have performed such extraordinary feats as are called for by the state of the Burmese roads, most of them mere jungle tracks, ploughed in every direction into deep ruts by the bullock carts. It was impossible to ride in the furrows, as they were not sufficiently wide to allow the pedals to work round, so I was obliged to perform a sort of plank riding trick along the top of the rut. Occasionally, my eminence would break off abruptly, and unless the bicycle succeeded in jumping the gap a fall was inevitable. Never had bicycle such severe usage, nor ever did such yeoman service as mine; but save an occasional twist of the handle bars, or a bent spoke, I never met with a serious accident, and I soon learned the art of "falling softly."

My anxieties, too, were increased by the mistaken kindness of my companions, who would persist in riding beside me and conversing. One man in particular (I have forgiven him, for I know he meant it kindly) would never consent to leave me to ride alone. He would trot along on his pony, either just beside, or worse still just behind me, when I felt I might fall at any moment, and that he could not help riding over me. He would chatter away gaily, while I, with agonised expression, struggled along, one eye on the road and one eye on the pony, scarce heeding his remarks, making the most hopelessly vague replies to his questions, and committing myself to I know not what opinions.

One day we actually took a walk. We ladies grew weary of our customary amusements, and though we had none of us done much walking since we left England, we hailed the new idea with delight. The men refused to accompany us (the English civilian in the East seems to forget how to walk) so we went with only a servant or two to carry our cameras, refreshments, and other necessities.

We walked about five miles thro' the jungle, to a little native village surrounded entirely by clumps of feathery bamboos, a most exquisite spot. We climbed a neighbouring hill where stood the inevitable pagoda and kyaung, and were rewarded by a perfect view.

Our photographic intentions were unfulfilled, for as we were about to focus our cameras, a jungle fire was set alight below, and the smoke, drifting across the valley towards us most effectually obscured our view. We were forced to be content with photographing one another, the most beautiful substitutes we could find.

We examined the pagoda, peeped into the kyaung, and tried to induce the hpoongyi to come out and be photographed; but the pious man, evidently a hermit, shut himself promptly into the inner recesses of his dwelling, and continued to read in a loud voice until we had taken our departure. We thought him unnecessarily suspicious, and should have been hurt had we not felt it to be really rather a compliment to our charms.

Our expedition was on the whole a success, but as we arrived home very hot and tired, having lost our way once or twice, we failed to convince the stay-at-homes that we had enjoyed ourselves without them.

One morning early, my sister and I were startled by a succession of shots which rang out close to the house. My brother was away in the district, making an official tour among the villages under his charge, so we were alone and unprotected. Hurrying to the window, what was our astonishment to see a band of Goorkhas, under command of one of the subalterns, of the detachment stationed at Remyo, defending our house against an unseen enemy who lurked in the neighbouring jungle, and kept up an incessant firing. My mind first flew to dacoits, then to French or Chinese (I knew there had been trouble on the border), then, on catching sight of one of the enemy, and recognising him also as a Goorkha, I knew mutiny must have broken out. Trouble of this kind always breaks out unexpectedly, I have heard.

Soon however, we were forced to suppose that it must be a revolution, for leading the enemy on to attack was the second of the two subalterns of the detachment. It was difficult to believe that this usually shy and retiring young man could be the leader of a disloyal rising, but there he was, excitedly encouraging his followers to attack the house.

We hastily prepared lint and bandages for the wounded, and watched with beating hearts the progress of the fight.

Suddenly, both sides ceased firing, the leaders advanced towards one another, conversed amicably together, evidently settled their differences, summoned their troops, and marched them home to breakfast. It was a sham fight.

This appears to be the favourite amusement of the officers who form the military element of Remyo society.

I was continually finding myself in the midst of desperate encounters when taking my rides abroad. It was rather disconcerting at first, but I grew accustomed to it in time, as one grows accustomed to anything, and would ride along the line of fire, with a coolness and indifference worthy of one of the old seasoned campaigners.

I suppose to those who live in a military district, sham fights are ordinary affairs, but I had never seen one before, and it struck me as very ludicrous to see these men, in most desperate earnestness, crouching in ambush, dodging behind trees, and crawling along under cover to escape the fire of their foes. The little Goorkhas become wildly excited, and it would not do to allow the two sides to come to close quarters, or the sham fight might develop into a real one.

The other European male inhabitants of Remyo, are the inevitable Indian Civilian and "Bombay Burman," whom of course I should not presume to analyse; two railway men (who seem superfluous as there is as yet no railway), a P.W.D. (Public Works Department) man, whose work, it seems, is to make roads (from my point of view as a cyclist they don't do him credit), an Engineer, and the Policeman.

This last was a mighty shikarri, who had hunted and shot every imaginable animal; who knew the habits and customs of all the beasts of the jungle, and after examining a "kill" would give a whole history of the fight between the tiger and its victim. He was a mighty talker too, and would converse for hours on any subject.

What he could not accomplish was to speak for three minutes without giving way to exaggeration; nor could he give an unvarnished reply to a plain question, so that in Remyo "if you want to know the time don't ask a policeman" is the popular aphorism.

The Engineer possessed the most striking characteristics amongst the men of the place. I have never met a man so full of information. He was one of those men who can give information on every conceivable subject, for if he knows nothing about it, he will invent a few facts on the spur of the moment, facts of which he is always justly proud.

I never quite made up my mind whether his actions were the outcome of a passion for practical joking, or a desire to be of use, but I try to believe the latter. When I punctured my bicycle tyre he insisted upon helping me to mend it. His process occupied the whole of an afternoon, and the front veranda and drawing-room; beyond this, it was too intricate to describe, except to say that it required all the available tooth brushes in the house, three basins of water, and a rupee piece, and necessitated, apparently, the cutting of a large hole in the inner tube, with a patent tyre remover he had invented out of a broken teaspoon.

On another occasion, he assured us he had a splendid plan for preventing our drawing room stove from smoking. We had been obliged to put a stove in the drawing room to make up for the absence of a fire place; it was a primitive affair, with a chimney that went through a hole in the wall, and it smoked "somethink hawful." Our friend tried his plan and a dozen others, each more wonderful and complicated than the last, and each necessitating fresh holes in the already perforated wall. Each plan too, resulted in increased volumes of smoke, and as the furniture and carpet were being rapidly ruined, and our whilom happy home was being broken up, we finally remedied the matter ourselves.

But the matter wherein our Engineer excelled himself, was in the matter of rose trees.

Hearing us one day express a wish for a rose garden, he declared at once that nothing was easier. He was departing for Rangoon in two days, and he would there procure and send to us rose cuttings, which we must plant in carefully prepared boxes of soil, follow the instructions which he would give us concerning their welfare, and we should soon have flourishing rose trees. Our gratitude was unbounded, we listened and carefully noted his instructions, and after his departure eagerly awaited the fulfilment of his promise.

In a few days a coolie delivered at our house, what I took at first to be twigs for fire wood, but on examining the letter accompanying them, I discovered they were the promised rose cuttings. I felt some doubts about them, but my sister had implicit faith in the Engineer (the stove incident came later), and would not listen to me.

So we planted the rose cuttings, and for six whole weeks did we tend them. All the instructions we carried out to the letter, watering twice daily and sheltering them from the sun by day, and from the cold dews by night, but all to no avail. Dead sticks they were, and dead sticks they remained, till at last convinced of the hopelessness of attempting to restore life to the withered things, we tore them up in desperation and burnt them.

My sister's faith in the Engineer, however, remained still unshaken, and she protested that the coolie must have lost the original bundle of rose cuttings, and substituted these twigs in their place. For my part I believe no such thing, and when I consider what passionate care and tenderness we lavished on those unresponsive pieces of wood, I do indeed feel disposed to "speak with many words."

Varied though the characters and interests of the Remyo inhabitants may be, in one particular they all agree, i.e. in their dislike of the Casual Visitor.

The casual visitor is supposed to ruin the servants, to monopolise the tennis courts, and golf links, to abuse the privileges of honorary membership of the club, to unjustly criticise the polo ground, and generally to destroy the peace and harmony of the station.

For the men, the advent of a lady visitor means calls, dinner parties, and the necessity of wearing best clothes, which fills them with horror. For the ladies, it means the advent of one who will possess the latest fashions from Rangoon (possibly from England), who will throw into the shade their gala costumes of the fashion of two years ago, who will trespass upon their prerogatives, rival their powers at tennis and golf, and generally interfere with their peaceful and innocent pursuits.

The arrival of visitors, therefore, is not welcomed as a rule, and though hospitably received and comfortably housed, they are not admitted into the inner life of the station until they have shown themselves quite innocent of the evil qualities which are imputed to them.

This unexpected unfriendliness on the part of the Remyoans has been brought about by the acts of two people, who once visited this happy valley, and departed again leaving deeply rooted indignation behind them. Of the first, a woman, it suffices to say that she amply justified the suspicions of the Remyo ladies. Her name is never mentioned by them without a significant look, and she is not a safe subject for discussion.

The crime of the second sinner against Remyo hospitality (a man) was of a different nature, and it is perhaps difficult for the female mind to grasp the enormity of the offence.

A large tiger had made its appearance in the neighbourhood, and a tiger shoot had been organised. All the arrangements were complete; the men were sure of success, and speculated which of their number would have the luck to kill. The evening before the shoot, a visitor on his way from a remote station, arrived in Remyo, and obtained permission to accompany the sportsmen. As he was reputed to be a very bad shot this was readily given, and there was allotted to him a position well out of the expected line of the beat. The tiger broke near the stranger's tree, and he killed it with his first shot, the promoters of the shoot never even getting a sight of the game.

The criminal impertinence of a mere stranger daring to kill their tiger roused the deepest feelings of indignation among the Remyoans. The laws of hospitality are above all, so the perpetrator of the crime was allowed to escape with his life and the tiger skin, but since that day strangers have been looked upon as suspicious interlopers, and prospective tiger shoots are not discussed in presence of the Casual Visitor.

I have given my impressions of the Remyo society candidly, perhaps a little too candidly; but lest any who read this book be disposed to hold the latter opinion, let me say one thing more.

The first, the last, and the most indelible impression left on my mind by all the Anglo-Burmans whom I had the pleasure of meeting, was the impression of a kindness, friendliness, and hospitality passing belief. The Anglo-Burmans, while retaining the best qualities of the English nation, seem to lose entirely that cold and suspicious reserve towards strangers, of which we are often so justly accused. They appear to have adopted those Eastern laws of hospitality, which lay so great a stress on the duty of entertaining strangers, and they cannot do enough to welcome those fellow countrymen who visit the land of their exile.

This characteristic kindness of the Anglo-Burmans is so universally acknowledged, that it is really superfluous to mention it, but as I spent six months among them, without encountering a single unkind look, word, or deed, I cannot let the opportunity pass without offering my tribute of gratitude to this most kind-hearted and generous people.

Chapter VII.—THE BURMESE.—

——

On my first evening in Remyo I was sitting in the drawing-room, waiting for the announcement of dinner, when suddenly, the curtain across the doorway was pulled aside, and a native peered into the room. His movements were rapid and stealthy, and betokened a desire for escape or concealment. On seeing me he slipped past the curtain into the room, and crouched down, as tho' endeavouring to hide himself from without. Then in the same bending attitude, he glided past the uncurtained window, across the room where I sat lost in astonishment, and on reaching my chair, sank on to his knees, placed his raised hands together in a supplicating manner, and exclaimed in a deferential and prayerful voice "Sarsiar."!

For a moment I stared at him in wonder, unable to comprehend his attitude; and then in a flash I understood all.

He was in terrible danger, someone was pursuing him; to escape he had slipped into the house, and was now imploring me to conceal or to defend him. I had no thought of hesitation, whatever might be his crime he must not be left to the rough justice of his pursuers, he must be protected until the matter could be properly inquired into.

I sprang up and hurried to the window to reconnoitre; four natives stood in the road; no one else was in sight; perhaps the pursuers were already in the house.

"Sarsiar, sarsiar, thekinma," he repeated, (or something that sounded like that).

"All right, all right" I said soothingly: "don't be frightened, you're safe here," and so saying I quietly bolted the outer door, fastened the windows, and proceeded to put the room in a state of defence. My presence of mind evidently astonished him, he stared at me a moment and once more took up his cry of "Sarsiar, sarsiar".

"It doesn't matter though a dozen Sarsiars are after you," I cried impatiently: "you are quite safe here; so tell me who is this "Sarsiar," and what have you done to him?"

But the wretched man only became still more excited, he crouched lower than ever, he waved his arms, and burst into a torrent of Burmese eloquence, in which again and again, occurred the name of his pursuer, of this much dreaded "Sarsiar."

At last, being quite unable to either comprehend or calm him, I called aloud to my sister to come and reassure him in his own tongue. She came, exchanged a few hurried remarks with the fugitive, and then, to my utter astonishment and indignation, burst out laughing. I angrily demanded an explanation, and when she had recovered, she gave it.

The native was no terrified victim, flying from a savage foe, but the head boy announcing that dinner was ready!

The stealthy walk, the crouched air of concealment, the supplicating attitude, were merely expressions of respect, it being quite contrary to the Burman's idea of politeness to raise his head above that of his master.

This excessive politeness on the part of the Burman is highly commendable, but apt to be inconvenient. It is embarrassing to be waited on by a man who persists in scuttling about with his body bent almost double, and who sinks on his knees on every available occasion; it gives him an air of instability. Some were so full of respect as to dismount from their ponies and walk past the "Thekins" when they met us in the road. It must delay business immensely, but no true Burman would allow himself to be influenced by such a minor consideration.

The Burman is much given to contemplation. He is frequently seized with a fit of meditation in the midst of most important work, and will sit for hours, immovable, gazing steadily into vacancy, puffing at his huge cheroot, and thinking.

So, history relates, did Socrates sit for three days and nights, but Socrates, poor man, had no cheroot to soothe him. The results of Socrates' meditation on that particular occasion are unknown; so too are the results of the rapt meditations of the Burman. Never by word or deed does he betray what thoughts occupy his mind on these ever recurring occasions, but someday, who knows? he may be moved to speak, and then where will be the wisdom of the East and of the West, when compared with the wisdom of this contemplative nation? Surely it will become small and of no account, and be no more thought on!

For these fits of meditation are undoubtedly inspired! They may overtake him at any time, absorbingly, unexpectedly, in a manner highly inconvenient to all with whom he may come in contact.

I say he is liable continually to such attacks, but certain surroundings, and circumstances seem more conducive than others to such contemplative meditation.

For example, if despatched on an important message, such an attack almost invariably seizes him, and the messenger will remain for hours, seated by the road side lost in thought, while his impatient master sits raging and fuming at home, waiting in vain for an answer to his note. On such an occasion the Burman loses all sense of time, and his expression of naive astonishment, and patient martyr-like sufferance, when blamed for his delay, is utterly disarming.

Again, the dusting of a room is most conducive to meditation. I have frequently seen a native stand for half an hour or more, immovable, duster in hand, gazing from the window, lost in abstraction. But this trait, I am told by English housewives, is not confined to Burmese servants alone. Dusting, I conclude, has a soothing effect on the nerves.

When the Burman does work, he works with an energy and violence which is as astonishing as it is unnecessary. To see a loogalay in his energetic movements, dusting or tidying a room is a lesson to sluggards.

He takes his stand in the centre of the room, and performs a series of wonderfully intricate and far reaching flag signals with the duster. Then, after clearing away the broken china and other debris, he slowly makes a tour of the room, striking violently at each article of furniture once or twice with the corner of the afore-mentioned duster, and shaking the same menacingly in the face of every picture and ornament. Then he turns upside down the books and papers, carefully hides his mistress's work bag, and his master's favourite pipe, rearranges the furniture and the ornaments, which have come through scatheless, to suit his own taste, and the room is finished. In the matter of floor washing the Burman as a rule prefers to carry out the precepts stated in Mr. Chevallier's song: "What's the good of anything? Why nothing." To him it appears an act of supererogation to wash to-day the floor, which must certainly be dirtied again on the morrow.

But if he be induced, by the stern commands of his mistress to undertake the task, then indeed is it a day of mourning and discomfort for the whole household. No spring cleaning carried on by the most uncompromising and unsympathetic British matron, can approach the misery and upset caused by Burmese floor washing.

Every male member of the establishment, from the coolie who is mending the compound path, to the head boy, is recruited to the work, and reinforcements of "brothers" from the village are called in to assist. Every piece of furniture in the place is turned upside down, and then large cans of water are upset "promiscuous like" here and there, until the whole house is deluged. This accomplished, the concourse of servants commences to paddle about the house, rescuing books and cushions from the ravages of the flood, and flapping at the water with cloth and brooms. No definite scheme is adopted, but the chief idea seems to be to wet as much of the floor, walls, and furniture as possible. After this amusement has been pursued for about three hours, the floods are swept away through the drawing-room and out at the front door, and the damp and exhausted servants, after proudly announcing: "Floor much clean now, missis," retire triumphant, to rest their weary limbs for the remainder of the day. We did not often indulge our desire for cleanliness in this respect.

The Burman is a great lover of ceremonies and processions. On certain festival days long picturesque pageants wind thro' the villages on their way to the pagodas; cart after cart drawn by gaily decorated bullocks and filled with brightly dressed occupants, many of whom wear fancy disguises, and dance and posture during the whole of the ride.

It is a strange sight to see "grave and reverend seigneurs" from the village, arrayed in the most extraordinary costumes, reminding one of an English Guy Fawkes procession, standing at the front of a cart, posturing and pulling faces, in a manner that would be ludicrous, were it not so evidently full of meaning and solemnity. Imitation boats, dragons and beasts of all sorts take part in these processions, which for grotesqueness, brilliance of colour, and originality of arrangement are equalled only in a Drury Lane pantomime or the Lord Mayor's Show. But the soul of the Burman is not satisfied with his great half yearly festivals, nor even with the smaller festivities that take place at every birth, wedding, death, "ear-boring," or other ceremonious occasion. He seeks ever for other opportunities for procession and masquerade.

Our Burmese servants found vent for their feelings in waiting at table. They performed their duties with as much stateliness and ceremony as time, and our impatient appetites would permit.

No dish, plate, or spoon was brought without the co-operation of the three loogalays who were in attendance, and the lord chamberlain himself could not have conducted the course of the meal with more dignity than did our Burmese butler.

But the greatest triumph was achieved at breakfast time when we partook of boiled eggs. The clink of the cups, followed by a hush of expectancy heralded what was coming. The purdah would be drawn aside by an unseen hand, and the procession would march solemnly into the room, the three loogalays, one behind the other, bearing each in his hand a very large dinner plate, in the centre of which stood a small egg in its humble egg-cup.

Into the room and round the table they would march, then dividing, each with a bow deposited his precious burden before the person for whom it was intended, after which the procession was again formed, and disappeared slowly behind the curtain: all this with an air of solemnity and display that would not have disgraced a royal levee. Why this ceremony was confined to eggs, why the porridge and bacon were not equally favoured I cannot tell, I merely state the facts as I observed them, leaving the explanation to others more discerning than I.

The greatest treat our own loogalays ever enjoyed in this respect was brought about one day by a slight mistake I made in giving an order to Po-Sin, the head butler. My grasp of the language being but slight, my speech was often a trifle faulty, but I gave orders with a vigorous confidence, and aided by gesture and "pigeon English" I imagined that I made myself tolerably comprehensible. On the occasion to which I refer, I had prepared my sentence elaborately, and summoning Po-Sin, I informed him that his master would be at home and would want tea at three o'clock. There must have been some mistake somewhere. Possibly, I confused the word meaning "office" with the Burmese for "three o'clock." But whatever be the explanation, about a quarter of an hour later, chancing to look out of the window, I beheld a procession winding its way along the road to the Court House, and bearing with it our afternoon tea equipage displayed to the highest advantage. At the head marched Po-Sin, proudly brandishing the teapot, then Po-Mya bearing the muffins, Po Thin with the tray and tea-cups, and behind, in regular order, the other numerous members of our establishment, each bearing some dish, jug, or spoon. They had gone too far to be overtaken, tho' they walked with becoming dignity, so with deep foreboding, I watched them disappear round the corner of the road leading to the Court House.

Presently I saw the disconcerted procession returning, headed this time by my infuriated brother-in-law, who had been interrupted in the midst of an important case, by the solemn entrance of the tea bearers. The servants looked depressed and disappointed. I think they had hoped the procession might be a weekly affair. Like "Brer Rabbit," I prudently lay low until my brother's wrath had exhausted itself.

The Burman has the reputation of being a keen sportsman, and certainly, his excitement is intense on every sporting occasion, especially in games of strength and skill. But he does not excel in these. His intentions are doubtless good, but he lacks pluck and determination.

This is especially evident when a loogalay fields for his master at cricket. He will watch the game with deepest interest, loudly applauding every hit, and when the ball speeds in his direction his excitement and pride are unbounded. He runs to meet it with outstretched arms, shouting wildly, then, as the ball nears him, and the audience hold their breath, expecting a wonderful catch or piece of fielding, he quietly steps aside, allows the ball to fly past him, and then trots gently after it, overtaking it some few yards over the boundary. His fellow natives view the performance with pride, and yell with admiration when he finally secures the ball and, carrying it within an easy throwing distance of the pitch, rolls it gently back to the bowler.

The interest taken by the natives in football is overpowering, and a spectator has been known to stick a knife into the calf of one of the most active of the players on the opposing side, who happened to be standing near the "touch line." A new and unexpected source of danger in the football field.

The two chief drawbacks to the Burman servant are, firstly, his intense self-satisfaction and conceit, and secondly, his intolerable superstition.

It is impossible to find fault with a Burman. He receives all complaints with a look of such absolute astonishment and reproach that the complainant is at once disarmed. In his own eyes the Burman can do no wrong, and if other folk do not entirely concur in this opinion, that is their misfortune and not his fault. He is always quite pleased with himself, and regards with a pitying contempt all who are not equally so.

Overpowering superstition is a deeply rooted characteristic of the race, and I rather suspect, a very convenient one occasionally. The Burman will do nothing on an unlucky day or hour, and in awaiting the propitious moment, the duty is frequently left undone altogether. This is apt to be inconvenient to others, if the duty in question be the delivery of an important message, or the preparation of dinner. But I have sometimes wondered whether this particular superstition might not advantageously be introduced into England, where it would be so exceedingly useful to the school boy at the end of the holidays, and to many other folk besides.

In private life the Burman carries his superstition to a ridiculous extent. No ceremony can take place, no festival be held, the building of a house cannot even be commenced until the wise man has declared the hour and place to be propitious.

All sorts of magical contrivances to prevent the entrance of wicked "nats" and other evil spirits, are erected outside nearly every house and village, and charms and horoscopes are believed in absolutely by all save the best educated Burmans.

They are a fickle people. Their lives being uneventful they love to vary them by constant small changes, and to enliven them by the excitement of gambling, which is the great vice of the country. We had a Burmese maid who displayed this love of change to a most astonishing degree. After being with us about two months she suddenly announced one morning that she had fever and must go and rest. Accordingly she disappeared for several days, and when we sent to enquire after her we learnt that she had recovered from her attack of fever, but was coming back to us no more, as she had got married. In about a fortnight she reappeared, saying calmly that she was now tired of being married, and was quite ready to return to her work after her little change.

Though he strongly objects to work himself the Burman likewise objects to see anyone else work. Whenever I endeavoured to clean my bicycle, our loogalays were terribly grieved. They sought me out in the quiet corner to which I had retired, and stood round me with the most shocked expressions, waving brooms and dusters, and beseeching me by all their most expressive gestures to leave the task to them. Sometimes they embarrassed me so much by all these attentions that I was obliged to consent, but always felt sorry afterwards; they are not satisfactory bicycle cleaners. The handle bars they polished again and again, but the rest of the machine struck them as uninteresting, and they left it severely alone.

My experience of the Burman was not confined altogether to our own servants, there were many in the village with whom I had a bowing acquaintance, but owing to my ignorance of the language I could not hope to become intimate with them and their families.

They appeared to take a great interest in us and our possessions. Two little Burmese ladies in particular, wives of the chief men of the village, paid us constant visits. They would bring us presents of flowers and vegetables, offer these, and then sit on the floor and stare resolutely at us for the space of half an hour, at the end of which time they would suddenly make a profound obeisance and depart.

Conversation was impossible, as neither party knew the other's language, but we found this silent contemplation so embarrassing, that, after enduring it twice, we endeavoured on the third visit to entertain them by showing them pictures, trinkets, or anything we thought might amuse them. But with no great success; they admired the things and then immediately returned to their former occupation of staring, until at last I thought of the piano (which at that time was still in a healthy condition), opened it, and began to play. That interested them immensely, as they could not understand whence the sound came. They would stand happily for any length of time, gingerly striking a note, and listening to the tone with the greatest wonder and delight.

But what pleased them more than anything was a china doll, belonging to my little niece, which shut and opened its eyes. Such a marvel had never been seen before, and the day after our visitors had discovered it, a large deputation from the village waited upon us, with a request to see the wonder. As from that time the doll frequently disappeared for a day or two, we rather suspected the ayah was turning an honest penny, by borrowing it to hire out for exhibition at various villages round, whither the rumour of its fame had already spread.

Our visitors took the greatest interest in our garments, and when their first shyness had worn off, would subject our costumes to a minute examination that was a little trying.

They always arrayed themselves in their best garments when they came to see us, and very dainty they looked in their bright dresses of pink, green, or yellow silk, with flowers and ornaments in their black hair. The Burmese ladies are deservedly described as charming, and they understand the art of dress, and blending colours to perfection. They are reported to be very witty and amusing, as well as charming in appearance, and certainly when my brother happened to be at home on the occasion of their visits, they chattered to him very merrily, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy their talk with an Englishman.

Another visitor of ours was the thugyi, (the head man of the village), a very fine looking old man with one of the handsomest heads I have ever seen. He was taller than the majority of Burmans, and in the flowing white garments which he always wore, presented a splendid picture which I longed to paint. His manners were stately and dignified, and he treated us with the most royal courtesy, as though he were an emperor at least.

The chief hpoongyi (priest) of Remyo was a dear old man, with a beautifully tender expression. At his invitation we all went to visit him one day, and he showed us over the kyaung, with its numerous images, bell, and quaint pictures of saints and devils. He was an enthusiastic gardener and showed us proudly over his domain, giving us much advice on the management of plants, and offering to transplant anything we admired to our own garden. A hpoongyi's life must be very peaceful and happy, though perhaps a trifle dull. His chief occupation seems to be meditation, which to us western folk appears distinctly monotonous.

Visits to the native bazaar afford endless amusement. Natives of all descriptions are gathered there, and the scene is most varied. The picturesque Burmans, giggling Chinese, chattering Madrassees, stately Parsees, solemn-faced Shans, and many other nationalities, swarm in the narrow streets and round the stalls of the bazaar. The stalls are large platforms raised about three feet from the ground, with overhanging roofs. The seller sits in the middle of his stall with his wares spread round him, and keeps up a running flow of conversation the whole day long.

There never appeared to be much to purchase in the Remyo bazaar except a few silks and the most unpalatable looking foods, but I delighted to go there in order to watch the people. "Bazaar day," to the Burman is one big joke, and he enjoys it thoroughly. The girls wear their most becoming costumes, and seated in the midst of their lovely silks, form a picture dainty enough to attract any man's attention. They are charming, and are quite aware of the fact.

I ventured down once or twice to the bazaar with my camera, but they did not understand it, and regarded me with suspicion; indeed, the mother of one little Shan laddie, whose picture I wished to take, worked herself up into such a state of wrath and terror that I was obliged to desist. I fancy she thought I was bewitching the poor little fellow.

My private opinion is, that in revenge for my attempt on her son, she must have induced one of their wise men to curse my kôdak, for though I took photographs with great vigour and confidence during my travels, not a single one of them developed. It is a singularly distressing employment to sit long hours in a stuffy dark room, developing photographs which steadily refuse to develop. I have met with many sad experiences in my long and chequered career, but I think this was the most disappointing.

My one attempt at shopping by gesture in the bazaar was not an unqualified success. I selected an aged and kindly looking stall keeper, and proceeded to collect together in a heap the few small articles I desired to purchase. During this proceeding she watched my actions with astonishment and some suspicion, but the latter feeling was set at rest when I produced a rupee and offered it to her. She took it, and while she sought the change, I pocketed my purchases.