These temples were by no means good specimens of Burmese architecture, which perhaps culminated in the Kyoungs, or resorts of the priests: a large quantity of elaborately carved timber entered into the construction of these edifices, the roof of which gradually diminished from below upwards, and were on this account far more pleasing to the eye than the more abrupt style adopted in Chinese temples.

They were for the most part raised in quiet and secluded groves, whither the pious Pongyees could retire for purposes of contemplation, in humble imitation of the founder of their creed.

These Pongyees, who were always clean-shaven, and clad in yellow robes, transcended in purity of life and devotion to their sacred cause any others of like persuasion that I ever came across. They were, moreover, courteous, unassuming, and affable to a degree, always ready to impart any information that lay within their ken, and supporting it with such written documents as they possessed.

The people at large held them in the greatest veneration, and the funeral obsequies of any distinguished member of the order were of an elaborate and somewhat costly nature. The first process was the embalming, in which art the Burmese must have been little inferior to the ancient Egyptians. When this process had been completed and the limbs were bound up and covered with a kind of varnish, the body was placed in a kyoung, where it lay in state for a month or six weeks, during which time there was always a light burning within the building, while prayers, intercessions, and offerings of every kind were made by devotees from all parts.

The last rite of all, cremation, I had the good fortune to witness, on a very important occasion, amid a large concourse of worshippers. The mummified remains were reverently laid on an iron grating between two low parallel walls, and a fire was ignited below, fuel being added as required; and although the wood was dry, and both it and the body burned furiously, the latter took a considerable time to incinerate.

While the deceased was lying in state, some foolish Europeans, possessed, I regret to say, of more zeal than honesty, made off one night with a few of his ornaments, and escaped only by the skin of their teeth.

Thus, even to Burmese philosophy there was a limit; they could endure with stoical indifference the spoliation of their temples; they uttered no audible protest against the unholy appropriation of pagodas sacred to Buddha, “the Wise,” “the Enlightened,” but when their offerings for the repose of a high priest’s soul were surreptitiously made away with, then their anger was kindled. The images were coveted, not for their intrinsic value, but because they were clever caricatures of the invader, both the civil and the military element being represented. Thus the resentment of the marauder predominated over even his cupidity; though no one who knew the character of the Burmese could ever suppose for one moment that they intended this as an insult, for, being themselves almost proof against the shafts of ridicule, they not unnaturally concluded that a nation so superior in intellect would be above such trifles. And here they erred; their intercourse with Europeans had hitherto been fragmentary—limited to a casual trader, and it had consequently never dawned on them that the sensitiveness of a race varies directly with its organization.

But for the stockade, the pilferers’ chance of escape would have been small indeed, and even as it was, they reached the main gate not a moment too soon. The sentry on duty shut it in the faces of the enraged pursuers and called out the guard. By restoring the images, and vouchsafing some sort of explanation, an episode which might have been attended with serious consequences was thus happily tided over.

I have already contrasted the Burmese with the natives of Hindostan, and I am constrained to compare them with the MongolidÆ. They closely resemble the Chinese in their features and habits; their language, too, is monosyllabic, and they also remain in a stationary condition for all time. This latter feature of their national existence is due to the generosity of nature; we northern races are engaged in an everlasting pitched battle with the elements, and where nature adds difficulty she adds brain; but with a warm climate, an abundant fauna and flora, rivers teeming with fish, and just enough intelligence to appreciate these gifts, besides a religion which fitted in with their mode of thought, what need had the Burmese of progress?

Their misfortune lay in being interfered with, because they did not understand the customs of what we are pleased to call “civilization,” and their country was wrested from them in consequence by the superior force of might. The rubbish indulged in as regards “improving and elevating them” I have but little patience with; it is, in the first place, right down dishonest, and it is, moreover, impossible even were it desirable.

In the “commercial advantages,” which were—let us be frank—the mainspring of the whole movement, there figured largely certain mines that had for years dazzled our eyes and excited our thirst for gain: well, we took them as the price of our “improvements,” and how have they been manipulated?

I have already had occasion to discuss the variety and strength of Oriental smells; one could, in fact, very well do without the sense of smell while in the East; the scent even of the flowers, of mango, orange, lime, and dedonia, is oppressive in the sultry atmosphere. But the “artificial” smells are something to experience; that of an Indian bazaar—a compound of assafoetida, decayed produce, and stagnant drains—clings to a person for ever; that of a Burmese market is delightfully enhanced by the perfume of Gua-pu, a speciality of the country, in which stale fish, lime, and other similar ingredients are incorporated secundum artem.

The display in the Rangoon market included meat, fish, poultry, fruit, vegetables, and flowers, in variety and abundance; but every other odour was assimilated and overcome by Gua-pu. Yet who shall ridicule so acquired a taste?

The alderman likes his green turtle, the Chinaman his birds’ nests, and the Frenchman his frogs’ legs; so, too, the Burmese will have his Gua-pu.

The fact is, there is Gua-pu and Gua-pu!

On one occasion, proceeding up the river with the Commissioner, the late Sir A. Phayre, I was roundly abusing this native delicacy; he fetched a stone jar and begged that I would taste the contents. When I had done so and reported favourably, he informed me to my astonishment that it was a superior quality of the compound I had been vilifying. Had he not been so perfect a gentleman, and so considerate to all that had the pleasure of acting under him, I should have suspected that he inwardly enjoyed my obvious discomfiture at having so erroneously condemned anything in toto.

He was certainly far above the ordinary run of rulers in all those qualities that adorn a man and a Christian. It was my good fortune to be near him for weeks together, when heavy responsibilities weighed upon him: we had to traverse wild tracts of country with dangers at every turn, and the end—if ever reached—bristled with difficulties. To be acquainted with him was a matter for congratulation; to serve under him was a privilege; to know him was to love him.

When circumstances had parted us, I had very undesirable occasions for studying the reverse of the medal—egotistical, fussy, fault-finding men, to please whom was beyond the range of human attainment; men primed with theory, but worse than useless in practical administration, whose one object seemed to be to offend and estrange their fellow-countrymen, and to oppress and outrage the natives.

The one type elevated the service; the other lowered both the service and all concerned therein, causing the tide to ebb to a very low mark.

The words of the Bard concerning the good and evil deeds of mankind have no application to the lamented Commissioner; he left no evil deeds to survive him, nor were his many good ones lost with him, for as long as Burmah is inhabited—and there is not at present any very startling prospect of a decrease in its population—his memory will be revered by Native and European alike, a monument more lasting than stone or brass.

For a conquered race the Burmese certainly held their heads remarkably erect, looking the usurper straight in the face without any shame for their own position. The fact was, a very superficial acquaintance with our habits and mode of living had convinced them of our superiority in every respect—save one.

It is very curious that every Eastern native looks down on our music with undisguised contempt. Our bands might discourse the gems of Chopin, Beethoven, and Balfe, but only the veriest loiterer would stop to listen, and, to judge by his expression, it fell as flat on his ear as a penny trumpet would on ours.

Real music was too refined and complicated for nerves accustomed throughout generations to coarser measures in harmony. This was the same all over Hindostan; and it is therefore surprising that our regimental native bands were remarkably good before the Mutiny.

A Burmese band consisted of a number of drums in a circle, and diverse brass instruments, awful to look upon, and still more awful to hear; though what they lacked in harmony they certainly made up for in noise. With the exception of the ubiquitous and irrepressible mosquito, the whole of the lower creation fled before it; and only a sense of dignity prevented many of us from following suit.

The performers must have been animated by extraordinary zeal, if the manner in which they hammered on the drums and blew through the wind-instruments be any criterion. As I invariably hastened in a direction opposite to that which was taken by the performers, I never witnessed the climax of the celebration; but if it continued for long on the same crescendo principle as that with which it passed me, I should think it must ultimately have resulted in rupture of the drum-heads and explosion of the remaining instruments.

The effect of music on nations, and through them on individuals, certainly furnishes matter for a deal of interesting study and comparison. In the primitive state it is simple and natural: Eastern nations make use of it to produce temporary excitement, a method that we have retained in our military bands, or, combined with dancing, as the food of love.

It has always been inseparably connected with religion and religious observances, from the organ and choir of Western religions to the drum and cymbals of the East. If the imagination of the poet can give to “airy nothing a local habitation and a name,” music has a yet greater power; and they are indeed twin sisters, poetry and music raising the civilized mind far above the ordinary range of things earthly. There will doubtless always be some mortals, even in the highest stage of civilization, who are nowise susceptible to the beauties of music; of them our poet for all time has spoken in uncomplimentary terms, perhaps harshly; but, if such a being is not to blame, he is at least incomprehensible.

Among the many disadvantages under which Eastern nations labour, is the absence of melody in the voices of the feathered tribe. Our nightingale, thrush, and lark are all birds of sober plumage; but in the East there are no vocal artists; no lark poising itself in mid-air warbling forth in the early morn, and gladdening the heart of man with its song; no thrush singing to its lady-love from the topmost branch of a may-tree; no nightingale to lend its charm to a summer twilight—nothing but gaudy plumage and burnished colours that dart hither and thither “brief as the lightning in the collied night.”

The birds utter for the most part harsh, discordant sounds; and it appears to me that the reason for this want of vocal sweetness is to be found either in the climate or in the number of carrion-eaters. A nightingale, for instance, singing from the leafy branch of a tamarind tree, with a pack of jackals yelling beneath, would be a contrast repugnant to nature, a dislocation of the fitness of things.

Our English vanity enables us to tolerate peacocks in the gardens of the wealthy. For the sake of seeing them strut about terraces and spread their tails in the sunlight, people will endure their torturing cry at daybreak, and even turn a deaf ear to the complaints of the gardener, who soon loses all patience with this most mischievous of birds. I do not remember them in Burmah, but in India they are very numerous, affecting in particular the denser jungles frequented by tigers.

An idea prevails indeed among the natives that the peacock follows such animals, but its only foundation lies in the coincidence that both love solitude. I remember on one occasion coming upon some hundreds of these beautiful birds committing rare havoc in a cultivated field. But they soon took cognizance of the intruder, and I had only just time to shoot a male and a young female, when all traces of them had vanished; the former for the sake of his feathers, the latter for the table. Certain shady trees bordering a canal near our encampment turned out to be a favourite roosting-place for them, but ere they could settle down for the night a general scrimmage would take place for the best seats: fine feathers may make fine birds, but do not always cover amiable dispositions—not, at least, in the ornithological biped!

Oh, my digressions! You wanted to hear about Burmah and its inhabitants, and here I have been discoursing on music and peacocks!

Being subject to a heavy annual rainfall, all their dwellings are built on piles, and are thereby raised to several feet above the ground. This expedient, a sanitary precaution against damp floorings and emanations from the soil, a sine qu non, in fact, under such climatic conditions, gave a special character to their villages, which were constructed for the most part of bamboos.

But while steering clear of Scylla, they ran into Charybdis. Fire played great havoc with them, and its annual course was “short, sharp, and decisive.” The wonder was that it did not occur a dozen times a year instead of once; and I doubt whether a hydrant close at hand, with an unlimited supply of water, would have been of any real service.

They never took the least precaution with regard to fire, although their houses, furniture, and mats, and all consisted of nothing but bamboo; perhaps they thought that the annual fire was as inevitable as the annual monsoon. Indeed—to borrow an illustration from our own historians of the seventeenth century—I am strongly of opinion that this annual conflagration stifled the origin and prevented the spread of epidemic disease. Witness the fact that, a few years later, when more substantial buildings had taken the place of these flimsy wooden structures, thereby reducing such visitations to a minimum, cholera raged with great virulence, a disease hitherto almost unknown to the country, where doctors had been occupied chiefly with cases of fever and dysentery.

I have known a regiment up to its full strength so ravaged by these complaints as not to be able to muster a hundred effective bayonets after a few months’ residence in a certain part of the country. The annual incineration of Rangoon therefore possessed a redeeming feature, and was certainly a “thing of beauty” while it lasted.

Late one evening, in the month of April, the garrison was roused from its wonted propriety by what appeared to be a very heavy discharge of artillery and musketry in the immediate neighbourhood, and the commanding officer was on the point of calling the troops to arms, when some one discovered the origin of the alarm—the yearly fire! The flames literally ran along the streets faster than the natives could run themselves—the reports being due to the bursting of sections of bamboo; and the scene resembled (I ask pardon for seeking my illustrations in such commonplace sources), a Benefit display of fireworks at the Crystal Palace, at the moment when the large set-piece is ignited. It burned itself out, simply because there was nothing else left to feed upon; nothing but charred remains, the outcome of a very short reign of terror.

History, sacred and profane, alludes to a bird, sacred to the dread Osiris, the All-seeing and Many-eyed, that was said to pay a periodical visit to the land of the Pharaohs. The most credited account concerning the bird is that, on burning itself, a similar creature sprang from its ashes, and, from its hiding-place in the surrounding tamarisk, continued to watch over the sacred burial-place. A very phoenix was Rangoon; it rose up on its own ashes rejuvenated and vigorous; no harrowing accounts ever reached us of loss of life or even serious injury; all went on as before, with increased energy, until new bamboos had supplied the place of old ones.

Equally singular were the circumstances attending the outbreak of the “monsoon,” which burst upon us, less to our delight than to that of the vegetable and insect world. The change was startling. One day, the baked ground, as hard and bare as a rock, with only a stray blade of grass struggling for existence; creation groaning, exhausted, expectant. Then a change comes over its dream; there is a terrible and steady downpour; ere twenty-four hours have elapsed, the new blades of grass can be seen peeping out; there are innumerable insects on the wing, and millions of frogs are croaking in the marshes. The evening before I had passed a dried-up tank of large dimensions, the bottom of which was deeply fissured in every direction, and to all appearances as destitute of life as the Great Sahara. The next day it was full to the brim, and huge fish were leaping out of the water in evident delight at being released from their long and enforced captivity.

The rain had descended, the mud was softened, and its inmates, wriggling forth, took to their more natural element and mode of locomotion. Instances of dormant vitality we know to be common among seeds and insects; wheat found in an Egyptian mummy-case many centuries old has germinated freely; seeds of trees buried for ages have done the same, and those also of fruit found in a skeleton, that must have lain incarcerated since the beginning of the Christian era. The chrysalis stage of insects is too well known to need comment. But such a suspension of vitality in creatures like fish, whose organization demands continual aeration of the blood through gills, is somewhat strange, and runs considerable risk of being branded as a traveller’s tale. I confess to having felt startled on my first acquaintance with these mud-fish. Many months of freedom could now be looked forward to; then again the daily decrease in depth; wriggling into the mud; diminution of vitality; and finally, loss of consciousness. Truly, a strange existence!