At first I was filled with a great wonder as to what might be the nature of these mysterious "Chits." I would be sitting peacefully talking with my hostess in the morning, when suddenly, a look of supreme unrest and anxiety comes over her face: "Excuse me, a moment" she exclaims, "I must just go and write a chit."

She then hastens to her writing table, rapidly scribbles a few words, gives the paper to a servant, and then returns to me with an expression of relief and contentment.

But scarce five minutes have elapsed, ere the look of anxiety again returns; again she writes a "chit," and again becomes relieved and cheerful, and so on throughout the day.

And this, I discovered was the case with nearly every European lady in the country. I suppose it must be some malady engendered by the climate, only to be relieved by the incessant inditing of "chits." I myself never suffered from the ailment, but should doubtless have fallen a victim had I remained longer in the country.

The contents and destination of these "chits" seem to be of little or no importance; so long as notes be written and despatched at intervals of ten minutes or so during the day, that is sufficient. What finally becomes of these "chits" I cannot pretend to say; whether they are merely taken away and burnt, or whether they have some place in the scheme of creation, I never discovered.

Nor do I know whether the male population suffers from the same malady.

Does the Indian Civilian, seated in his luxurious chamber in that awe-inspiring building of his, does he too spend his life in writing "chits"? Does the "Bombay Burman," in some far off jungle, "alone with nature undisturbed," does he too sit down 'neath the shade of the feathery bamboo, or the all embracing Peepul tree, and write and despatch "chits" to imaginary people, in imaginary houses, in an imaginary town?

I know not, it is futile to speculate further upon the matter. The mystery of "chit" writing is too deep for me.

I would gladly have remained longer in Rangoon, but it might not be.

Mine was no mere visit of pleasure; I had travelled to Burmah in search of adventure, such as is scarcely to be met with in the garden party, dinner party, and dance life of Rangoon. And so, one hot afternoon, with anxious beating heart, I said "Good bye" to security and civilisation, and set forth on my journey to Mandalay!

CHAPTER III.

THE ROAD TO MANDALAY.

"I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the Sea."--(Wordsworth).

"Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour tho' varied, in beauty may vie."--(Byron).

The distance by rail from Rangoon to Mandalay is 386 miles, and it takes twenty-two hours to accomplish the journey. Trains, like everything else in this leisurely country, are not given to hurrying themselves. "Hasti, hasti, always go hasti" is the motto for Burmah. As an example of the unintelligible nature of the language I may explain that "Hasti" means "slow!"

It is a pleasant journey however, for the carriages are most comfortable, and the scenery through which the rail pa.s.ses affords plenty of interest to a new comer.

I enjoyed my journey, therefore, immensely. I left Rangoon about five o'clock in the afternoon, well provided with books, fruit and chocolates for the journey, and under the protection of a hideous Madra.s.see Ayah.

I believe she was in reality a worthy old creature, but she was so exceedingly ugly, so very unintelligible (though most persistent in her efforts at conversation) and so intolerably stupid, that I could not feel much affection for her, and I only consented to put up with her company as a protection against the thieves who haunt the various halting places along the line, ready to steal into carriages and carry away all the portable property of the traveller. I had heard such blood curdling stories of these train thieves that I should have felt quite nervous about undertaking the journey, had I not fortunately disbelieved them.

I do not for an instant believe my ayah would have been any real protection, for whenever we stopped she was seized with an overpowering hunger, and spent all her time bargaining with the vendors of bananas, huge red prawns, decayed fish, dried fruits, cakes, and other horrible articles, who swarmed upon the stations.

These delicacies, and others which she prevailed upon my tender heart to buy for her, she wrapped up in a large red pocket handkerchief, and hid under the seat; what was their final fate I cannot pretend to say, but for her sake I trust she didn't eat them.

She was a much travelled lady and had visited many of the towns along the route, and persisted in waking me up at all odd hours of the night, to point out the houses where her various Mem-Sahibs had lived, or the bungalows inhabited by the commissioners, matters in which I was not at all interested.

She kept me awake with long rambling stories about her many relations, stories which, as they were told in the most vague and unintelligible "pigeon English" I found it very difficult to understand, but the gist of all was that she was very old and very poor, and she was sure I was a very kind and generous "Missie," and would not fail to reward her handsomely for her services.

I failed to discover what these same services might be, for beyond fanning me vigorously when I did not require it, and at three o'clock in the morning procuring me from somewhere an unpleasant mixture she called coffee, and which I was obliged to throw secretly out of the window, she did nothing except talk. I suppose she was really no worse than the rest of her tribe, and cannot be blamed for getting as much as she could out of her exceedingly innocent and easily humbugged "missie."

At the first station at which we stopped, I was much astonished to see all the natives on the platform come and kneel down in the humblest manner round the door of my carriage, and remain there "shekkohing" and pouring forth polite speeches in Burmese, until our train left the station.

I have never been backward in my high opinion of my own importance, but I hardly expected the fame of my presence to have spread to this distant land, and felt considerably embarra.s.sed, though, of course, highly gratified, by such unexpected tokens of respect.

I received these attentions at every station with the most royal bows and smiles, until at last, on dismounting from the train at the dining station, I discovered that the carriage next to mine was occupied by a n.o.ble Shan Chief and his retinue, and it was to him, not to my insignificant person, that all this homage was paid. I felt quite annoyed at the discovery. He was really such a hideous, yellow, dirty old man, and he sat at the window, surrounded by his wives and attendants, smoking grumpily, and paying not the least attention to the flattering speech of his admirers, who must have been far more gratified by my gracious condescension.

The chief stared at me a great deal when I pa.s.sed his window to re-enter my carriage, and shortly after the train was again set in motion he sent one of his wives to inspect me, possibly with a view to offering me a position among the number of his dusky spouses. She opened the door, and stared at me for some time, taking not the slightest notice of my requests that she would withdraw, until she had sufficiently examined me, when she retired as abruptly as she had appeared, and I lost no time in securing the door behind her.

Evidently her report was not satisfactory, for I have heard no more of the episode. Possibly, she reported that I looked bad tempered; I certainly felt so!

What a fascinating journey that was. During the first part of the route the country is less interesting, consisting merely of flat stretches of Paddy fields and low jungle scrub. But all this I pa.s.sed through by night, when the soft moonlight lent a witching beauty to the scene.

There is something so inexplicably beautiful about night in the east, so comparatively cool, so clear, so quiet, and yet so full of mysterious sound,

"A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves."

The cloudless heavens sparkle with a myriad stars, the moonlight seems brighter and more golden than elsewhere, and the noisy, weary, worn old earth hides away her tinsel shams and gaudiness, which the cruel sunlight so pitilessly exposes, and appears grander and n.o.bler under night's kindly sway.

The scenery in Upper Burmah is exceedingly fine. The great rocky hills, each crowned with its paG.o.da, rise on all sides, stretching away into the distance till they become only blue shadows. Everywhere are groves of bananas and palm trees, forests of teak and bamboo, and vast tracks of jungle, attired in the gayest colours.

The paG.o.das, mostly in a half-ruined condition, are far more numerous here than in Lower Burmah, and raise their white and golden heads from every towering cleft of rock, and every mossy grove. As we neared Mandalay we pa.s.sed many groups of half-ruined shrines, images and paG.o.das, covered with moss and creeper, deserted by the human beings who erected them, and visited now only by the birds and other jungle folk, who build their nests and make their homes in the shade of the once gorgeous buildings. They look very picturesque, rising above the tangled undergrowth that surrounds them, but pitifully lonely.

We stopped at a great number of stations en route. The platforms were always crowded with natives of every description, at all hours of the day and night, selling their wares, greeting their friends, or smoking contentedly, and viewing with complacency the busy scene.

The natives of India, with their fierce sullen faces, frightened me; the cunning Chinese, ever ready to drive a hard bargain, amused but did not attract me; but the merry, friendly little Burmese were a continual delight.

They swaggered up and down in their picturesque costumes, smoking their huge cheroots, the men regarding with self-satisfied and amused contempt the noisy chattering crowd of Madra.s.sees and Chinese, the women coquetting in the most graceful and goodnatured way with everyone in turn. When they had paid their devoirs to the old chief, they would crowd round my carriage window offering their wares, taking either my consent or refusal to be a purchaser as the greatest joke, and laughing merrily at my vain attempts to understand them.

I fell in love with them on the spot, they are such jolly people and such thorough gentlefolk.

It was very interesting in the early morning to watch the signs of awakening life in the many Burmese villages through which we pa.s.sed. To see the caravans of bullock carts or mules setting out on their journey to the neighbouring town, and the pretty little Burmese girls coquetting with their admirers as they carried water from the well, or chattering and whispering merrily together as they performed their toilet by the stream, decking their hair with flowers and ribbons, and donning their delicately coloured pink and green "tamehns."

Here we met a procession of yellow-robed "hpoongyis" and their followers, marching through the village with their begging bowls, to give the villagers an opportunity of performing the meritorious duty of feeding them. There a procession of men, women, and children walking sedately towards a paG.o.da, with offerings of fruit or flowers; to contemplate the image of the mighty Gaudama, to hear the reading of the Word, and to meditate upon the Holy Life. Now we pa.s.sed a group of little hpoongyi pupils with their shaven crowns and yellow robes, sitting solemnly round their teacher in the open-sided kyaung. Anon we pa.s.sed a jovial crew of merrymakers in their most brilliantly coloured costumes, jogging along gaily behind their ambling bullocks, to some Pwe or PaG.o.da Feast, which they are already enjoying in antic.i.p.ation.

And the strange part of it all is that nowhere does one see sorrow, poverty, or suffering; outwardly at least, all is bright and happy. I suppose the Burman must have his troubles like other folk, but if so he hides them extremely well under a cheerful countenance. Surely in no other inhabited country could we travel so far without beholding some sign of misery.

I think the great charm of Burmah lies in the happiness and brightness of its people; their merriment is infectious, and they make others happy by the mere sight of their contentment.

We arrived at Mandalay about three o'clock in the afternoon. The last few hours of the journey were most unpleasantly hot, and I was very glad when we steamed into the station, and I saw my brother-in-law (who had descended from his "mountain heights" to meet me) waiting on the platform. The journey had been delightful in many ways, but after being twenty-two hours boxed up in a railway carriage with a chattering ayah, it was a great relief to reach one's destination at last.

When I arrived in Mandalay I was filled with an overwhelming grat.i.tude towards Mr. Rudyard Kipling for his poem on the subject.

Rangoon, fascinating and interesting though it be, is yet chiefly an Anglo-Indian town, but Mandalay, though the Palace and Throne room have been converted into a club, though its PaG.o.das and shrines have been desecrated by the feet of the alien, and though its bazaar has become a warehouse for the sale of Birmingham and Manchester imitations, yet, spite of all, this former stronghold of the Kings of Burmah still retains its ancient charm.

When first I experienced the fascination of this wonderful town, my feelings were too deep for expression, and I suffered as a soda water bottle must suffer, until the removal of the cork brings relief.

Suddenly there flashed into my mind three lines of Mr. Kipling's poem, and as I wandered amid "them spicy garlic smells, the sunshine and the palm trees and the tinkly temple bells," I relieved my feelings by repeating those wonderfully descriptive lines; I was once again happy, and I vowed an eternal grat.i.tude to the author.

Before the end of my two days stay in Mandalay I began to look on him as my bitterest foe, and to regard the publication of that poem as a personal injury.