Once more, therefore, I mounted to the saddle, and rode, or more properly speaking bumped, twenty miles the first day. At the end of that distance I had no desire to proceed further, nor, I am sure, had the pony. Accordingly, we stopped at the now familiar dâk bungalow, and stabled ourselves and our ponies for the night. I do not know what were my pony's feelings that night as he thought over the events of the day, but they cannot have been pleasant. He was a strong-minded pony (possibly he had some sympathy for his rider) and having come to the conclusion that a repetition on the morrow of the past day's proceedings would be unpleasant and unwise, during the night he slipped his halter and gently trotted back to Remyo, accompanied by my brother's and the orderly's mounts.
When we arose in the morning, all we found in the little hut at the bottom of the bungalow compound were three belated looking saddles and some broken bridle reins, and the only course open to us was to continue our journey on foot.
Some people, I believe, pretend to see humour in such situations, but we were not amused. The heat was awful, the road almost knee deep in dust, and as we plodded along for several miles, losing our way in short cuts, scrambling down precipitous ravines and dry water courses, and exchanging no single word, but keeping all our breath for the exertion of clambering out again, I became, by comparison, almost reconciled to the previous day's experiences.
When at last we reached the foot of the hills, and found a "gharry" waiting to convey us to Mandalay, we resembled pillars of dust, and were as thirsty as the desert. I was so tired that I forgot to be sentimental over the last glimpse of the hills; and as we approached Mandalay, beautiful in her bower of green, with the sun shining as ever on the "dreaming spires," the white pagodas, and the golden domes, my one and only desire was "Drink."
I had delayed my departure from Remyo as late as possible in the hopes of witnessing a "hpoongyi burning," one of the most characteristic Burmese festivals. The holy man had died some time previously, and in order to do his memory due honour, his body had been preserved many months, and the burning, with the many strange rites and festivities which invariably accompany such ceremonies, was announced to take place the week before my departure. But from some unknown cause (perhaps they discovered he had been more virtuous than they at first imagined) the authorities suddenly decided to preserve the body until a more imposing pageant could be prepared, so I missed the sight; and having delayed my departure, I had time only to spend a few hours in Mandalay and Rangoon before embarking on the homeward bound steamer.
It was very sad, that departure from Rangoon, where so many friends were left behind, as the last beauties of this bewitching country faded slowly from sight. The glaring noonday sunshine shed no illusory haze over the scene. The muddy brown water of the river and the ugly shores lined with factories and mills, seemed a foretaste of the matter-of-fact land to which we were returning; but behind rose the distant palm trees, and the golden dome; and the soft music of the tinkling bells of the pagoda, bidding us a last farewell, was wafted to us by the perfume laden eastern breeze.
My homeward voyage was without any extraordinary incident, and in due course I arrived at Marseilles. This well-known port requires no description, but I must say a few words in its favour; it is so universally disparaged.
The noisy, unsavoury Marseilles of the docks and harbour is very different from Marseilles viewed from that magnificent church, "Notre Dame de la garde." When we climb to the summit of the rock whereon stands the stately white church, surmounted by the huge golden image of the Virgin, keeping watch over the ships that enter the harbour, and shining as a beacon miles out to welcome sight to the longing eyes of the home coming sailor; when we look down from our height over the pretty little red and white houses, the graceful spires, and the clusters of dark green foliage nestling in the shelter of the high white cliffs which enclose the harbour; and again beyond the town, beyond the rugged brown rocks, and the placid deep blue water, to the ancient "Chateau D'If," dark and forbidding in the midst of the sunny landscape, we acknowledge that nature in the bestowal of her beauties has not, after all, confined her gifts to the dreaming East.