Intended for a gigantic pagoda, it was left unfinished, in consequence of a prediction that its completion would be fatal to the royal founder; the earthquake of 1839 split the huge cube of solid brickwork, and it is now a fantastic ruin.
Yule gives the dimensions of the lowest of the five encircling terraces as four hundred feet square; if completed, the whole edifice would have been five hundred feet high. Near this is the great bell, twelve feet high, and sixteen across at the lips, and weighing ninety tons.[9]
The most interesting object is the Seebyo pagoda, built by the grandson and successor of Mentaragyi in 1816, and named after his wife. The substructure from which the pagoda rises is circular, and consists of six successive concentric terraces. Each terrace is five feet above the one below, and six feet in breadth, and is surrounded by a stone parapet of a wavy design. In the niches of each terrace are images, fabulous dragons, birds, and beloos, or monsters. By a rough measurement the walled enclosure is four hundred yards in circumference, but an open space of thirty-five yards deep intervenes between the wall and the first terrace. The design of the pagoda is intended to represent the mythical Myen Mhoo Doung, or Meru Mountain, the central pillar of the universe, and the seven encircling ranges of mountains, or the six continents, each of which is guarded by a monster, the first by the dragon, the second by the bird Kalon. It might be also suggested that those terraces may represent the six happy abodes of nats which form successive Elysiums below the seat of Brahma.
From the rising ground above Mengoon a magnificent panorama unfolds itself: the valley from the dry and treeless Tsagain hills, a few miles to the rear, spreads out for fifteen miles in width to the eastern line of mountains, which, emerging from the north bank of the Myit-ngé, stretch away as far as the eye can reach to the north-east. The long flowing sweep of these summits singularly contrasts with the irregularly peaked outline of the Myait-loung hills, south of the Myit-ngé. Immediately beneath the spectator, the Irawady, curving under the western hills, broadens, till opposite to the capital its main banks are nearly three miles and a half apart.
The river is broken up into channels by large islands, on one of which the royal gardens are situated, and numerous sandbanks, exposed in the dry season, and cultivated with tobacco and other crops. In the foreground the various channels of the splendid river present an animated spectacle of numerous canoes, timber rafts, and boats of every form and size. In the middle distance, the golden roofs of the city gates and of the many monasteries which cluster outside the red city walls flash back the sunbeams. The fantastic forms of the many roofed spires of the zayats and rest-houses, and the sparkling htees of pagodas, everywhere perplex and please the eye, which looks from the picturesque hill to the north, crowned by the gilded temple, to the irregular outlines of the bazaar, stretching far down to the successive line of the abandoned capitals. A glorious picture, especially when the glowing orange tints of sunset are relieved by the rich purple of the cloudlike distant hills!
From Mengoon the steamer made its unaccustomed way under the right bank, passing sandbanks covered with numerous flocks of whimbrel, golden plover, and snake-birds. Although at the present time both royal and private steamers ply regularly between Mandalay and Bhamô, at the dry season frequent delays, caused by grounding on sandbanks, make the upward voyage of very uncertain duration. We as the pioneers had to feel our way most cautiously, the water being very low. Our crew, from captain to firemen, were to a man Burmese, and great was our admiration of the coolness and skill shown by the skipper in navigating the narrow channels; he seemed to have an almost instinctive intuition of the depth of the water. It was no work of love on his part, as he took no pains to disguise his dislike of the kalas, or foreigners, and was devoid of the jovial openheartedness generally characteristic of Burmese. A rich illustration of the character of the Burmese crew was afforded us by the leadsman, who quitted his post, unobserved by the captain. He provided, however, for the navigation, by telling one of his fellows to sing out for him in his absence, and imaginary depths, varying several feet, were accordingly shouted at intervals to the unconscious captain, who steered accordingly—fortunately without mishap. A court official accompanied us to see that the orders for provision of firewood were duly obeyed, and to purvey boats in case of the river proving unnavigable; but as no difficulties arose, he had nothing to do save that he once showed his zeal by inflicting an unmerciful beating on a village headman who failed to supply milk.
The banks of the river presented a succession of picturesque headlands, fifty to sixty feet high, separated by luxuriant dells, each containing a village. Between two such heights, covered with pagodas accessible only by flights of steps, lay Shienpagah, a thriving town of some four hundred houses. A brisk trade is here carried on in fish and firewood for the capital, and salt procured from the swamps behind the sterile Tsagain hills.[10] Above Shienpagah we changed our course to the other side. The villages on the eastern bank seemed small and few, each embowered among tall trees and groves of palmyra, mixed with a few cocoa-nut palms, relieved by the bright, pale, tropical green of the plantain. A broad alluvial flat extended to the low broken ranges of the Sagyen and Thubyo-budo hills, from the former of which comes nearly all the marble used in Mandalay. The distant Shan mountains rose beyond another plain sparsely covered with lofty trees and richly cultivated.
Our course lay up a channel, skirting the long island and town of Alékyoung, till the rounded hill of Kethung, dotted with white pagodas, rose over the dense greenery in which nestled the village so called. On the opposite bank lay Hteezeh, the village of oil merchants. A belt of bright yellow sand, and then a fine green sward, led up from the river to the village, shaded by noble palmyras and gigantic bamboos, which formed a background to a river scene of exquisite colouring and beauty. A mile or two above Alékyoung, the river narrowed, flowing in a stream unbroken by islands or sandbanks. Soon the short well wooded Nâttoung hills abutted on the right bank, in a pagoda-crowned headland, with Makouk village at its base. On the opposite side, the small town of Tsingu, once fortified, and still showing fragments of the old walls, occupied another headland, marking the entrance of the third defile of the Irawady.
From this point, for thirty miles, as far as Malé and Tsampenago, the country on either bank is hilly, and covered to the water’s edge with luxuriant forest. Winding in a succession of long reaches, the river presents a series of lovely lake landscapes. The stream, one thousand to fifteen hundred yards wide, flows placid and unbroken, save by the gambols of round-headed dolphins. As, preceded by long lines of these creatures, we steamed slowly along, each successive reach seemed barred by wooded cliffs. Reminiscences of the lake scenery of the old country were vividly awakened as we passed from one apparently land-locked scene of beauty to another. The high irregular hills were clothed with forest trees almost hidden by brilliant orchids and gigantic pendant creepers. Palms of various kinds feathered the water’s edge. Here and there fishing-villages peeped out, and everywhere graceful pagodas and priests’ houses gleamed amid the foliage. Parroquets darted and hornbills winged their heavy flight across the stream, while chattering troops of long-tailed black monkeys escorted the unusual visitors along the banks.
The chief object of interest is the little rocky island of Theehadaw, which boasts the only stone pagoda in Burma, and is resorted to by numbers of pilgrims at the great Buddhist festival in March. The pagoda is of no great size, but is substantially built of greyish sandstone admirably cut and laid in mortar. The building rises from a quadrangular base, with a chamber facing the east and closed with massive doors. The three other faces have false doors, and the sides of all, as well as the angles, are adorned with quasi-Doric pilasters. Our attention, like that of most pilgrims, was chiefly given to the famous tame fish. Having supplied ourselves with rice and plantains, the boatmen, called “Tit-tit-tit.” Soon the fish appeared, about fifty yards off, and after repeated cries, they were alongside, greedily devouring the offering of food. In their eagerness they showed their uncouth heads and great part of their backs, to which patches of gold leaf, laid on by recent devotees, still adhered. So tame were they that they suffered themselves to be stroked, and seemed to relish having their long feelers pulled. One fellow to whom a plantain skin was thrown indignantly rejected it, and dived in disgust.