The Madrasi garrison of the post was prostrate with fever almost to a man; of our own small force about a quarter fell sick. By judicious doses of quinine, I saved my servants and myself, so that we all came through unscathed. After three days the rain ceased and we began our march in cool November sunshine. On that delightful plateau, some three thousand feet above the sea, the winter climate is perfect. We rode through forest paths and fairy glades, wild roses clustering in the hedges. At Pyintha and Singaing, we first saw the bazaar, held every five days, a custom peculiar to the Shan States and Further East. Buyers and sellers came from all the countryside, often from distant places. It is much like market-day in a country town in England. The market at Singaing and at Pyinulwin was of some interest, and attracted strange folk from the hills. It was not to be compared with the great bazaars held at Kēngtūng, Namkham, or even Mogôk, thronged with many varieties of races in rich diversities of attire. To us, the people most novel and attractive were the Shans, men swaggering in baggy trousers and large flapping straw hats brigand-like, but formidable only in appearance; girls with russet-rosy cheeks, shy and gentle. Pyin-u-lwin, a charmingly situated village of some five-and-twenty houses, with a market-place and a gambling ring, won our hearts. Though we did not actually discover Pyin-u-lwin, we were among its earliest visitors. We were received with all kindness and hospitality. Several of us were housed in the village monastery, where we were heartily welcomed by the monk. He was still there when I left Burma twenty-four years later. With Captain E. W. Dun, our Intelligence Officer, I inspected a curious magnetic rock in the neighbouring jungle. Some years afterwards it was described as a new discovery by a geologist of note. It has been lost again, but will doubtless be found some day. Soon after our return, on Colonel Stedman’s recommendation, a military post was established at Pyin-u-lwin, and called May-my̆o, after Colonel May, of the Bengal army, a Mutiny veteran, the first Commandant. May-my̆o is now the summer residence of the Burma Government and the headquarters of the Burma division, a flourishing hill-station with a population of about 12,000. Without pretension to the picturesque, it is a place of great charm and quiet beauty, with no palm-trees and few pagodas, conspicuously un-Oriental, more like a corner of Surrey than of Burma.[174]
From Pyin-u-lwin we marched to Thônzè, through a desolate country, overgrown with elephant-grass, but with many signs of past prosperity. At the ruined town of Thônzè, now no more than a straggling village, we halted and tried to open communication with Hein Sè,[175] a bandit who claimed to be Chief of the State. I promised him a safe-conduct and liberty to depart if we could not come to terms, and to encourage him, I offered to let him keep my messenger as a hostage for his safety. This offer was made with the knowledge and consent of the messenger, a little Shan chiefling known as the Tabet Myosa. Him we had found, practically destitute, in Mandalay, where he had been detained by the King. As a matter of grace, he was given an allowance of Rs. 10[176] a month. He accompanied me on this tour, and pluckily undertook to carry my letter to Hein Sè. As he was leaving, he turned at the tent-door, and said: “But you will let him come back, won’t you?” Accepting my assurance, he went off. I know that he discharged his mission, as I received a reply. But his courage was not put to the extreme test. Hein Sè behaved like a gentleman, treated the envoy kindly, and sent him back in safety. He himself declined my invitation. The future history of Tabet may be told here. A few months later, when Mr. Hildebrand and Mr. Scott went to the Shan States, I sent the Myosa with them. He made himself useful, and showed nerve and ability. When, owing to the persistent recalcitrance of its ruler, who fled across the Salween and stayed there, the large State of Yatsauk was in need of a chief, Tabet was chosen. He ruled Yatsauk with loyalty and intelligence, and handed down the succession to his son. His fortune, probably his merit, was better than that of another Shan chiefling of similar status, the Maingkaing Myosa, who also received from Government 13s. 4d. a month, and received no more.
The rest of this tour was without incident. We explained to the people of Thônzè the beneficent intentions of Government, and gave a practical example of the good manners of a British military force. The Gurkhas of the column, then as ever, were specially popular with the people to whom doubtless they are akin.
In February, 1887, Mandalay was not behind the rest of India in celebrating the Jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The ceremonies were designedly arranged so as to give the people an opportunity of demonstrating their loyalty and devotion to the Crown by revels which they themselves appreciated. For a week pwès[177] and other Burmese festivities went on day and night. On the first day came all the members of the royal family, all the high officials, and a crowd of others, in their gayest and richest attire. In the principal ballet appeared, probably for the last time, the famous singer and dancer, Yindaw Ma Le, the favourite of Princes, undisputed prima donna of the Burmese operatic stage, who ten years before had been sent to Rangoon by Mindôn Min to dance at the Proclamation rejoicings. Twenty years later her successor, Ma Twe Le, also a lady of supreme grace and serpentine charm,[178] had the honour of dancing before Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales.
One of the relaxations of those early days was to see the working of the Elephant Kheddah at Amarapura. The Kheddah establishment, inherited from the King and maintained for some time, consisted of a number of tame elephants, thoroughly well trained, with Burmese riders and hunters. The tame elephants, some with riders, some guided only by their own sagacity, plunged into a jungle teeming with herds of their wild brethren. By artful strategy a wild elephant would be detached from his fellows, lured into the midst of the tame herd, and gradually drawn to the Kheddah enclosure. This was a quadrangle, entered only by a funnel-shaped passage, surrounded by a strong outer wall of brick and by an inner stockade of stout teak posts set at intervals, with a space between the stockade and the wall. By his clever, perfidious friends, the captive was cunningly edged and hustled towards the passage till finally he was thrust into its mouth. Then the gate was securely fastened and the quarry was alone at the mercy of his captors. The hunters teased him with blunt spears and sticks, not doing him any real harm, but annoying him exceedingly, escaping his charge by darting between the posts of the palisade, set wide enough apart to admit a man but not an elephant. This was a sport of some danger, requiring nerve and agility. When the poor beast was thoroughly tired, he was noosed and tied up in the Kheddah, and the process of training began. Spectators sat in crowds on the wall to watch this pastime. I do not think it occurred to any of us that it was somewhat cruel.
In March, 1887, Sir Charles Bernard left Burma. He was entertained by the Headquarters Mess at a farewell dinner, where Sir George White[179] proposed his health in moving and eloquent terms, quoting most appropriately the famous lines:
“Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the State.
Not once or twice in our rough island story,
The path of duty was the way to glory:
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden-roses.”
We escorted our guest to the steamer, and there bade farewell to our Chief and our friend.