ornamental nor useful. It consists of a vest just covering the bosom, which article of clothing is frequently dispensed with. The skirt of the dress is a square piece of fancy-coloured cloth, or variegated silk, carried once round the body and fastened at the hips, where it is folded over so as to be double. Their heads are always bare, with the hair combed completely off the forehead to the back of the head; and all—both front and back hair—gathered into one large knot behind. The poorer classes have their feet bare whilst at work; but, when in holy-day costume, they wear sandals with the thong passing between the great toe, and its next neighbour. The women work harder than the men—a fact of which the latter are fully cognisant, and of which they fully approve.
Except the Shwe Dagon Pagoda, there are no lions at Rangoon.
The place is yet in its infancy, and, under the careful management of its Chief Commissioner, may grow into a thriving part of a province, the resources of which are, as yet, almost wholly unknown. The climate of Rangoon is unquestionably most healthy—superior to that of well nigh any town in India; and if good sanitary regulations are enforced with unswerving strictness, and the drainage of the town, which, from the lowness of the river-bank is a work of considerable difficulty, can but be thoroughly carried out, Rangoon may, at some future date, almost rival in its trade—as it will certainly surpass in its salubrity—any one of the presidency cities.
About two miles from the Custom House wharf, in a small wooden house, under a guard of Her Majesty’s 68th Regiment, the last of the Mogul emperors is ending his weary, useless life. Look in as you pass the house. The old man is completely bed-ridden; but, even yet, if you can quote him a couplet or two from the “Gulistan,” you will confer upon him as much pleasure as he is capable of receiving: for the best that can be said about him is, that he was once a bit of a poet. His favourite Begum shares his easy captivity, and also two of his sons, so-called, in whose features and whose bearing, you will in vain seek the slightest patent of noble birth. Is that old man, you ask, the king that the Mahometans of northern India willed should rule over them?—Are these the recognised descendants of Baber and Akbar, and Aurungzeb?—Surely there must be some mistake? No, not in the least. Here is he who sat on the Peacock throne. Here are they who once walked through marble halls. And a precious set they are! You would not fight for them; nor I, either. Still, incredulous visitor, there are thousands who would, if they had but a chance; who would be delighted with the anarchy that would inevitably follow, could that old man, or one of those precious lads, again mount that Peacock throne. Therefore, O Secretary of the Chief Commissioner, to whose too merciful care those slayers of the white faces are consigned, keep them close, and stand no nonsense.
You, the chance visitor, may well spare a sigh as you think of the strange reverses brought about by the fickle jade, called Fortune. No doubt, as you look at the old man, there will rise up before you visions of the Delhi Palace, where once he lorded it, in a sort of way, and played his part. You see the red battlemented walls, and that vast quadrangle; that glorious Amm-i-khass, so perfect in its proportions, so faultless in its taste; those fairy-like apartments which, if their beautifully inlaid walls could speak, would have dismal tales to tell of every vice that has degraded man, and every misery that has wrung the heart of woman; those pleasant gardens with their summer-houses looking on to the lazy Jumna, and you may fancy seeing this old man, by whose bed-side you are just now moralising, strolling along those pleasant glades, watching the fire-flies as they sparkled by, and discussing with some courtier friend the last Cashmere-imported beauty or his own last Persian sonnet. Yes, they must have been rather different scenes that were spread out before this old man, at twenty years old, to those which you look on now out of his window—the Rangoon parade-ground and the iron church; or, turning towards the north, the Shwe Dagon Pagoda.
The chief attraction Rangoon presents to the families of Europeans residing there, is its beautiful jungle rides, whilst the well-known Burmah ponies—warranted, like Cambridge hacks, though fortunately with more truth, never to cease going—are the means of enjoying these pleasant rides. Think, then, Cornhill inhabitant, whose highest flight is a ride on thy hard-earned hack in Hyde Park or Clapham Common, of the delight of mounting a strong active pony, standing just thirteen and a-half hands high, and a thorough little beauty, at half-past five o’clock, a.m., just three-quarters of an hour before sunrise; and scampering—if it be your will—through ten, twenty, thirty miles of noble forest trees, many of them one vast bouquet of lilac, white, or yellow flowers. But go not alone, for it is not good for man to take the pleasantest ride in total solitude.
There are some good men at Rangoon, brave and honest, and gallant and true, whose companionship is worth your having—nay, if you would have a pleasant ride, and make a day of it, there are not a few fair specimens of your country-women who can ride a half score of miles, and, thanks to the healthy climate, be in no way fatigued. Invite some of them to join your party, and start, having sent forward as your couriers, two or three well-packed hampers. Then, after the ride has sharpened your appetite, investigate—under the spreading shade of some noble banyan-tree, or in some friendly kyoun, where the yellow-robed Phoonghee will greet you with all hospitality—what those hampers may contain. If you spend not a pleasant day you certainly ought never to have come to visit Rangoon.
THE QUALITY I COVET.
If there is one quality more conducive to success in all the affairs of life than another, it is—well, Cheek.
I protest that I have paced the room for a quarter of an hour like a caged hyena, and masticated my pen in a manner suited rather to a slice of the breast, than a quill out of the wing, of a