THE RETURN.
"But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago and far away
An' there ain't no busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay."
"For the temple-bells are callin', and it's there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea."
(Kipling.)
To the stranger in this fascinating country, days are as minutes, months
as days, and it seemed that scarcely had I arrived and commenced to look
around me, when my visit came to an end, and sadly bidding farewell to
Remyo and its many delights, all too soon I had to return home.
Alas! too, I found I was compelled to renew my acquaintance with the
Burmese pony, the only alternative being a bullock cart; and let those
who have ridden forty miles along an up-country road in a Burmese
bullock cart----but no! I do not like to think such an experience can
have befallen my worst enemy.
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.
I think the true reason why Marseilles is so frequently spoken of with
disfavour is on account of the "Bouillabaisse," the terrible mixture
which delights the palates of the natives, and which innocent strangers
are induced to partake of under the delusion that it must therefore be
good for human food.
The only recommendation this dish possesses is the curious interest it
arouses in one's mind as to what it is really composed of. One never
knows what form of fish, flesh, or _bad_ red herring one may encounter
next. The appearance of the dish resembles one's childish imaginations
of a "Mess of Pottage." Its scent suggests Marseilles harbour, and the
stoke hole of a Channel steamer. I myself was never sufficiently
enterprising to taste it, but judging by the expression of haggard
thought that overspread the features of some who were so venturesome, I
should say the taste must be "mystic, wonderful," and that years of
careful study are necessary to attain to a true appreciation of its
subtle delicacy.
I think the journey from Marseilles to London is the most wearisome that
can be undertaken. After the warmth, the quiet, and the absence of hurry
to which I had become accustomed in the East, I found the bustle and
noise, added to the piercing cold of a European April, almost
overpowering. I shivered on deck, as our steamer ploughed her way across
the Channel, through a damp clinging fog, and when at last the welcome
white cliffs came into sight, I was far too miserable to wax sentimental
over this return to my native shore, and I longed only for tea and a
fire.
Yet after all, despite the contrast betwixt sunshine and yellow fog,
between jungle glades and London streets, despite all the advantages
which we know that every other clime and country can boast over our own,
England is England still, and Home is Home.
And now let me offer a word of advice to those who, like myself,
undertake adventurous wanderings far from their native land, and recount
the same with many embellishments. On their return home, let them beware
of introducing to the admiring circle of their friends, any who may have
accompanied them on their travels.
I had been back at home some three months, had told my story, and had
established my reputation, when one day a visitor from Burmah arrived.
He had not been long in the house before some uncalled-for allusion was
made to the historic occasion on which I defended my sister's house in
Remyo from a body of dacoits. He denied all knowledge of the incident.
Suspicions awoke in the breasts of my friends. They questioned the
visitor about my struggle with the tiger, my adventure with the bear, my
heroic bravery on the occasion of the shipwreck, and about all my other
best inspired narrations.
Alas! he denied them all, and my credit was gone for ever. I fancy some
have even ceased to believe that I have been to Burmah at all, and some
have become so suspicious as to make enquiries as to whether I really am
myself. It is hard! and the recently notorious contributor to the "Wide
Wide World" Magazine has my deep sympathy. Would I had lived in the days
of Columbus; I would have discovered more than America, had I enjoyed
such excellent opportunities as did he.
* * * * *
Thus ends the account of my experiences in Burmah, and of the impression
left on my mind by this oft-described country.
Perhaps distance lends enchantment to the view, and makes me forget the
evils of the climate, the dangers and discomforts of life there, the
slowness of locomotion, the lack of many so-called benefits of
civilisation; and I seem to remember only a land where the sun is always
shining and the world is always gay; where the air is heavy with
delicious eastern scents, and filled with the harmonious music of the
temple bells, as they are gently swayed by the whispering breeze. A land
where the hues of earth can vie with the brilliancy of the sunset, and
the eye is feasted with delicately blended colours.
Here Beauty and Peace hold eternal honeymoon. Misery seems to have no
place in this land of delight, but contentment ever reigns, and the
happy Burman dreams away his life in a paradise of sunshine. No one who
has visited this country can ever forget it, but learns to understand
too well that fascination so well expressed by Mr. Kipling: "If you've
'eard the East a' callin', you won't never 'eed nought else."
I remember Burmah, too, as a land of picturesque buildings, of rich
jewels, exquisite costumes, and beautiful graceful women. A land of
kindly hearts, friendly welcomes, and ungrudging hospitality.
These are remembered when the last glint of the golden-domed pagoda has
faded into the shadowy distance, and we sail away from the peaceful
sunshine and the palm trees, westward ho! to this hurrying, bustling
modern world, where, though beauty exists, we have no time to appreciate
it, and where, like King Midas of old, we would turn all we touch to
glittering gold, and for ever destroy its charm.
R. PLATT, PRINTER, WIGAN.