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Pagodas and sacred images are left to the care of the people themselves, tempered by the benevolent patronage of the Archæological Survey. In too many cases these buildings and objects are left to the process of natural decay. It seems to be somewhat more meritorious to build a new shrine than to keep in repair an existing fabric. Probably the builder of a new pagoda, for instance, earns all the merit for himself, while a restorer shares it with the original founder. In the case of edifices of special sanctity or conspicuous antiquarian or architectural interest, arrangements have been made, at the instigation of Government, to vest the property and management in legally appointed trustees. The care and maintenance of sacred buildings and the due appropriation of pious offerings are thus assured. Not only for the Shwe Dagôn Pagoda and the Arakan Pagoda at Rangoon and Mandalay respectively, but for many shrines of less fame, trustees have been appointed. This is the best way of securing the preservation of religious buildings of inestimable interest.

One of the most striking personalities in modern Burmese Buddhism is the Ledi Sadaw. This remarkable man devoted some years of his life to travelling through the country preaching and exhorting. His passionate eloquence drew immense congregations. Wherever he went he was greeted by enraptured throngs. Men and women vied in adoration of this saintly personage, women loosing their hair and spreading it as a carpet for his holy feet. His fervour and fiery zeal effected real revivals, whether lasting or transitory I dare not say. Besides addressing public assemblies, he obtained leave to enter jails and preach reformation to the prisoners, apparently with good results.¹⁸⁹ In spite of the extraordinary enthusiasm which he inspired and the honours thrust upon him in his triumphal progress, he preserved unstained and flawless, simplicity and humility of character. We are not wont to regard with favour errant monks preaching here and there. Too often their exhortations have tended to sedition, their liberty has been a cloak for licence. Never for a moment did the Ledi Sadaw fall under a shadow of suspicion as to the purity of his motives and conduct, or the good intention of his pilgrimage. The ethical part of his sermons consisted of fervent denunciations of intemperance, drinking, gambling, opium-smoking, the pleasant vices most devastating among Burmans. In no way inspired by any Government officer, he did not hold aloof from the authorities, but desired to be on good terms with them. Speaking to Colonel Maxwell,¹⁹⁰ who more than most of us won the intimate confidence of Burmans, in all simplicity he said:

“I am not sure that Government will approve my preaching. There will be much loss of revenue; for when I have finished, all liquor and opium shops will be closed for want of custom.”

With a clear conscience the Commissioner bade him go on and prosper, assuring him that Government would be well pleased if so desirable a result could be attained. The promised millennium has not yet arrived. While heartily approving the Sadaw, we did not think it expedient to make our approval conspicuous, lest plausibly, though falsely, the suggestion might be made that he was an agent of the Asoya.¹⁹¹ A travelling set of the Buddhist scriptures was the only mark of Government’s appreciation. I had the privilege of one interview with this extraordinary man. What chiefly impressed me was his weary expression, as though the working of the fiery spirit had worn out the frail tenement of the body. I am glad to hear that the Sadaw still lives, and that his preaching days are not over.

One of the last incidents of my residence in Burma may fitly conclude this discursive chapter. Early in 1910 we were privileged to receive what are believed to be genuine relics of the Buddha. They were discovered by the Archæological Survey near Peshawar. Their authenticity has, I believe, been doubted. I hope I am not, to use the happy phrase of an Irish friend, more prone than most men to swallow mares’-nests. But to me the evidence of the genuine character of the relics seems reasonably convincing. It was my fortunate lot to be instrumental in securing the despatch of these precious remains to Burma, where alone, as I have said, the pure spirit of Buddhism still reigns; and to be present when, with due solemnity, at Government House in Calcutta, the Viceroy graciously entrusted the casket and its priceless contents to a deputation sent from Burma to receive them. The relics were welcomed in Rangoon with demonstrations of pious enthusiasm, and brought by a long procession to the Shwe Dagôn Pagoda, where, for some days, they were exhibited for the edification of the faithful. Thence they were taken to Mandalay and placed in the care of the elders of the Arakan Pagoda till a separate suitable shrine can be erected in custody of a duly constituted trust.

CHAPTER XII
UNDER SIR CHARLES CROSTHWAITE, 1887-1890

Mr. C. H. T. Crosthwaite, soon afterwards Sir Charles Crosthwaite, K.C.S.I., succeeded Sir Charles Bernard. He came enjoying the confidence of the Viceroy, and in just expectation of the support of the Government of India. Taking in hand at once the settlement of the country, in the next four years he devoted his remarkable administrative genius to the completion of the task. I cannot becomingly express in full my humble appreciation and admiration of Sir Charles Crosthwaite and the great work which he accomplished in Burma. I hope it is not presumptuous of me to say that as an administrator he ranks in the very highest class of Indian Statesmen, and is at this moment by far the most distinguished member of our Service. Never sparing himself, in those eventful years he initiated, guided, directed, controlled. In his officers he inspired enthusiasm; we would have fallen in harness to serve him or win his approval. We were always sure of strong and efficient support, and had no fear, if things went wrong, of being thrown to the dogs. Sir Charles Crosthwaite came to a land still torn by internal strife; he left it a peaceful and prosperous Province. I speak of what I know, for from first to last it was my privilege to work immediately under him, to see the pulse of the machine. Let those who wish to understand turn to the book¹⁹² wherein the story of the pacification is modestly told by the chief actor in the drama.

Early in March, 1887, the Chief Commissioner came to Mandalay, retaining for a short time the separate Secretariat for Upper Burma. Wisely distrusting the sanitary conditions of the palace, he took up his quarters in a small house built on the city wall, intended as the residence of a military police officer. It consisted of two or three rooms under one of the pyathats.¹⁹³ On the first evening after the Chief Commissioner’s arrival we waited some time for dinner, as the roof of the cook-room was blown off by a sudden gale. Since those days the building has expanded, and has become a respectable Government House. Thanks to the good taste of the Chief Engineer, Mr. H. J. Richard, Burmese style has been preserved. The pyathat is the centre of a range of buildings which might be a monastery or a section of the Palace. Thus the house is a picturesque feature in the landscape, not an outrage. With the moat and a stretch of green lawn on one side, and pretty gardens on the other, commanding a fine view of Mandalay Hill and the rugged western hillocks, it has every æsthetic quality. It may be whispered that it is more beautiful to see than comfortable to inhabit.

Sir Charles Crosthwaite’s first tour was undertaken for the purpose of visiting the Ruby Mines district, then recently occupied. A military station had been established on a lofty, somewhat bleak plateau, and honoured with the name of Bernardmy̆o. The civil headquarters were at Mogôk, the centre of the ruby mines. Reaching Ky̆an-hny̆at by steamer, we rode to Sagadaung, at the foot of the hills, breakfasting midway with Mr. R. C. Stevenson,¹⁹⁴ the subdivisional officer. The Chief Commissioner’s party consisted of the Personal Assistant¹⁹⁵ and myself. At Sagadaung it was found that all the servants, panic-stricken at the thought of plunging into savage wilds, had refused to leave the steamer. The kit and stores had come on, but the only servants with us were my Madrasi boy and a few chapràsis.¹⁹⁶ The Personal Assistant was equal to the occasion. He invited all the officers of the Station to dine with the Chief Commissioner, from whom the state of affairs was concealed. “And,” said he, “as our men are rather tired, will you let your cooks help to get dinner ready?” These assistants he supplied with stores and necessaries, and dinner was successfully achieved. Next morning we rode up the hill to Bernardmy̆o, where we were kindly made honorary members of the mess and lodged as handsomely as Service conditions allowed. I slept in a commissariat godown,¹⁹⁷ with the wind, cold even in April, whistling through the openings in the boarded floor. After a day or two we rode on to Mogôk, through lovely evergreen forest which still shades the bridle-path. There we were guests of the Deputy Commissioner, the late Mr. G. M. S. Carter, who cherished us till we reached the river and our steamer once more. Never, I ween, not even in the Spartan days of Sir Arthur Phayre, did a Chief Commissioner make an official tour in his Province with only a third of a boy and a stray chapràsi or two as bearer,¹⁹⁸ khitmagar,¹⁹⁹ and cook.

The Ruby Mines Company was still in embryo, but the syndicate out of which it was evolved had established a footing, and Mr. F. Atlay, who still manages its affairs, was already installed. The quest for rubies was prosecuted by the hereditary miners, who worked by primitive native methods. In the King’s time rubies were, naturally, a royal monopoly, and any stone of exceptional value was a royal perquisite. The most illustrious stone on record was called, after its finder, Chin Nga Mauk. The lucky man himself took it to the Palace, and was privileged to lay it at the King’s feet. As a reward he was allowed to take away a cart-load of whatever he liked from the Palace. The legend of the discovery of the mines may be told. Passing through a desolate, unpeopled land, a wayfarer saw a vulture swoop from a solitary rock and pick up a piece of, as it seemed to wayfarer and apparently to vulture, raw red flesh. Surprised at such a phenomenon in a waste place, the traveller investigated, and found the earth strewn with lovely glittering red stones, thenceforth known as the rubies of commerce. The truth of the story is proved by the existence to this day of the rock on which the vulture perched. Times have changed, and rubies are no longer picked up on the surface. Nor are they found embedded in the stone walls of Aladdin’s caves. They are extracted by washing from ruby-bearing earth (by̆ôn), which is borne in trucks to the Company’s washing sheds. Each truck contains, I suppose, about twelve cubic feet of earth; the average value is about one shilling. But any load may produce a stone worth a King’s ransom. Besides the scientific operations of the company, mining by native methods is still practised. The rights of hereditary miners are preserved. They pursue the quest after the manner of their fathers, on payment of a moderate licence-fee. The very poor, mostly women, may glean in the beds of streams without any restriction. Ruby-mining was a profitable business, with a pleasing element of chance. Some lucky miners amassed large fortunes. Even the common people were affluent. The smallest coin current in the bazaar was a silver two-anna (2d.) piece. Coppers were unknown. In later days the Chief Commissioner or Lieutenant-Governor’s receptions at Mogôk were ceremonies of much splendour. Followed by scores of mounted men who came to meet him, he rode through the town under triumphal arches gleaming with silken banners, past lines of cheering spectators, groups of dancers, and cymbal-clashing musickers, while pretty, shy Shan girls peeped from the casements. An incident of one of these visits, though it has nothing to do with rubies or ceremonious receptions, may be recorded by way of comic relief. The scene was the parade-ground; the occasion, an inspection of the Military Police Battalion; the time, the end of summer. The ground was wet and slippery from an early unexpected shower. After the accustomed evolutions, the Commandant, an exceptionally smart, well-turned-out officer, came galloping up to the Lieutenant-Governor, and as he essayed to pull up within a yard of that august personage his pony slipped and deposited him in the mud at his feet. Nowise abashed, he rose, gravely saluted: “Would you like to see anything else, sir?” “No, thank you,” was the equally grave reply. And the incident closed, to their credit, be it told, not one of the staff moving a muscle. As the story goes, they waited to laugh till they got home.

On our return from the first visit, our baggage borne on mules, we rode to Thabeik-kyin along a mule-track following approximately the line of the present road. The narrow path wound through and about the hills, often with a yawning precipice on one hand, a wall of rock on the other. But that the road is broad and smooth, in many respects it resembles the old path. Ponies have still a horrid habit of hugging the cliff’s edge, and one rides with a leg suspended over the abyss. To meet a train of pack-bullocks charging down the pass is a trying experience. So, too, is the ascent in a motor-car with a driver learning his work. Green forest covers the hillsides and luxuriates in the valleys, brilliant with many-coloured blooms. The cicala fills the open spaces with sound, so great a noise by so small a body. It was then all new and full of interest. The beauty of the landscape charmed every step of the march. Our guide was a handsome ruffian, Bo Aw, as picturesque as the scene, who rode ahead in Shan dress, his flapping straw hat decked with gay streamers. Afterwards he returned to the life of a dacoit, and, I fear, came to a bad end.

Soon after this, the Mandalay Secretariat ceased to exist as a separate branch, one Secretariat, with a Chief Secretary, Secretary, Junior Secretary, and Assistant Secretary, being constituted in Rangoon for the whole Province. Mr. Symes became Chief Secretary, but, worn out by many labours, went on leave, Mr. Donald Smeaton²⁰⁰ coming from India to act for him. I became Secretary, and Mr. C. G. Bayne, Junior Secretary. The anomalous post of Special Commissioner was abolished, Mr. Hodgkinson going to Moulmein as Commissioner. Mr. Smeaton was not new to the Province. Some years before he had come to Burma to fill the newly created office of Revenue Secretary and Director of Agriculture. In that capacity he had devised and organized the Supplementary Survey system, afterwards called the Land Records Department. This was, I believe, an entirely original scheme, of which the design was to keep land records and maps up to date, year by year, so as to obviate the labour of re-survey whenever a Settlement had to be revised. In theory the plan was admirable; its practical success has not been perfect, partly, I think, because the establishment was inadequate. Mr. Smeaton also organized and set to work the first regular Settlement Parties in Burma. From 1887 onwards he served as Chief Secretary, Commissioner, and Financial Commissioner, failing, however, in the end to attain the high office for which his rare abilities seemed to designate him. The Chief Secretary took over the political department, and for a time my association with the most interesting part of the administration was severed. I had plenty to do in my own branches.

The Secretary was in charge of State prisoners, a few of whom, members of the late reigning family of Delhi, still survived. The ex-King, Bahadur Shah, who had been tried and sentenced to death for his share in the massacre of English men and women, had been spared the extreme penalty and sent to Rangoon, where he died in exile. His widow, the Begam Zinath Mahal, was in Rangoon in my charge. She and her daughter-in-law were of such exalted rank that they were not parda-nashín²⁰¹ to English officers. More than once I saw the old Begam who, thirty years before, had played so lurid a part in the Mutiny. Though now of advanced age, she retained traces of great beauty and was specially proud of her finely shaped, delicate hands. Her beauty was of the Pit, aquiline, dark, menacing. Her son, Prince Jăwán Băkht (P. J. Băkht, as he used quaintly to style himself on his visiting cards), the direct representative of the Moguls, lived in Rangoon with his wife, Shah Zamani Begam, of the race of Nadir Shah, the Persian Conqueror. Jăwán Băkht was not of specially marked character, amiable and harmless. His wife was a lady of charm and dignity, worthy of her lofty lineage. In her youth beautiful exceedingly, time had but little marred that lovely face. Poor lady, she was totally blind, but the disease which had darkened her sight left no disfigurement and hardly dimmed the lustre of her radiant eyes. She spoke the purest Urdu, in liquid tones sweeter than any I have ever heard in that graceful tongue. Beyond words pathetic it was to see and converse with this lady of a great family, keeping to the last the pride of her race and station, with every mark of a gentle and gracious disposition, reduced to comparative poverty, and sharing without a murmur the hard lot of the last scion of a fallen dynasty. Jăwán Băkht and Shah Zamani Begam have long been gathered to their fathers. Their son and daughter, Mirza Jamshíd Băkht and Ronak Begam, last of the line of Babar and Akbar and Aurangzíb, still live in Rangoon in receipt of miserable stipends. It is true that the decadent Moguls did not deserve well at our hands. Bahadur Shah and Zinath Mahal were treated even more leniently than they merited. But their surviving descendants are innocent of complicity in their crimes. Politically, they have never given the slightest trouble; Mohammedans seem hardly aware of their existence. Somewhat more generous treatment might be accorded them. Their pensions might be made sufficient to enable them to live in reasonable comfort.

Another interesting State pensioner, not a prisoner, was Prince Hassan, adopted son of Sultan Suleiman, leader of the Panthay²⁰² rebellion in Yunnan. When, finally overthrown, Suleiman died by his own hand to avoid capture, Hassan luckily was in Rangoon. There he stayed for the rest of his life, in receipt of an allowance from the Indian Government. Precisely on what grounds the grant to Hassan of a pension from Indian revenues was justified, I have never clearly understood. But all who knew him must be glad that any technical difficulties were overcome. Most charming and courteous of men, Hassan was in some respects the most attractive of the native notables of my acquaintance. He spent his time quietly in study, occasionally paying the Secretary a friendly visit. Ronak Begam became his wife. Some years later, after many wanderings and much tribulation, the Panthay wife of his youth, whom he had believed to be dead, appeared and resumed her natural position in his house. Ronak Begam, who could hardly be expected to take the second place, returned to her family. Hassan died some years ago. There are a good many Panthays in Upper Burma, principally in Mandalay, Bhamo, Mogôk, and the Shan States, sturdy men of stalwart stature and agreeable manners, assiduous traders, and good citizens. With several I was on friendly terms. My best friend among them one day brought his very aged and wrinkled mother to see me and bade her shake hands. The old dame obeyed, but pudically covered her hand with a kerchief before clasping mine.

For a few months in 1888 I acted as Commissioner of the Northern Division, the second officer to hold that appointment. Including the royal city, the Katha district on the borders of Wuntho, the Ruby Mines, the Kachin Hills, the China frontier, the division has always seemed the most interesting in the Province. To me who had been associated with Mandalay from the beginning, the position was specially attractive. The place was full of my Burmese friends by whom I was cordially welcomed. The appointment was temporary, though at first this was not the Chief Commissioner’s intention. As a somewhat maladroit acquaintance, meeting me at the club on my arrival, frankly said: “Of course, you will be here only till a senior man can be sent.” It was true, but he need not have rubbed it in.

Unlike most other officers, Commissioners draw a fixed monthly travelling allowance. It is therefore a point of honour with them to spend a good deal of time away from headquarters. In the Northern Division the cost of travelling was high, and the monthly allowance was never a source of profit. An early tour brought me to Bhamo, after being nearly swamped by a sudden squall. Signs of violence were still common. The Captain of the steamer assured me that quite lately he had seen corpses floating down the river “dreadfully emancipated.” At Bhamo I was shocked to find that the day before my arrival Bo Ti, one of the rebel leaders of Mogaung, had escaped from the primitive wooden jail. He was never recaptured. With him went a young Indian who was under trial for attempting to murder the Colonel of a native regiment. The Colonel I found convalescent. He was a hard man, and sepoys had often threatened to shoot him. As he was shaving one morning he felt a shock, and knew that he was wounded. Thinking that the threat had been carried out, the stout old man said to himself, “They shan’t know they have hit me,” and went on shaving. It was really his own servant, who from behind had slashed him with a sword. Owing to the Colonel’s grim determination not to let the sepoy know that he had scored, his assailant got in another blow. This is the story as I heard it. The Colonel, a bulky, muscular man, recovered from wounds which would probably have killed one of slighter build. It was doubtless by the agency of this young Indian that the guard of the jail was corrupted and the prisoner’s escape facilitated. He, too, made his way to the Kachin country, and was never caught. Vague rumours of his presence in the frontier fights of the next few years were current. I hope he did not have a very good time in the hills.

A story of Bhamo of later years may be told here. A military police sepoy ran “amuck,” as they say. Armed with a rifle and well supplied with ammunition, he took possession of a masonry house, and from a casement amused himself by shooting at anyone who came in sight. The house was duly surrounded by police, and the Deputy Commissioner and District Superintendent came down. It did not occur to them to summon infantry and guns from the neighbouring fort, or to fire volleys at the brick walls. The Superintendent, Mr. H. F. Hertz,²⁰³ obtained a rough description of the interior of the house, and entered it from next door. Groping in the semi-darkness characteristic of native houses, he made his way to the room next to that held by the sepoy. Hearing a sound, the sepoy half-opened the door and thrust out his rifle. Pushing the rifle aside with one hand, Mr. Hertz shot the man dead with his revolver, receiving a slight wound in the encounter. This is the way these things are managed in Burma.

Bhamo was then the headquarters of the district which included the country bordering on China and Tibet, all the present Myitkyina district, Mogaung, and the Jade Mines. The column under Major C. H. E. Adamson, which visited Mogaung and the Jade Mines, had just returned, having secured the submission of Kansi La and Kansi Naung, the Kachin chiefs of the Jade Mines tract.²⁰⁴ Soon afterwards occurred the assault on Mogaung, gallantly repulsed by Gurkha military police under Captain Hugh O’Donnell²⁰⁵ and Mr. Lawrence Eliott. Close to China, from which it is separated by a range of hills, Bhamo is filled by a strange variety of races. Chinese, stalwart traders of Yunnan; Panthays, survivors of the great rebellion; Shans, Shan-Chinese, Shan-Burmans, Kachins of many divers tribes, give life and colour and speak a Babel of tongues in the bazaar. Driving along one of the roads leading out of the town, the traveller is impressed by a sign-post bearing the legend—

To China

Not many miles away the peaks of the Kachin Hills rise in the eastern sky. Across these hills come caravans²⁰⁶ from T’Êngyüeh (Momien) and Manwaing, in those days paying toll to the Kachins for leave to pass. Through these hills marched the ill-fated Margary before he attempted his fatal return journey. Through them in later days, with happier omens, walked Dr. Morrison at the end of his adventurous pilgrimage. A few miles below the town of Bhamo the Irrawaddy runs through a narrow, rock-bound gorge known as the Second Defile. Conspicuous on the right bank looms the tall Elephant Rock, crowned by a small golden pagoda. I have had the rare experience of passing through the defile by the light of the full moon. The silver light on the towering crags, the silence and the solitude, created an effect full of mystery and charm. Emerging from the defile, we reach the town of Shwegu, whence, gazing on the sunset painting with gorgeous colours the western hills, one realizes “the incomparable pomp of eve.” Above Bhamo the river pierces a still more gloomy, precipitous, whirlpool-haunted gorge, the First Defile. In the dry months, from November to April, this defile is navigable by launches, and with reasonable care the passage can be made without risk. In the rains it is closed to all traffic except that of country boats and timber rafts. Once, long ago, two gallant officers came through in a launch as late as May. They had no wish to repeat the experiment. When in full flood, to traverse the defile even in a boat is an adventure requiring nerve and skill. On the upward course the boat is towed laboriously for many weary days. If the rope slips, the work of days may be lost in a few minutes. Down-stream the journey is far more rapid and even more hazardous. I do not think any British officer has been drowned in the defile, but several of my friends have lost their baggage. At least one launch lies in its fathomless depths. At any time the passage through the defile is full of interest and excitement. Nothing can surpass the wild beauty of its winding, rock-bound course. Here, in mid-stream, a sharp boulder has to be shunned; there careful steering is needed lest the vessel be spun round in a whirlpool; now we seem to be driving straight against a wall of stone. To leave Burma without traversing the First Defile is to miss one of the sights of the world.

Another tour led me across the Shwebo district, then in the Northern Division, where my old friend Mr. B. K. S. MacDermott was in charge. The township officer was Maung Tun, K.S.M., afterwards Extra Assistant Commissioner, a local officer of remarkable ability and of proved courage and loyalty. His father, Bo Pyin, had been Wun of Shwebo, and had retired at an advanced age. He is the man already mentioned who shocked his pious serious-minded son by retaining his passion for the chase.

Here is the city of Alaungpaya; here Mindôn Min raised the standard of revolt against his brother. Shwebo was always a turbulent district, the seed-bed of sedition; it retained that character long after the annexation. At this time it was fairly quiet; we rode through it with a moderate escort. As we left the town we saw approaching a long line of Burmans, in carts and on foot, men, women, and children. “All these people,” said the Deputy Commissioner with pride, “are coming in to my new bazaar.” On inquiry, we ascertained that they were really all coming in to be vaccinated. This is an example of the good sense and lack of prejudice so often found among Burmans. Years before, the people of Pantanaw had begged for a vaccinator. If proper facilities were provided, the whole population of Burma could be vaccinated without recourse to compulsion. Only the inefficiency and corruption of an underpaid staff and the untrustworthy quality of the lymph have retarded this desirable consummation. I am glad to say that these defects have now been, or are in process of being, remedied.

From Shwebo we crossed the Katha district and came to Kawlin on the verge of the Shan State of Wuntho.²⁰⁷ This State, inconveniently situated in the midst of regularly administered districts, was left under its native chief till the year 1891. Shortly before the annexation the Sawbwa, a capable truculent man, had been transferred as Wun to Mogaung for the purpose of suppressing a Kachin rising. He accomplished the task with devastating completeness. In Wuntho he was succeeded by his son, a timid creature quite unlike the savage swashbuckler who begot him. Vain efforts had been made to induce the young chief to meet our officers, Mr. Burgess himself and the Kinwun Mingyi having visited Wuntho for the purpose without success. Once the Sawbwa did meet Mr. E. P. Cloney, Extra Assistant Commissioner. The issue was unfortunate. At the conference, owing to a misunderstanding, a tumult arose and the Shan retainers drew their swords. Mr. Cloney’s life would have been sacrificed but for the presence of mind of the Sawbwa, who clasped him in his arms and shielded him from attack. This is the solitary occasion on which the Sawbwa showed any sign of courage or resolution. Only once again he met a British officer, Mr. H. F. P. Hall,²⁰⁸ afterwards Assistant Commissioner. Though I went to Wuntho with only half a dozen sowars, the Sawbwa declined the meeting and bolted to his remote fortress at Pinlebu. When, owing to the survey of the projected railway-line, the long-existing tension became acute, the Sawbwa, after wantonly attacking the adjacent districts, fled with his father to China. The old man is dead. The son survives in exile in Yunnan, having long ceased to be an object of apprehension or of interest to the Burma Government. The State of Wuntho is merged in the Katha district.