in the background is the Nat king seated on a throne with placid, immovable face. For Shinmonhla has no doubt become a goddess within his realm, and her merit in due time will reap a yet more perfect reward.

Anaurahta had a son almost as illustrious as himself. The mother was a daughter of the ruler of Wethali, who had reluctantly surrendered his child to the great king's ambassadors. The chronicle depicts her as soft, delicate, and lovely, like newly-minted gold. Spite of these attractions, she fared as badly as the maiden from Shan land, and was banished from the palace in a fit of jealous rage. Shortly before her child was born there occurred a mighty earthquake, and Anaurahta was told by his black and white astrologers that a child was coming into the world who would be the future monarch of Pugan. After having repeated King Herod's method on a still more ruthless scale through several years, it occurred to the king to inquire if his kingdom was actually in danger from the lad. On being reassured on this point he sent for Kyansittha, who became his champion and companion on all his great expeditions. Some years later, however, he mortally offended the irritable despot, who had him straightway bound with bamboo cords, and hurled his famous spear with intent to slay him. The weapon, however, glanced aside, severing the ropes, and Kyansittha, snatching it up, rushed from the palace and fled into the thick forests which lay across the river. His father despatched seven Indian runners to seize him, but they were all slain by the magic spear. The fugitive, seeing there was no hope of mercy at home, fled further north, and after many days' wandering he reached a village where there dwelt an aged monk and his niece Sambula. The girl had long been assured of some high destiny, for it happened that once while picking cotton she had fallen asleep and a swarm of bees had settled on her robe. So her uncle instructed her that on a certain day a husband would come from the West, and that she must get good food and fair water ready to refresh him. And on the day foretold Kyansittha chanced to arrive, and seeing the maiden's beauty he asked for water and plucked some bitter tamarinds from a tree which grew within the garden. The rahan marvelled at seeing him eat, and desired some of the fruit at his hands. Tasting them, he found they had become sweet and luscious, with a fragrance like the fruit of the Nats, and he prompted Sambula to give the stranger all that he demanded. Then Kyansittha, having eaten and drunk, turned and said to the maiden, "You have given me food and drink, and I will give you my life in return." And he lived there in exile with her for many years. But after his father's death Kyansittha was invited back to court by his elder brother Saulu, who had succeeded to the throne. Before leaving he gave Sambula a ring, and charged her if she gave birth to a female child to sell the ring and provide for its maintenance; but if to a male, to bring it with the ring to the royal palace. And after a few years Saulu was slain by the King of Pegu,

and Kyansittha became monarch of Pugan, to the great joy of all the people. Meantime Sambula had become mother of a male child, and when it was seven years old she brought it on foot to the great city, and sought to show it to the king. But at the time of her arrival, footsore and faded after her long journey, Kyansittha was holding a review of all his soldiers, and not daring to enter the palace she sat down outside the gate, holding the child by the hand. The royal attendants addressed her insolently and bade her begone, until she supplicated them that she might be allowed to see the "golden foot." So they went in and told their master, and he gave orders straightway that the woman should be admitted. But when he saw her it was his wife Sambula, and he called her to him and praised her before all his nobles, and he gave her rich apparel and a palace and retinue, and placing the child on his knee he acknowledged him as his son, and mourned they should have been absent so many years. And the lad grew up in the palace, and when he became of age his father made him the ruler of Dhanyavati (Arrakan), where he reigned with great valour and renown.

One or other of these three narratives will be found in the répertoire of every company of players, and two common points of resemblance will be noticed. In a Burmese melodrama it is the lady who has the suffering and the struggle, the gentleman being generally very comfortable and indifferent throughout. This may be a relic from the older Aryan myths, where Síta, Damayantí, and Maddí Deví, the incomparable heroine of the Wethantara Játaka, are notable types of womanly constancy and endurance. But it arises in a great measure also from the social independence of the sex, in which particular Burma contrasts favourably with even European communities. It is curious, however, to observe how women are invariably made to assume the leading characters in the popular drama. And a modern rôle of "minthami ” (or prima donna) is a really very trying performance. I have followed the chronicle in omitting the details of my heroines' travels; but these, of course, are the principal "business" on the stage. The forests which the unfortunate wanderers have to traverse are full to repletion not only of bandits and wild beasts, but of

Gorgons, hydras, and chimæras dire,

"Bhílú"

and other horrific samples of the Burmese pandemonium ; and a or "Galon" is sure to be met with at every turn of the road. They all have the most nefarious designs, and vent their disappointment in direct personal aggression. I have seen an actress most severely pummelled by a violent gentleman with a red mask and hobby-horse, who called himself a "Rekkhaik," because she announced her unalterable devotion to her absent spouse. Occasionally even death is made to result from these savage assaults, when a deus ex machina appears in the shape of the Nat king on the wooden chair. In most cases, too, the situation is intensified by the poor lady being seized with the pangs of maternity

just after one of these encounters. It is simply an ingenious device for enabling the actress to get a little rest after her exertions, and there is absolutely nothing indecorous about it. A few years ago there was some discussion about the alleged immorality of native plays. It cannot be denied that one generally hears a certain amount of coarse language and double-entendre, but this is always "gag" introduced by the clowns and attendants, and is quite extraneous to the piece. In the acting itself there is rarely anything unseemly, and though a woman's dress in ordinary life is, to say the least, not calculated to avoid exposés, her stage costume is unexceptionable.

The second point of resemblance is still more characteristic. Each episode represents a girl of humble extraction (Shinmonhla was even worse off, being a foreigner) marrying a prince and becoming a veritable queen. Modern queens at Mandalay are in reality most unenviable beings, as they alone, among their countrywomen, are kept in strict seclusion with absolutely nothing to do. But to a Burmese damsel, to sit in a palace and be called "phayà," with a white umbrella and a score of attendants, appears the highest pinnacle of feminine happiness. And this pinnacle is still attainable by any young woman with decent looks and opportunities. Did not the mother of the present chief queen, when a simple bazaar-seller, attract royal attention and become a royal consort through her petticoat having been blown (some say not accidentally) within the royal precincts? All depends on "kan," that is, the state of your good-deeds-account, through all foregoing existences, as compared with your bad-deeds-account. As the "merit" outbalances the "demerit," so you will reap good fortune here. This explanation and justification, so to speak, of luck is quite the most inviting tenet of the whole Buddhist theosophy. No one, of course, has any conception of how his account actually stands, but it is quite possible that he may have a large balance to his credit and reap the reward the next visit that he pays to the palace. For the king, as the sole fountain of honour, naturally appears the great exponent and executant of fate. His fitful favour or aversion (with all the consequences each implies) are quite inexplicable on any other theory. To a Burman this chance and caprice is not unattractive, and has, in fact, done much to secure his acquiescence in the rule of as cruel a set of tyrants as ever handled an Eastern sceptre. And it is this element that he looks for in vain in the dull undeviating rhythm of our own régime, and it is to be feared that a "mahámengyee"* and municipalities will not wholly reconcile him to the loss.

H. L. ST. BARBE.

The local title for Chief Commissioner,