stopped, he would drive straight on till he died of starvation.
Occasionally, by a judicious waving of umbrellas it may be possible to direct his course, but that only in the case of a very young driver. I have sometimes wondered whether perchance the pony may be the sinner, and the driver merely an innocent and unwilling accomplice. I cannot tell.
But this I can say, if you crave for danger, if you seek penance, drive in a "ticca gharry," but if you desire to reach any particular destination in this century, don't.
With the exception of a few leisure hours spent at the Gymkhana, the ladies of Rangoon devote their time and energy to writing "Chits."
At first I was filled with a great wonder as to what might be the nature of these mysterious "Chits." I would be sitting peacefully talking with my hostess in the morning, when suddenly, a look of supreme unrest and anxiety comes over her face: "Excuse me, a moment" she exclaims, "I must just go and write a chit."
She then hastens to her writing table, rapidly scribbles a few words, gives the paper to a servant, and then returns to me with an expression of relief and contentment.
But scarce five minutes have elapsed, ere the look of anxiety again returns; again she writes a "chit," and again becomes relieved and cheerful, and so on throughout the day.
And this, I discovered was the case with nearly every European lady in the country. I suppose it must be some malady engendered by the climate, only to be relieved by the incessant inditing of "chits." I myself never suffered from the ailment, but should doubtless have fallen a victim had I remained longer in the country.
The contents and destination of these "chits" seem to be of little or no importance; so long as notes be written and despatched at intervals of ten minutes or so during the day, that is sufficient. What finally becomes of these "chits" I cannot pretend to say; whether they are merely taken away and burnt, or whether they have some place in the scheme of creation, I never discovered.
Nor do I know whether the male population suffers from the same malady. Does the Indian Civilian, seated in his luxurious chamber in that awe-inspiring building of his, does he too spend his life in writing "chits"? Does the "Bombay Burman," in some far off jungle, "alone with nature undisturbed," does he too sit down 'neath the shade of the feathery bamboo, or the all embracing Peepul tree, and write and despatch "chits" to imaginary people, in imaginary houses, in an imaginary town?
I know not, it is futile to speculate further upon the matter. The mystery of "chit" writing is too deep for me.
I would gladly have remained longer in Rangoon, but it might not be. Mine was no mere visit of pleasure; I had travelled to Burmah in search of adventure, such as is scarcely to be met with in the garden party, dinner party, and dance life of Rangoon. And so, one hot afternoon, with anxious beating heart, I said "Good bye" to security and civilisation, and set forth on my journey to Mandalay!
Chapter III.—THE ROAD TO MANDALAY.—
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