on.

Before we go aboard we walk through the marketplace by the side of the
river; it is lit with a yellow sunset from over the river, the umbrellas
stand out brown against the sky, and the burning tobacco of the girls
white cheroots begins to show red, and the oranges have a very deep
colour, the blue smoke hangs in level wisps in the warm dusty air--and
you could lean up against the smell of the ngapi. It is in heaps, and of
finest quality they say. Here is a jotting from a sketch in colour; I
made also one in line to immortalise the Prome triumphal arch.

[Illustration]

There are more than a dozen flags on it now, and you see two natives
putting up two lamps; and the governor, you can imagine--he is training
his pair of carriage ponies to stand this unusual display. They go up
and down the mile of high road on the bundar in such a lather, one
nearly out of its skin with excitement. What would be better than an
arch, and would please every one, would be to collect all the Burmese
residents in the district in their best dresses, and allow them to group
themselves as their artistic minds would suggest; their grouping and
posing would be something to remember. Burmese woman study movement
from childhood, and nothing more beautiful could be conceived than their
colour schemes; I've seen arrangement of colours to-day in dresses,
delicate as harmonies in Polar ice, and others rich and strong as the
colours of a tropical sunset.

But one line more about the town.--Before the Christian era, Prome was
within six miles east of being one of Burmah's many ancient capitals; it
marked the ancient boundary between Ava and Pegu, otherwise Upper and
Lower Burmah. It is seventy five miles above Rangoon, and has 27,000
inhabitants, and has streets here, and a law court there, and an
Anglican church, so it is moving--one way or the other.

CHAPTER XXVII

Thayet Myo, January 20th.--After leaving Prome we have a good long wait
here; we have the Prince's mails on board. Their Royal Highnesses are
coming down river from Mandalay, so we wait their steamer. As we lunch
on deck we watch the villagers collecting, coming in bullock carts and
canoes.

The Flotilla Company have painted their steamer for the Prince all
white--given her a buff funnel, and she flies the Royal Standard with
the quarterings wrong, as usual, and looks mighty big and fine as she
surges south over the silky, mirror-like surface of the river. There is
a bl