their head, the villagers managed nearly all their affairs.
Their taxes, for instance, they assessed and collected themselves. The
governor merely informed the headman that he was to produce ten rupees
per house from his village. The villagers then appointed assessors from
among themselves, and decided how much each household should pay. Thus a
coolie might pay but four rupees, and a rice-merchant as much as fifty
or sixty. The assessment was levied according to the means of the
villagers. So well was this done, that complaints against the decisions
of the assessors were almost unknown--I might, I think, safely say were
absolutely unknown. The assessment was made publicly, and each man was
heard in his own defence before being assessed. Then the money was
collected. If by any chance, such as death, any family could not pay,
the deficiency was made good by the other villagers in proportion. When
the money was got in it was paid to the governor.

Crime such as gang-robbery, murder, and so on, had to be reported to the
governor, and he arrested the criminals if he felt inclined, and knew
who they were, and was able to do it. Generally something was in the
way, and it could not be done. All lesser crime was dealt with in the
village itself, not only dealt with when it occurred, but to a great
extent prevented from occurring. You see, in a village anyone knows
everyone, and detection is usually easy. If a man became a nuisance to a
village, he was expelled. I have often heard old Burmans talking about
this, and comparing these times with those. In those times all big
crimes were unpunished, and there was but little petty crime. Now all
big criminals are relentlessly hunted down by the police; and the
inevitable weakening of the village system has led to a large increase
of petty crime, and certain breaches of morality and good conduct. I
remember talking to a man not long ago--a man who had been a headman in
the king's time, but was not so now. We were chatting of various
subjects, and he told me he had no children; they were dead.

'When were you married?' I asked, just for something to say, and he
said when he was thirty-two.

'Isn't that rather old to be just married?' I asked. 'I thought you
Burmans often married at eighteen and twenty. What made you wait so
long?'

And he told me that in his village men were not allowed to marry till
they were about thirty. 'Great harm comes,' he said, 'of allowing boys
and girls t