his clasped hands and said "Warry
_Ching, ching_!" and I knew that this was his foolish heathen way of
sending greeting to the Chinese adviser of the Government of Burma. The
Shan dialect is quite distinct from the Chinese, but all the princes or
princelets dress in Chinese fashion and learn Mandarin, and it was of
course in Mandarin that the Santa Sawbwa conversed with Mr. Warry. This
Sawbwa is the son-in-law of the ex-Wuntho Sawbwa. He rules over a
territory smaller than many squatters' stations in Victoria. He is one
of the ablest of Shans, and would willingly place his little
principality under the protection of England. He is thirty-five years of
age, dresses in full Chinese costume, with pigtail and skullcap, is
pock-marked, and has incipient goitre. He is polite and refined, chews
betel nut "to stimulate his meditative faculties," and expectorates on
the floor with easy freedom. I showed him my photographs, and he
graciously invited me to give him some. I nodded cheerfully to him in
assent, rolled them all up again, and put them back in my box. He knew
that I did not understand.

We had tea together, and then he took his leave, "Warry _Ching, ching_!"
being his parting words.

As soon as he had gone the deep drum--a hollow instrument of wood shaped
like a fish--was beaten, and the priests gathered to vespers, dressed in
many-coloured garments of silk; and, as evening fell, they intoned a
sweet and mournful chant.

The service over, all but the choristers entered the room off the
gallery in which I was lying, where, looking in, I saw them throw off
their gowns and coil themselves on the sleeping benches. Opium-lamps
were already lit, and all were soon inhaling opium; all but one who had
rheumatism, and who, lying down, stretched himself at full length, while
a brother priest punched him all over in that primitive method of
massage employed by every native race the wide world over.

In the City Temple some festival was being celebrated, and night was
turbulent with the beating of gongs and drums and the bursting of
crackers. Long processions of priests in their yellow robes were passing
the temple in the bright moonlight. Priests were as plentiful as
blackberries; if they had been dressed in black instead of yellow, the
traveller might have imagined that he was in Edinburgh at Assembly time.

In the morning another escort of half a dozen men was ready to accompany
me for the day's stage to Manyuen. They were i