Even the tyranny and oppression of the upper classes over the serfs in each country has been similar, and has had a like effect in fostering the habit of perjury and lying. In chapter xxi. Sir M. Wallace accounts for the proneness of the Russian peasant to lying and perjury by stating: “In the ordinary intercourse of peasants amongst themselves, or with people in whom they have confidence, I do not believe that the habit of lying is abnormally developed. It is only when the peasant comes in contact with authorities that he shows himself an expert fabricator of falsehoods. In this there is nothing that need surprise us. For ages the peasantry were exposed to the arbitrary power and ruthless exactions of those who were placed over them; and as the law gave them no means of legally protecting themselves, their only means of self-defence lay in cunning and deceit.” He goes on to say: “When legitimate interests cannot be protected by truthfulness and honesty, prudent people always learn to employ means which experience has proved to be more effectual. In a country where the law does not afford protection, the strong man defends himself by his strength, the weak by cunning and duplicity. This fully explains the fact—if fact it be—that in Turkey the Christians are less truthful than the Mahometans.” The Siamese, who for centuries have suffered from the _bad_ old rule— “That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can”— are reputed to be the greatest liars in the East, and pride themselves above all things upon their cunning and duplicity. After looking through the young ladies’ albums and library, and talking over their recent journeys into the district, which were made without other protection than their own Shan servants, I said good-bye, and returned home just in time to receive Chow Hoo-a Muang Kyow[14]—the fourth in rank of the chiefs of Zimmé—the father of Chow Nan, who conducted us to Kiang Hai. The Chow came in state, accompanied by fifteen attendants bearing his gold betel-boxes, water-goblets, and other paraphernalia of rank. On his ascending the stairs, I rose to meet him and exchange the usual greetings—“_Chow, sabira?_” (“Prince, are you well?”) “_Sabi, sabi!_” (“Well, well!”). Having no interpreters—Mr and Mrs Webster being out, and my Shans in attendance upon Dr Cushing—the remainder of our conversation was chiefly in dumb show, owing to my knowing only a few sentences of Shan, and my visitor being acquainted with neither Burmese nor English. The interview was therefore more amusing and less instructive than it otherwise might have been.