We soon passed the scene of the disaster that had, only a few months before, caused such a sensation in Burmah and Calcutta, bringing on the devoted heads of certain parties one of Lord Dalhousie’s stinging rebukes. Curiously enough, this check to our otherwise triumphant progress occurred in the same place (and under very similar circumstances) as that of 1825. Mismanagement, divided authority and imperfect knowledge of the place and its resources, one and all combined, led to the failure. The “butcher’s bill” was a heavy one, and our hospitals at Rangoon were crowded with wounded men. As I was probing the wound of a soldier who had been struck in the thigh, there rolled into my hand a gingal ball the size of a small orange. It was of iron, beaten into circular form and covered with facets; an ugly missile, capable of causing a very dangerous, jagged wound. Fortunately for my patient, it had well nigh spent itself, otherwise it must have shattered the whole thigh. In another case, a bullet entering the elbow of the right arm, came out at the left. He was in the act of loading when hit, and the bullet had travelled the whole way under the skin, which subsequently mortified, leaving an extensive surface that was only healed with the greatest difficulty. Instead, therefore, of viewing the scene from a cargo boat, and surviving to delight the reader with these interesting reflections, my bones might have been bleaching in that very jungle, for it was actually for this expedition that my services were declined in an abrupt manner that has already received recognition in a previous chapter. Not far above the place with such a chequered military history, we encountered a boat proceeding down river with unusual speed, and could only just gather a bare outline of the news it was conveying—viz. the assassination of a person holding a high position—when it continued its course with the same energy as before. Circumstances of a peculiar nature must have attended a tragedy of this kind, for, as I have already pointed out, crimes of such turpitude rarely disfigured the Burmese character in the days of yore. They were singularly free from the foul breath of that “green-eyed monster,” jealousy, the mainspring of two-thirds of the long and appalling list of crimes with which the natives of India are branded, and furnished with abundant food for litigation. Climate is no doubt a powerful factor; but this does not account for such wide differences in the character of two neighbouring nations, the reason for which must be sought rather in the degree in which they act up to the moral code laid down for them by Buddha.