“A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel! Oh wise young judge, how I do honour thee!” Uninviting as may have been the immediate surroundings of the last place, few stations could vie with Prome in all that was picturesque. Situated on the left bank of the river, it consisted of a limited and undulating tract of country, covered with fine trees, from the branches of which hung beautiful creepers in graceful festoons; shrubs and undergrowths also grew thickly among the timber. The Burmese must, in selecting the spot, have had an eye to that which nature had already rendered beautiful; they then improved upon it according to the canons of native art—not by any means for the benefit of “οἱ πολλοί,” but as a sylvan retreat, wherein priest and monks could lead a purely isolated and ascetic life, away from the busy haunts of men, with every facility for contemplation and with as few hindrances as possible on the main road to “Nirvana.” Judging from the size and number of the Pon-gyee houses, one would imagine that the religious fraternity must have mustered there in great numbers, ere the spoiler turned them out and appropriated their sacred dwelling to his own sacrilegious uses. All is fair in war; these elegant edifices of teak, built on piles along either side of the main road, and now converted into residences and mess-houses, had, but a few years since, presented a picture that would have evoked ecstasies from an artist. There, shaded by the luxurious foliage of the tamarind, dwelt the original occupants, some reading, others sitting cross-legged in emulation of their master, a few, maybe, imparting to the young the doctrines of their wondrous religion. Then, everything suggested peace and harmony; now, alas! the bugle is for ever resounding with its periodical “Puddings and pies for officers’ wives;” whereat the officers would assemble alone, for their wives—poor “grass-widows!”—were far away.