When the writer first visited that dignitary, he was much amused, on his approach to the place, to meet with those mute guardians, who by all sorts of signs and gestures were endeavouring to make him understand that he must walk slowly and noiselessly, and beware to speak aloud. When admitted to the presence of the Tsaya-dau, he was not a little surprised to find a man exceedingly self-conceited, who thought that to him alone belonged the right of speaking. His language was that of a master to whom no one was expected to presume to offer the least contradiction. He appeared quite offended when his visitor was compelled to dissent from him on certain points brought forward during the conversation. He was then about fifty years old. He was, for a Burman, of a tall stature, with regular and handsome features. The face was a little emaciated, as becomes a monk. His spiritual pride cast a darkish and unpleasant appearance on his person. He spoke quickly and sententiously; appearing all the while scarcely to notice his interlocutor. Admiration of self and vanity pierced through the thin veil which his affected humility spread over his countenance. The writer left him with an impression very different from that which a worthy English envoy, in the end of the last century, entertained of a similar personage, whose mild, benign, and pious exterior captivated him to such an extent as to elicit from him a request to be remembered in his prayers. In our days, the power of the Tha-thana-paing is merely nominal; the effects of his jurisdiction are scarcely felt beyond his own neighbourhood. Such, however, was not the case in former times. Spiritual commissioners were sent yearly by him, to examine into and report on the state of the communities throughout the provinces. They had to inquire particularly whether the rules were regularly observed or not, whether the professed members were really well qualified for their holy calling or not. They were empowered to repress abuses, and whenever some unworthy brother, or _black sheep_, was found within the enclosure of a monastery, he was forthwith degraded, stripped of the yellow garb, and compelled to resume a secular course of life. Unfortunately for the welfare of the order, those salutary visits no more take place; the wholesome check is done away with. Left without a superior control, the order has fallen into a low degree of abjectness and degradation. The situation of Talapoins is often looked upon now as one fit for lazy, ignorant, and idle people, who, being anxious to live well and do nothing, put on the sacred dress for a certain time, until, tired of the duties and obligations of their new profession, they retire and betake themselves anew to a secular life. This practice, as far as my observation goes, is pretty general, if not almost universal. There are, however, a few exceptions. Though labouring under many serious disadvantages, the