malodorous trail in his hair. Vicious ones inflame the
tender places on his skin. The dank air creeps into
his blood, the loneliness sours his heart and breaks
his nerve. Tinkle of pagoda bells, rustling breezes in
the palms, the murmur of the river ; what are these
but aspects of an endless monotony ? He would give
them all for the sound of an Englishwomans voice,
the sight of an English pasture-land in spring.
Myanoung, like most of the towns along this portion
of the river s course, stands on the right bank ; for’
it is this right bank which is most protected against
the river floods. At Myanoung, the present Delta
is strictly at an end ; but it may be said to extend
to the cliff of Akouk-taung, which juts out into the
river like the ram of a man-of-war, some miles farther
north.
The cliff of Akouk-taung has an interest that corresponds
to its very striking appearance. The name
implies the ‘ Customs Hill, ’ and it is thè universal
tradition in Burma that in bygone, but still historic
days, it marked the limit of the sea, and the point at
which the Customs dues were levied. It stands three
hundred feet out of the water, and its scarped face is
riddled with caves, containing images of Gautama, the
Buddha, and the members of the Sacred Order. Twice
during the second war it was held in force by a
grandson of Bandoola, and was carried by storm by
the British troops. Here, under the massive ledges,
the stream of the river runs very swiftly, and as we
pass under it, the throbbing steamer makes slow pro-
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gress. Buffaloes swimming across the swiftest part of
the current are borne away like matchwood. Above
Akouk-taung the river is flanked by hills on both its
banks, and in the vista between lies Prome, a dark
headland protruding into the waters.
SO LID-WHE ELED CO UN TR Y C A R T IN TH E D E L TA
The city upon nearer approach presents an attractive
appearance. Its green banks are shaded by an
avenue of trees, each of which is a beautiful object in
itself. A broad road with white railings runs parallel
with the water— the King’s highway from Rangoon to
Prome. Behind it, through masses of green foliage,
peep out the dark red roofs of European houses. The
river, with no licence to spread its waters, flows here in
one broad deep stream, full up from shore to shore.
All along the west, the sky-line is broken by a range
of hills, whose slopes are patterned by custard-apple
orchards ranged with the regularity of the vine. As
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