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"the forest-monastery yonder." The demonstratives, in fact, seem to be the most hard-worked word sin his whole vocabulary. It is the same when he recalls the battle so narrowly retrieved, in which, as a mere stripling, he won his spurs and his name. He there sees the movements as "to left" and "to right." He sees the soldiers "flee, beaten and cowering." The elephants are "driven." The lad "urges his way into the fight ahead of his father." It is "a thrust of a weapon hurled" that disables the opposing elephant and turns the tide of battle. It is the same when he recounts the glories of his capital city. There are, of course, the noble temple grounds and buildings, the palace, the market place, the "groves of tamarind and mango, fair as if made to look at." But his real interest is in the moving spectacles, in scenes of thronging human life and motion—the imposing ceremonies at the consecration of the inscribed stones, and at the taking of the oath of fealty; the illuminations and fireworks "when the Prince burns candles, when he plays with fire;" the great city gates when stormed by the tremendous rush of people surging through to see the spectacle. And in the midst of all, that inimitable touch revealing the very heart of an artist and poet,—that "gushing rock-spring of water as clear and as good to drink of as is the Khong in the dry season[1].
THE MAN.
The most interesting thing in the whole writing is the man himself, Prince Khŭn Ram Khămhæng. The inscription commemorates his reign. He himself is the speaker, at least throughout the body of the document. The perspective is that of a man of large and generous nature looking back with not unreasonable satisfaction over a long and strenuous career. In it he has risen from being the youngest son of a petty feudal chieftain—as we gather from the atmosphere and background of the opening scenes—to a point where he challenges the allegiance of the whole Thăi race (ll. 99—100). His territory, at first not stretching further than twenty miles from his
- ↑ The Me Khong is fed by melting snows on the slopes north of the Himalaya. When its spring flood is over, I am told that it runs clear and cold. But in such a matter I should be quite willing to take the word of a man with eyes and heart like those of the Prince. Only one who had seen and tasted and felt could have spoken so.
