The country round Ichang has always some special beauty, and in autumn it is the tints, shown to especial advantage on the tallow-trees. But one day we gathered by the wayside lovely anemones, still lingering on in sheltered spots; large gentians, with their edges picked out into delicate feathery streamers such as one finds in picotees, the little yellow originator of all the garden chrysanthemums; China asters; China daisies; the cunningly placed red berries of the spindle-tree; and branches crowded with the fairylike red berries of the Chinese hawthorn. And yet we were in the weird, arid, conglomerate region, where, as the botanist of the party said, no flower would dream of growing that could grow anywhere else. The Cherokee roses were no longer in bloom. Are these innocent, white, large roses at the bottom of the American horror of Chinese immigration? It may be remembered that, originating from China, they spread over America with such rapidity that it was assumed they must be of native origin, and from their aggressive nature they were given the name, by which they are still known, of Cherokee.

We made our way to my first monastery, so conspicuous an object to every visitor to these regions, planted on a rocky spur of about fifteen hundred feet high, that not only overhangs precipitously the country beneath, but is separated by a chasm of some one thousand feet from the adjoining hills. Crossing this chasm on a rock bridge about three feet wide, and, as usual in China, railless, required more nerve than one of our party possessed, and the subsequent climb was more trying still up the steps cut out of the steep rock on to the Buddhist temple, that appropriately crowns the whole summit, and which, were it in any more accessible region, would have been "photographed like this and photographed like that," like any professional beauty. As it was, I had never seen a picture of it, and was quite eager to take my camera to photograph the mountain-top, as also the massive wall of conglomerate rock that builds up the col one has to climb in ascending, and from which one obtains one of those extraordinary desolate views characteristic of conglomerate country—a valley ending in an abrupt gully with dry waterbed, and dry waterfalls down precipices marked with pudding-holes, all scoring parallel horizontal lines across their stern surfaces. We came across brecciated conglomerate in which there were some bits of most exquisite glistening marble, and in which we again noticed the peculiarity, that at every fracture it was the marble and stones, of which it was formed, that were cleft through the middle, as evidently more breakable than the apparently soft-looking red cement that bound them together.

The way up was beautiful. We passed by picturesque farmsteads nestling in hollows, elegant shrines, and the grove the Reeves' pheasants particularly love. It is of pendulous cypress, called funebris, but suggesting anything but funereal associations by its pleasing grace. Palm-trees grew on the hillside, also bamboo, cunninghamia, ilex, and beautiful soap-trees, with the great long pods from which the soap is made, and tree-like thorns projecting from their stems, such as must effectually baffle any monkey-climbers. In four examples we saw these thorn branches had again other thorns projecting from them. The path is an easy one, carefully laid out by the priests for the convenience of pilgrims; and although there must be over five hundred steps, they do not come all together; so that few climbs of equal height can be so easily managed as that to the monastery of Yuen Ti Kuan, whose site, if paralleled, could hardly be surpassed. It is like that of some wild eyrie on which an eagle might be expected to build its nest, but where we should hardly expect practical, prosaic (so called) Chinamen to build a place of worship, simply to give themselves the further additional trouble of climbing so high. It seems that after all the Chinese have a religion of their own, which they deem holy, though it is often convenient to ignore this. There are many Shansi men in these parts, and one of our fellow-travellers, a man from Shansi, being asked why this was, when his province used formerly to be the granary of the empire, replied at once, "The hearts of the people have become corrupted."

As we came back, there were about four miles of little lanterns floating down the great river, sped in honour of the dead by a rich Chinese in mourning for his parents. Talleyrand's somewhat brutal "Il faut oublier les morts, et s'occuper des vivants" often recurs to me in China, where there are more grave-mounds round the city than living men inside it. The very handsome old Italian Bishop used to hate these grave-mounds, which he said oppressed him the more the longer he looked at them, and among which, alas! he was doomed to live and die.

It was near Ningpo I first assisted at a Chinese Buddhist service. We had been straying over hills pink and red and orange and mauve with azaleas in their full delicate bloom and perfect beauty. The most exquisite bush of pink azaleas hung over the great waterfall there, and caught some of the spray upon its blossoms, as the stream turned over the edge for its first leap, the flowers constantly wavering with the breeze the rushing waters brought. Wandering by lovely Windermere's side in the English Lake District, I had read Miss Gordon Cumming's description of hillsides striped and banded in colour with azaleas, and thought some day I too must see them. The seasons had rolled round but twice, and now here was I already tired of pink azaleas, which I decided looked too smart on a mountain-side, and preferring the big orange flowers or the deep red, or revelling in the long clusters of sweet-scented wistaria, that hung about like lovely ringlets; looking with exultation at osmundias curving their opening fronds with the full vigour and health imparted to them by the spring, and delighting in the clumps of feathery bamboos, golden stemmed old friends of my childhood; yet admiring almost equally Cunninghamia sinensis on its native heath. We plant little saplings of this last in our gardens, and boast with them even then. Here they were tall and vigorous, and everywhere giving an Oriental character to the ferns and the azaleas, the bamboos and fan-palms.

Then the rich, sweet tones of the Buddhist bell summoned us, and we slept, as it were prisoned, within the dark precincts of the monastery, not even through latticed windows catching any glimpse of outside glories, till solemn sounds roused me in the early dawning, and I stole in at the back of the dark temple, and could hardly believe I was not in one of the Portuguese churches of my childhood. There knelt the priests, with close-shaven heads, and long cloaks broached across the left breast, leaving the right arm bare, and formed of little oblong bits of old gold or ashen grey linen, neatly stitched together, thus symbolising at some expenditure of pains the poverty of rags. They prostrated themselves three times, touching their foreheads to the ground—before the altar, was it not? They bowed and knelt before the altar! They elevated the Host, or at least a cup, one ringing a bell meanwhile, the others prostrate in adoration. Could the resemblance be more perfect? They chanted a monotonous chant—it sounded to me just like a Gregorian—and after many bowings and prostrations and beatings of a dull wooden gong in the form of a skull, processioned round and round before the altar, bowing as they passed, each a rosary at his side, and solemnly chanting. There seemed to be no doubt about the words; I heard them quite distinctly: "Domine, ora pro nobis, ora, ora." Then "Gloria! gloria!" swelled out. And meanwhile, though passing me at intervals so closely I almost felt the frou-frou of their robes, not a priest there seemed to perceive my presence, but all went by with eyes on the ground, fingers and palms close pressed together. A strange feeling came over me, as if I were dreaming. Had the azaleas intoxicated me? Was I in far-away Madeira of my childhood? Were those not Portuguese Roman Catholic priests, not Chinese Buddhists? Were they praying really? To our Father in heaven? Or are there more gods than one? If not, they were worshipping, and I was not. And had this worship gone on after this fashion for thousands of years, before even Christ walked the earth, and lived and died for man? I knelt in prayer behind the Buddhist priests. And then I saw the figure of the Virgin with the Holy Child upon her knee. They call her Kwanyin (Goddess of Mercy).

Outside the door stood two beautiful Salisburia adiantifolia, the sacred tree of the Japanese. The breeze rustled through their graceful leaves, resembling the lobes of the maidenhair, and I felt that they could tell me all about it, if they pleased, for they had grown up amongst it. The blue sky overhead tells no tales, and the azaleas were of yesterday. Then a young priest came up to question me, and to ask me if I could say "Omito Fo." "Blessed is Buddha" I took it to mean; and assuredly he must be blessed, if ever man were, for the good that he has done for his kind. But since then I hear that learned men attribute various meanings to the phrase, and their meanings I do not understand. Nor, I am sure, would those priests. They did not look so very clever. I meant what they meant. "Our temple wants new tiles, Omito Fo." "We are very poor, Omito Fo." Praise God Barebones meant the same, I fancy, by his "Praise God." "But Buddha was a man," I hear some one say. Well! then go to Tibet, and tell me what the uninstructed but beautiful Tibetan means, as he walks along the street murmuring, "Om Mani Padmi Hum." "The Jewel is in the Lotus?" What does he mean by saying it, wise man? I do not ask what you think the words may originally have signified or symbolised. Is it not now simply a "Praise the Lord of Life"?

The next monastery we visited was the stately T`ien Dong. Avenues of magnificent trees led up to squares with giant trees enclosing them, terraces, and ponds covered with the sacred lotus. The entrance and approach prepared one for more than man could ever realise inside. The Parthenon would have looked small and the Pantheon empty after that approach. As it was, I certainly did not think much of the temples, and the guest-rooms were dark. But the trees behind were beautiful, and had enticing paths leading on into the wood. There was a very well-dressed Chinaman going in. He turned out to be the captain of a man-of-war. I have often pleased myself since by believing he was Captain, afterwards Admiral, Ting. He asked if we should like to be introduced to his particular friend the chief priest. Within the inner courts there was a blush-rose peony-plant covered with blossom. Before this the post-captain stood in rapt adoration. It was evident that he had really brought us to show us this, as one of the wonders of the world. The Chinese especially esteem peonies of this shade of colour. And it was indeed a lovely sight, and must have carried off the prize at any show at which it was exhibited, so carefully had it been grown, and so completely was it covered with blossom. But I had seen flowers before, never a Buddhist high-priest, nor a Chinese post-captain. The latter led us into the pleasant reception-room. On the couch sulked a mandarin we had met several times already, always wearing a scowl, and a magnificent gown of cream satin richly embossed. He scowled now, and without a feint of courtesy of any kind at once seated himself in the seat of honour. Then the chief priest came in, with nothing to indicate his grandeur beyond particularly civil manners. He had also a bustling cheeriness, which was probably all his own, not belonging to his office, as he begged us to sit at the round table, and partake of the various sweets with which it was spread. Delicious tea was brought in, of a kind very costly even in China, scented with jasmine flowers. Then, having dispensed hospitalities, pointed out the peony, and generally made us welcome, the chief priest bustled away, carrying off the post-captain into some inner apartment. And a comfortable-looking Ningpo merchant, spending a few days at the temple with his family, with that geniality that seems to be a Ningpo characteristic, began to introduce the various members of his family, and generally make friends. But the cream-coated gentleman still sat and scowled. It was disagreeable; and so, though every one says one cannot, I determined to treat this scornful mandarin as if he were after all a human being. And looking round with a bow and a smile, as if I had never noticed his rudeness, I took the seat indicated to me at the table, at which he had already seated himself. After all a mandarin is human. He looked surprised of course, but smiled too; and after that we saw his scowl no more, but received a very polite bow and smile, when after a little while he in his turn went away.

Years passed, and I saw no more of monasteries till we went to Omi's sacred mountain in the far, far west of China.

At one temple, at which we tried to spend the night, we were met by point-blank refusal. The priests said their rooms were full. We might have believed them, had they risen to receive us and offered us tea. But meeting with cold incivility, we believed rather the Temple of the Elephants' Pool was too rich to be beguiled by foreign offerings into receiving heretics, as we pushed on through the gathering night and rising mist up and up along a col-like knife-edge and by beautiful trees to a little temple, where they did their best to make us comfortable according to our to them most strange tastes, and then begged like beggars for some of my husband's clothes, because the young priest in charge of the temple had set his foolish fancy on trying foreign clothes, and like a child could not be turned from his point.

At the top of the mountain we spent a fortnight in the Golden Monastery. The priest whose especial duty it was to entertain strangers received us from the first with great courtesy, but he informed us that anything we ate must be eaten in the privacy of our own apartment. And as at first we had none (for we could not, till we had tried all round and failed, resign ourselves to one room giving on to the mountain-side, out of which it had been dug, and with only one window, that did not open), this resulted in our taking our first meal upon the mountain-top al fresco on the grass, the monastery, however, very kindly supplying us with hot water for our tea. Then, finding no other temple could or would receive us, we promised to take no life whilst upon the sacred mountain, and only to eat our shocking foreign food in the one room assigned to us, having it cooked in the adjoining one, given over to our two servants and eight coolies. The priests used to come in and out all day, and offer us tea and sweetmeats; but they never would even drink tea out of our cups, for fear of any defilement of previous milk still clinging round them. That monastery struck us as both strict and carefully managed, the chief priest, who had the air and bearing of a saint, spending hours in solitary devotion in the temple on the verge of the great precipice.

All the temples on the mountain's top were burnt down a few years ago. But the exquisite Bronze Temple, on the edge of the precipice, to which every province in the empire contributed, has never been rebuilt after its sad destruction, beautiful fragments alone remaining; and the rough pine-wood temples round it appeared all at daggers drawn. Our Golden Temple was bringing an action against another for placing a golden pinnacle as the centre ornament of its roof, thus building up a pretext to filch from it its immemorial golden title; whilst another temple accused ours of having intentionally lit the fire that consumed it. We did not believe this of our temple, for even its boy priests were hard-working, good little boys, who knelt and burnt incense with reverence too; whilst the young priests of the adjoining temples were bold, bad youths, of ribald laughter, importunate curiosity, and great effrontery. There was, however, one temple where the priests appeared always wrapped in devotion, whenever I looked in. They had not yet begun rebuilding, perhaps were still praying for funds, as they knelt among their burnt and charred images.

There were outlying temples on distant points of vantage, each inhabited by a solitary priest. One had long attracted us by its exquisite neatness, and the propriety and cleanliness of its arrangements. Its occupant was away on a pilgrimage, but he returned before we left the mountain, and we were not surprised to find him a young man of great gravity and much courtesy. We had already studied his kitchen, with its kettle hanging from the rafters by a chain and a jointed stick; also observed his closet-bed, which, in accordance with the stricter rule, was but a wooden seat, so that neither day nor night could he lie down. We now saw how carefully washed were the feet in his straw sandals; also what superior straw sandals he had brought up to sell to pilgrims who had worn out theirs; and how particular he was to make no profit upon the transaction, when we bought a pair, and inadvertently slightly overpaid for them. But our acquaintance was not long or intimate enough to arrive at anything of the spiritual life beneath that exterior propriety. He it was who told us there was a way down the back of the mountain into the Wilderness, where the wild cattle roam, and that, though bad, he could not say other than that it was possible, seeing he had just passed along it—this though he could see our coolies' imploring gestures, and hear their rather audibly muttered curses. They had every one of them sworn there was no path. But there was, and the young hermit could not say otherwise. We often thought of him, as we all fell headlong going down that path, that certainly did exist, and enabled us to proceed to our next sacred mountain without descending into the burning, cholera-stricken country.

There were only three priests at the temple on the Sai King Shan. One was old and useless; one was shivering with ague, which seemed strangely out of place on the mountain; but we did not learn how long he had been there—only relieved him with quinine. And the whole work and administration seemed to be carried on by the young priest, who had led us up the mountain, and who by various begging excursions had amassed enough money to buy it for four hundred gold dollars, so as to save it from the havoc of the wood-cutters, who had for years past been cutting down all the trees. This young priest took care of the potatoes, collected the mushrooms that made such an exquisite symphony in cream and brown when spread out in the sunshine to dry, and did everything, it seemed, that was done. But we could not find out that religious services were among the number. It was the aged priest who lit sticks of incense before the images in the morning.

Since then, however, we have stayed in a monastery with which his and the Golden Temple on Omi both are associated. The Monastery of the Particoloured Cliff is only about fifteen miles from Chungking. The entrance is at once striking, from the perspective of the carefully planted shrubs, the flights of steps, the carvings, and careful adjusting of the path, with sudden corners, so that it never leads straight onward, admitting free access to evil spirits. This is a prevalent Chinese superstition, leading to the almost universal practice of placing screens across their entrances either within or without. It is a part of their Fung shui, their wind and water religion.

Much etiquette was observed in the method of our admission into Hoa Ngai. We brought gifts, as we were told was the usage. And polite monks received us, and bade us wait first in one reception-room, then in another, whilst higher and higher dignitaries were brought to parley with us. Finally we were conducted through a long outlying wing, the strangers' quarter, and led through one or two bedrooms, all full of beds, carefully curtained, and each bed with rolls of most comfortable-looking wadded quilts, evidently quite new and fresh, from the brightness of their scarlet colour—a gift from some recent wealthy guest, we were informed. The floors were clean; everything was in order—no dust anywhere; and the attendants at once swift and quiet in making all those last final arrangements, that must be deferred till the arrival of guests. But best of all was the view from the window—the peaceful sunset framed in a setting of trees, the chastened lights and shadows, with the fresh country air coming in so clean and pure through the open window. But one must have lived in a Chinese city to appreciate that as we did. The priests came to and fro to inquire if we were content. Only after some time did they signify that by their rules I must not share that room with the wide-open window and the peaceful outlook, but retire to the women's quarter, all along the long corridor again, down an outside staircase, along the corridor below, then through a great door with many bolts into one bedroom leading on into another, both full of beds, but otherwise untenanted, and as clean as the rooms above, only without a view, and with the dank smell of the earth outside, instead of the fresh country air. Presently we were asked to take tea with the priests—tea and many sweets. A few priests were told off each day to prepare special food for the guests—generally, of course, pious pilgrims, come to pray. There were over fifty priests in all, and we saw the orders for the day hung up on the wall, as if for a regiment. We also saw all the others sitting at their severely simple meal, never occupying opposite sides of the same table, but always the same side of several tables; and in the midst to the back on a raised seat the chief priest, not eating with the others—he always ate apart—but sitting there whilst they ate.

In the early dawning we had been each day wakened by the call to prayers and the solemn chanting. One day I sprang out of bed, and followed the sound, which seemed to come from farther down the corridor beyond my room, out of a side temple. Only a few had assembled already, but priests continued to come in till the chapel was full. None but a few of the priest-boys paid any heed to my unaccustomed presence, excepting the chief priest, when he came in. He was an old man of over seventy, and had now sat by at our evening meal more than once, and talked with us—a great mark of condescension, we were told, only shown to honoured guests. Presently he came forward with a kindly smile, and, taking me by the two shoulders, very kindly but firmly pressed me into the place he desired me to occupy. And the next minute I saw the reason of this. For, still chanting, the monks began to procession round and round the chapel, and in and out among the seats, forming the most curious figures, and ever quicker and quicker, ever with bowed heads, and fingers and palms pressed close together. The wild, simple chant rose and waned as they processioned, close on fifty Chinese Buddhist priests, moving as fast as ordinary people when they dance the Caledonians, all chanting and not looking up. At last I felt as if I could bear no more. It may have been the early hour, the strange chant, the quick moving to and fro. Anyhow, I tried to go to my husband's room, and fell insensible on the stone passage just as I reached the top of his staircase. I recovered consciousness in an agony as to what Buddhist priests might think suitable treatment for a fainting lady, if they any of them found me there; and that gave me strength to drag myself along to my husband's room. They were chanting still, the sweet, wild music of the chant softened by distance now, or I might have thought it was all a dream, as I looked out upon the gentle hills and sky framed in their setting of trees, and breathed the fresh country air again.

They were very strict in that monastery; they would not hear of our cooking anything for ourselves in our own room, beyond boiling water for tea; but their vegetarian diet quite satisfied all our wants. There was some sort of chanting all day in the principal temple—a droning kind of chanting, from certain priests told off for the purpose. We often looked in; for, uncommon enough, the central image was beautiful, with a certain grave serenity. It was very ancient, they told us. And we believed this. For the images of to-day are made for money, and lack the air of sanctity. This image recalled Byzantine pictures in Russian churches—very set, very firm, yet withal so kind, and above all so holy.

But the really ancient temple was under the over-hanging cliff, from which the whole place is named, with the water from that cliff dripping over it, and making the steps by which one ascends so slippery one had to walk warily. There the images were of the true Indian type, with supple, graceful figures, erect carriage, sloping shoulders, and small waists, all as unlike the Chinese figure as possible. But perhaps the figure of Puhsien differed from the Chinese type as much as anything by the seraphic smile, that seemed to illumine even the dark cavern in which it was shrined. Afterwards we saw Indian divinities, with low-necked dresses and bare arms, an abomination in China, carved on a headland of the Ya, by their Indian type showing their great antiquity. Close by was the place where the priests, when dead, are cremated. It seemed to have been recently rebuilt. We also visited the chief priest's grave, solemn by reason of its surrounding trees rather than from its architectural adornments. But the most striking feature of the whole place was its exquisite cleanliness and propriety, and the perfect order in all the land around, that belonged to the monastery, and that might have been a model farm, so carefully was it weeded and watered and tended. The chief priest, as far as we could ascertain, was elected for three years only, and our chief priest's time was nearly drawing to an end; but before it did so he would have the yearly ordination.

The monastery was exquisitely situated, partly on a little knoll, partly on the more sloping side of the hill. It and its outbuildings must have covered about six or seven acres. And the sound of worship seemed never silent there. But it was when we considered how great must be the force religion brought to bear, before out of such a slatternly, untidy, filth-loving race as the Chinese it produced this spotless, orderly, exemplary establishment, that we were perhaps most impressed. And as we sat within those peaceful precincts, listening to the rich, deep sounds of Buddhist bells, so far more musical than those of Europe, with the hum of chanting penetrating to us, softened by distance, and realised that this ancient worship dated from ages ago, having been only reformed by Gautama—that prince who gave up his father's throne, and the love of father, wife, and child, to spend and be spent for the people—it was impossible for us to believe that for all those centuries God had left these people, trying after it, without a way to approach Him, or that this long-continued worship could be altogether unpleasing to the Most High.

CHAPTER XVIII.
A CHINESE ORDINATION.

I have attended an ordination in St. John Lateran's at Rome, of which my principal recollection is how the Italian young men wriggled as they all lay flat upon the marble floor whilst something was sung over them. Was it a Te Deum? It certainly was very long. The whole service, indeed, seemed very long drawn out. I have also a remembrance of nearly fainting from weariness at an ordination in Exeter Cathedral; and can still recall the thrill of awestruck admiration with which I regarded the reader of the gospel on that occasion, who, as I understood, had passed first, and who yet was overcome by emotion, so far was he from esteeming himself worthy of this honour, in thinking of the work that lay before him. Certainly, long though the proceedings were—and they must have been very long if they seemed so to me, for in those days I was an enthusiast about cathedral services—yet never for a second did reverence of the highest quality cease to brood over all the scene. Thus, when invited by the abbot himself to assist at an ordination in one of the strictest of Chinese monasteries, there was some element of wonder mixed with the fortitude with which I prepared for a barbarous burning rite, and soupe maigre to see it on. Nor was that flask of whisky forgotten that is such a support to the traveller, remaining always full under all emergencies because never wanted. It was not in this case. But as the only European, whose account of such a ceremony I had heard, reported two or three monks carried away fainting, and a general odour of burning flesh, I thought it might be.

The large beautifully situated monastery was already full when I arrived; and my husband, who had transmitted the abbot's invitation, and himself had been there two days, informed me his was the only bed with one man in it. "They sleep head and feet," he said, as if this added to the comfort of it. "I can't think where they will put you. They are very, very full; and they are playing cards or smoking opium all the time in my room. But they are very polite,—some one is always 'keeping me company.' I cannot read a word." Indeed, he wore the dazed air of being too much kept company with. At the head of a flight of steps, at the entrance to the women's quarter, a dark den with two beds was, however, found for me; and though several ladies most obligingly offered to occupy the other bed, and "keep me company" all night, I retained undisturbed possession of the two, whenever the door was barred. When it was not, people "kept me company" (pei); ladies, priests, young men friends, and young men who were not friends, but might become such, all crowded in together with some young monks, whose behaviour somewhat surprised me.

Attending meals of an abundant, yet meagre, description with the other ladies, and returning the ladies' calls, I was again and again surprised by the easy behaviour of these young monks, who were apparently especially taken by my gloves, and would feel my hand gloved and feel my hand ungloved, and generally hang around. One seemed very well brought up, and began every sentence with "Omito!" generally finishing it in that way too, and accompanying every remark by a set little bow. We thought perhaps he was a lad—a child—and my husband positively screamed when, on being asked his age, he answered twenty-six. "Did you ever see a young man of twenty-six with such an innocent countenance?" he asked. "Well, I don't know," I said evasively, "I suppose it is all right; but I may as well tell you that never in all my life have I had my hand squeezed as since I came into this monastery. They all do it, every one of them; so I suppose it means nothing." I hastened to add, "But they are in all the ladies' rooms too." "What! in the Chinese ladies' too?" "Yes!" I persisted. "Oh, well, well!" We resigned ourselves to the ways of the country. It was not till two days later the truth dawned upon us that this innocent-faced young man, and some others, who were older and could hardly be described in that way, were nuns, guests like ourselves, and that there were besides sixteen young women going to be made nuns, together with the fifty-two young men who were going to be made priests. We were so glad we found out.

All the day through there were invitations to tea and sugar-plums with the abbot and past abbots (each only rules for three years, and then retires into a picturesque suite of rooms and garden to himself), and all the while again and again sounds of gongs and drums and chanting, and peeps at strange novices, young people with shaven heads, clad in "Liberty-tinted" gowns—dull red, ruddy brown, old gold, cream—kneeling, or prostrating themselves quite flat, or winding in and out with pacings and slow and quick movements. On the morning of the day, after many services in the night and dawning, there was the final shaving. Then each knelt in turn, and had his head felt all over the front, and with great care, by a seated priest with immovable countenance of the Indian type, and long taper, talonlike fingers. If a hair could be felt, back to the barber! If quite smooth, little circles were traced with Indian ink upon the polled pate—this was done by the eye, and often one had to be effaced and retraced; then a tiny packet was handed to the kneeling one. It was some time after this ceremony the abbot, in dull cream, with over-gown of rich red satin, like the others, all made of tiny bits sewn together to simulate rags and poverty, and passed under the right arm, but clasped over the left breast, black-hooded, and bearing in lifted hand before his face a golden jui, or sceptre, entered the large principal temple, and sat on a chair placed upon the altar, a scourge borne behind him, draped with red silk, being placed to his left, and what looked like a censer to his right. Then four priests, with many kneelings and flat prostrations, stood before the altar, seven of the novices following in like fashion, and joining the long line, seven at either end. Each carried a long piece of cloth to spread upon the floor on which to lie prostrate; and as the two lines stood facing each other before the altar, the two in the centre raised the kneeling-cloth to their eyes, and with it solemnly tso-i'd to each other; then each, turning quickly to the right, went through the same ceremony with the man he now found himself confronted with; and so all along the line, only the reverence growing less and less, till the last man hardly got the cloth up as high as his shoulders, for they had to be very quick. The wooden gong was being beaten faster and faster. And now the priests led off; and each set of nine, keeping to its own side of the temple, went through the quickest "woven paces" I have yet seen, curving in and round upon one another, and round the huge stone monoliths that support the vast graceful temple roof, whose erection still remains a mystery, so lofty is it and so large its span, so ample its unsupported roof-curves. It was like the quickest possible follow-my-leader, so that the end of the tail came up always smiling all over, and breathlessly trying to get through the figure. Meanwhile, at the side, towards the back, another dignitary sat in state, and two novices knelt, and went flat, and came forward, and practised taking incense-sticks from the altar with fingers widely spread after a fashion that does not look easy and does look mystic. But what was the meaning of it, or the dance, no one seemed able to say.

No number of inquiries, not even a direct letter and special messenger to the monastery, had been able to elicit even the day of the great ceremony, much less the hour; but, since the evening before, we had heard of two o'clock, and at two o'clock precisely in they came. We ladies were crowding on to the few seats in one corner; the male guests, silken-clad, fur-lined, were swelling it about at the sides of the temple, the centre of which appeared already quite filled up by the priests of the monastery, and other priests and men guests, who were all greeting one another, going about, standing in groups, and generally wearing a pleased, excited appearance. Meanwhile, the populace, in serried mass, were looking in through all the many half-doors on all sides, the tops of all the doors being thrown wide open. There was music. Was it the wooden gong or the drum? It was quick, near. It seemed to throb with the intense excitement pervading the building. And in twenty minutes all was over. Every one had come in, the abbot clad as before, all the novices in over-gowns clasped over the left shoulder—both over- and under-gowns of what we call art colours. All had spread out their cloths and knelt and prostrated themselves, before a priest took up his position standing behind each, and extended both hands to hold the novice's head quite steady, fingers wide dispread, so as especially to shield the eyes, all of course closed. Some adhesive mixture was applied to the Indian ink circles; then a priest, standing in front of each novice, took out of the packet previously given him nice little cones of charred sandalwood and saltpetre, and stuck them on the places indicated; and some one else set them alight; and there were sixty-eight young men and women, all kneeling, with their eyes closed, their faces turned up to heaven, and with nine little charcoal cones smouldering on each of their bare pates, whilst they prayed one and all, as it seemed, with all their hearts. For if the heart is pure, you do not suffer, is the saying. My husband says he kept his eyes fixed on the three nearest him, and never saw them wince, or blanch, or utter a sound, or move a muscle. But my place was by the nuns, and one moved, so that one of the smouldering cones fell off and into her bosom, and had to be replaced; and another did not cry out, but roared—roared like a child. Yet such was the din made by the excitingly discordant music, that when I stepped but two off I could not hear a sound from her; so there may have been many others crying out also. I saw one nun press a cloth again and again to her eyes, and take it away apparently soaked by her tears; but her face was steady and upturned, and her expression was that of very earnest prayer. Meanwhile, the cones smouldered down till they just charred those marks with which we are familiar on priests' heads; then they went out, though all that day and on into the next several little unburnt lumps were still adhering to the poor consecrated heads.

We went away to tea and sugar-plums, leaving the new-made monks and nuns still praying; and when we came out, they had only adjourned to another temple to pray. At ten o'clock at night they were calling on Sergiafu (Buddha, Sakyamuni, what you will), thirty-four standing up quite straight, chanting, whilst the other thirty-four were lying prostrate, then going down in their turn whilst the others rose up and chanted. This they did at the rate of three prostrations and uprisings a minute. They are supposed to make ten thousand in the twenty days. It seemed to make me drowsy; so, having twice fallen off asleep whilst they prayed and rose and fell, I went to bed, leaving them still at it, to be thrice awakened by the gong calling to fresh prayers, and, when I arose the following morning, to find the whole set processioning from one dead abbot's grave to the other, praying at each. One of our Chinese gentleman friends we left in the temple at night. At eleven o'clock he was turning in. Then some one proposed ten more rounds of cards, and they played till daybreak. It was only the week before we had been invited to the funeral feast of his grandmother, when, with the coffin in the guest-room, a light underneath it, the ladies of the family played cards all night in a bedroom opening out of the guest-room, though their eyes were dilated either from tears or want of sleep, their heads bound with white mourning-cloths of the same coarse texture as those worn by the peasant. Was it not something like this at one time in our own country at a funeral feast?

Whilst in this monastery, we discovered another mistake we had fallen into. We had long known this friend as the honourable member of a certain mandarin family, and often mused over the condition of affairs it revealed,—that we knew, as we thought, six young men of much the same age, all sons of one father, but of different mothers. We had known them for years, and had photographed the different mothers with their sons, had assisted at their weddings and their funerals, dined with them, and been dined by them, and often speculated as to the character of the dead father and the previous social status of his various wives. Now Squire No. 4 proposed to take us to a breakfast party at the country seat of Squire No. 2 in that neighbourhood, on which a stiff cross-questioning arose; and at last we discovered that the numbers indicated daughters as well as sons, and amongst what we believed to be brothers were three sets of cousins. "But we make no distinction," said our friend suavely. "And you make no distinction between elder brother and younger? Strange, we do." So it goes on. Years in China only serve to show one one's mistakes.

"Pray come back, and bring any of your friends who would like to spend a happy time here," were the parting words of the priests; whilst the nuns assured us there was going to be a much grander ceremony on the morrow, if only we would stay for it, and we must and should. But we had gone through our purgatory of intervening day and night with a certain object, which happily we had gained, and could endure no more. The lady guests had been very kind to us. They assured me they were strict vegetarians at home as well as there, and were certainly devout and greatly interested in the nuns, some coming forward to hold their heads during the ordination ceremony. Two at least, however, appeared to be regular opium-smokers—they said on account of illness. But it was impossible to detect that they were in the least ashamed of smoking opium, or that any one else, nun or priest or any one, thought they had any reason to be. Yet this was a very strict monastery, where neither wine nor flesh meat was allowed. We noticed, moreover, that the abbey lands were bright with healthy-looking opium poppy-plants.

One further memory I have carried away. The temple treasures were all set out for show on tables in the men's guests' dining-hall, which looked out on to a tiny shut-in garden, the walls of which were brightened by tufts of Chinese primroses in full fragrant flower. Gowns of many rich soft tints were hanging on racks at one end, and the sun was streaming in upon embroideries and satin vestments they were showing me, when a dignitary, again of Indian type—long face, very sad dreamy eyes, and high narrow forehead—came in and arrayed himself in a gown of the most brilliant orange silk; then, black-hooded, paused by a table, and, bending slightly, referred to a large volume lying upon it. The pose, the colouring, and the lighting made one of those perfect little pictures that one treasures in memory for years; and now, when people denounce Buddhism to me, my mental eye sees once more that living picture in vivid orange and sunset-lit shadows, to which not the most consummate artist could have added one touch without injury.

There may be many lessons to be learnt from a Buddhist ordination; many deep meanings are doubtless signified by its ritual: I only attempt here to recall the colouring.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE SACRED MOUNTAIN OF OMI.

It was very hot in Chungking in 1892—too hot, we feared, for us to bear, worn out as we were by the emotions and excessive heat of the river journey, entered upon too late in the summer. So, while we yet could, we secured four bearer sedan-chairs, with blue cotton awnings six yards long, after the fashion of this windless province, and, with bath-towels to bind round our heads, and sun-hats, and dark glasses, and all that following necessary for a land journey of between twenty and thirty men, were carried for a fortnight through a rich agricultural district, a region of salt wells and petroleum springs, on through the white-wax country to the foot of sacred Omi. A letter written at the time to a cousin, with whom I had two years before driven through our own lovely Lake country, and who I knew shared my delight in strange surroundings and the unexpected, will best reproduce the exhilaration consequent on emerging from the green luxuriance of semi-tropical vegetation with its steamy hothouse air. It was written from our first resting-place upon the romantic mountain-side.

"Wan Nien Sze, July 26th, 1892.

"With whom do you think we have been lunching to-day? I have had tea with gold-miners in Alaska, and luncheon in a lumber camp in British Columbia, and dinner with a party of Chinese merchants in Chungking; but to-day, of all people in the world, it was with the chief priest of a Buddhist monastery on the sacred mountain of Omi! And very good the luncheon was! I really felt fed—always a matter of question when one is living upon tinned things. He did not sit down with us; but he entertained us by his conversation, and we had our own tablecloth and forks and spoons, and our own servant to wait upon us. The room was all set out with red cloths beautifully embroidered in pale blue, hanging on the front of the side-table, over the backs of the chairs, and down from the seats, on which were cool summer cushions. There were twelve courses besides the rice; and quite a number of monks and pilgrims assembled to see us eat. Our room opened into the temple, where Puhsien (gigantic) sat upon the altar on a sort of leopard. I believe some people say Puhsien was the son of Sakyamuni or of Gautama, pronounce them how we will. But the high-priest says, 'Omito Fo!' (Blessed is Fu, or Buddha!) as a greeting, and interlards all his talk with it: 'I am so glad you like your dinner, Omito!' 'We are very poor; we want two hundred thousand tiles to roof the temples, Omito!' etc., etc. We found beignets of pumpkin flowers in dough perfectly delicious. But our man-servant says, 'Yes, but you put in a catty [1⅓ lb.] of flour, and you get only three ounces.'

"It was a regular charity lunch; for directly it was over the high-priest entered into further details,—how the rooms we were lodging in wanted repairing, and how everything did (which is quite true), and how we could see every one who came to worship was very poor, and the last Europeans who lodged there gave about £15, and he thought it would be so nice if we gave £25. And he brought the subscription list out, and the brush to write with; and positively would not let our Boy write down £2 10s.—twice as large a sum as I thought necessary. Then another priest begged too. They begged and begged, till I said at last, determined to interrupt them, 'There is a Tibetan image in the temple behind I do so want you to come and show me.' Then every one burst out laughing at such a very palpable attempt to change the conversation. However, our modest sum got written down, and the chief priest nearly wept. He came to show us the Tibetan image, and he seemed to find it absolutely uninteresting. It holds a little white rabbit in one hand, and a rosary with very large beads in the other, and looks as conceited as it is possible to look. But as he said it was made on the mountain and not in Tibet, we did not photograph it and him together.

"As far as we can make out, this mountain was sacred long before Buddhism; and every day crowds of pilgrims come—numbers of Chinese women, with their bandaged feet wrapped up in husks of Indian corn to make it easier to walk up the steep flights of steps that lead up ten thousand feet to the top of the mountain. How they manage it, I cannot think. The saying is, 'If you are a bad man with sins unrepented, and go up the mountain, you die.' Six men are said to have thus died this year. There is a wonderful bronze Puhsien riding on a colossal bronze elephant, beautifully made, each of its feet standing on a lotus flower. This is in a temple just behind ours, with a dome, and made of bricks, both very unusual in China, and said here never to have been built, but to have come in a single night.

"But I cannot tell you how I wish to get away from all these temples. They begin to oppress me so,—all the people prostrating themselves, and then offering incense before each image in turn (and there are so many!), and lighting a candle before each. They arrive with great baskets full. And they come out of the temple with a rapt expression. And then our white long-haired terrier springs out on them, and they start so! We do not know what to do; because they call him a lion-dog (he is the Chinese idea of a lion), and seem to regard him as a semi-sacred thing. I do not want him to go into the temples at all. And the thresholds are so high he cannot get over; but there is always some one who will hand him over, and then the conceited dog shakes his sides and frisks about among the worshippers. This worship has been going on for thousands of years; and yet I do not believe any one has an idea about Puhsien!

"Then there is Kwanyin over and over again, like a Byzantine Virgin and Child, with a very sweet face on this mountain, and a child on her knee. And women come and pray for children, and carry away little dolls. The more I think of it, the less I know what I believe about it all. Nara, where they had worshipped for so many years in Japan, seemed to be haunted. But this mountain does not feel haunted, nor as yet does it feel sacred. But so far we are only up three thousand feet, with mosquitoes all alive about us, and scissor-grinders shrilling their souls out in just, I should think, the highest note possible for the human ear to hear, besides others more like other scissor-grinders.

"Then, though this temple seemed clean on first arrival by comparison with Chinese inns, its dirt now has a very materialising effect upon one's susceptibilities. It is beautifully situated on a spur of the mountain, with an amphitheatre of mountain-peaks girdling it in except on one side, where it looks down on the lesser hills and rivers we came up from. There are trees, and, we are assured, tigers, a man having been eaten by one ten days ago. But as I am also told eight men together were going up a peak not far from here, and of the eight five were killed by tigers, I am not quite sure whether one can believe everything one is told on Omi-shan. At all events, the tiger-mosquitoes seem a more real danger at present. We had sixteen nights in Chinese inns to get here from Chungking, travelling always westward; so I cannot think many Europeans will come, till there are steamers running to Chungking, and Cook has organised through-tickets. But the chief priest thinks if he could only do these rooms up many foreigners would come, and all give him many taels, and then the temples could all be restored."