Leaving the Meh Ping, we journeyed nearly due north, thus avoiding a long bend of the river. A mile from our crossing of the Meh Lim, a low hill called Loi Chong Teng, about two and a half miles long, and surmounted near its southern end by a pretty pagoda, cropped up from the plain a mile to the west. Here we caught a glimpse of the summer palace of the Zimmé chief, which lay about 3½ miles to the north-east, near the village of Wung Muang.
The foot of the hill was fringed by a line of villages embedded in beautiful groves of fruit-trees. After passing the north end of the hill, which drew in towards our path, we halted for breakfast at the village of Nam Lin, situated 11½ miles from Zimmé. The spurs from the main spur which separates the Meh Peun from the Meh Ping jutted into the plain four miles to the west of the village, and the plateau-topped low range to the east lay four miles distant, reducing the width of the Zimmé plain to about seven or eight miles at this spot, from whence it gradually decreases to the defile.
On our way to the village we halted for a few minutes to gain information about the valley of the Meh Lim, and, accompanied by Dr M‘Gilvary, I ascended the steps of a substantial-looking house, and crossing the verandah, entered the reception-hall. Here we were welcomed by an old lady, her daughter, and four granddaughters, the last of various ages from fourteen to twenty-four. All were evidently in gala array, their hair neatly dressed and decked with flowers, jewels on their fingers and in the cylinders in the lobes of their ears, bracelets on their wrists, and handsome gold chains round some of their necks, but without jackets, or any other covering from the waist upwards, excepting a handkerchief round the old lady’s top-knot.
In the Lao provinces of Siam, which lie in the basin of the Meh Kong to the south of Luang Prabang, it is the rule amongst the Shans that a woman whose husband is absent must not offer hospitality. In all cases before hospitality is offered, the master of the house must first worship the manes by lighting taper candles, and incense, and offering prayers, the stranger waiting until the ceremony is finished. The Ping Shans are not so strict, and no remonstrances were made at our unexpected entrance. The young ladies, at a hint from their grandmother, at once brought clean mats and three-cornered pillows to make us comfortable, and their mamma offered us her silver betel-box, which contained all the necessaries for a quid, which, I need not say, we thankfully declined.
All seemed anxious that we should have correct information, even the youngest daughter breaking in to mention the name of a village which the others had forgotten. There was no timidity, no shyness, no awkwardness, and apparently no self-consciousness, amongst the neat and comely little damsels. Their demeanour was courtesy itself, and their manners and deportment were as graceful and perfect as could be found in any drawing-room in Europe.
In the temple where our breakfast was spread I noticed a native zylophone, made of eighteen sonorous strips of hard wood fastened side by side by strings and suspended over a boat-shaped sounding-board, which had been hollowed out of a small log. There was a rough gradation in the tones of the successive pieces, but no adherence to our musical intervals.
Implements for the use of expectant Buddhas.
When calling on the abbot, I asked him the uses of six wooden implements, painted red, standing about five feet high and placed in a rack. They were evidently part of his paraphernalia, but not intended for use. The abbot replied that they were for the use of Buddhas or expectant Buddhas. Nos. 1, 2, and 3 were to shield his face when worshipping, No. 4 for washing his clothes, and No. 6 for his umbrella. The use of No. 5 has escaped me, but it somewhat resembles a bishop’s crosier.
The abbot was a fat, sleepy-looking old gentleman, who considered it trouble enough to answer our questions without asking any in return. On noticing the sieve used by the monks to strain insects from their drinking-water, to save them from the sin of destroying animal life, Dr M‘Gilvary told him that, notwithstanding the sieve, thousands of animalculæ remained in the water, and were thus consumed daily by him, and this was evident by looking at a drop of water through the microscope. The abbot merely shrugged his fat shoulders, and, with a glimmer in his eye, replied that as long as he could not see them it made no matter, so he need not grieve over it. The balustrades in the verandah of the monastery had evidently been turned with a lathe.