A number of people believe in spirits, and make it a pleasure to summon them into their presence by way of pastime. A cylindrical box, containing a number of little sticks, each of which bears a number, may be seen in every temple, and before the altars of every god. When a man wants to know his future, he first of all burns candles and incense before the god; then he kneels down at the altar, holding one of these boxes in his hands. He then asks the question that he wants to have answered, and shakes the box gently until one of the little sticks fall out. This he picks up, and places it before the god; then he takes two hemispheres, and throws them to the ground. If they fall on the flat side, that means that the little stick is the right one; but if on the convex side, that means that the stick is no good, and the thing must begin over again. If the stick has been recognised to be right, it is taken to the guardian of the temple, who gives a number corresponding to the one printed on it. This number has written on it a motto such as you see in crackers in Europe, and it is according to this motto that the future is read. Sometimes most extraordinary results are obtained by this means; at other times, however, the answer has no sense or portent.
Sometimes a plate is taken, and a piece of paper carefully wetted is applied to it. A Taoist priest is called, who begins by making mysterious gestures over the dish, and then rubs the paper on it with a piece of paper tightly rolled up. This rubbing produces a quantity of figures and scenes, and from these figures and scenes the future is predicted. Supposing a theft has been committed, the plate will show the scene of the theft, with the portrait of the thief. A cheap and easy way of detecting crime, it must be admitted. More than that, it shows what punishment will befall the guilty man. If a needle is taken and the eyes of the portrait of the thief in the dish be struck with it, the real offender instantaneously becomes blind.
We have also a number of inspired hypnotic mediums and lucid somnambulists. They go to sleep, the spirit moves them, they rise up and predict what is going to happen, or cure the sick. They can be pricked with pins without feeling any pain, and can walk on burning coals without burning themselves.
We have no want of literary gods. A large dish is taken filled with sand, and then the two ends of a carved stick of wood are moved over it. The god guides the points, and a number of acrostic sentences and poems are the result, written in the sand. The spirits of well-known literary men of bygone ages are called for, and they are begged to attend the meeting, and to give some specimens of their poetic talents. Let me describe one of these scenes.
The brush, after having moved about for some time, announces that a literary god is approaching. At once it begins to trace out the following quatrain:—
“Twilight covers half the mountains,
The tired birds return to their nests.
The stork, driven by the azure zephyr,
Comes down from heaven through the clouds.”
Next a goddess presents herself and writes: