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.
BEGGING PRIEST, ONCE A GENERAL.
By Mrs. Archibald Little.
"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.
"How strange are the freaks of memory!
The lessons of life we forget,
While a trifle, a trick of colour,
In the wonderful web is set."