CHAPTERXXV.A DAY AT CHEUNG MAI.Washing the Idols.Letme take you in imagination to our home in the Laos country. The house is on the banks of the river Maping, and faces the west. As you walk from the front gate up through the yard you will notice orange trees, cocoanut, bamboo, mango and tamarind, with the pomegranate, custard-apple, guava and coffee tree of smaller growth. Some of the flowers will seem familiar, as the rose, tiger-lily and one which bears a resemblance to the beautiful calla. The passion-flower, too, is here, with greater luxuriance of growth than in America, and many tropical flowers with heavy waxen petals having a rich perfume. Seated on the veranda, your eye takes in the view of river, plain and distant mountain, over which the bright sunshine is streaming. No wonder you exclaim, “Beautiful for situation is sunny Cheung Mai!”But now let me take you to the ceremony ofidol-bathing, which occurs yearly. We will get our hats and umbrellas, for it is afternoon and this is the “hot season,” and join the groups of women who are passing to the nearest temple, about half a mile distant from the mission premises. Look how neat and clean they appear, dressed in white jackets and the Balmoral-patterned Laos skirts, with long muslin scarfs of crimson, purple, yellow or pink thrown over the breast and shoulders, and with flowers to contrast or correspond with the scarfs in their glossy black hair. Each woman bears in her hand a metal basin—in some cases of silver—containing scented water. They have spent part of the morning compounding perfumery from spices or flowers, which, when duly prepared, is thrown into the basin with fresh well-water just before leaving home. If you peep into the basin you will see newly-gathered flowers lying on the top of the water. It looks dainty, but its destiny is to wash off the dusty, musty idols that sit in darkness in their allotted corner from year to year. As the women pass along they talk merrily together. You will see children and bright-eyed girls as well as matrons and aged women.As we approach the temple we get glimpses of its white walls through the foliage of the large trees which overshadow it. It is built of brick and plastered. The outer walls are whitened and have a polished appearance. It is surrounded by a low wall, built also of brick and plastered. We enter through a gate just in front of the temple-door. How neatly the grounds are kept, and how shady and pleasant they seem! In the same enclosure are the little houses where the priests eat and sleep. There are quite a number of these priests, young and old, walking about the grounds, dressed in yellow robes and with closely-shaven heads.As we pass from the bright, warm sunshine into the dark, dreary building a feeling of gloom and sadness strikes the soul. The floor is hard, like stone, being made of some preparation of plaster and cement, and it looks cold and cheerless. The dull, high walls are without even a window to break the dismal outline.On the side opposite the door is the shrine of Buddha. By the light of the little waxen tapers we observe a large idol of perhaps four feet in length, with proportionate body, made of wood and overlaid with gold-leaf. On a shelf below where this sleepy Buddha sits are scores of smaller idols, covered with gold or silver and similar in appearance to the large image. If we go nearer we shall see some of the offerings the women have brought and laid on this shrine. There are garlands of lovely flowers which fill the air with a heavy perfume, fruit of different kinds, piles of newly-made yellow robes, new mats, pillows with embroidered work, etc. These are all for the priests, and have been prepared by the skillful hands of women. You soon notice that more than three-fourths of those present are women.As the time for their so-called worship has come, we look about for seats, but as none are provided, we shall have to do as the others do, sit down on the floor. The Laos women are kind and polite, and we soon find quite a number of soft straw mats at our service, with invitations to come and sit on this or that mat. Selecting our places, we are soon seated in an audience of heathen worshipers. How depressing and melancholy it all seems! The flickering flames of the tapers cast a weird light over the stupid countenance of the large idol, toward which every face is turned. The worshiping is not simultaneous; there is neither rule nor order in it. Neighbors who have not met for some time are chatting together in an ordinary tone of voice. A woman sitting by us is inquiring if we are comfortable, if this is not a pleasant occasion, if this is one of the ways we are accustomed to worship, etc. While answering her questions we are observing two women in front of us. One is a mother with a young child on her knee, in whose little hands she places a sweet, bright flower; then she closes the tiny hands, palm to palm, the flower projecting from the tips of the fingers, the stem within the palms. She then, pressing the hands closely with hers, raises them above its baby head, at the same time inclining its body in a bow toward the image of Buddha. So soon do the heathen mothers begin to teach their religion to their little ones. The other woman is very aged, and she places her hands just as the baby did, and, raising them high above her head, bends her body forward till her head and hands are pressing the stony floor. How abject, how devout she looks in her prostration before the idol! But she is again, in a minute, taking up the conversation where it was broken off, with quite a hearty laugh at some passing remark.By this time a priest begins in a monotonous tone to read from one of the sacred books. The talking and laughing are going on in the mean time. No one present understands what is being read, the reader included, for it is in the Pali language, but they imagine some blessing comes from the reading, although it is in an unknown tongue.This over, the ceremony of bathing the idols follows. All rise to their feet, the women getting their basins of water ready, while the men carry out the small images and place them in a miniature temple of bamboo which has been temporarily prepared in the yard. When they are all arranged the women gather around, and each one dashes her basin of water over them, but not touching one of them with the end of a finger; they are too sacred for a woman’s hand to touch. The splashing and dashing of the water is attended with great hilarity, terminating in a noisy romp.As we turn homeward from this scene can we refrain from praying, “Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly, and reveal thyself to these poor benighted ones”? In the evening, as we stand again on the veranda, looking at the sunset, we see on the opposite side of the river a number of men and women busily gathering up sand and putting it into baskets. You are astonished when I tell you that this sand is carried to the temple-grounds and thrown into piles known assand-gods, and a kind of worship is offered to them. As the night comes on the people scatter away to their homes; the noisy tumult subsides, leaving a quiet hush which we welcome most gratefully. But hark! that deep, heavythud! thud!in the distance. What is it? It is the beating of the great drums which are hung in the temple-grounds, to awaken or notify their gods that an offering is about to be made. You will hear them at intervals through the night, even into the morning watches.When the sun goes from you in America this evening it will rise upon the poor Laos people to awaken them to some of their many forms of idolatry.
Washing the Idols.
Letme take you in imagination to our home in the Laos country. The house is on the banks of the river Maping, and faces the west. As you walk from the front gate up through the yard you will notice orange trees, cocoanut, bamboo, mango and tamarind, with the pomegranate, custard-apple, guava and coffee tree of smaller growth. Some of the flowers will seem familiar, as the rose, tiger-lily and one which bears a resemblance to the beautiful calla. The passion-flower, too, is here, with greater luxuriance of growth than in America, and many tropical flowers with heavy waxen petals having a rich perfume. Seated on the veranda, your eye takes in the view of river, plain and distant mountain, over which the bright sunshine is streaming. No wonder you exclaim, “Beautiful for situation is sunny Cheung Mai!”
But now let me take you to the ceremony ofidol-bathing, which occurs yearly. We will get our hats and umbrellas, for it is afternoon and this is the “hot season,” and join the groups of women who are passing to the nearest temple, about half a mile distant from the mission premises. Look how neat and clean they appear, dressed in white jackets and the Balmoral-patterned Laos skirts, with long muslin scarfs of crimson, purple, yellow or pink thrown over the breast and shoulders, and with flowers to contrast or correspond with the scarfs in their glossy black hair. Each woman bears in her hand a metal basin—in some cases of silver—containing scented water. They have spent part of the morning compounding perfumery from spices or flowers, which, when duly prepared, is thrown into the basin with fresh well-water just before leaving home. If you peep into the basin you will see newly-gathered flowers lying on the top of the water. It looks dainty, but its destiny is to wash off the dusty, musty idols that sit in darkness in their allotted corner from year to year. As the women pass along they talk merrily together. You will see children and bright-eyed girls as well as matrons and aged women.
As we approach the temple we get glimpses of its white walls through the foliage of the large trees which overshadow it. It is built of brick and plastered. The outer walls are whitened and have a polished appearance. It is surrounded by a low wall, built also of brick and plastered. We enter through a gate just in front of the temple-door. How neatly the grounds are kept, and how shady and pleasant they seem! In the same enclosure are the little houses where the priests eat and sleep. There are quite a number of these priests, young and old, walking about the grounds, dressed in yellow robes and with closely-shaven heads.
As we pass from the bright, warm sunshine into the dark, dreary building a feeling of gloom and sadness strikes the soul. The floor is hard, like stone, being made of some preparation of plaster and cement, and it looks cold and cheerless. The dull, high walls are without even a window to break the dismal outline.
On the side opposite the door is the shrine of Buddha. By the light of the little waxen tapers we observe a large idol of perhaps four feet in length, with proportionate body, made of wood and overlaid with gold-leaf. On a shelf below where this sleepy Buddha sits are scores of smaller idols, covered with gold or silver and similar in appearance to the large image. If we go nearer we shall see some of the offerings the women have brought and laid on this shrine. There are garlands of lovely flowers which fill the air with a heavy perfume, fruit of different kinds, piles of newly-made yellow robes, new mats, pillows with embroidered work, etc. These are all for the priests, and have been prepared by the skillful hands of women. You soon notice that more than three-fourths of those present are women.
As the time for their so-called worship has come, we look about for seats, but as none are provided, we shall have to do as the others do, sit down on the floor. The Laos women are kind and polite, and we soon find quite a number of soft straw mats at our service, with invitations to come and sit on this or that mat. Selecting our places, we are soon seated in an audience of heathen worshipers. How depressing and melancholy it all seems! The flickering flames of the tapers cast a weird light over the stupid countenance of the large idol, toward which every face is turned. The worshiping is not simultaneous; there is neither rule nor order in it. Neighbors who have not met for some time are chatting together in an ordinary tone of voice. A woman sitting by us is inquiring if we are comfortable, if this is not a pleasant occasion, if this is one of the ways we are accustomed to worship, etc. While answering her questions we are observing two women in front of us. One is a mother with a young child on her knee, in whose little hands she places a sweet, bright flower; then she closes the tiny hands, palm to palm, the flower projecting from the tips of the fingers, the stem within the palms. She then, pressing the hands closely with hers, raises them above its baby head, at the same time inclining its body in a bow toward the image of Buddha. So soon do the heathen mothers begin to teach their religion to their little ones. The other woman is very aged, and she places her hands just as the baby did, and, raising them high above her head, bends her body forward till her head and hands are pressing the stony floor. How abject, how devout she looks in her prostration before the idol! But she is again, in a minute, taking up the conversation where it was broken off, with quite a hearty laugh at some passing remark.
By this time a priest begins in a monotonous tone to read from one of the sacred books. The talking and laughing are going on in the mean time. No one present understands what is being read, the reader included, for it is in the Pali language, but they imagine some blessing comes from the reading, although it is in an unknown tongue.
This over, the ceremony of bathing the idols follows. All rise to their feet, the women getting their basins of water ready, while the men carry out the small images and place them in a miniature temple of bamboo which has been temporarily prepared in the yard. When they are all arranged the women gather around, and each one dashes her basin of water over them, but not touching one of them with the end of a finger; they are too sacred for a woman’s hand to touch. The splashing and dashing of the water is attended with great hilarity, terminating in a noisy romp.
As we turn homeward from this scene can we refrain from praying, “Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly, and reveal thyself to these poor benighted ones”? In the evening, as we stand again on the veranda, looking at the sunset, we see on the opposite side of the river a number of men and women busily gathering up sand and putting it into baskets. You are astonished when I tell you that this sand is carried to the temple-grounds and thrown into piles known assand-gods, and a kind of worship is offered to them. As the night comes on the people scatter away to their homes; the noisy tumult subsides, leaving a quiet hush which we welcome most gratefully. But hark! that deep, heavythud! thud!in the distance. What is it? It is the beating of the great drums which are hung in the temple-grounds, to awaken or notify their gods that an offering is about to be made. You will hear them at intervals through the night, even into the morning watches.
When the sun goes from you in America this evening it will rise upon the poor Laos people to awaken them to some of their many forms of idolatry.