old men, wrinkled hags like skeletons at a feast, the
prettiest women and the prettiest silks of Mandalay t
white-hatted Shans, Paloungs from the tea-country,
women from distant highlands, in plush and velvet ,*
the aged slow of foot, the young impetuous ; faces
stamped with the sadness and the weariness of life,
faces of laughter and lovelit eyes ; voices mumbling
the never-ending litany of sorrow— Aneitsa,; Dookha,.
Anata— Change, Sorrow, Unreality; voices like the
tinkle of pagoda bells with the added human thrill.
All pass on under the shadow of the painted arch, to
the wide corridor beyond, where the light streams
in through the lofty Roman archways.
There they come, one and all, to a pause, kneeling
on the spread mats and carpets in rear of the lines of
worshippers already assembled ; the men in front, the
women behind. Beyond the bowed heads is a long
trough of flowers and paper pennons, then the rows
of flickering lights, and last of all, shrouded in the
tremulous gloom, the figure of the Buddha.
Shadowy forms move within, climbing to his knees,
and reaching fingers, charged with fluttering gold, to
every part of his body; and the effect of the fresh
gold as it cleaves in the gloom is that of a flame playing
all over the image.
For hours one can stand here and look with unrelaxed
pleasure on this spectacle, which is so vivid,
so imposing, so genuine, and so spontaneous. Here
there are no attendant priests, there is no liturgy, there
is no marshalling of the worshippers. The spectacle
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remains ; its units for ever change. Men and women
come and go, passing right across the scene; some
rise to leave, while others stoop to pray ; each, unconscious
of the rest, plays his part in the moving
drama. Near me there is a woman with a tray laden
with small flowers, which she holds up towards the
POOL OF THE SACRED TURTLE
shrine as she kneels. Her child of two, barely able to
stand, clutches at her slender arms, and as the tray
goes up, pours into it a cup-full of white petals— her
share ; and it is such a picture of artless devotion as
no country in the world can rival.
The child is an exquisite being, pretty as all
Burmese children are ; the mother has not yet lost the
freshness of her youth. Her dark hair, coiled with
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