Shin-ki is a small monastery. Perhaps its temples have never been comparable with the shrines of Yu-chom-sa in grace and beauty. Nothing, however, can excuse the disorder and neglect of its court-yards, and the slovenliness of the temple service. There seems to be nothing in common between this and those other monasteries, which rest within the heart of the ranges. One looks in vain for the courtly dignity of the aged Abbot of Yu-chom-sa, whose humanitarian spirit was so impressive. The principles of consideration, politeness, and devotion that govern his conduct are sadly lacking in the Abbot, the priests, and monks attached to Shin-ki-sa. The contrast is indeed great. The most painful emotions are excited by the decline which has taken place in the prosperity of the temples. Anger and sorrow fill the soul. As one gazes beyond the temples into the peace and beauty of the valley below, it is as if one were looking across from a place of abomination into another and a better world. The colourless skeleton of the past alone remains, and one longs for the power to restore the fabric to its former self.
In its setting the monastery has caught something of the spirit of nature. If there is any compensating element in its decadence, it is found in the wild beauty of the rugged mountains, which tower above it from across the valley. Beyond their granite faces lie the trials and tribulations of the outer world; once enclosed within their grey embrace the little ironies of life disappear. The hours are cool and undisturbed. Primeval forests adorn the deep gullies of the ranges; a flood of colour comes from the open spaces where wild flowers are growing and the tints of the woodland foliage disclose an endless variety of green. In the centre of a patch, cleared of its undergrowth and
