not in the thoughts of this people at all. Their religion teaches them there is no God—no Creator who made the world: the world made itself, they say; it always was. The god they do worship, Buddha, whose images are in every temple, was nothing but a mere man like themselves, and, now he has left the world, knows nothing, cares nothing, about it, or indeed about aught else.
The common notion about the pestilence was that an army of wicked spirits had come invisibly to carry off mankind to make them their servants in the unseen world. Oh, how anxious they were to make these spirits of the air their friends! So the people made various offerings in order to conciliate the good-will of these spirits of the air.
It was a common practice in those days to form a little square tray from pieces of the plantain tree, and, placing the offerings thereupon, leave them by the side of the street, where the spirits would find them, or else, placing them on the water, let them float down the stream. The river and land were full of them.
Coming home one night, I stumbled over one right in my path, and, having a lantern, stopped to examine it. On the rude tray, which was about a foot square, were strewed rice, some coarse salt tied up in a little rag, some fresh flowers, betel-nut, sliced plantain, the end of a torch, and two rough images of clay representing
