But Jerusalem's altars have grown cold with the neglect of a thousand years, their priests are forgotten, even their memories are dim. Not so with Peking. But a few years ago the pilgrimage to its Temple of Heaven was the religious event of the year; to-day the scent of incense still hangs in the air, the Temple of Heaven still symbolizes the faith of its people, and the passer-by one meets in Peking's by-ways may be but lately a priest officiating on its marble terraces.
The religious fervour that China's temples inspire is well illustrated by one Hoang, who followed the craft of a blacksmith. Whenever he was at work he is said to have called without intermission on the name of Amita Buddha, and one day handed to his neighbours the following verse of his own composing Ding dong! The hammer-strokes fait long and fast, Until the tron turns to steel at last Now shall the long, long Day of Rest begtn, The Land of Bliss Eternal calls me in.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.