MISSIONARIES 
l 97 
from a dead leaf, or other splendid Papilionidce of the tropics not afraid to 
exhibit their beauties openly, and revelling in the display of brilliant colours, 
attractive markings, and eccentric shapes. Then will follow for your 
inspection rows of bugs, scarlet and green, yellow and black ; repulsive 
cicadas with huge stupid heads and disgusting fat bodies, giving a nasty 
oily odour which even the camphor cannot suppress ; dapper-looking grass¬ 
hoppers, neatly and prettily coloured; and dragon-flies with gauzy wings, 
some purple-blue, some orange, others umber-brown or crimson. 
If you are not reviewing insects or discussing languages, you may be turning 
over portfolios of dried plants; or it is birds that the missionary shoots and 
skins, or geological specimens that he collects, or he may even concentrate his 
interest exclusively within the narrow domain of spiders or land shells. What¬ 
ever his hobby may be, having once started him off, it is hard to arrest him, 
and with the best intentions you find yourself after a little while arduously 
acting an interest you cease to feel, and paralysing the muscles of your jaws 
with suppressed yawns. The missionary’s wife detects your fatigue. Long use 
has accustomed her to regard her husband’s favourite pursuit with indulgent 
unconcern; so rising, and gathering her needlework together, she says, “John, 
it is time for prayers; I am sure Mr. So-and-so must be tired.” The obedient 
husband assents, puts away with a sigh his manuscripts, or his collections, and 
goes outside into the verandah, to ring the bell. Then he returns with un visage 
de circonstance , gets down his big Bible and seats himself in the armchair at the 
head of the table. Presently there is a whispering, giggling, and shuffling in 
the passage, and in come the loutish boys you have seen before. They are 
lugging along some wooden forms, which they place in the room near the door. 
Then they retreat and return again, this time bearing piles of Bibles and paper- 
covered hymn-books. They are followed by a small number of lollopy girls, 
some clad in loose garments like short nightgowns, a few bearing still an 
appearance of being but half reclaimed and in their savage innocence scorning 
to hide their virginal breasts in a frowsy gown, while the draping of the light 
cottons round their limbs and heads retains an element of innate good taste 
which the older, more civilised girls have lost. These latter, too, are oppressed 
with a sense of self-consciousness at the sight of a stranger, and alternately 
glance at you with sidelong languishing looks, and then make you the subject 
of sniggering whispers among themselves, until they are checked by a stern 
look from their mistress, which makes their eyes drop with one accord on their 
open Bibles. After prayers are over the youths drag out the forms again, the 
maidens bob and curtsey, and each with shrill monotony yelps out, “ Good night, 
ma’am; good night, sah,” to which your host and hostess reply, with wearisome 
punctiliousness, “ Good night, Amelia, good night, Florence, good night, 
Susannah, good night, Rebecca,” and so on to the end of the list. Then 
you stand for a few minutes purposeless, gazing at the prints of Bible subjects 
hung round the walls, staring vacantly at your hostess’s sewing machine, opening 
the gift books on the table or softly trying the harmonium with one finger and 
an intermittent pressure on the pedals. The missionary’s wife, who has just 
been with her servants to ascertain that all your requirements in your bedroom 
have been anticipated, returns and bids you good night with a kindly-worded 
wish that you may benefit by your night’s rest. You chat a few minutes longer 
with your host, and then repair to your bedroom, where you will be sure to find 
a comfortable bed and a shelf of books, with one of which you beguile the 
moments till sleep comes to close your tired eyelids. 
