CHAPTER XIV

Japanese Burial-grounds—Cremation in Many Lands—Sacred Scripture Wheels—Buddhist Rosaries.

I have so often found pathetic sketching-grounds in neglected old churchyards and cemeteries, and moreover have so long felt that the subject of how to dispose of the dead so as best to combine reverence for their sacred bodies with due care for the health of the living, is a matter of the deepest interest, that this natural instinct led me, quite unintentionally, to derive my very first impressions of Japan from the cremation-ground near Yokohama—a spot which, I need scarcely say, rarely attracts any of the many foreign visitors—still fewer of the residents!

During my travels in India, I had had abundant opportunities of witnessing the process of cremation as practised by the Hindoos, more especially at Benares, that most holy city of the Brahmins, the bourne which every pious Hindoo craves to reach in time to die there, on the banks of the sacred river Ganges. Many a time I have seen the dying laid down to breathe their last breath alone on the hallowed shore, while their friends went off to bargain with the neighbouring timber-merchants for so much wood as their limited means could procure. Often in the case of the very poor this sum was so small that the humble fire has barely sufficed to char the body, which was then thrown into the river, and suffered to float seaward in company with many another, in every stage of putrefaction, spreading the seed of pestilence on the sultry air, and poisoning the stream in which myriads hourly bathe, and from which they drink.

But in the case of the wealthier Hindoo, the funeral-pyre is carefully built, and when the corpse has been washed in the river, it is swathed in fair linen, white or scarlet, or still more often the shroud is of the sacred saffron-colour, on which is showered a handful of vermilion paint to symbolise the blood of sprinkling, as the atonement for sin. Sometimes the body is wrapped in cloth of silver or of gold, and is thus laid upon the funeral-pyre. Dry sweet grass is then laid over it, and precious anointing oil, which shall make the flame burn more brightly, and more wood is heaped on, till the pyre is very high. A Brahmin now brings sacred fire, and gives a lighted torch to the chief mourner, who bears it thrice, or nine times, sun-wise, round the body. He touches the lips of the dead with the holy fire, then ignites the pyre. Other torches are applied simultaneously, and in a very few moments the body is burnt, though the fire smoulders long. Then the ashes are collected and sprinkled on the sacred river, which carries them away to the ocean.

Night and day this work goes on without ceasing, and many a weird funeral-scene I have witnessed, sometimes beneath the burning rays of the noontide sun, while my house-boat lay moored in midstream to enable me better to witness all the strange phases of religious and social life enacted on its shores, and sometimes in the course of our night journeyings, when the pale moonbeams mingled with the dim blue flames, casting a lurid light on the withered, witch-like forms of the mourners, often a group of grey-haired women, whose shrill wails and piercing cries rang through the air as they circled round the pyre in solemn procession, suggesting some spirit-dance of death.

With these scenes in my memory, I made some inquiries, on my arrival in Japan, as to the method of cremation practised there; but, strangely enough, could obtain no information on the subject. It was not one which in any way obtruded itself on public notice, and none of my European friends could tell me anything about it—most declared that the practice was unknown in Japan. Accident, however, favoured me, for on the third day after landing at Yokohama, a friend brought his charming ponies and invited me to accompany him on a ride, in the course of which, looking down from the high-road where foreigners take their daily drive, I observed at some little distance what seemed to me to be a cemetery.

For me, the peaceful “God’s-acres” of our own land have always a special interest, and I soon learnt that those of Japan are invariably worth a visit, the ancestral graves being ever well cared for, and the cemeteries generally pretty and picturesque. So this my first discovery in Japanese burial-grounds was an opportunity not to be neglected. My companion, though he had often passed by the spot, had never dreamt of giving it a nearer inspection, but yielded to what seemed to him my very unaccountable wish to visit it.

So we turned our horses’ heads thither, and soon perceived that it was indeed a place of graves, full of monuments of forms new to me. One thing I especially noted was the enduring care of the living for the dead, for before each grave were placed the three sacred objects invariably present in Buddhist worship; a vase to contain fresh flowers (generally, if possible, a bud of the sacred lotus), a candlestick whereon was set a taper, as an offering to the departed, and a brazier wherein to burn incense (generally a pot of fragrant ash), in which are stuck the familiar joss-sticks. There are also saucers of holy water.

In a corner of the cemetery I noticed a very insignificant-looking thatched house; and a talkative Japanese “Old Mortality” (who seemed to be the guardian of the place), seeing my glance directed thither, informed my companion that that was where the dead were burned, and invited us to enter. Thus unexpectedly was my question answered. We found a very plain building, with mud walls and earthen floors, along which were placed six or eight low stone enclosures; in each of these were heaped dry faggots, on which were laid the dead brought here for cremation, in square, box-like coffins, the bodies being placed in a sitting attitude.

At the moment when we entered, three funeral-pyres were blazing brightly, and though the bodies could not have been half-consumed, there was scarcely any perceptible odour, even in this primitive building without special chimneys, certainly nothing comparable to that in many an English kitchen.

Two semi-nude attendants watched by the bodies, and would remain on duty for six or eight hours, till the fire had burnt itself out, leaving no human fragment uncalcined. Then, when nothing remained but pure white ashes, they would carefully collect these, to be handed over to the relatives, who on the morrow would bring a simple urn of red earthenware to receive these cleanly remains, which would then be interred with all due honour, with or without further religious service, according to the inclination of the survivors.

One feature of the graves in this cremation-cemetery which struck my companion as unusual was the fact that each grave was marked by a cluster of flat, wooden, sword-shaped sticks, each bearing an inscription. These are placed on the grave one at a time at intervals on certain days after burial. On some graves these inscribed sticks were so very much larger than on the others, that we inquired the reason, and were told that they marked the graves of very wealthy citizens. The highest of all, which attained to the dignity of a large post, proved to be that of the chief scavenger of the town!

“Old Mortality” informed us that of the bodies brought to this

## particular cemetery, only about one-third were interred without

cremation; that it was a matter of personal choice, but that Buddhists of the Monto or Shin-shiû, i.e. reformed sect, were almost invariably cremated, as also those of the Jodo, Hokke and Zenshu sects. I recollected that in Ceylon this most honourable disposal of the dead was reserved only for Buddhist priests, and I afterwards discovered the same fact at some of the Buddhist monasteries I visited in China.

A very few days later, on arriving in Tokio and driving through one of its suburbs, my attention was arrested by a group of peculiarly-shaped tall chimneys, very wide at the base, and ending in a narrow mouth, so strangely suggestive of old sketching-days in Kent, that the idea of the familiar farm “oast-house” at once presented itself. On inquiry, I learnt that this was one of the city crematories, of which there are about half-a-dozen scattered over the principal suburbs of the vast city. Supposing that in the great capital the process of cremation might be performed more ceremoniously and scientifically than in the country cemetery which I had previously visited, I determined to inspect this also. But in the multitude of more attractive interests, I never found time to do so.

Soon afterwards, however, my friend Miss Bird (now Mrs. Bishop) visited a similar establishment in the same neighbourhood; she said it was only after prolonged inquiry that she succeeded in learning its locality. She found the same perfect simplicity in all details. The great chimneys form the only material difference, their object, of course, being to convey any unpleasant fumes to such a height as to ensure no nuisance being created in the neighbourhood. Not only is this desirable result secured, but even within the premises there is nothing in the least noxious or disgusting. Miss Bird said that, although thirteen bodies had been consumed in the burning-house a few hours before her visit, and a considerable number of bodies were awaiting cremation (those of the wealthier classes being coffined in oblong pine chests, and those of the very poor in tubs of pine, hooped with bamboo), there was not the slightest odour in or about the building, and her interpreter informed her that the people living near never experience the least annoyance, even while the process is going on.

The only difference between this city crematory and the burning-house in the rural cemetery was that the highroofed mud building was divided into four rooms, the smallest of which was reserved for such wealthy persons as preferred to have their dead cremated apart in solitary state, for which privilege they pay five dollars (about one pound), whereas ordinary mortals are disposed of in the common room for the modest sum of something under four shillings. One shilling’s worth of fuel is the average consumption required for each body.

Granite supports are laid in pairs all along the earthen floor, and on these, coffin-chests are placed at 8 P.M., when the well-dried faggots beneath them are kindled. The fires are replenished from time to time, and at 6 A.M. the man in charge goes round the building, and from each hearth collects and stores in a separate urn the handful of ashes which alone remains. After the religious service in the house, the further attendance of the Buddhist priests is optional, but in many cases they return on the morrow to officiate at the interment of the ashes.

Having noticed the simplicity, the cleanliness, and the exceeding cheapness of this method of honourably consigning “ashes to ashes,” I confess to a feeling of wonder when, on returning to Britain in 1880, I heard howls of indignation raised at the bare suggestion that we should literally carry into practice those oft-repeated but utterly meaningless words. Men and women who devoutly believe that the noble army of martyrs has been largely recruited from the stake, and that multitudes of ransomed souls have been wafted on the smoke of their own burnt sacrifice to His presence, “Who maketh the flaming fire His minister,” nevertheless deemed that it might be irreverent for us thus to deal with Christian bodies which are to be interred “in sure and certain hope” of resurrection.

They did not venture to suggest that the martyrs will suffer in future because their ashes were sprinkled to the four winds; but religion, superstition, and sentiment were all arrayed to decry the impious idea of reviving in Britain this “cleanly custom” of our Pagan ancestors—a custom which is said to have been retained by the Celts of Ireland long after the introduction of Christianity.

This indignation was stirred up, because just at that time some of our leading scientists began to call attention to the advantages of cremation, and some of the many dangers of earth-burial in preserving bacteria and microbes, which might at any time, even after three hundred years, be turned up to reproduce horrible diseases in a new generation.

I ventured to add my testimony in the form of a paper called “De Mortuis,” which appeared in the _Contemporary Review_ for June 1883, in which I said: “I think there can be no doubt that ere long common-sense will carry the day in this matter, and that Britain will learn from Japan the wisdom of allowing her children the option of disposing of their dead in such manner as each may prefer.” So it was pleasant to read in a leading article in _The Scotsman_ that the article “De Mortuis” had awakened a very general interest, and brought to the surface much of that undercurrent of rational thought on the subject which has been for some time steadily growing in volume.

In the following year Mr. Justice Stephen, having decided that cremation was not contrary to law, and Sir Spencer Wells having stated that by earth-burial it takes twenty years for a human body to be resolved into exactly the same original elements as it attains in six hours by the

## action of fire, and that consequently in and around London there are

always two millions of dead bodies, decomposing in the midst of a population of four millions of living persons, it was formally proposed to erect a crematorium at Ilford.

On 1st April 1884 there was a very interesting debate on the subject in the House of Commons, in which it was stated that in the previous month four bodies had been publicly cremated in England. Brave pioneers!

In January 1885 advertisements appeared in public papers that arrangements were now completed for the use of the crematorium of the Cremation Society of England, and by 1900 the “cleanly custom” had become a recognised institution.

As regards funeral processions, which figure so prominently in my Chinese diaries, I saw very few in Japan, although so frequently sketching in picturesque cemeteries. I remember one on the holy Mount Oyama, wearily toiling up the long stairs to one of the pretty burial-grounds near the higher temples. The chief mourners were dressed in white, but the majority of those following wore their usual blue garments, blue being accounted mourning. At the head of the procession a priest bore the sacred tablet, on which was inscribed the new name of the deceased—the _kaimiyo_, or name given by the priests immediately after death, and by which the spirit will be known in the spirit-world. After the tablet came a company of priests endeavouring to intone prayers as well as they could on such a steep ascent, and next came the square coffin, covered with a white pall, and followed by the nearest relations of the dead man.

One curious ceremony connected with funerals in Japan is that of sprinkling salt on the threshold of the house whence the dead has been carried, a custom which seems to me akin to that of the Egyptian women, who sprinkle salt on their floor in the name of God, in order to prevent evil spirits from entering their dwelling; or, it may have something in common with the old Scottish superstition of throwing a handful of salt after a man appointed to a new position in life, to bring him luck. As we throw salt over the shoulder to avert a quarrel, so in Japan a little is thrown into the fire to avert family discord.

Another matter in which I have been deeply interested ever since my travels in the Himalayas, is worshipping by machinery; and my “hunter’s instinct” led me very soon after arriving in Tokio to discover for myself the existence of an exceedingly handsome rotating scripture-wheel, exactly corresponding to the prayer-wheels of Thibet.

There “the six-syllabled charm,” or ascription of praise “to the most Holy Jewel, the Lotus” _i.e._ (Buddha) is inscribed many thousand times on strips of cloth or papyrus, and is enclosed in a cylinder of metal, whereon the same mystic words are inscribed in embossed characters. These are neat little cylinders, or prayer-wheels, which the devout carry in their hands, and turn mechanically as they walk, and there are huge barrels, like enormous vats, which are made to rotate by working a crank; these are co-operative devotion stores, available for the whole village, for each rotation gives the person turning the full merit of having actually uttered each several prayer or praise in that huge storehouse, so that any amount of merit may be accumulated in a very short time.[58]

Having been immensely interested in these Thibetan wheels, or rather barrels of praise, and having vainly sought for any trace of any such in Buddhist Ceylon, either in the monasteries or in the ancient cities, one of my first cares on reaching Japan was to learn whether anything of the sort was to be found in its Buddhist temples. I was assured by several gentlemen, well versed in most matters having reference to Japanese manners and customs, that nothing of the sort existed. I, however, determined to examine for myself so far as might be possible, and (finding how many of the minor ecclesiastical buildings of the Buddhist shrines have been suffered to fall into disrepair since the Mikado’s government decided in favour of the Shinto religion, and has confiscated so large a proportion of the Buddhist revenues), I quietly went about, peeping into many neglected chapels and outhouses, where the richly gilt and coloured carvings, scarcely to be discerned through the thick layers of dust and cobwebs, told of the falling off of once devout worshippers.

At beautiful Asakusa my quest was first rewarded. Within the temple grounds stands a very handsome five-storied pagoda of carved wood, painted deep red, and with deep projecting roofs—very picturesque. That naturally drew me thither.

Very near this tall, quaint building stands a small neglected temple, with nothing externally attractive to invite the inspection of the foreigner, and the windows are so closely barred that little can be discerned by peering through them. That little, however, proved to me that this small temple had been built solely to contain one large object, so strongly suggestive, both in form and size, of a great Thibetan prayer-wheel, that I felt convinced that I had found the object of my search. After considerable delay, a very courteous young priest procured the key, opened the great door, and revealed a most beautiful specimen of what I must call a scripture-wheel or barrel, as instead of being full of thousands of copies of the short Thibetan charm, it is an ecclesiastical bookcase, wherein are stored the rolled scrolls of the Buddhist canon, arranged in upright order.

An inscription over the entrance states that as the Buddhist sacred books number 6771 volumes, no one person can read them all; but by turning this bookcase containing them three times, he will secure the same degree of merit as if he had read them all; and also secure long life, prosperity, and immunity from misfortunes.

[Illustration:

SCRIPTURE WHEEL. ]

I think this bookcase is hexagonal, and the handsome panels form six doors for the different compartments, wherein the treasured scrolls are securely locked, which, however, no wise lessens the merit acquired by the devout, who (by the aid of spikes projecting from the base as from a capstan) cause the heavy machine to revolve sun-wise on its own axis. By observing this course, the scrolls (which of course, like all Oriental books, are inscribed from the left-hand corner to the right) pass in correct order before the person turning, and thus, though his mortal eye does not even see these sacred books, he is credited with the merit of having recited the whole.

The actual cylinder is encompassed with small slender pillars, supporting a beautiful projecting canopy of handsomely carved wood, richly lacquered. The base narrows considerably, and rests on a stone pedestal of sculptured lotus-leaves—the invariable symbol round the throne of Buddha—“The Jewel on the Lotus.”

The whole machine is about twelve feet in height and ten in diameter—a resplendent erection of the richest scarlet, black, and gold lacquer. It really seemed quite a pity that such a very handsome piece of furniture should be left to decay, but its day is past, and evidently this method of “turning the wheel of the law” has lost favour in Japan.

The temple doors being unlocked, a few of the many idlers came in, chiefly to see what we were doing, and some gave the wheel a turn, apparently as an excuse for having come in, but evidently without one grain of religious feeling connected with it; even the young priest in charge of the place showed us the wheel as if it were some curious relic of an obsolete ignorance—the same sort of feeling with which the young sportsman, proud of his breech-loading rifle, looks at the old muzzle-loader with which his father was so well satisfied.

On our asking him to show us how it was made to revolve, he proceeded carelessly to turn it _widdershins_,[59] _i.e._ against the course of the sun. This was a great shock to my carefully cultivated prejudices and preconceived ideas, acquired in many lands, both east and west, but especially remembering how exceeding careful the Buddhists of Thibet are concerning the direction in which their prayer-wheels are turned, or their sacred terraces walked round; so, when a senior priest came in, my companion, a perfect Japanese scholar, questioned him on the subject. He admitted that it was against all rule, and, turning to his subordinate, remarked: “Well! you are a pretty fellow, to go and turn the wheel the wrong way!” But they both laughed, and did not really care a bit.

For public opinion in Japan changes with amazing rapidity, and it is evident that the scripture-wheel, which the last generation turned in solemn earnest, is now looked upon as a mediæval oddity, only suitable for an antiquarian museum. Young Japan has not only lost faith in the merit to be acquired by twirling a bookcase, but is ready to cavil at the holy books themselves, and eagerly welcomes every rationalistic work with which his new foreign friends are only too ready to flood the land.

Among the very numerous interests at Asakusa is a shrine to Ji-zo, the protector of little children. Below his image are three prayer-wheels which do not contain prayers, but turning them emphasises the prayers offered by the worshipper.

The scripture-wheel of Japan being a subject which apparently has (or had at that time) attracted little attention, I think I may as well bring together the results of my own subsequent observations.

Having found one great wheel or barrel in connection with the temple at Asakusa, and thus satisfactorily proved the existence in Japan of this singular instrument of devotion, I continued my researches with renewed interest, and so explored many temples not often visited by foreigners. I was one day attracted by the pleasant shady grounds of an old temple near the Saido Bashi at Tokio. The whole place was neglected and ruinous—only one poor old priest, as dilapidated as the buildings themselves, remained in charge of a temple whose congregation had all melted away. But in a small outlying chapel I discovered a large scripture-wheel. Worshippers there were none, and the wheel was fast going to decay. There is also one at the Higashi Hon-gwan-ji temple, where it is equally neglected.

A fourth and very handsome wheel, resembling in general form the first I had seen, occupies a small temple in the beautiful grounds of the temple of Ikegami, which stands on a wooded hill a few miles from the city of Tokio—very easy of access. This, too, is a huge barrel, standing upright, and turning on a pivot by means of long spokes projecting as from the axle of a wheel. Though very handsome in its simplicity, this wheel is not gorgeously lacquered, but of plain, uncoloured wood (which is almost as highly esteemed as lacquer), and its sacred books are in the form of stitched pamphlets, arranged in a multitude of small drawers.

I found another very handsome “circulating library” in the grounds of the Fuji Sawa temple, near the holy isle of Enoshima. This is a popular temple, which, like that of Asakusa, is crowded with worshippers. But the great wheel (which, as usual, occupies a chapel apart) was utterly neglected, except by such Japanese as came to watch me drawing it. For several days I occupied rooms at a charming tea-house overlooking those temple grounds, and I often watched the picturesque groups of pilgrims and other devout persons passing in and out, but I rarely saw any one approach the wheel, and of those who did so, few indeed ever gave it a turn; and these showed small signs of devotion.

In fact, of all whom I observed turning the wheel in various parts of the country, I only noticed one man who appeared to be doing it in earnest; he in very truth was working out a solemn task with resolute purpose—a weary man and heavy laden—apparently too abstracted to remember that he already bore a somewhat weighty burden fastened to his shoulders, and was too much absorbed to remember to lay it down before he began the hard labour of turning the heavy wheel. I observed, too, that in this case the priests seemed quite aware that they had found a true believer, and they affected the greatest solemnity, taking care, also, that he should show his faith by the amount of his offerings.

Having now ample proof that the “rotatory cylinder” has held a well-established position in old Japan, I naturally looked for it at all the principal temples. Before visiting the beautiful shrines of Nikko (where the loveliest Imperial tombs and temples are cradled in the most exquisite scenery), I came on a startling statement concerning how many thousand times the assembled priests had recited the whole Buddhist canon in the course of a great festival. The statement excited no comment, and was apparently accepted as a poetic fiction, but in the light of the helpful wheel, it seemed to me all plain. So on reaching the lovely temple grounds I eagerly looked out for this aid to the task of vain repetitions.

Climbing a succession of long flights of steep stone stairs, and passing by a tall red pagoda with the usual series of dark projecting roof, I reached a large open court, surrounded by many buildings for sacred uses, one of which precisely resembled those in which I had already found the scripture-wheels. Peering in through the gilded fretwork which acted the part of windows, I could faintly discern a massive object, resplendent in scarlet and gold lacquer.

[Illustration:

_C. F. Gordon Cumming._

SHRINE CONTAINING THE SCRIPTURE WHEEL AT NIKKO. ]

Being now convinced that I had solved the mystery of those many thousand repetitions of the sacred canon, I asked to have the door opened; after some delay the priest was found who had charge of the key; and sure enough THERE WAS THE WHEEL! a most gorgeous piece of lacquer work in richest colours, resting on a stone pedestal of lotus-leaves, and containing the holy books in the form of upright scrolls. The priest, as usual, did the honours most courteously, but without affecting a

## particle of reverence for this labour-saving apparatus. Evidently this

phase of superstition had lost its hold on the people, and the priests make no effort to retain a form which they, too, have discovered to be but a hollow sham.

In the same court there is a very handsome large bronze candelabra, enclosed in a great bronze lantern which stands beneath stately cryptomeria trees, and is only protected by a light ornamental roof, supported by carved stone pillars. In general form it resembles a scripture-wheel, and revolves on its own axis, so many of the pilgrims give it a sun-wise turn, though apparently only as a matter of form.

Here, too, I noticed the wheel in its simplest form, as the symbolic decoration on the bronze gateways leading to the magnificent tomb of one of the Shoguns.

My next expedition was to Kyôto, the ancient capital of the Mikados—a city crowded with fine old temples. The very first of these which I entered was one called Choin, to which I was attracted by the beautiful tone of its great bell. After lingering for a while in the great temple, where a multitude of priests were chanting “_Namu Amida Butzu_,” “Save us, O Buddha!” I passed on to examine the other buildings, and the very next I entered—deserted and silent—contained a cylinder or wheel as large as that at Nikko, and of brightly coloured lacquer, but divided into a multitude of small drawers, ticketed, not with the names of the Buddhist scriptures, but with such words as “water,” “fortune,” “fire.” This wheel does not rest on the usual stone lotus blossom, but on a broad base, the lower part of which is decorated with the images of divers gods or saints.

I then passed on to the Honguangi, two huge Buddhist temples in another part of the city. Here I found another large scripture-wheel, similar to that at Choin.

A few days later, I was on the shores of beautiful Lake Biwa, which lies embosomed in mountains, in whose green, richly wooded valleys, as well as on many rocky ridges, cluster temples great and small. Of course I could only indulge in a cursory glance at a very few of these, so have no idea what antiquarian treasures they may contain. We halted at the village of Midera, where some very old Shinto nuns, dressed entirely in white, came and gazed curiously at me, as I doubtless did at them. In the temple here I found a very large octagonal scripture-wheel, with fifty-one small drawers in each of the eight sides. It was the first I had seen of this form.

Passing on to Osaka, I noticed large scripture-wheels at several temples, amongst others, at the beautiful eastern and western Honguangi temples, and also beside the five-storied pagoda of Tenoji. But all of these are now disused.

On the gateway of Tenoji, and also at the Temple of the Moon, on the summit of a mountain near Kobe, I saw several small metal wheels (of the ordinary form—not barrels) let into the portal, as if inviting all comers to give them a twirl. At Ishiyamadera, on Lake Biwa, I saw similar little wheels inserted into the wooden pillars of the temple. These wheels are from one to two feet in diameter, and commonly have only three spokes, so that they are suggestive of a Manx penny with the three legs. On each spoke there are several loose rings of metal, which jingle as the wheel revolves, and so call the attention of the celestial powers to the worshipper, whose merit depends on the number of the wheel’s revolutions. Each wheel bears an inscription in the Sanscrit character. No less than sixteen of these adorn the gateway of the cemetery of Hakodati, and those who enter give them all a turn—perhaps on behalf of the dead.

These wheels, which are neither prayer-barrels, nor scripture-barrels, but simply wheels, seem to carry us back to the origin of this widely-spread symbol. We know that from time immemorial, a revolving wheel of light had been accepted as an emblem of the sun-god, a symbol of which traces have survived, both in Europe and Asia, to the present century. Thus, till recently—probably to the present time—at the midsummer eve festival, the villagers of Trier and Konz, on the Moselle, celebrated the feast of “the fair and shining wheel” (as the sun is called in the Edda), by carrying a great wheel wrapped in straw to the top of a hill, where it was set on fire, and made to roll down, flaming all the way.

In some parts of Scotland, large circular cakes, made very smooth and flat on the edge, like the tyre of a wheel, were till recently thus rolled down grassy hills on May morning, the spring festival of the great wheel of light. And at Ise, in Japan, the most sacred of all the shrines of the sun-goddess, the simple offerings of the pilgrims are small circles of straw.

The wheel having been recognised in India both by the aboriginal tribes and by the Aryan conquerors as an honorific symbol, we can understand how, according to Buddhist lore, it was foretold at the time of Gautama’s birth that he would become _either a Buddha_ or _a king of the wheel_ (Chakravarta Rajah). He seems to have attained both honours, and by “turning the wheel of law”—that is, by preaching—he is said to deliver all creatures from the circle (or wheel) of oft-repeated births—in other words, transmigrations.

Hence on certain very ancient sculptures, A SIMPLE WHEEL APPEARS AS THE OBJECT OF ADORATION. In the Sanchi Tope, in Bhopal, Central India, and in the Bilsah Tope (both the work of Buddhists in the first century of our era), the wheel is shown sometimes surrounded by ministering angels, sometimes by kneeling figures bringing offerings of garlands. Of later date, in the Amravati Tope, the wheel is shown supported by kneeling elephants on the summit of a pillar. Sometimes only a wheel is shown, overshadowed by the mystic umbrella, symbolic of all honour and power. Some sculptures, notably those in the caves of Ellora and Ajunta, simply show the wheel projecting from beneath Buddha’s throne, just as those which have led me to these remarks project from the gateways in which they are inserted.

My lamented friend and master in wheel and ark-lore, Mr. William Simpson, who collected many curious facts bearing on this subject, discovered a passage in a quaint old French translation of the _Mémoires of Hiouen Thsang_, the Chinese pilgrim who, recording his travel in India and notes on its faiths, states that the sacred Mount Méru rests upon a golden wheel, while the sun and moon revolve around it. Speaking of the kings of the wheel, he says elsewhere: “_Lorsqu’un de ces rois Tchakravartius devait monter sur le trône_ UNE GRANDE ROUE PRÉCIEUSE _se balançait dans les airs, et descendait vers lui_.”

Those who are versed in world-wide symbolism may perchance trace some connection between the wheels of which Homer sang, “Living wheels, instinct with spirit, which rolled from place to place around the blest abodes, self-moved,” and the “living wheels full of eyes” which Ezekiel beheld in his vision, which appeared moving beside the cherubim, wheresoever these moved, guarding the holy fire, because the spirit of life was in them, and the glory of the God of Israel was over them above. Their likeness was “as if a wheel had been in the midst of a wheel,” and they were addressed as one, “O Wheel,” or in the margin “Galgal,” or rolling.[60]

Such similarity of metaphor in the writings of a Chinaman, a Greek, and a Hebrew are, to say the least of it, remarkable.

The idea of applying the principle of revolution to simplify religious duties seems to have originated in the feeling that since only the learned could acquire merit by continually reciting portions of Buddha’s works, the ignorant and the hard-working were rather unfairly weighted in life’s heavenward race. Thus it came to be accounted sufficient that a man should turn over each of the numerous rolled manuscripts containing the precious precepts; and, considering the multitude of these voluminous writings, the substitution of this simple process must have been very consolatory to those concerned.

Max Müller has told us how the original documents of the Buddhist canon were first found in the monasteries of Nepaul, and soon afterwards further documents were discovered in Thibet and Mongolia—the Thibetan canon consisting of two collections, together comprising three hundred and thirty-three volumes folio! Another collection of the wisdom of Buddha was brought from Ceylon, covering fourteen thousand palm-leaves, and written partly in Cingalese and partly in Burmese characters. Nice light reading! Undoubtedly it must have been a great comfort when handling these records came to be deemed sufficient.

From turning over these manuscripts by hand to the simple process of arranging them in a huge cylindrical bookcase, and turning that bodily, was a very simple and ingenious transition, and thus the first circulating library came into existence, somewhere about the first century of our era.

The honour of this invention is generally attributed to Fu Dai-ji (_i.e._ the priest Fu), who lived about A.D. 500; but, as Fa Hien, a Chinese pilgrim who visited Thibet in A.D. 400, records having seen this

## particular form of turning the wheel of the law practised at Ladak, the

matter seems open to question. But in these Japanese temples a life-sized image of Fu Dai-ji is invariably represented seated near the revolving library, and his two sons, Fu Sho and Fu Ken (_i.e._ Fu of the right hand and Fu of the left hand), stand beside him.

Knowing how many Japanese institutions own a Chinese origin, this is in no way surprising, but it is remarkable (if the wheel reached Japan _viâ_ China) that it should apparently have died out in that country. Certainly I explored a very large number of temples in many Chinese cities without seeing a sign of anything of the sort till I reached Peking, and there, by the merest chance, while hunting about in dusty, neglected corners, I came upon quite a new variety of the old wheels.

Of these the most important instance is at the great Lama temple, which is the home of one thousand three hundred monks, having a living Buddha at their head. They are a brotherhood of a singularly unpleasant type—intensely jealous of foreigners, and so offensive and insolent that many visitors fail to gain admission, even by the help of liberal bribery. I owed that privilege to the great influence and strong determination of Dr. Dudgeon, who escorted me, and whose medical skill had proved beneficial to the living Buddha and other inmates. With much difficulty he at last so pacified the rude monks that they allowed us to inspect all their temples and chapels, and even pointed out some objects of interest, including a narrow stair by which we might ascend to a gallery on a level with the head of the huge bronzed image of Buddha.

I then had the pleasure of discovering that from this gallery there is access to two circular buildings, one on either side, each containing a large rotating cylinder. Each of these is divided into two hundred and fifty niches, and every niche contains an image. One turn of these wheels offers homage simultaneously to all the five hundred disciples of Buddha.

A few days later, while exploring the ruins of the Emperor’s summer palace, I came on a cluster of small temples, perched among boulders of grey rock. The temples, though sadly mutilated, still bore traces of their former beauty, in the days when they were probably reserved for the private devotions of the Imperial family. Vast mounds of broken fragments of brilliantly-coloured tiles told of the departed glory, and here and there a fine pagoda of porcelain had survived the general destruction, and roofs of brilliant green porcelain tiles gleamed in the sunlight.

A small but very beautiful pagoda stood within a temple, on either side of which were circular buildings containing cylindrical structures similar to those in the Lama temple, though on a miniature scale. But every niche was empty, all the images having been extracted either in the first ruthless pillage by the soldiers of the French and English armies, or in the subsequent raids of relic-hunters, either Chinese or foreign.

Knowing of the existence of these two pairs of twin revolving pantheons, of course, warrants us in assuming that many more exist, which may reward the search of future travellers.

Furthermore, I am inclined to believe that a similarly concentrated act of homage to all saints is accomplished by striking certain gigantic bronze temple-bells, whereon are embossed the images of Buddha’s five hundred disciples. I saw a particularly fine specimen of such a bell at an old temple in Ningpo; each of the five hundred figures is in a different attitude, and the whole is a triumph of casting. I saw other bells thus adorned with long passages from the sacred books, and each time they are struck the congregation replies to their solemn boom with an invocation like a roar, which seems to imply that such bells have a recognised place in public worship beyond merely summoning the people to the temple.

As regards revolving libraries, Dr. Edkins, whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making at Peking, saw several in various Lama monasteries in north China. One was at the Ling-yin monastery at Hang-Chow, and at the Poo-sa-ting pagoda in the Wootai valley he saw one sixty feet in height and of octagonal form; that monastery had also three hundred revolving prayer or praise-wheels. In that district there were, when he visited it, about two thousand Mongol Lamas, and in one of their monasteries (in which the great monastic kettle is kept ever boiling to supply the ceaseless demand for tea) he observed a most ingenious arrangement by which the ascending steam does further duty by turning a praise-wheel which is suspended from the ceiling.

I myself saw others in the mountain-region above Ningpo, where a streamlet pouring through the mouth of a sculptured dragon kept up this ceaseless ascription of praise to Buddha.

And now let me tell you how a worthy old Scottish minister applied the “turning of the wheel of the law” to his own preaching. He had a large collection of musty old manuscript sermons, which he stored in a cask. Every time he had occasion to preach, he avoided the responsibility of exercising _human_ judgment in his selection by giving the cask a twirl, and whichever sermon first slipped out was deemed the heaven-selected discourse most appropriate to the occasion!

I mentioned having seen a very interesting scripture-wheel of uncoloured wood in one of the temples at Ikegami, where I was shown many strange temples and shrines. One was full of _ex voto_ pictures of seven female heads, all said to belong to one serpent (surely a trace of the seven-headed naga, or serpent, so familiar in Indian mythology). Another shrine was to a goddess who used to eat children till she was converted by Buddha, and became their protectress; and yet another shrine, surrounded by heaps of little stones, tells of a cruel spirit who stops children on the way to Paradise, and sets them to heap up stones, so these are offered that the children may be let off.

Crowds of most picturesque people were assembling to commemorate the sanctity of Nicheren, founder of a Buddhist sect, in whose temple we found a great array of priests in many-coloured robes and stoles—primrose, straw-colour, sky-blue, and purple—awaiting their high priest, who shortly appeared, under a large scarlet umbrella of honour, carried by attendants, and followed by two black-robed priests. The high altar was loaded with special offerings, including five brass lamps. We followed the worshippers to his tomb in the fir wood (a most picturesque scene), where his ashes and one tooth received due homage.

But the fascination of such days in Japan lies in the people themselves—all so gay and apparently happy, so thoroughly enjoying their holiday—and all the oddities which are offered for sale on these occasions. Most of the booths at this particular fair were for the sale of beautifully made ornamental straw-work, such as baskets and toys, most ingenious in device and very gay in colour; but the stalls which interested me most were those exclusively for the sale of rosaries, of all qualities, to suit all purses, and made of divers kinds of wood and stone. Those most in request were made of dark polished wood, but there were some of sandal-wood, the principal beads being of polished agate or crystal. There was quite a brisk trade doing in these “aids to devotion,” which I noticed in the hands of rich and poor, young and old, but chiefly of devout women and aged persons.

The Japanese Buddhists of the sect of Nicheren, whose festival was being celebrated, carry rosaries numbering one hundred and eight beads; these represent one hundred and eight holy persons—four beads standing for the great saints, while two still larger represent the sun-goddess and moon-god, or the dual principle in nature, while _two short pendant strings of five beads apiece recall the ten Buddhist commandments_ or precepts.

Each sect seems to affect a different number of beads, and a different arrangement. I possess rosaries purchased in various parts of Japan and China, and all are different. One has two hundred and sixteen wooden beads, in sets of twelve, separated by sixteen crystal balls of diverse colours, and two very large crystals. There are two pendants with six beads on each, and one connecting bead. Another of these Japanese rosaries consists of a hundred and twelve beads, divided into two equal parts by two large beads. From one end hang four pendant strings of five beads, at the other end are two sets of five and one of ten small beads.

I have also a very handsome rosary that belonged to a Canton mandarin. It numbers a hundred and eight beads, divided by four large balls of green jade into four divisions of twenty-seven beads. From one end hang four sets of five, from the other two sets of five coral-beads. A medallion and a drop of jade complete the rosary. I was told that these are now worn by Chinese mandarins solely as ornaments, but there can be no doubt of their original use.

These oriental rosaries are sometimes of exceeding value, rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones being thus utilised by wealthy men. Thus Toderini speaks of “Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, composé de 99 petites boules d’agathe, de jaspe, d’ambre, de corail, ou d’autre matière précieuse. J’en ai vu un superbe au Seigneur Terpos: il était de belles et grosses perles, parfaites et égales, _estimées_ trente mille piastres.”[61]

I cannot lay claim to have seen any so valuable as this, but some of those carried by Japanese ladies of high rank are exceedingly handsome. I noticed one in the hands of a lady, who, attended by her maid, was about to worship at the shrine of Nicheren. It was so rich, both in material and workmanship, that it evidently represented the family diamonds. The owner seemed gratified at my evident admiration, and handed it to me for closer inspection. Of course we met and parted with a profusion of low bows.[62]

I observe that the Buddhists do not tell or count their beads, but rub them between their hands all the time they are reciting their prayers, and then they twist the rosary so as to take the form of a Chinese character which signifies success, and this they reverently kiss. The silken cord on which the beads are strung is sometimes tied so as to assume the same fortunate shape.

With regard to the number of beads on the rosaries in use among various branches of the Christian Church, while the ordinary number seems to be a hundred and fifty plus fifteen, I have one of only forty-five beads, divided into six sets of seven and one of three beads, connected by silver medallions of the crucifixion and of the Blessed Virgin, with inscription in German.

The Coptic Christians still further curtail their devotions, the Coptic rosary numbering only forty-one beads.

I observe that the Buddhists make use of another numerical aid to devotion, which is virtually a form of rosary. Much merit may be accumulated by making numerous circuits round relic-shrines and temples, and there are certain favoured spots round which it is desirable to walk one hundred times. While performing this action, each person carries in his hand a bunch of one hundred short bits of string, which he tells off one by one while working out the full number of meritorious turns!

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