CHAPTER XXVI
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BUDDHA, THE “LIGHT OF ASIA.”
The Saviour of the World, Lord Buddha--Prince Siddartha styled on earth-- In Earth and Heavens and Hells Incomparable, All-honored, Wisest, Best, most Pitiful; The Teacher of Nirvana and the Law. EDWIN ARNOLD.
Je n’hésite pas à ajouter que, sauf le Christ tout seul, il n’est point, parmi les fondateurs de religion, de figure plus pure ni plus touchante que celle du Bouddha.--BARTHÉLEMY SAINT-HILAIRE.
We now come to the study of the last of the systems of idol worship, Buddhism. This is one of the most interesting of all. It stands at once nearest to and farthest from Christianity. In its extent, it is the greatest religion of the world. It includes four-tenths (nearly one-half) of all the world’s population. The following figures indicate the comparative strength of the different existing religions:
Parsees, 150,000. Jews, 7,000,000 (being about ½ per ct. of total). Greek Church, 75,000,000 „ „ 6 „ „ Roman Catholics, 152,000,000 „ „ 12 „ „ Other Christians, 100,000,000 „ „ 8 „ „ Hindus, 161,200,000 „ „ 13 „ „ Mohammedans, 155,000,000 „ „ 12½ „ „ Buddhists, 500,000,000 „ „ 40 „ „ Not included in the above, Fetichists, etc., 100,000,000 „ „ 8 „ „ ------------- --- Total, 1,250,350,000 100 „
[Illustration:
Briton Riviere ARA, Painter.
Illman Brothers, Engravers & Printers.
THE FULFILLMENT OF PROPHECY.]
[Illustration: THE BRONZE IDOL OF BUDDHA, AT KAMAKURA, JAPAN.
Sixty-five feet high, thirty feet across the shoulders, six hundred years old; covered with bronze plates, its interior forming a temple. From an original photograph.]
It must be remembered, however, that very few of the 500,000,000 of Buddhists are Buddhists only. Many of the Chinese Buddhists are Confucianists and Taoists as well. Many of the Ceylonese (or rather Singhalese) Buddhists are devil-worshipers and star-worshipers as well. So, also, one often sees in the Buddhist temples of Japan the Shinto symbols. Indeed, the rapid and wide growth of Buddhism is due to the readiness with which it tolerates other religions. To write the history of Buddhism is to write the history of the hopes, and aspirations, and most sacred feelings of nearly one-half the human race of modern times. Buddhism has been received by both very savage and very civilized peoples--the wild Nomad hordes of the cold northern lands of Tartary, Thibet and Nepal; the cultured Chinese and Japanese, and the quiet Siamese, Burmese and Ceylonese.
A religion of such wide acceptance by nations and individuals of such different characters and circumstances, and which has controlled the destinies of thousands of millions of souls during nearly twenty-three hundred years, and which comes nearest to Christianity in the purity of its morals and the benefits it proposes to confer upon the human race, is certainly worthy of very careful attention. In studying it we must carefully avoid either a wholesale condemnation or an unqualified approval; we must recognize that there are both good and evil in it. It is to be remembered, also, that we can only look upon Buddha’s teachings after the lapse of ages, and from this long distance the view is likely to be anything else than clear. Without a doubt the doctrines of Buddha have been so perverted, that he would scarcely recognize the religion that bears his name to-day. Then, too, being an Oriental religion, we Western people cannot study it under as favorable circumstances as the Eastern people. Oriental religions can be seen best by Oriental eyes.
Buddhism is a reform upon Brahminism. It is of Hindu origin, and while it has but little sway in the land of its birth, it retains the Hindu cast in all its wanderings into other lands and its observances among other peoples.
THE STORY OF GAUTAMA, THE FOUNDER OF BUDDHISM.
In giving these legends of the life of Gautama, it should be stated that they are derived from the writings of Buddhists who lived long after Gautama was dead. They are to be received, of course, with that degree of credulity which would attend the legends of devoted disciples of any such teacher. Those who have studied Buddhism in its native land have collected these legends with great care, among whom one of the most careful authors is Rev. Spence Hardy, who has collected and commented on them with great candor.
At the end of the sixth century before Christ, a wise and good king reigned in the capital city of his country, Kapila-vastu, about one hundred miles north-east from the great city of Benares, in India. Around this city the snow-crowned, giant peaks of the Himalayas towered up in the clear blue of the Indian sky. The city was on the banks of an insignificant river, the Rohini. The people lived from the produce of their cattle and their rice-fields; they adhered to the Hindu religion. The wife of King Suddhodana was named Maya, because of her wondrous beauty. She was childless until her forty-fifth year. Little Prince Siddartha was born under the shade of a satin-tree, in the year 552 B.C. In later years he was called the “Buddha.” At this time, in addition to the name Siddartha, he received the name of Sakya-muni from his family, and that of Gautama from his clan.
Just as in the case of other famous men, many marvelous stories are told concerning his miraculous birth, and the precocious wisdom and power of the infant prince. At his birth, the legends say, ten thousand worlds were filled with light, the blind received their sight, the deaf heard, the lame walked, the imprisoned were set free, the trees burst forth in blossom, the air was filled with sweet songs of birds, and even the fires of hell were for the time being extinguished. On the fifth day after his birth, at the “name-choosing festival,” 108 Brahmin priests met to select the most fitting name. One of them, the most learned in divination, predicted that he will be a “Buddha,” who will remove the veils of sin and ignorance from the world. Gautama is the name by which he is most commonly known among the southern Buddhists. Buddha, or, more properly, the Buddha, means the Enlightened One, and is an official title, just as we say Jesus, the Christ, or the Anointed One. During his youth Gautama is noted for his prowess, and for teaching even his masters in the arts and sciences. He has, so the legends go on to say, most magnificent equipages and many servants. He is early married to his cousin. He devotes himself to study and meditation, and his relatives charge him with neglecting to train himself in manly exercises. Gautama, being told of their murmurings, appoints a day by beat of drum to prove his skill against all comers. At the trial he surpasses the cleverest bowmen, and exhibits wonderful strength and skill in his feats of horsemanship. In his twenty-ninth year, Gautama abandons his home to devote himself entirely to the study of religion and philosophy.
He had been accustomed to say, “Nothing is stable on earth, nothing is real. Life is like the spark produced by the friction of wood. It is lighted, and it is extinguished; we know not whence it came and whither it goes. It is like the sound of a lyre, and the wise man asks in vain from whence it came and whither it goes. There must be some supreme intelligence where we could find rest. If I attained to it, I could bring light to man; if I were free myself, I could deliver the world.” With this hope, and being moved thereto by four incidents, he gave himself, as we have just said, to seeking the light of the world. These were but ordinary events, and yet they had a great effect upon Gautama.
GAUTAMA’S FOUR VISIONS.
One day when the prince, with a large retinue, was driving through the eastern gate of the city on the way to one of his parks, he met on the road an old man, broken and decrepit. One could see the veins and muscles over the whole of his body; his teeth chattered, he was covered with wrinkles, bald and hardly able to utter hollow and unmelodious sounds. He bent on his stick, and all his limbs and joints trembled. “Who is that man?” said the prince to his coachman. “He is small and weak, his flesh and his blood are dried up, his muscles stick to his skin, his head is white, his teeth chatter, his body is wasted away; leaning on his stick he is hardly able to walk, stumbling at every step. Is there something peculiar in his family, or is this the common lot of all created beings?”
“Sir,” replied the coachman, “that man is sinking under old age; his senses have become obtuse, suffering has destroyed his strength, and he is despised by his relations. He is without support and useless, and people have abandoned him, like a dead tree in a forest. But this is not peculiar to his family. In every creature youth is defeated by old age. Your father, your mother, all your relations, all your friends, will come to the same state; this is the appointed end of all creatures.”
“Alas!” replied the prince, “are creatures so ignorant, so weak and foolish, as to be proud of the youth by which they are intoxicated, not seeing the old age which awaits them! As for me, I go away. Coachman, turn my chariot quickly. What have I, the future prey of old age--what have I to do with pleasure?” And the young prince returned to the city without going to his park.
Another time the prince was driving through the southern gate to his pleasure-garden, when he perceived on the road a man suffering from illness, parched with fever, his body wasted, covered with mud, without a friend, without a home, hardly able to breathe, and frightened at the sight of himself and the approach of death. Having questioned his coachman, and received from him the answer which he expected, the young prince said: “Alas! health is but the sport of a dream, and the fear of suffering must take this frightful form. Where is the wise man who, after having seen what he is, could any longer think of joy and pleasure?” The prince turned his chariot and returned to the city.
A third time he was driving to his pleasure-garden through the western gate, when he saw a dead body on the road, lying on a bier, and covered with a cloth. The friends stood about, crying, sobbing, tearing their hair covering their heads with dust, striking their breasts and uttering wild cries. The prince, again calling his coachman to witness this painful scene, exclaimed: “O woe to youth, which must be destroyed by old age! Woe to health, which must be destroyed by so many diseases! Woe to this life, where a man remains so short a time! If there were no old age, no disease, no death; if these could be made captive forever!” Then betraying for the first time his intentions, the young prince said: “Let us turn back, I must think how to accomplish deliverance.”
A last meeting put an end to his hesitation. He was driving through the northern gate, on the way to his pleasure-gardens, when he saw a mendicant, who appeared outwardly calm, subdued, looking downwards, wearing with an air of dignity his religious vestment, and carrying an alms-bowl.
“Who is this man?” asked the prince.
“Sir,” replied the coachman, “this man is one of those who are called bhikshus, or mendicants. He has renounced all pleasures, all desires, and leads a life of austerity. He tries to conquer himself. He has become a devotee. Without passion, without envy, he walks about asking for alms.”
“This is good and well said,” replied the prince; “the life of a devotee has always been praised by the wise. It will be my refuge, and the refuge of other creatures; it will lead us to a real life, to happiness and immortality.”
With these words, the young prince turned his chariot and abandoning his proposed ride returned to the city.
THE GREAT RENUNCIATION.
We now come to a most touching incident in Gautama’s life. Moved by the visions of which we have just spoken, Gautama determines to seek the solitude of the hermit’s hut. His life had been full of intense yearning which had never been satisfied. Not all the comfort and prosperity about him could drive away his desire to obtain peace. To him, life was a great enigma, and he determined to solve it. He was not dissatisfied, but, rather, unsatisfied. His determination to retire from active life was, however, by no means easy. For his wife and his only son, Rahula, he felt the warmest affection. It was to be a difficult task to break these ties.
At midnight, he summoned his charioteer, Channa, to bring his horse to the palace gate. While Channa was gone to the stable, Gautama turned back to take a last look at his wife and child. The princess lay asleep upon her couch, surrounded with flowers, and her hand was embracing her little one. Gautama saw that he could not take the child up in his arms without disturbing the mother, and he was afraid that she might succeed in shaking his resolution, did she plead with him.
“So with his brow he touched her feet, and bent The farewell of fond eyes, unutterable Upon her sleeping face, still wet with tears; And thrice around the bed in reverence, As though it were an altar, softly stepped With clasped hands laid upon his beating heart, ‘For never,’ spake he, ‘lie I there again!’ And thrice he made to go, but thrice came back, So strong her beauty was, so large his love: Then, o’er his head drawing his cloth, he turned, And raised the purdah’s edge:
* * * * *
“Then, lightly treading where those sleepers lay, Into the night Siddartha passed: its eyes, The watchful stars, looked love on him; its breath, The wandering wind, kissed his robe’s fluttered fringe; The garden-blossoms, folded for the dawn, Opened their velvet hearts to waft him scents, From pink and purple censers; o’er the land, From Himalaya unto the Indian Sea, A tremor spread, as if earth’s soul beneath Stirred with an unknown hope; and holy books-- Which tell the story of our Lord--say, too, That rich celestial music thrilled the air From hosts on hosts of shining ones, who thronged Eastward and westward, making bright the night-- Northward and southward, making glad the ground. Also those four dread Regents of the Earth, Descending at the doorway, two by two-- With their bright legions of Invisibles In arms of sapphire, silver, gold and pearl-- Watched with joined hands the Indian Prince, who stood, His tearful eyes raised to the stars, and lips Close-set with purpose of prodigious love. Then strode he forth into the gloom and cried, ‘Channa, awake! and bring out Kantaka!’
“‘What would my lord?’ the charioteer replied-- Slow-rising from his place beside the gate-- ‘To ride at night, when all the ways are dark?’
“‘Speak low,’ Siddartha said, ‘and bring my horse, For now the hour is come when I should quit This golden prison, where my heart lives caged, To find the truth; which henceforth I will seek, For all men’s sake, until the truth be found.’”
Shortly after he had passed through the ponderous gate of the city--which, it was said, took a thousand men to open it--he was met by the evil god Mara. Mara knew that if Gautama proceeded, his power would be lessened and so he sought to turn him back. He said to Gautama: “Be entreated to stay, that you may possess the honors that are within your reach; go not! go not!” To this Gautama replied: “A thousand or a hundred thousand honors such as those to which you refer would have no power to charm me to-day; I seek the Buddhaship; therefore, begone, hinder me not.” Mara left him in great anger, determined to foil him.
GAUTAMA BECOMES AN ASCETIC.
Gautama then exchanged his clothes with a poor passer-by, cut off his hair, and sent Channa, the charioteer back and became a begging, homeless hermit. Several hermits had taken up their abode in the caves of the Vindhya mountains; here they were at once surrounded by the solitudes of nature and sufficiently near to a large city to get their supplies. After coming to these caves he attaches himself to a Brahmin teacher, and under his guidance seeks, by undergoing severest penances, to gain superhuman power. After a little, he withdraws by himself to the jungles, where he spends six years in fasting and self-mortification. His severity of self-control gains him great fame, and disciples gather about him. A fear that, lest after all his efforts should be fruitless and that he should die, having gone wrong, made him finally give up the attempt.
Now came the crisis of his life. The second struggle of Gautama was most intense. He wandered back to a village to get his morning meal. He sat down to eat it under a tree, known from that day to this as the “Bo-tree,” or tree of Wisdom. There he remained through the long hours of that day, debating with himself what next to do. The philosophy he had trusted in seemed to be doubtful; the penance he had practiced so long had brought no certainty, no peace; and all his old temptations came back upon him with renewed force. For years he had looked at all earthly good as vanity, worthless and transitory. Nay, more, he had thought that it contained within itself the seeds of evil, and must inevitably, sooner or later, bring forth its bitter fruit. But now to his wavering faith the sweet delights of home and love, the charms of wealth and power, began to show themselves in a different light and to glow again with attractive colors. They were yet within his reach; he knew he would be welcomed back, and yet--would there even then be satisfaction? Were all his labors to be lost? Was there _no_ sure ground to stand on? Thus he agonized in his doubt from the early morning until sunset. But as the day ended the religious side of his nature had won the victory; his doubt had cleared away; _he had become a Buddha_, that is _an Enlightened One_; he had grasped, as it seemed to him, the solution of the great mystery of sorrow, and had learned at once its causes and its cure. He seemed to have gained the haven of peace, and _in the power over the human heart of inward culture, and of love to others_, to rest at last on a certitude that could never be shaken. He renounced his penances, and from that time declared that no good resulted from them. It was a grand theory of _self-salvation_ that he had wrought out for himself--salvation by self-control and love--without any rites, ceremonies, charming priestly powers, without even the aid of the gods, man could save himself.
Like the later great reformer, Mohammed, Gautama the Buddha, had the most perfect confidence in himself, his convictions and his mission; this mission was “to set rolling the royal chariot-wheel of a universal empire of truth and righteousness.” He went to Benares, and there, by teaching, sought to spread the knowledge of his method of reaching a perfect inward peace. In about three months he had gathered together sixty disciples; these he sends forth to preach his faith. He himself was accustomed to travel, preach and teach, except during the four rainy months, from June to October, when he remained in one place, instructing his declared disciples. Once he visited his old home, and his wife, Yasodhara, became one of his disciples; she was the first of the Buddhist nuns. Gautama died at the age of eighty years. His body was burned with much pomp, and his disciples contended for the unburned bones. They were divided in eight parts, and temple-mounds, called _topes_, were built over each.
THE “LIGHT OF ASIA” AND THE “LIGHT OF THE WORLD.”
One cannot help comparing Gautama, the Buddha, and Jesus, the Christ. There is, beyond question, a great deal of both good and evil in Buddha’s life and teaching. It is wise for us to recognize both good and evil, and to “hold fast to that which is good.” We do not think that it is placing Buddha on too high a ground when we say that he stands nearest to Christ of all the founders of religions. We must not confound the teachings of Buddha with the superstitious notions of his followers of to-day. The present Buddhism of Asia is but little like the Buddhism of Gautama’s teaching. Further, we must strip off the legends, the additions of a later day, and seek to read the story of his life that lies beneath them. In addition to this, we must try to place ourselves in closest sympathy with our subject.
[Illustration: IDOL OF BUDDHA. HIS IDOLS ARE USUALLY OF THIS SHAPE, PROPORTION AND POSITION, THOUGH INFINITELY VARIED IN SIZE AND QUALITY.]
Thus we see the beauties of this life. Looked at in this way, we discover a great deal in Buddha’s character to admire. Saint-Hilaire says (we give a free translation from the French): “His life has no stain. His constant heroism equals his conviction; and if the theory which he extols is faultless, the personal example which he presents is irreproachable. He is the finished model of all the virtues which he preached; his teaching of self-denial, of charity, of an unchangeable mildness, do not for a single instant receive the contradiction of a different life. He abandons, at the age of twenty-nine years, the court of his royal father to become a devotee and a mendicant; he prepares silently his doctrines during six years of meditation and retreat; he extends his faith only by the power of speech and persuasion, during half a century; and when he dies in the arms of his disciples, it is with the serenity of a sage who has lived well, and who is assured that he has found the truth.” It is not our purpose to compare here the teachings of Buddha and Christ, but simply the life. It is a comparison that we would make, and not a contrast. Buddha’s self-denial for the world’s good, his wondrously pure life, and the heavenliness of his manners and of some of his teachings greatly resemble those of Jesus Christ. Yet, after all, he stands a long way off. He is a light, it is true, yet but feebly shining beside the light of the Sun of Righteousness. To Christ, Gautama is but
“As moonlight is to sunlight, and as water is to wine.”
The Buddha was the son of a king; Jesus, the Christ, was the son of a carpenter. The Buddha grew up in the midst of the splendors of a court; Jesus, the Christ, was reared in a despised city, in an humble home. Yet the aspect of the Buddha is that of a disciple, a learner, an inquirer; that of the Christ is that of a master, a teacher. The Buddha seems rather to be a subject, and the Christ the king. The Buddha approaches the solution of the great problems of sin, suffering and death from below. He walks as one in a maze, with uncertain steps; he tries experiments; he goes from one teacher to another. Finally, of a sudden, comes the answer to the problems with which he has been puzzled; he throws the spectre with which he has been grappling. The Christ approaches the great and grave questions, that have been puzzling the world, as one who _has_ the answers in his possession. He comes to teach, and not to learn; to settle, and not to disturb. There is no hesitating uncertainty about His words or steps as there is about the Buddha’s. In meeting temptation, the Buddha shows weakness, where the Christ shows strength. The Buddha’s life was long; the Christ’s was short. The Buddha gave, undoubtedly, many wholesome precepts; but there is an element of kindly, self-forgetting love about the Christ’s teachings that is absent from the Buddha’s. Indeed, this is the emphatic point of superiority, that the Buddha kept constantly before his disciples _their_ welfare; he taught how a man might deliver _himself_ from suffering. The Christ makes self-salvation but a part of His disciples’ work. The Buddha has next to nothing to say about God; the Christ has all to say about God. The Christ seeks to show how man’s life is attached to God at every point; he exhibits the true character of God, presenting a picture infinitely superior to that drawn by the hand of any of the founders of religions, or by the highest imaginations of the purest men. In brief, the Buddha’s life and teachings were unquestionably good, but the Christ’s unquestionably better. This will be more apparent as, in the following chapters, we study the working out of the Buddha’s teachings. We shall see how much and how little they benefited the race. Let the test of time be applied to the answers he brought to the puzzling problems of sin, suffering and sorrow, and see if they have wrought out the good for which the Buddha looked, hoped and prayed. We shall see a partial success and a partial failure, and see the undoubted necessity of giving the knowledge of the Gospel to the nations who have known nothing better than that which Buddha had to tell.
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