_Phralaong leaves his palace, the royal city, and retires into
solitude, amidst the plaudits of the Nats -- He cuts his fine
hair with a stroke of his sword, and puts on the habit of Rahan
-- He begs his food at Radzagio -- His interview with the ruler
of that place -- His studies under two Rathees -- His fast and
penances in the solitude of Oorouwela during six years._
Phralaong had scarcely begun to recline on his couch, when a crowd of
young damsels, whose beauty equalled that of the daughters of Nats,
executed all sorts of dances to the sound of the most ravishing
symphony, and displayed in all their movements the graceful forms of
their elegant and well-shaped persons, in order to make some impression
upon his heart. But all was in vain; they were foiled in their repeated
attempts. Phralaong fell into a deep sleep. The damsels, in their
disappointment, ceased their dances, laid aside their musical
instruments, and, soon following the example of Phralaong, quietly
yielded to the soporific influence caused by their useless and harassing
exertions. The lamps, lighted with fragrant oil, continued to pour a
flood of bright light throughout the apartments. Phralaong awoke a
little before midnight, and sat in a cross-legged position on his couch.
Looking all around him, he saw the varied attitudes and uninviting
appearance of the sleeping damsels. Some were snoring, others gnashing
their teeth, others had their mouths wide open; some tossed heavily from
the right to the left side, others stretched one arm upwards and the
other downwards; some, seized as it were with a frantic pang, suddenly
coiled up their legs for a while, and with the same violent motion
again pushed them down. This unexpected exhibition made a strong
impression on Phralaong; his heart was set, if possible, freer from the
ties of concupiscence, or rather he was confirmed in his contempt for
all worldly pleasures. It appeared to him that his magnificent
apartments were filled with the most loathsome and putrid carcasses. The
seats of passions, those of Rupa and those of Arupa, that is to say, the
whole world, seemed, to his eyes, like a house that is a prey to the
devouring flames. "All that," said he to himself, "is most disgusting
and despicable." At the same time his ardent desires for the profession
of Rahan were increasing with an uncontrollable energy. "On this day, at
this very moment," said he with an unshaken firmness, "I will retire
into a solitary place." He rose instantly and went to the arched door of
his apartment. "Who is here watching?" said he to the first person he
met. "Your servant," replied instantly the vigilant nobleman Tsanda.
"Rise up quickly," replied the prince; "now I am ready to retire from
the world and resort to some lonely place. Go to the stable and prepare
the fastest of my horses." Tsanda bowed respectfully to his master, and
executed his orders with the utmost celerity. The horse Kantika, knowing
the intentions of the prince, felt an inexpressible joy at being
selected for such a good errand, and he testified his joy by loud
neighs; but, by the power of the Nats, the sound of his voice was
silenced, so that none heard it.
While Tsanda, in compliance with the orders he had received, was making
the necessary preparations, Phralaong desired to see his newly born son
Raoula. He opened gently the door of the room where the princess was
sleeping, having one of her hands placed over the head of the infant.
Phralaong, stopping at the threshold, said to himself:--"If I go farther
to contemplate the child, I will have to remove the hand of the mother;
she may be awakened by this movement, and then she will prove a great
obstacle to my departure. I will see the child after I have become a
Buddha." He then instantly shut the door and left the palace. His
charger was waiting for him. "To your swiftness," said Phralaong to
Kantika, "do I trust for executing my great design. I must become a
Buddha, and labour for the deliverance of men and Nats from the miseries
of existence, and lead them safely to the peaceful shores of Neibban."
In a moment he was on the back of his favourite horse. Kantika was a
magnificent animal; his body measured eighteen cubits in length, with
which his height and circumference were in perfect proportion. The hair
was of a beautiful white, resembling a newly cleaned shell; his
swiftness was unrivalled, and his neighings could be heard at a very
great distance; but on this occasion the Nats interfered, no sound of
his voice was heard, and the noise of his steps was completely silenced.
Having reached the gate of the city, Phralaong stopped for a while,
uncertain as regarded the course he was to follow. To open the gate,
which a thousand men could with difficulty cause to turn upon its
hinges, was deemed an impossibility. Whilst he was deliberating with his
faithful attendant Tsanda, the huge gate was silently opened by the
Nats, and a free passage given to him through it. It was in the year 97
when he left Kapilawot.
Phralaong had scarcely crossed the threshold of the gate when the
tempter endeavoured to thwart his pious design. Manh[1] Nat resolved to
prevent him from retiring into solitude and becoming a Buddha. Standing
in the air, he cried aloud, "Prince Theiddat, do not attempt to lead the
life of a recluse; seven days hence you will become a Tsekiawaday; your
sway shall extend over the four great islands; return forthwith to your
palace." "Who are you?" replied Phralaong. "I am Manh Nat," cried the
voice. "I know," said Phralaong, "that I can become a Tsekiawaday, but I
feel not the least inclination for earthly dignities; my aim is to
arrive at the nature of Buddha." The tempter, urged onward by his three
wicked propensities, concupiscence, ignorance, and anger, did not part
for a moment from Phralaong; but as the shadow always accompanies the
body, he too, from that day, always followed Phralaong, striving to
throw every obstacle in his way towards the dignity of Buddha. Trampling
down every human and worldly consideration, and despising a power full
of vanity and illusion, Phralaong left the city of Kapilawot, at the
full moon of July under the constellation Oottarathan. A little while
after, he felt a strong desire to turn round his head and cast a last
glance at the magnificent city he was leaving behind him; but he soon
overcame that inordinate desire and denied himself this gratification.
It is said that on the very instant he was combating the rising sense of
curiosity the mighty earth turned with great velocity, like a potter's
wheel, so that the very object he denied himself the satisfaction of
contemplating came of itself under his eyes. Phralaong hesitated a while
as to the direction he was to follow, but he resolved instantly to push
on straight before him.
His progress through the country resembled a splendid triumphal
ovation. Sixty thousand Nats marched in front of him, an equal number
followed him, and as many surrounded him on his right and on his left.
All of them carried lighted torches, pouring a flood of light in every
direction; others again spread perfumes and flowers brought from their
own seats. All joined in chorus, singing the praises of Phralaong. The
sound of their united voices resembled loud peals of continued thunder,
and the resounding of the mighty waves at the foot of the Mount Oogando.
Flowers, shedding the most fragrant odour, were seen gracefully
undulating in the air, like an immense canopy, extending to the farthest
limits of the horizon. During that night, Phralaong, attended with that
brilliant retinue, travelled a distance of thirty youdzanas, and arrived
on the banks of the river Anauma. Turning his face towards Tsanda, he
asked what was the river's name. "Anauma is its name," replied his
faithful attendant. "I will not," said Phralaong to himself, "show
myself unworthy of the high dignity I aspire to." Spurring his horse,
the fierce animal leaped at once to the opposite bank. Phralaong
alighted on the ground, which was covered with a fine sand resembling
pearls, when the rays of the sun fell upon it in the morning. On that
spot he divested himself of his dress, and calling Tsanda to him, he
directed him to take charge of his ornaments, and carry them back with
the horse Kantika to his palace. For himself, he had made up his mind to
become a Rahan. "Your servant too," replied Tsanda, "will become also a
recluse in your company." "No," said the prince, "the profession of
Rahan does not at present befit you." He reiterated this prohibition
three times. When he was handing over to Tsanda his costly ornaments, he
said to himself, "These long hairs that cover my head, and my beard too,
are superfluities unbecoming the profession of Rahan." Whereupon with
one hand unsheathing his sword, and with the other seizing his comely
hairs, he cut them with a single stroke. What remained of his hairs on
the head measured about one inch and a half in length. In like manner
he disposed of his beard. From that time he never needed shaving; the
hairs of his beard and those of the head never grew longer during the
remainder of his life.[2] Holding his hairs and turban together, he
cried aloud, "If I am destined to become a Buddha, let these hairs and
turban remain suspended in the air; if not, let them drop down on the
ground." Throwing up both to the height of one youdzana, they remained
suspended in the air, until a Nat came with a rich basket, put them
therein, and carried them to the seat of Tawadeintha. He there erected
the Dzedi Dzoulamani, wherein they were religiously deposited. Casting
his regards on his own person, Phralaong saw that his rich and shining
robe did not answer his purpose, nor appear befitting the poor and
humble profession he was about to embrace. While his attention was taken
up with this consideration, a great Brahma, named Gatigara, who in the
days of the Buddha Kathaba had been an intimate friend of our Phralaong,
and who, during the period that elapsed between the manifestation of
that Buddha to the present time, had not grown old, discovered at once
the perplexity of his friend's mind. "Prince Theiddat," said he, "is
preparing to become a Rahan, but he is not supplied with the dress and
other implements essentially required for his future calling. I will
provide him now with the thinbaing, the kowot, the dugout, the patta,
the leathern girdle, the hatchet, the needle, and filter."[3] He took
with him all these articles, and in an instant arrived in the presence
of Phralaong, to whom he presented them. Though unacquainted with the
details of that dress, and untrained in the use of those new implements,
the prince, like a man who had been a recluse during several existences,
put on with a graceful gravity his new dress. He adjusted the thinbaing
round his waist, covered his body with the kowot, threw the dugout over
his shoulders, and suspended to his neck the bag containing the earthen
patta. Assuming the grave, meek, and dignified countenance of a Rahan,
he called Tsanda and bade him go back to his father and relate to him
all that he had seen. Tsanda, complying with his master's request,
prostrated himself three times before him; then, rising up, he wheeled
to the right and departed. The spirited horse, hearing the last words of
Phralaong, could no more control his grief.[4]
"Alas!" said he, "I will see no more my master in this world." His
sorrow grew so great that his heart split into two parts, and he died on
the spot.
After his death, he became a Nat in the seat of Tawadeintha. The
affliction of Tsanda at parting with his good master was increased by
the death of Kantika. The tears that streamed down his cheeks resembled
drops of liquid silver.
Phralaong, having thus begun the life of a recluse, spent seven days
alone in a forest of mango trees, enjoying in that retirement the peace
and happiness of soul which solitude alone can confer. The place, in the
neighbourhood of which he began his religious life, is called Anupyia,
in the country belonging to the Malla princes. He then started for the
country of Radzagio, travelling on foot a distance of thirty youdzanas.
Arrived near the gate of the royal city, Phralaong stopped for a while,
saying within himself, "Peimpathara, the king of this country, will no
doubt hear of my arrival in this place. Knowing that the son of King
Thoodaudana is actually in his own royal city, he will insist upon my
accepting all sorts of presents. But now, in my capacity of Rahan, I
must decline accepting them, and by the rules of my profession I am
bound to go and beg along the streets, from house to house, the food
necessary for my support." He instantly resumed his journey, entered the
city through the eastern gate, the patta hanging on his side, and
followed the first row of houses, receiving the alms which pious hands
offered him. At the moment of his arrival the whole city was shaken by a
mighty commotion, like that which is felt in the seat of Thoora when the
Nat Athoorein makes his apparition in it. The inhabitants, terrified at
such an ominous sign, ran in all haste to the palace. Admitted into the
presence of the monarch, they told him that they knew not what sort of
being had just arrived in the city, walking through the streets and
begging alms. They could not ascertain whether he was a Nat, a man, or a
Galong. The king, looking from his apartments over the city, saw
Phralaong, whose meek deportment removed all anxiety from his mind. He,
however, directed a few of his noblemen to go and watch attentively all
the movements of the stranger. "If he be," said he, "a Bilou, he will
soon leave the city and vanish away; if a Nat, he will raise himself in
the air; if a Naga, he will plunge to the bottom of the earth."
Phralaong, having obtained the quantity of rice, vegetables, &c., he
thought sufficient for his meal, left the city through the same gate by
which he had entered it, sat down at the foot of a small hill, his face
turned towards the east, and tried to make his meal with the things he
had received. He could not swallow the first mouthful, which he threw
out of his mouth in utter disgust. Accustomed to live sumptuously and
feed on the most delicate things, his eyes could not bear even the sight
of that loathsome mixture of the coarsest articles of food collected at
the bottom of his patta. He soon, however, recovered from that shock;
and gathered fresh strength to subdue the opposition of nature, overcome
its repugnance, and conquer its resistance. Reproaching himself for such
an unbecoming weakness:--"Was I not aware," said he, with a feeling of
indignation against himself, "that when I took up the dress of a
mendicant such would be my food? The moment is come to trample upon
nature's appetites." Whereupon he took up his patta, ate cheerfully his
meal, and never afterwards did he ever feel any repugnance at what
things soever he had to eat.
The king's messengers, having closely watched and attentively observed
all that had happened, returned to their master, to whom they related
all the particulars that they had witnessed. "Let my carriage be ready,"
said the king, "and you, follow me to the place where this stranger is
resting." He soon perceived Phralaong at a distance, sitting quietly
after his refection. Peimpathara alighted from his conveyance,
respectfully drew near to Phralaong, and, having occupied a seat in a
becoming place, was overwhelmed with contentment and inexpressible joy
to such an extent, indeed, that he could scarcely find words to give
utterance to his feelings. Having at last recovered from the first
impression, he addressed Phralaong in the following manner:--"Venerable
Rahan, you seem to be young still, and in the prime of your life; in
your person you are gifted with the most attractive and noble qualities,
indicating surely your illustrious and royal extraction. I have under my
control and in my possession a countless crowd of officers, elephants,
horses and chariots, affording every desirable convenience for pleasure
and amusement of every description. Please to accept of a numerous
retinue of attendants, with whom you may enjoy yourself whilst remaining
within my dominions. May I be allowed to ask what country you belong to,
who you are, and from what illustrious lineage and descent you are
come?" Phralaong said to himself:--"It is evident that the king is
unacquainted with both my name and origin; I will, however, satisfy him
on the subject of his inquiry." Pointing out with his hand in the
direction of the place he had come from, he said:--"I arrive from the
country which has been governed by a long succession of the descendants
of Prince Kothala. I have, indeed, been born from royal progenitors, but
I have abandoned all the prerogatives attached to my position, and
embraced the profession of Rahan. From my heart I have rooted up
concupiscence, covetousness, and all affections to the things of this
world." To this the king replied:--"I have heard that Prince Theiddat,
son of King Thoodaudana, had seen four great signs, portending his
future destiny for the profession of Rahan, which would be but a step to
lead him to the exalted dignity of a Buddha. The first part of the
prediction has been already fulfilled. When the second shall have
received its accomplishment, I beg you will show your benevolence to me
and my people. I hope my kingdom will be the first country you will
direct your steps to, after having acquired the supreme science." To
this Phralaong graciously assented.
Phralaong, having left the king, resumed his journey, and fell in with a
Rathee,[5] or hermit, named Alara, and inquired about the several
Dzans. Alara satisfied him on four kinds of Dzans, but as regards the
fifth, he was obliged to refer him to another Rathee, named Oudaka, who
gave him the necessary explanations. Having nothing more to learn from
these masters, Phralaong said to himself, "The knowledge I have thus
acquired is not sufficient to enable me to obtain the dignity of
Buddha." Whereupon he resolved to devote himself to the Kamatan[6] or
meditation on the instability and nothingness of all that exists. To
effectuate thoroughly his purpose, he repaired to the solitude of
Oorouwela, where he devoted all his time to the deepest meditation. On a
certain day it happened that five Rahans, on their way to a certain
place to get their food, arrived at the spot where Phralaong lived and
had already entered on the course of his penitential deeds. They soon
became impressed with the idea that our hermit was to become a Buddha.
They resolved to stay with him and render him all the needful services,
such as sweeping the place, cooking rice, &c.
The time for the six years of meditation was nearly over, when Phralaong
undertook a great fast,[7] which was carried to such a degree of
abstemiousness that he scarcely allowed to himself the use of a grain
of rice or sesame a day, and finally denied himself even that feeble
pittance. But the Nats, who observed his excessive mortification,
inserted Nat food through the pores of his skin. Whilst Phralaong was
thus undergoing such a severe fasting, his face, which was of a
beautiful gold colour, became black; the thirty-two marks indicative of
his future dignity disappeared. On a certain day, when he was walking in
a much enfeebled state, on a sudden he felt an extreme weakness, similar
to that caused by a dire starvation. Unable to stand up any longer, he
fainted and fell on the ground. Among the Nats that were present, some
said, "The Rahan Gaudama is dead indeed;" some others replied, "He is
not dead, but has fainted from want of food." Those who believed he was
dead hastened to his father's palace to convey to him the sad message of
his son's death. Thoodaudana inquired if his son died previous to his
becoming a Buddha. Having been answered in the affirmative, he refused
to give credit to the words of the Nats. The reason of his doubting the
accuracy of the report was, that he had witnessed the great wonders
prognosticating his son's future dignity that had taken place, first
when Phralaong, then an infant, was placed in the presence of a famous
Rathee, and secondly, when he slept under the shade of the tree
Tsampoo-thabia. The fainting being over, and Phralaong having recovered
his senses, the same Nats went in all haste to Thoodaudana, to inform
him of his son's happy recovery. "I knew well," said the king, "that my
son could not die ere he had become a Buddha." The fame of Phralaong's
having spent six years in solitude, addicted to meditation and
mortification, spread abroad like the sound of a great bell,[8] hung in
the canopy of the skies.
Phralaong soon remarked that fasting and mortification were not works of
sufficient value for obtaining the dignity of Buddha; he took up his
patta and went to the neighbouring village to get his food. Having eaten
it, he grew stronger; his beautiful face shone again like gold, and the
thirty-two signs reappeared.[9] The five Rahans that had lived with him
said to each other--"It is in vain that the Rahan Gaudama has, during
six years of mortification and sufferings, sought the dignity of
Buddha; he is now compelled to go out in search of food; assuredly, if
he be obliged to live on such food, when shall he ever become a Buddha?
He goes out in quest of food; verily, he aims at enriching himself. As
the man that wants drops of dew or water to refresh and wash his
forehead, has to look for them, so we have to go somewhere else to learn
the way to, and the merit of, Dzan, which we have not been able to
obtain from him." Whereupon they left Phralaong, took up their pattas
and tsiwarans, went to a distance of eighteen youdzanas, and withdrew
into the forest of Migadawon, near Baranathee.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Phralaong having overcome with uncommon fortitude the
numberless obstacles which he had encountered on the part of
men, will have now to meet another foe, perhaps more formidable,
a wicked Nat, or demon. His name, according to its orthography,
is Mar or Mara, but the Burmese call him Manh, which means
pride. Manh is, therefore, the evil spirit of pride, or rather
personified pride, and the enemy of mankind, ever ready to
oppose the benevolent designs and generous efforts of Buddha in
carrying on his great undertaking, conceived to benefit
humanity, by teaching men the way that leads to deliverance from
all miseries. The first plan concocted by Manh for stopping, at
the very outset, the progress of Phralaong, was to flatter his
ambition by promising him _all the kingdoms of this world and
their glory_. From that day the tempter never lost sight of the
benevolent Buddha, but followed him everywhere, endeavouring to
prevent the immense success that was to attend his future
mission. The evil propensities which constitute, as it were, the
very essence of Manh's nature, are concupiscence, envy, and an
irresistible proneness to do harm. The devil indeed could hardly
be made up of worse materials.
It is really interesting through the course of this Legend to
read of the uninterrupted efforts made by the personification of
evil to thwart Buddha in all his benevolent designs. The
antagonism begins now, but it will be maintained with an
obstinate and prolonged activity during the whole life of
Buddha.
[2] This circumstance explains one peculiarity observable in all
the statues representing Buddha. The head is invariably covered
with sharp points, resembling those thorns with which the thick
envelope of the durian fruit is armed. Often I had inquired as
to the motive that induced native sculptors to leave on the head
of all statues that sort of inverted nails, without ever being
able to obtain any satisfactory answer. It was only after having
read this passage of the life of Buddha that I was enabled to
account for this apparently singular custom, which is designed
to remind all Buddhists of the ever-continued wonder whereby the
hairs which remained on Buddha's head never grew longer from the
day he cut them with his sword.
[3] Every talapoin or recluse must be provided with one needle,
wherewith he is to sew his dress, one hatchet to cut the wood he
may be in need of, either for erecting a shelter for himself or
for other purposes, and one filter to strain the water he
intends to drink, that it might be cleared from all impurities,
but chiefly of insects or any living body that might be in it,
which would expose the drinker thereof to the enormous sin of
causing the death of some animal.
[4] The various accounts that are given of the horse Kantika,
and the grief he feels at parting with his master, grief which
reaches so far as to cause his death, may appear somewhat
extraordinary, puerile, and ridiculous to every one except to
Buddhists. One great principle of that religious system is that
man does not differ from animals in nature, but only in relative
perfection. In animals there are souls as well as in men, but
these souls, on account of the paucity of their merits and the
multiplicity of their demerits, are yet in a very imperfect
state. When the law of demerits grows weak, and that of merits
gathers strength, the soul, though continuing to inhabit the
body of animals, has the knowledge of good and evil, and can
attain to a certain degree of perfection. Buddhistic writings
supply many instances of this belief. Whilst Buddha was in the
desert, an elephant ministered to all his wants. As a reward for
such a series of services, Buddha preached to him the law, and
led him at once to the deliverance, that is to say, to the state
of Neibban. When one animal has progressed so far in the way of
merits as to be able to discern between good and bad, it is said
that he is ripe, or fit to become man. The horse Kantika seems
to have reached that state of full ripeness, since, after his
death, he passed to the state of Nat. This peculiar tenet of
Buddhistic faith accounts for the first of the five great
commands, which extends the formal injunction of "thou shalt not
kill" to animals. When a candidate is admitted, according to the
prescriptions contained in the sacred Kambawa, into the order of
Rahans, he is expressly and solemnly commanded to refrain from
committing four sins, which would deprive him _de facto_ of the
dignity he has been elevated to. The taking away willingly of
the life of anything animated, is one of these four
trespassings.
[5] The fact of Buddha placing himself under the tuition of two
masters or teachers, leading an ascetic life, to learn from them
notions of the most abstruse nature, establishes, beyond all
doubt, the high antiquity of the existence in India of a large
number of individuals, who, living in some retired spot, far
from the tumult of society, endeavoured, by constant
application, to dive into the deepest recesses of morals and
metaphysics. The fame of the learning of many among them
attracted to their solitude crowds of disciples, anxious to
study under such eminent masters. Hence we see some of these
Rathees at the head of four or five hundred disciples. There is
no doubt that the most distinguished Rathees became the founders
of many of those philosophico-religious schools for which India
was renowned from the remotest antiquity. Like many others who
thirsted for knowledge, Phralaong resorted to the schools of the
Rathees, as to the then most celebrated seats of learning.
From this fact we may be allowed to draw another inference,
which may be considered as a consequence of what has been stated
in a foregoing note, regarding the superior antiquity of
Brahminism over Buddhism. Phralaong was brought up in the bosom
of a society regulated and governed by Brahminical institutions.
He must have been imbued from the earliest days of his
elementary education with the notions generally taught, viz.:
the Brahminical ones. When he grew up and began to think for
himself, he was displeased with certain doctrines which did not
tally with his own ideas. Following the example of many that had
preceded him in the way of innovation, he boldly shaped his
course in a new direction, and soon arrived at a final issue on
many points, both with his teachers and some of the doctrines
generally received in the society in which he had been brought
up. We may, therefore, safely conclude that the doctrines
supposed to have been preached by the latest Buddha are but an
off-shoot of Brahminism. This may serve to account for the great
resemblance subsisting between many doctrines of both creeds.
The cardinal points on which these two systems essentially
differ are the beginning and the end of living beings. Between
these two extremes there is a multitude of points on which both
systems so perfectly agree that they appear blended together.
The Rathees seem, according to the institutes of Menoo, to have
been first in observing two practices, much enforced by the Wini
in subsequent times. They were supported by the alms bestowed on
them by their disciples and the admirers of their singular mode
of life. They were courted and esteemed by the world, in
proportion to the contempt they appeared to hold it in. Denying
to themselves the pleasures which were opposed to their austere
life, they observed, as long as they remained Rathees, the rules
of the strictest celibacy.
Phralaong, preparing himself for his future high calling, began
to study the science of _Dzan_ under distinguished masters. What
is meant by Dzan? This Pali word means thought, reflection,
meditation. It is often designed by the Burmese to mean a
peculiar state of the soul that has already made great progress
in the way of perfection. Phralaong intended, by placing himself
under the direction of those eminent teachers, to learn the
great art of training his mind for the obtaining, by constant
and well-directed meditations, of high mental attainments. In
the book of Buddhistic metaphysics, I have found the science of
Dzan divided into five parts, or rather five steps, which the
mind has to ascend successively ere it can enjoy a state of
perfect quiescence, the highest point a perfected being can
arrive at before reaching the state of Neibban. In the first
step the soul searches after what is good and perfect, and
having discovered it, turns its attention and the energy of its
faculties towards it. In the second, the soul begins to
contemplate steadily what it has first discovered, and rivets
upon it its attention. In the third stage, the soul fondly
relishes, and is, as it were, entirely taken with it. In the
fourth, the soul calmly enjoys and quietly feasts on the pure
truths it has loved in the former state. In the fifth, the soul,
perfectly satiated with the knowledge of truth, remains in a
state of complete quietude, perfect fixity, unmoved stability,
which nothing can any longer alter or disturb. The Burmese and
all Buddhists, always fond of what is wonderful, attribute
supernatural perfections to those who have so far advanced in
mental attainments. Their bodies become, as it were,
half-spiritualised, so that they can, according to their wishes,
carry themselves through the air from one place to another,
without the least hindrance or difficulty.
[6] Kamatan means the fixing of the attention on one object, so
as to investigate thoroughly all its constituent parts, its
principle and origin, its existence and its final destruction.
It is that part of metaphysics which treats of the beginning,
nature, and end of beings. To become proficient in that science,
a man must be gifted with a most extensive knowledge and an
analysing mind of no common cast. The process of Kamatan is as
follows. Let it be supposed that man intends to contemplate one
of the four elements, fire, for instance; he abstracts himself
from every object which is not fire, and devotes all his
attention to the contemplation of that object alone; he examines
the nature of fire, and finding it a compound of several
distinct parts, he investigates the cause or causes that keep
those parts together, and soon discovers that they are but
accidental ones, the action whereof may be impeded or destroyed
by the occurrence of any sudden accident. He concludes that fire
has but a fictitious ephemeral existence. The same method is
followed in examining the other elements, and gradually all
other things he may come in contact with, and his final
conclusion is, that all things placed without him are destitute
of real existence, being mere illusions, divested of all
reality. He infers, again, that all things are subjected to the
law of incessant change, without fixity or stability. The wise
man, therefore, can feel no attachment to objects which, in his
own opinion, are but illusions and deception: his mind can
nowhere find rest in the midst of illusions always succeeding to
each other. Having surveyed all that is distinct of self, he
applies himself to the work of investigating the origin and
nature of his body. After a lengthened examination, he arrives,
as a matter of course, at the same conclusion. His body is a
mere illusion without reality, subjected to changes and
destruction. He feels that it is as yet distinct from self. He
despises his body, as he does everything else, and has no
concern for it. He longs for the state of Neibban, as the only
one worthy of the wise man's earnest desire. By such a
preliminary step, the student, having estranged himself from
this world of illusions, advances towards the study of the
excellent works which will pave the way to Neibban. The Burmese
reckon forty Kamatans. They are often repeated over by devotees,
whose weak intellect is utterly incapable of understanding the
meaning they are designed to convey to the mind.
Notwithstanding his singular aptitude in acquiring knowledge,
Phralaong devoted six whole years, in the solitude of Oorouwela,
busily engaged in mastering the profound science he aimed at
acquiring. It was during that time that he received the visits
of five Rahans, whose chief was named Koondanha. They were very
probably, like so many of their profession, travelling about in
search of knowledge. They placed themselves under the direction
of Phralaong, and in exchange for the lessons they received from
him, they served him as humble and grateful disciples are wont
to attend on a highly esteemed teacher. In this, as well as many
other circumstances, we see that, previous to Gaudama's
preachings, there already existed in India an order of devotees
or enthusiasts, who lived secluded from the world, devoted to
the study of religious doctrines and the practice of virtues of
the highest order. The order of Buddhistic monks or talapoins,
which was subsequently established by the author of Buddhism, is
but a modification of what actually subsisted in full vigour in
his own country and in his own time.
[7] In a Buddhistic point of view the only reason that may be
assigned for the extraordinary fast of Phralaong is the
satisfaction of showing to the world the display of wonderful
action. Fasting and other works of mortification have always
been much practised by the Indian philosophers of past ages, who
thereby attracted the notice, respect, admiration, and
veneration of the world. Such rigorous exercises, too, were
deemed of great help for enabling the soul to have a more
perfect control over the senses, and subjecting them to the
empire of reason. They are also conducive towards the calm and
undisturbed state in which the soul is better fitted for the
arduous task of constant meditation. The fast of Gaudama,
preparatory to his obtaining the Buddhaship, recalls to mind
that which our Lord underwent ere He began His divine mission.
If the writer, in the course of this work, has made once or
twice a remark of similar import, he has done so, not with the
intention of drawing a parallel as between facts, but to
communicate to the reader the feelings of surprise and
astonishment he experienced when he thought he met with
circumstances respecting the founder of Buddhism which
apparently bore great similarity to some connected with the
mission of our Saviour.
[8] Bells are common in Burmah, and the people of that country
are well acquainted with the art of casting them. Most of the
bells to be seen in the pagodas are of small dimensions, and
differing in shape somewhat from those used in Europe. The
inferior part is less widened, and there is a large hole in the
centre of the upper part. No tongue is hung in the interior, but
the sound is produced by striking with a horn of deer or elk the
outward surface of the lower part. No belfry is erected for the
bells; they are fixed on a piece of timber, laid horizontally,
and supported at its two extremities by two posts, at such a
height that the inferior part of the bell is raised about five
feet above the ground.
The largest specimens of Burmese art in casting bells of great
weight are the two bells to be seen, the one in the large pagoda
of Rangoon, called Shway Dagon, and the other at Mingon, about
twelve or fifteen miles north of Amerapoura, on the western bank
of the Irrawaddy. The first, in the town of Rangoon, was cast in
1842, when King Tharawaddy visited the place, with the intention
of founding a new city, more distant from the river, and nearer
to the mount upon which rises the splendid Shway Dagon. In its
shape and form it exactly resembles the kind of bells above
described. Here are some particulars respecting that large piece
of metal, collected from the inscription to be seen upon it. It
was cast on the fifth day of the full moon of Tabodwai
(February), 1203 of the Burmese era. The weight of metal is
94,682 lbs.; its height 9-1/2 cubits; its diameter 5 cubits; its
thickness 20 fingers or 15 inches. But during the process of
melting, the well-disposed came forward and threw in copper,
silver, and gold in great quantities. It is supposed, says the
writer of the inscription, that in this way the weight was
increased one-fourth.
The bell of Mingon was cast in the beginning of this century. In
shape and form it resembles our bells in Europe. It is probable
that some foreigner residing at Ava suggested the idea of giving
such an unusual form to that monumental bell. Its height is 18
feet, besides 7 feet for hanging apparatus. It has 17 feet in
diameter, and from 10 to 12 inches in thickness. Its weight is
supposed to exceed two hundred thousand English pounds.
In the interior large yellowish and greyish streaks indicate
that considerable quantities of gold and silver had been thrown
in during the process of melting. No idea can at present be had
of the power of the sound of that bell, as its enormous weight
has caused the pillars that support it partially to give way. To
prevent a fatal disaster, the orifice of the bell has been made
to rest on large short posts, sunk in the ground and rising
about three feet above it. In no respect can these bells bear
any comparison with those of Europe. They are mightily rough and
rude attempts at doing works on a scale far surpassing the
abilities of native workmen, who otherwise succeed tolerably
well in casting the comparatively small bells commonly met with
in the courtyards of pagodas.
[9] One of the genuine characters of Buddhism is correctly
exhibited in this observation of Phralaong's respecting fasts,
mortifications, and other self-inflicted penances. They are not
looked upon as the immediate way leading to perfection, nor as
_a portion_ or a part of perfection itself. Such deeds are but
means resorted to for weakening passions and increasing the
power of the spiritual principle over the natural one: they are
preparatory to the great work of meditation or the study of
truth, which is the only high-road to perfection. To the sage
that has already begun the laborious task of investigating
truth, such practices are of no use, and are nowhere insisted on
as necessary, or even useful. In the book of discipline, no
mention is made of them. The life of the initiated is one of
self-denial; all superfluities and luxuries are strictly
interdicted; all that is calculated to minister to passions and
pleasure is carefully excluded. But the great austerities and
macerations practised by the religious of the Brahminical sect
are at once rejected by the Buddhist sages as unprofitable and
unnecessary to them. The inmates of the Buddhist monasteries in
our days are never seen indulging in those cruel, disgusting,
and unnatural practices performed from time immemorial by some
of their brethren of the Hindu persuasion. This constitutes one
of the principal differences or discrepancies between the two
systems. With the founder of Buddhism fasts and penitential
deeds are of great concern to him who is as yet in the world,
living under the tyrannical yoke of passions and the influence
of the senses. By him they are viewed as powerful auxiliaries in
the spiritual warfare for obtaining the mastery over passions.
This point once gained, the sage can at once dispense with their
aid as being no longer required. The follower of the Hindu creed
looks upon those practices as _per se_ eminently meritorious and
capable of leading him to perfection; hence the mania for
carrying those observances to a degree revolting to reason, and
even to the plain good sense of the people.