THE TEACHINGS OF BUDDHA.
“For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
He can’t be wrong whose life is in the right.”
The discussion of a national religion is always a delicate task, but,
having so far considered only the physical and political aspect of
the Burmese, I feel that I may no longer avoid giving some account of
their conception of the universe and the Hereafter, matters with which,
truth to tell, they were wont to trouble themselves less than any other
Eastern nation with which I ever came in contact.
I shall endeavour to convey some idea of their attitude towards their
great teacher, Buddha; and I think that the reader will share my
opinion that the absence of that fanaticism, so characteristic of the
natives of Hindostan, is a blessing to rulers and ruled alike.
The “_Contemplative One_,” after sacrificing all manner of brilliant
worldly prospects, retiring in lieu thereof into remote places for the
purpose of indulging in holy meditation, reached his eightieth year,
and, having completed the necessary cycles of transmigration, passed
away to “Complete Nirvana,” the coveted annihilation and end of all
things.
Next to him in the cycle came _Gautama_, to whom were dedicated the
many pagodas and temples found all over the land.
Their images were of identical conception, no matter what their
material; their attitude was invariably the same, sitting cross-legged,
and contemplating the nether portion of their body, a pose suggestive
of deep thought and unbounded indifference to the many allurements of
this wicked world.
These images varied considerably in size, some measuring but a few
inches, while others were of enormous dimensions, being occasionally
hidden away in places where one would least expect to find them, the
sole relics, it may be, of some old dwelling over which the jungle had
reasserted a prior claim.
There prevails an idea, especially current among those who are ever
ready to class under one and the same category every creed that differs
in source and ceremonial from their own, that these were idols intended
as a medium through which to address the Deity. This theory does not do
infinite credit to the researches of those with whom it is in favour,
since, in point of fact, the actual comprehension of a Supreme Being
never having dawned on their minds, the Burmese are atheists in the
true sense of the word.
No; this excessive multiplication of images took its origin from
another motive, not a very creditable one, perhaps, but nevertheless
forced upon them in a great measure by the despotic form of government
under which they lived.
Regular taxation in proportion to wealth being unknown among them,
the ruler of a province in want of supplies for his own or the public
service, proceeded in a manner not quite unknown to the rulers of more
civilized nations—that is to say, he first discovered the whereabouts
of treasure by secret agency, and then set about extracting the same by
the aid of an armed force.
Suspected individuals, having failed to succumb to the exigencies of
torture, often paid the penalty of their real or imaginary wealth with
their lives; and such continual insecurity necessarily drove them to
other expedients.
In the reign of our first Edward it was found necessary to pass
a statute forbidding landowners to place their property within
“Sanctuary” of the Church without their king’s consent; and the
practice that occasioned the necessity for this enactment was in a
way analogous to the motives that led to the erection of temples and
images in Burmah. The images of Gautama were covered with gold and
silver foil; and the natives were somewhat of experts in carpentry and
metallurgy, having, like the Chinese, attained to a certain standard,
at which point their fertility of resource ended.
Dedication to Gautama or to Buddha implied one and the same thing, in
spite of the latter having ceased to exist here and hereafter, while
the former was still undergoing transmigrations as tiger, crow, lizard,
or mosquito. On the whole, therefore, the motive was of a worldly
nature, and any idea that may have existed in their minds concerning
the efficacy of such offerings to abbreviate the weary stages of
transition was certainly illogical to a degree, considering that they
acknowledged no Superior Being, through whose interposition any such
relaxation could possibly be effected.
Their doctrine pointed clearly to a prescribed course through which all
must pass according to their deeds; even the very best—those ascetics
who had been crowned with all the virtues inculcated in Buddhism—must
be born again and again, though under far more favourable circumstances
than those whose life had been careless and indifferent. The absolutely
wicked would be born again in one of the many hells situated in the
centre of the earth, coming up, perchance, in the form of petroleum, to
be tortured in another form through those terrible periods, the limits
of which were assigned at billions of years. Billions! Let those think
of it whose religion teaches of an eternity: of the two, the latter,
as being undefined and imaginary, is less perplexing to the mind, if
equally impossible to grasp.
The doctrine of transmigration is essentially an Eastern one. That
remarkable people, the Egyptians, with their inbred polytheism—their
divinities, Ptah, Osiris, Isis, Horus, and many others, not to mention
a still greater number of “companion-gods,”—were confirmed believers
in it. Hence arose the practice of embalming, the idea being, that the
soul, having in a period of several thousands of years completed the
wanderings assigned to it, might return to its original dwelling, to be
absorbed in Osiris, the manifestation of Light.
The practice, which dates from very remote antiquity, is frequently
alluded to in the Scriptures. Joseph commanded his servants to embalm
his father; and he in his turn was similarly embalmed, having died at
the very respectable age of one hundred and ten years, and placed in a
sarcophagus.
One frequently hears the doctrine of transmigration attributed to
Pythagoras; but we might with about as much reason credit the Pope with
the invention of the Old Testament! The Philosopher merely imbibed the
notion from the Egyptians, and, as it appeared in harmony with his own
system, he carried it back to Europe and spread it among his converts.
In Hinduism too, a religion that recognizes three gods—Brahma, the
Creator; Vishnu, the Preserver; and Siva, the Destroyer—metempsychosis
is paramount. An ordinary life being too brief a span for the
completion of a mortal’s allotted task, he had to be born again as
often as necessary for the fulfilment of whatever remained for him to
perform.
Not many years ago a severe epidemic broke out in a certain district
of India, almost depopulating that part of the country, which the
year following was subject to an extraordinary visitation of rats. The
authorities having, as in duty bound, made arrangements for the speedy
extermination of these pests, the Brahmans interposed in their behalf,
on the plea that the souls of departed were thus revisiting their old
haunts, guided thither by the force of association.
For the same reason a high-caste Brahman will neither kill anything
himself, nor will he eat anything that has succumbed to a violent
death, be it flesh, fish, or fowl. Life to him is sacred in all its
many forms, for therein may reside the troubled spirit of a departed
relative.
An old friend of mine, a Brahman of exceeding uprightness and more than
ordinary intelligence, constantly upbraided me with the sinful cruelty
of shooting and fishing. Out of my great respect for him, I bore his
harangues with a patient shrug, worthy of Shylock, knowing full well
that any attempt to argue the point would be worse than useless; for it
would be easier to train an old oak, high-top bald with dry antiquity,
as an espalier or cordon, than to influence such a one to the extent
of “the twentieth part of one poor scruple,” the more so, that he was
consistently acting up to his own belief.
The children of Nature who hunted the buffalo in the prairies of
the Far West do not appear to have entertained any serious idea of
transmigration; they looked death boldly in the face, believing it to
be a mere translation to happier hunting-grounds.
The Incas of Peru worshipped everything that appeared in the vault of
heaven, including sun, moon, stars, lightning, and rainbow, and their
worship was as devout as it was original.
The moon was regarded as the spouse of him from whom she derives her
light; Venus was her attendant, and the remaining heavenly bodies
ranked as inferior deities. But it was to the sun that their attention
was principally directed; in his honour a temple was erected at the
seat of government, wherein sat enthroned his image, on which his
own rays impinged with great effect. It is scarcely to be wondered
at that the idea of transmigration took such hold upon a considerable
section of the human race, especially if one considers the climatic and
physical conditions under which Eastern nations have existed throughout
all ages.
We go out there full of life and spirits, and manage to derive some
compensating pleasure out of riding, driving, sport, and sundry
national games. To the native, however, life is “tedious as a
twice-told tale;” essentially apathetic beyond a certain monotonous
routine, he never ceases to wonder how we can find pleasure in such
physical exercise; and death itself can have but few terrors for those
who only endure existence in the hope of something better.
Who knows whether, were it not for more smiling conditions of
existence, added to the aspirations of a higher faith, we too might not
welcome the prospect of entering another state?
Buddha, unlike Mohammed, tasted the pleasures of this life for thirty
years as only the son of a king and husband of a princess could; but
the unrestrained gratification of his desires seem only to have added
fuel to the fire that smouldered within him, for he rejected them all
as totally unsatisfactory. Then followed the period of his retirement
in the fastnesses of his native mountains, where he endeavoured to
work out the origin and remedy of pain, sorrow, sickness, and all the
evils flesh is heir to. Having arrived at satisfactory conclusions, he
commenced to preach. At first his converts were few, but in time the
rivulets united to form that mighty stream which covered the whole of
India, Burmah, and China.
Mohammed, on the other hand, lived a hard and somewhat chequered life
throughout, and was further advanced in life when the pseudo-revelation
changed the current of his thoughts.
As in every other respect, the two religions differed greatly in the
means employed to disseminate them; the teachings of the Light of Asia
seemed to flow on throughout the length and breadth of the land as a
great stream with unruffled surface, acquiring strength and durability
by appealing to the fairer side of humanity; Mohammedanism resembled
rather a mountain torrent bubbling and fretting at every turn,
promulgated moreover amid all the attendant miseries of savage war.
The early life and bringing up of Buddha would naturally lead one
to suppose that he was a highly educated man; yet, strange to say,
no traces of his writings have been discovered, even supposing that
he ever committed his thoughts to such an ordeal, in order that his
followers might not forget them after he had passed away.
More worldly wise was Mohammed, who, either in his own handwriting or
in that of an amanuensis, left behind him a copy of that wonderful
compilation, the Koran, as well as the severe ritual, setting forth
the number of prayers, the long, trying fasts, the extent of charity
in money and produce, and the pilgrimages to the holy city of Mecca,
with their attendant ceremonies, including the sevenfold circuit of the
Black Stone.
The Anglo-Indian has daily opportunity of observing how faithfully
these religious observances are carried out in the face of many
obstacles, but his admiration will not be unmixed with relief at the
comparatively slight hold this creed of fanaticism has taken on the
natives of Hindostan.
The remissness of Buddha in not committing to writing his many and
valuable teachings was amply atoned for by his followers; and, as
in many other religions, the numeral 3 seems to predominate in the
ordering of their rites.
“All good things,” says the German, “are of that number;” and this
superstition seems to have derived its origin from the doctrines of the
world’s creeds. We have the Trinity. The Egyptians divided their gods
into three sets; thought, word, and deed formed the Peruvian triad;
so, too, the flowery language of the East is exemplified by the pious
Buddhist’s “Triple Basket.”
The fountain-head of every misfortune lies, according to the teachings
of Buddha, in having been born into this world at all, in expressing
which opinion the “Contemplative One” spoke, at all events, in direct
defiance of all law where recent causes are always preferred to those
more remote.
This unfortunate beginning necessitates a frequent repetition of the
same process under different forms, animate or inanimate, the great
aim of this life being to attain “Complete Nirvana,” of which, however,
only those seem to have the least chance who from the first embrace a
religious and ascetic life.
The strict code of discipline left no loophole for the indulgence of
that which is earthly in thought, word, or deed: terrible self-denial
in food, raiment, and dwelling was incumbent; one meal a day, and
that a gift; rags covered with a yellow cloth; the shade of a friendly
tree—these constitute the sole conception of earthly luxury permitted
to the good Buddhist. Sleep, too, must be indulged in, not extended at
full length, but in a sitting posture; and systematic contemplation on
the best remedies for worldly evils was to abstract the mind from its
desires and affections.
The march of time has naturally brought with it many relaxations in
this terrible code, and, as with most other nations, practice has
fallen very short of theory.
It is no easy matter to picture the city of Benares, now the
head-quarters of Brahminical bigotry, as the stronghold of Buddhism,
yet relics are not wanting to point to this as the true order of
succession. Somewhat singular, too, is the process by which this most
ancient of religions was driven from the continent right and left,
taking a last refuge at its extremities—the Himalayas on the one
hand, Ceylon on the other. Thibet, Bhootan, and Nepaul are essentially
Buddhist, and, along with two-thirds of China, it is, in spite of its
having been ousted from India proper, still numerically superior to any
other religion.
The medium through which it so successfully marched over the greater
portion of the East appears to have been zealous, indefatigable
missionary enterprise; one reason for its many victories was its
non-aggressive character and its fundamental doctrine inculcating
respect for other creeds. The absence of this forbearance among us, and
among Western missionaries generally, may in part account for our own
want of success in spreading Christianity in the East.
Moreover, their own religions have long since taken too firm a hold. An
old and respected friend of mine, who had laboured in this direction
for about five-and-thirty years, told me plainly the strongholds of
the two great religions of India were, so far as the adult population
was concerned, all but impregnable; the only prospect of a measure
of success lies in those orphanages, the inmates of which are as
yet subject to only the indirect influence of heredity and free from
contact with their co-religionists; once they are back among their own
people, preaching to stones would be about as effectual. Further, we
are not to the manner born; besides which, our position in the land
constitutes an impediment.
Another great and peaceful revolution effected by the teachings of
Buddha was the overthrow of the rigid, unnatural system of caste.
Whatever benefit this order of things may have been to us in India as
a bar to combination, no other scheme has ever been devised better
calculated to keep men asunder and clog the wheels of progress.
It hampers all enterprise, causing the machinery of government and
industry to creak along after the fashion of a native bullock-cart.
No such arrangement exists in Burmah, and, if only for this reason,
its inhabitants will soon forge ahead of India. Years of meditation
convinced Buddha of the lasting evils of such a system, and he
therefore expunged it—another instance of the difference existing
between the influence on matters temporal exerted by both these great
religions.
In order to gauge with any accuracy the general effects of Buddha’s
doctrines in controlling such propensities to evil as his devotees
may have possessed, some knowledge of their condition before the
promulgation of such teachings would be indispensable; and I am further
prevented from forming a judgment in the matter by the fact that my
ignorance of their language, at the period of which I am writing,
afforded me but scant opportunity of mixing with the inhabitants.
Moreover, we were then virtually at war with them. We had, it is true,
fulminated a “Proclamation,” annexing the country up to a certain
point; but, _ipso facto_, beyond a few places along the river, we
could not call an inch of territory our own. A guerilla warfare was
maintained for some time, accompanied by reprisals and cruelties common
to fighting in all countries and ages, no matter whether the combatants
are barbarians or civilized. On the whole, however, I hardly think
the Burmese displayed any special aptitude for inflicting torture,
although a general idea somehow obtained currency that they were
_facile princeps_ in this respect. Most assuredly they never tarnished
their nationality with such hideous and indelible stains as the natives
of India brought on themselves during the whole ghastly course of
the Mutiny, by unparalleled atrocities that sent a shudder through
every land, branding them with infamy throughout all time. What more
natural than that the Burmese, knowing from bitter experience their own
inability to cope with us in the open field, and occupying every coign
of vantage in their jungle fastnesses, should pounce down upon us when
least expected?
We received more than one salutary lesson in this wise, and had to
retreat under difficulties, often with loss; nevertheless, though the
enemy were smarting under frequent repulses, no after acts of wanton
cruelty could be brought home to them, such as are but too common when
the civilized nations of Europe fly at each other’s throats, mowing
down human life as if it merely represented so many fields of standing
corn ripe for the harvest.
Irrespective, then, of its many glaring faults, there cannot exist
a shadow of a doubt as to the beneficial influence which Buddhism
exercises over its votaries in many ways, and we can scarcely feel
surprise that these should number nearly one-third of the human race.
The doctrine of metempsychosis, if it taught them nothing else, brought
home to them a widespread respect for life in all its forms: they
evinced considerable reluctance to subjecting a certain human parasite
to the microscope for fear of injuring it; they would not beat a dog
that had offended, because of some fancied resemblance between its bark
and the voice of a departed friend. Absurd such extremes, no doubt, yet
fraught with signal benefit to Buddhists in general, far more so indeed
than any opposite condition.
Another very conspicuous feature in their daily life was
the unselfishness inculcated by their religion. In India the
representatives of the “lords of creation,” both Hindu and Mohammedan,
were exacting to a degree, first satisfying their own hunger, and then
allowing wife and children to regale themselves with the “residue of
the remainder,” the former being generally chastised, often killed,
if the food were not prepared exactly to her lord’s liking, or ready
the moment he returned home. Among the Burmese, however, father,
mother, and children would share alike; and even if only one cigar were
forthcoming, it would be passed round for every member of the family to
take a few whiffs.
The moral code of Hinduism was at a far lower level than that of the
other religion.
Almsgiving, to priests in the absence of beggars, was much more general
in Burmah. As in every community, and under every form of religion,
there were the good, bad, and indifferent. They were more unanimously
guided by one light than any other nation I ever knew, and their
religion, for all its exaggerated asceticism, partook more of the
practical than that of many a professed Christian.
They could, it is true, boast a number of past-masters in the gentle
art of appropriating other folks’ goods, yet during the whole of my
stay in their country I never lost a single article, though many of
the dwellings in which I resided had not even a single door! Scarcely,
however, had I returned to India when I missed a bag of rupees and my
watch and chain. Other crimes _were_ equally uncommon among them. I
think my position enabled me to judge of this; and I cannot recall a
single instance of necessity for _post-mortem_ on a victim of violence
or poison; whereas in India not a day passed without one, and their
multiplicity rendered life a burden. Corpses, masses of corruption that
had run the gauntlet of a hundred miles of hot sun, were brought at all
times to one’s private dwelling—one met them on the road—everywhere!
Nothing appeared to give such exquisite delight to some of our civil
authorities as having plenty of dead bodies brought forth from every
nook and corner to be examined and reported on, and if dead bodies
were by some rare _mischance_ not forthcoming, they would exhume a few
bones, which were then decently shunted from pillar to post as evidence
of a murder some score of years old!
This absence of outrage, agrarian or otherwise, speaks trumpet-tongued
for the morality of the Burmese, their respect for religious
observance, and the teachings of their priests. Such wholesale acts of
murder as Thuggee and infanticide found no place in their ethics; nor
does the senseless practice of Suttee seem ever to have occurred to
them.
In many respects, therefore, the teachings of Buddha transcend Hinduism
in no measured degree, being both more elevated and more practical,
exalting instead of debasing the minds of those who profess them.
So ingrained had become those evil practices in India that it took
years of most stringent legislation to grapple with the hydra-headed
monsters, Heredity and Fanaticism. Now, however, bands of organized
Thugs are almost unknown; a Suttee will only occur rarely in some
remote district, and infanticide will soon be a matter of history and
tradition.
There are, however, Buddhists and Buddhists. Of all the nations
embracing this religion the Chinese and Nepaulese seem most unmindful
of its teachings, whilst in Thibet and Burmah the flame burned brighter
than elsewhere. The Nepaulese, as I saw them for months together during
the Mutiny—I allude to the men sent down by Jung Bahadur when the
Mutiny was at its height—were a set of bloodthirsty savages, pig-headed
and untrustworthy, brave indeed, as a pariah-dog might be when driven
into a corner—a rabble which but for the energy and judgment of the
English officers in command would at once have dissolved into thin air.
They were quite free from any kind of principle, and had no idea of
true religion; while the Bhootanese were if anything still lower in the
scale.
Buddha enjoined on his followers to avoid abusive and indecent
language, to become peace-makers, to endure privation, and show
resignation in the face of calamity. Underlying the Burmese character,
one could, as a rule, trace the influence of these teachings in their
treatment of one another, more than in many a country professing a
religion that points to a happier future. If faith and good works,
irrespective of the medium, are capable of earning peace and happiness
hereafter, then do the disciples of the “Contemplative One,” who
thought out and purified their religion, enjoy a brighter prospect than
most other nations.
The doctrine of “Complete Nirvana” is, to our belief, the fatal blot,
but it is at least preferable to the hereafter of the Mohammedan,
where, under the auspices of a Supreme Being, the carnal appetites are
only intensified.
The absence of that deadliest of all poisons, fanaticism, and the
broad, modest respect which refuses to brand as heretical and damnable
every other form of belief, also combine to lend a charm to Buddhism
which one seeks in vain in many other religions; and the moral precepts
scattered promiscuously throughout the Koran, and admirable so far
as they go, are terribly neutralized by an unforgiving and intolerant
spirit, that is ever breathing forth enmity in place of concord.
It is my belief that our missionaries will meet with greater success
in the fair land watered by the Irrawaddy than along the banks of the
mighty Ganges, where a century’s labour has made but little lasting
impression.
Nor is the failure surprising, when we consider our want of uniformity.
The Tabernacle of the Old Testament, appealing to the senses rather
than to the intellect, made but little impression on the surrounding
Gentiles, who proved far more susceptible to the simplicity inculcated
in the New. And what wonder that the Asiatic sees nought but chaos
in our Church, when we ourselves hear each clergyman interpreting
the rubric according to his own views! When all are at loggerheads in
ecclesiastical litigation, every variety of Church—high, low, broad,
narrow, deep, shallow—which the mind of man can conceive, how is the
missionary to succeed?