Section 49 says, "If any thief strip a Buddha image of its gold or

gilding, let him be taken to a public square and a red-hot iron rubbed

over him till he is stripped of his skin, as he stripped the image of

its gold, and thus pay for his crime. If a thief scratch the gold from

a Buddha image, pagoda, or temple, or sacred tree, let his fingers be

cut off."

Heaped round the altar are the offerings of the merit-makers,--old

bottles, Birmingham-made vases, clocks, china, saucers, joss-sticks,

looking-glasses, bits of coloured glass, and many other articles of

equally trivial value. In addition to these things for the adornment

of the altar or the use of the temple, the priests also receive food,

clothes, money, mosquito netting, boats and small pieces of native

furniture. After a big alms-giving day the interior of the sacred pile

looks something like an auction room awaiting the commencement of a

sale.

The "Prachadee" is a conspicuous feature of all ecclesiastical

architecture. It is a brick or stone monument, round at the base,

but tapering to a long thin spire at the top, as shown in several of

the illustrations in this book. It represents the primitive tope or

relic mound, and covers either a relic or an image of Buddha. When a

genuine relic cannot be obtained, an imitation of one answers the same

purpose. Around the "bote", the most holy of all the buildings, are

placed eight stones, one at each of the eight chief points of the

compass. They are called "bai sema," and are cut in the shape of the

leaf of the _ficus religiosa_ or Bo-tree. They mark out the boundaries

of the consecrated part of the "wat." They are erected when the temple

is first consecrated. Eight round smooth stones are first buried a

little way below the ground, together with the relic or image. Holy

water is sprinkled over them, and across the boundary thus formed the

spirits of evil intent have not the courage to intrude. Small, solid,

cubical platforms of brick are built over the stones, and on the

platforms are placed the gilded or painted stone representations of

the sacred leaf. These again are covered with a canopy of stone cut in

a similar shape, and often elaborately carved or inlaid with mosaics.

Every monastery has its bell-tower, whose chimes call the priests to

prayers, tell when the sun has crossed its mid-day path, and "toll the

knell of parting day". The towers are of wood and have three stories,

in each of which is placed one bell. The bells are painted pale blue,

and ornamented with broad plain bands of gold-leaf, which run round

the rim, and also divide the surface into four equal segments. They

are remarkable for their purity of tone, and are not to be equalled

by the bells usually found in Western churches. The tone is soft and

sweet, and at the same time so penetrating that it can be heard for

long distances. The bells are not rung, but are beaten. The first few

strokes are given slowly and gently, then they gradually increase in

rapidity and force, till the bell resounds under a torrent of blows,

the tone becoming louder and louder, but never jarring or discordant.

Not only at every temple, but in many secluded spots at the entrances

to lonely canals, and on the edges of the distant jungle, rest-houses

are built for the use of wanderers. They are called "salas", and to

build a "sala" is a work of merit. As the erection of one of these

rest-houses involves less expense than the building of a temple,

they are therefore even more abundant than the temples. They consist

simply of a wooden platform raised a few feet above the ground by

strong posts. Several pillars round the sides of the platform support

a thatched or tiled roof. There are no walls and no rooms. Here the

traveller, be he native or foreigner, may hold a picnic, may eat,

rest, and sleep without expense or interruption. Madmen and lunatics

choose the rest-houses near the temples as places where they can live

quietly without fear of molestation.

The description given above would apply to the majority of Siamese

temples. But it is worth our while to look in detail at a few of the

more noted temples in the capital.

The royal temple, Wat Prakow, stands within the circumference of the

outer wall that surrounds the palace and the government offices,

and on account of the part it plays in important State ceremonies,

and because it is the king's own place of worship, it is far more

elaborate than any of the other temples of the country. At this

temple the water of allegiance is taken and the oath of allegiance

is sworn, and in the same building was held the requiem service for

the late Crown Prince. A central "prachadee" stands in the courtyard

of the temple, surrounded by many similar structures of lesser height

and beauty. The large one in the centre towers high above all the

surrounding buildings, and is said to be covered with plates of gold.

It certainly looks like a solid mass of that precious metal, and at

sunrise and sunset when it catches the roseate hues of the rising or

the setting sun, its golden surface can be seen from afar, shining

and glittering like a second sun itself, above the coloured roofs of

the temples and the white or many-tinted spires that are associated

with it. The smaller relic mounds are covered with mosaics of glass

and enamel roughly set in plaster. The bits of glass and enamel are

not laid in the plaster so as to form a level surface, but here and

there they stand out in tiny rosettes, branches and flowers, and fruit

and animals. At a distance the rude character of the workmanship is

totally hidden, the tawdry appearance of the material is completely

lost, and as the uneven surfaces reflect the brilliant light of the

sun, the spire-capped shrines form a series of glittering satellites

around the central spire of gold.

From the temple courtyard the roof of the large and imposing

modern palace can be seen. In the centre, and at either end of the

triple-coloured roof, is one of those crown-shaped spires so common

in all state and ecclesiastical buildings in Siam. It has been

stated that "upon a nearer approach to the magnificent spectacle of

Wat Prakow, so dazzling is the effect that it is hard to convince

yourself that you are not actually standing before buildings set with

precious stones." Now this is not by any means true. The temples

of Buddha in Siam are like Buddhism itself, seen to the greatest

advantage when distance has lent its proverbial enchantment. Even as

the moral teaching of the great philosopher when viewed through the

spectacles of Western professors, is a very different creed to that

followed by the people, so the temples when seen through the golden

mist of early morning from a distant point of view, are brilliant and

beautiful beyond description, though on a nearer view, the perishable

and paltry character of the material of which they are constructed

destroys the appearance of magnificence, leaving, however, in the

place of earlier impressions, a feeling of wonder at the marvellous

skill of the people who can produce such striking effects from such

tawdry material. Near to the gilded "prachadee" is the actual "bote"

used by the king, surmounted by a similar spire, which is overlaid

with sapphire-coloured plates of glass and porcelain; while a little

distance away stands the larger temple, set in parts with mosaics of

emerald green upon a gilt background. There are several smaller spires

of ruby red, bright yellow, or snowy white, standing amongst this

mass, whose tapering summits are exceedingly slender and graceful in

form, though the raised flowers and decorations that surround their

bases are made of nothing but common porcelain and glass. One really

valuable "prachadee" is constructed of pure white marble, and stands

upon a heavy base supported by seven elephants cast in bronze. In

various places near the doors of the temple, or the gates in the walls

surrounding the courtyard, there are a number of enormous, grotesque

figures, some in helmets, and some in old-fashioned chimney-pot hats.

They are evidently of foreign origin, and the sculptor has produced

an extremely comical effect by so cutting the eyes as to give them an

unmistakable leer or wink. They represent demons, and are supposed

to guard the entrance to the sacred edifice. Each figure leans upon

a gigantic staff, and gazes into the faces of all those who enter

the courtyard or buildings. There are also griffins in stone, the

representations of powerful kings who keep the world from being

entirely captured by the spirits of evil. The stone lions are the

emblems of Shakyamuni in his character as king of men and beasts. A

large, bronze figure of the sitting Buddha rests opposite a row of

these quaintly carved images of men and animals. It is seated upon a

pedestal of marble under a canopy fashioned in imitation of a lotus

leaf. The lotus leaf is the Buddhist lily, even as the Bo-tree is

the Buddhist cross, and the forms of both these plant structures

appear again and again in temple decorations. The lotus is especially

noticeable in the lotus-shaped capitals of the huge teak pillars that

support the roofs and colonnades of the holy "bote."

The courtyard which contains all these vari-coloured and fantastic

shrines and images, is paved with slabs of white stone and marble,

which reflect the heat and light of the sun with oppressive intensity.

Other creations in marble, bronze, stone, and wood, set with the same

mosaics of cheap china and common glass, and representing Europeans,

fishes, dolphins, and fabulous monsters are scattered profusely but

irregularly amongst the larger and more conspicuous monuments. The

roofs are covered with coloured tiles. There is a central rectangle in

orange, yellow or red, with its edges set parallel to the roof, while

round it run several borders in red, blue, and green. Owing to the

height of the buildings these coloured roofs are always so far removed

from the eye of the spectator that they never lose their artistic

appearance. The gables are of wood or metal, and curve upwards at the

ends into a peculiar ornament, which is so common in civil as well as

religious architecture as to cause much speculation as to its meaning.

It has been described as being symbolical of many things, but it most

probably represents the head of the Naga or king of snakes. Round the

edges of the roofs of several of the constituent buildings of this

royal "wat," are hung many small sweetly toned bells, whose silvery

voices may be heard in the farthest corners of the enclosure as they

swing to and fro with every gentle breeze. The windows and doors

are deeply sunk in the extremely thick walls. They are covered with

black lacquer and look as though they were made of ebony. Designs in

mother-of-pearl have been worked into the lacquer, while the hinges

and fastenings of the separate shutters have been richly gilt.

[Illustration: TEMPLE BELL-TOWER.

_Page 285._]

The floor of the chief building is covered with matting made

entirely of woven silver wire. The roof is lofty, and is made of

teak. The room is of the usual oblong shape, but at the further end

a magnificent altar-like shrine stretches from side to side. The

sides of this valuable altar are covered with gold-leaf and gilded

glass, which lose a little of their dazzling brilliancy, though they

gain in depth of colour, in the subdued light of the interior. Small

prachadees in clusters stand at the same end of the temple, all

heavily gilt. This Buddhist temple is unique amongst Siamese temples

in containing objects of real value. Inside there is nothing tawdry

and cheap. Everything is genuine as becomes the gift of a king. On a

square table at the back, supported on the tall conical hats of twelve

large figures, are seated seven figures of Buddha, in pure solid gold.

One hand of each of the figures is raised and pointing upwards. On

every finger and thumb of the uplifted hand glitters a king's ransom

in rings of emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, while in the centre of

each palm shines and flashes a rosette of diamonds. Away up in a

dim recess towards which the seven hands are pointing, there is an

image of Buddha, often said to be cut out of one enormous emerald. In

reality, it is made of jade. This stone is reported to be of priceless

value. It cannot easily be examined by visitors as it is partly hidden

in shadow, but with a pair of opera-glasses the features are easily

distinguishable. The idol is said to have fallen from heaven into one

of the Laos states. It was captured from these Northern people by its

present owners. It possesses three diamond eyes of great value, the

third of which is set in the centre of the forehead. It has several

times been lost or stolen, but has always been recovered.

There are many rare and precious vessels for the temple services,

such as cups, incense burners, and candlesticks made of gold and

studded with jewels, but unfortunately the workmanship is in some

cases very defective, and the stones have lost a great deal of their

value by being badly set and cut. One or two museum cases are to be

seen, containing offerings made by royalty or wealthy noblemen. Round

the base of the altar are a number of ebony tables holding the usual

vases, wax flowers, and clocks, but in this temple they are all of

real value.

The walls and ceiling are painted in native style and colour, with

scenes from the life of Buddha, and from the Hindoo myth of Ramayana.

They are executed with that curious absence of perspective common to

Oriental pictures, but nevertheless many of the figures are full of

life and action. In particular, the elephants are usually accurately

drawn, though strangely coloured.

We may fitly close this chapter with an account of one of the country

temples given by H. Warington Smyth in his "Notes of a Journey on the

Upper Mekong."

"At Wieng Chan, on the north bank (of the Mekong), the

remains of the great Wat Prakaon are very fine; the latter

rises from a series of terraces, up which broad flights

of steps lead, and is of large proportions. The effect of

height is increased by the perpendicular lines of the tall

columns which support the great east and west porticos, and

which line the walls along the north and south; the windows

between the latter being small, and narrower at the top

than at the bottom, also lead the eye up. A second row of

columns once existed, and the effect must have been very

fine. Now the roof is gone, and the whole structure crowned

by a dense mass of foliage, as is the case with all the

remains of smaller buildings not yet destroyed. One very

beautiful little pagoda at the west end is now encased in

a magnificent peepul tree which has grown in and around

it, and has preserved it in its embrace. There are remains

of several deep water-tanks; and the grounds, which were

surrounded by a brick wall, must once have been beautiful.

But the best thing at Wieng Chan, or the old city, as they

call it, is the gem of a monastery known as Wat Susaket. It

is a small building, the Wat itself, of the usual style,

with a small lantern rising from the central roof. The

walls are very massive, and, with the height inside, the

place was delightfully cool; all round the interior, from

floor to roof, the walls are honeycombed with small niches

in rows, in which stand the little gilt images, looking out

imperturbably, generally about eight inches in height.

"Round this building, outside, runs a rectangular cloister

which faces inwards, and here, at one time, the monks were

living amongst the statues which stand round the walls,

many of these three and more feet high, while the walls

too are ornamented with niches similar to those inside

the main building. In the centre of each side there is a

gateway surmounted by a gable, there being also similar

ornaments at each corner. The beauty and retired air of the

court inside could not be surpassed, and the effect of the

green grass, the white walls, the low-reaching, red-tiled

roofs, and the deep shadows is charming; there is nothing

flat, nothing vulgarly gaudy, and very little that is out

of repair. And here, as is most noticeable in the remains

of the other buildings about, the proportions are perfect.

In this the ruined remains of Wieng Chan surpass all other

buildings I have seen in Siam, and bear witness to a true

artistic sense in the builders."

CHAPTER XV.

AMONG THE TEMPLES (_continued_).

Several of the larger "wats" in the capital are deserving of further

notice. The largest temple in the country is Wat Poh. It has often

been said that "he who has seen Wat Poh has seen every Buddhist temple

in Siam." It covers an immense extent of ground in the very heart of

the great city, and inside its high brick walls are gathered together

examples in wood and stone, in bronze and porcelain, of everything

connected with ecclesiastical architecture in the country. Its chief

attraction is an immense idol. In one of the lofty buildings lies a

sleeping Buddha of gigantic proportions. It is probably the largest

image of its kind in the world. The room containing it is over two

hundred feet long. The idol itself is one hundred and seventy-five

feet long, so that it practically occupies the whole of the building,

with the exception of a narrow passage all round the base of the

rectangular brick platform on which it reclines. The heavy shutters

and ponderous doors are always locked, except when some inquisitive

foreigner desires to view. His wish can be gratified by the payment

to the man in charge of a fee varying from eighteen-pence to two

shillings. After payment has been made, the gigantic doors are flung

open and the visitor enters, only to find himself in almost total

darkness. One by one a few of the heavy shutters are slowly opened and

a little daylight gradually admitted. The light falls upon the dull

red walls or elaborate frescoes, and upon the sides of the sleeping

figure, but loses itself at last in the dim recesses of the lofty

roof. When the eye has become accustomed to the gloom, the peculiar

wonder of the spectacle begins to be appreciated. The whole of the

building or the image cannot be seen from any one point of view. The

gigantic idol is made of brick, which has been covered over with

cement. Upon the cement a smooth layer of lacquer has been deposited,

and then the whole coated with gold-leaf. The figure measures eighteen

feet across the chest; the feet are fifteen feet in length; and the

toes are each three feet long. The soles of the feet are inlaid with

symbols in mother-of-pearl, according to the legend which states that

Buddha had upon his feet at birth a number of signs that proclaimed

his true character. The head is covered with a conical cluster of

spiral curls, the apex of the cone being far away from human eye in

the shadows of the rafted roof.

[Illustration: WAT CHANG, BANGKOK.

_Page 301._]

The sketch of the figure given in this book is the only drawing of

the idol in existence, and no photo has ever been taken by any of

the local photographers owing to the darkness of the interior. It

was only on payment of a heavy bribe that the caretaker allowed the

artist to put up his easel. After further debate, followed by a

fee, he condescended to open a few more windows so as to admit

sufficient light to render any sketching possible. While the sketch

was being made, a small piece of the gilded lacquer fell from the

chest of the recumbent idol. In less time almost than it takes to

write of the occurrence, the windows were closed, the place veiled in

utter darkness, and the artist unceremoniously requested to leave the

building. The man evidently expected the whole structure to fall upon

his unlucky head as a punishment for allowing the sacred place to be

so desecrated by the white man. Doubtless by this time the caretaker

has worked off the demerit he earned that day, by devoting some of the

money he then received to purchasing merit in one of the many ways

known to him.

In the grounds of Wat Poh there are several ponds, shaded by

magnificent trees, and surrounded by grotesque figures in stone. These

ponds are the homes of a few alligators, which are kept and fed by the

priests and servants of the temple.

Almost opposite to Wat Poh, on the other bank of the river, is

Wat Chang, a marvel to every one who has ever seen it. The actual

"bote," the priests' houses, and the relic mounds are in no respect

extraordinary, but on the bank of the river is a huge monument

consisting of a series of pagodas resting on a square base. It is this

collection of pinnacles that attracts and charms the eye. Their form

is not that of the slender-spired "prachadee," but that of a bluntly

pointed pyramid, and they are known as "praprang." Viewed from a

little distance, they look, as any photo shows, like a collection of

beautifully carved stone pinnacles, but a closer view reveals the fact

that they are only made of brick and plaster and covered with divers

figures made of broken plates and saucers. Thousands upon thousands

of pieces of cheap china must have been smashed to bits in order to

furnish sufficient material to decorate this curious structure. It

must be admitted that though the material is tawdry, the effect is

indescribably wonderful. It is not until one stands close to the work

itself that it is possible to realise that the elaborate designs and

the quaint figures are merely so many pieces of common china. The

tallest of the pagodas, the one in the centre, can be seen from many

points in the city, and by ascending the steps that lead half way up

to the summit, a magnificent view of the capital itself is gained. The

winding river and the broad canals shine like ribbons of burnished

silver; the houses are hidden beneath masses of foliage, from amongst

whose leafy crowns the prettily coloured roofs and the graceful white

spires of many temples stand out in bold and picturesque relief. At

sunset the details of the structure of the pagodas of Wat Chang are

lost, but the mass of spires and pinnacles takes on a purple tint

which changes to one of dusky hue as the light fades slowly from the

sky. The whole edifice is in its way a triumph of decorative skill of

which the people are reasonably proud.

The Golden Hill is the name given to an artificial mound about

two hundred feet high, which faces the public crematorium where

the vultures congregate. At first it is difficult to believe that

it is not a genuine hillock, for though later investigation shows

it to be constructed of bricks and mortar, trees have been planted

on it and creepers trained over it, till it looks as though Nature

in some sportive mood had raised an isolated hill amidst the broad

extent of low-lying plain by which it is surrounded. On the summit

of this leaf-clad brick and plaster mound is a snow-white prachadee

with a very large base. The interior of the round basal portion is

an open room, in the middle of which, guarded by iron railings,

stands a gilded shrine containing an imitation in glass of the famous

tooth of Buddha which is preserved in Ceylon. From the size of the

original it is evidently spurious, for it is impossible to conceive

that the ancient philosopher and teacher possessed the benign and

dignified aspect that is attributed to him, if the tooth shown is

really genuine. The scoffing sceptic has even hinted that it is of

equine origin. The Bangkok relic is not shown to the worshippers. It

is hidden in its gilt case, and many of the natives who bow before

the shrine really believe that the object it contains is not an

imitation, but an actual tooth of Buddha. Steep stone staircases lead

from the smooth lawn at the base to the shrine upon the summit. In

clear weather the view extends far away to the jungle-clad interior

in one direction, and in the other, to the distant blue hills upon

the eastern shores of the gulf. At one time foreigners frequently

ascended The Golden Hill for the sake of the view, but since the time

of the Franco-Siamese trouble it has been guarded by soldiers, and no

one is allowed to pass the sentries on duty without a special permit

signed by the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

On three days of the year, however, when a special holiday occurs

in connection with the worship of the relic, the hill is open to

every one. Around the base are set up numerous stalls, booths, and

side-shows, and a native fair with all its varied attractions draws

thousands of people to the spot. Side by side are the booths where

the missionaries sell their school books and their translations of

certain portions of the Bible, and the stalls where the wonderful

wicker-work made by the prisoners in the jails is offered for sale.

Gambling tents, shadow pantomimes, and Chinese theatres are in full

swing. There is but very little direct purchasing. Nearly every booth

has a lottery. You may pay sixpence for the privilege of rolling three

wooden balls along a bagatelle table. You will then be allowed to

choose an article whose value varies according to the numbers in the

holes into which the little spheres have rolled. At another place a

man stands behind a board in which a square hole has been cut on a

level with his face. He moves his head quickly backwards and forwards

in front of the hole, poking out his tongue and rolling his eyes

with marvellous rapidity. At the quickly appearing and disappearing

countenance you are permitted to throw three tennis balls, and if

you are successful in hitting the distorted features, you receive a

prize of little value. It is an Oriental form of Aunt Sally, with a

living Aunt of male extraction, willing to be a target at the rate of

three shots for sixpence. On another stall every article has a thread

fastened to it. The loose ends of the cotton strands are collected and

passed through a bit of hollow bamboo about six inches long. You pay

your money and you choose your thread. Then the proprietor traces it

out, and you get what is fastened to the other end of it. The prizes

range from a common piece of slate pencil, to a penny exercise book,

and a German concertina.

All the merit-makers before indulging in the fun of the fair, first

buy a bit of gold-leaf, a few wax flowers, or a tiny candle, then

mount the steep and broken steps, kneel in front of the shrine, stick

their gold-leaf on the iron railings, light their candles and fix

them on iron spikes, and throw their waxen blossoms into a blazing

bonfire. The visitor to the summit looks down upon a ring of twinkling

lights, beyond which lies the deep darkness. The air is full of many

sounds. A native band discourses native airs with customary vigour in

front of the shrine itself; a military band plays operatic selections

in a band-stand half way up the hill; and the devotees bang the big

deep-toned bells with more force than is demanded by purely religious

feeling. Up from the crowd below comes the roar of hundreds of

human voices, the cries of the cheap jacks and lottery owners, and

the shouts of the men with the shows, all telling of the animation

and excitement that exists amongst the dark-looking figures that

ever move, but never leave a vacant spot in the brilliant torch-lit

avenues and passages. The priests sit in long pavilions, their yellow

robes and shaven heads set off by the red and white draperies of

their temporary resting-places. They drink tea and chew betel-nut

incessantly, chatter and laugh with animation, and evidently enjoy the

fun quite as much as any of their lay brethren who have come to the

place for the double purpose of making merry and making merit.

Another temple, Wat Samplum, boasts a copy of Buddha's famous

footprint, which is also worshipped amidst much jollity for three

days each year. This footprint is sunk in the centre of the floor of

a small spire-crowned room on the top of a low artificial hillock. It

has no toes and also no heel. It is shaped like an infant's bath, and

is about three feet long, two feet wide, and eighteen inches deep,

and has been cut or moulded with strict mathematical regularity. It

passes the wit of any European to imagine by what process of logical

or illogical reasoning any person could bring himself to look upon

this curious object as having the slightest resemblance to a human

footprint. The usual fair accompanies the worship, and the believers

have no sooner plastered their bit of gold-leaf on the sides or sole

of the footprint than they descend the little elevation to take their

part in the fun that rages fast and furiously at the bottom.

There are in several of the northern mountain ranges or isolated hills

large limestone or granite caves which have been utilised at various

times for religious purposes. Near to the walled city of Karnbooree

on the River Meklong, there is one large cave which was used as a

store-house for idols and offerings during the last war between the

Siamese and Burmese. Here the discoloured images and the withered

offerings remain to this day, rarely visited by any one; the entrances

to the cavern being nearly blocked up by the jungle growth which has

flourished undisturbed for many years.

In the town of Petchabooree there are several caves occupying the

whole interior of a hill which is open at the summit and bears all the

appearances of an extinct volcano. These caves are still distinctly

used as temples. Steps have been cut in the solid rock to form an easy

means of descent to their open mouths. One of them receives its light

through a crater-like opening in the hill-side; some of them are too

dark to be visited without the aid of torches or lanterns. The floors

have in all cases been nicely levelled and sanded, while one has been

neatly tiled. Idols are arranged in rows round the sides, and Buddhas

in standing, sleeping, or sitting postures occupy every jutting crag

and hollow corner. Tiny holes, often hidden behind a gigantic image,

lead into little, dark, dirty, damp recesses with plank beds and

torch smoked altars, where hermits live, or years ago have lived,

in retirement. There is something almost grotesque in these cavern

interiors. Huge stalactites and stalagmites shine in the light of the

entering sun, or look gloomy and solemn in the fitful spluttering of

the smoky torches There is a grandeur of natural power and strength

in the great pillars and deep recesses, all tending to make the

gilded figures of the benevolent Gautama and his chief disciples

look more tawdry and worthless than when seen in their more suitable

surroundings in the brick and wooden temples of his living followers.

One very noticeable feature in the interiors of many temple buildings

is the management of the light to increase their solemnity and their

impressiveness. For instance, in the case of the sleeping Buddha in

Wat Poh, even when many of the windows round it have been opened, the

head is still partly hidden in darkness, so that the effect of the

height is increased and the wonder of the spectator intensified. And

again, Mr. Smyth mentions in the book quoted above, a small "wat"

called Wat Boria, where "there is a very fine Buddha, on whose head

and shoulders the light is thrown from a small window in the roof. The

effect is quite impressive, and does great credit to the architect

who designed it. This is by no means the only place in Siam where the

light is dexterously managed." He also mentions that at Wat Chinareth,

"one enters a monk's doorway at the south-eastern corner from a

cloister, and is at first lost in the gloom. At last the great black

columns with their elaborate gilt ornamentation (the one decoration

they understand in Siam) grow out in the feeble light from the little

narrow windows in the low side walls. The lofty peaked roof rises far

into blackness."

[Illustration: THE SLEEPING BUDDHA.

_Page 297._]

Mention has frequently been made of the extensive use of

gold-leaf in the decoration of shrines and images. The import of this

commodity is of the annual value of about one hundred and sixty to two

hundred thousand Mexican dollars. And in addition to what is imported,

a large quantity is manufactured in Bangkok by Chinese goldsmiths.

Near to one of the temples inside the city walls there is a small

settlement whose chief employment is the beating of gold-leaf. They

get thin pieces of gold about a quarter of an inch square, and put

them between thick pieces of white oily paper. Sheets of gold-leaf and

sheets of paper are arranged alternately in a pile about two inches

thick. This packet of paper and gold is put inside a stout leathern

covering which is left open at two sides, and is then placed on a hard

stone slab some three or four inches thick. The gold-beater takes a

large, heavy hammer with an iron head, and pounds the little parcel

in front of him with all his strength. He continues his hammering

until the bits of gold have been considerably flattened out. He next

takes the thin gold sheets and puts them between finer pieces of white

Chinese paper, and then continues his pounding until the sheets have

become sufficiently attenuated to be used for the gilding of images

and ornaments. Gold-leaf is sold in sheets about three inches square

at the rate of fifteen to eighteen shillings per thousand sheets.

Not only is gold-leaf used for covering idols and shrines, but it is

also used by native artists in the decorations of the walls. Earth

colours are used for painting figures and scenery; but whenever a

figure requires a golden crown or ornament, or the representation of

a shrine or temple requires a golden decoration, then gold-leaf is

always used, and the contrast between the bright reflecting surface of

the metal and the dull appearance of the washes of the earth colours

is very striking.

A favourite subject for religious pictures is the representation of

the different hells, of which there are eight. Though the account of

the infernal regions as given below may seem very gruesome, there

is nothing repulsive in their pictorial presentation by the native

artist, owing to utter lack of any effect of realism. In fact, most

Europeans require an interpreter in order to understand their meaning.

The eight major hells are all places of fearful torment. In the first

of the series the condemned creature is cut into infinitesimal pieces,

every cut producing its own agonies, as the sense of feeling is never

destroyed. When the body has thus been mutilated, a wind possessing

life-restoring properties, blows over the torn remains and renovates

them once more into a perfect human being, which is again mutilated

by the attendants. The torment is repeated indefinitely; but a time

arrives at last when the restored body is cast into another portion of

the same hell to be the sport of cruel monsters. In this first hell

one day is equal in length to nine hundred thousand years.

In the second hell the floor is of molten iron, and as the lost ones

tread the liquid metal they sink into it and die in frightful pain.

A new life follows the recent death, and again and again is the

terrible punishment inflicted through long periods of time, where one

day is measured by thirty-six million years upon earth.

The inhabitants of the third hell have lost a portion of their human

form. Either they have human heads, and animals' bodies, or their

human bodies possess animals' heads. They are the playthings of

innumerable fiends who drive them with thongs from one mountain to

another, and ever as they run, great masses of rock fall upon them,

wounding and killing them. But as in all the other regions inhabited

by the guilty, a new life springs from the dead bodies, that the cruel

torment may be re-inflicted.

The fourth hell is beautiful to look upon. Its floor is covered with

the sacred lotus, but hidden amongst its rosy petals are sharp-pointed

iron spikes. And as the damned come to the edges of hell, they are

seized by the powerful arms of diabolical monsters, who fling them

with Titanic force upon the treacherous flowers below. They are flung

times without number, their wailing and moaning echoing and re-echoing

through the corridors of hell for a space of four thousand years whose

every day is equal to seventy-six million years upon earth.

The fifth of the series resembles the fourth inasmuch as its floor is

covered with iron-spiked blossoms. But the erring souls continually

attempt to escape. With much anxiety of mind and weariness of body,

they raise themselves from their spiny bed only to be met by fiends

armed with gigantic sledge-hammers. Fierce blows of their ponderous

weapons send them reeling back to their torment, amidst the horrible

laughter of their fierce captors.

The sixth hell is that of everlasting fire, but of even a more

revolting character than that preached by so many Christian teachers.

For amidst the roaring flames of the blazing pit scamper the giant

dogs of hell, whose teeth are of sharpened iron. They seize their

prey, and devour it with insatiable appetite. After being eaten the

wicked are re-born, again roasted in the infernal fire, again devoured

by iron fangs and so on and on for sixteen thousand weary years.

In the seventh hell the sides are steep hills, but they apparently

present a means of escape. Up the precipitous incline the lost ones

toil and clamber, but terrific gusts of wind ever hurl them headlong

to the bottom on to a floor of iron spikes.

The last of the series is another of unquenchable fire. Here the lost

are so crowded together that they have no room to move. This is the

deepest and widest hell of all, and here the throng of sufferers must

endure their torments until that day when a great cloud shall appear

in the heavens, announcing the end of the world.

As if these eight diabolical creations of some fiendish mortal's brain

did not contain sufficient terrors to frighten the wicked, all the

eight major hells have each been subdivided into sixteen minor ones

equally revolting. They are all of cubical shape, and measure thirty

leagues each way; but not wishing to weary the reader by detailing

their several characters, only one is here mentioned in illustration

of their general nature. In one of these minor hells every one suffers

from intolerable thirst. Through its gloomy confines flows a river

whose waters are saturated with salt. The wretches, maddened by the

thirst which none may relieve, fling themselves into the briny flood.

Along the banks stand devils with long iron poles with burning hooks,

who fish them out again, mutilate their bodies with the red-hot iron,

and when they cry aloud in their madness for water, pour molten iron

down their scorching throats.

CHAPTER XVI.

RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES.

Religious ceremonies follow one another with incredible rapidity in

the "Kingdom of the Yellow Robe." They are observed by every one, not

on account of their religious value, but because they afford excellent

reasons for indulging in general holidays. A few of the more important

ones will be dealt with in this and the two succeeding chapters.

THET MAHA CHAT. The first one to be noticed here is the

"Thet maha chat" or "The Preaching of the Story of the Great Birth."

It does not, like the other ceremonies we shall describe, occur on

definitely stated days, and in many instances, does not give rise

to a general national holiday. It often occurs as a semi-private or

domestic religious observance, performed by those and for those whom

it immediately concerns. Before describing the manner in which the

public and private celebrations of this ceremony are held, it will

be advisable to relate the story of the Great Birth according to the

account given in the Siamese text, for it is said that this account

of the Great Birth does not exist in the Buddhist literature of the

surrounding countries.

Buddhist legends, now rejected by many Oriental scholars themselves,

relate that the Hindoo philosopher once taught and enlightened his

friends and disciples by relating to them at considerable length, five

hundred and fifty stories, called "jatakas", about himself. These

narratives give a complete account of the various transmigrations

of his soul, which he, having attained to Buddhahood, was enabled

to vividly recall. Of these five hundred and fifty Birth Stories,

the Vessantara Jataka relates how he lived upon earth as a noble and

virtuous prince called Vessantara. As this was his last existence

previous to his re-birth upon earth as Buddha, it is held in high

estimation by those who believe in its authenticity. In previous

existences he had traversed the whole social scale from king to slave.

He had been monarch, courtier, Brahmin ascetic, teacher, prince,

nobleman, merchant, slave, potter, and outcast. He had inhabited the

bodies of the elephant, tiger, monkey, snake, fish, and frog. In the

supernatural worlds he had been a tree-god and a fairy.

The last ten of the Birth Stories are of the greatest interest, as

they relate how he successfully attained absolute perfection in all

things essential to Buddhahood; and the first nine of them may be

fitly summarised as a preface to the story of the tenth or Great Birth.

The first story tells how he was born as a prince, the heir to a

throne and a crown. Now, whenever, in previous existences, he had

reigned as a king, he had invariably suffered and fallen in the

succeeding life. He was therefore very anxious to escape the cares

and perils of sovereignty, and so he feigned dumbness. His relatives

doubted the reality of his affliction and tried in many ways to make

him speak, but all in vain. At last they proposed to bury him alive,

and the prospect of this cruel death caused him at last to speak, that

he might save his life.

In the second story he is again represented as being the son of a

great monarch. His father's younger brother turned traitor, usurped

the throne, and put to death him whose crown he had taken. The prince

was born in exile, but when he arrived at man's estate he was informed

of his real rank and title, and he determined to attempt to regain

them. He set sail for his native land, but during the voyage a great

storm arose, the vessel was wrecked, and he only managed to save his

life by swimming to the distant shore.

The next Birth Story relates that he was the son of blind, ascetic

parents, to whom he acted as a faithful servant. He trained a pet deer

to carry his bowl for him, and wherever he went the timid creature

accompanied him. He was killed in the forest by a stray arrow that a

king had shot while hunting.

He was re-born as a king of wonderful power. His dominions included

both heaven and hell, and during the period of his sovereignty he

managed to visit both these distant portions of his wide domain.

History, however, does not relate what he saw or what he did in either

of these regions.

[Illustration: THE FESTIVAL OF KAW PRASAI.

_Page 356._]

He next became the servant of a warrior king, for whom he acted in the

capacity of counsellor and judge, winning for himself great renown for

his wisdom and strength of character. On one occasion he is credited

with engineering a tunnel through a mighty mountain, that his royal

master might fall unawares upon a powerful enemy. The tunnel was

constructed, and the attack made with complete success.

The sixth of this set of Birth Stories narrates his career as the

Naga king, the monarch of the snake world. His two chief relatives

were a human brother, and a sister who inhabited the body of a frog.

He himself was a cobra, and one day a skilful snake-charmer captured

him, and took him about from place to place on exhibition. He was

freed from this humiliating condition by his brother and sister, who

ingeniously tricked the wandering showman.

Then again he becomes the son of a king, and holds the position of a

judge. Owing to his severity in putting down bribery and corruption,

he incurred the displeasure of the Lord Chief Justice, who resented

the loss of his valuable perquisites. One night the king dreamt that

he had paid a visit to the heavenly regions. When he awoke he sent

for the chief judge, and asked him if he could suggest any way of

realising the journey, as he would very much like to visit those

realms at his leisure. The judge suggested that the trip might be

accomplished if the favour of the deities was first obtained by making

them an offering commensurate with his desires. He suggested the

sacrifice of the prince and all the members of his household. The

king accepted the idea, and the sacrifice was planned. But several

courtiers who had reasons for disliking the chief judge of the

kingdom, revealed to their sovereign the enmity that existed between

judge and prince. The king, furious at the trick that had been played

upon him, instantly ordered the death of the wicked official, but the

son, acting with his usual gentleness and mercy, pleaded for his enemy

and obtained the remission of his sentence.

In the eighth story he is again a king; but this time devotes his

life entirely to the noble practice of alms-giving. So great was his

generosity that he soon beggared himself, and was forced to become

a hermit. Having nothing left to distribute to those who sought to

profit by his benevolence, he conceived the idea of finally giving his

own body away in pieces. But the Devas, wishing to save him from the

results of such a noble deed, brought him presents of nuggets of gold

with which to satisfy the demands of those who daily asked him for

alms.

The ninth story presents him to us as a wise man teaching and

counselling a king. His fame was noised abroad even unto the uttermost

ends of the earth. Amongst those who heard of his wisdom and purity

was the Queen of the Nagas. She was so deeply impressed by the

stories that reached her, that she fell madly in love with the famous

counsellor, and wished, not figuratively, but literally, to possess

his heart. From amongst her numerous attendants she chose one who was

noted for his cunning, and sent him as her ambassador to the far-off

land, with orders to bring back that which she so much desired. He

met with a certain amount of success, for he won the body of the sage

by gambling with the king, but all his efforts to put to death the

wise old man were ineffectual. And when he was meditating as to the

reason of the failure of his murderous attempts, the old man came to

him, and spoke to him with words of such tenderness and truth that the

emissary returned to the Naga Queen without his prize, but a better

and a wiser man.

The tenth Birth Story is the last and the greatest, and bears the

distinctive title of "The Great Birth." It is the story of his last

existence upon earth as an ordinary human being, and marks the summit

of his upward career, the final stage of his successive earthly

transmigrations. This story, which we shall presently relate at

length, was told by him, after he had become a Buddha, to a great

gathering of his friends and relatives, in the famous banyan grove

of his native city. Showers of rain fell from heaven, miraculously

bathing his holy body, but leaving untouched the throng of people

around him. Seven times he appealed to heaven and earth to bear him

witness as to the truth of his narrative, and seven times was an

answer given in the voice of the thunder and the quaking of the earth.

Siamese tradition goes on to say that after Buddha's death, a holy

ascetic ascended to one of the heavens, where he met the Buddha who is

next to descend and bless this earth with his teachings. The future

Buddha held a long conversation with the earthly visitor in which he

told him, that if the people wished for happiness and prosperity, they

must unceasingly perform all the prescribed ceremonies according to

the orthodox ritual, and, above all, they must not forget to annually

recite the story of "The Great Birth."

At one time, in Siam, Pegu, and Cambodia, it was the universal custom

at the end of the rainy season, to gather in private dwellings or

temple halls to listen to the reading or recital of the thousand

stanzas of the poem which tells the story. The annual celebration is

now chiefly a state ceremony performed in special places. In the olden

days, offerings were made for the decoration of the halls in which the

recital was to be held, and this custom still continues in a smaller

degree. The general celebration that formerly took place degenerated

at last into a kind of theatrical performance, and was accompanied

by pantomime and song. New versions were given; the rhythm of the

original poem was altered; and temple vied with temple, and house

with house, in the introduction of novelties that would attract large

audiences. The late king was a profound scholar and a devout believer

in the pure truths and ritual of his religion, and not a nominal

Buddhist like the majority of his subjects, and he looked upon these

theatrical recitals with their accompanying buffoonery and merriment

as being nothing less than a desecration of the famous story, and

a burlesque of the life of him whose career they were intended to

honour. When he left the cloister for the throne he sternly denounced

the exhibition in a decree that is remarkable for its reasonableness

and its forceful expressions. He even went so far as to tell a story,

evidently of his own composition, the moral of which was that, as far

as any religious merit was concerned, the money spent in preparing for

the recitals would be better spent in burning dead dogs' carcasses.

His strong expressions of disfavour and disgust have had the desired

effect, and the story is now recited in a decent and becoming manner.

The poem, as now recited, contains thirteen cantos and one thousand

stanzas, and was written by one of the Siamese kings. It had been

prophesied that the holy Buddhist scriptures would ultimately all be

lost, and that the Vessantara Jataka, being the most valuable, would

be the first to disappear. When the scriptures have all been lost,

and man has forgotten the meaning of righteousness, a new Buddha will

be born upon earth to teach once more the principles of morality and

truth. The "Pious" king who reigned in Siam from 1602 to 1628, is

known as a priest celebrated alike for his piety and his learning, and

as a king famous for his justice and mercy. He left the temple for

the throne, but resigned in favour of his nephew and again returned

to the seclusion of the hermit's cell. The prophecy as to the loss of

the Jataka deeply affected him, and in order to prevent so great a

calamity befalling his people he decided to write it in the form of

a poem that it might be handed down from generation to generation.

This poem is the gem of Siamese classics, a model of literary style

and treatment. King "Pious" was the first of the royal poets of Siam,

but since his day it has been the fashion for the sovereign to write

poetical compositions. Both the present king and his father are well

known in the country as poets and scholars. The late king was probably

the greatest scholar Siam ever had, so that he enjoyed a double

distinction never possessed by any of the monarchs of more civilised

lands.

And now for the old king's rendering of the Vessantara Jataka.

In ages long since past, the god Indra called into his presence the

beautiful daughter of one of the Devas. He asked her to consent to

be re-born into the world of wicked, warring men that she might

enjoy the supreme honour and happiness of becoming the mother of

the future Buddha. The beautiful spirit maiden was not altogether

unwilling to become the recipient of the honour offered her, but

before finally consenting, she knelt before the throne of Indra to

beg of him ten boons, of such a character that they should preserve

her from unhappiness or trouble when she left the regions of heavenly

bliss to descend to the realms of earthly woe. She requested that she

should be born as one of the highest caste, and that when she was

old enough she should be wedded to the powerful monarch Sivi. Not

forgetting the personal attractions so desirable in an Oriental queen

who wishes for long to retain her husband's affections, she asked for

eyes that should be soft and mild like those of the gazelle, and

for lashes whose graceful velvety fringe should be the envy of her

rivals and the delight of her husband. Her name was not to be changed

from that she had borne, in the gardens of heaven where her graceful

figure and handsome face had earned for her the name of "blossom."

She also stipulated that she should not experience any of the pains

of child-birth, nor at any time suffer any deformation of her slender

form. Her youthful appearance was to be preserved for ever from the

ruthless hand of time, her complexion and skin to be soft and delicate

beyond comparison with those of any earthly rival, and while her

beauty enchained the minds of men, she was to win the hearts of all

by being allowed to liberate all the prisoners in the land. Her final

request included all she had already asked for, and many more besides;

for, in a spirit that is delightfully feminine, she asked that when

on earth, all her wishes should ever be promptly and completely

satisfied. Indra with god-like benevolence granted all her boons, even

the last.

In due time she was born on earth, and afterwards wedded to King Sivi.

She gave birth to an infant son, the future Buddha in earthly form,

who was named by his parents Vessantara. The child gave evidences of

his wonderful character by speaking immediately after he was born,

and later by his indifference to all earthly pleasures. Neither toys

nor jewels were valued by him, and he lived the life of a retired

ascetic until he was twenty years old. His father then desired him

to marry, and persuaded him to seek for his wife, a princess called

Maddi, who was famed for her great beauty. An embassy was sent to the

maiden's father to ask for her hand, and as he willingly assented to

the alliance, the princess returned with the ambassadors to be married

without any delay to the hermit-like prince, Vessantara.

His married life was one of great happiness. He was sincerely attached

to his wife and to his son and daughter, but he never forsook his

ascetic manner of living. His benevolence was a household word,

and gained for him troops of friends, until he made a gift of more

than ordinary value to a neighbouring state, and caused thereby a

great popular uproar. His father possessed an elephant whose chief

value lay in its miraculous power of calling down rain from the

skies in times of drought. Now, the people of a province near to his

father's country, were suffering from want of water, and they sent to

Vessantara to ask if he would lend them the rain-producing elephant,

knowing quite well that he never refused to give to anyone what was

asked of him. He granted their request without any hesitation, and

told them that they might keep the animal as a present from himself.

The ambassadors returned, taking home the beast in triumph; but when

the inhabitants of Vijaya knew what had happened they burst into angry

accusations against their benevolent prince. They complained also that

the animal was not his to give, but was the property of the nation.

The king was not less angry than his subjects, and ordered his son to

leave the capital at once, and live for the rest of his life in exile.

The prince, in defending his action, said that the elephant was his

and had been given to him by its mother at the time of his birth, as a

birthday present. To the father, who was unacquainted with his son's

destiny and character, this seemed the most intolerable rubbish, and

made him exceedingly angry.

Maddi, like a faithful wife, sought to mollify the anger of her

father-in-law, and implored forgiveness for her husband, but the

king's wrath was too great to be appeased by her tearful entreaties.

Then Vessantara gave away the greater part of his property,

preparatory to his departing into banishment. He distributed one

hundred elephants, one hundred ponies, one hundred vehicles of

different kinds, one hundred male slaves, one hundred female slaves,

one hundred catties[I] of gold and one hundred catties of silver. He

entreated his wife to remain behind and take care of his two children,

but she resolutely refused to leave him in his trouble, and taking the

children with them, they departed in his chariot. As they drove out of

the city they scattered all the money they had, amongst the crowds of

people who had collected to see the banished prince leaving his native

city.

On their journey they met two Brahmins, who recognised the prince and

asked for his horses. He at once granted their request, and prepared

to proceed on foot; but two Devas descended from heaven in the form of

golden stags and harnessed themselves to the chariot. A little later

they were met by another Brahmin, who asked for both chariot and

steeds. Vessantara and Maddi dismounted and left the carriage to the

stranger. The stags immediately disappeared, to the great astonishment

of him who had begged for them. The wedded pair, carrying their

children with them, pursued their way on foot, going in the direction

of a distant and lonely mountain, where they proposed living the life

of the hermits.

The road to the mountain passed through the country where Maddi's

father reigned. He heard of their arrival in his territory and at once

set out to meet them. He besought them to stay in his kingdom, offered

them a residence near his own palace, and did all he could to persuade

them to change their purpose. But they refused all his offers, saying

that they were fully determined to live as hermits in the lonely

jungle. At his earnest request they stayed with him seven days, but

left him at the end of that time to continue their journey to the

far-off mountain.

They had to pass through perilous places, and were exposed to many

dangers from men and beasts. A hunter was sent to guard them during

this part of the journey. Indra, ever watchful, saw all that was

happening, and commissioned one of his celestial architects to go at

once to the mountain and prepare two bowers for the reception of the

wandering exiles.

At this time there was living in another part of the country, an aged

Brahmin who was wedded to a young but ambitious wife. She had heard of

Vessantara's gifts, the story of the elephants and the chariot, and of

his numerous acts of benevolence, and felt that it would be an easy

matter to trade upon his good nature and obtain some valuable gift for

herself. So she asked her aged husband to go and ask Vessantara for

his two children. He refused for a long time, but finally yielded to

her entreaties, and set off to find the whereabouts of the generous

prince that he might make known his wife's request. The guardian

hunter saw him approaching, and levelled his bow at him, but the

Brahmin said that he was a favourite of the prince, and had often

received wise counsel from him, and that he only sought the exile in

order to befriend him, and carry to him the messages of old friends.

The hunter was deceived, and allowed the Brahmin to pass on his way.

Then the Brahmin arrived at a hut where lived a holy ascetic, to

whom he addressed himself, enquiring for the way to Vessantara's

residence. The hermit believing the man to be some greedy creature

about to prefer a vexatious request, expressed his disgust and anger

in very strong language. But the Brahmin, unaffected by the scornful

denunciations he had listened to, again professed a desire to befriend

the exiled prince. So sincere did his protestations appear, that the

hermit gave him the required directions.

Following the path pointed out to him, he at length reached

Vessantara's bower, and presenting himself in the disguise of a

mendicant, asked the prince to give him his two children. Their mother

was absent at the time, as she had not returned from gathering fruit

and herbs in the jungle. The prince was grieved when he heard the

request, but he was fully aware that it was only by acts of great

self-sacrifice that he could perfect his nature and attain the goal

for which he was striving, so without much hesitation, he handed over

his little son and daughter to the care of the beggar. His temper

was sorely tried when he saw the mendicant tie their tiny hands fast

behind their backs as though they were common slaves, and drag them

roughly over the rough and thorny pathway. The tender-hearted parent

suffered agonies of pain as he witnessed this cruel treatment of his

loved ones, but by keeping his mind fixed on his future he managed to

control any outward expressions of grief and anger. At some little

distance from the bower, the Brahmin stumbled and fell to the ground.

The children seeing an opportunity to escape from their brutal

master, promptly fled and hid themselves in a lotus pond. The Brahmin

returned to Vessantara, and angrily complained of the behaviour of the

runaways, and upbraided the father with having deceived and tricked

him. The prince, making no answer to the false rebukes, silently

went out to look for his little ones. He saw their footprints in the

ground, followed the direction they indicated, and soon discovered

his son. In answer to his voice, the daughter also came out of her

hiding-place, and there, by the side of the pond, the two children

knelt down and embraced the feet of their father. Tears that sparkled

like gems in the sunlight, fell from the eyes of the sorrowful three.

The father spoke tenderly to his weeping children and told them of his

great grief for their suffering, but that it was necessary for his

and their future happiness. He tried to show them that if their love

for him was sincere, they would go away with the mendicant cheerfully

and willingly, for by so doing they would ultimately help in his

attainment of perfect bliss. The boy acquiesced, but the little girl's

heart was full of anger, and the burning tears ran heavily down her

sorrow-stricken face. Once more they were delivered to the beggar, and

again was their father's temper sorely tried, for their new master at

once gave them both a sound thrashing before his eyes, as a punishment

for what he termed their bad behaviour.

While all this was happening, an event had occurred in the forest to

prevent the return of Maddi before the children had gone away. For

Indra foresaw that she might possibly by her tears and entreaties,

hinder her husband's progress towards that goal of perfect benevolence

which was to crown and complete his earthly career. So he arranged

that on her homeward way, she should meet three animals, a lion, a

tiger, and a leopard. They did her no harm, but simply prevented her

from going forward. After many attempts to escape, she fell upon her

knees and implored them to allow her to pass. Her husband's great

act of renunciation having by this time been fully accomplished, the

three beasts, who were three Devas in disguise, no longer hindered her

progress, but departed into the jungle. It was long after midnight

when she returned to her home, and the first thing her motherly

eyes detected was the absence of her little ones. She turned to her

husband, in whose face shone a heavenly glow of happiness not unmixed

with sadness, and enquired of him what had become of the children. But

to all her questions he answered nothing. Then, knowing the generous

nature of his heart, and seeing the sadly kind expression on his face,

she guessed what had happened, and, overcome with the weight of her

great misfortune, she burst into tears and fell in a swoon upon the

ground. Her husband tended her gently, and when she had recovered

consciousness, he told her all that had happened, and besought her

with pleading and argument to agree to the act in which she had as

yet had no part. Deeply impressed with his earnestness and dimly

conscious that there was more in the matter than she could realise,

she acquiesced in what he had done.

Now Indra saw that there was but one thing left to Vessantara which he

could give away, and that was his wife Maddi. And the god remembered

that if the prince should give away his wife, there would be no one

left to tend and care for him in that solitary place. To prevent

Vessantara being left absolutely alone, Indra himself descended to

earth in the form of an old Brahmin and stood before the bower.

The prince saw him there, and at once realised that he had now an

opportunity of completing his many acts of self-sacrifice by bestowing

his wife upon the stranger. He asked the Brahmin again and again if

there was anything he desired, and the Brahmin at length asked for

the princess Maddi. With mingled joy and grief he parted with his

long-loved and faithful help-meet, who had suffered much for his sake.

The sorrow he felt at parting with the last earthly possession he

dearly loved, was almost drowned in the thought that this was the last

act in the long drama he had played through many generations. Great

was his surprise and delight when the disguised Indra returned his

wife to him, telling him to keep her in trust. The apparent Brahmin

promised to return for her at some future time, and departed, leaving

the loving pair to wonder as to his identity.

The old mendicant who had obtained possession of the children,

intended to take them home to become the slaves of his greedy wife.

But he lost his way in the trackless forests, and by mistake wandered

into the city of Vessantara's father. The king was seated in a

pavilion on the palace wall, and as the mendicant slowly wended his

way past the royal residence, the observant monarch saw and recognised

his two grandchildren. He sent for them, and from the boy's lips

learned their story. The boy also told him the amounts that had been

fixed by their father as the price of their redemption, and these

amounts the king at once paid over to the Brahmin, and so liberated

his grandchildren. The money that the Brahmin received was of little

use to him, for he died shortly afterwards, leaving no heirs to

inherit his wealth. When the children had told their grandfather

the story of their father's life and his lonely wanderings in the

dangerous jungle, some feeling of pity and remorse took possession

of the king, and he determined to have his son back again. He went

to the distant forest, accompanied by the queen, his two newly found

grandchildren and many soldiers.

Great rejoicing attended the meeting of the father and son who had

been so long separated. Vessantara in answer to the queen's entreaties

promised to return home. On his return to his native city a great

festival was held, the people thronged to see their long-lost prince

once more, alms were distributed in great quantities, and the period

of self denial and renunciation was brought to a close. All those to

whom Vessantara had previously given his valuable property returned it

to him, asking for his blessing and forgiveness.

Those who are interested in the after histories of these people may

care to know that Vessantara appeared upon earth as Gautama Buddha,

that Maddi was re-born as his wife Yashodra, and that his son was

given to him again as Rahula. His daughter, however, did not become

a member of his family in the next life upon earth, for when she was

forced to follow the cruel old Brahmin, she swore in her heart that

she would never again be re-born as the daughter of such an unjust and

unloving father.

Thus ends the story of "The Great Birth" according to the version

of the "pious" king of Siam. With the exception of the public state

recital of the poem, it is now only recited in connection with the

novitiate of the eldest sons of rich parents. The poor no longer ask

their friends to visit their houses to listen to the thousand stanzas.

The rich endeavour to reproduce as far as possible the circumstances

of the original recital. The novice who has retired to the temple and

resigned for the time being all his earthly possessions, represents

Vessantara. And as Buddha told the tale to a multitude of friends and

relations in his native city, so the novice returns from the temple

to his own home to chant the numerous stanzas in the midst of his

acquaintances. The honour of thus repeating the old story belongs now

to the eldest son, except in the case of children of royal birth, for

each of whom a public recital is held. As the novice has not had time

to learn the whole poem, he only delivers the first few lines, the

rest being repeated by monks of longer standing, who have it all by

heart. At the conclusion of the ceremony, offerings of food and robes

are ostentatiously distributed to those priests who have given their

services.

The preaching of the story of the Great Birth during the novitiate

of the late Crown Prince of Siam, was the occasion of great public

rejoicing. The offerings were more numerous and varied than usual,

and were arranged in a novel manner in front of the palace. A huge

junk was erected on the grass, and its sides were totally covered

with boxes of cigars, boxes of sardines, and tinned provisions. The

cabins and hold were filled with eatables, and when the "preaching"

festivities were ended, the whole vessel was broken up, and its

contents distributed amongst the poor and the hospitals.

CHAPTER XVII.

RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES (_continued_).

THE THOT KATIN. The Thot Katin ceremonies are not nearly so

old as those described in the preceding chapter. They are said to

have been first established as purely state ceremonies by one of the

Siamese kings, called Somdet Pra Luang, who reigned over Northern Siam

about seven hundred years ago. He was a very popular monarch, and as

powerful as he was popular. Whatever he ordered to be done in his own

provinces in the north of the country, was always carried out to the

letter, and the ceremonies he instituted have extended and developed

till they are now universally celebrated all over the kingdom.

In the days when the Buddhist priesthood lived a purely ascetic life,

according to the ideal of their great teacher, long before the days

even of Pra Luang himself, there was one branch of the monastic order

which was far more given to practising self-denial and mortification

than any of the rest of the brotherhood. And this sect of holy monks

vowed a solemn vow that they would never wear any clothes that were

directly or indirectly presented to them. They vowed that their

robes should only be made of cloth that had no owners, such as

the winding-sheets that had enshrouded the bodies of the dead, the

clothes that had been cast away because they had been worn by persons

suffering from infectious diseases, or the garments that had been

discarded by their owners as being too ragged or filthy to be used any

longer. Garments of this description were the only ones they would

wear, and all presents were steadily refused. At the end of the rainy

season, when the period of the forced retirement in the monasteries

was finished, they went in little parties of three and four to the

cemeteries, to the places where the bodies of the dead were burned,

and to all the spots where dust, dirt, refuse, and rubbish had been

deposited. There they gathered up every scrap and remnant of cloth,

to patch them carefully together to make their garments for the

coming year. Many people saw them frequently groping about in these

unhealthy, unfrequented localities, and asked them wonderingly, "What

are you doing there? What are you looking for?" And to all enquiries

the priests made none other answer save "We seek for ownerless

clothes." Then the people, partly out of a feeling of pity and partly

out of a desire to make merit, went to their homes and brought all

the pieces of cotton, linen, or woollen cloth they could spare, and

generously offered them as gifts to the ragged priests. But the gifts

were always firmly refused, and the people returned to their homes,

wondering why this one particular order of mendicant brethren would

not accept their voluntary offerings.

Some of the more inquisitive of those whose gifts had been refused,

stealthily followed the priests from place to place, and, unseen

themselves, observed all they did. And they saw the worthy monks

groping in heaps of refuse and gathering fragments of cloth, taking

soiled torn rags from the branches of trees, and collecting the

scraps of linen that were blown hither and thither by the wind in the

grave-yards, where were buried the uncremated, those who had died of

small-pox, cholera, and other dangerous and infectious diseases. When

they had seen all this, they returned home and told their brethren,

and all wondered greatly, but no one understood. Then those people

who reverenced the priests, but whose minds held many superstitious

notions, invented a theory which seemed to explain all the facts that

had been observed, and which afterwards found wide acceptation amongst

the people. They said that these wandering, self-denying, rag-hunting

monks were of the holiest of the holy, that they had power to see into

the realms of heaven and of hell, and that their chief aim and purpose

in this life was to promote the future happiness of men and animals.

When these priests clad themselves in the garments of one who had

died, the deceased ascended into heaven. Therefore, the monks, ever

living according to the faith they held, and in pursuance of their

great desire to give future bliss to those who had departed, wore not

the valuable gifts of the living, but the cast-off garments of the

dead.

When this theory had been heard and accepted by devout or

superstitious people, the custom arose of wrapping many extra cloths

round the body of a dead person, and requesting the priests to remove

them from the corpse and carry them away to the temples. This custom

still prevails in many parts of the country amongst people who hope

in this way to secure the safe and speedy entrance of their deceased

friends and relatives into the realms of indescribable felicity. The

late king, in his sincere desire to purify the religious beliefs of

his credulous subjects, endeavoured to point out to them that there

was nothing whatever in the original scriptural texts to warrant this

wide-spread faith, and that it was purely a superstition invented

and taught by the laity. He also pointed out the true interpretation

of the priests' actions--namely, their desire to live a thoroughly

ascetic life that they might purify their minds and be worthy of their

master. But the people have refused to accept this simple explanation

either from their ruler or from their more enlightened ecclesiastical

teachers, and even accuse those priests who exhibit any reluctance to

comply with their requests, of being wanting in pity and gentleness.

So they continue to wrap unnecessary cloths round the bodies of the

dead, that the priests may remove them and wear them, and so ensure

the happiness of the dead. There have been also many priests of

worldly disposition who have secretly encouraged the custom, as it is

a source of considerable worldly profit to themselves.

A more reasonable but still unorthodox creed has found many followers.

According to some, the priests sought for the clothes that had

shrouded people who had died of infectious diseases, not out of pity

for the dead, but out of consideration for the living. For by removing

these cloths they effectually prevented them from being blown amongst

the homes of men, and so spreading the disease. They thus removed

a possible disaster. This idea degenerated into the belief that by

presenting the priests with robes, impending dangers would be rendered

ineffectual to the giver, and led to the custom of throwing garments

for the use of the priests in front of the temples. This was usually

done at the end of the rainy season, which, according to the old

custom of counting time, was the end of the year. The donors thought

they would in this way certainly secure prosperity for themselves and

families during the ensuing months.

As a result of this latter belief it became the custom to present

robes to the priests in October and November, when the wet months

were drawing to a close. King Pra Luang in his palace at Ayuthia,

considered the custom, pronounced it good, and established it as part

of the ordinary worship of the devout. When the proper season arrived,

he set out himself to distribute robes to the inmates of the royal

temple. Each temple provided a quantity of fireworks, and appointed

responsible officers to superintend their pyrotechnical displays. In

front of the landing of the king's palace, were gathered together

numerous boats laden with baskets of food and yellow cloth. In the

centre of each basket a stout branch was fixed, and from the branches

lighted lanterns were suspended. At the bottom of every lantern

trailed a strip of yellow silk, symbolical of the scraps that the old

monks sought in desolate places. The boats also contained presents of

many descriptions given by the king, the government officials, and the

common people according to their wealth or their faith.

In the evening, as soon as it was dark, the king came down to the bank

of the river to examine the boats and their contents. He descended

into his state barge, attended by his chief officers, and headed a

long procession, accompanied by the chief ladies of the palace, and

by crowds of people who had been drawn to the place by the prospect

of seeing the fireworks. The boats, crowded by natives, drew after

them the other boats containing the baskets of food and the piles of

robes. Wherever the king stopped, presents of eatables and priestly

garments were distributed to the brethren who resided in the temple,

and fireworks were let off in honour of the sovereign's arrival, and

as a mark of gratitude for his benevolence. At a later date, when

temples became multiplied to such an extent that the king was unable

to personally visit them all, he entrusted the distribution of the

presents to his relatives, and officials of high rank.

The custom of presenting robes at the end of the rainy season is now

universally observed throughout the whole kingdom, and is looked upon

as an excellent way of making merit, though, in common with all the

other religious observances of the country, its primary meaning and

origin are unknown to most of the worshippers.

The festival is known as the "Thot Katin", and is celebrated with

great rejoicing and merriment. "Katin", or "Kratin", is derived from

the Pali word, "Katina", and means "severe" or "difficult". The term

is applied to three separate things. It means a pattern of a priest's

robe made of patchwork; it is the name of the robe itself, which must

be made of raw cotton and completed in a single day and night--a

difficult task; and it also denotes the merit which the maker will

receive as a reward for his meritorious exertions. The other word,

"Thot", means "to lay down", so that the whole expression used as the

name of the ceremony of the presentation of the priestly vestments,

means "Laying down robes made after the Katina pattern", on the floor

or on a table, for the priests to take up.

The holidays last during the month of October, and are celebrated with

processions on land and water. The water processions in Bangkok are

singularly attractive on account of the number of people who take part

in them, and the variety of costume, and display of oarmanship which

they then exhibit. All day long, lines of canoes, gondolas, and gilded

barges carry the worshippers and their offerings to the many temples

in the city. The holiday attire is unusually brilliant, and as the

numerous colours flash by in the swiftly gliding boats, one begins

to wonder if there are any tints or shades of colour that may not be

seen on the Menam. After prostrating themselves before the idol, and

presenting their gifts to the priests, the people hold a great aquatic

carnival.

[Illustration: WAT CHANG AT SUNSET.

_Page 302._]

The following account of this ancient ceremony is quoted from

"The Bangkok Directory" and is presumably a translation of a native

composition.

"All the temples in Bangkok and its suburbs, which have

been made by or dedicated to the king, expect a splendid

visit from him annually, between the middle of the eleventh

and twelfth moons. This is the season appointed by the

most ancient and sacred custom for the priests to seek

their apparel for the year ensuing. In conformity with this

custom, the King, taking a princely offering of priests'

robes with him, visits these temples.

"The ceremony is called 'Thot Katin', which means to lay

down the robes sewed up in patches according to a given

pattern, for the priests to take up. The pattern is the

'Katin', which in ancient times the priests of Buddha used

in cutting their cloth into patches to be sewed together to

make their outer and inner robes. The cloth was cut with

a knife because it would be wicked to tear it. In olden

time, in Buddha's day, the custom was for the priests to

go out themselves to seek old cast-off clothing, and the

best of these they would patch together to form the three

kinds of priestly robes required. This was one conspicuous

mode of self-mortification. But that mendicant custom has

gradually given place to the present one of making the

garments of new cloth dyed yellow; and prepared by the

princely donations of thousands of the affluent, and the

more humble contributions of the multitudes of the poor.

They begin to make preparations for this season months

before the time, until in Bangkok alone, there are many

thousands of priests' suits in readiness by the middle of

October for distribution at the temples. The cloth is dyed

yellow for the purpose, as tradition says, of imitating

somewhat the custom of Buddha and his early followers, who

preferred a dingy yellow colour for their robes, for the

express purpose of making themselves odious in the eyes

of the world, that there might be no door of temptation

open to them to be conformed to the world. In those days

it was the custom of robbers and murderers in Hindustan,

where Buddhism began its course, to wear red and yellow

clothing as an appropriate badge of their profession. The

better classes of the world regarded them with horror, and

fled from them. Now, Gautama Buddha, when a prince, had a

host of ardent friends who urged him not to abdicate his

throne. But he was full set to do it; and this was the mode

he took to cut himself off from their sympathy. By assuming

the robber's garb, he would rid himself of such ruinous

tempters, and yet secure another class of admirers, who

would delight to walk with him in the road to Nirvana, to

which his whole heart and soul was devoted.

"Although there are so many hundreds of Buddhist temples

in Siam, none are omitted from this annual visitation. The

royal temples are visited by the king, or by some prince or

nobleman of high rank, who goes in the king's name. Outside

the capital, these royal temples are always visited by

deputies of His Majesty, bearing priests' robes and other

things provided by the king.

"When His Majesty goes in person, he does so with great

pomp and splendour, whether by land or water. If by water

the finest state barges are displayed. There are some ten

or more of these splendid boats, each with some august name

attached, to distinguish it from the others. These barges

are called 'royal throne boats'. Only one appears in the

royal procession at a time. They are from one hundred and

fifty to one hundred and eighty feet in length, and from

six to eight feet wide. They gradually become narrower

fore and aft, and taper upwards. Hanging from the stem and

stern are two large white tassels made of the hair of the

Cashmere goat, and between them floats a royal banner. A

little abaft of midships there is a splendid canopy about

twelve feet long, having the ridge curving downward at

each end, and covered with cloth of gold, and the sides

tastefully hung with curtains of the same costly material.

Within is a throne, suited to this little floating palace.

The bows of the barges to convey the priestly robes and

other gifts, are formed into heads of hideous dragons, or

imaginary sea-monsters, with glaring eyes and horrid teeth

and horns. The whole boat is richly carved and gilded

to represent scales, often inlaid with pearl and other

precious things, while the stern forms an immense tail,

curving upwards to the height of twelve or fifteen feet. It

is in this kind of barge that the king always rides. When

he would appear in his greatest glory, he is seen seated

on this, his floating throne, wearing a gold-embroidered

coat, and golden shoes. He has generally the Crown Prince

with him, and sometimes other royal children follow him in

a barge of second rank, being all beautifully attired. We

must not forget to mention the huge jewelled fan, the royal

umbrellas, white and yellow, which have their appropriate

places in the dragon barge, and help to distinguish it

from all there in the imposing pageant. The dragon barges

are propelled by sixty or seventy paddlers, who have been

trained daily for a full month for that express service.

They have been taught to paddle in unison, all striking

the water at the same moment, and all raising the blades

of their paddles above their heads, at an equal height.

These royal boatmen, by their public training on the river,

become a pattern for all others in the procession.

"Preceding the King's personal barge, there are usually

from forty to sixty royal guard-boats, over one hundred

feet long, and from five to six feet wide, going in pairs.

They are modelled after the King's own boat, but smaller,

and the canopy is made of whitish leaves resembling the

palm leaf, sewed together, and ornamented with crimson

cloth bordered with yellow. Under the bow and stern of

these boats, float a pair of long grey tassels, made of

the fibres of pine-apple leaves, and between each of these

hangs a golden banner. They have fifty or more paddlers,

and two men in each boat beat time with a long pole

decorated with white tassels, which they lift up and strike

down end-wise on the deck of the boat.

"In the rear of the King's barge come princes, nobles,

officers, and multitudes of still lower grades, who all

follow the King to the temple in boats of various fashions,

down to the simple one-oared skiff with its single

half-naked occupant. Each prince and nobleman sits proudly

under his own canopy, attired in his best court robes,

having duly arranged about him gold or silver water-pot

and tea-pot, and betel and cigar boxes, all of which have

been given to him by the King, as insignia of his rank and

office.

"The boatmen have various coloured liveries. Those of the

King's dragon barge and its mate usually wear red jackets

and caps. On the guard-boats we see many colours; some

have red jackets and leather caps of ancient style; in

others the men have only short pants, and narrow fillets

of palm-leaf about their heads. Brass bands follow in the

procession, and companies of native men-o'-war's men, who

close up the moving panorama.

"The floating and other houses along the line of the King's

advance have each prepared a little table or altar, upon

which they display the choicest fruits and flowers, wax

candles, pictures, and other ornaments, as marks of respect

to their sovereign. The native and foreign shipping display

their colours. The small craft on the river and canals

where he is to come, clear out for the time, to make a wide

and open passage for him. Formerly none were allowed to

watch the royal procession, except from behind closed doors

or windows, but now all such restrictions are withdrawn,

and the people enjoy the sight of their beloved King, and

take part in the general rejoicings.

"The priests' garments being neatly folded and put up into

bundles of a suit each, are borne with the King in the

royal throne barge. When he arrives at the landing of a

temple, he remains seated until several suits of the yellow

robes have been carried up to the door and put in care of

an official, to await the approach of His Majesty, and

until other officers of state and a company of infantry,

together with the musicians, have had time to leave their

boats and place themselves in position for receiving him.

The handrails of the steps which the King ascends are

wound with white cotton cloth, and the flagged path from

the landing to the temple is covered with grass matting

exclusively for him to walk upon. When the King is in the

act of ascending the steps of the landing, 'Old Siam'

blows her pipes and conch shells, and beats her drums; the

military form in double line and present arms, and the

brass band plays the national anthem.

"Having reached the door of the 'bote', the King takes

one suit of the priests' robes, and bearing it in both

hands, walks in and lays it on a table prepared for that

purpose. On this table are five golden vases of flowers,

five golden dishes of parched rice, tastefully arranged in

the form of bouquets, five golden candlesticks with their

candles, and five incense sticks. His Majesty first lights

the candles and incense sticks. He then worships before

the sacred shrine of Buddha, the sacred books, and the

assembled priests. He next makes a request to the chief

priest to renew his covenant to observe the five rules

of the Buddhist religion. These are, first, that he will

not take the life of any man or other sentient creature;

second, that he will not oppress any man; third, that he

will not take to wife any woman belonging to another,

while there is the least unwillingness on the part of

the woman, or of her parents or of her guardians, to the

transaction; fourth, that he will not lie, nor deal falsely

with mankind, nor use abusive language; fifth, that he

will not use intoxicating liquors as a beverage. When the

King visits the temple, if it happens to be one of their

four sacred days, their custom makes it necessary for him

to promise to observe three other rules in addition to the

above five; first, that he will not partake of any food

after midday on any sacred day until the next morning after

light has appeared; second, that he will not on sacred days

indulge in any theatrical or musical performances, nor in

any way allow or cause his person to be perfumed; third,

that he will not on such days sleep on a bed that is more

than ten and a half inches high, nor use any mattress, and

that he will deny himself as becometh a devout Buddhist. If

the King is conscious of having transgressed any of these

rules since he last renewed his obligations, he is supposed

to confess his sins mentally before Buddha, and promise

solemnly that he will earnestly endeavour to avoid such

sins in the future.

"His Majesty having renewed his obligations, then proceeds

to make a formal presentation of his offerings to the

priests of that temple, whereupon they respond in the Pali

tongue, 'sâdhu, sâdhu' ('well, well'). The chief priest

then addresses the fraternity as follows: 'This "Katin"

robe has been given to us by his most illustrious majesty,

the King, who, being endued with exceedingly great goodness

and righteousness, has condescended to come hither himself

and present these garments to us, a company of Buddhist

priests, without designating any particular person by

whom they shall be worn.' They then distribute the gifts

amongst themselves, after which they bow down and worship

Buddha, reciting a few Pali sentences. This distribution of

garments is not always done in the presence of the King,

but sometimes after he has left the temple. The late King

Maha Mongkut made an innovation on this old custom, by

bringing with him extra suits of yellow robes and giving

them to certain priests who had distinguished themselves as

Pali scholars. It is also usual to make a few other gifts

to the priests, of such things as they are apt to need,

as bedding, boats, and table furniture, but these are not

considered any part of the real 'Katin.'

"As the King is about to leave the temple, the priests

pronounce a Pali blessing upon him, and he again worships

Buddha, the sacred books, and the priests. Then rising, he

walks out of the 'bote,' and descends to the royal barge,

with the same ceremonies as when he ascended. He visits

several temples during each day, and spends some time in

each one. The value of each priest's suit which the King

offers, is supposed to be about ten Mexican dollars, and

the aggregate value of the offerings he makes on these

successive days is probably not less than ten thousand

Mexican dollars."

SONG KRAN. Song Kran is an angel who rises with the sun when

he enters the sign Aries. The date of the holidays held and ceremonies

performed under this title is ruled by the sun, and is not definitely

fixed. But each successive year the court astrologers announce the

event, and then for four days the celebrations take place. The King

takes a state shower-bath, and invites the priests to assemble at the

palace for prayers and breakfast. The laity have their own special

religious services and their own amusements. They gamble and pray, go

to the theatres and temples, feed the priests and feed themselves as

they do at New Year. Buddha's image is bathed by the old women, who

also sprinkle water over the elderly people and priests present, with

the idea of calling down blessings on those who are bathed, as well

as on themselves. As a general rule the ceremonies begin about the

eleventh or twelfth day of April.

KAN WISAKHA BUCHA. This is the name of the holidays connected

with a very important day in the Buddhist calendar--namely, the day

on which Buddha was born. According to the tradition, it is also the

day on which he died, and the day on which he attained Nirvana. This

anniversary day has developed into a three days' celebration, of which

the most noticeable feature is the extensive alms-giving that is

then practised in imitation of Buddha's benevolent deeds. At night,

illuminations on a small scale take place, but there is no great state

function.

KHAUWASA is derived from the Sanskrit "Varasha", meaning

"rain" or "year." The Wasa season lasts from July 8th to October 4th,

and has already been mentioned as the period of Buddhist Lent or

confinement. The priests only, fast and do penance, and even for them

there are no fixed rules, except that which forbids them to remain

outside the temple enclosure between midnight and dawn. Several forms

of self-mortification have been invented, such as spending the night

in a cemetery, thinking of death; sleeping in uncomfortable postures,

and only eating once in twenty-four hours. But if the penitent gets

tired of doing penance, he may give it up. He will still retain all

the merit he has made by what he has already done, though of course

the quantity to his credit is less than it would have been had he

persevered to the end.

The general ceremonies for the people begin at the end of the period

of confinement. The food given to the priests at this time is a

first-class investment, as it purchases one hundredfold its value in

heavenly entertainments in the very next existence. Everyone therefore

is very anxious to secure a hungry priest for his guest.

KAW PRASAI. The ground surrounding the different monasteries

is always covered with sand, so that in wet weather the feet of the

priests may not get covered with mud as they walk from their cells

to the temple. Once each year fresh sand is brought and built up

into little hills in the temple grounds; hence the above name, "Kaw"

meaning "to build," "pra" meaning "holy" and "sai" "sand." The

building of these holy sand-hills is a substitute, amongst the poorer

classes, for the more laborious and expensive way of making merit,

involved in the erection of a prachadee. The sand is moulded as nearly

as possible in the form of the spiral relic mounds, and is ornamented

with small flags. The sand is bought from the monastery, which thus

obtains money for building purposes, or for the purchase of more sand

for the courtyard. Small coins are placed in the holy hillocks, and

these become the property of those who find them when the hillocks are

demolished.

CHAPTER XVIII.

RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES (_continued_).

LOY KRATHONG. The Loy Krathong festivals were established by

King Pra Luang, the founder of the Thot Katin ceremonies, and they

originally occurred in connection with them; but they have gradually

become separated from them, and have now an independent existence

of their own. Whereas the Katin ceremonies owe their origin to a

superstition propagated by worshippers of the Buddhist faith, the Loy

Krathong festivities are an outgrowth of Brahminical worship. The old

"wat" visitations, with the presentation of robes to the priests,

originated, as we have seen, in a peculiar belief as to the actions

of an ascetic priesthood, and were afterwards definitely established

as annual occurrences by the king. Their connection with the ceremony

about to be described, was due to accidental circumstances that

did not arise for several years after the initiation of the older

festival. The later ceremonies which were connected primarily with

the Katin, and which have now become a separate function, originated,

according to the late king's account, in the following manner.

In the reign of Somdet Pra Luang there lived a famous Brahmin who

was noted in the capital, and in all the surrounding country, for his

great wisdom. There was no branch of knowledge whose depths he had not

fathomed. He could read the stars, cast horoscopes, foretell eclipses,

and fulfil the duties of a weather prophet. He was well versed in

the mysteries of the theory and practice of medicine, and knew the

names, habitats, and virtuous properties of all plants that grew. As

a theologian he could explain the origin of all things, and discourse

upon the subtle doctrines of all the religions then known. He was

an authority upon law, could tell what had been the customs of many

people, and devise plans for firm and wise government. As a scholar

of ancient practices he was unrivalled, and knew all the details of

the growth and development of all religious and social usages. Such a

man found great favour in the eyes of the sovereign, who made use of

the Brahmin's great wisdom in the management of his subjects. He gave

him many honours and appointed him to fill many important positions.

Amongst many offices that he held, two were given him on account of

his unrivalled knowledge, namely, those of chief physician, and chief

judge.

This encyclopædic philosopher had a young and graceful daughter whom

he called Nobamas. And as became the child of so wise a father, she

also was well skilled in many arts and sciences. Her beauty was the

subject of every song, and her name was in everyone's mouth. The whole

nation were enthusiastic in their praise of her, and so great were

her charms and abilities that even her own sex regarded her not with

envy, but were proud that one of their number should be distinguished.

She was almost as learned as her father and was wont to discourse

upon all subjects with great intelligence. She was a clever poetess,

a skilful musician, and an artist of great power. And when the poets

of the country had exhausted all their vocabulary in describing her

beauty and her talents, they began to sing of the honours she ought to

receive, and greatest of all these was the honour of becoming the wife

of the king. One day the king listened to a group of musicians who

were merrily singing, and the subject of their song was the wondrous

Nobamas, fit only for the wife of the sovereign. The song scorned the

idea of her wedding any one of less degree, and eulogised her to such

an extent that the listening monarch's curiosity became very great. He

returned to his palace, and sought for the ladies of his household. He

told them all he had heard, and enquired if any of them knew anything

of this peerless creature. To the king's eager enquiries they returned

answer that the song was true, but that no words could adequately

describe the charms of the Brahmin maiden. The king could no longer

restrain his desire to possess so fair a creature, and he sent the

most elderly ladies of his retinue, according to the custom of the

country, to ask her father for her hand.

The ladies went, and their mission was entirely successful. The old

counsellor who had received so many favours from his sovereign was

glad to have an opportunity of showing his gratitude in this way, so

he willingly presented his renowned daughter to his royal master.

He sent her to the king, who ever afterwards treated her with great

tenderness and affection, and soon made her chief of the ladies in the

palace. They both of them enjoyed the greatest happiness when in each

other's company, and whenever Nobamas was not engaged in fulfilling

her duties in her department of the palace, she held converse with the

king, delighting him with her great wisdom and knowledge, and charming

him with her compositions in music and poetry.

Soon after their marriage there occurred a celebration of the Katin

ceremonies, and the king desired the fair Nobamas to accompany him on

his water procession. Now, although this beautiful wife had married

a Buddhist king, she still remained true to her Brahmin faith, and

worshipped her own idols and spirits according to the precepts her

father had taught her in her early childhood. It was a Brahminical

custom that, at the end of the year, all people should prepare

suitable offerings to present to the genii of the river, in order

to obtain pardon and the absolution of their sins. Towards the end

of the year, when the people were getting ready to celebrate the

Katin, Nobamas secretly prepared to perform her own religious rites,

and for this purpose she made a small boat-like structure, called

a "Krathong." This she formed out of plantain leaves, and loaded

it with paddy husks to make it float in stable equilibrium. She

stitched strips of plantain leaves together, and pinned them round

the edge of the little boat by way of ornament. Over the ballast she

spread smooth clean plantain leaves, and on this green leafy deck

she placed a little cargo of betel-nut, sirih leaf, parched rice,

and sweet-scented flowers. She took several fresh fruits of a fleshy

character, such as the papaya and the pumpkin, and deftly carved them

into representations of fruits, flowers, and animals, and piled them

up in a conical arrangement in the centre. The artificial flowers

she stained with the juices of other plants to make them resemble

real blossoms. Here and there she fastened one of her own sketches or

paintings, and finally finished the work by adorning it with storied

umbrellas of paper, tiny flags, toy implements, tapers, and scented

incense sticks.

On the first evening of the Katin ceremony the boats were arranged

in front of the palace landing, as usual, and the state barge with

the glass throne was moored there, pending the arrival of the king.

Suddenly everyone's attention was attracted by a strange-looking

object that was being floated to the royal landing. It was the

Krathong that Nobamas had made. She intended to light the tapers and

the incense sticks, and send the float adrift to bear her message to

the spirits, at the same time that the royal party should set out

to visit the temples. But as soon as the Krathong was come to the

landing, all the ladies, and the members of the royal family, who

were assembled there to wait for the coming of the king, crowded

round it, and begged to be allowed to examine it, so Nobamas had to

explain the design and the meaning of this, her handiwork. So great

was the interest exhibited by everyone in the pretty toy, that no

one noticed the arrival of the king, and he seeing the crowd so noisy

and so attracted, enquired what was the cause of their merriment and

amusement. Someone told him that everyone was busily admiring a float

that his beautiful consort had made. He then ordered the object to be

brought to him that he might also see and hear about it. When he saw

it he could not find sufficient words to express his admiration of the

skill that had designed and constructed it. He requested to be allowed

to keep it, and Nobamas knelt before him and presented him with the

decorated krathong. He again praised the work, but more still did

he praise her who had made it. But when he had examined it a little

longer, he discovered its purpose, and said, "This is the offering

of a lady of the Brahmin faith." And Nobamas answered him, saying,

"That is so, for I am a Brahmin, and hitherto Your Majesty has not

interfered with my religious belief, so at this season of the year, I

have made this little krathong with the intention of floating it down

the river as an offering to the spirits of the water, as is right and

proper for a maiden of the Brahmin faith to do."

Pra Luang was a good Buddhist and a devout believer in the teachings

of his own religion. Still, the krathong looked very pretty, and he

had a great desire to light the incense sticks and the tapers and

send it adrift as Nobamas had intended. But he was afraid of the

opinions of the people. For if he should make this offering to the

spirits and not to Buddha, he was afraid the people might upbraid

him and accuse him of having abandoned his religion for that of his

wife. But he could not resist the temptation to see what the krathong

would look like when it was illuminated, so, not without some little

misgiving, he lit the lights upon the leafy boat. And still he was not

satisfied, for he wanted to see it drifting away into the darkness,

with the tapers reflecting their glittering light in the flowing

waters. Therefore he cast about in his mind for some excuse to explain

his actions, and presently he spoke in a loud voice that all around

him, whether upon the landing-stage, the banks of the river, or in the

boats before him, might hear, and said, "To all the property, such

as temples, pagodas, and spires that are dedicated to Buddha on the

banks of this river; to all his sacred relics, such as his bones and

hair, wherever they may be in the subterranean regions concealed from

the eye, under the river, or in places which Buddha has pressed with

his feet, when moving in his might or in his natural state; to his

footprints in this river, or in the ocean which receives the stream of

this river,--to them I offer this krathong and its contents as worthy

of the great Buddha. To him and to the relics and to his property I

reverently dedicate this krathong. And whatever merit I may obtain by

this deed, that merit I do not appropriate for myself, but give to the

genii, in whose honour the krathong was first made by Nobamas, for I

too reverence the spirits she intended to honour." Having finished

this speech in defence of his actions, and having satisfied his own

conscience, he placed the brilliantly illuminated little float in the

water, for the stream to carry away to the sea.

But all these proceedings, though very complimentary to Nobamas

herself, did not in any way realise her idea as to what was due to the

water-spirits from one who was a Brahmin. As she had now no offering,

she at once set to work to make one. She hastily gathered fresh leaves

and bound them together into a square, shallow box. She cut bits of

banana stem to fasten to it, and in the middle she quickly stuck a

few tapers and joss sticks, borrowed from the people round about her.

Into the boat she cast anything she could find, lit the tapers, made

her vows and resolves mentally, and cast the toy adrift to follow the

one the king had already launched. The monarch saw it, and knew who

had made it so quickly, for there was but one woman in the land who

had the knowledge and the skill to construct a new krathong so easily.

He was loud in his praise, and the people stirred by the example thus

set them, took everything that they could find that would float, stuck

lighted tapers and incense sticks in them, and put them in the water,

till presently the river was all ablaze with twinkling lights, and the

air was full of the joyful sound of merry laughter.

The king was highly delighted with the sight, and ordered that it

should occur annually in honour of the wise and beautiful Nobamas. And

he entreated the genii of the river to take possession of the hearts

and minds of all his subjects at this season of the year, for ever

and ever, and compel them to hold a great festival, which he named

"Khan Loi Phra Prathip Krathong." "Krathong," as previously explained,

means "a little basket-like boat containing small flowers and other

offerings suitable for the water-spirits;" "loi" means "to send

adrift" or "to float," and "prathip" is derived from the Pali word

"padipo", meaning "a lamp" or "taper." There are those in the country

who say that all the descendants of those who witnessed the first

ceremony, are slaves of Pra Luang, and that at the proper season their

minds are forced to obey his wishes, and send adrift the taper-bearing

floats.

For seven hundred years the ceremony has existed, but its details

have changed with each succeeding generation. A few years after its

initiation, the king ceased his visitation to all temples that were

not near at hand, and all the fireworks that used to be let off on his

arrival were brought together to make a gorgeous display at the palace

landing. The king sat on a throne to watch the general amusement, and

then sent adrift one or more krathongs.

Since the foundation of Bangkok the ceremonies of Thot Katin and Loy

Krathong have branched off from each other. The late king introduced

several changes; for, whereas previously, all the floats were provided

by his own officials at their private expense, those sent off by the

king himself were made at his expense, and greatly reduced in number.

The common people, of course, please themselves as to the number and

value of the krathongs they send adrift.

At present the festival occurs twice each year; first on the third,

fourth, and fifth day of October, and again on the first, second and

third of November. The people have various theories as to why they

make offerings to the spirits of the water by means of illuminated

krathongs and floating fireworks, though they all agree that it is a

good way of making merit. About midnight or early morning the king

comes down to the royal landing in front of the palace, and pushes

off a big krathong, whose tapers he has lit with his own hand. The

royal children and princes follow suit. As they float away into the

darkness, they give the signal to the thousands of people who are

waiting to do the same thing. Night is soon turned into day. Fireworks

are thrown into the water, the bright little lights sail over the

dancing waves, and the river is soon dotted all over as far as the

eye can reach, with lights of many colours, that twinkle, fizz, or

splutter for a long, long time. The krathongs take many shapes,

and illuminated palaces, ships, rafts, lotuses, and boats ride on

the river, carrying their little offerings of food and tobacco as

a gracious gift to the "mother of the waters", amidst the blare of

trumpets and the shouts of many voices. Away by the sea shore, the

crested billows bear the same offerings out to sea, to be soon lost

and drowned in the deep dark ocean.

ECLIPSES. Whenever an eclipse occurs, the natives turn out

of their houses and indulge in a very noisy demonstration. Though

their actions on these occasions cannot be described as strictly

of a religious character, yet as most of the so-called religious

ceremonies have been developed from superstitions, the superstition

that forms the basis of the popular theory of eclipses may here be

fitly given. The native astrologers are able to calculate the time of

these astronomical phenomena, with considerable accuracy; but as they

do not understand the use of logarithms, their methods are tedious

and lengthy. When an eclipse occurs, the people beat drums and gongs,

shout their loudest, let off fire-arms, and in fact make any and every

noise they can think of. Some people say that a demon is eating up

the moon, or the sun, as the case may be, and that only in this way

can they frighten the monster away, and so prevent the loss of these

brilliant luminaries. But there is another story quite as fantastic,

which also attempts to account for a lunar eclipse.

In times long ago, so long ago that no man knows any one who can

remember them, it was the custom of the Sun to descend to earth and

hold daily conversation with his younger brothers, the Emperor of

China and the King of Siam. These two potentates held long and weighty

consultations with the renowned and brilliant king Sol, taking his

advice on all matters of importance, discussing with him all the

details of state management and intrigue, and seeking his aid when

foreign powers attacked their thrones. The stars and planets formed

the retinue of the solar monarch, and were employed as ambassadors

both in times or war and of peace.

At that time the King of Siam dwelt at Ayuthia, then the capital of

all the kingdom. Owing to the constant visits of the sun, life was

longer and less liable to disease. Such was the vitality imparted by

the warmth and cheerfulness of his rays, that no man began to talk of

growing old until he had lived for about two thousand years.

The King having reigned peacefully and with great success for over

two hundred years, decided to abdicate in favour of his son, who was

a mere youth of not more than one hundred and sixty or seventy years

of age. Now after this young boy had ascended the throne, old King

Sol made up his mind to do his best to assist the youthful sovereign

in the difficult art of right government. To this end he kept his

watchful eye ever fixed upon the young king and his doings. He never

slept, or took a holiday, but hour by hour, and day by day, poured

forth his shining light in loving guardianship of his royal nephew.

The services of the stars were no longer required. When they found

themselves of no importance in the administration of government, they

became suspicious and angry. They met together and formed a league,

vowed to revolt against their liege lord, and to proclaim a republic

at the earliest opportunity. Like all true conspirators they hid

their deep designs, and while pretending sleep, they only blinked and

snoozed, ever on the alert for anything which they might use for the

disadvantage of their powerful monarch. As they lay in wait, they said

one to another, "Why does our king never go to sleep now? Aforetime he

took his nightly rest as all respectable monarchs should. Why these

sleepless hours?"

It happened that the old King, who had abdicated the throne, had a

daughter of the most lovable disposition, who was also exceedingly

fair to look upon. She was called Rosy Morn. Whenever she came to her

father, he lost any lingering desires for regal pomp and splendour,

for her presence was refreshing to him above all things on earth. No

one except his own family had ever looked upon her. Beautiful and

good, chaste and simple, she was beloved by all her relatives, with a

love that was half worship.

Her days were spent in rural pursuits of charming simplicity. She

gathered flowers and made wreaths of them to deck her own fair head;

she talked to the birds who never hid their gorgeous plumage when she

approached them; and she listened to the voices of the spirits that

frolic in the rain-drops and the dew, as they chattered and laughed

in every floral cup. One day, having sung her father to rest, she

wandered forth to stroll in the still green woods around her home.

In these woods there was a cavern, whose entrance, hidden by a mass

of tropical foliage, had never been discovered by any one except Rosy

Morn, who, keen lover of nature as she was, knew every secret nook and

corner of the whole forest. Through this secluded cavern there ran

a brook, clear as crystal and pure beyond description. Whenever the

maiden was tired of wandering through the woods, she made her way to

this safe retreat and bathed her tiny feet in the clear cool water.

Thus happiness and peace attended her day by day, and her mind, pure

and tender, knew no other excitements except those of simple wonder

and delight.

But one day a butterfly of unusually brilliant appearance flittered

across her path. It was larger than any she had ever seen before,

and the colours of its wings were of the most resplendent tints. She

chased this wonderful little creature, and tried to catch it, but

without success. It flew from palm to palm, and from fern to fern, now

hiding itself behind some radiant blossom, now poising itself high

out of reach upon some feathery branch. Suddenly a light appeared, in

whose brilliancy the hues of the butterfly were lost, and the eyes

of the maiden dazzled so that she could not see. It was the chariot

of old Sol coming over a neighbouring hill. She turned and fled, and

retiring to the cave, quite unconscious that she had been observed by

anyone, she sought to cool her heated body and refresh her weary limbs

by bathing in the sparkling waters that ran through her retreat.

But old Sol had seen her, and being struck by her wondrous beauty,

the like of which in all his rambles he had never beheld before, he

drove after her with furious speed, and discovered the place where

she had concealed herself. He entered into the cavern, but as she was

lying down asleep after her bath, he did not disturb her, but sat

down quietly by her side, and waited patiently for her to open her

eyes. When she awoke, she was startled by his dazzling presence. He

calmed her fears, revealed to her all his majesty and power, and then

cast himself before her in the humble suppliant attitude of a devout

lover. The maiden, unable to resist either the glory of his station,

or the sincerity of his submission to herself, accepted him as her

lover, with great shyness and trembling. They plighted their troth,

and wandered arm in arm about the cavern. They agreed to keep their

engagement secret, and to meet regularly at noon every day in that

place, until such time as it should be convenient to disclose their

intention to their friends. For about two thousand years they kept

their betrothal a secret, but at last, through some mischance, the

stars, eager for revolt, got an inkling of their monarch's misconduct.

They set a watch, and one day when he was paying his accustomed day

visit to his sweetheart, they seized his chariot, and driving with

furious speed, they rushed home to spread the news. Elated with their

discovery they proclaimed aloud all they knew of Sol's behaviour, and

declared a republic.

When the glorious monarch had said farewell to Rosy Morn for that day,

he found that his carriage had been stolen, and that his conduct was

known. He wept bitterly, shedding tears of pure gold. The mountains,

on whose majestic forms he had so often cast his cheery, warming

rays, now took pity on the distressed king, and opened a passage in

the earth by means of which he could return to his home in safety.

Every day he came to visit his sweetheart, driving in a new chariot

through the mountain caverns. Ever as he drove along he cried aloud

in sorrow for his misfortunes, and ever as he wept his tears fell down

to earth in streams of purest gold. These precious tears hidden away

in the ground are now the gold mines of Siam. It took him twelve hours

to get home. Then he turned, and rode back during the night, taking

another twelve hours' journey just to get a momentary glimpse at the

faithful maiden. All this time Rosy Morn wandered about in caverns

and mountains also. Her heart was heavy with her grief, and she wept

bitterly. Her tears fell wherever she walked, in streams of purest

silver, giving rise to the silver mines of the country.