and travels of Hiouen-thsang. Hiouen-thsang was born in a provincial
town of China, at a time when the empire was in a chronic state of
revolution. His father had left the public service, and had given most
of his time to the education of his four children. Two of them
distinguished themselves at a very early age--one of them was
Hiouen-thsang, the future traveller and theologian. The boy was sent
to school at a Buddhist monastery, and, after receiving there the
necessary instruction, partly from his elder brother, he was himself
admitted as a monk at the early age of thirteen. During the next seven
years, the young monk travelled about with his brother from place to
place, in order to follow the lectures of some of the most
distinguished professors. The horrors of war frequently broke in upon
his quiet studies, and forced him to seek refuge in the more distant
provinces of the empire. At the age of twenty he took priest's orders,
and had then already become famous by his vast knowledge. He had
studied the chief canonical books of the Buddhist faith, the records
of Buddha's life and teaching, the system of ethics and metaphysics;
and he was versed in the works of Confucius and Lao-tse. But still his
own mind was agitated by doubts. Six years he continued his studies in
the chief places of learning in China, and where he came to learn he
was frequently asked to teach. At last, when he saw that none, even
the most eminent theologians, were able to give him the information he
wanted, he formed his resolve of travelling to India. The works of
earlier pilgrims, such as Fahian and others, were known to him. He
knew that in India he should find the originals of the works which in
their Chinese translation left so many things doubtful in his mind;
and though he knew from the same sources the dangers of his journey,
yet 'the glory,' as he says, 'of recovering the Law, which was to be a
guide to all men and the means of their salvation, seemed to him
worthy of imitation.' In common with several other priests, he
addressed a memorial to the Emperor to ask leave for their journey.
Leave was refused, and the courage of his companions failed. Not that
of Hiouen-thsang. His own mother had told him that, soon before she
gave birth to him, she had seen her child travelling to the Far West
in search of the Law. He was himself haunted by similar visions, and
having long surrendered worldly desires, he resolved to brave all
dangers, and to risk his life for the only object for which he thought
it worth while to live. He proceeded to the Yellow River, the
Hoang-ho, and to the place where the caravans bound for India used to
meet, and, though the Governor had sent strict orders not to allow any
one to cross the frontier, the young priest, with the assistance of
his co-religionists, succeeded in escaping the vigilance of the
Chinese 'douaniers.' Spies were sent after him. But so frank was his
avowal, and so firm his resolution, which he expressed in the presence
of the authorities, that the Governor himself tore his hue and cry to
pieces, and allowed him to proceed. Hitherto he had been accompanied
by two friends. They now left him, and Hiouen-thsang found himself
alone, without a friend and without a guide. He sought for strength in
fervent prayer. The next morning a person presented himself, offering
his services as a guide. This guide conducted him safely for some
distance, but left him when they approached the desert. There were
still five watch-towers to be passed, and there was nothing to
indicate the road through the desert, except the hoof-marks of horses,
and skeletons. The traveller followed this melancholy track, and,
though misled by the 'mirage' of the desert, he reached the first
tower. Here the arrows of the watchmen would have put an end to his
existence and his cherished expedition. But the officer in command,
himself a zealous Buddhist, allowed the courageous pilgrim to proceed,
and gave him letters of recommendation to the officers of the next
towers. The last tower, however, was guarded by men inaccessible to
bribes, and deaf to reasoning. In order to escape their notice,
Hiouen-thsang had to make a long detour. He passed through another
desert, and lost his way. The bag in which he carried his water burst,
and then even the courage of Hiouen-thsang failed. He began to retrace
his steps. But suddenly he stopped. 'I took an oath,' he said, 'never
to make a step backward till I had reached India. Why, then, have I
come here? It is better I should die proceeding to the West than
return to the East and live.' Four nights and five days he travelled
through the desert without a drop of water. He had nothing to refresh
himself except his prayers--and what were they? Texts from a work
which taught that there was no God, no Creator, no creation,--nothing
but mind, minding itself. It is incredible in how exhausted an
atmosphere the divine spark within us will glimmer on, and even warm
the dark chambers of the human heart. Comforted by his prayers,
Hiouen-thsang proceeded, and arrived after some time at a large lake.
He was in the country of the Oigour Tatars. They received him well,
nay, too well. One of the Tatar Khans, himself a Buddhist, sent for
the Buddhist pilgrim, and insisted on his staying with him to instruct
his people. Remonstrances proved of no avail. But Hiouen-thsang was
not to be conquered. 'I know,' he said, 'that the king, in spite of
his power, has no power over my mind and my will;' and he refused all
nourishment, in order to put an end to his life. [Greek: Thanoumai kai
eleutheresomai.] Three days he persevered, and at last the Khan,
afraid of the consequences, was obliged to yield to the poor monk. He
made him promise to visit him on his return to China, and then to stay
three years with him. At last, after a delay of one month, during
which the Khan and his Court came daily to hear the lessons of their
pious guest, the traveller continued his journey with a numerous
escort, and with letters of introduction from the Khan to twenty-four
Princes whose territories the little caravan had to pass. Their way
lay through what is now called Dsungary, across the Musur-dabaghan
mountains, the northern portion of the Belur-tag, the Yaxartes valley,
Bactria, and Kabulistan. We cannot follow them through all the places
they passed, though the accounts which he gives of their adventures
are most interesting, and the description of the people most
important. Here is a description of the Musur-dabaghan mountains:
'The top of the mountain rises to the sky. Since the
beginning of the world the snow has been accumulating, and
is now transformed into vast masses of ice, which never
melt, either in spring or summer. Hard and brilliant sheets
of snow are spread out till they are lost in the infinite,
and mingle with the clouds. If one looks at them, the eyes
are dazzled by the splendour. Frozen peaks hang down over
both sides of the road, some hundred feet high, and twenty
feet or thirty feet thick. It is not without difficulty and
danger that the traveller can clear them or climb over them.
Besides, there are squalls of wind, and tornadoes of snow
which attack the pilgrims. Even with double shoes, and in
thick furs, one cannot help trembling and shivering.'
During the seven days that Hiouen-thsang crossed these Alpine passes
he lost fourteen of his companions.
What is most important, however, in this early portion of the Chinese
traveller is the account which he gives of the high degree of
civilisation among the tribes of Central Asia. We had gradually
accustomed ourselves to believe in an early civilisation of Egypt, of
Babylon, of China, of India; but now that we find the hordes of Tatary
possessing in the seventh century the chief arts and institutions of
an advanced society, we shall soon have to drop the name of barbarians
altogether. The theory of M. Oppert, who ascribes the original
invention of the cuneiform letters and a civilisation anterior to that
of Babylon and Nineveh to a Turanian or Scythian race, will lose much
of its apparent improbability; for no new wave of civilisation had
reached these countries between the cuneiform period of their
literature and history and the time of Hiouen-thsang's visit. In the
kingdom of Okini, on the western frontier of China, Hiouen-thsang
found an active commerce, gold, silver, and copper coinage;
monasteries, where the chief works of Buddhism were studied, and an
alphabet, derived from Sanskrit. As he travelled on he met with mines,
with agriculture, including pears, plums, peaches, almonds, grapes,
pomegranates, rice, and wheat. The inhabitants were dressed in silk
and woollen materials. There were musicians in the chief cities who
played on the flute and the guitar. Buddhism was the prevailing
religion, but there were traces of an earlier worship, the Bactrian
fire-worship. The country was everywhere studded with halls,
monasteries, monuments, and statues. Samarkand formed at that early
time a kind of Athens, and its manners were copied by all the tribes
in the neighbourhood. Balkh, the old capital of Bactria, was still an
important place on the Oxus, well fortified, and full of sacred
buildings. And the details which our traveller gives of the exact
circumference of the cities, the number of their inhabitants, the
products of the soil, the articles of trade, can leave no doubt in our
minds that he relates what he had seen and heard himself. A new page
in the history of the world is here opened, and new ruins pointed out,
which would reward the pickaxe of a Layard.
But we must not linger. Our traveller, as we said, had entered India
by way of Kabul. Shortly before he arrived at Pou-lou-cha-pou-lo, i.
e. the Sanskrit Purushapura, the modern Peshawer, Hiouen-thsang heard
of an extraordinary cave, where Buddha had formerly converted a
dragon, and had promised his new pupil to leave him his shadow, in
order that, whenever the evil passions of his dragon-nature should
revive, the aspect of his master's shadowy features might remind him
of his former vows. This promise was fulfilled, and the dragon-cave
became a famous place of pilgrimage. Our traveller was told that the
roads leading to the cave were extremely dangerous, and infested by
robbers--that for three years none of the pilgrims had ever returned
from the cave. But he replied, 'It would be difficult during a hundred
thousand Kalpas to meet one single time with the true shadow of
Buddha; how could I, having come so near, pass on without going to
adore it?' He left his companions behind, and after asking in vain
for a guide, he met at last with a boy who showed him to a farm
belonging to a convent. Here he found an old man who undertook to act
as his guide. They had hardly proceeded a few miles when they were
attacked by five robbers. The monk took off his cap and displayed his
ecclesiastical robes. 'Master,' said one of the robbers, 'where are
you going?' Hiouen-thsang replied, 'I desire to adore the shadow of
Buddha.' 'Master,' said the robber, 'have you not heard that these
roads are full of bandits?' 'Robbers are men,' Hiouen-thsang
exclaimed, 'and at present, when I am going to adore the shadow of
Buddha, even though the roads were full of wild beasts, I should walk
on without fear. Surely, then, I ought not to fear you, as you are men
whose heart is possessed of pity.' The robbers were moved by these
words, and opened their hearts to the true faith. After this little
incident, Hiouen-thsang proceeded with his guide. He passed a stream
rushing down between two precipitous walls of rock. In the rock itself
there was a door which opened. All was dark. But Hiouen-thsang
entered, advanced towards the east, then moved fifty steps backwards,
and began his devotions. He made one hundred salutations, but he saw
nothing. He reproached himself bitterly with his former sins, he
cried, and abandoned himself to utter despair, because the shadow of
Buddha would not appear before him. At last, after many prayers and
invocations, he saw on the eastern wall a dim light, of the size of a
saucepan, such as the Buddhist monks carry in their hands. But it
disappeared. He continued praying full of joy and pain, and again he
saw a light, which vanished like lightning. Then he vowed, full of
devotion and love, that he would never leave the place till he had
seen the shadow of the 'Venerable of the age.' After two hundred
prayers, the cave was suddenly bathed in light, and the shadow of
Buddha, of a brilliant white colour, rose majestically on the wall, as
when the clouds suddenly open and, all at once, display the marvellous
image of the 'Mountain of Light.' A dazzling splendour lighted up the
features of the divine countenance. Hiouen-thsang was lost in
contemplation and wonder, and would not turn his eyes away from the
sublime and incomparable object.... After he awoke from his trance, he
called in six men, and commanded them to light a fire in the cave, in
order to burn incense; but, as the approach of the light made the
shadow of Buddha disappear, the fire was extinguished. Then five of
the men saw the shadow, but the sixth saw nothing. The old man who had
acted as guide was astounded when Hiouen-thsang told him the vision.
'Master,' he said, 'without the sincerity of your faith, and the
energy of your vows, you could not have seen such a miracle.'
This is the account given by Hiouen-thsang's biographers. But we must
say, to the credit of Hiouen-thsang himself, that in the 'Si-yu-ki,'
which contains his own diary, the story is told in a different way.
The cave is described with almost the same words. But afterwards, the
writer continues: 'Formerly, the shadow of Buddha was seen in the
cave, bright, like his natural appearance, and with all the marks of
his divine beauty. One might have said, it was Buddha himself. For
some centuries, however, it can no longer be seen completely. Though
one does see something, it is only a feeble and doubtful resemblance.
If a man prays with sincere faith, and if he has received from above
a hidden impression, he sees the shadow clearly, but he cannot enjoy
the sight for any length of time.'
From Peshawer, the scene of this extraordinary miracle, Hiouen-thsang
proceeded to Kashmir, visited the chief towns of Central India, and
arrived at last in Magadha, the Holy Land of the Buddhists. Here he
remained five years, devoting all his time to the study of Sanskrit
and Buddhist literature, and inspecting every place hallowed by the
recollections of the past. He then passed through Bengal, and
proceeded to the south, with a view of visiting Ceylon, the chief seat
of Buddhism. Baffled in that wish, he crossed the peninsula from east
to west, ascended the Malabar coast, reached the Indus, and, after
numerous excursions to the chief places of North-Western India,
returned to Magadha, to spend there, with his old friends, some of the
happiest years of his life. The route of his journeyings is laid down
in a map drawn with exquisite skill by M. Vivien de Saint-Martin. At
last he was obliged to return to China, and, passing through the
Penjab, Kabulistan, and Bactria, he reached the Oxus, followed its
course nearly to its sources on the plateau of Pamir, and, after
staying some time in the three chief towns of Turkistan, Khasgar,
Yarkand, and Khoten, he found himself again, after sixteen years of
travels, dangers, and studies, in his own native country. His fame had
spread far and wide, and the poor pilgrim, who had once been hunted by
imperial spies and armed policemen, was now received with public
honours by the Emperor himself. His entry into the capital was like a
triumph. The streets were covered with carpets, flowers were
scattered, and banners flying. Soldiers were drawn up, the
magistrates went out to meet him, and all the monks of the
neighbourhood marched along in solemn procession. The trophies that
adorned this triumph, carried by a large number of horses, were of a
peculiar kind. First, 150 grains of the dust of Buddha; secondly, a
golden statue of the great Teacher; thirdly, a similar statue of
sandal-wood; fourthly, a statue of sandal-wood, representing Buddha as
descending from heaven; fifthly, a statue of silver; sixthly, a golden
statue of Buddha conquering the dragons; seventhly, a statue of
sandal-wood, representing Buddha as a preacher; lastly, a collection
of 657 works in 520 volumes. The Emperor received the traveller in the
Phoenix Palace, and, full of admiration for his talents and wisdom,
invited him to accept a high office in the Government. This
Hiouen-thsang declined. 'The soul of the administration,' he said, 'is
still the doctrine of Confucius;' and he would dedicate the rest of
his life to the Law of Buddha. The Emperor thereupon asked him to
write an account of his travels, and assigned him a monastery where he
might employ his leisure in translating the works he had brought back
from India. His travels were soon written and published, but the
translation of the Sanskrit MSS. occupied he whole rest of his life.
It is said that the number of works translated by him, with the
assistance of a large staff of monks, amounted to 740, in 1,335
volumes. Frequently he might be seen meditating on a difficult
passage, when suddenly it seemed as if a higher spirit had enlightened
his mind. His soul was cheered, as when a man walking in darkness sees
all at once the sun piercing the clouds and shining in its full
brightness; and, unwilling to trust to his own understanding, he used
to attribute his knowledge to a secret inspiration of Buddha and the
Bodhisattvas. When he found that the hour of death approached, he had
all his property divided among the poor. He invited his friends to
come and see him, and to take a cheerful leave of that impure body of
Hiouen-thsang. 'I desire,' he said, 'that whatever merits I may have
gained by good works may fall upon other people. May I be born again
with them in the heaven of the blessed, be admitted to the family of
Mi-le, and serve the Buddha of the future, who is full of kindness and
affection. When I descend again upon earth to pass through other forms
of existence, I desire at every new birth to fulfil my duties towards
Buddha, and arrive at the last at the highest and most perfect
intelligence. He died in the year 664--about the same time that
Mohammedanism was pursuing its bloody conquests in the East, and
Christianity began to shed its pure light over the dark forests of
Germany.
It is impossible to do justice to the character of so extraordinary a
man as Hiouen-thsang in so short a sketch as we have been able to
give. If we knew only his own account of his life and travels--the
volume which has just been published at Paris--we should be ignorant
of the motives which guided him and of the sufferings which he
underwent. Happily, two of his friends and pupils had left an account
of their teacher, and M. Stanislas Julien has acted wisely in
beginning his collection of the Buddhist Pilgrims with the translation
of that biography. There we learn something of the man himself and of
that silent enthusiasm which supported him in his arduous work. There
we see him braving the dangers of the desert, scrambling along
glaciers, crossing over torrents, and quietly submitting to the
brutal violence of Indian Thugs. There we see him rejecting the
tempting invitations of Khans, Kings, and Emperors, and quietly
pursuing among strangers, within the bleak walls of the cell of a
Buddhist college, the study of a foreign language, the key to the
sacred literature of his faith. There we see him rising to eminence,
acknowledged as an equal by his former teachers, as a superior by the
most distinguished scholars of India; the champion of the orthodox
faith, an arbiter at councils, the favourite of Indian kings. In his
own work there is hardly a word about all this. We do not wish to
disguise his weaknesses, such as they appear in the same biography. He
was a credulous man, easily imposed upon by crafty priests, still more
easily carried away by his own superstitions; but he deserved to have
lived in better times, and we almost grudge so high and noble a
character to a country not our own, and to a religion unworthy of such
a man. Of selfishness we find no trace in him. His whole life belonged
to the faith in which he was born, and the objects of his labour was
not so much to perfect himself as to benefit others. He was an honest
man. And strange, and stiff, and absurd, and outlandish as his outward
appearance may seem, there is something in the face of that poor
Chinese monk, with his yellow skin and his small oblique eyes, that
appeals to our sympathy--something in his life, and the work of his
life, that places him by right among the heroes of Greece, the martyrs
of Rome, the knights of the crusades, the explorers of the Arctic
regions--something that makes us feel it a duty to inscribe his name
on the roll of the 'forgotten worthies' of the human race. There is a
higher consanguinity than that of the blood which runs through our
veins--that of the blood which makes our hearts beat with the same
indignation and the same joy. And there is a higher nationality than
that of being governed by the same imperial dynasty--that of our
common allegiance to the Father and Ruler of all mankind.
It is but right to state that we owe the publication, at least of the
second volume of M. Julien's work, to the liberality of the Court of
Directors of the East-India Company. We have had several opportunities
of pointing out the creditable manner in which that body has
patronized literary and scientific works connected with the East, and
we congratulate the Chairman, Colonel Sykes, and the President of the
Board of Control, Mr. Vernon Smith, on the excellent choice they have
made in this instance. Nothing can be more satisfactory than that
nearly the whole edition of a work which would have remained
unpublished without their liberal assistance, has been sold in little
more than a month.
_April, 1857._
XI.
THE MEANING OF NIRVANA.
_To the Editor of_ THE TIMES.
Sir,--Mr. Francis Barham, of Bath, has protested in a letter, printed
in 'The Times' of the 24th of April, against my interpretations of
Nirva_n_a, or the summum bonum of the Buddhists. He maintains that the
Nirva_n_a in which the Buddhists believe, and which they represent as
the highest goal of their religion and philosophy, means union and
communion with God, or absorption of the individual soul by the divine
essence, and not, as I tried to show in my articles on the 'Buddhist
Pilgrims,' utter annihilation.
I must not take up much more of your space with so abstruse a subject
as Buddhist metaphysics; but at the same time I cannot allow Mr.
Barham's protest to pass unnoticed. The authorities which he brings
forward against my account of Buddhism, and particularly against my
interpretation of Nirva_n_a, seem formidable enough. There is Neander,
the great church historian, Creuzer, the famous scholar, and Hue, the
well-known traveller and missionary,--all interpreting, as Mr. Barham
says, the Nirva_n_a of the Buddhists in the sense of an apotheosis of
the human soul, as it was taught in the Vedanta philosophy of the
Brahmans, the Sufiism of the Persians, and the Christian mysticism of
Eckhart and Tauler, and not in the sense of absolute annihilation.