Japanese Burial-grounds—Cremation in Many Lands—Sacred Scripture
Wheels—Buddhist Rosaries.
I have so often found pathetic sketching-grounds in neglected old
churchyards and cemeteries, and moreover have so long felt that the
subject of how to dispose of the dead so as best to combine reverence
for their sacred bodies with due care for the health of the living, is a
matter of the deepest interest, that this natural instinct led me, quite
unintentionally, to derive my very first impressions of Japan from the
cremation-ground near Yokohama—a spot which, I need scarcely say, rarely
attracts any of the many foreign visitors—still fewer of the residents!
During my travels in India, I had had abundant opportunities of
witnessing the process of cremation as practised by the Hindoos, more
especially at Benares, that most holy city of the Brahmins, the bourne
which every pious Hindoo craves to reach in time to die there, on the
banks of the sacred river Ganges. Many a time I have seen the dying laid
down to breathe their last breath alone on the hallowed shore, while
their friends went off to bargain with the neighbouring timber-merchants
for so much wood as their limited means could procure. Often in the case
of the very poor this sum was so small that the humble fire has barely
sufficed to char the body, which was then thrown into the river, and
suffered to float seaward in company with many another, in every stage
of putrefaction, spreading the seed of pestilence on the sultry air, and
poisoning the stream in which myriads hourly bathe, and from which they
drink.
But in the case of the wealthier Hindoo, the funeral-pyre is carefully
built, and when the corpse has been washed in the river, it is swathed
in fair linen, white or scarlet, or still more often the shroud is of
the sacred saffron-colour, on which is showered a handful of vermilion
paint to symbolise the blood of sprinkling, as the atonement for sin.
Sometimes the body is wrapped in cloth of silver or of gold, and is thus
laid upon the funeral-pyre. Dry sweet grass is then laid over it, and
precious anointing oil, which shall make the flame burn more brightly,
and more wood is heaped on, till the pyre is very high. A Brahmin now
brings sacred fire, and gives a lighted torch to the chief mourner, who
bears it thrice, or nine times, sun-wise, round the body. He touches the
lips of the dead with the holy fire, then ignites the pyre. Other
torches are applied simultaneously, and in a very few moments the body
is burnt, though the fire smoulders long. Then the ashes are collected
and sprinkled on the sacred river, which carries them away to the ocean.
Night and day this work goes on without ceasing, and many a weird
funeral-scene I have witnessed, sometimes beneath the burning rays of
the noontide sun, while my house-boat lay moored in midstream to enable
me better to witness all the strange phases of religious and social life
enacted on its shores, and sometimes in the course of our night
journeyings, when the pale moonbeams mingled with the dim blue flames,
casting a lurid light on the withered, witch-like forms of the mourners,
often a group of grey-haired women, whose shrill wails and piercing
cries rang through the air as they circled round the pyre in solemn
procession, suggesting some spirit-dance of death.
With these scenes in my memory, I made some inquiries, on my arrival in
Japan, as to the method of cremation practised there; but, strangely
enough, could obtain no information on the subject. It was not one which
in any way obtruded itself on public notice, and none of my European
friends could tell me anything about it—most declared that the practice
was unknown in Japan. Accident, however, favoured me, for on the third
day after landing at Yokohama, a friend brought his charming ponies and
invited me to accompany him on a ride, in the course of which, looking
down from the high-road where foreigners take their daily drive, I
observed at some little distance what seemed to me to be a cemetery.
For me, the peaceful “God’s-acres” of our own land have always a special
interest, and I soon learnt that those of Japan are invariably worth a
visit, the ancestral graves being ever well cared for, and the
cemeteries generally pretty and picturesque. So this my first discovery
in Japanese burial-grounds was an opportunity not to be neglected. My
companion, though he had often passed by the spot, had never dreamt of
giving it a nearer inspection, but yielded to what seemed to him my very
unaccountable wish to visit it.
So we turned our horses’ heads thither, and soon perceived that it was
indeed a place of graves, full of monuments of forms new to me. One
thing I especially noted was the enduring care of the living for the
dead, for before each grave were placed the three sacred objects
invariably present in Buddhist worship; a vase to contain fresh flowers
(generally, if possible, a bud of the sacred lotus), a candlestick
whereon was set a taper, as an offering to the departed, and a brazier
wherein to burn incense (generally a pot of fragrant ash), in which are
stuck the familiar joss-sticks. There are also saucers of holy water.
In a corner of the cemetery I noticed a very insignificant-looking
thatched house; and a talkative Japanese “Old Mortality” (who seemed to
be the guardian of the place), seeing my glance directed thither,
informed my companion that that was where the dead were burned, and
invited us to enter. Thus unexpectedly was my question answered. We
found a very plain building, with mud walls and earthen floors, along
which were placed six or eight low stone enclosures; in each of these
were heaped dry faggots, on which were laid the dead brought here for
cremation, in square, box-like coffins, the bodies being placed in a
sitting attitude.
At the moment when we entered, three funeral-pyres were blazing
brightly, and though the bodies could not have been half-consumed, there
was scarcely any perceptible odour, even in this primitive building
without special chimneys, certainly nothing comparable to that in many
an English kitchen.
Two semi-nude attendants watched by the bodies, and would remain on duty
for six or eight hours, till the fire had burnt itself out, leaving no
human fragment uncalcined. Then, when nothing remained but pure white
ashes, they would carefully collect these, to be handed over to the
relatives, who on the morrow would bring a simple urn of red earthenware
to receive these cleanly remains, which would then be interred with all
due honour, with or without further religious service, according to the
inclination of the survivors.
One feature of the graves in this cremation-cemetery which struck my
companion as unusual was the fact that each grave was marked by a
cluster of flat, wooden, sword-shaped sticks, each bearing an
inscription. These are placed on the grave one at a time at intervals on
certain days after burial. On some graves these inscribed sticks were so
very much larger than on the others, that we inquired the reason, and
were told that they marked the graves of very wealthy citizens. The
highest of all, which attained to the dignity of a large post, proved to
be that of the chief scavenger of the town!
“Old Mortality” informed us that of the bodies brought to this
particular cemetery, only about one-third were interred without
cremation; that it was a matter of personal choice, but that Buddhists
of the Monto or Shin-shiû, i.e. reformed sect, were almost invariably
cremated, as also those of the Jodo, Hokke and Zenshu sects. I
recollected that in Ceylon this most honourable disposal of the dead was
reserved only for Buddhist priests, and I afterwards discovered the same
fact at some of the Buddhist monasteries I visited in China.
A very few days later, on arriving in Tokio and driving through one of
its suburbs, my attention was arrested by a group of peculiarly-shaped
tall chimneys, very wide at the base, and ending in a narrow mouth, so
strangely suggestive of old sketching-days in Kent, that the idea of the
familiar farm “oast-house” at once presented itself. On inquiry, I
learnt that this was one of the city crematories, of which there are
about half-a-dozen scattered over the principal suburbs of the vast
city. Supposing that in the great capital the process of cremation might
be performed more ceremoniously and scientifically than in the country
cemetery which I had previously visited, I determined to inspect this
also. But in the multitude of more attractive interests, I never found
time to do so.
Soon afterwards, however, my friend Miss Bird (now Mrs. Bishop) visited
a similar establishment in the same neighbourhood; she said it was only
after prolonged inquiry that she succeeded in learning its locality. She
found the same perfect simplicity in all details. The great chimneys
form the only material difference, their object, of course, being to
convey any unpleasant fumes to such a height as to ensure no nuisance
being created in the neighbourhood. Not only is this desirable result
secured, but even within the premises there is nothing in the least
noxious or disgusting. Miss Bird said that, although thirteen bodies had
been consumed in the burning-house a few hours before her visit, and a
considerable number of bodies were awaiting cremation (those of the
wealthier classes being coffined in oblong pine chests, and those of the
very poor in tubs of pine, hooped with bamboo), there was not the
slightest odour in or about the building, and her interpreter informed
her that the people living near never experience the least annoyance,
even while the process is going on.
The only difference between this city crematory and the burning-house in
the rural cemetery was that the highroofed mud building was divided into
four rooms, the smallest of which was reserved for such wealthy persons
as preferred to have their dead cremated apart in solitary state, for
which privilege they pay five dollars (about one pound), whereas
ordinary mortals are disposed of in the common room for the modest sum
of something under four shillings. One shilling’s worth of fuel is the
average consumption required for each body.
Granite supports are laid in pairs all along the earthen floor, and on
these, coffin-chests are placed at 8 P.M., when the well-dried faggots
beneath them are kindled. The fires are replenished from time to time,
and at 6 A.M. the man in charge goes round the building, and from each
hearth collects and stores in a separate urn the handful of ashes which
alone remains. After the religious service in the house, the further
attendance of the Buddhist priests is optional, but in many cases they
return on the morrow to officiate at the interment of the ashes.
Having noticed the simplicity, the cleanliness, and the exceeding
cheapness of this method of honourably consigning “ashes to ashes,” I
confess to a feeling of wonder when, on returning to Britain in 1880, I
heard howls of indignation raised at the bare suggestion that we should
literally carry into practice those oft-repeated but utterly meaningless
words. Men and women who devoutly believe that the noble army of martyrs
has been largely recruited from the stake, and that multitudes of
ransomed souls have been wafted on the smoke of their own burnt
sacrifice to His presence, “Who maketh the flaming fire His minister,”
nevertheless deemed that it might be irreverent for us thus to deal with
Christian bodies which are to be interred “in sure and certain hope” of
resurrection.
They did not venture to suggest that the martyrs will suffer in future
because their ashes were sprinkled to the four winds; but religion,
superstition, and sentiment were all arrayed to decry the impious idea
of reviving in Britain this “cleanly custom” of our Pagan ancestors—a
custom which is said to have been retained by the Celts of Ireland long
after the introduction of Christianity.
This indignation was stirred up, because just at that time some of our
leading scientists began to call attention to the advantages of
cremation, and some of the many dangers of earth-burial in preserving
bacteria and microbes, which might at any time, even after three hundred
years, be turned up to reproduce horrible diseases in a new generation.
I ventured to add my testimony in the form of a paper called “De
Mortuis,” which appeared in the _Contemporary Review_ for June 1883, in
which I said: “I think there can be no doubt that ere long common-sense
will carry the day in this matter, and that Britain will learn from
Japan the wisdom of allowing her children the option of disposing of
their dead in such manner as each may prefer.” So it was pleasant to
read in a leading article in _The Scotsman_ that the article “De
Mortuis” had awakened a very general interest, and brought to the
surface much of that undercurrent of rational thought on the subject
which has been for some time steadily growing in volume.
In the following year Mr. Justice Stephen, having decided that cremation
was not contrary to law, and Sir Spencer Wells having stated that by
earth-burial it takes twenty years for a human body to be resolved into
exactly the same original elements as it attains in six hours by the
action of fire, and that consequently in and around London there are
always two millions of dead bodies, decomposing in the midst of a
population of four millions of living persons, it was formally proposed
to erect a crematorium at Ilford.
On 1st April 1884 there was a very interesting debate on the subject in
the House of Commons, in which it was stated that in the previous month
four bodies had been publicly cremated in England. Brave pioneers!
In January 1885 advertisements appeared in public papers that
arrangements were now completed for the use of the crematorium of the
Cremation Society of England, and by 1900 the “cleanly custom” had
become a recognised institution.
As regards funeral processions, which figure so prominently in my
Chinese diaries, I saw very few in Japan, although so frequently
sketching in picturesque cemeteries. I remember one on the holy Mount
Oyama, wearily toiling up the long stairs to one of the pretty
burial-grounds near the higher temples. The chief mourners were dressed
in white, but the majority of those following wore their usual blue
garments, blue being accounted mourning. At the head of the procession a
priest bore the sacred tablet, on which was inscribed the new name of
the deceased—the _kaimiyo_, or name given by the priests immediately
after death, and by which the spirit will be known in the spirit-world.
After the tablet came a company of priests endeavouring to intone
prayers as well as they could on such a steep ascent, and next came the
square coffin, covered with a white pall, and followed by the nearest
relations of the dead man.
One curious ceremony connected with funerals in Japan is that of
sprinkling salt on the threshold of the house whence the dead has been
carried, a custom which seems to me akin to that of the Egyptian women,
who sprinkle salt on their floor in the name of God, in order to prevent
evil spirits from entering their dwelling; or, it may have something in
common with the old Scottish superstition of throwing a handful of salt
after a man appointed to a new position in life, to bring him luck. As
we throw salt over the shoulder to avert a quarrel, so in Japan a little
is thrown into the fire to avert family discord.
Another matter in which I have been deeply interested ever since my
travels in the Himalayas, is worshipping by machinery; and my “hunter’s
instinct” led me very soon after arriving in Tokio to discover for
myself the existence of an exceedingly handsome rotating
scripture-wheel, exactly corresponding to the prayer-wheels of Thibet.
There “the six-syllabled charm,” or ascription of praise “to the most
Holy Jewel, the Lotus” _i.e._ (Buddha) is inscribed many thousand times
on strips of cloth or papyrus, and is enclosed in a cylinder of metal,
whereon the same mystic words are inscribed in embossed characters.
These are neat little cylinders, or prayer-wheels, which the devout
carry in their hands, and turn mechanically as they walk, and there are
huge barrels, like enormous vats, which are made to rotate by working a
crank; these are co-operative devotion stores, available for the whole
village, for each rotation gives the person turning the full merit of
having actually uttered each several prayer or praise in that huge
storehouse, so that any amount of merit may be accumulated in a very
short time.[58]
Having been immensely interested in these Thibetan wheels, or rather
barrels of praise, and having vainly sought for any trace of any such in
Buddhist Ceylon, either in the monasteries or in the ancient cities, one
of my first cares on reaching Japan was to learn whether anything of the
sort was to be found in its Buddhist temples. I was assured by several
gentlemen, well versed in most matters having reference to Japanese
manners and customs, that nothing of the sort existed. I, however,
determined to examine for myself so far as might be possible, and
(finding how many of the minor ecclesiastical buildings of the Buddhist
shrines have been suffered to fall into disrepair since the Mikado’s
government decided in favour of the Shinto religion, and has confiscated
so large a proportion of the Buddhist revenues), I quietly went about,
peeping into many neglected chapels and outhouses, where the richly gilt
and coloured carvings, scarcely to be discerned through the thick layers
of dust and cobwebs, told of the falling off of once devout worshippers.
At beautiful Asakusa my quest was first rewarded. Within the temple
grounds stands a very handsome five-storied pagoda of carved wood,
painted deep red, and with deep projecting roofs—very picturesque. That
naturally drew me thither.
Very near this tall, quaint building stands a small neglected temple,
with nothing externally attractive to invite the inspection of the
foreigner, and the windows are so closely barred that little can be
discerned by peering through them. That little, however, proved to me
that this small temple had been built solely to contain one large
object, so strongly suggestive, both in form and size, of a great
Thibetan prayer-wheel, that I felt convinced that I had found the object
of my search. After considerable delay, a very courteous young priest
procured the key, opened the great door, and revealed a most beautiful
specimen of what I must call a scripture-wheel or barrel, as instead of
being full of thousands of copies of the short Thibetan charm, it is an
ecclesiastical bookcase, wherein are stored the rolled scrolls of the
Buddhist canon, arranged in upright order.
An inscription over the entrance states that as the Buddhist sacred
books number 6771 volumes, no one person can read them all; but by
turning this bookcase containing them three times, he will secure the
same degree of merit as if he had read them all; and also secure long
life, prosperity, and immunity from misfortunes.
[Illustration:
SCRIPTURE WHEEL.
]
I think this bookcase is hexagonal, and the handsome panels form six
doors for the different compartments, wherein the treasured scrolls are
securely locked, which, however, no wise lessens the merit acquired by
the devout, who (by the aid of spikes projecting from the base as from a
capstan) cause the heavy machine to revolve sun-wise on its own axis. By
observing this course, the scrolls (which of course, like all Oriental
books, are inscribed from the left-hand corner to the right) pass in
correct order before the person turning, and thus, though his mortal eye
does not even see these sacred books, he is credited with the merit of
having recited the whole.
The actual cylinder is encompassed with small slender pillars,
supporting a beautiful projecting canopy of handsomely carved wood,
richly lacquered. The base narrows considerably, and rests on a stone
pedestal of sculptured lotus-leaves—the invariable symbol round the
throne of Buddha—“The Jewel on the Lotus.”
The whole machine is about twelve feet in height and ten in diameter—a
resplendent erection of the richest scarlet, black, and gold lacquer. It
really seemed quite a pity that such a very handsome piece of furniture
should be left to decay, but its day is past, and evidently this method
of “turning the wheel of the law” has lost favour in Japan.
The temple doors being unlocked, a few of the many idlers came in,
chiefly to see what we were doing, and some gave the wheel a turn,
apparently as an excuse for having come in, but evidently without one
grain of religious feeling connected with it; even the young priest in
charge of the place showed us the wheel as if it were some curious relic
of an obsolete ignorance—the same sort of feeling with which the young
sportsman, proud of his breech-loading rifle, looks at the old
muzzle-loader with which his father was so well satisfied.
On our asking him to show us how it was made to revolve, he proceeded
carelessly to turn it _widdershins_,[59] _i.e._ against the course of
the sun. This was a great shock to my carefully cultivated prejudices
and preconceived ideas, acquired in many lands, both east and west, but
especially remembering how exceeding careful the Buddhists of Thibet are
concerning the direction in which their prayer-wheels are turned, or
their sacred terraces walked round; so, when a senior priest came in, my
companion, a perfect Japanese scholar, questioned him on the subject. He
admitted that it was against all rule, and, turning to his subordinate,
remarked: “Well! you are a pretty fellow, to go and turn the wheel the
wrong way!” But they both laughed, and did not really care a bit.
For public opinion in Japan changes with amazing rapidity, and it is
evident that the scripture-wheel, which the last generation turned in
solemn earnest, is now looked upon as a mediæval oddity, only suitable
for an antiquarian museum. Young Japan has not only lost faith in the
merit to be acquired by twirling a bookcase, but is ready to cavil at
the holy books themselves, and eagerly welcomes every rationalistic work
with which his new foreign friends are only too ready to flood the land.
Among the very numerous interests at Asakusa is a shrine to Ji-zo, the
protector of little children. Below his image are three prayer-wheels
which do not contain prayers, but turning them emphasises the prayers
offered by the worshipper.
The scripture-wheel of Japan being a subject which apparently has (or
had at that time) attracted little attention, I think I may as well
bring together the results of my own subsequent observations.
Having found one great wheel or barrel in connection with the temple at
Asakusa, and thus satisfactorily proved the existence in Japan of this
singular instrument of devotion, I continued my researches with renewed
interest, and so explored many temples not often visited by foreigners.
I was one day attracted by the pleasant shady grounds of an old temple
near the Saido Bashi at Tokio. The whole place was neglected and
ruinous—only one poor old priest, as dilapidated as the buildings
themselves, remained in charge of a temple whose congregation had all
melted away. But in a small outlying chapel I discovered a large
scripture-wheel. Worshippers there were none, and the wheel was fast
going to decay. There is also one at the Higashi Hon-gwan-ji temple,
where it is equally neglected.
A fourth and very handsome wheel, resembling in general form the first I
had seen, occupies a small temple in the beautiful grounds of the temple
of Ikegami, which stands on a wooded hill a few miles from the city of
Tokio—very easy of access. This, too, is a huge barrel, standing
upright, and turning on a pivot by means of long spokes projecting as
from the axle of a wheel. Though very handsome in its simplicity, this
wheel is not gorgeously lacquered, but of plain, uncoloured wood (which
is almost as highly esteemed as lacquer), and its sacred books are in
the form of stitched pamphlets, arranged in a multitude of small
drawers.
I found another very handsome “circulating library” in the grounds of
the Fuji Sawa temple, near the holy isle of Enoshima. This is a popular
temple, which, like that of Asakusa, is crowded with worshippers. But
the great wheel (which, as usual, occupies a chapel apart) was utterly
neglected, except by such Japanese as came to watch me drawing it. For
several days I occupied rooms at a charming tea-house overlooking those
temple grounds, and I often watched the picturesque groups of pilgrims
and other devout persons passing in and out, but I rarely saw any one
approach the wheel, and of those who did so, few indeed ever gave it a
turn; and these showed small signs of devotion.
In fact, of all whom I observed turning the wheel in various parts of
the country, I only noticed one man who appeared to be doing it in
earnest; he in very truth was working out a solemn task with resolute
purpose—a weary man and heavy laden—apparently too abstracted to
remember that he already bore a somewhat weighty burden fastened to his
shoulders, and was too much absorbed to remember to lay it down before
he began the hard labour of turning the heavy wheel. I observed, too,
that in this case the priests seemed quite aware that they had found a
true believer, and they affected the greatest solemnity, taking care,
also, that he should show his faith by the amount of his offerings.
Having now ample proof that the “rotatory cylinder” has held a
well-established position in old Japan, I naturally looked for it at all
the principal temples. Before visiting the beautiful shrines of Nikko
(where the loveliest Imperial tombs and temples are cradled in the most
exquisite scenery), I came on a startling statement concerning how many
thousand times the assembled priests had recited the whole Buddhist
canon in the course of a great festival. The statement excited no
comment, and was apparently accepted as a poetic fiction, but in the
light of the helpful wheel, it seemed to me all plain. So on reaching
the lovely temple grounds I eagerly looked out for this aid to the task
of vain repetitions.
Climbing a succession of long flights of steep stone stairs, and passing
by a tall red pagoda with the usual series of dark projecting roof, I
reached a large open court, surrounded by many buildings for sacred
uses, one of which precisely resembled those in which I had already
found the scripture-wheels. Peering in through the gilded fretwork which
acted the part of windows, I could faintly discern a massive object,
resplendent in scarlet and gold lacquer.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
SHRINE CONTAINING THE SCRIPTURE WHEEL AT NIKKO.
]
Being now convinced that I had solved the mystery of those many thousand
repetitions of the sacred canon, I asked to have the door opened; after
some delay the priest was found who had charge of the key; and sure
enough THERE WAS THE WHEEL! a most gorgeous piece of lacquer work in
richest colours, resting on a stone pedestal of lotus-leaves, and
containing the holy books in the form of upright scrolls. The priest, as
usual, did the honours most courteously, but without affecting a
particle of reverence for this labour-saving apparatus. Evidently this
phase of superstition had lost its hold on the people, and the priests
make no effort to retain a form which they, too, have discovered to be
but a hollow sham.
In the same court there is a very handsome large bronze candelabra,
enclosed in a great bronze lantern which stands beneath stately
cryptomeria trees, and is only protected by a light ornamental roof,
supported by carved stone pillars. In general form it resembles a
scripture-wheel, and revolves on its own axis, so many of the pilgrims
give it a sun-wise turn, though apparently only as a matter of form.
Here, too, I noticed the wheel in its simplest form, as the symbolic
decoration on the bronze gateways leading to the magnificent tomb of one
of the Shoguns.
My next expedition was to Kyôto, the ancient capital of the Mikados—a
city crowded with fine old temples. The very first of these which I
entered was one called Choin, to which I was attracted by the beautiful
tone of its great bell. After lingering for a while in the great temple,
where a multitude of priests were chanting “_Namu Amida Butzu_,” “Save
us, O Buddha!” I passed on to examine the other buildings, and the very
next I entered—deserted and silent—contained a cylinder or wheel as
large as that at Nikko, and of brightly coloured lacquer, but divided
into a multitude of small drawers, ticketed, not with the names of the
Buddhist scriptures, but with such words as “water,” “fortune,” “fire.”
This wheel does not rest on the usual stone lotus blossom, but on a
broad base, the lower part of which is decorated with the images of
divers gods or saints.
I then passed on to the Honguangi, two huge Buddhist temples in another
part of the city. Here I found another large scripture-wheel, similar to
that at Choin.
A few days later, I was on the shores of beautiful Lake Biwa, which lies
embosomed in mountains, in whose green, richly wooded valleys, as well
as on many rocky ridges, cluster temples great and small. Of course I
could only indulge in a cursory glance at a very few of these, so have
no idea what antiquarian treasures they may contain. We halted at the
village of Midera, where some very old Shinto nuns, dressed entirely in
white, came and gazed curiously at me, as I doubtless did at them. In
the temple here I found a very large octagonal scripture-wheel, with
fifty-one small drawers in each of the eight sides. It was the first I
had seen of this form.
Passing on to Osaka, I noticed large scripture-wheels at several
temples, amongst others, at the beautiful eastern and western Honguangi
temples, and also beside the five-storied pagoda of Tenoji. But all of
these are now disused.
On the gateway of Tenoji, and also at the Temple of the Moon, on the
summit of a mountain near Kobe, I saw several small metal wheels (of the
ordinary form—not barrels) let into the portal, as if inviting all
comers to give them a twirl. At Ishiyamadera, on Lake Biwa, I saw
similar little wheels inserted into the wooden pillars of the temple.
These wheels are from one to two feet in diameter, and commonly have
only three spokes, so that they are suggestive of a Manx penny with the
three legs. On each spoke there are several loose rings of metal, which
jingle as the wheel revolves, and so call the attention of the celestial
powers to the worshipper, whose merit depends on the number of the
wheel’s revolutions. Each wheel bears an inscription in the Sanscrit
character. No less than sixteen of these adorn the gateway of the
cemetery of Hakodati, and those who enter give them all a turn—perhaps
on behalf of the dead.
These wheels, which are neither prayer-barrels, nor scripture-barrels,
but simply wheels, seem to carry us back to the origin of this
widely-spread symbol. We know that from time immemorial, a revolving
wheel of light had been accepted as an emblem of the sun-god, a symbol
of which traces have survived, both in Europe and Asia, to the present
century. Thus, till recently—probably to the present time—at the
midsummer eve festival, the villagers of Trier and Konz, on the Moselle,
celebrated the feast of “the fair and shining wheel” (as the sun is
called in the Edda), by carrying a great wheel wrapped in straw to the
top of a hill, where it was set on fire, and made to roll down, flaming
all the way.
In some parts of Scotland, large circular cakes, made very smooth and
flat on the edge, like the tyre of a wheel, were till recently thus
rolled down grassy hills on May morning, the spring festival of the
great wheel of light. And at Ise, in Japan, the most sacred of all the
shrines of the sun-goddess, the simple offerings of the pilgrims are
small circles of straw.
The wheel having been recognised in India both by the aboriginal tribes
and by the Aryan conquerors as an honorific symbol, we can understand
how, according to Buddhist lore, it was foretold at the time of
Gautama’s birth that he would become _either a Buddha_ or _a king of the
wheel_ (Chakravarta Rajah). He seems to have attained both honours, and
by “turning the wheel of law”—that is, by preaching—he is said to
deliver all creatures from the circle (or wheel) of oft-repeated
births—in other words, transmigrations.
Hence on certain very ancient sculptures, A SIMPLE WHEEL APPEARS AS THE
OBJECT OF ADORATION. In the Sanchi Tope, in Bhopal, Central India, and
in the Bilsah Tope (both the work of Buddhists in the first century of
our era), the wheel is shown sometimes surrounded by ministering angels,
sometimes by kneeling figures bringing offerings of garlands. Of later
date, in the Amravati Tope, the wheel is shown supported by kneeling
elephants on the summit of a pillar. Sometimes only a wheel is shown,
overshadowed by the mystic umbrella, symbolic of all honour and power.
Some sculptures, notably those in the caves of Ellora and Ajunta, simply
show the wheel projecting from beneath Buddha’s throne, just as those
which have led me to these remarks project from the gateways in which
they are inserted.
My lamented friend and master in wheel and ark-lore, Mr. William
Simpson, who collected many curious facts bearing on this subject,
discovered a passage in a quaint old French translation of the _Mémoires
of Hiouen Thsang_, the Chinese pilgrim who, recording his travel in
India and notes on its faiths, states that the sacred Mount Méru rests
upon a golden wheel, while the sun and moon revolve around it. Speaking
of the kings of the wheel, he says elsewhere: “_Lorsqu’un de ces rois
Tchakravartius devait monter sur le trône_ UNE GRANDE ROUE PRÉCIEUSE _se
balançait dans les airs, et descendait vers lui_.”
Those who are versed in world-wide symbolism may perchance trace some
connection between the wheels of which Homer sang, “Living wheels,
instinct with spirit, which rolled from place to place around the blest
abodes, self-moved,” and the “living wheels full of eyes” which Ezekiel
beheld in his vision, which appeared moving beside the cherubim,
wheresoever these moved, guarding the holy fire, because the spirit of
life was in them, and the glory of the God of Israel was over them
above. Their likeness was “as if a wheel had been in the midst of a
wheel,” and they were addressed as one, “O Wheel,” or in the margin
“Galgal,” or rolling.[60]
Such similarity of metaphor in the writings of a Chinaman, a Greek, and
a Hebrew are, to say the least of it, remarkable.
The idea of applying the principle of revolution to simplify religious
duties seems to have originated in the feeling that since only the
learned could acquire merit by continually reciting portions of Buddha’s
works, the ignorant and the hard-working were rather unfairly weighted
in life’s heavenward race. Thus it came to be accounted sufficient that
a man should turn over each of the numerous rolled manuscripts
containing the precious precepts; and, considering the multitude of
these voluminous writings, the substitution of this simple process must
have been very consolatory to those concerned.
Max Müller has told us how the original documents of the Buddhist canon
were first found in the monasteries of Nepaul, and soon afterwards
further documents were discovered in Thibet and Mongolia—the Thibetan
canon consisting of two collections, together comprising three hundred
and thirty-three volumes folio! Another collection of the wisdom of
Buddha was brought from Ceylon, covering fourteen thousand palm-leaves,
and written partly in Cingalese and partly in Burmese characters. Nice
light reading! Undoubtedly it must have been a great comfort when
handling these records came to be deemed sufficient.
From turning over these manuscripts by hand to the simple process of
arranging them in a huge cylindrical bookcase, and turning that bodily,
was a very simple and ingenious transition, and thus the first
circulating library came into existence, somewhere about the first
century of our era.
The honour of this invention is generally attributed to Fu Dai-ji
(_i.e._ the priest Fu), who lived about A.D. 500; but, as Fa Hien, a
Chinese pilgrim who visited Thibet in A.D. 400, records having seen this
particular form of turning the wheel of the law practised at Ladak, the
matter seems open to question. But in these Japanese temples a
life-sized image of Fu Dai-ji is invariably represented seated near the
revolving library, and his two sons, Fu Sho and Fu Ken (_i.e._ Fu of the
right hand and Fu of the left hand), stand beside him.
Knowing how many Japanese institutions own a Chinese origin, this is in
no way surprising, but it is remarkable (if the wheel reached Japan
_viâ_ China) that it should apparently have died out in that country.
Certainly I explored a very large number of temples in many Chinese
cities without seeing a sign of anything of the sort till I reached
Peking, and there, by the merest chance, while hunting about in dusty,
neglected corners, I came upon quite a new variety of the old wheels.
Of these the most important instance is at the great Lama temple, which
is the home of one thousand three hundred monks, having a living Buddha
at their head. They are a brotherhood of a singularly unpleasant
type—intensely jealous of foreigners, and so offensive and insolent that
many visitors fail to gain admission, even by the help of liberal
bribery. I owed that privilege to the great influence and strong
determination of Dr. Dudgeon, who escorted me, and whose medical skill
had proved beneficial to the living Buddha and other inmates. With much
difficulty he at last so pacified the rude monks that they allowed us to
inspect all their temples and chapels, and even pointed out some objects
of interest, including a narrow stair by which we might ascend to a
gallery on a level with the head of the huge bronzed image of Buddha.
I then had the pleasure of discovering that from this gallery there is
access to two circular buildings, one on either side, each containing a
large rotating cylinder. Each of these is divided into two hundred and
fifty niches, and every niche contains an image. One turn of these
wheels offers homage simultaneously to all the five hundred disciples of
Buddha.
A few days later, while exploring the ruins of the Emperor’s summer
palace, I came on a cluster of small temples, perched among boulders of
grey rock. The temples, though sadly mutilated, still bore traces of
their former beauty, in the days when they were probably reserved for
the private devotions of the Imperial family. Vast mounds of broken
fragments of brilliantly-coloured tiles told of the departed glory, and
here and there a fine pagoda of porcelain had survived the general
destruction, and roofs of brilliant green porcelain tiles gleamed in the
sunlight.
A small but very beautiful pagoda stood within a temple, on either side
of which were circular buildings containing cylindrical structures
similar to those in the Lama temple, though on a miniature scale. But
every niche was empty, all the images having been extracted either in
the first ruthless pillage by the soldiers of the French and English
armies, or in the subsequent raids of relic-hunters, either Chinese or
foreign.
Knowing of the existence of these two pairs of twin revolving pantheons,
of course, warrants us in assuming that many more exist, which may
reward the search of future travellers.
Furthermore, I am inclined to believe that a similarly concentrated act
of homage to all saints is accomplished by striking certain gigantic
bronze temple-bells, whereon are embossed the images of Buddha’s five
hundred disciples. I saw a particularly fine specimen of such a bell at
an old temple in Ningpo; each of the five hundred figures is in a
different attitude, and the whole is a triumph of casting. I saw other
bells thus adorned with long passages from the sacred books, and each
time they are struck the congregation replies to their solemn boom with
an invocation like a roar, which seems to imply that such bells have a
recognised place in public worship beyond merely summoning the people to
the temple.
As regards revolving libraries, Dr. Edkins, whose acquaintance I had the
pleasure of making at Peking, saw several in various Lama monasteries in
north China. One was at the Ling-yin monastery at Hang-Chow, and at the
Poo-sa-ting pagoda in the Wootai valley he saw one sixty feet in height
and of octagonal form; that monastery had also three hundred revolving
prayer or praise-wheels. In that district there were, when he visited
it, about two thousand Mongol Lamas, and in one of their monasteries (in
which the great monastic kettle is kept ever boiling to supply the
ceaseless demand for tea) he observed a most ingenious arrangement by
which the ascending steam does further duty by turning a praise-wheel
which is suspended from the ceiling.
I myself saw others in the mountain-region above Ningpo, where a
streamlet pouring through the mouth of a sculptured dragon kept up this
ceaseless ascription of praise to Buddha.
And now let me tell you how a worthy old Scottish minister applied the
“turning of the wheel of the law” to his own preaching. He had a large
collection of musty old manuscript sermons, which he stored in a cask.
Every time he had occasion to preach, he avoided the responsibility of
exercising _human_ judgment in his selection by giving the cask a twirl,
and whichever sermon first slipped out was deemed the heaven-selected
discourse most appropriate to the occasion!
I mentioned having seen a very interesting scripture-wheel of uncoloured
wood in one of the temples at Ikegami, where I was shown many strange
temples and shrines. One was full of _ex voto_ pictures of seven female
heads, all said to belong to one serpent (surely a trace of the
seven-headed naga, or serpent, so familiar in Indian mythology). Another
shrine was to a goddess who used to eat children till she was converted
by Buddha, and became their protectress; and yet another shrine,
surrounded by heaps of little stones, tells of a cruel spirit who stops
children on the way to Paradise, and sets them to heap up stones, so
these are offered that the children may be let off.
Crowds of most picturesque people were assembling to commemorate the
sanctity of Nicheren, founder of a Buddhist sect, in whose temple we
found a great array of priests in many-coloured robes and
stoles—primrose, straw-colour, sky-blue, and purple—awaiting their high
priest, who shortly appeared, under a large scarlet umbrella of honour,
carried by attendants, and followed by two black-robed priests. The high
altar was loaded with special offerings, including five brass lamps. We
followed the worshippers to his tomb in the fir wood (a most picturesque
scene), where his ashes and one tooth received due homage.
But the fascination of such days in Japan lies in the people
themselves—all so gay and apparently happy, so thoroughly enjoying their
holiday—and all the oddities which are offered for sale on these
occasions. Most of the booths at this particular fair were for the sale
of beautifully made ornamental straw-work, such as baskets and toys,
most ingenious in device and very gay in colour; but the stalls which
interested me most were those exclusively for the sale of rosaries, of
all qualities, to suit all purses, and made of divers kinds of wood and
stone. Those most in request were made of dark polished wood, but there
were some of sandal-wood, the principal beads being of polished agate or
crystal. There was quite a brisk trade doing in these “aids to
devotion,” which I noticed in the hands of rich and poor, young and old,
but chiefly of devout women and aged persons.
The Japanese Buddhists of the sect of Nicheren, whose festival was being
celebrated, carry rosaries numbering one hundred and eight beads; these
represent one hundred and eight holy persons—four beads standing for the
great saints, while two still larger represent the sun-goddess and
moon-god, or the dual principle in nature, while _two short pendant
strings of five beads apiece recall the ten Buddhist commandments_ or
precepts.
Each sect seems to affect a different number of beads, and a different
arrangement. I possess rosaries purchased in various parts of Japan and
China, and all are different. One has two hundred and sixteen wooden
beads, in sets of twelve, separated by sixteen crystal balls of diverse
colours, and two very large crystals. There are two pendants with six
beads on each, and one connecting bead. Another of these Japanese
rosaries consists of a hundred and twelve beads, divided into two equal
parts by two large beads. From one end hang four pendant strings of five
beads, at the other end are two sets of five and one of ten small beads.
I have also a very handsome rosary that belonged to a Canton mandarin.
It numbers a hundred and eight beads, divided by four large balls of
green jade into four divisions of twenty-seven beads. From one end hang
four sets of five, from the other two sets of five coral-beads. A
medallion and a drop of jade complete the rosary. I was told that these
are now worn by Chinese mandarins solely as ornaments, but there can be
no doubt of their original use.
These oriental rosaries are sometimes of exceeding value, rubies,
emeralds, and other precious stones being thus utilised by wealthy men.
Thus Toderini speaks of “Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, composé de 99
petites boules d’agathe, de jaspe, d’ambre, de corail, ou d’autre
matière précieuse. J’en ai vu un superbe au Seigneur Terpos: il était de
belles et grosses perles, parfaites et égales, _estimées_ trente mille
piastres.”[61]
I cannot lay claim to have seen any so valuable as this, but some of
those carried by Japanese ladies of high rank are exceedingly handsome.
I noticed one in the hands of a lady, who, attended by her maid, was
about to worship at the shrine of Nicheren. It was so rich, both in
material and workmanship, that it evidently represented the family
diamonds. The owner seemed gratified at my evident admiration, and
handed it to me for closer inspection. Of course we met and parted with
a profusion of low bows.[62]
I observe that the Buddhists do not tell or count their beads, but rub
them between their hands all the time they are reciting their prayers,
and then they twist the rosary so as to take the form of a Chinese
character which signifies success, and this they reverently kiss. The
silken cord on which the beads are strung is sometimes tied so as to
assume the same fortunate shape.
With regard to the number of beads on the rosaries in use among various
branches of the Christian Church, while the ordinary number seems to be
a hundred and fifty plus fifteen, I have one of only forty-five beads,
divided into six sets of seven and one of three beads, connected by
silver medallions of the crucifixion and of the Blessed Virgin, with
inscription in German.
The Coptic Christians still further curtail their devotions, the Coptic
rosary numbering only forty-one beads.
I observe that the Buddhists make use of another numerical aid to
devotion, which is virtually a form of rosary. Much merit may be
accumulated by making numerous circuits round relic-shrines and temples,
and there are certain favoured spots round which it is desirable to walk
one hundred times. While performing this action, each person carries in
his hand a bunch of one hundred short bits of string, which he tells off
one by one while working out the full number of meritorious turns!