Whosoever abstains from these forbidden things is said to "observe
Silah"; and whosoever shall faithfully observe Silah, in all his
successive metempsychoses, shall continually increase in virtue and
purity, until at length he shall become worthy to behold God, and hear
his voice; and so he shall obtain Niphan. "Be assiduous in bestowing
alms, in practising virtue, in observing Silah, in performing Bavana,
prayer; and above all in adoring Guadama, the true God. Reverence
likewise his laws and his priests."
Many have missed seeing what is true and wise in the doctrine of Buddha
because they preferred to observe it from the standpoint and in the
attitude of an antagonist, rather than of an inquirer. To understand
aright the earnest creed and hope of any man, one must be at least
sympathetically _en rapport_ with him,--must be willing to feel, and to
confess within one's self, the germs of those errors whose growth seems
so rank in him. In the humble spirit of this fellowship of fallibility
let us draw as near as we may to the hearts of these devotees and the
heart of their mystery.
My interesting pupil, the Lady Tâlâp, had invited me to accompany her to
the royal private temple, Watt P'hra Këau, to witness the services held
there on the Buddhist Sabâto, or One-thu-sin. Accordingly we repaired
together to the temple on the day appointed. The day was young, and the
air was cool and fresh; and as we approached the place of worship, the
clustered bells of the pagodas made breezy gushes of music aloft. One of
the court pages, meeting us, inquired our destination. "The Watt P'hra
Këau," I replied. "To see or to hear?" "Both." And we entered.
On a floor diamonded with polished brass sat a throng of women, the
_élite_ of Siam. All were robed in pure white, with white silk scarfs
drawn from the left shoulder in careful folds across the bust and back,
and thrown gracefully over the right. A little apart sat their female
slaves, of whom many were inferior to their mistresses only in social
consideration and worldly gear, being their half-sisters,--children of
the same father by a slave mother.
The women sat in circles, and each displayed her vase of flowers and her
lighted taper before her. In front of all were a number of my younger
pupils, the royal children, in circles also. Close by the altar, on a
low square stool, overlaid with a thin cushion of silk, sat the
high-priest, Chow Khoon Sâh. In his hand he held a concave fan, lined
with pale green silk, the back richly embroidered, jewelled, and gilt.
[Footnote: The fan is used to cover the face. Jewelled fans are marks of
distinction among the priesthood.] He was draped in a yellow robe, not
unlike the Roman toga, a loose and flowing habit, closed below the
waist, but open from the throat to the girdle, which was simply a band
of yellow cloth, bound tightly. From the shoulders hung two narrow
strips, also yellow, descending over the robe to the feet, and
resembling the scapular worn by certain orders of the Roman Catholic
clergy. At his side was an open watch of gold, the gift of his
sovereign. At his feet sat seventeen disciples, shading their faces with
fans less richly adorned.
We put off our shoes,--my child and I,--having respect for the ancient
prejudice against them; [Footnote: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet,
for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground."] feeling not so
much reverence for the place as for the hearts that worshipped there,
caring to display not so much the love of wisdom as the wisdom of love;
and well were we repaid by the grateful smile of recognition that
greeted us as we entered.
We sat down cross-legged. No need to hush my boy,--the silence there, so
subduing, checked with its mysterious awe even his inquisitive young
mind. The venerable high-priest sat with his face jealously covered,
lest his eyes should tempt his thoughts to stray. I changed my position
to catch a glimpse of his countenance; he drew his fan-veil more
closely, giving me a quick but gentle half-glance of remonstrance. Then
raising his eyes, with lids nearly closed, he chanted in an infantile,
wailing tone.
That was the opening prayer. At once the whole congregation raised
themselves on their knees and, all together, prostrated themselves
thrice profoundly, thrice touching the polished brass floor with their
foreheads; and then, with heads bowed and palms folded and eyes closed,
they delivered the responses after the priest, much in the manner of the
English liturgy, first the priest, then the people, and finally all
together. There was no singing, no standing up and sitting down, no
changing of robes or places, no turning the face to the altar, nor
north, nor south, nor east, nor west. All knelt _still_, with hands
folded straight before them, and eyes strictly, tightly closed. Indeed,
there were faces there that expressed devotion and piety, the humblest
and the purest, as the lips murmured: "O Thou Eternal One, Thou
perfection of Time, Thou truest Truth, Thou immutable essence of all
Change, Thou most excellent radiance of Mercy, Thou infinite Compassion,
Thou Pity, Thou Charity!"
I lost some of the responses in the simultaneous repetition, and did but
imperfectly comprehend the exhortation that followed, in which was
inculcated the strictest practice of charity in a manner so pathetic and
so gentle as might be wisely imitated by the most orthodox of Christian
priests.
There was majesty in the humility of those pagan worshippers, and in
their shame of self they were sublime. I leave both the truth and the
error to Him who alone can soar to the bright heights of the one and
sound the dark depths of the other, and take to myself the lesson, to be
read in the shrinking forms and hidden faces of those patient waiters
for a far-off glimmering _Light_,--the lesson wherefrom I learn, in
thanking God for the light of Christianity, to thank him for its shadow
too, which is Buddhism.
Around the porches and vestibules of the temple lounged the Amazonian
guard, intent only on irreverent amusement, even in the form of a
grotesque and grim flirtation here and there with the custodians of the
temple, who have charge of the sacred fire that burns before the altar.
About eighty-five years ago this fire went out. It was a calamity of
direful presage, and thereupon all Siam went into a consternation of
mourning. All public spectacles were forbidden until the crime could be
expiated by the appropriate punishment of the wretch to whose
sacrilegious carelessness it was due; nor was the sacred flame rekindled
until the reign of P'hra-Pooti-Yaut-Fa, grandfather of his late Majesty,
when the royal Hall of Audience was destroyed by lightning. From that
fire of heaven it was relighted with joyful thanksgiving, and so has
burned on to this day.
The lofty throne, on which the priceless P'hra Këau (the Emerald Idol)
blazed in its glory of gold and gems, shone resplendent in the forenoon
light. Everything above, around it,--even the vases of flowers and the
perfumed tapers on the floor,--was reflected as if by magic in its
kaleidoscopic surface, now pensive, pale, and silvery as with moonlight,
now flashing, fantastic, with the party-colored splendors of a thousand
lamps.
The ceiling was wholly covered with hieroglyphic devices,--luminous
circles and triangles, globes, rings, stars, flowers, figures of
animals, even parts of the human body,--mystic symbols, to be deciphered
only by the initiated. Ah! could I but have read them as in a book,
construing all their allegorical significance, how near might I not have
come to the distracting secret of this people! Gazing upon them, my
thought flew back a thousand years, and my feeble, foolish conjectures,
like butterflies at sea, were lost in mists of old myth.
Not that Buddhism has escaped the guessing and conceits of a multitude
of writers, most trustworthy of whom are the early Christian Fathers,
who, to the end that they might arouse the attention of the sleeping
nations, yielded a reluctant, but impartial and graceful, tribute to the
long-forgotten creeds of Chaldea, Phenicia, Assyria, and Egypt.
Nevertheless, they would never have appealed to the doctrine of Buddha
as being most like to Christianity in its rejection of the claims of
race, had they not found in its simple ritual another and a stronger
bond of brotherhood. Like Christianity, too, it was a religion catholic
and apostolic, for the truth of which many faithful witnesses had laid
down their lives. It was, besides, the creed of an ancient race; and the
mystery that shrouded it had a charm to pique the vanity even of
self-sufficient Greeks, and stir up curiosity even in Roman arrogance
and indifference. The doctrines of Buddha were eminently fitted to
elucidate the doctrines of Christ, and therefore worthy to engage the
interest of Christian writers; accordingly, among the earliest of these
mention is made of the Buddha or Phthah, though there were as yet few or
none to appreciate all the religious significance of his teachings.
Terebinthus declared there was nothing in the pagan world to be compared
with his (Buddha's) _P'hra-ti-moksha_, or Code of Discipline, which in
some respects resembled the rules that governed the lives of the monks
of Christendom; Marco Polo says of Buddha, "Si fuisset Christianus,
fuisset apud Deum maximus factus"; and later, Malcolm, the devoted
missionary, said of his doctrine, "In almost every respect it seems to
be the best religion which man has ever invented." Mark the "invented"
of the wary Christian!
But errors, that in time crept in, corrupted the pure doctrine, and
disciples, ignorant or stupid, perverted its meaning and intent, and
blind or treacherous guides led the simple astray, till at last the true
and plain philosophy of Buddha became entangled with the Egyptian
mythology.
Over the portal on the eastern facade of the Watt P'hra Këau is a
bass-relief representing the Last Judgment, in which are figures of a
devil with a pig's head dragging the wicked to hell, and an angel
weighing mankind in a pair of scales. Now we know that in the mythology
of ancient Egypt the Pig was the emblem of the Evil Spirit, and this
bass-relief of the Siamese watt could hardly fail to remind the
Egyptologist of kindred compositions in old sculptures wherein the good
and bad deeds of the dead are weighed by Anubis (the Siamese Anuman or
Hanuman), and the souls of the wicked carried off by a pig.
In the city of Arsinoe in Upper Egypt (formerly Crocodilopolis, now
Medinet-el-Fayum), the crocodile is worshipped; and a sacred crocodile,
kept in a pond, is perfectly tame and familiar with the priests. He is
called Suchus, and they feed him with meat and corn and wine, the
contributions of strangers. One of the Egyptian divinities, apparently
that to whom the beast was consecrated, is invariably pictured with the
head of a crocodile; and in hieroglyphic inscriptions is represented by
that animal with the tail turned under the body. A similar figure is
common in the temples of Siam; and a sacred crocodile, kept in a pond in
the manner of the ancient Egyptians, is fed by Siamese priests, at whose
call it comes to the surface to receive the rice, fruit, and wine that
are brought to it daily.
The Beetle, an insect peculiarly sacred to the Buddhists, was the
Egyptian sign of Phthah, the Father of Gods; and in the hieroglyphics it
stands for the name of that deity, whose head is either surmounted by a
beetle, or is itself in the form of a beetle. Elsewhere in the
hieroglyphics, where it does not represent Buddha, it evidently appears
as the symbol of generation or reproduction, the meaning most anciently
attached to it; whence Dr. Young, in his "Hieroglyphical Researches,"
inferred its relation to Buddha. Mrs. Hamilton Gray, in her work on the
Sepulchres of Etruria, observes: "As scarabæi existed long before we had
any account of idols, I do not doubt that they were originally the
invention of some really devout mind; and they speak to us in strong
language of the danger of making material symbols of immaterial things.
First, the symbol came to be trusted in, instead of the being of whom it
was the sign. Then came the bodily conception and manifestation of that
being, or his attributes, in the form of idols. Next, the representation
of all that belongs to spirits, good and bad. And finally, the
deification of every imagination of the heart of man,--a written and
accredited system of polytheism, and a monstrous and hydra-headed
idolatry."
Such is the religious history of the scarabæus, a creature that so early
attracted the notice of man by its ingenious and industrious habits,
that it was selected by him to symbolize the Creator; and cutting stones
to represent it, [FOOTNOTE: Six rubies, exquisitely cut in the form of
beetles, are worn as studs by the present King of Siam.] he wore them in
token of his belief in a creator of all things, and in recognition of
the Divine Presence, probably attaching to them at first no more
mysterious import or virtue. There is sound reason for believing that in
this form the symbol existed before Abraham, and that its fundamental
signification of creation or generation was gradually overbuilt with
arbitrary speculations and fantastic notions. In theory it degenerated
into a crude egoism, a vaunting and hyper-stoic hostility to nature,
which, though intellectually godless, was not without that universal
instinct for divinity which, by countless ways, seeks with an
ever-present and importunate longing for the one sublimated and eternal
source from which it sprang.
Through twenty-five million six hundred thousand Asongkhies, or
metempsychoses,--according to the overpowering computation of his
priests,--did Buddha struggle to attain the divine omniscience of
Niphan, by virtue of which he remembers every form he ever entered, and
beholds with the clear eyes of a god the endless diversities of
transmigration in the animal, human, and angelic worlds, throughout the
spaceless, timeless, numberless universe of visible and invisible life.
According to Heraclides, Pythagoras used to say of himself, that he
remembered "not only all the men, but all the animals and all the
plants, his soul had passed through." That Pythagoras believed and
taught the doctrine of transmigration may hardly be doubted, but that he
originated it is very questionable. Herodotus intimates that both
Orpheus and Pythagoras derived it from the Egyptians, but propounded it
as their own, without acknowledgment.
Nearly every male inhabitant of Siam enters the priesthood at least once
in his lifetime. Instead of the more vexatious and scandalous forms of
divorce, the party aggrieved may become a priest or a nun, and thus the
matrimonial bond is at once dissolved; and with this advantage, that
after three or four months of probation they may be reconciled and
reunited, to live together in the world again.
Chow Khoon Sâh, or "His Lordship the Lake," whose functions in the Watt
P'hra Këau I have described, was the High-Priest of Siam, and in high
favor with his Majesty. He had taken holy orders with the double motive
of devoting himself to the study of Sanskrit literature, and of escaping
the fate, that otherwise awaited him, of becoming the mere thrall of his
more fortunate cousin, the king. In the palace it was whispered that he
and the late queen consort had been tenderly attached to each other, but
that the lady's parents, for prudential considerations, discountenanced
the match; "and so," on the eve of her betrothal to his Majesty, her
lover had sought seclusion and consolation in a Buddhist monastery.
However that may be, it is certain that the king and the high-priest
were now fast friends. The latter entertained great respect for his
reverend cousin, whose title ("The Lake") described justly, as well as
poetically, the graceful serenity and repose of his demeanor.
Chow Khoon Sâh lived at some distance from the palace, at the Watt
Brahmanee Waid. As the friendship between the cousins ripened, his
Majesty considered that it would be well for him to have the
contemplative student, prudent adviser, and able reasoner nearer to him.
With this idea, and for a surprise to one to whom all surprises had long
since become but vanities and vexations of spirit, he caused to be
erected, about forty yards from the Grand Palace, on the eastern side of
the Meinam, a temple which he named _Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang_, or "The King
caused me to be built"; and at the same time, as an appendage to the
temple, a monastery in mediaeval style, the workmanship in both
structures being most substantial and elaborate.
The sculptures and carvings on the pillars and façades--half-fabulous,
half-historical figures, conveying ingenious allegories of the triumph
of virtue over the passions--constituted a singular tribute to the
exemplary fame of the high-priest. The grounds were planted with trees
and shrubs, and the walks gravelled, thus inviting the contemplative
recluse to tranquil, soothing strolls. These grounds were accessible by
four gates, the principal one facing the east, and a private portal
opening on the canal.
The laying of the foundation of the temple and monastery of
Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang was the occasion of extraordinary festivities,
consisting of theatrical spectacles and performances, a carnival of
dancing, mass around every corner-stone, banquets to priests, and
distributions of clothing, food, and money to the poor. The king
presided every morning and evening under a silken canopy; and even those
favorites of the harem who were admitted to the royal confidence were
provided with tents, whence they could witness the shows, and
participate in the rejoicings in the midst of which the good work went
on. After the several services of mass had been performed, and the
corner-stones consecrated by the pouring on of oil and water, [Footnote:
Oil is the emblem of life and love; water, of purity.] seven tall lamps
were lighted to burn above them seven days and nights, and seventy
priests in groups of seven, forming a perfect circle, prayed
continually, holding in their hands the mystic web of seven threads,
that weird circlet of life and death.
Then the youngest and fairest virgins of the land brought offerings of
corn and wine, milk, honey, and flowers, and poured them on the
consecrated stones. And after that, they brought pottery of all
kinds,--vases, urns, ewers, goglets, bowls, cups, and dishes,--and,
flinging them into the foundations, united with zeal and rejoicing in
the "meritorious" work of pounding them into fine dust; and while the
instruments of music and the voices of the male and female singers of
the court kept time to the measured crash and thud of the wooden clubs
in those young and tender hands, the king cast into the foundation coins
and ingots of gold and silver.
"Do you understand the word 'charity,' or _maitrî_, as your apostle St.
Paul explains it in the thirteenth chapter of his First Epistle to the
Corinthians?" said his Majesty to me one morning, when he had been
discussing the religion of Sakyamuni, the Buddha.
"I believe I do, your Majesty," was my reply.
"Then, tell me, what does St. Paul really mean, to what custom does he
allude, when he says, 'Even if I give my body to be burned, and have not
charity, it profiteth me nothing'?"
"Custom!" said I. "I do not know of any _custom_. The giving of the body
to be burned is by him esteemed the highest act of devotion, the purest
sacrifice man can make for man."
"You have said well. It is the highest act of devotion that can be made,
or performed, by man for man,--that giving of his body to be burned. But
if it is done from a spirit of opposition, for the sake of fame, or
popular applause, or for any other such motive, is it still to be
regarded as the highest act of sacrifice?"
"That is just what St. Paul means: the motive consecrates the deed."
"But all men are not fortified with the self-control which should fit
them to be great exemplars; and of the many who have appeared in that
character, if strict inquiry were made, their virtue would be found to
proceed from any other than the true and pure spirit. Sometimes it is
indolence, sometimes restlessness, sometimes vanity impatient for its
gratification, and rushing to assume the part of humility for the
purpose of self-delusion."
"Now" said the King, taking several of his long strides in the vestibule
of his library, and declaiming with his habitual emphasis, "St Paul, in
this chapter, evidently and strongly applies the Buddhist's word
_maitrî_, or _maikree_, as pronounced by some Sanskrit scholars; and
explains it through the Buddhist's custom of giving the body to be
burned, which was practised centuries before the Christian era, and is
found unchanged in parts of China, Ceylon, and Siam to this day. The
giving of the body to be burned has ever been considered by devout
Buddhists the most exalted act of self-abnegation.
"To give all one's goods to feed the poor is common in this country,
with princes and people,--who often keep back nothing (not even one
_cowree_, the thousandth part of a cent) to provide for themselves a
handful of rice. But then they stand in no fear of starvation; for death
by hunger is unknown where Buddhism is preached and _practised_.
"I know a man, of royal parentage, and once possessed of untold riches.
In his youth he felt such pity for the poor, the old, the sick, and such
as were troubled and sorrowful, that he became melancholy, and after
spending several years in the continual relief of the needy and
helpless, he, in a moment, gave all his goods,--in a word, ALL,--'to
feed the poor.' This man has never heard of St. Paul or his writings;
but he knows, and tries to comprehend in its fulness, the Buddhist word
_maitrî_.
"At thirty he became a priest. For five years he had toiled as a
gardener; for that was the occupation he preferred, because in the
pursuit of it he acquired much useful knowledge of the medicinal
properties of plants, and so became a ready physician to those who could
not pay for their healing. But he could not rest content with so
imperfect a life, while the way to perfect knowledge of excellence,
truth, and charity remained open to him; so he became a priest.
"This happened sixty-five years ago. Now he is ninety-five years old;
and, I fear, has not yet found the truth and excellence he has been in
search of so long. But I know no greater man than he. He is great in the
Christian sense,--loving, pitiful, forbearing, pure.
"Once, when he was a gardener, he was robbed of his few poor tools by
one whom he had befriended in many ways. Some time after that, the king
met him, and inquired of his necessities. He said he needed tools for
his gardening. A great abundance of such implements was sent to him; and
immediately he shared them with his neighbors, taking care to send the
most and best to the man who had robbed him.
"Of the little that remained to him, he gave freely to all who lacked.
Not his own, but another's wants, were his sole argument in asking or
bestowing. Now, he is great in the Buddhist sense also,--not loving life
nor fearing death, desiring nothing the world can give, beyond the peace
of a beatified spirit. This man--who is now the High-Priest of
Siam--would, without so much as a thought of shrinking, give his body,
alive or dead, to be burned, if so he might obtain one glimpse of
eternal truth, or save one soul from death or sorrow."
More than eighteen months after the First King of Siam had entertained
me with this essentially Buddhistic argument, and its simple and
impressive illustration, a party of pages hurried me away with them,
just as the setting sun was trailing his last long, lingering shadows
through the porches of the palace. His Majesty required my presence; and
his Majesty's commands were absolute and instant. "Find and fetch!" No
delay was to be thought of, no question answered, no explanation
afforded, no excuse entertained. So with resignation I followed my
guides, who led the way to the monastery of Watt Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang. But
having some experience of the moods and humors of his Majesty, my mind
was not wholly free from uneasiness. Generally, such impetuous summoning
foreboded an interview the reverse of agreeable.
The sun had set in glory below the red horizon when I entered the
extensive range of monastic buildings that adjoin the temple. Wide
tracts of waving corn and avenues of oleanders screened from view the
distant city, with its pagodas and palaces. The air was fresh and balmy,
and seemed to sigh plaintively among the betel and cocoa palms that
skirt the monastery.
The pages left me seated on a stone step, and ran to announce my
presence to the king. Long after the moon had come out clear and cool,
and I had begun to wonder where all this would end, a young man, robed
in pure white, and bearing in one hand a small lighted taper and a lily
in the other, beckoned me to enter, and follow him; and as we traversed
the long, low passages that separate the cells of the priests, the weird
sound of voices, chanting the hymns of the Buddhist liturgy, fell upon
my ear. The darkness, the loneliness, the measured monotone, distant and
dreamy, all was most romantic and exciting, even to a matter-of-fact
English woman like myself.
As the page approached the threshold of one of the cells, he whispered
to me, in a voice full of entreaty, to put off my shoes; at the same
time prostrating himself with a movement and expression of the most
abject humility before the door, where he remained, without changing his
posture. I stooped involuntarily, and scanned curiously, anxiously, the
scene within the cell. There sat the king; and at a sign from him I
presently entered, and sat down beside him.
On a rude pallet, about six and a half feet long, and not more than
three feet wide, and with a bare block of wood for a pillow, lay a dying
priest. A simple garment of faded yellow covered his person; his hands
were folded on his breast; his head was bald, and the few blanched hairs
that might have remained to fringe his sunken temples had been carefully
shorn,--his eyebrows, too, were closely shaven; his feet were bare and
exposed; his eyes were fixed, not in the vacant stare of death, but with
solemn contemplation or scrutiny, upward. No sign of disquiet was there,
no external suggestion of pain or trouble; I was at once startled and
puzzled. Was he dying, or acting?
In the attitude of his person, in the expression of his countenance, I
beheld sublime reverence, repose, absorption. He seemed to be communing
with some spiritual presence.
My entrance and approach made no change in him. At his right side was a
dim taper in a gold candlestick; on the left a dainty golden vase,
filled with white lilies, freshly gathered: these were offerings from
the king. One of the lilies had been laid on his breast, and contrasted
touchingly with the dingy, faded yellow of his robe. Just over the
region of the heart lay a coil of unspun cotton thread, which, being
divided into seventy-seven filaments, was distributed to the hands of
the priests, who, closely seated, quite filled the ell, so that none
could have moved without difficulty. Before each priest were a lighted
taper and a lily, symbols of faith and purity. From time to time one or
other of that solemn company raised his voice, and chanted strangely;
and all the choir responded in unison. These were the words, as they
were afterward translated for me by the king.
_First Voice._ Sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' châ mi! (Thou Excellence, or
Perfection! I take refuge in thee.)
_All._ Nama Poothô sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' châ mi! (Thou who art
named Poot-tho!--either God, Buddha, or Mercy,--I take refuge in thee.)
_First Voice._ Tuti âmpi sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' cha mi! (Thou Holy
One! I take refuge in thee.)
_All._ Tè sâtiyâ sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' châ mi! (Thou Truth, I take
refuge in thee.)
As the sound of the prayer fell on his ear, a nickering smile lit up the
pale, sallow countenance of the dying man with a visible mild radiance,
as though the charity and humility of his nature, in departing, left the
light of their loveliness there. The absorbing rapture of that look,
which seemed to overtake the invisible, was almost too holy to gaze
upon. Riches, station, honors, kindred, he had resigned them all, more
than half a century since, in his love for the poor and his longing
after truth. Here was none of the wavering or vagueness or incoherence
of a wandering, delirious death. He was going to his clear, eternal
calm. With a smile of perfect peace he said: "To your Majesty I commend
the poor; and this that remains of me I give to be burned." And that,
his last gift, was indeed his all.
I can imagine no spectacle more worthy to excite a compassionate
emotion, to impart an abiding impression of reverence, than the tranquil
dying of that good old "pagan." Gradually his breathing became more
laborious; and presently, turning with a great effort toward the king,
he said, _Chan cha pi dauni!_--"I will go now!" Instantly the priests
joined in a loud psalm and chant, "P'hra Arahang sâng-Khâng sârâ nang
gâch' châ mi!" (Thou Sacred One, I take refuge in thee.) A few minutes
more, and the spirit of the High-Priest of Siam had calmly breathed
itself away. The eyes were open and fixed; the hands still clasped; the
expression sweetly content. My heart and eyes were full of tears, yet I
was comforted. By what hope? I know not, for I dared not question it.
On the afternoon of the next day I was again summoned by his Majesty to
witness the burning of that body.
It was carried to the cemetery Watt Sah Kâte; and there men, hired to do
such dreadful offices upon the dead, cut off all the flesh and flung it
to the hungry dogs that haunt that monstrous garbage-field of Buddhism.
The bones, and all that remained upon them, were thoroughly burned; and
the ashes, carefully gathered in an earthen pot, were scattered in the
little gardens of wretches too poor to buy manure. All that was left now
of the venerable devotee was the remembrance of a look.
"This," said the King, as I turned away sickened and sorrowful, "is to
give one's body to be burned. This is what your St. Paul had in his
mind,--this custom of our Buddhist ancestors, this complete
self-abnegation in life and in death,--when he said, 'Even if I give my
body to be burned, and have not charity [maitrî], it profiteth me
nothing.'"
[Illustration: Priests at Breakfast.]