Part 5

Rousing himself, as if from a troubled dream, he took food and nourishment in a natural way, thereby incurring the temporary disapproval of his five companions in self-mortification. Then, when sufficiently refreshed, he moved away to another spot in the same district. There, under the shelter of a sacred fig-tree (Aṡvattha, _Ficus religiosa_, known as the Pippala or Pīpal), in a village, afterwards called Buddha-Gayā, he gave himself up to higher and higher forms of meditation (Jhāna = Dhyāna). In this he merely conformed to the Hindū Yoga,—a method of attaining mystic union with the Deity, which although not then formulated into a system, was already in vogue among the Brāhmans. There can be little doubt that the Dhāraṇā, Dhyāna (see p. 209), and Samādhi of the Yoga were resorted to, even in Gautama’s time, as a means for the attainment of perfect spiritual illumination, as well as of final absorption in the Deity.

In Manu VI. 72 it is said:—‘Let him purge himself from all taints (doshān) by suppression of breath, from sin by restraints of thought (dhāraṇābhiḥ), from sensual attachments by control, and from unspiritual qualities by meditation (dhyānena).’

In the later work called Bhagavad-gītā (see p. 95 of this volume) it is declared:—‘holding his body, head, and neck quite immovable, seated on a firm seat in a pure spot with Kuṡa grass around, the devotee (Yogī) should look only at the tip of his nose, and should meditate on the Supreme Being’ (VI. 11, 12). Further on he is directed to meditate so profoundly as to think about nothing whatever (VI. 25).

The very Gāyatrī or ancient Vedic prayer (Ṛig-veda III. 62. 10, see p. 78 of this volume)—which is to Hindūs what the Lord’s Prayer is to Christians, and is still repeated by millions of our Indian fellow-subjects at their daily devotions—was originally an act of meditation, performed with the very object Gautama had in view—supreme enlightenment of mind:—‘Let us meditate (Dhīmahi, root _dhyai_) on the excellent glory of the divine vivifying Sun, may he enlighten our understandings.’ Even the selection of a seat under an Aṡvattha tree was in keeping with Brāhmanical ideas (see ‘Brāhmanism and Hindūism,’ p. 335).

The first result, however, of his engaging in abstract meditation, was that he seemed to himself to be as far as ever from the emancipation which was the one aim of his great renunciation. Why not then return to the world? Why not indulge again in the pleasures of sense? Why not go back to home, wife, and child? Thoughts of this kind passed through his mind, while all his old affections and feelings seemed to revive with tenfold intensity. Then on one particular night, during this mental struggle, Māra, the Destroyer and personification of carnal desire, seized his opportunity. The spirit of evil had bided his time; had waited to assail the sage at the right moment, when protracted self-mortification had done its work—when with exhausted strength he had little power of resistance.

It is certainly remarkable that a great struggle between good and evil, right and wrong, truth and error, knowledge and ignorance, light and darkness, is recognized in all religious systems, however false. (See a notable allusion to this in Ṡaṅkara’s Commentary to Ćhāndogya Upanishad, p. 26, ll. 2-8.)

The legendary description of the Buddha’s temptation, and of the assault made upon him by Māra (the deadly spirit of sensuous desire[13]), and by all his troop of attendants, is so interesting and curious, notwithstanding its extravagance, that I here abridge it:—

Fiends and demons swarmed about him in the form of awful monsters, furies, vampires, hobgoblins, armed to the teeth with every implement of destruction. Their million faces were frightful to behold, their limbs encircled by myriads of serpents, their heads enveloped in a blaze of fire. They surrounded the saint and assailed him in a thousand different ways. Missiles of all kinds were hurled against him; poison and fire were showered over him—but the poison changed into flowers, the fire formed a halo round his head.

The baffled evil one now shifted his ground. He summoned his sixteen enchanting daughters, and sent them to display their charms in the presence of the youthful saint. But the resolute young ascetic was not to be lured by their wiles. He remained calm and impassive, and with a stern face rebuked the maidens for their boldness, forcing them to retire discomfited and disgraced.

Other forms of temptation followed, and the debilitated ascetic’s strength seemed to be giving way. But this was merely the crisis. After rising to higher and higher stages of abstract meditation at the end of a long night he shook off his foe. The victory was won, and the light of true knowledge broke upon his mind. A legend relates that in the first night-watch he gained a knowledge of all his previous existences; in the second—of all present states of being; in the third—of the chain of causes and effects (p. 102); and at the dawn of day he knew all things.

The dawn on which this remarkable struggle terminated was the birthday of Buddhism. Gautama was at that time about thirty-five years of age. It was then, and not till then, that his Bodhi-sattvaship (see p. 135) ended and he gained a right to the title Buddha, ‘the Enlightened.’ No wonder that the tree under which he sat became celebrated as ‘the tree of knowledge and enlightenment.’ It is remarkable, too, that just as the night on which the Buddha attained perfect enlightenment is the most sacred night with Buddhists, so the Bodhi-tree (in familiar language, Bo-tree) is their most sacred symbol—a symbol as dear to Buddhists as the Cross is to Christians.

And what was this true knowledge, evolved out of a mind sublimated by intense meditation?

This is, perhaps, the strangest point of all in this strange story. It was after all a mere partial one-sided truth—the outcome of a single line of thought, dwelt upon with morbid intensity, to the exclusion of every other line of thought which might have modified and balanced it. It was an ultra-pessimistic view of the miseries of life, and a determination to ignore all its counterbalancing joys. It was the doctrine that this present life is only one link in a chain of countless transmigrations—that existence of all kinds involves suffering, and that such suffering can only be got rid of by self-restraint and the extinction of desires, especially of the desire for continuity of personal existence.

For let it be made clear at the outset, that whatever may be said of the Christian-like self-renunciation enjoined by the Buddhist code of morality, the only self it aims at renouncing is the self of personality, and the chief self-love it deprecates is the self-love which consists in craving for continuous individual life.

To those who have never travelled or resided much in the East, indulgence in such a morbid form of pessimism, under glowing skies and amid bright surroundings, may seem almost an impossibility. But those who know India by personal experience are aware that its climate is not conducive to optimistic views of life, and that even in the present day men of the Buddha type, who seek in various ways to impress their pessimistic theories of existence on their fellow-men, are not uncommon.

In the course of my travels I frequently met ascetics who had given up family and friends, and were leading a life of morose seclusion, and pretended meditation, undergoing long courses of bodily mortification. Nay, I have even seen men who, to prove their utter contempt for the pleasures of worldly existence, and to render themselves fit for the extinction of all personality by absorption into the Universal Soul, have sat in one posture, or held up one arm for years, or allowed themselves no bed but a bed of spikes, no shelter but the foliage of trees[14]. Gautama’s course of protracted cogitation therefore had in it nothing peculiar or original.

Nor need we doubt that certain historical facts underlie the legendary narrative. We cannot admit with the learned Senart and Kern that the life of Gautama was based on a mere solar myth. To us it is more difficult not to believe than to believe that there lived in the fifth century B.C. the youthful son of a petty Rāja or land-owner in Oudh, distinguished from ordinary men by many remarkable qualities of mind and body—notably by a thoughtful and contemplative disposition; that he became impressed with a sense of the vanity of all earthly aims, and of the suffering caused by disease and death; that he often said to himself, ‘Life is but a troubled dream, an incubus, a nightmare,’ or, like the Jewish sage of old, ‘All the days of man are sorrow,’ ‘Man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain;’ and that like many other of the world’s philosophers, instead of acquiescing in the state of things around him, and striving to make the best of them, or to improve them, he took refuge from the troubles of life in abandoning all its ties, renouncing all its joys, and suppressing all its affections and desires.

And again, it is more difficult not to believe than to believe that in such a man introspection and abstinence, protracted for many years, induced a condition of mind favourable to ecstatic visions, which were easily mistaken for flashes of inner enlightenment.

We know, indeed, that eleven centuries later another great thinker arose among the Semitic races in Western Asia, who went through the same kind of mental struggle, and that Muhammad, like Gautama, having by his long fasts and austerities brought himself into a highly wrought condition of the nervous system, became a fanatical believer in the reality of his own delusions and in his own divine commission as a teacher.

But the parallel between the Buddha and Muhammad cannot be carried on much further. And indeed, in point of fact, no two characters could be more different. For the Buddha never claimed to be the channel of a supernatural revelation; never represented the knowledge that burst on his mind as springing from any but an internal source; never taught that a divine force operating from without compelled him to communicate that knowledge to mankind; never dreamed of propagating that knowledge to others by compulsion, much less by the sword. On the contrary, he always maintained that the only revelation he had received was an illumination from within—due entirety to his own intuitions, assisted by his reasoning powers and by severe purgatorial discipline protracted through countless previous births in every variety of bodily form.

But how did this internal self-enlightenment[15]—the great distinguishing feature of Buddhism—first find expression? It is said that the first words uttered by the Buddha at the momentous crisis when true knowledge burst upon him, were to the following effect:—

‘Through countless births have I wandered, seeking but not discovering (anibbisan) the maker of this my mortal dwelling-house (gaha-kāraka), and still again and again have birth and life and pain returned. But now at length art thou discovered, thou builder of this house (of flesh). No longer shalt thou rear a house for me. Rafters and beams are shattered and with destruction of Desire (Taṉhā) deliverance from repeated life is gained at last’ (Dhamma-pada 153, 154, Sumaṅgala 46).

Contrast with these first utterances of Gautama Buddha the first words of Jesus Christ:—

‘Wist ye not that I must be about My Father’s business?’ (St. Luke ii. 49.)

The Buddha’s first exclamations, as well as the account of his subsequent sayings and doings, are the more worthy of credit as taken from the Southern Canon.

The Mahā-vagga (I. 1) tells us that after attaining complete intelligence, the Buddha sat cross-legged on the ground under the Bodhi-tree for seven days, absorbed in meditation and enjoying the bliss of enlightenment. At the end of that period, during the first three watches of the night, he fixed his mind on the causes of existence. Then having thought out the law of causation (p. 102), he exclaimed: ‘When the laws of being become manifest to the earnest thinker, his doubts vanish, and, like the Sun, he dispels the hosts of Māra.’

Next he meditated for another seven days under a banyan tree, called the tree of goat-herds (aja-pāla). It was there that a haughty Brāhman accosted him with the question, ‘Who is a true Brāhman?’ and was told, ‘One free from evil and pride; self-restrained, learned, and pure.’

Then he meditated under another tree for a third period of seven days. There the serpent (Nāga) Mućalinda (or Mućilinda) coiled his body round the Buddha, and formed a canopy to protect him from the raging of a storm—this being one of the trials he had to go through. When it was over the Buddha exclaimed, ‘Happy is the seclusion of the satisfied man (tushṭa) who has learned and seen the truth.’

A fourth period of meditation was passed under the tree Rājāyatana, making four times seven days. May not these symbolize the four stages of meditation (p. 209)? Later legends, however, reckon seven times seven days.

During the whole of the interval between the first acquisition of knowledge and the setting forth to proclaim it, the Buddha fasted, being too elated to seek food, and only once receiving it from two merchants, named Tapussa (Trapusha) and Bhallika. These became his first lay-reverers (p. 89) by repeating the _double_ formula of reverence for the Buddha and for his doctrine (the Saṅgha not being then instituted, Mahā-v° I. 4. 5). A later legend relates that they received in return eight of his hairs which they preserved as relics.

In connexion with the legend of a forty-nine days’ fast, I may mention that an ancient carving of Gautama was pointed out to me at Buddha-Gayā, which represents him as holding a bowl of rice-milk divided into forty-nine portions, one for each day.

With these legends we may contrast the simple Gospel narrative of Christ’s forty days’ fast in the wilderness.

The Buddha’s first resolution to come forth from his seclusion and proclaim his gospel to mankind is of course a great epoch with all Buddhists.

And here it should be observed, that, strictly, according to Gautama’s own teaching he ought to have ceased from all action on arriving at perfect enlightenment. For had he not attained the great object of his ambition—the end of all his struggles—the goal of all his efforts—carried on through hundreds of existences? He had, therefore, no more lives to lead, no more misery to undergo. In short he had achieved the summum bonum of all true Buddhists—the extinction of the fires of passions and desires—and had only to enjoy the well-earned peace (nirvṛiti) of complete Nirvāṇa. Yet the love of his fellow-men impelled him to action (pravṛitti). In fact it was characteristic of a supreme Buddha that he should belie, by his own activity and compassionate feelings, the utter apathy and indifference to which his own doctrines logically led (p. 128).

But he did not carry out his benevolent design without going through another course of temptation (which it is usual to compare with the temptation of Christ). Evil thoughts arose in his mind, and these were suggested, according to later legends, by Māra (p. 33), thus:—‘With great pains, blessed one, hast thou acquired this doctrine (dharma). Why proclaim it? Beings lost in desires and lusts will not understand it. Remain in quietude. Enjoy Nirvāṇa’ (Mahā-v° I. 5. 3).

To counteract these malevolent suggestions, the god Brahmā Sahāmpati (Pāli Sahămpati, p. 210) presented himself and exclaimed:—‘Arise, O spotless one, open the gate of Nirvāṇa. Arise, look down on the world lost in suffering. Arise, wander forth, preach the doctrine.’

First the Buddha thought of his two teachers, Āḷāra and Uddaka (p. 29), but found they were dead. Next he thought of the five ascetics whom he had offended by his abandonment of the method of gaining true knowledge through painful austerities. They were at that time prosecuting their bodily mortifications at Benares in the Deer-park called Isipatana. It was only natural that the Buddha should think of wending his way in the first instance to Benares, even if special considerations had not drawn him there; for that city was the great centre of Eastern thought and life, the Indian Athens, where all peculiar doctrines were most likely to gain a hearing.

On his way thither, Upaka, a member of the Ājīvaka sect of naked ascetics, met him and inquired why his countenance was so bright (pariṡuddha)? He replied, ‘I am the all-subduer, the all-wise, the stainless, the highest teacher, the conqueror (p. 135); I go to Benares to dissipate the world’s darkness’ (Mahā-vagga I. 6. 7).

The five ascetics (Kauṇḍinya = Koṇḍañño, Aṡvajit = Assaji, Vāshpa, Mahānāma, and Bhadrika) were soon converted by his words, and by merely repeating the triple formula were admitted at once to his Order of monks. They constituted, with Gautama, the first six members of the Saṅgha, or fraternity of men seeking release from the misery of existence by cœnobitic monasticism.

And of what nature were Gautama Buddha’s first didactic utterances? His first sermon, delivered in the Deer-park at Benares, is held in as much reverence by Buddhists as the first words of Christ are by Christians. It is called Dhamma-ćakka-ppavattana-sutta, or in Sanskṛit Dharma-ćakra-pravartana-sūtra, ‘the discourse which set in motion the wheel of the law,’ or ‘of the universal dominance of the true belief.’

The following is the substance of it, as given in the Mahā-vagga (I. 6. 17). It is important to note that the Buddha spoke in the vernacular of Magadha (now called Pāli), and not to men generally, but to the first five would-be members of his Order of monks:—

‘There are two extremes (antā), O monks (Bhikkhus), to be avoided by one who has given up the world—a life devoted to sensual pleasures (kāma), which is degrading, common, vulgar, ignoble, profitless; and a life given to self-mortification (ātma-klamatha)—painful, ignoble, profitless. There is a middle path, avoiding both extremes—the noble eightfold path discovered by the Buddha (Tathāgata)—which leads to insight, to wisdom, to quietude (upaṡama), to knowledge, to perfect enlightenment (sambodhi), to final extinction of desire and suffering (Nirvāṇa).’

So far there is nothing very explicit in the discourse. Doubtless such precepts as ‘virtue is a mean’ and that ‘medio tutissimus ibis’ are useful, though trite, truths; but the difficulty is to prove that the Buddha’s eightfold path is really a middle course of the kind described; for the most fanatical enthusiasts will always regard their own creed, however extravagant, as moderate.

The Buddha, therefore, goes on to propound what he calls the four noble truths (ariya-saććāni = ārya-satyāni), which are the key to his whole doctrine. They may be stated thus:—

1. All existence—that is, existence in any form, whether on earth or in heavenly spheres—necessarily involves pain and suffering (dukkha). 2. All suffering is caused by lust (rāga) or craving or desire (taṉhā = trishṇā, ‘thirst’) of three kinds—for sensual pleasure (kāma), for wealth (vibhava), and for existence (bhava). 3. Cessation of suffering is simultaneous with extinction of lust, craving, and desire (p. 139). 4. Extinction of lust, craving, and desire, and cessation of suffering are accomplished by perseverance in the noble eightfold path (ariyo aṭṭhangiko maggo), viz. right belief or views (sammā diṭṭhi), right resolve (saṅkappo), right speech, right work (kammanto), right livelihood (ājīvo), right exercise or training (vāyāmo = vyāyāma), right mindfulness (sati, p. 50), right mental concentration (samādhi).

And how is all life mere suffering (I.6.19)?—

‘Birth is suffering. Decay is suffering. Illness is suffering. Death is suffering. Association with (samprayogo) objects we hate is suffering. Separation from objects we love is suffering. Not to obtain what we desire is suffering. Clinging (upādāna) to the five elements (p. 109) of existence is suffering. Complete cessation of thirst (taṇhā) and desires is cessation of suffering. This is the noble truth of suffering.’

This sermon (called in Ceylon the first Baṇa = Bhāṇa, ‘recitation,’ p. 70) was addressed to monks, and however unfavourably it must compare with that of Christ (St. Luke iv. 18), addressed not to monks but to suffering sinners—and however obvious may be the idea that pain must result from giving way to lust and the desire for life through countless existences—is of great interest because it embodies the first teaching of one, who, if not worthy to be called ‘the Light of Asia,’ and certainly unworthy of comparison with the ‘Light of the World,’ was at least one of the world’s most successful teachers.

Bear in mind that, as the result of his earliest meditation (pp. 39, 56, 102), the Buddha made ignorance precede lust as the primary cause of life’s misery.

Of course the real significance of the whole sermon depends on the interpretation of the word ‘right’ (sammā = samyak) in describing the eightfold path, and the plain explanation is that ‘right belief’ means believing in the Buddha and his doctrine; ‘right resolve’ means abandoning one’s wife and family as the best method of extinguishing the fires of the passions; right speech is recitation of the Buddha’s doctrine; right work (Karmānta) is that of a monk; right livelihood is living by alms as a monk does; right exercise is suppression of the individual self; right mindfulness (Smṛiti) is keeping in mind the impurities and impermanence of the body; right mental concentration is trance-like quietude.

Mark, too, that in describing the misery of life, association with loved objects is not mentioned as compensating for the pain of connexion with hateful objects.

The Buddha’s early disciples were not poor men; for the sixth to be admitted to the Saṅgha was a high-born youth named Yasa. Then this youth’s father, a rich merchant, became the first lay-disciple by repeating the _triple_ formula (pp. 40, 78), and his mother and wife became the first lay-sisters. Next, four high-born friends of Yasa, and subsequently fifty more became monks. Thus, not long after the first sermon, Gautama had sixty enrolled monks; all from the upper classes.

In sending forth these sixty monks to proclaim his own gospel of deliverance, he addressed them thus:—

‘I am delivered from all fetters (p. 127), human and divine. You too, O monks, are freed from the same fetters. Go forth and wander everywhere, out of compassion for the world and for the welfare of gods and men. Go forth, one by one, in different directions. Preach the doctrine (Dharmam), salutary (kalyāṇa) in its beginning, middle, and end, in its spirit (artha) and in its letter (vyañjana). Proclaim a life of perfect restraint, chastity, and celibacy (brahmaćariyam). I will go also to preach this doctrine’ (Mahā-vagga I. 11. 1).

When his monk-missionaries had departed, Gautama himself followed, though not till Māra (p. 41) had again tempted him. Quitting Benares he journeyed back to Uruvelā, near Gayā. There he first converted thirty rich young men and then one thousand orthodox Brāhmans, led by Kāṡyapa and his two brothers, who maintained a sacred fire (‘Brāhmanism,’ p. 364). The fire-chamber was haunted by a fiery snake-demon; so Buddha asked to occupy the room for a night, fought the serpent and confined him in his own alms-bowl. Next he worked other miracles (said to have been 3500 in number), such as causing water to recede, fire-wood to split, fire-vessels to appear at his word. Then Kāṡyapa and his brothers, convinced of his miraculous powers, were admitted with the other Brāhmans to the Saṅgha. Thus Buddha gathered round him about a thousand monks.