Part 9

‘Verily, Vāsettha, that Brāhmans versed in the three Vedas should be able to show the way to a state of union with that which they do not know, neither have seen—such a condition of things has no existence.

‘As when a string of blind men are clinging one to the other, neither can the foremost see, nor can the middle one see, nor can the hindmost see, just so is the talk of the Brāhmans versed in the three Vedas[44].’

These no doubt were trenchant words, but it might easily be shown that the Brāhmans themselves did not scruple to use almost as strong language against their own revelation. For instance, the Ćhāndogya Upanishad (p. 473) speaks of the Veda as ‘mere name’ (nāma eva). The Bṛihadāraṇyaka Upanishad declares that when a man is in a condition of knowledge, ‘the gods are no gods to him, and the Veda no Veda;’ and the Muṇḍaka describes the sacrificial Veda as inferior to Brahma-vidyā.

And in truth every Hindū was allowed to choose one of three ways of securing his own salvation.

The first was ‘the way of works’ (Karma-mārga), that is to say, of sacrifices (Yajña), of ceremonial rites, of lustral washings, penances and pilgrimages, as enjoined in the Mantra and Brāhmaṇa portion of the Veda, in Manu, the Law-books and parts of the Purāṇas.

The second was ‘the way of faith’ (bhakti), meaning by that term devotion to one or other of certain commonly worshipped personal deities,—a way leading in later times to the worship of Ṡiva and Vishṇu (unfolded in the Purāṇas), and involving merely heart-devotion, without sacrificial or ceremonial acts.

The third was ‘the way of knowledge’ (Jñāna), as set forth in the Upanishads.

The mediæval Brāhman Kumārila—a really historical teacher—advocated the first way; another teacher of less note, Ṡāṇḍilya, advocated the second; another celebrated historical teacher, Ṡaṅkara, advocated the third.

Even in Gautama’s time any one of these ways or all three together might be chosen, so long as the authority of the Brāhmans was not impugned.

This, at least, is the general teaching of the Bhagavad-gītā—an eclectic work which is the most popular exponent of the Hindū creed[45].

Yet even the Author of the Bhagavad-gītā had a preference for the way of knowledge. In one passage (II. 42) he describes the Veda as ‘mere flowery doctrine’ (pushpitā vāć), and is careful to point out that works must be performed as acts of devotion leading to absorption into the Supreme (Brahma-nirvāṇam).

Indeed there can be no doubt that it was generally held by the Brāhmans of Buddha’s time that the way of knowledge was the highest way. But this way was not open to all. It was reserved for the privileged few—for the more intellectual and philosophically-minded Brāhmans. The generality of men had to content themselves with the first and second ways.

What the Buddha then did was this:—First he stretched out the right hand of brotherhood to all mankind by inviting all without exception to join his fraternity of celibate monks, which he wished to be co-extensive with the world itself. Then he abolished the first and second ways of salvation (p. 95), that is, Yajña, ‘sacrifices,’ and Bhakti, ‘devotion to personal gods,’ and substituted for these meditation and moral conduct as the only road to true knowledge and emancipation. And then, lastly, he threw open this highest way of true knowledge to all who wished to enter it, of whatever rank or caste or mental calibre they might be, not excepting the most degraded.

Without doubt the distinguishing feature in the Buddha’s gospel was that no living being, not even the lowest, was to be shut out from true enlightenment.

And here it will be necessary to inquire more closely into the nature of that knowledge which the Buddha thus made accessible to every creature in the universe.

Was it some deep mystery? Some occult doctrine of physical or metaphysical science? Some startling revelation of a law of nature never before imparted to the world? Was the Buddha’s open way very different from the old, well-fenced-off Brāhmanical way?

Of one point we may be certain. He was too sensible to cast aside all ancient traditions. Nor was he a mere enthusiast claiming to be the sole possessor of a new secret for regenerating society.

Unhappily, however, we are here met by a difficulty. The Buddha never, like Muhammad, wrote a book, or, so far as we know, a line. He was the Socrates of India, and we are obliged to trust to the record of his sayings (see p. 38). Still we have no reason to doubt the genuineness of what was for some time handed down orally in regard to the doctrines he taught, and we are struck with the fact that Gautama called his own knowledge _Bodhi_ (from _budh_, ‘to understand’), and not _Veda_ (from _vid_, ‘to know’). Probably by doing so he wished to imply that his own knowledge was attainable by all through their own intuitions, inner consciousness, and self-enlightening intellect, and was to be distinguished from _Veda_ or knowledge obtainable through the Brāhmans alone, and by them through supernatural revelation only. Hence, too, he gave to every being destined to become a Buddha the title Bodhi-sattva (Bodhi-satta), ‘one having knowledge derived from _self-enlightening intellect_ for his essence.’

But it should be noted, that even in the choice of a name derived from the Sanskrit root _budh_, the Buddha only adopted the phraseology of the Sāṅkhya philosophy and of the Brāhmaṇas. The Sāṅkhya system made Buddhi, ‘intellect,’ its great principle (Mahat), and the Ṡatapatha-brāhmaṇa called a man who had attained to perfect knowledge of Self prati-buddha[46]. It may be pointed out, too, that Manu (IV. 204) uses the same root when he calls his wise man Budha.

Moreover, the doctrines which grew out of his own special knowledge Gautama still called _Dharma_ (Dhamma), ‘law,’ using the very same term employed by the Brāhmans—a term expressive of law in its most comprehensive sense, as comprising under it the physical laws of the Universe, as well as moral and social duties.

In what, then, did the Buddha’s Dharma differ from that of the Brāhmans? One great distinction certainly was that it contained no esoteric (rahasya) and metaphysical doctrines in regard to matter and spirit, reserved for the privileged few; yet some of its root-ideas were after all mere modifications of the Sāṅkhya, Yoga, and Vedānta systems of philosophy. His way of knowledge, though it developed into many paths, had the same point of departure. It was a knowledge of the truth, that all life was merely one link in a series of successive existences, and inseparably bound up with misery. Moreover as there were two causes of that misery—lust and ignorance—so there were two cures.

The first cure was _the suppression of lust and desire_, especially of all desire for continuity of existence.

The second cure was _the removal of ignorance_. Indeed Ignorance was, according to Gautama, the first factor in the misery of life, and stands first in his chain of causation (p. 102). Not, however, the Vedāntist’s ignorance—not ignorance of the fact that man and the universe are identical with God, but ignorance of the four truths of Buddhism (p. 43):—ignorance that all life is misery, and that the misery of life is caused by indulging lusts, and will cease by suppressing them.

It would be easy to show how all Indian philosophy was a mere scheme for getting rid of the bugbear of metempsychosis, and how common was the doctrine that everything is for the worst in the worst of all possible worlds. This was taught by the Brāhmans five centuries B.C., and continued to be a thoroughly Hindū idea long after the disappearance of Buddhism. Witness the following from the Maitrāyaṇi Upanishad:—

In this weak body, ever liable To wrath, ambition, avarice, illusion, To fear, grief, envy, hatred, separation From those we hold most dear, association With those we hate; continually exposed To hunger, thirst, disease, decrepitude, Emaciation, growth, decline and death, What relish can there be for true enjoyment?

Also the following, from Manu (VI. 77):—

This body, like a house composed of the (five) elements, with bones for its rafters, tendons for its connecting links, flesh and blood for its mortar, skin for its covering; this house filled with impurities, infested by sorrow and old age, the seat of disease, full of pain and passion, and not lasting—a man ought certainly to abandon.

Also Bhartṛi-hari (Vairāgya-ṡataka III. 32. 50):—

Enjoyments are alloyed by fear of sickness, High rank may have a fall, abundant wealth Is subject to exactions, dignity Encounters risk of insult, strength is ever In danger of enfeeblement by foes, A handsome form is jeoparded by women, Scripture is open to assaults of critics, Merit incurs the spite of wicked men, The body lives in constant dread of death— One course alone is proof against alarm, Renounce the world, and safety may be won.

One hundred years[47] is the appointed span Of human life, one half of this goes by In sleep and night; one half the other half In childhood and old age; the rest is passed In sickness, separation, pain, and service— How can a human being find delight In such a life, vain as a watery bubble?

No doubt this kind of pessimism has always found advocates in all ages, and among all nations in Europe as well as in Asia. It was a favourite idea with the Stoics, and it has found favour with Schopenhauer, Von Hartmann, and other modern philosophers; and Shakespeare makes Hamlet give expression to it.

Happily the general tone of European philosophical thought is in another key, and the admirers of Aristotle still constitute a majority in Europe. The great Stagirite described God as ‘Energy,’ and in dealing with Solon’s dictum that ‘no man can be called happy while he lives,’ gave expression to a different belief. A good man’s virtuous energies, he asserted, are in this present life a genuine source of happiness to him; misfortunes cannot shake his well-balanced character; he surmounts the worst sufferings by generous magnanimity[48].

Even in the East a greater than Aristotle and no less an Authority than the true ‘Light of the world’—bade men rejoice and leap for joy under the most trying circumstances of life, and prize His gift of Eternal Life as their highest good.

In India, on the contrary, the Upanishads and systems of philosophy which followed on them, all harped on the same string. They all dwelt on the same minor key-note. Their real object was not to investigate truth, but to devise a scheme for removing the misery believed to result from repeated bodily existence and from all action, good or bad, in the present, previous, and future births.

The Sāṅkhya (I. 1) defines the chief aim of man to be deliverance from the pain incident to bodily life and energy; or according to the Nyāya (I. 2), from the pain resulting from birth, actions, and false knowledge; while the Vedānta considers that ignorance alone fetters the soul of man to a body, and the Yoga defines the divine Purusha (= the perfect man of Buddhism) as a being unaffected by pain (kleṡa), acts, consequences of acts, and impressions derived from acts done in previous births (āṡaya = saṉṡkāra).

Gautama’s sympathy with these ideas is shown by the twelve-linked chain of causation, put forth by him as an accompaniment to his four fundamental truths (p. 43), and thus expressed (Mahā-vagga I. 1. 2):—

From Ignorance comes the combination of formations or tendencies (instincts derived from former births[49]); from such formations comes consciousness (vijñāna); from consciousness, individual being (nāma-rūpa, name and form); from individual being, the six organs of sense (including mind); from the six organs, contact (with objects of sense); from contact, sensation (vedanā); from sensation, desire (lust, thirst, taṉhā = tṛishṇā); from desire, clinging to life (upādāna); from clinging to life, continuity of becoming (bhava); from continuity of becoming, birth; from birth, decay and death; from decay and death, suffering.

It is difficult to discover a strictly logical sequence in this curious twelve-linked chain. The first link is a cause, the ten following are both causes and effects, while the last is an effect only. The second (saṃkhārā) is presented to us afterwards as one of the Skandhas (p. 109), and we have the whole inverted in a kind of circular chain in the form of question and answer, thus:—

What is the cause of misery and suffering? _Answer_—Old age and death. What is the cause of old age and death? _Answer_—Birth. Of birth? _Answer_—Continuity of becoming. Of continuity of becoming? _Answer_—Clinging to life. Of clinging to life? _Answer_—Desire. Of desire? _Answer_—Sensation or perception. Of sensation? _Answer_—Contact with the objects of sense. Of contact with objects? _Answer_—The organs of sense. Of the organs? _Answer_—Name and form, or individual being. Of individual being? _Answer_—Consciousness (viññāṇa = vijñāna). Of consciousness? _Answer_—Combination of formations or tendencies (or those material and mental predispositions derived from previous births which tend to form character, compare p. 109). Of such formations? _Answer_—Ignorance.

In making Ignorance (Avidyā) the first cause of the misery of life, Gautama agreed with the Vedānta (though he explained Ignorance differently, see p. 99), while in the remaining chain of causes (Nidāna) we detect his sympathy with the Sāṅkhya theory of a chain of producers and products.

His own scheme of causation (often called Paṭićća-samuppādo) occupies an important place in Buddhistic philosophy, as supplementary to, and complementary of, the four truths (p. 43). It was thought out before them (see p. 39) and is equally revered.

It is on this account that the following celebrated formula is constantly repeated like a short creed, and is found carved on numerous Buddhist monuments:—

‘Conditions (or laws) of existence which proceed from a cause, the cause of these hath the Buddha explained, as also the cessation (or destruction) of these. Of such truths is the Great Ṡramaṇa the teacher[50].’

This was the formula repeated by Assaji to Sāriputta and Moggallāna (p. 47), when they wished to join the Buddha and asked for a summary of the spirit (artha), not the letter (vyañjana), of his doctrine (Mahā-v° I. 23. 5). Certainly the sorites-like form of statement in the scheme of causation had charms for Oriental thinkers.

Moreover the Buddha’s method of clothing old truths in a new dress, or—to adopt another metaphor—his plan of putting new wine into old bottles, had in it something very attractive to all Indian minds.

Of what kind, then, was the new dress in which Gautama clothed the great central doctrine of Indian philosophy—the doctrine of metempsychosis, involving the perpetuation of the misery of life?

The Buddha, like all Indians, was by nature a metaphysician. He had great sympathy with the philosophy of the Upanishads. How was it that he disbelieved in the existence of Spirit as distinct from bodily organism? A little consideration will perhaps make clear how he was brought to his own peculiar agnostic view.

Probably before his so-called enlightenment and attainment of true knowledge, he was as firm a believer in the real existence of one Universal Spirit as the most orthodox Brāhman. He had become imbued with Brāhmanical philosophy while sitting at the feet of his two teachers Āḷāra and Uddaka (p. 29). At that time there were no definite or formulated philosophical systems, separated from each other by sharp lines. But the Sāṅkhya, Yoga, and Vedānta systems were assuming shape, and the doctrines they embodied had been foreshadowed in the Upanishads, and were orally current.

In short, it had been repeatedly stated in the Upanishads, that nothing really existed but the one universally present impersonal Spirit, and that the whole visible world was really to be identified with that Spirit.

Then it followed as an article of faith that man’s spirit, deluded into a temporary false idea of separate independent personal existence by the illusion of ignorance, was also identical with that One Spirit, and ultimately to be re-absorbed into it.

Further, it followed that man’s spirit, while so deluded and so separated for a time from the One Spirit, was compelled to migrate through innumerable bodily forms, and that such migration entailed misery, from which there was no escape except by a process of disillusionment, that is, by dissipating the illusion of separate individuality, through the acquisition of perfect knowledge leading to re-union with the One Spirit, as the river blends with the ocean. And such knowledge was best gained by suppression of the passions, abandonment of all worldly connexions, and abstinence from all action. Finally, it was held, with apparent inconsistency, that the storing up of merit by good works assisted in effecting this object by raising a man, not yet fit for union with the supreme Spirit, to forms of existence in which such union might be accomplished.

Now it is obvious that to believe in the ultimate merging of man’s personal spirit in One impersonal Spirit, is virtually to deny the ultimate existence of any human spirit at all. Nay more—it is virtually to deny the existence of a supreme universal Spirit also.

For how can a merely abstract universal Spirit, which is unconscious of personality, be regarded as possessing any real existence worth being called true life?

To assert that such a Spirit is pure abstract Entity or (according to Vedānta phraseology) pure Existence (without anything to exist for), pure Thought or even pure Consciousness (without anything to think about, or be conscious about), pure Joy (without anything to rejoice about), is practically to reduce it to pure non-entity.

All that Gautama did, therefore, was to purge Brāhmanism of a dogma which appeared to him to be a mere sham (Brahma-jāla I. 26).

He simply eliminated as incapable of proof the doctrine of a purely abstract, incorporeal spirit or self, whether human or divine. The assertion that any soul or self or Ego really existed (Atta-vādo) was an error. It formed one of the constituents of Upādāna (p. 109), and was the first of the ten fetters (Sakkāya-diṭṭhi, p. 127).

And with the rejection of this dogma, as incapable of demonstration, he found himself compelled to reject also, as beyond the range of man’s cognizance, the doctrine of any Supreme Being higher than the perfectly enlightened man. Like Kapila in the Sāṅkhya aphorisms (I. 92, V. 10) he felt bound to admit: ‘It is not proved that there is a God.’

This, indeed, is the chief foundation on which rests the assertion that Buddhism is a mere system of atheistic negations. And there can be no doubt that from one point of view its statements are steeped in negations, or rather perhaps in evasions. Its morality has been described as more negative than positive; but this is scarcely correct, and it would be fairer to say that it delights in telling men to abstain from doing evil, rather than in urging them to active exertions for the good of others. It has many positive precepts.

But if there was no probability of a soul existing separately from a body after death, how could there be any soul-transmigration? How could there be any agreement between the teaching of the Buddha and that of the Brāhmans, in regard to this important central dogma? The real fact was that the divergence of the Buddhist doctrine from the Brāhmanical, as stated in the Upanishads, was not greater than was to be expected from the difference of belief between the two systems in regard to the existence of soul.

Plato, we know, held that souls ‘found their prisons in the same natures’ at death, so that an effeminate man might be re-born as a woman, a tyrannical man as a wolf, and so on. In Manu’s Law-book is set forth a triple order of soul-transmigration through lower, middle, and higher planes of existence, resulting from good, middling, and bad acts, words, and thoughts. Thus—to instance only the lower—the soul of a man who spoke ill of his teacher was destined to pass into an ass or a dog (II. 201), the soul of a thief might occupy a mouse (XII. 62), the soul of one who neglected his caste-duties might pass into a demon (XII. 71, 72); and greater crimes might lead to the soul’s being condemned to occupy plants, stones, and minerals. Then there was also an intermediate condition of the soul. According to one idea it went to the moon; according to another it became a hungry ghost which required food to be offered to it at the Ṡrāddha ceremonies.

This theory of transmigration, according to the Hindūs, explained the origin of evil. Evil must proceed from antecedent evil, and the resulting penalty must be borne by the evil-doer in succeeding existences. This was the terrible incubus which it was the great object of Indian philosophers to remove. It was equally Gautama’s object, but how could he accept soul-transmigration, denying as he did the existence of any spirit, as distinct from material organization? He therefore put forth a view of his own, thus:—Every being is composed of five constituent elements called Skandhas (Pāli Khandha), which have their source in Upādāna (p. 103) and are continually combining, dissolving, and recombining, viz. 1. Form (_rūpa_), i. e. the organized body. 2. Sensation (_vedanā_) of pain or pleasure, or of neither, arising from contact of eye, ear, nose, tongue, skin, and mind with external objects. 3. Perception (_sañña_ = _sañjñā_) of ideas through the same sixfold contact. 4. Aggregate of formations (_saṃkhāra_ = _saṉskāra_, i.e. combination of properties or faculties or mental tendencies, fifty-two in number, forming individual character and derived from previous existences; compare the similar saṃkhārā pl. at p. 102). 5. Consciousness (_viññāṇa_ = _vijñāna_) or thought[51]. This fifth is the most important. It is the only soul recognized by Buddhists. Theoretically it perishes with the other Skandhas, but practically is continued, since its exact counterpart is reproduced in a new body.

For although, when a man dies, all the five constituents of existence are dissolved, yet by the force resulting from his actions (_karma_), combined with _Upādāna_, ‘clinging to existence’ (one form of the fetters at p. 127), a new set of five, of which consciousness is still the dominant faculty, starts into being. The process of the new creation is so instantaneous that it is equivalent to the continuance of the same personality, pervaded by the same consciousness; though each personality is only really connected with the previous by the force of acts done and character formed in each—such force operating through Upādāna. In short, to speak of transmigration of souls in Buddhism gives a wrong idea. Metempsychosis with Buddhists resolves itself into continuous metamorphosis or Palingenesis. For no true Buddhist believes in the passing of a soul from one body to another, but rather in the passing on of what may be called act-force, or of the merit and demerit resulting from a man’s acts, so as to cause a continuous succession of transformations—a succession which may be compared to the rolling on of a wheel through different scenes and over every variety of ground; or to the burning on, through day and night, of a flame which is not the same flame at the beginning of the day and end of the night, and yet is not different. It is this act-force (Karma), combined with Upādāna, ‘clinging to existence’ (=abhi-niveṡa in the Yoga II. 9), which is the connecting link between each man’s past, present, and future bodies.