CHAPTER IV.

THROUGH INDIA IN THE SEVENTH CENTURY.

He passed the wet season at Kapiśa, and then, protected by the King’s envoys, went along the North bank of the Kâbul river and through districts memorable in the record of the Indian expedition of Alexander the Great. Again and again do we come across the names of places familiar to the reader of Arrian and Strabo. He visited Peshâwar and Attock; he travelled through many a little Kingdom of what is now North-Eastern Afghanistan and the North-West Provinces of India, by zig-zag and perplexing routes. Here was the classic soil of ancient Brâhmanism; here was to be found many a Buddhist record of the great days of Aśôka. It was a land of monasteries and monuments, of countless _stûpas_ (monuments containing relics) and sculptured stones, of ancient tradition and extravagant myth. The recording carvings of ages still stood thick on the ground or lay there in ruin. He saw every one of them, traversing perilous ravines by the help of chains affixed to the rocks; crossing frail swaying bridges made of rope. He got as far north as Baltistân, or Little Thibet, “in the midst of the Great Snowy Mountains.” More than six centuries later, Marco Polo refers to the inhabitants as “an evil race of savage idolaters,” and Hiuen-Tsiang found their forefathers “fierce, passionate folk, ill-mannered, and of uncouth speech.” “Strictly speaking, they do not belong to India, but are rude frontier-folk.” Sometimes the ways were deserted; for brigands were abroad. Almost everywhere Brâhmanism was in the ascendent; Buddhism in decay; but, as yet, the rivalry of the two creeds had nowhere become acute; rival religionists behaved kindly and courteously one to another; and Brâhmans received the traveller with generous hospitality. Yet the careful student will not fail to observe that the antagonism between Brâhman and Buddhist, which is evident in the pages of Fa-Hien, had not decreased in the two centuries since his time. For Exoteric Brâhmanism, with its clever adaptation of the ancient gods of India; its appeal to the imagination of the vulgar, always concrete in character and incapable of comprehending an abstract proposition; its deities, embodying human passion and evoking human sympathies; its support of human pride in the institution of caste; its intercessory priesthood and vicarious sacrifice; and its supple manipulation of men to obtain power, was on the high road to revival. But there is an esoteric Brâhmanism, as Macaulay found out, always the lofty, pure creed of the educated Hindu.

Hiuen-Tsiang went up and down and to and fro in these frontier-states, threading many a delicious valley which nestled among the mountains and was overlooked by the snows of Himalaya; and returning from time to time to the more enervating atmosphere of the valley of the Indus. The King of Kaśmîr (Cashmir) visited him at a monastery where he was staying, preceded by a brilliant procession. The roadway was covered with umbrellas and banners; it was carpeted with flowers, and the air was filled with sweet scents. The monarch was full of compliment and shows of respect, and scattered a great quantity of flowers in Hiuen-Tsiang’s honour. Then he begged him to take his seat on a great elephant. And he walked behind him. The pilgrim remained two years in Kasmîr, sitting at the feet of a sage, studying Sanskrit and the Buddhist scriptures. Indeed, throughout all his travels, he was forever studying or collecting or transcribing manuscripts, when he was not visiting and venerating relics.

Now near Nagarahâra, in the district of Jalâlâbâd, there was a certain cavern, where, peradventure, the pious might behold the shadow which Buddha had cast on its walls. It had been granted to Sung-Yun to see it, when the Empress Dowager of a Tartar dynasty which ruled in Northern China sent him and another on an embassy to obtain Buddhist books (A.D. 518); and Hiuen-Tsiang was consumed by desire to see it also. His escort from Kapiśa earnestly begged him not to make the attempt; it was a rash and perilous project; brigands were abroad; and few indeed were those who might see the holy vision. They could not dissuade him; so they left him and went home, and he took an old man as guide. When he got near the cavern five brigands pounced upon him. He pointed to his monks’ robe and told them that, if they were brigands, they were none the less men, and he had no fear of men, or even of wild beasts, when sacred duty called him. He touched their hearts, and they let him go.

Although a man visited by visions and a dreamer of significant dreams, he spent a long time in the cave and saw nothing. Prostrations and convictions of sin were in vain. Then, quite suddenly, came a flash of light; thereupon he vowed that he would not quit the spot until he should behold the veritable shade. In the end the reward of such persistent enthusiasm was bestowed: he beheld the Buddha, attended by his sacred court, in all their heavenly splendour. But, just then, torch-bearers came into the cave, intending to burn perfumes in the holy place, and the glory disappeared. Hiuen-Tsiang ordered them to put out their lights, and lo! there was the vision as before. Five of the six torch-bearers declared that they beheld the shadow. It is characteristic of our pilgrim that he is careful to tell us that the sixth man saw nothing whatever. Never a shadow of doubt arises as to his good faith. Sung-Yun the Chinese ambassador and pilgrim, writing an account of his journey a hundred years before Hiuen-Tsiang, tells us how, “Entering the mountain cavern fifteen feet and looking for a long time (or, at a long distance?) at the western side of it, opposite the entrance, at length, the figure, with its characteristic marks, appears; on going nearer to look at it, it gradually grows fainter, and then disappears. On touching the place where it was with the hand, there is nothing but the bare wall. Gradually retreating, the figure begins to come into view again, and foremost is conspicuous that peculiar mark between the eyebrows, which is so rare among men.” And Hiuen-Tsiang tells us, in his “Records of Western Lands,” that in later days the shadow has faded to a feeble likeness, although, by fervent prayer, it may be clearly seen, “though not for long.”

Leaving the North-Western corner of India, he now proceeded through the Punjâb. Many a city he names has perished, and not a stone thereof is left; of others a few stones mark the seat of departed greatness; but often the names recall the Embassy of Megasthenes and differ but little from those by which they were known to the Greeks of a yet earlier age.

He had left certain rude tribes behind him, yet he found particular districts by no means free from murderous gangs; and he had to traverse many a forest inhabited by wild elephants and great beasts of prey. In one forest, he and fellow-monks who accompanied him found themselves at the mercy of half a hundred armed brigands, who chased them into the bed of a pond which had run dry. Hiuen-Tsiang and some others contrived to hide among thorny bushes and coarse growth; but some of the company were caught and bound. Happily a hollow, scooped out by escaping waters, was hit upon; and our pilgrim and some who were in hiding contrived to make their way out. About half a mile off they came across a Brâhman ploughing with oxen; and he took them to a village hard by. He blew a conch and beat a drum, and soon 80 men of the village snatched up their arms and gathered together to attack the robbers. These latter, seeing so many bounding towards them, made off with all speed; the villagers found and released their captives, who lay bound, stripped, and quite helpless, groaning and weeping many tears. The good people of the village covered their nakedness and took them to their homes for food and shelter. “Master,” said one of the monks, to Hiuen-Tsiang, “all that we had has been taken by the thieves, and we have barely got off with our lives. How is it you can smile and look so cheerful!” “Because life is man’s greatest boon,” was the reply. “When that has been saved, why vex one’s self over clothes and food?”

Soon we are with Hiuen-Tsiang at a centre of Brâhmanism which was probably Lâhôr (Lahore). Everywhere he is received with courtesy; usually welcomed with procession and pageantry. Before very long, we find him making a long détour to the cold upper valley of the Bujas river, under the Himalayas, and among a rude, hard, fierce race, but one that had a regard for justice as well as for courage.

He returns to a warmer latitude, and reaches Mathurâ, or Muttra, on the River Jumna; a place once famous for the relics stored in its _stûpas_. Here, different convents followed different authorities; but once a year they gathered together, and each sect made offering before the relics of its chosen saint. A little later, after traversing several small States, it would seem that he visited the source of the Ganges, although, in spite of explicit statement, this has been doubted. He speaks of the river as being 3/4 mile wide at its source! May he not mean that the end of its parent glacier is of that width?[2]

A little later on, we are told of the softness of Ganges water; of how multitudes of bathers assemble on its sandy banks to cleanse them of sin; and how a mere rinsing of the mouth with its water wall avert every calamity and secure future blessedness. “But there is no truth in this universal belief, which is wholly the invention of heresy,” adds our traveller, critical of everything but the superstitions which had encrusted his own faith. And he is of opinion that this special form of false belief is on the wane among the Indian people!

We find him before long in Western Rohilkand, and then again in an icy Himalayan valley, where “for ages a woman has ruled; wherefore it is called the Kingdom of the Eastern Women.” It corresponds to what is now British Garwal and Kumain. As then, so is it to-day: relics of the matriarchate and polyandry are to be found among the Himalayan ranges.

He returns to the Ganges, and, passing through several small States, arrives at Kanauj. He is for ever visiting scholars, and sits for months at the feet of every famous sage. He does so at Kanauj, which he tells us is a city measuring four miles in length and one in breadth. He is now in an Empire recently established by Sîlâditya, a warrior of the Vaiśya, or trading, class, who had forced a number of petty Kinglets to become his tributaries. Sîlâditya would seem to have been a devout Buddhist, favouring the Greater Vehicle, and, really devoting himself to the prosperity of the Empire he ruled.

He now enters Ayôdhyâ—Oude—the same name that, eleven centuries later, rang so compellingly in the ears of Clive and Warren Hastings. Here Brâhmanism was getting the upper hand. And there was not merely much lawlessness but a terrible perversion of religious worship abroad in this land, which reminds one of modern Thuggee. A boat with Hiuen-Tsiang and eighty others on board was gliding peacefully down the Ganges, when a whole little navy of pirates, which had lain concealed under the dense foliage of the river-bank, shot out into mid-stream, and surrounded the pilgrim’s vessel. Some of the passengers leaped into the river; those who remained in the vessel were towed ashore and robbed. Now these water-thieves were devotees of the goddess Durgâ, the wife of Siva, and were wont to offer at her altar a yearly sacrifice of some unblemished human victim, selected from their captives. They carefully examined Hiuen-Tsiang, and pronounced him fit for this purpose. Some of his companions generously offered to take his place; but the pirates would have none of them—Hiuen-Tsiang and he alone was the goddess’ chosen prey. He, of all the company, remained calm and undismayed. “Let me enter Nirvâna tranquil and happy,” he said, his mind wholly occupied with some future incarnation wherein he might turn such cruel hearts as those of the pirates. These, amazed, and even touched, by his meek and compassionate fortitude, granted him a few more minutes of life. Just at this moment, a squall came on, so fierce that it terrified the pirates, even. Hiuen-Tsiang’s companions were loud in exclaiming that it was heaven’s warning of the awful vengeance which would ensue on the murder of a saint. The hearts of the homicides were stricken by fear. One of them took the pilgrim’s hand. He only felt the pressure; for his eyes were closed and he was wrapt in some celestial vision. He asked if the fatal moment had come; and when he learned that the mind of the robbers was changed, he began to unfold “the Law” to them with such persuasive power that they cast their instruments of sacrifice into the river, restored what they had stolen, and quietly went their way.

He visited Prayâga (Allahabad), near the confluence of the Ganges and Jumna, and then took a dangerous course, south-west, through a forest infested with wild elephants and beasts of prey, to Kosâmbi-nagar, now a mere village on the Jumna, only to find ten Buddhist monasteries ruined and deserted and fifty temples of flourishing Brâhmanism, frequented by an enormous number of “heretics.” Thence he travelled northwards, and came to Gautama’s birth place, Kapila. It was a waste. Almost everywhere Brâhmanism was quietly triumphing and Buddhism in gentle decay; although it was not until the following century that this shrivelling process became rapid, and four or five centuries had yet to pass before new dynasties sacked monasteries and burned their inmates or expelled them from India in such wise that Buddhism became extinct throughout the Great Peninsula.

At Bânâras (Benares) he saw Brâhman ascetics who shaved the head, or went about naked, or covered themselves with ashes, and “by all manner of austerity sought to escape from any more births and deaths.” He tells us of the blueness of the sacred river and its rolling waves; of the sweet taste of its waters and the fineness of its sands; of how numbers of people, in order to wash away the pollution of sin, “would abstain from eating for seven days, and then drown themselves in the sacred stream. Daily, towards sunset, ascetics would climb up a pillar set in the middle of the river, cling to it by one hand and one foot in a marvellous manner, and gaze at the sun until he went down, when they would descend. Thereby they hoped to escape from reincarnation.” “If the body of a dead man be cast into the stream, he cannot fall into an evil way. Swept on by its waters and forgotten by men, he is safe on the other side.”

It was at Bânâras that Gautama began his evangel, and the vast district between Jumna and the mountains of Nepal was the main scene of his labours. In the Kingdom of Magadha, which, like Kanduj, was under the rule of Sîlâditya, he found an area of fourteen miles covered with the ruins of a city which was flourishing when Fa-Hien visited India. The stones of _stûpas_, monasteries, pagodas and hospitals for men and beasts cumbered the ground.

While Hiuen-Tsiang was staying at the place where Gautama “Sâkyamûni” as he was called during the ascetic portion of his career—that is to say, “the sage of the family of the Sâkyas”—became “Buddha,” or “the Enlightener of men,” a deputation of four of the most distinguished monks of the great Sarighârâma of Nâlanda—the greatest scholastic and monastic institution in the world—came to him bearing an invitation to stay there. When he arrived he was welcomed with much state and ceremony. Two hundred monks and crowds of people greeted him, singing songs in his praise, bearing standards and umbrellas, and scattering flowers and scent. They raised him to a seat of honour, and then the sub-director sounded a gong and repeated the invitation. Twenty grave and reverend seniors of the monastery presented him to the Father Superior, who was no other than the famous scholar Sîlabhadra, a dignitary so exalted that no one dared name him except by his title of “Treasury of the Righteous Law.” Hiuen-Tsiang had to drag himself towards this sage on knees and elbows, clacking his heels together, and striking the ground with his brow. This done, seats were brought forward, compliments were interchanged, and the pilgrim was made free of the institution. The best rooms were given up to him; ten servants were allotted to him, and, daily he was furnished with an ample supply of food at the cost of the monks and the Râja. A Buddhist monk and a Brâhman, dwelling in peace together, took him abroad from time to time and shewed him the holy sights of the neighbourhood, seated in state on an elephant or carried in a palanquin; but when he was in the convent the “Treasury of the Righteous Law” devoted no small measure of his time to his instruction in the higher learning.

In the Seventh Century there was not, in the whole world a seat of learning which might compare with the splendid establishment at Nâlanda. It had been magnificently endowed by a succession of monarchs and still enjoyed the royal favour as much as ever. There were open courts and secluded gardens; splendid trees, casting a grateful shade, under which the monks and novices might meditate; cool fountains of fresh water that gurgled delightfully in the hot season. Ten thousand inmates dwelt in six blocks of buildings four stories high, which looked out on large courts. There were a hundred rooms set apart for lectures on religion and on all the science and literature of the time. There were halls wherein disputations frequently took place; and in these Hiuen-Tsiang took a distinguished part. The monks impressed him favourably: he found them sincere, and living in the strict observance of severe rules. He says: “from morning to night, young and old help each other in discussions, for which they find the day too short.” The mental power and learning of the monks were as renowned as the towers, the pavilions, and the cool retreats of the convent-university in which they dwelt. The study of medicine and natural history and useful and useless branches of mundane research was by no means cast aside for speculation. But the latter was of so subtle a character that, while ten hundred might be found capable of expounding twenty books of the Sâtras and Sâstras, only five hundred could deal with thirty books, and only ten with fifty; although students were not admitted until they had proved themselves men of parts, and well-read in books, old and new, by hard public discussion; and of ten candidates for admission, seven or eight were rejected. Altogether, Hiuen-Tsiang spent five years in study here; and he became one of the ten who could expound fifty sacred books. But Sîlabhadra, the Father Superior, who was his tutor, had left no sacred book unstudied.

From Nâlanda, our pilgrim proceeded to Patna, and crossing the Ganges, visited Gayâ. He saw everything worth seeing in the country about Bhagalpur, and found there a monastery of the first order, the origin of which was a curious history. A “heretic” from South India had marched into the country, staff in hand, with stately step and pompous mien, beating “the drum of discussion.” On his head, he bore a lighted torch, and his belly was encased in plates of shining copper. When asked the reason for such strange attire, he replied that the torch was to enlighten the ignorant multitude, who dwelt in darkness, and the belt was for self-preservation, since he was so filled with wisdom that he feared his belly would burst. In spite of this mummery, he proved himself so well instructed and persuasive that all the learned men in the Kingdom were unable to controvert his arguments. At last, a Buddhist from Southern India was sent for and reduced him to silence. The Râja was so impressed by the victory that he founded the monastery.

Our traveller now came to the land of the sugar-cane. His account of the Kingdoms he visited after leaving the chief scenes of Gautama’s missionary zeal, and the history of his wanderings, put together from his notes and conversations with his pupils, become less full than before; but it is clear that he made his way to “the shore-country” of the Bay of Bengal, which would seem to be the Sunderbans, between the rivers Ganges and Hûgli—afterwards a name of horror, as the lair of infamous Portuguese pirates. At all events, he crossed the great Delta of the Ganges, intending to embark for Ceylon at Tamluk on the Selai, just where that river joins the Hûgli. Fa-Hian had done so, and had seen Ceylon and its monuments; but Hiuen-Tsiang was given such accounts of the perils of the long voyage that anxiety for the safety of the treasures he had collected induced him to travel by land to South India, and he determined to sail thence across the narrow Palk Strait. So he returned inland, nearly as far back as Bhagalpur again, and proceeded thence to Orissa. Thence he travelled south-westward to the district watered by the upper tributaries of the Mahanadi and Godavari in Central India; penetrating many a pestiferous marsh and perilous jungle, deep and dangerous forest and scorching desert-plain, before he arrived at Congeveram, the Dravidian capital, a little south-west of Madras and north-west of Pondicherri. Here he learned that Ceylon had become the theatre of a bloody war and that it would be impossible to reach it. So he turned his reluctant steps to the north.

He tells of the courage, honesty and love of truth of the Dravidian race, and of the heat and fruitfulness of the land they inhabited. He speaks of his return-journey as being partly through “a wild forest and many deserted villages where bands of brigands attack travellers.” Then, going north-west, he came to the country of the Mahrattas—not the modern race which goes by that name, but a people who apparently were Rajpoots, the old military Aryan aristocracy of India, whose widows, following a Scythian custom, cast themselves on the funeral pyre of their husbands to be worthy of their chivalry and to rejoin them in the next life. Hiuen-Tsiang describes the Mahrattas as being tall of stature, honest and simple; grateful to friends, relentless to enemies. They avenged an insult at the risk of life; they would forget all about themselves in their haste to give aid. They always gave due warning to a foe before attacking him, and spared the enemy who should yield. A commander who lost a battle was not directly punished; but he received a present of women’s clothes, and this was enough: it drove him to suicide. The army was of several hundred chosen men, who went into battle drunk, and made their elephants drunk also. Then they would rush forward in close array, bearing everything before them and trampling on the foe. Nothing could withstand such an onset. And one man all alone, with his lance in hand, was always quite ready to challenge and fight ten thousand. These champions had drums beaten before them every time they went abroad; and should one of them come across a man and slay him no notice of the offence was taken.

Passing through Western India and States which bordered on the Arabian Sea, we find our traveller in Southern Malwa and Rajputana and, later, in Sind. Twice in his account of Southern and Western India and once in the _Life and Journeyings of Hiuen-Tsiang_, we are told that he heard of a “Land of Western Women.” While on the Coromandel Coast, he heard of an island inhabited by women who bore female children only to Persian demons. Of old time, they were wont to allure sailors and traders by signals. If successful, they changed themselves into beautiful women, holding flowers and dispersing sweet scents. They went forth to meet voyagers to the sound of sweet music, and, having inveigled them into their City, which was built of iron, and having solaced them with their society, they would cast them into an iron prison and devour them at leisure. On the Western Coast, he is told that the island is rich in gems and lies to the south-west of the Byzantine Empire, to which it is tributary, and where its precious stones are exchanged. It is inhabited by women only. Once a year, the Emperor of Byzantium sends them male partners; and, if boys are born of the union, the laws forbid their being brought up on the island. Marco Polo also speaks of a Kingdom of Western Women. Ferdusi, the Persian Poet, makes Alexander the Great visit an island-city of women where no man was allowed to dwell. In the early art and literature of Buddhism the legend is to be found. It reached Malaya. It made its way into Chinese literature, too, some generations before the time of Hiuen-Tsiang. But the locality given to the island varies with the legend.

Here, surely, are our Homeric friends, the Sirens—the daughters of Achelous, serpent and ox, and the Muse Calliope—whose “shrill music reached Ulysses on the middle sea” from a little island off Sicily. Can these Western and Eastern legends have come from a common source; or, did they travel overland with trader or missionary; or was some faint echo of the golden harp of Hellas wafted by the breezes which bore the trader across the Arabian Sea to Sind and Southern India? Possibly the latter; for our author speaks of the island as lying to the west, beyond the great sea which laves the shores of Kutch. It is perplexing to find what would seem to be the same story told by the natives of Martinique to Columbus during his second voyage.

From Sind beyond the Indus, Hiuen-Tsiang proceeded to Multân in the Punjâb, and saw the majestic temple of the Sun-dêva, whose image was cast in gold and set with rare gems. Crowds of worshippers flocked hither from other Kingdoms; and women did honour to the god with music and torches and offerings of blossoms and perfumes. The temple was surrounded with water-tanks and flowery groves; and near it was a “House of Happiness,” which was a hospital for the poor and sick.

He visited this temple on his way back to the sacred land where Gautama had assumed his mission of teacher of mankind; for he felt that he must return thither. So he made a thousand miles eastward and arrived at Magadha in time to see the grand procession of the ashes of Buddha. He thought the remains too large to be genuine; so did an Indian sage of great reputation, and it would seem that the crowd of spectators were also in doubt. Some time afterwards, suddenly, the relics could not be found; the _stûpa_ in which they were kept was a sheet of light, and flames, in five different colours shot up to the sky. This brilliant phenomenon was witnessed by a wondering multitude; it gradually passed away; and so did incredulity.

Hiuen-Tsiang passed his time in the monasteries of Magadha, partly in study, partly in refuting Brâhmans and the followers of the Little Vehicle. To refute the latter could not have been a difficult task: simple monks, only instructed in practical ethics, would stand no chance against an erudite monk trained in subtle speculation and fine distinctions. As in European Universities of the Middle Ages, the thesis to be disputed was hung up by its supporter; and whatever wrangler chose to deny it would take it down. Then a contest ensued; and, at Nâlanda, its learned Head, the “Treasury of the Law,” was wont to preside at great discussions. In some of these, our Chinaman took a triumphant part.

On one occasion, a certain Brâhman had hung up a challenge to the Buddhists, which consisted of 40 articles, and, according to custom, he wagered his head to maintain them; possibly perfectly well aware that, in the unexpected event of defeat, the forfeit would not be exacted. For some days, no one would come forward to oppose him. Then Hiuen-Tsiang sent a monk to take up the insolent challenge in his name: it was torn into shreds, and trampled under foot. At the solemn discussion which ensued, he held forth at portentous length, and dumbfounded the Brâhman. Hiuen-Tsiang then told him he had suffered humiliation enough: he was free to go.

The defeated wrangler went to Kâmarûpa, a Kingdom which extended from west of the Brahmaputra to Manipur, on the borders of Burmah. The eloquence and learning of our Chinaman would appear to have converted the Brâhman, who was generous enough to tell the Râja of his defeat. The tale so impressed that monarch that he sent an invitation to Hiuen-Tsiang to pay him a visit; but our pilgrim, having fully accomplished the purpose for which he had travelled so far, was eager to return to China. The Râja waxed wroth at his disobedience to a royal command, and warned the “Treasury of the Law” that, little as he cared for the religion of Buddha, he would come with a vast army and level with the dust the famous building over which he presided if Hiuen-Tsiang were not forwarded without delay. It was evident that the Râja, a powerful ally or tributary of Sîlâditya, whose loyalty to that great monarch was not too assured, might conceivably let loose the hounds of uncertain war. Here, a gleam of enlightenment is thrown on the attitude of Râjas tributary to Sîlâditya, who had won his empire by the sword and who had made Kanouj and Allahabad his capital cities. Hiuen-Tsiang was despatched by Sîlabhadra to far-off Kâmarûpa; He had been at the Râja’s court a whole month, when Sîlâditya returned from the chastisement of a rebellious feudatory and learned whither he had gone. Sîlâditya had urged the pilgrim to visit him in vain; now he finds him at the court of a rival. Here is the making of a very pretty quarrel. Sîlâditya sends to the Râja, saying that he wants the Chinese. “My head first!” replies that monarch. Then Sîlâditya waxed wrath; and his wrath is terrible. “Since I have power to cut off your head, it may be given straightway to my ambassador,” is the message he returns. The Râja of Kâmarûpa now begins to reflect. He orders his court-barge and sets off with Hiuen-Tsiang in it to make amends to Sîlâditya.

But he took the precaution to be accompanied by a great army. The Ganges was crowded with boats filled with troops, and, as these were rowed up the stream, other soldiery mounted on war-elephants marched slowly along the banks. On their arrival at the court of Sîlâditya he commanded that Hiuen-Tsiang should be presented to him. The Râja of Kâmarûpa saw at once that here was an opportunity of quietly humiliating Sîlâditya in his turn—a monarch who, from conviction or by policy, professed the deepest reverence for the Greater Vehicle and was the munificent patron of Buddhist institutions. He suggested to Sîlâditya that it would be unworthy of a monarch so renowned for cherishing sages and saints to do otherwise than pay the holy and learned Chinese pilgrim the compliment of visiting him first. Sîlâditya fell in with the proposal; and the Râja at once went back to Hiuen-Tsiang and persuaded him, “for the honour of the law of Buddha,” to consent. Thus, should his enemy, or anyone, never be sensible of so subtle a revenge, the secret of it was sweet in the heart of the Eastern King; a psychological peculiarity by no means confined to the ruler of Kâmarûpa.

Next evening, shortly after sunset, the Ganges was ablaze with torches; the air resounded with the noise of tom-toms, for Sîlâditya was about to pay his visit with Generals and Ministers of State. It was the distinction of the Lord-paramount that the beating of a hundred gongs heralded his approach and gave step to his guards. The haughty despot, who determined the fate of thousands by a gesture, cast himself on the ground at the feet of the humble monk, and kissed them. Next day, the Master of the Law returned the visit. Now, a sister of the great monarch, an enthusiast for high doctrine, who was seated behind the throne, entreated that a great assembly of all the sages of the Empire should be convoked at Kanouj to give Hiuen-Tsiang an opportunity of setting out the beauty of the Greater Vehicle. So, at the beginning of the cold season, the sages assembled at Kanouj, mounted on elephants or carried in palanquins, surrounded by banners and accompanied by an immense multitude. An elephant bore a golden statue of Buddha on his back, and this was solemnly erected on a daïs. To the right of the elephant, marched Sîlâditya, dressed as Indra and carrying a white fly-flap in his hand; to the left was Kumâra, monarch of Kâmarûpa, in the garb of Brâhm, and carrying a parasol of precious silk. Both monarchs wore magnificent tiaras, from which garlands of flowers and ribbons set with jewels hung down. Following the golden image and the two Râjas came our Master of the Law, seated on a big elephant, and then the officials and monks of the two Kingdoms, also on elephants. Eighteen tributary princes were drawn up on either side, also riding elephants, and these fell into the procession as the great Râjas and Hiuen-Tsiang passed on.

Food was provided for everybody, without distinction of rank, and rich gifts were bestowed on all the monks. Hiuen-Tsiang ordered his thesis to be hung up; but eighteen days passed, and no one attempted to controvert it. But the followers of the Little Vehicle were so mortified that some of them conspired against Hiuen-Tsiang’s life. The plot was detected, and a severe edict was issued that even the very smallest slander against him would be punished by loss of tongue; while any attempt to injure him bodily would be followed by decapitation. At the end of the eighteen days, following ancient usage, the victorious pilgrim was mounted on a richly-caparisoned elephant and taken a tour round the crowd, in the company of the dignitaries of the Empire and with full state-honours. Rich presents were offered him; but these he refused; and then Sîlâditya dissolved the assembly; and the eighteen kings, the monks, and the crowd returned every man to his own abode.

Now, it was the custom of Sîlâditya, as it had been that of his predecessors, to distribute all their accumulated wealth at the end of every five years. But they were careful to keep their war-elephants, war-horses and weapons of war; for on these their power rested. The practice kept the people submissive and contented, while effective force remained with the Râja. The distribution was made on a plain at the confluence of Ganges and Jumna, three miles from Prayâga, and not far from the existing city of Allahabad. When the time for it arrived, Sîlâditya took the Master of the Law with him. He observed that gold and silver, silk and cotton, and much else were stored up in temporary buildings within an enclosure, and arrangements were made for seating a thousand persons at a time. The eighteen tributary Kings and a vast crowd of monks and laity were summoned to be present, and did not fail to arrive. It is significant that each tributary prince brought his army with him: it throws light on the character of Sîlâditya’s empire.

On the first day, the statue of Buddha was installed in a temple and adorned with jewels. A great feast followed on this ceremony; it was accompanied by music and the scattering of blossoms; and then rich gifts were distributed among the more important of the guests. On the second day, the image of the Sun-god was honoured, and presents of magnificence were made. The third day, the god Siva received honours, and a similar distribution was made. The fourth day, every one of about 10,000 monks was given a hundred pieces of gold and a cotton garment. The fifth day, distribution to the Brâhmans was begun; but it is worthy of note that the awards to them took up three weeks all but a day. On the sixth day, and for 9 days following, alms were given to “heretics”; on the eighth, and for the next nine days, to naked mendicants from distant Kingdoms. Lastly, it took a whole month to give to the poor, to orphans, and to poor men who had no family to fall back upon. Finally Sîlâditya took off and gave up his tiara and necklace, exclaiming that he had exchanged them for incorruptible riches. And now, the tributary Râjas surrendered their robes and jewels to their Lord-paramount. What with this ordinance and the retention of the sinews of war, Sîlâditya remained no less powerful than before.

Our pilgrim now obtains permission to set forth on his return-journey. He is offered an escort to China should he choose to return by sea; but he has precious manuscripts to preserve, the rich harvest of his labours, and he prefers to take the smaller risk of desert and icy mountains to that of pirates and of frail, clumsy craft, breasting “the feasted waters of the sea stretched out In lazy gluttony, expecting prey.” Moreover, whether T’ai Tsung, now Emperor of China, would welcome a foreign Embassy, may have been in his mind. He refused all gifts from the Râja of Kâmarûpa, save a warm garment needful for the high passes.

Now, the Master of the Law had been wont, if he had no escort to protect him, to send an attendant monk ahead, and, should his fore-runner meet with wayside thieves, he would announce the character of Hiuen-Tsiang’s mission. The explanation had been made more than once, and prevailed. But many a Râja was now eager to give him a warm welcome and send soldiery to see him safe in the next Kingdom. And, Sîlâditya, not merely went with him some small part of the long way, but charged a tributary prince of the North to accompany and protect him through the Punjâb. He also presented the pilgrim with a big elephant, horses and chariots to convey the manuscripts and images he had collected, and 3000 pieces of gold and 10,000 pieces of silver to defray the expenses of the journey. He also provided him with letters to various princes whose territories he would have to cross, ordering or recommending them to expedite his journey. These documents were written on rolls of cotton and sealed with red wax. Sîlâditya and his tributary Râjas even rode out again to catch the pilgrim up and bid him a second farewell.

Easy progress was made across North-West India; and native rulers vied with each other in doing honour to the traveller from afar. Now, at the best of times, to cross the Indus is perilous; and this time it was not effected without mishap. The “Master of the Law” rode on the elephant; but the manuscripts, images, relics, and a precious collection of seeds, which he had made during his travels, and which he hoped might grow in China, were placed in a boat under the care of a special custodian. When the middle of the current was reached, a storm-gust swept over the river, and the boat was well nigh sunk by tossing waves. The custodian was rescued with great difficulty; but half a hundred manuscripts and the valuable collection of seeds which might have done so much service, were lost. Only by the very greatest exertion was anything at all saved.