The Buddha and His Religion (Routledge Revivals)

J. Saint-Hilaire

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN:
  9780415739498
• eBook ISBN:
  9781317811121
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Buddhism

First published in 1914, this is a fascinating investigation of the origins of Buddhism, drawing on a wealth of evidence relating to the life and teachings of the Buddha. First considering how the study of the Buddhist doctrine can be used to critique religious systems such as Christianity, Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire proceeds to discuss Buddhism at three different periods of its history: the life and legend of the Buddha as demonstrated within canonical works, Buddhism in India during the seventh century, and finally, Buddhism in Sri Lanka (formally 'Ceylon') at the start of the twentieth century. Principally a philosophical study surrounding the origins and principles of Buddhism, this reissue will be of particular value to students researching contemporary perceptions of the Buddhist faith.

PART I

THE ORIGIN OF BUDDHISM.

CHAPTER I.

Birth of the Buddha; his education; his marriage; he chooses his wife Gopā. The Buddha’s meditations; his vocation encouraged by the gods; the four visions; the young prince’s determination; resistance of his father and family; he flies from Kapilavastu. His studies at Vaiṣāli and Rājagriha; his five companions; he renounces the world. His retreat of six years at Uruvela; his austerities and ecstasies; the attainment of Buddhahood; Bodhimanda and Bodhidruma; Vajrāsanam. The Buddha leaves his retreat; he goes to Benāres toy ‘turn the wheel of the Law’; his teaching; his sojourn in Magadha and in Kosala; Bimbisāra, Ajātasatru, Prasenajit, Anātha Piṇḍika. The Buddha’s interview with his father; his dissensions with the Brahmans; his triumph; popular enthusiasm. Death of the Buddha at eighty years of age at Kusi-nagara.

TOWARDS the end of the seventh century B.C., in the city of Kapilavastu, the capital of a small kingdom of the same name situated in Central India at the foot of the mountains of Nepaul, north of the present kingdom of Oudh¹, the Buddha was born. His father Suddhodana, of the tribe of the Ṣākyas, a descendant of the great solar race of the Gautamides, ruled over the country. His mother, Māyā Devi, was the daughter of the King Suprabuddha, and her beauty was so transcendent that the name of Māyā, or the Vision, had been given to her, her form seeming to be—as is related in the Lalita-vistāra—the creation of some enchanting dream. Māyā Devi’s virtues and talents surpassed even her excessive beauty, for she was endowed with the highest and choicest gifts of intelligence and piety. Suddhodana was worthy of his consort, and ‘King of the Law, he ruled according to the Law. No other prince among the Ṣākyas was more honoured and respected by all classes of his subjects, from his councillors and courtiers, down to the householders and merchants.’

Such was the noble family from which the Liberator was to arise. He thus belonged to the Kshatriya or warrior caste, and when he eventually embraced a religious life, he was called, in honour of his illustrious origin, Ṣākya-muni, that is to say the Ṣākya-sage, or the Sramana Gautama, the Gautamide ascetic. His father gave him the name of Siddhārtha or Sarvārthasiddha, and he retained this name as long as he lived as a Royal Prince (Kumārārāja). Later on he exchanged it for more glorious names.

His mother, the queen, had retired about the time of her expected delivery to a pleasure garden, called after her grandmother, the garden of Lumbini¹, and there overtaken by the pangs of childbirth, under the shade of a satin-tree she gave birth to Siddhārtha on the third day of the month of Utāraṣādha, or, according to another reckoning, the fifteenth day of the month of Vesākha. But weakened, no doubt, by the pious austerities she had practised during her pregnancy, perhaps also filled with anxiety on account of the predictions the Brahmans had uttered about the son who was to be born of her, Māyā Devi died seven days after his birth ‘that she might not’ says the legend ‘have her heart broken, by seeing her son leave her to become a holy man, and to wander in beggary and in want.’ The orphan child was confided to the care of his mother’s sister, Prajāpatī Gotamī, another of his father’s wives, who at a later period, in the days of the Buddha’s teaching, became one of his most fervent adherents.

The child was as beautiful as his mother, and the Brahman Asita, whose duty it was in conformity with the ancient custom to present him in the temple of the gods, averred that he found on him the thirty-two principal signs, and the eighty secondary marks by which, according to popular belief in India, a great man may be recognized. Whatever may have been the truth of these prognostics Siddhārtha quickly justified the high repute in which he was held. When he was sent to the ‘writing school’ he displayed more talent even than his masters, and one of them, Visvamitra, under whose care he was more especially placed, soon declared that he had nothing more to teach him. In the midst of companions of his own age, the child took no part in their games; he seemed even then absorbed in higher thoughts; often did he remain aloof to meditate, and one day when he had gone with his comrades to visit ‘the agricultural village,’ he wandered away alone in a great wood, where he remained for many hours while no one knew what had become of him. The king, his father, at length filled with anxiety, went in person to seek him in the forest, and found him there, under the shade of a djambu tree, plunged in deep meditation.

Now the time drew near, when the young prince should be married. The chief elders of the Ṣākyas remembered the Brahman’s predictions, for they had foretold that Siddhārtha would very probably renounce the crown in order to become an ascetic. They therefore implored the king to marry his son as soon as possible, so as to assure the future of his race. They hoped to bind the young man to the throne by an early marriage. The king, however, who doubtless was aware of the prince’s intentions, did not dare to speak to him himself; he desired the elders to confer with him, and to make to him the proposal they deemed so important. Siddhārtha, who dreaded ‘the evils of desire, more to be feared than poison, fire or sword,’ desired to have seven days given him for reflection. After having well considered, feeling certain that marriage, having been already accepted by many sages, would neither deprive him of the calm necessary for reflection, nor of the leisure for meditation, he yielded to the request made to him, laying down, however, one condition: ‘That the wife chosen for him was not to be a low-minded or immodest woman; otherwise it mattered little to him what might be her caste, he would take her from among the Veṣyas and the Sūdras, as willingly as from among the Brahman women and the Kshatriyas, if so be that she was endowed with the qualities which he required in his consort.’ He then gave the elders, to guide them in their choice, a complete list which he had prepared of the qualities he desired his bride to possess.

The purohita or domestic priest of king Suddhodana was therefore instructed to go through all the houses at Kapilavastu, and after viewing the young maidens of every house, to choose her who best fulfilled the requirements of the prince, ‘whose heart, undazzled by rank or birth took pleasure only in true virtue and morality.’ The list of the virtues demanded was successively presented to a multitude of young maidens of all ranks and classes, none however seemed to fulfil the requirements. At last one of them told the priest that she possessed all the qualities demanded by the prince, and that if he would accept her, she would be his wife. Summoned to appear before the prince with several other beautiful girls of her own age, she was singled out by him, and the king gave his consent to the marriage. But the maiden’s father Daṇdāpāṇī, of the Ṣākya tribe, was not so easily satisfied, and as the young prince was supposed to be given up to indolence and effeminacy, he demanded that before bestowing on him his daughter, the beautiful Gopā, he should give proofs of the talents of all kinds, which he possessed. ‘The noble youth,’ said Daṇdāpāṇī sternly, ‘has lived in idleness within the palace, and it is a law of our race only to give our daughters to men skilled in the arts, never to those unacquainted with them. This youth has never practised fencing, nor boxing, nor bending a bow, neither does he know the rules of fighting; how can I bestow my daughter on one who is not skilful in these exercises?’

The noble Siddhārtha was therefore obliged, prince though he was, to display the talents his modesty had hitherto concealed. Five hundred of the most distinguished young Ṣākyas were assembled, and the beautiful Gopā was promised to the victor. The Royal prince easily proved himself superior to his rivals. But the contest was at first directed to different arts from those proposed by Daṇdāpāṇī. Siddhārtha showed himself more skilful than his competitors or even his judges, in the art of writing, in arithmetic, in grammar, in syllogism, in the knowledge of the Vedas, of the philosophic systems, of ethics, &c. Then passing from mental to bodily exercises, he vanquished all his companions, in leaping, swimming, running, bending the bow, and a number of other games, in which he displayed as much strength as skill. Among his adversaries were his two cousins; Ānanda, who afterwards became one of his most faithful disciples, and Dewadatta, who, deeply irritated by his defeat, became from that day his implacable enemy. The beautiful Gopā was the reward of Siddhārtha’s victory, and the young girl who had considered herself worthy of a king, was declared the first of his wives. From that moment she insisted, notwithstanding the opposition of her family, on never veiling her face in their presence, nor in that of the palace attendants. ‘Those who are virtuous,’ she said, ‘whether sitting, standing or walking, are always fair to look upon. A precious, sparkling diamond glitters more brilliantly from the top of a banner. Women who control their thoughts and subdue their senses, are satisfied with their husbands, and never thinking of any other man, can show themselves unveiled, like the sun and moon. The supreme and magnanimous Rishi, as well as all the other gods, knows my thoughts, my behaviour, my discretion, and my modesty. Why therefore should I veil my face?’

Notwithstanding the happiness of a union contracted under such auspices, it had no power to change the designs Siddhārtha had already formed. In his splendid palace and surrounded by every luxury, in the midst even of the festivities and concerts that were perpetually going on, the young prince never relinquished the idea of his holy enterprise; and in the heroism and bitterness of his heart, he would often say,—‘The three worlds, that of God, of the Asekhas, and of men, are consumed by the sufferings of disease and old age, they are devoured by the fire of death, and deprived of all guidance. The life of a human being is like a flash of lightning in the sky; as the torrent rushes down a mountain, so life flows on with an irresistible rapidity. By the fact of existence, by desire, and by ignorance, the creatures in the abode of men and gods are on the road to three evils. The ignorant but turn round and round, even as the potter’s wheel turns on its axis. The nature of desire, ever attended by fear and misery, is the root of sorrow. It is more to be dreaded than the sharp edge of a sword or the leaf of a poisonous tree. Like a reflected image, an echo, a shimmer, or the dizziness of a dance, like a dream, an empty and idle speech, like magic or mirage it is full of deceit, and as empty as foam, or as a bubble on the water. Disease robs the human body of its beauty, weakens the senses, the faculties, and the strength, and puts an end to riches and welfare. It brings on the day of death, and of transmigration. Every creature, the fairest, the most beloved, disappears for ever; like a leaf or fruit fallen into the stream it is lost for ever to our eyes. Then man, solitary and unaided, wanders forth with but one possession, the fruit of his earthly labours.’

Then, he adds, after these melancholy but compassionate reflections:

‘Decay is inherent in all component things; all that is composite is unstable; like a vessel of clay which the slightest blow will shatter, like wealth borrowed from another, or a city of sand which does not hold together, or the sandy bank of a river. All component things are in turn effect and cause. One contains the other as the seed contains the germ, although the germ is not the seed. But substance, though not durable, has no interruption; no being exists that does not emanate from another; and therein lies the apparent durability of substance. The wise man, however, is not deceived by these appearances. For instance, the wood that is rubbed, the wood with which it is rubbed, and the action of the hands, are three things which cause fire; but the fire soon dies out; and the sage, searching in vain for it, wonders: Whence it came, and whither it has gone? The sound of words is made by the movement of the tongue striking on the lips or the roof of the mouth or back of the palate, and language is formed with the help of the mind; but all speech is but an echo, and language does not exist in itself. It is the sound of a lute, of a flute, and again the sage wonders: Whence it comes and whither it has gone?

‘Thence are all forms born of causes and effects, and the yogi, or sage, on reflection perceives that forms are but nothingness, which alone is immutable. The objects revealed to us by our senses do not exist in themselves, none of them possess fixity, which is the true characteristic of the Law.

‘But this Law which is to save the world, I understand it, and I must make it known to both gods and men. Many a time have I thought, when I shall have attained supreme wisdom (Bodhi) I will assemble together all living beings, and I will show them how they may enter the gates of immortality. Withdrawing them from the wide ocean of Creation, I will establish them in the land of patience. Freed from the disturbing suggestions of the senses, I will establish them in peace. In showing the light of the Law to creatures duped by the darkness of profound ignorance, I will give them eyes to see things clearly as they are; I will endow them with the beautiful radiance of pure wisdom; the eye of the Law, without blemish or corruption.’

These grave thoughts haunted young Siddhārtha even in his dreams; and one night, one of the gods, Hrideva, the god of modesty, descending from Tushita the abode of gladness, appeared to him, and by the following gentle words, encouraged him to set forth on the mission, for which he had been preparing himself for so many years.

‘The time and the hour have come,’ said the god, ‘for him who is resolved, to reveal himself to the world. He who is not liberated himself, cannot liberate others; the blind cannot show the way; but he who is freed, can free others; he who has eyes can show the path to those who know it not. To those, whoever they may be, consumed by earthly desires, clinging to their houses, their wealth, their children, their wives, impart due instruction, and inspire in them a desire to renounce the world, and to adopt the holy life of wandering monks.’

Meanwhile the king Suddhodana suspected the projects that agitated the heart of his son; and his tenderness and care increased tenfold. He built him three new palaces; one for spring, one for summer, and another for winter; and fearful lest the young prince should take advantage of his excursions to escape from his family, he secretly gave the strictest orders that all his movements should be watched. However, all the precautions taken by his father were in vain. The most unforeseen and most extraordinary circumstances combined to give increasing strength to the prince’s resolution.

One day, as he drove with a numerous escort through the eastern gate of the city, on his way to visit the garden of Lumbini, dear to him from the recollections of his childhood, he met a decrepit old man, seamed with wrinkles, and bald-headed, whose veins and muscles stood out like cords, while his chattering teeth hardly permitted the utterance of a few harsh and inarticulate sounds. His skinny hands clutched a rugged staff to support his tottering steps, and his bent body and limbs shook with palsy.

‘Who is this man?’ cried the prince to his charioteer. ‘He is small of stature and devoid of strength, his flesh and blood are dried up, his muscles cleave to his skin, his hair is white, his teeth chatter, his body is emaciated; bent over his staff, he drags himself painfully along, stumbling at every step. Is this a condition peculiar to his family? or is this the law that governs all mankind?’

‘Prince,’ replied the charioteer, ‘this man is overcome by age; all his senses are weakened, suffering has destroyed his strength, he is cast aside by his relations; and he has no protector; incompetent in business, he is abandoned like dead wood in a forest. But his is not a condition peculiar to his family. In all living beings, youth is conquered by age; your father and mother, all your relations and allies will end thus; it is the natural and fatal issue.’

‘Since this is so,’ replied the prince, ‘an ignorant and weak man, lacking in discernment, takes pride in the youth that intoxicates him, and does not see old age awaiting him. As for me, I will go no further. Turn back quickly, charioteer. For I, too, am the future abode of old age; what have I to do with pleasure and joy?’ And the young prince drove back into the town without going to Lumbini.

Another day, he was going with a large retinue through the southern gate to the pleasure garden, when he saw in the road a man who was stricken by disease, shaking with fever, a thin and mud-stained form, without friends or shelter, gasping for breath, and with all the appearance of intense terror at the approach of death. After interrogating his charioteer and receiving the expected answer:

‘Health,’ said the prince, ‘is then like a deceptive dream, and the dread of evil is then an unbearable torture! Where is the wise man who, after having seen what it is, can henceforth enjoy happiness or pleasure?’

And the prince turned his chariot, and went back to the town, without going any further.

Again another time, he was going by the western gate to the pleasure garden, when he spied on the road a dead man stretched on a bier, covered over with a cloth. A band of wailing relations surrounded it, filling the air with their lamentations, tearing their hair, covering their heads with dust, and striking their breasts as they uttered loud cries.

The prince, calling again his charioteer to witness, exclaimed, ‘Ah! woe unto youth that old age must destroy; ah! woe for the health so destroyed by sickness; ah ! woe to life that gives man so short a time! If there were neither old age, nor sickness, nor death ! Oh ! if only old age, sickness and death were for ever destroyed!’

Then, for the first time betraying his secret thought, the young prince added: ‘Return home again, I must think over the accomplishment of this deliverance.’

A last meeting decided him, and put an end to all hesitation ¹. He was leaving the city by the northern gate to go to the pleasure garden, when he saw a Bhikshu or mendicant, who by his calm, chastened, and reserved demeanour, seemed dedicated to the calling of a Brahma-chari²; he stood with lowered eyes, fixing his gaze no further than the length of a yoke, in a befitting manner, wearing with dignity the garment of a monk and carrying an alms-bowl.

‘Who is this man?’ inquired the prince.

‘Lord,’ replied the charioteer, ‘this man is one of those called Bhikshus; he has renounced all lustful desi...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• INTRODUCTION. THE AUTHENTICITY OF BUDDHISM
• PART I. THE ORIGIN OF BUDDHISM
• PART II. BUDDHISM IN INDIA IN THE SEVENTH CENTURY OF THE CHRISTIAN ERA
• PART III. BUDDHISM AT THE PRESENT TIME IN CEYLON
• APPENDIX