Festivals, Domestic Rites, and Formularies of Prayer

Festivals, Domestic Rites, and Formularies of Prayer.

To Find More Interesting Resources Click below :

We must now turn to the consideration of some of the chief festivals, domestic rites, and prayer-formularies of Buddhism—a subject which follows as a natural sequel to the last Lecture.

It is well known that the Hindūs have certain festivals and holy days, celebrated at the junction of the seasons which in India are properly six in number—namely, spring, summer, the rains (Varsha), autumn, winter, and the season of dew and mist (see ‘Indian Wisdom,’ p. 450; ‘Brāhmanism and Hindūism,’ p. 428).

Buddhism has adopted the old Hindū ideas on this subject, and has added others of its own, but generally only reckons three seasons—summer, the rains (Vassa = Varsha) and winter.

The festival of the New Year is, of course, universal. It is supposed to celebrate the victory of light over darkness, and, in Buddhist countries, of Buddhism over ignorance. The corresponding Hindū festival is called Makara-saṅkrānti. In India this marks the termination of the inauspicious month Pausha and the beginning of the sun’s northern course (uttarāyaṇa) in the heavens. It is a season of general rejoicing.

341
In Burma, where a good type of Southern Buddhism is still to be found, the New Year’s festival might suitably be called a ‘water-festival.’ It has there so little connexion with the increase of the New Year’s light, that it often takes place as late as the early half of April (see Mr. Scott’s ‘Burman,’ ii. 48). It is, however, a movable feast, the date of which is regularly fixed by the astrologers of Mandalay, ‘who make intricate calculations based on the position of various constellations.’ The object is to determine on what precise day the king of the Naths (see p. 217 of this volume) will descend upon the earth and inaugurate the new year. When the day arrives all are on the watch, and just at the right moment—which invariably occurs at midnight—a cannon is fired off, announcing the descent of the Nath-king upon earth. Forthwith (according to Mr. Scott) men and women sally out of their houses, carrying pots full of water consecrated by fresh leaves and twigs of a sacred tree (p. 514 of this volume), repeat a formal prayer, and pour out the water on the ground. At the same time all who have guns of any kind discharge them, so as to greet the new year with as much noise as possible.

Then, ‘with the first glimmer of light,’ all take jars full of fresh water and carry them off to the nearest monastery. First they present them to the monks, and then proceed to bathe the images. This work is usually done by the women of the party, ‘who reverently clamber up’ and empty their goblets of water over the placid features of the Buddhas and Bodhi-sattvas. Then begin the Saturnalia. All along the 342 road are urchins with squirts and syringes, with which they have been furtively practising for the last few days. The skill thus acquired is exhibited by the accuracy of their aim. Cold streams of water catch the ears of the passers by. Young men and girls salute one another with the contents of jars and goblets. Shouts of merriment are heard in every quarter. Before breakfast every one is soaked, but no one thinks of changing his garments, for the weather is warm, and ‘water is everywhere.’ The girls are the most enthusiastic, and as they generally go in bands and carry copious reservoirs along with them, ‘unprotected males’ are soon routed. Then a number of ‘zealous people’ go down to the river, wade into the water knee-deep, splash about and drench one another till they are tired. No one escapes. For three days no one likes to be seen with dry clothes. The wetting is a compliment. A clerk comes up to his master, bows, and ‘gravely pours the contents of a silver cup down the back of his neck,’ saying, ‘let me do homage to you with water.’

It appears from Mr. Scott’s amusing narrative that, when there was a king in Burma, an important feature of the festival was the formal washing of his Majesty’s head.

The New Year’s rejoicings in Ceylon require no special notice.

In Tibet the New Year’s festival properly begins at new moon, and may be delayed till some time in February. The festival lasts fifteen days, and, as usual, is a season of general festivity, gifts, congratulations, 343 mummery, dancing, and acting. It is the Lāmistic carnival.

According to M. Huc (ii. 216) the rejoicings commence (as in Burma) at midnight. At Lhāssa all the inhabitants sit up, awaiting the solemn moment which is to close the old year and open the new. The usages differ so curiously from those customary in Southern Buddhist countries, that I here give an abbreviated version of the two French travellers’ experiences.

Not being at all eager to watch for the moment of separation between the two Tibetan years, we went to bed at our usual hour, and were wrapped in profound slumber, when we were suddenly awakened by cries of joy issuing from all quarters of the town. Bells, cymbals, conchs, tambourines, and all the instruments of Tibetan music, were set to work together and produced the most frightful uproar imaginable. We had a good mind to get up to witness the happiness of the inhabitants of Lhāssa, but the cold was so cutting that, after reflection, we decided to remain under our woollen coverlets, and to unite ourselves in heart only with the public felicity. Unhappily for our comfort, violent knocks on our door, threatening to smash it into splinters, warned us that we must renounce our project. We therefore donned our clothes, and the door being opened, some friendly Tibetans rushed into our room, inviting us to the New Year’s banquet. They all bore in their hands a small vessel made of baked earth, in which balls of honey and flour floated on boiling water. One visitor offered us a long silver needle, terminating in a hook, and invited us to fish in his basin. At first we sought to excuse ourselves, objecting that we were not in the habit of taking food during the night, but they entreated us so warmly, and put out their tongues at us with so friendly a grace, that we were obliged to comply, and resign ourselves to a participation in the New Year’s festivities. Each of us, therefore, hooked a ball, which we then crushed between our teeth to ascertain its flavour. For politeness sake we had to swallow the dose, but not without making some grimaces. Nor could we get off with this first act of devotion. The New Year was inexorable. Our numerous friends at Lhāssa succeeded 344 each other almost without interruption, and we had perforce to munch Tibetan sweetmeats till daybreak.

It is said that other peculiar customs follow, one of which the Tibetans call the Lhāssa-Moru. This takes place on the third day, and leads to the invasion of the town and its environs by innumerable bands of Lāmas. Immense numbers of Lāmas, some on foot, some on horseback, some on asses or oxen, and all carrying cooking-utensils and prayer-books, crowd into Lhāssa from all points. The town is completely over-run. Those who cannot get lodgings encamp in the streets and squares, or pitch their tents in the suburbs. The tribunals are closed, and the course of justice is suspended. The Lāmas parade the streets in disorderly bands, uttering discordant cries, pushing one another about, quarrelling, fighting, and yet, in the midst of all, chanting their prayers (Huc, ii. 218).

In Tibet there is a ‘water-festival’ in the seventh or eighth month (about our August and September). At this festival the Lāmas go in procession to rivers and lakes, and consecrate the waters by benediction or by throwing in offerings. Huts and tents are erected on the banks, and people bathe and drink to wash away their sins. It concludes with dancing, buffoonery, and masquerading.

The festival of Gautama Buddha’s conception, or of the Buddha’s last birth—for it must be borne in mind that, before Buddhahood, he went through innumerable previous births—is a most important anniversary in all Buddhist countries, but the right date has been the occasion of much controversy. The event is generally 345 celebrated at the end of April, or beginning of May, or on a day corresponding to the 15th day of the Hindū month Vaiṡākha, which is also sometimes given as the date of the Buddha’s attainment of Buddhahood, and of his death. Everywhere throughout the modern Buddhist world the Buddha’s birthday is kept by the worship of his images, followed by processions.

As to the day of his death, Sarat Chandra Dās was at Lhāssa on June 1, 1882, and wrote thus:—‘To-day being the holiest day of the year—the anniversary of Buddha’s Nirvāṇa—the burning of incense in every shrine, chapel, monastery, and house, darkened the atmosphere with smoke. Men hastened to the great temple to do homage to the Buddha and to obtain his blessing.’

The ‘festival of lamps’ is an important anniversary with all Buddhists. The Hindūs have their Dīvālī or feast of illuminations (see ‘Brāhmanism and Hindūism,’ p. 432) when the cold season begins. The early Buddhists marked the end of the rainy season (Vassa = Varsha), which terminated their period of retirement, by a day of rejoicing (see p. 84). In process of time they connected the celebration of Gautama’s descent from heaven (p. 417) with the termination of Vassa.

In Tibet the orthodox followers of the Dalai Lāma have a festival of their own, with illuminations, on the 25th day of the 10th month (Nov.—Dec.), to celebrate the ascension of Tsong Khapa to heaven (p. 280). Sarat Chandra Dās was at Tashi Lunpo on this day in 1881, when ‘hundreds of lamp-burners were tastefully placed in rows on the roof of every building.’ The illuminations 346 of the temples, tombs, and grand monastery ‘presented a magnificent appearance.’

With regard to the season called Vassa, it should be noted here that since there is no rainy period of the year in Tibet which corresponds to the Indian ‘Rains,’ certain seasons of abstinence from food are observed either before, or at the same time with the great Festivals. These periods of fasting are distributed equally throughout the year—one in February, one in May, one in July, one in November or December.

The festivals and holy days thus briefly described, are by no means the only festivals of Buddhism. There are numerous other special and local ones. For example, in Ceylon, the Sinhalese celebrate the coming of the Buddha to their island and his victory over the Rākshasas and evil demons by a festival in March or April, when the greater number of pilgrims flock to his supposed foot-print on Adam’s Peak, or to the sacred Bodhi-tree at Anurādha-pura (see p. 519). Other Southern countries have festivals connected with the worship of special foot-prints and relics of their own.

Then the Lāmas in Lhāssa keep the day of the worship of the Dorje (see p. 322) on the 27th day of the first month, while those in Sikkim celebrate as a festival the day on which the Lepchas make offerings to the spirit of the mountain Kinchinjunga.

Then, again, at the beginning of the third month an exhibition of sacred vessels and pictures takes place at Lhāssa, accompanied by processions in masks, the Lāmas appearing as good genii, and the laity as tigers, leopards, elephants, &c.

347
In other places, too, there are special festivals. For example, a singular festival, called ‘Chase of the spirit-kings,’ is kept by Northern Buddhists on the 30th of the second month, when there is a vast amount of religious dancing (with tediously slow movements), masquerading, mummery, and buffoonery, not unlike the devil-dancing which goes on in Ceylon, and closely connected with the universal belief in demons and evil spirits.

The most hideous masks are used on these occasions. In 1884 I had an opportunity of inspecting in a Buddhist monastery near Dārjīling a most singular assortment of religious masks, which for distortion of feature and horrible unsightliness, could scarcely be matched anywhere; for indeed mask-making is an art which Buddhism has brought to the greatest perfection. I also witnessed a religious dance performed by a party of masqueraders which struck me as a remarkable example of the utter debasement of Buddhism in Northern countries.

Mrs. Bridges describes a similar religious dance in Ladāk thus:—

‘A group of grinning masks—lions’ heads and harlequins’ bodies—came down the steps, and whirling slowly round, retreated again into the gloom and came out dragon-headed. Then a band of skeletons, the skulls (masks) admirably painted, gnashing their hideous jaws and shaking their lanky limbs, rushed out into the sunshine and executed a real “Dance of Death” before us.’ (‘Travels,’ p. 101.)

Yet all true Buddhists are prohibited from dancing and masquerading (p. 126 of this volume); just as Manu (II. 178, IV. 15, 212) prohibited Brāhmans from engaging in similar frivolities.

Then the religious dramas performed on some of 348 the Buddhist festive days are not the least interesting examples of the present prevalent superstitions.

I witnessed part of a dramatic performance at a Burmese Theatre in Calcutta (during the Exhibition year), when the story of the Hindū Epic, called Rāmāyaṇa, and especially that portion of it which relates to the carrying off of Sītā by demons (see ‘Brāhmanism and Hindūism,’ p. 42, and ‘Indian Wisdom,’ p. 337), was dramatically represented. The theatre was a rude wooden enclosure open to the sky, with the exception of a portion roofed over for a band of musicians, whose noisy performances appeared to constitute an important element in the proceedings. The chief musician sat on the ground in the middle of a circular frame-work—about two or three feet high—hung round with drums of different sizes, which he struck with his hands, and occasionally tuned by the application of moist clay in larger or smaller lumps. In the centre of the open area of flat dusty soil which served for the stage, a big branch of a tree was stuck upright, possibly to represent the forest in which Rāma lived with his wife. Then the hero and heroine of the drama—Rāma and Sītā—kept up a tedious colloquy, interspersed with jokes, for hours. The former—who, be it remembered, was supposed to be a god—smoked a cigar all the while, and occasionally ejected saliva with perfect indifference to all appearances and to all laws of congruity, while every now and again Sītā, in spite of a tight dress, varied the monotony of the dialogue by executing a slow dance, characterized by strange contortions, twistings, and wrigglings of the limbs. Hideous masks 349 were at intervals assumed by the actors, and, of course, by the demons who intervened at odd moments with much ludicrous gesticulation. The action of the play went on continuously for about ten days, during which period people came and went as they liked, and the last comers entered into the progress of the plot with as much interest as if they had witnessed the whole. There is never much originality of invention in these religious plays. The Indian heroic poems and the five hundred and fifty birth-stories (see p. 63) of the Buddha furnish the basis of all.

The religious dramas of Tibet are of a somewhat different character. The following description is founded on Dr. Schlagintweit’s account (p. 233), and on that of Mrs. Bridges in her interesting ‘Travels’ (John Murray, 1883, p. 130).

The dramatis personæ consist of three classes.—1. Tutelary deities or good genii, called Dragshed (Dragṡed), who ward off the assaults of evil demons; 2. Evil demons; 3. Men. The actors of each class are distinguished by their masks. The first class—that is the Dragsheds or good genii—wear masks of enormous size and terrific aspect[159]. The second class—that is the Evil demons—wear larger masks of a dark colour, and their garments are well padded to deaden the force of the blows showered upon them. The third class—that is the Men—wear the usual dress of human beings, and masks of a natural size and colour, while under their clothes they carry heavy wooden sticks, with which at times, during the progress of the drama, they belabour the demons. The gods also get well knocked about by the demons, much to the amusement of the spectators.

It may be easily understood that among a people, steeped in superstition, a man armed with such a weapon as this—composed of the heads of three potent genii, a divine thunderbolt and a triple-edged dagger—would be regarded as a match for the whole demon-host.

In Burma the tattooing of mystical squares, triangles and cabalistic diagrams and figures on various parts of the body, seems to be regarded as a sufficient substitute for the use of magical weapons, and is held to be highly efficacious.

Obviously we may contrast the Christian armoury described by S. Paul (Ephes. vi. 11), ‘the shield of faith and the sword of the Spirit.’ We might also contrast the words of Christ, ‘Rejoice not, that the spirits are subject unto you; but rather rejoice, because your names are written in heaven’ (S. Luke x. 20).

Domestic Rites and Usages.

I now pass on to domestic rites and usages, which are as numerous and important in Buddhist countries as in India. It is said, indeed, that in Tibet and Mongolia no one is so poor as not to possess an altar in his dwelling on which he daily lays his offerings, and before which he performs devotions.

In Ceylon and Burma certain ceremonies take place soon after the birth of a child. Mr. Scott, describing those in Burma, says that a fortnight after birth a fortunate day and hour is fixed by an astrologer for the naming of the infant. A feast is prepared, and all the 354 friends and relations of the family are invited. ‘The child’s head is usually washed for the first time on this day,’ and some one suggests a name.

The name actually given appears to be a matter of choice, but this is not so. The consonants of the language are divided into groups, which are assigned to the days of the week, Sunday having all the vowels to itself. ‘It is an invariable rule in all respectable families that the child’s name must begin with one of the letters belonging to the day on which it was born, but within these limits any name may be chosen.’ A common belief is that, according to the day of the week (or rather the constellation representing that day) on which a child is born, so will its character be.

In this way every person’s probable characteristics may be inferred. For example, a man born on a Monday is likely to be jealous; on Tuesday, honest; on Wednesday, hot-tempered—but soon appeased—this characteristic being intensified under the influence of Rāhu[162].

Then, again, if born on a Thursday, a man will probably be mild; on Friday, talkative; on Saturday, ill-tempered and quarrelsome; on Sunday, parsimonious. Saturday is a bad day for everything. Not only has every day its special character and its fixed letters, but there is also (according to Mr. Scott) a particular animal assigned to symbolize it—for example, a guinea-pig stands for Friday; a dragon for Saturday; a tiger for Monday—and red or yellow wax candles are made in 355 the forms of these animals to be offered at the Pagoda by the pious. Each worshipper offers the creature-candle representing his birth-day.

Then a careful note is made of the exact hour of birth, with the important object of drawing up the child’s horoscope. This may be delayed till the fifth or sixth year, and a Brāhman astrologer may be called in for the purpose. He records the year, the month, the day and hour at which the child was born; the name given to it and the planet in the ascendant at the moment. All this is scratched neatly on a palm-leaf with a metal style. On the other side are a number of cabalistic squares and numbers from which future calculations may be made.

A person born on Monday remains under the influence of the moon for fifteen years. Then he passes under Mars for eight years. At the age of twenty-three Mercury presides over him, and so on through all the planets to the end of his life, which may be protracted to 108 years.

Rāhu, and especially Saturn, have a particularly sinister influence. A man does most of the stupid and wicked things in his life while he is in Saturn’s house. Other details will be found in ‘Shway Yoe.’

The horoscope is carefully kept by the parents until the child is old enough to take care of it himself, and thenceforward it is guarded as a valuable possession.

All these Buddhist customs have their counterpart in the ceremonies of Brāhmanism and Hindūism.

For example, the Hindūs have their birth-ceremonies (Jāta-karman), and their name-giving ceremony (Nāma-karaṇa[163]), and the latter is a solemn religious act fraught 356 with momentous consequences in its bearing on a child’s future. Hence Hindū boys are generally called after some god, or the name indicates that the child is the god’s servant. Horoscopes, too, are as important in India as in Buddhist countries[164].

In India, too, all Brāhman boys go through the ceremony of tonsure and cutting off the hair.

Among the Buddhists of Burma a boy is sent to the monastery school at about the age of eight. Before he can become a novice he has to undergo the hair-abscission ceremony, followed by shaving every fort-night (as before described). But those who afterwards elect to lead a secular life wear long hair, to wash which is regarded as a kind of religious ceremonial, and only to be performed about once a month, partly, says Mr. Scott, because the washing of a Burman’s luxuriant hair takes a long time, and partly because too frequent ablutions ‘would disturb and irritate the good genius who dwells in the head and protects the man.’

It is considered unlucky to wash the head on a Monday, Friday, or Saturday; and ‘parents sending their boy to a monastery must remember not to cut his hair off on a Monday, or on a Friday, or on his birth-day.’

It is noticeable that a kind of baptism is practised in Tibet and Mongolia. It is usual to sprinkle 357 children with consecrated water, or even to immerse them entirely on the third or tenth day after birth. This is called Khrus-sol (according to Jäschke).

The priest consecrates the water by reciting some formula, while candles and incense are burning. He then dips the child three times, blesses it, and gives it a name. After performing the ceremony, he draws up the infant’s horoscope.

Then, so soon as the child can walk and talk, a second ceremony takes place, when prayers are said for its happy life, and an amulet or little bag is hung round its neck, filled with spells and charms against evil spirits and diseases.

The use of amulets (Sanskṛit kavaća), charms and spells in Northern Buddhist countries is universal.


At Dārjīling I noticed that among the crowds of persons who frequented the bazaar—many of whom were travellers from Tibet, Nepāl, Bhutān, and Sikkim—almost every one wore an amulet, or a string of amulets round the neck. Most of these amulets are simply ornamental boxes or receptacles for supposed relics of saints, or for little images, or pictures, or for prayer-formularies, worn like breast-plates or phylacteries. They are composed of wood, bone, and not infrequently of beautifully-worked filigree silver, embossed and ornamented with turquoise. The shape is sometimes square, sometimes circular or curved, and brought round to a point[165]. I purchased several specimens, but the vendor of any amulet in actual use invariably 358 removed the contents before consenting to part with it. Here is a specimen of one of exceptionally beautiful design which was given to me by Mr. Sarat Chandra Dās. It was taken from the neck of a woman in the bazaar, but not purchased without much difficulty.

We pass on next to the Buddhist marriage-ceremony. This in Ceylon, Burma, Tibet, Mongolia, and indeed in all Buddhist countries, is properly a purely civil contract witnessed only by parents and guardians. We have already pointed out, that true Buddhism considers 359 celibacy to be the only sure means of attaining real sanctity of character. Consistently with this idea, it has not prescribed any religious ceremony to be performed by monks or priests, as a condition of the validity of marriage[166].

Hence among Buddhists the ceremony of marriage is very simple, and has no religious character, or at any rate no complicated religious observances connected with it, as among the Hindūs[167]. In fact the celibate monks of true Buddhism would be much scandalized if they were asked to take part in the celebration of a wedding, or even to ratify it by their presence.

The principal ceremony consists in a feast given by the bridegroom or his parents, to which all the relations, friends, and neighbours are invited. Nevertheless, in most Buddhist countries in the present day the monks manage to have some remunerative work to do in connexion with weddings; for their business is to fix the most auspicious days for the performance of the ceremony, in return for which they receive offerings of various kinds. We know that in India astrology is a chief factor in all marriage-arrangements. Similarly in most Buddhist countries no wedding can take place till the astrologer, who is usually a monk-priest, has been 360 consulted as to lucky and unlucky combinations, and the benign or baleful aspects of planets and stars. For example, in Burma, Saturdays and Thursdays are pronounced unlucky days, and it would be the height of imprudence to marry in certain months of the year. Then, again, a woman born on a Friday would be guilty of utter folly if she married a man born on a Monday, seeing that one or other would soon die[168]; and so on through a long list of auspicious and inauspicious potentialities.

It should, however, be set down to the credit of Buddhism that wives and daughters are not imprisoned in Zanānas, as among Hindūs and Muhammadans. I was present at an evening-party given by a rich native of Ceylon, when the ladies of the family were introduced to the European guests, and conversed freely with the rest of the company. Nor is the marriage of mere boys and girls insisted on in Buddhist countries as in India. The bridegroom is seldom of a less age than eighteen or nineteen.

Then, again, not only births and marriages, but illnesses and death are in the present day a source of revenue to the Buddhist monkhood.

First, as to sickness.

In Ceylon, when any one is dangerously ill, the monk-priest is summoned from the neighbouring Vihāra, after first sending offerings of flowers, oil, and food. Then a temporary preaching-place is erected near the house, and all the relatives and friends, and if possible 361 the sick man himself, listen to the reading of the Law (Baṇa) for about six hours. The part especially read and intoned is the Ratna-valiya section of the Pirit (see p. 317). After the Baṇa a number of offerings are given to the reciting priest, including a piece of calico, one end of which is held by the priest, and the other by the sick man. Then the priest pronounces a benediction, and says words to the following effect:—‘By reverence do the wise secure health, by almsgiving do they lay up treasures for themselves[169].’

When the sick man is likely to die the priest repeats the Three-refuge formula (p. 78), the five commandments (p. 126), and the Sati-paṭṭhāna Sutta (p. 49).

In Burma, if an epidemic happens to break out in any village, the people begin by painting the supposed figure of an evil spirit on a common earthenware water-pot, and then solemnly smashing it to pieces at sunset with a heavy stick[170]. Then as soon as it gets dark all the villagers shout, yell, shriek, and make every kind of deafening din, with the hope of frightening away the evil spirit who has caused the disease. This process is continued for three nights, and if no good result follows the monk-priests are called in from the monastery. They recite the ten precepts, chant the Law up and down the road, and intone a particular sermon of the Buddha, by the preaching of which he once drove 362 away a pestilence. These means are, of course, not effective unless abundant alms and gifts are bestowed upon the monastery.

According to Koeppen and Huc the art of medicine in Northern Buddhist countries is practised exclusively by the Lāmas. The theory is that there are 140 different maladies, and that most of these are caused by devils. The monk-priests are the sole doctors, and a sick person can only be cured by them. One process is simple. It begins by the Lāma doctor writing the name of a remedy upon a morsel of paper, moistening it with saliva, and rolling it into a pill. The patient takes the paper pellet with as much faith as if he were swallowing the veritable drug. Many Mongols believe that ‘it is precisely the same, whether you swallow a drug or its written appellation.’ Then, ‘if the patient be poor, the devil is a little one, and may be dislodged by a few prayers; but, if he be rich, the case is different; fine clothes, handsome boots, or even a good horse must be presented, or he will not consent to turn out.’

A very effective medicine may be composed of the bones of some pious Lāma ground into a powder. This may be given alone or in combination with other substances.

It appears to be essential that the prayers recited on these occasions should be accompanied by terrific noises. M. Huc relates a story of an old woman—the aunt of a certain chief—who was one day attacked by intermittent fever. The Lāma, of course, announced that a devil had possession of her body; and so in the evening he and eight other Lāmas began operations for its expulsion. 363 First they made a little figure or manikin of dried herbs, which they called the devil of intermittent fevers. This they stuck upright in the tent of the sick woman. Then at eleven o’clock at night the Lāmas ranged themselves at the back of the tent, armed with bells, tambourines, conch-shells, and other noisy instruments. Nine members of the family closed the circle in front, crouching on the ground, while the old woman remained seated on her heels in front of the manikin. Next, ‘at a given signal, the orchestra performed an overture capable of scaring away the most imperturbable and obstinate devil, while all the secular assistants beat time with their hands to the hubbub of the instruments and the howling of the prayers. When this demoniacal music was over, the chief Lāma began his exorcisms, scattering millet seeds around as he proceeded; sometimes speaking low, sometimes in stentorian tones. Then, appearing to throw himself into a passion, he addressed animated appeals, with violent gesticulation, to the manikin.’ Finally, after further incantations, he gave a signal; the Lāmas thundered out a noisy chorus, the instruments added to the din, and the members of the family rushing out in file, made the circuit of the tent, striking it frantically with stakes, and uttering terrific cries. Finally, the chief Lāma and his assistants, after joining in the yells, set fire to the manikin. This ended the ceremony; the demon being compelled to beat a retreat.

Mr. Sarat Chandra Dās has given an account of a somewhat similar ceremony in Tibet performed by some Lāmas to cure him of a sickness. An image representing 364 the patient, and supposed to resemble him, was constructed, and a suit of his clothes placed in front of it, together with portions of his usual food and drink. Two Lāmas then muttered mystic sentences, ringing a bell, waving a Dorje (see p. 323 of these Lectures), and twisting their fingers and hands into the mysterious shapes called Mudrā (p. 241). Next they broke out into alternate exhortations and threats, and at the conclusion of the ceremony the officiating priests supplicated the lord of death (Yama) to accept the image in place of the moribund man.

To Find More Interesting Resources Click below :


On another occasion, when Mr. Sarat Chandra Dās was seriously ill in Tibet, an effective method of curing his disease was proposed to him, and, with his consent, actually carried out. This mainly consisted in the ransoming of fish-life. A certain Lāma started off for a fisherman’s village, and in a short time returned in a high state of satisfaction. He had saved the lives of five hundred fishes for the benefit of the sick man. The merit of this deed was credited to the patient on his repeating the following prayer:—

‘By virtue of my having ransomed the lives of these animals, let health, longevity, prosperity, and happiness perpetually accrue to me.’

In the same way in Burma, in times of great heat and drought, when the ponds and tanks appear to be on the point of drying up, it is held to be a work of enormous merit to rescue fish, put them in jars, and transport them alive to the rivers. (See Scott’s ‘Burman,’ ii. 43.)

Similarly a bird-catcher will sell live birds to pious persons, that they may gain merit by releasing them.

365
We pass on, in the next place, to the usages and ceremonies common at death.

If a man’s soul is to be separated from his body properly and peacefully, so as not to hurt the survivors, and in a manner likely to cause a happy re-birth for himself, alms must be bestowed on the monk-priests, and their presence must be invited for the repetition of prayers. In Ceylon and Burma monks go to the houses of mourners and repeat portions of the Pirit (see p. 317).

In Tibet the priest not only recites prayers but compresses the skull till it appears to crack, or else the hair is torn off and a little incision is made, to enable the dying man’s soul to escape. The priest then settles what method of burial is to be followed, and the place, day and hour, all of which depend on astrological combinations, known only to him.

The method of disposing of a dead body differs in all Buddhist countries according to station, condition, rank, and wealth.

In Ceylon the bodies of monks are all burnt, and the cremation ceremonies are carried out under decorated arches or canopies, which are never removed, but left to crumble away.

In Burma the cremation of a monk distinguished for sanctity is an affair of great state and ceremonial. The body (see Mr. Scott’s ‘Burman,’ ii. 331) is first embalmed, and next tightly wrapped in white cloth, which is varnished and afterwards covered with gold-leaf. The corpse thus gilded is placed in an unclosed inner coffin, and left exposed to view for a considerable time. When fastened down, the inner coffin is covered with 366 gold-leaf, like the body. An outer sarcophagus is then prepared, and painted to represent scenes from the lives of the Buddha. This is placed in a building erected for the purpose, and there the body lies in state for several months, while a constant line of pilgrim-worshippers pass in and out. In process of time, when enough money for the expenses has been collected, a grand cremation takes place under a lofty canopy, which on special occasions may be fifty or sixty feet high. The calcined bones are then reverentially collected, and either buried near the temple or pounded and made up into a paste, with which an image of the Buddha is constructed for worship in the monastery.

In Tibet the bodies of the Grand Lāmas are generally embalmed and preserved in monuments or Stūpas. Other Lāmas and monks distinguished for sanctity are burnt, and their ashes are either distributed as relics, or preserved in idols or in small Dāgabas. Kings, princes, and great men are also burnt, and of course with much ceremony and repetition of prayers. Then for a long time afterwards prayers continue to be recited by the priests, the object being to propitiate Yama, god of Death, and to deliver the deceased from the possible purgatorial torments of one of the hells. It is said that this repetition of prayers is prolonged, in the case of the rich, for seven weeks, and in the case of princes, for a whole year.

Mr. J. Ware Edgar, C.S.I., in his interesting Report of his visit to Sikkim in 1873, gives a description of the remarkable funeral ceremonies performed on the occasion of the death of the Rājā of Sikkim’s sister (see p. 62), which I here abbreviate:—

367
The Rājā’s sister had died a few days after his return to Choombi. The body had been buried at Choombi, but her clothes had been sent to Toomlong, and her soul was supposed to accompany them. There a lay-figure meant to represent her, dressed in her costume as a nun, and wearing a gilt mitre and a long white veil, was placed on a kind of throne to the right of the great altar in the principal chapel. Before the figure was a table, on which were different kinds of food. On another table were various things which had belonged to her, while on a third, 108 little brass lamps were arranged in rows. Some days afterwards the lay-figure of the nun was taken to Pemyangchi. There, for three days the figure was seated before the altar, and the monks chanted the litanies for her soul, which had accompanied her clothes from Choombi. On the third day towards evening the tea-cup of the nun was freshly filled with tea, and all the monks solemnly drank tea with her. The monks chanted the litanies, and the Head Lāma went through some elaborate ceremonies. At about nine o’clock the chanting ceased, and the Lāma made a long speech to the soul of the nun, in which he told her that all that could be done to make her journey to another world easy, had been done, and that now she would have to go alone and unassisted to appear before the King and Judge of the dead.

‘You will have to leave your robes, your mitre, and your veil,’ said he, ‘and clad in the black garment of your sins, or in the shining garment of your good deeds, you will be shown the mirror of the just King. Your gold and silver, your rank, your good name will not help you, when your good deeds are weighed against your evil deeds, in the scales of the King. If you have done ill, you will be punished; but if your sins are found to be lighter than your good works, your reward will be great indeed.’

When the Lāma had finished his address, some of the monks took down the lay-figure and undressed it, while others formed a procession and conducted the soul of the nun into the darkness outside the monastery, with a discordant noise of conch-shells, thigh-bone trumpets, Tibetan flutes, gongs, cymbals, tambourines, and drums.

In Japan small portions of the calcined remains (often not larger than peas) are preserved in globular glass shrines, and then duly honoured and worshipped.

The method of disposing of the dead bodies of the 368 laity and of the common people is generally much more simple. In most Buddhist countries laymen are buried, and the priests lead the processions to the grave. In Ceylon, the laity are certainly, as a rule, buried and not burnt.

In Burma rich laymen are also generally buried, and, according to Mr. Scott, the funeral is a grand affair.

The body is swathed in new white cotton cloth, leaving the face uncovered. A piece of gold or silver is placed between the teeth to serve as ferry-money over the Buddhist Styx—the terrible river of death which all deceased persons are compelled to pass. This river is clearly the counterpart of the Vaitaraṇī of the Hindūs (see ‘Brāhmanism and Hindūism,’ p. 297).

If the dead man’s family is poor, a copper coin or even a betel nut will suffice. Next the monks are sent for, their immediate presence being necessary to keep off the evil spirits who always swarm near a corpse. After an interval the body is placed in a coffin, which is sometimes gilded and placed on a bier under a canopy. When the right day arrives for the funeral, a long procession is formed, with a number of priests in proportion to the amount of alms bestowed, and a crowd of relations, friends, and neighbours. Occasionally those who carry the bier stop and go through a sort of solemn dance, while mournful tunes are played by the musicians and funeral dirges are sung. The body is finally buried in a cemetery to the west of the town or village. A funeral must never go to the north or to the east. The ceremony concludes by alms to the priests, who in 369 return intone the commandments and other portions of the Law in Pāli. After the funeral, great festivities go on in the family-abode for the benefit of the crowds who come to offer condolence. Then the presence of the priests is again needed, and has to be paid for by alms to the monastery, or the evil spirits, who are sure to hang about, cannot be got rid of. In some parts of Burma the cremation of rich laymen is not uncommon, and the ashes are either deposited in Dāgabas—that is, in small Stūpas or Pagodas[171]—or are pounded into paste and made into miniature Stūpas (p. 506) or into small images of the Buddha for worship at the domestic altar.

In Tibet and Mongolia the corpses of the laity, especially of the poor, are often exposed in the fields, in deserts, or on mountain tops, or rocks, or in lonely ravines, or sometimes in open places enclosed for the purpose. Occasionally they are covered with a thin layer of earth or loose stones. Usually they are devoured by vultures, dogs, and other animals.

It seems that in Lhāssa certain dogs are kept for that purpose[172]. A class of professional men exist there, whose business it is to cut up dead bodies, and throw the flesh piecemeal to dogs and vultures. Even the bones are sometimes pounded, and the dust, being mixed with flour, is given to be devoured. The strange thing is, that this kind of burial is thought desirable, and even honourable. To be eaten up by sacred dogs after death 370 is productive of great merit, and leads to re-birth in higher forms. Dogs are the mausoleums of Lhāssa.

According to M. Huc, a common funeral ceremony among the Mongols consists in carrying the corpse to the summit of a mountain, or to the bottom of a ravine. The body is walled up in a sort of kiln of a pyramidal form, with a small door at the bottom, and an opening at the top to maintain a current of air, and allow the smoke to escape. During the combustion the Lāmas recite prayers. When the corpse is consumed, the kiln is demolished. Then the bones are collected and carried to the Grand Lāma, who reduces them to a powder, and, after adding an equal quantity of wheaten flour, kneads the whole carefully, and, with his own hands, fashions a number of cakes of various sizes. These are afterwards placed in a pyramidal Stūpa, which has been built beforehand in some auspicious place.

The soil of the famous monastery of the Five Towers in the province of Shan Si, is said to be so holy that those interred there are sure to effect a good transmigration. In the deserts of Tartary, Mongols are frequently seen carrying on their shoulders the bones of their kindred, and journeying to the Five Towers—there to purchase, almost at its weight in gold, a little surface of ground whereon to erect a small Stūpa. Some of them undertake a toilsome journey of a whole year’s duration, to reach this holy spot (see p. 435).

Burial in rivers, which is highly prized by the Hindūs, is not in favour among Buddhists. Only very poor people allow their dead to be thrown into rivers, though this is the only kind of Buddhist burial mentioned 371 by Alberūnī (Sachau, ii. 169). Buddhism, from the first, repudiated the Hindū funeral ceremonies called Ṡrāddhas, which are still a great incubus on the people. The poorest man in India, if he be of high caste, cannot perform a Ṡrāddha for a relation for a less sum than forty rupees, given in fees to the priests. Buddhism did good service in delivering the people from this burden, but in Northern countries it established something similar in the Bardo ceremony (p. 334).

Formularies of Prayer.

With regard to prayer-formularies, there is in modern times a good deal of difference between Southern and Northern Buddhist countries. We have seen that the three-refuge formulary was the sole prayer of early Buddhists. Certain orthodox men whom I met in Ceylon, maintained to me that this is the only legitimate form of prayer that ought to be used even in the present day. It is certainly a form which is accepted and employed by all Buddhists of whatever nationality.

Tsong Khapa, it is said, established at Lhāssa an annual prayer-congregation called Monlam Ćhenpo (see p. 386). But the most common prayer used in Tibet is a mere formulary, the constant repetition of which is one of the most amazing instances of the tyranny of superstition to be found in any part of the world.

It consists of the six-syllabled sentence, Om maṇi padme Hūm, ‘Om! the Jewel in the Lotus! Hūm!’

This prayer, or rather mystical sentence, is supposed 372 to have been composed by Padma-pāṇi (Avalokiteṡvara), and to have reference to his own manifestation as the Patron-Saint of Tibet[173]. It is sometimes called the Maṇi or ‘Jewel’ prayer, and, if brevity is a valuable quality, its excellence is undeniable, since it consists of merely two Sanskṛit words, between two mystical, untranslatable auspicious ejaculations, Om and Hūm[174].

Doubtless the prayer really owes its origin to the close connexion which sprang up between Northern Buddhism and Ṡaivism. The worshippers of Ṡiva have always used (compare p. 240) similar mystical sentences and syllables called Dhāraṇīs, to which a kind of miraculous efficacy is attributed. In all probability an occult meaning underlies the ‘Jewel-lotus’ formula, and my own belief is that the majority of those who repeat it are ignorantly doing homage to the self-generative power supposed to inhere in the universe—a power pointed at by the popular Sāṅkhya theory of the union of Prakṛiti and Purusha, and by the universal worship of the Liṅga and Yoni throughout India[175]. No thoughtful person can have travelled much in India without being impressed with this.

373
At all events, whatever be its origin and meaning, no other prayer used by human beings in any quarter of the globe is repeated so often. Every Tibetan believes it to be a panacea for all evil, a compendium of all knowledge, a treasury of all wisdom, a summary of all religion. But if you ask Northern Buddhists to give you the reason for this belief, very few are able to give an intelligible reply. According to the most learned doctors of philosophy who are to be found in Tibetan monasteries, it is certainly addressed to their patron deity Avalokiteṡvara, and the real secret of its efficacy lies in the fact, that each one of its six syllables has a potent influence on some one of the six Gatis or courses of being—that is to say, on some one of the six kinds of transmigration or transformation through which every living individual has to pass (see p. 121)[176].

The oftener, therefore, this mystical formula is repeated the shorter will be an individual’s course (gati) through some of these six forms of existence, every one of which involves misery or evil. Or it may be that by repeating it he will be able to escape some of the six existences altogether.

Strange indeed as it may appear to us, it is impossible to shake the faith of a Lāmistic Buddhist in the 374 absolutely infallible efficacy of his six favourite mystic syllables. He repeats them, not at all as if he were praying in a Christian sense, but as if he were a farmer intent on planting the very best seed in the most productive soil, and watering it incessantly according to the most scientific principles of irrigation. A bountiful harvest is absolutely certain to reward his efforts.

It need not, therefore, surprise us if these six syllables are murmured morning, noon, and night, by every man, woman, and child, wherever the Lāmistic Hierarchy has extended. And, if not repeated by the voice, an incessant stream of repetition—an incessant scattering of the six mystic seeds—is kept going by the hand.

The words are written or printed on roll within roll of paper and inscribed in cylinders, which, when made to revolve either by educated monks or by illiterate laymen, have the same efficacy as if they were actually said or repeated. The revolutions are credited as so much prayer-merit, or, to speak more scientifically, as so much prayer-force, accumulated and stored up for the benefit of the person who revolves them.


The cylinder is generally made of metal, the prayer being engraved on the outside, as well as written on paper and inserted inside. It is held in the right hand and whirled round, like a child’s toy, by means of a handle in a particular direction (with the sun). If made to revolve the other way, its rotations will be set down to the debtor rather than the creditor side of the owner’s account. Here is a drawing of one of several hand-cylinders (commonly called prayer-wheels or 375 prayer-mills; Tibetan, Ćhos-kor or Ćhos-kyi or Khor-lo), obtained by me at Dārjīling:—

Then, again, the words of the prayer are written or printed millions and millions of times on rolls or strips of paper, and enclosed in much larger barrel-like cylinders, which are set up in temples, chapels, monasteries, corridors, passages, houses, villages, by the road side, and in every possible corner, for the convenience of the mass of the people who are too ignorant to read, and too indolent to engage in continuous oral repetition[177].

It sometimes happens that quarrels arise from rival claims in regard to the use of such prayer-cylinders. In illustration of this an amusing story is told by the French missionaries:—

376
One day when they happened to be passing a praying-machine, set up near a monastery, they saw two Lāmas engaged in a violent quarrel; and, as it appeared, all on account of their zeal for their prayers. The fact was that one Lāma had come, and, having set the barrel in motion for his own benefit, was retiring modestly and complacently to his own abode, when happening to turn his head to enjoy the spectacle of the wheel’s pious revolutions, he saw the other Lāma stop it, and set it whirling again for himself. Indignant, of course, at this unwarrantable interference with his own devotions, he ran back, and in his turn put a stop to his rival’s piety, and both of them continued this kind of demonstration for some time, till at last losing patience they proceeded to menaces, and then to blows, when an old Lāma came out of a neighbouring cell, and brought the difficulty to a peaceful termination by himself twirling the prayer-barrel for the benefit of both parties.

On the occasion of my visiting Dārjīling in 1884, I was desirous of judging for myself of the method of using these remarkable instruments of religion. I therefore, soon after my arrival, walked to a Buddhist temple near the town. There I found several large barrel-like cylinders set up close together in a row at the entrance, so that no one might pass in without giving them at least one twirl, or by a rapid sweep of his hand might set them all twirling at once. Inside the entrance-portico a shrivelled and exceptionally hideous old woman was seated on the ground. In her left hand she held a small portable prayer-cylinder, 377 which she kept in perpetual revolution. In her right hand was a cord connected with a huge barrel-like cylinder, which with some exertion she made to rotate on its axis by help of a crank, while she kept muttering Om maṇi pamme Hūm (so she pronounced it) with amazing rapidity. In this way she completed at least sixty oral repetitions every minute, without reckoning the infinite number of rotatory repetitions accomplished simultaneously by her two hands. And all this was done with an appearance of apathy and mental vacuity in her withered face, which was so distressing and melancholy to behold, that the spectacle will never be effaced from my memory. In truth the venerable dame seemed to be sublimely unconscious that any effort of thought or concentration of either mind or heart was needed to make prayer of any value at all.

And the men of Tibet are quite as much slaves to this superstition as the women. A friend of mine when staying at Dārjīling had some conversation on serious subjects with an apparently sensible native, and observed with surprise that all the while he was engaged in talking with the Buddhist, the latter continued diligently whirling a prayer-cylinder with great velocity. My friend, being unacquainted with Tibetan customs, came away from his colloquy under the impression that Buddhists regard Christians as dangerous lunatics possessed with evil spirits, which require specially active measures in the way of exorcism. It did not occur to him that the Buddhist was merely intent on redeeming every instant of time for the purpose of storing up merit by prayer.

378
And the hold which this extraordinary superstition has upon the population is still more forcibly impressed on the traveller who penetrates into the regions beyond Dārjīling. He may there see immense prayer-cylinders set up like mills, and kept in incessant revolution, not by the will or hand of man, but by the blind, unconscious force of wind and water.

It is even said that great mechanical ingenuity is displayed by the monks in some parts of Tibet, their inventive powers being stimulated by a burning desire to economize time and labour in the production of prayer-merit by machinery.

An intricate arrangement of huge wheels and other wheels within wheels, like the works of a clock, is connected with rows of cylinders and made to revolve rapidly by means of heavy weights. An infinite number of prayers are repeated in this manner by a single monk, who takes a minute or two to wind up the complicated spiritual machinery, and then hastens to help his brothers in industrial occupations—the whole fraternity feeling that the ingenious contrivance of praying by clock-work enables them to promote the common weal by making the most of both worlds. The story goes that, in times of special need and emergency, additional weights are attached to the machinery, and, of course, increased cogency given to the rotatory prayers. It is to be hoped that when European inventions find their way across the Himālayas, steam-power may not be pressed into the service of these gross superstitions.

The use of prayer-wheels of various kinds is also common in Japan, as described in Sir Edward Reed’s work.

379
But praying by machinery is not all. Beneficial results are believed to accrue through the carving of the all-powerful six syllables on every conceivable object.

The traveller, as he walks along, sees the mystic words impressed on the stones at his feet, on rocks, doors, monuments, and trees. Indeed, rich and zealous Buddhists maintain at their own expense, companies of Lāmas for the sole object of propagating the Maṇi-padme formula. These strange missionaries may occasionally be encountered, chisel and hammer in hand, traversing field, hill, dale, and desert, their only mission being to engrave the sacred six syllables on every rock in their path (Huc, ii. 194).

Absolutely incalculable is the grand total of Maṇi-padmes thus placed to the credit of the world of living beings during the short space of twenty-four hours. Yet, at the end of the New Year’s festival in Tibet, the chief Lāma will sometimes pretend to proclaim the exact sum of mystic syllables supposed to have been repeated during its continuance, amounting perhaps to billions upon billions, for the consolation of all those faithful Buddhists who, oppressed by the evils of life, are seeking for some antidote.

But the ‘jewel-lotus’ is not the only antidote. There are other short prayer-formularies, such as Om Vajra-pāṇi-Hūm (addressed to the Bodhi-sattva Vajra-pāṇi, p. 201), and other still more mystical ejaculations (such as Om ah Hūm); and magical sentences, called Dhāranī, and profoundly significant monosyllables, such as Ram, Phaṭ, Hṛim, Hṛīm, Ṛim, Ṛīm, Hṛīs.

And here in connexion with the ubiquity of prayer-formularies, 380 we must not omit to notice the Praying-walls, that is, the long stone walls or banks called (from the ‘jewel-lotus’ prayer inscribed upon them) Maṇi[178], or in the provincial dialect Man Dang (variously Man-dong, Mendong).

These remarkable stone-structures, peculiar to Lāmism, are erected by the side of high-roads, and in frequented thoroughfares, with the simple object of aiding in the accumulation of prayer-merit. Some are only a few feet long, six feet high, and from six to twelve feet broad; others have been met with nearly 1000 yards long, with pyramidal Stūpas[179] or Ćaityas (in Tibetan Ćhortens) at each end. Inserted in these walls are slabs on which the six-syllabled, and other prayer-formulas, and sometimes images of saints, are carved and dedicated as votive offerings. Passing travellers acquire merit by keeping them on their left side[180], so that they may follow the letters of the inscription without necessarily repeating the words[181].

In the same connexion we may advert to Praying-flags and Praying-staffs. And I may mention that, while staying at Dārjīling, I visited a village to which a monastery is attached, and, on approaching the spot, was surprised to see the whole neighbourhood studded with poles from which long flags were flying. On the tops 381 of the poles were curious ornaments like caps, made of coloured cloth with flounces. I naturally supposed that I had arrived on a gala day, and that at least a great Lāma or other high functionary was expected, perhaps to lay the first stone of some new building connected with the monastery. On inquiry, however, I ascertained that there was nothing unusual about the appearance of the village, which was merely praying, according to custom, by means of its flag-staffs. Every time the wind, which happened to be blowing fresh, extended the long flags, a vast number of prayers were credited to the inhabitants who were themselves all absent, and probably hard at work either in the fields or at Dārjīling.

I managed to obtain facsimiles of some of the flags. On them are inscribed various versions of the inevitable Maṇi-padme formulary, together with figures of the ‘flying-horse’ (Lungta, strictly rLuṅ-rta, ‘wind-horse’)[182] and other symbols, such as those of the Norbu gem[183] and of the Phurbu—which are held to be peculiarly efficacious in warding off evil spirits or neutralizing the diseases inflicted by them. Indeed in most cases these flags are regarded by the peasantry as talismans or charms to protect the village from the malice of mischievous ghosts and demons, believed to haunt the atmosphere and swarm everywhere around.

Here are some of the mystic formularies inscribed on 382 my flags. They resemble Ṡaiva Mantras and Dhāraṇīs—that is, mystical words or sentences used as spells:—

Om maṇi padme Hūm Hring, Om Vajra-pāṇi Hūm, Om ā Hūm, Om Vāg-īṡvarī Mūm, Sarva-siddhi-phala Hūm, Om muni muni mahā-muni, Ṡākya-muni svāhā, Om vajra-sattva Hūm, Hulu hulu, Rulu rulu, Hūm Phaṭ, etc. (Compare my ‘Brāhmanism,’ etc. p. 197).

One flag in my possession has representations of four animals at the four corners, viz. a Tiger, Lion, Eagle, and Dragon[184]—supposed to act as guards against evil spirits. It also has an inscription in Tibetan which was translated for me by Mr. Sarat Chandra Dās, thus:—

‘Reverence be to the Buddhas and Bodhi-sattvas! Thus hath it been heard by me—once on a time when the adorable Ṡākya-Buddha was seated on a marble throne amid the gods of the Trayastriṉṡa heaven, Indra, the Prince of Gods, arrived there, after being completely defeated by the demons (Asuras). Seeing the Buddha, and throwing himself at his feet, he thus reverentially addressed him:—“Oh, my Lord, we the gods of the Trayastriṉṡa (heaven) have suffered a complete defeat at the hands of the demons; instruct us, what are we to do? how are we to triumph over our enemies?” To this the adorable one replied:—“O lord of gods, take this mystical formula called Gyatshar gyi tsemoi Punggyan, which, when repeated, will make you unconquerable. I, too, in my former existence of a Bodhi-sattva found it efficacious in securing victory.”’

It is of course a work of great merit to erect prayer-flags. They form a conspicuous feature in every landscape throughout Tibet, fluttering on hills and in valleys, by the roadside, and on the river bank, on walls and on the tops of houses, in streets, squares, and gardens.

383
Then, again, the duty of a constant repetition of prayer-formulæ and mystical sentences has led Northern Buddhists to employ Rosaries, which were used both by Hindūs and Buddhists long before they came into vogue in Europe. Without these necessary aids to devotion the long rounds of repetition could not be accurately completed. In Northern Buddhist countries rosaries ought to consist of 108 beads, which in Tibet are said to represent the 108[185] volumes of the Kanjur. The same number of beads is used by the worshippers of Vishṇu, who use the rosary to aid them in repeating any one of the names of Vishṇu 800 times, the eight additional beads marking each century of repetitions.

The commonest Buddhist rosaries are made of wood, or pebbles, or berries, or bone[186]; the more costly, of turquoise, coral, amber, or silver, or even of pearls and gems. If a rosary made of the bones of some holy Lāma can be procured, it is of course prized above all others. Sometimes a Dorje is appended. Northern Buddhist worshippers hold their rosaries (like Roman Catholics) in the right hand, and move on the beads with the left, and they will do this while talking together or even quarrelling. In China and Japan Buddhist rosaries are often arranged in two rings. They sometimes consist of enormous beads with relics in the central bead.

Be it observed, however, that the prayer-formularies 384 of Buddhists are not always a mere unintelligible string of words and syllables, muttered, iterated, and reiterated with the aid of rosaries. Their prayers sometimes contain lofty sentiments. For instance, the two vagabond mendicant monks seen by me at Dārjīling (described at p. 267) went about chanting the following:—

Reverence to all the noble Father-Lāmas! I address this to the feet of Duang our patron saint. I, Milaraspa[187], sing it. If the soul be white (enlightened), it must be white inside and outside. I am born in consequence of the works of this world. My earthly father is a sower of the seed of sin. My mother is the soil which receives the seed of sin. The child is myself tied to the father by the cord of sin. When you think of your earthly father, think also of your Lāma (spiritual father). Your earthly father is the source of your sin. Your Lāma frees you from sin[188].


But this song, which was repeated over and over again, invariably concluded by a repetition of the inevitable six-syllabled formula. This they repeated very rapidly, pronouncing it as usual, ‘Om maṇi-pamme Hūm,’ and adding the mystical syllable Hṛīs. Their chanting was accompanied by an incessant agitation of their ḍamaru or sacred drum, which I was able to purchase. It is shaped like two hemispheres, joined on their convex sides, and is encircled by sacred shells. It is sounded by means of buttons attached to two pendulous strips of leather. The sound made by these drums is out of all proportion to their size. It may be heard at a great distance, and is thought to be highly efficacious in frightening away evil spirits, who dislike loud noises 385 of all kinds. Here is an exact representation of the sacred drum now in my possession:—

Again, Dr. Eitel (Lectures, iii.) mentions a manual of daily prayer used by Northern Buddhists, which shows that striking words are sometimes chanted, though they may be in Sanskṛit, and therefore unintelligible to those who repeat them. For instance, the following:—

‘May all the Buddhas abide in me, instruct and enlighten me with knowledge and perfection, free me, deliver me, cleanse me, purify me; and may the whole universe be set free (Sarva-tathāgatā māṃ samāvasantu buddhyā siddhyā bodhaya vibodhaya moćaya vimoćaya ṡodhaya viṡodhaya samantaṃ moćaya)!’

386
Before, therefore, concluding this Lecture we must acknowledge, in fairness to the inhabitants of Tibet, that much of the spirit of religion may be mingled with their superstitions. The words of their prayers are not merely repeated by machinery, written on paper, and inscribed on rocks and stones. The voices of men and women, if not their thoughts, often go heartily with uttered prayers. The note of prayer is raised at all times and seasons—in the morning, mid-day, and evening, in private and in public, at home or abroad, in the midst of labour and idleness, in lying down and rising up, in moving about and keeping still, on the march and on the battle-field, on mournful occasions, and in the midst of joy and laughter. Nor is any one ashamed of praying aloud or praying together in the open streets and squares of crowded towns.

‘There exists,’ says the French Missionary (ii. 194), ‘a very touching custom at Lhāssa. In the evening, just as the day is verging on its decline, all the Tibetans stop business and meet together, men, women, and children, according to their sex and age, in the principal parts of the town and in the public squares. As soon as groups are formed, every one kneels down, and they begin slowly and in undertones to chant prayers.

‘The religious concerts produced by these numerous assemblages create throughout the town a solemn harmony, which operates forcibly on the soul. The first time we witnessed this spectacle, we could not help drawing a painful comparison between this pagan town, where all prayed together, and the cities of Europe, where people would blush to make the sign of the cross in public.’


387