Book 4. Far from his kingdom, far from home and friends, the prince has gone, is flowing locks close shorn, his rings and soft apparel laid aside, all signs of rank and royalty cast off. Clothed in a yellow robe, simple in course, through unknown streets from door to door he passed, holding an alms-bowl forth for willing gifts.  And when sufficient for the day was given, he took away leading without the walls, and threw rich gardens through the fruitful fields under dark mangoes and jujube trees, eastward toward Silagiri, hill of gyms, and through an ancient grove, skirting its base, where, soothed by every soft and tranquil sound, full many saints were wearing out their days in meditation, earnest, deep, intent, seeking to solve the mystery of life, seeking by leaving all its joys and cares, seeking by doubling all its woes and pains, to gain an entrance to eternal rest, and winding up in its rugged sides to where a shoulder of the mountain sloping west, or hangs a cave with wild figs canopied. This mountain cave was now his dwelling-place, a stone his pillow, and the earth his bed, his earth and alms-bowl holding all his stores except the crystal waters murmuring near. A lonely path, rugged and rough and steep, a lonely cave, its stillness only stirred by eagle scream, or raven solemn croak, or by the distant city's softened sounds, save when a sudden tempest breaks above, and rolling thunder shake the trembling hills.  For here, for six long years, the world renowned, the tender lover of all things, fasted, and watched, and wrestled for the light, less for himself than for a weeping world. And here arrived he ate his simple meal, and then in silent meditation sat the live-long day, heedless of noon's fierce heat that sent to covert birds and panting beasts. And from the parched and glowing plains sent up, as from a furnace, gusts of scorching air, through which the city's walls, the rocks and trees, all seemed to tremble, quiver, glow, and shake, as if a palsy shook the trembling world, heedless of loosened rocks that crashed so near, and dashed and thundered to the depths below, and of the shepherds, who, thus wondering all, came near to gaze upon his noble form, and gentle, loving but majestic face, and thought some God had deigned to visit men. And thus he sat, still as the rock his seat, seeking to pierce the void from whence man came, to look beyond the veil that shuts him in, to find a clue to life's dark labyrinth, seeking to know why man is cast adrift upon the bosom of a troubled sea, his boat so frail, his helm and compass lost, to sink at last in dull oblivion's depths. When nature seemed so perfect and complete, grand as a whole, and perfect all its parts, which from the greatest to the least proclaims, that wisdom, watchfulness, and power and love, which built the mountains, spread the earth abroad, and fixed the bounds that oceans cannot pass, which taught the seasons their accustomed rounds, less seed-time and happy harvest fail, which guides the stars in their celestial course, and guides the pigeons' swift unerring flight, or mountain, sea, and plain, and desert waste, straight as an arrow to her distant home. Seeing the ant for winter to prepare, clothing the lily in its princely pride, watching the tiny sparrow when it falls, nothing too great for his almighty arm, nothing too small for his all-seeing eye, nothing too mean for his parental care. And thus he mused, seeking to find a light, to guide men on their dark and weary way, and threw the valley in the shades of death, until the glories of the setting sun called him to Vespers in his evening meal. Then, roused from reverie, oblivion's made, eight times he bowed, just as the setting sun, a fiery red, sunk slowly out of sight, beyond the western plains, gilded and tinged, misty and vast, beneath a brilliant sky, shaded from brightest gold to softest rose. Then, after supper, back and forth he paced, upon the narrow rock before his cave, seeking to ease his numbed and stiffened limbs, while evening somber shadows slowly crept from plain to hill and highest mountaintop, and solemn silence settled on the world, save for the night-jar's cry and owl's complaint, while many lights from out the city gleam, in thickening stars spangled the azzarevault, until the moon, with soft and silvery light, half veils and half reveals the sleeping world.  And then he dreamed. Sometimes he dreamed of home, of young rahula, reaching out his arms, of sweet yashodara with loving words, cheering him on, as love alone can cheer. Sometimes he dreamed he saw that living light for which his earnest soul so long had yearned, but over hills and mountains far away. And then he seemed with labored steps to climb, down giddy cliffs, far harder than ascent, while yawning chasms threatened to devour, and beatling cliffs precluded all retreat. But still the way seemed opening step by step, until he reached the valley's lowest steps, where twilight reigned, and grim and ghastly forms, with flaming swords obstruct his onward way. But his all-conquering love still urged him on, when with wild shrieks they vanished in thin air. And then he climbed, clinging to jutting cliffs, and stunted trees that from each crevice grew, till weary, breathless, he regained the heights, to see that light nearer, but still so far. And thus he slept, and thus sometimes he dreamed, but rose before the dawn had tinged the east, before the jungle-cock had made his call, when thoughts are clearest in the world as still, refreshed and strengthened for his daily search, into the seeds of sorrow, germs of pain, after a light to scatter doubts and fears. But when the coming day silvered the east, and warmed that silver into softest gold, and faintest rose-tints tinged the passing clouds, he, as the Vedas taught, each morning bathed in the clear stream that murmured near his cave, then bowed in reverence to the rising sun, as from behind the glittering mountain peaks it burst in glory on the waking world. Then, bowl and staff in hand, he took his way along the mountain-path and through the grove, and through the gardens, through the fruitful fields, down to the city, for his daily alms. While children his expected coming watch, and running cry, the gracious Rishi comes. All gladly gave, and soon his bowl was filled, for he repaid their gifts with gracious things, and his unbounded love, clearer than words, spoke to their hearts as he passed gently on. Even stolid plowmen after him would look, wondering that one so stately and so grand should even for them have kind and gracious words. Sometimes while passing through the sacred grove, he paused beneath an aged banyan tree, whose spreading branches drooping down took root to grow again in other giant trunks, an ever-widening, ever-depening shade, where five, like him in manhood's early prime, each bound to life by all its tender ties. High-born and rich had left their happy homes, their only food chance-gathered day by day, their only roof this spreading banyan tree. And there, long time they earnestly communed, seeking to aid each other in the search for higher life and for a clearer light. And here, under a sacred people's tree, two brahmins, famed for sanctity, had dwelt for many years, all cares of life cast off, who by long fastings sought to make the veil of flesh translucent to the inner eye, eyes fixed intently on the nose's tip, to lose all consciousness of outward things. By breath suppressed distill the outer pulse, so that the soul might wake to conscious life, and on unfolded wings unchecked might rise, and in the purest auras freely soar above cross-currents that engender clouds where thunder's roll and quick cross-lightnings play, to view the world of causes and of life, and bathe in life that knows no night, no change. With eager questionings he sought to learn, while they with gentle answers gladly taught all that their self-denying search had learned. And thus he passed his days and months and years, and constant, patient, earnest search for light, with longer fastings and more earnest search, while day by day his body-frailer grew, until his soul, loosed from its earthly bonds, sometimes escaped its narrow prison house, and like the larked Heaven's gate its sword, to view the glories of the coming dawn. But as he rose, the sad and sorrowing world, for which his soul with tender love had yearned, seemed deeper in the nether darkness sunk, beyond his reach, beyond his power to save, when sadly to his prison-house he turned, wishing no light that did not shine for all. Six years had passed, six long and weary years, since first he left a world to seek for light. Knowledge he found, knowledge that soared aloft to giddy heights, and sounded hidden depths, secrets of knowledge that the Brahmins taught, the favoured few, but far beyond the reach of those who toil and weep and cry for help. A light that guilds the highest mountaintops, believes the fields and valleys dark and cold. But not that living light for which he yearned, to light life's humble walks and common ways, and send its warmth to every heart and home. As springtime sends a warm and genial glow to every hill and valley, grove and field, breathing in soft disverger common grass, as well as sandal-trees and lofty palms. One night, when hope seemed yielding to despair, sleepless he lay upon the earth, his bed, when suddenly a white and dazzling light shone through the cave, and all was dark again. Startled he rose, then prostrate in the dust, his inmost soul breathed forth an earnest prayer, that he who made the light would make it shine clearer and clearer to that perfect day, when innocence and peace and righteousness might fill the earth, and ignorance and fear and cruelty and crime might fly away, as birds of night and savage prowling beasts fly from the glories of the rising sun. Long time he lay, wrestling in earnest prayer, when, from the eastern wall, one clothed in light, beaming with love and halo-crowned, appeared, and gently said, Siddhartha, rise, go forth, waste not your days and fasts, your nights and tears, give what you have, do what you find to do, with gentle admonitions check the strong, with loving councils aid and guide the weak, and light will come, the day will surely dawn. This said, the light grew dim, the form was gone, but hope revived, his heart was strong again. Joyful he rose, and when the rising sun had filled the earth's dark places full of light, with all his worldly wealth, his staff and bowl, obedient to that voice, he left his cave. When from a shepherd's cottage near his way, whence he had often heard the busy hum of industry and childhood's merry laugh, there came the angry, stern command of one clothed in a little brief authority, mingled with earnest pleading, and the wail of women's voices, and above them all the plaintive treble of a little child. Thither he turned, and when he reached the spot, the cause of all this sorrow was revealed.  But when they saw him they had often watched, with reverent awe, as if come down from heaven, prostrate they fell, and kissed his garments him. While he so insolent now stood abashed, and self-accused, he thus excused himself. The Brahmins make this day a sacrifice, and they demand unblemished goats and lambs, I but obey the king's express command to bring them to the temple ere high noon. But Buddha stooped and raised the little child, who nestled in his arms in perfect trust, and gently said, Rise up, my friends, weep not, the king must be obeyed, but kings have hearts. I go along to be your advocate. The king may spare what zealous priests would kill, thinking the gods above delight in blood. But when the officers would drive the flock with staves and slings, and loud and angry cries they only scattered them among the rocks, and Buddha obeyed the shepherd call his own, as love can lead where force and vein would drive.  Meanwhile the temple gates wide open stood, and when the king and royal purple robed, and decked with gyms, attended by his court, to clash of cymbals, sound of shell and drum, through streets swept clean, and sprinkled with perfumes, adorned with flags, and filled with shouting crowds, drew near the sacred shrine, a grater came, through unswept ways, where dwelt the toiling poor, huddled in wretched huts, breathing foul air, living in fetid filth and poverty, no childhood's joys, youth prematurely old, manhood a painful struggle but to live, an age a weering shifting of the scene, while all the people drew aside to gaze upon his gentle but majestic face, beaming with tender all-embracing love. And when the king and royal train dismount, mid prostrate people, and the stately priests, on fragrant flowers that carpeted his way, and mount the lofty steps to reach the shrine, Siddhartha came, upon the other side, mid stalls for victims, shed for sacred wood, and rude attendance on the pompous rites, who seized a goat, the patriarch of the flock, and bound him firm with sacred manja-grass, and bore a loft, while Buddha followed where a priest before the blazing altar stood, with glittering knife, and others fed the fires, while clouds of incense from the altar rose, sweeter than Ariby the blessed can yield, and white-robed brahmanas chant their sacred hymns. And there, before that ancient shrine they met, the king, the priests, the hermit from the hill, when one, an aged brahman, raised his hands, and praying, lifted up his voice and cried, O hear, great Indra, from thy lofty throne, on Mayru's holy mountain, high in heaven, let every good the king has ever done, with this sweet incense mingled, rise to thee, and every secret, every open sin, be laid upon this goat, to sink from sight, drunk by the earth with this hot-spouting blood, or on this altar with his flesh be burned. And all the brahman choir responsive cried, Long live the king, now let the victim die. But Buddha said, let him not strike, O king, for how can God, being good, delight in blood? And how can blood wash out the stains of sin, and change the fixed eternal law of life, that good from good, evil from evil flows? This said, he stooped, and loosed the panting goat, none staying him, so great his presence was. And then, with loving tenderness, he taught how sin works out its own sure punishment. Now like corroding rust and eating moth, it wastes the very substance of the soul. Like poison blood, it surely, drop by drop, pollutes the very fountain of the life. Like deadly drug, it changes into stone, the living fibers of a loving heart. Like fell disease, it breathes within the veins the living agents of a living death. And as in gardens overgrown with weeds, nothing but patient labor, day by day, uprooting cherished evils one by one, watering its soil with penitential tears, can fit the soul to grow that precious seed, which, taking root, spreads out a grateful shade, where gentle thoughts like singing birds may lodge, where pure desires like fragrant flowers may bloom, and loving acts like ripened fruits may hang.  Better than incense or the chanted hymn, to cleanse the heart and please the powers above, and fill the world with harmony and peace, till, pricked in heart, the priest let fall his knife, the brahmin's listening ceased to chant their hymns, the king drank in his words with eager ears, and from that day no altar dripped with blood, but flowers instead breathed forth their sweet perfumes, and when that troubled day drew near its clothes, joy filled once more that shepherd's humble home, from door to door his simple story flew, and when the king entered his palace gates, new thoughts were surging in his wakened soul. But though the beasts have layers, the birds have nests, Buddha had not wear on to lay his head, not even a mountain cave to call his home, and forth he fared, heedless about his way, for every way was now alike to him. Face of food his alms-bowl hung unused, while all the people stood aside with awe, and to their children pointed out the man who pled the shepherd's cause before the king. At length he passed the city's western gate, and crossed the little plains circling its walls. Circled itself by five bold hills that rise, a rugged rampart and an outer wall, two outer gates this mountain rampart had, the one, a narrow valley, opening west toward Gaya through the red barabar hills, through which the rapid pelgou swiftly glides, down from the Vindia Mountains far away, then gently winds around this fruitful plain, its surface green with floating lotus leaves, and bright with lotus blossoms, blue and white, or hung with drooping trees and trailing vines, till through the eastern gate it hastens on to lose itself in Ganga's sacred stream. Toward Gaya now Siddhartha bent his steps, distant the journey of a single day, as men marked distance in those ancient times no longer heated in this headlong age, when we count moments by the miles we pass, and one may see the sun sink out of sight. Behind great banks of gray and wintry clouds, while feathery snowflakes fill the frosty air, and after quiet sleep may wake next day, to see it bathe green fields of floods of light, and dry the sparkling dew from opening flowers, and hear the joyful burst of vernal song, and breathe the balmy air of opening spring. And as he went, weary and faint and sad, the valley opening showed a pleasant grove, where many trees mingled their grateful shade, and many blossoms blended sweet perfumes, and there, under a drooping vacal tree, a bower of roses and sweet jasmine vines, within a couch, without a banquet spread, while near a fountain with its falling spray, ruffled the surface of a shining pool, whose liquid cadence mingled with the songs of many birds concealed among the trees. And there three seeming sister graces were, fair as young Venus rising from the sea, the one seeming childlike innocence bathed in the pool, while her low liquid laugh rung sweet and clear, and one her vina tuned, and as she played the other lightly danced, clapping her hands, tinkling her silver bells, whose gauzy silken garments seemed to show rather than hide her slender, graceful limbs, and she who played the vina sweetly sang. Come to our bower and take your rest, life is a weary road at best. Wait for your board is richly spread, drink for your wine is sparkling red. Rest for the weary day is past, sleep for the shadows gather fast.  Come to our bower and take your rest, life is a weary road at best.  Ah, poor, perverted, cold and cruel world, delights of love become the lures of lust, the joys of heaven changed into fires of hell. Now, Mighty Mara, spirit of the air, the prince of darkness, ruling worlds below, had watched for Buddha all these weary years, seeking to lead his steady steps astray, by many wiles his wicked wit devised, lest he at length should find the living light and rescue millions from his dark domains. Now showing him the kingdoms of the world, he offered him the chakraborton's crown. Now opening seas of knowledge, sureless, vast, knowledge of ages past and yet to come. Knowledge of nature and the hidden laws, that guide our changes, guide the roiling spheres, sackwall on sackwall, boundless, infinite, yet ever moving on in harmony. He thought to puff up his spirit with pride, till he should quite forget a suffering world, in sin and sorrow groping blindly on. But when he saw that lust of power moved not, and thirst for knowledge turned him not aside, from earnest search after the living light, from tender love for every living thing, he sent the tempters, doubt and dark despair. And as he watched for final victory, he saw that light flash through the silent cave, and heard the Buddha breathe that earnest prayer, and fled amazed, nor dared to look behind. For though to Buddha all his ways seemed dark, his wily enemy could see a power, a mighty power that ever hovered near, a present help in every time of need, when sinking souls seek earnestly for aid. He fled, indeed, as flies the prowling wolf, alarmed at watchdogs bark or shepherds voice. While seeking entrance to the slumbering fold, but soon returns with soft and stealthy step, with keen ascent snuffing the passing breeze, with ears erect catching each slightest sound, with glaring eyes watching each moving thing, with hungry jaws skulking about the fold, till coming dawn drives him to seek his lair. So Mara fled, and so he soon returned. And thus he watched the Buddha's every step, saw him with gentleness, quail haughty power, saw him with tenderness, raise up the weak. Heard him before the Brahmins and the King denounce those bloody rites ordained by him. Heard him declare the deadly work of sin, his own prime minister and eldest born. Heard him proclaim the mighty power of love, to cleanse the life and make the flinty heart as soft as sinews of the newborn babe. And when he saw whither he bent his steps, he sent three wrinkled hags, deformed and foul, the willing agents of his wicked will, life-wasting idleness, the thief of time, the civius lust, whose very touch defiles, poisoning the blood, polluting all within, and greedy gluttony, most gross of all, whose ravining maw forever asks for more, to that delightful garden near his way, to tempt the master, their true forms concealed, for who so gross that such coarse hags could tempt. But clothed instead in youthful beauty's grace, and now he saw him pass unmoved by lust. For yet with cold self-righteous pride puffed up, but breathing pity from his innmost soul, even for the ministers of vice themselves. Defeated, not discouraged, still he thought to try one last device, for well he knew that Buddha's steps approached the sacred tree, where light would dawn and all his power would end. On a seat beside the shaded path, a seeming-aged brahmin, Mara, sat, and when the prince approached his tempter rose, saluting him with gentle statelyness, saluted in return with equal grace. "'Wither away, my son,' the tempter said.  Perhaps your youth may cheer my lonely age.' I go to seek for light,' the prince replied. But where it matters not, so light be found. But Mara answered him, your search is vain. Why seek to know more than the Vedas teach? Why seek to learn more than the teachers know? But such as youth, the rosy tents of dawn, tend all his thoughts. Sellsier he cries, and vain would scale the unsubstantial clouds, to find a light that knows no night, no change. We brahmin's chant our hymns and solemn whys. The vulgar listen with profoundest awe. But still our muffled heart-throbs beat the march, onward, forever onward, to the grave. When one head cries, "'Low, I see a light!' And others clutch his garments following on. Still all in starless darkness disappear. There may be day beyond this starless night. There may be life beyond this dark profound. But who has ever seen that changeless day? What steps have ever retraced that silent road? Fables there are, hallowed by hoary age, fables and ancient creeds, that men have made to give them power with ignorance and fear. Fables of gods with human passions filled. Fables of men who walked and talked with gods. Fables of Kalpa's past, when Brahma slept, and all created things were wrapped in flames. And then the floods descended, chaos reigned, the world a waste of waters, and the heavens a sunless void. Until again he wakes, and sun and moon and stars resume their rounds, oceans receding, show the mountain tops, and then the hills and spreading plains. Strange fables all, that crafty men have feigned. Why waste your time pursuing such vain dreams, as some benighted travelers chase false lights to lose themselves in bogs and fins at last? But read instead in Nature's open book, how light from darkness grew by slow degrees, how crawling worms grew into light-winged birds, acquiring sweetest notes and gayest plumes, how lowly ferns grew into lofty palms, how men have made themselves from chattering apes, how even from protoplasm to highest bard, selecting and rejecting, mind has grown. Still at length all secrets are unlocked, and man himself now stands preeminent, maker and master of his own great self, to sneer at all his lisping childlike past, and laugh at all his fathers had revered. The prince with gentle earnestness replied, Full well I know how blindly we rope on, in doubt and fear and ignorance profound, the wisdom of the past a book now sealed. But why despise what ages have revered, as some rude plowman casts on rubbish heaps the rusty casket that his chair reveals, not knowing that within it are concealed most precious gems to make him rich indeed, the hand that hid them from the robber cold, the key that locked this rusty casket lost. The past was wise, else wince that wondrous tongue that we call sacred, which the learned speak, now passing out of use as too refined for this rude age, too smooth for our rough tongues, too rich and delicate for our coarse thoughts. Why should such men make fables so absurd, unless within their rough outside is stored some precious truth from profanation hid? Share your own, revile no other faith, lest with the casket you reject the gems, or with rough hulls reject the living seed. Doubtless in nature changes have been wrought that speak of ages in the distant past, whose contemplation fills the mind with awe. The smooth worn pebbles on the highest hills speak of an ocean sweeping over their tops. The giant palms now changed to solid rocks speak of the wonders of a buried world. Why seek to solve the riddle nature puts, of wince and why, with theories and dreams? The crawling worm proclaims its maker's power, the singing bird proclaims its maker's skill, the mind of man proclaims a greater mind, whose will makes world, whose thoughts are living acts. Our every heart-throb speaks of present power, preserving, recreating, day by day. Better confess how little we can know, better with feet unshawed and humble awe approach this living power to ask for aid. And as he spoke, the devas filled the air, unseen, unheard of men, and sweetly sung. Still prince of peace, hail harbinger of day, the darkness vanishes, the light appears. But Mara heard and silent slunk away. The overwrought prince fell prostrate on the ground, and lay entranced while devas hovered near, watching each heart-throb, breathing that sweet calm its guardian angel gives the sleeping child. The night has passed, the day-star fades from sight, and morning's softest tint of rose and gold tinges the east and tips the mountaintops. The silent village stirs with waking life, the bleed of goats and low of distant herds, the song of birds and crow of jungle-cocks, breathe softest music through the dewy air. And now two girls, just grown to womanhood, the lovely daughters of the village lord, Trapusha one and one Balika called, up with the dawn, tripped lightly over the grass, bringing rich curds and rice picked grain by grain, a willing offering to their guardian god, who dwelt, as all the simple folk believed, beneath an aged bodhi-tree that stood beside the path and near where Buddha lay. To ask such husbands as their fancies paint, gentle and strong and noble, true and brave, and having left their gifts and made their vows, with timid steps the maidens stole away. But while the outer world is filled with life, that inner world from whence this life proceeds concealed from sight by matters blinding folds whose coarser currents fill with wondrous power the nervous fluid of the universe, which darts through nature's frame from star to star, from cloud to cloud, filling the world with awe. Now harness to our use, a patient drudge, heedless of time or space, bears human thought from land to land and through the ocean's depths, and bears the softest tones of human speech faster than light, faster than ocean sounds, and whirls the clattering car through crowded streets, and floods with light the haunts of prowling thieves, that inner world whose very life is love, pure love and perfect, infinite and tense, that world is now a stir. A rift appears in those dark clouds that rise from sinful souls, and hide from us its clear celestial light, and clouds of messengers from that bright world whom they called Davis and we angels call, rushed to that rift to rescue and to save. The wind from their bright wings fan Buddha's soul, the love from their sweet spirits, warmed his heart. He starts from sleep, but rising scarcely knows if he had seen a vision while awake, or sunk in sleep had dreamed a heavenly dream. From that pure presence all his tempters fled. The calm of conflict ended filled his soul, and led by unseen hands he forward passed, to where the sacred fig tree long had grown, beneath whose shade the village altar stood, where simple folk would place their willing gifts, and ask the aid their simple ones required. Living all the life above, around, the life within themselves, must surely come from living powers that ever hovered near. Here lay the food Sagata's daughters brought, the choicest products of his herds and fields. This grateful food meant nature's every need, diffused a healthful glow through all his frame, and all the body's eager yearning stilled. Seven days he sat, and ate no more nor drank, yet hungered not, nor burned with parching thirst. For heavenly manna fed his hungry soul. It's once resatisfied, the body's ceased. Seven days he sat, in sweet internal peace, waiting for light, and sure that light would come. In seeming scales fell from his inner sight. His spirit's eyes were opened, and he saw, not far away, but near, within, above, as dwells the soul within this mortal frame, a world within this workday world of ours, the living soul of all material things. Eastward he saw a never-setting sun, whose light is truth, the light of all the worlds, whose heat is tender, all embracing love, the inmost life of everything that lives, the mighty prototype and primal cause of all the suns that light this universe. From ours, full-orbed, that tints the glowing east, and paints the west a thousand varied shades, to that far-distant twinkling star that seems no larger than the glowworm's lamp. himself a sun to light such worlds as ours, and round about him clouds of living light, bright clouds of cherubim and seraphim, who sing his praise and execute his will, not idly singing, as the foolish fain, but voicing forth their joy they work and sing, doing his will, their work sound forth his praise. On every side were fields of living green, with gardens, groves, and gently rising hills, where crystal streams of living waters flow, and dim with distant Meru's lofty heights. No desert sands, no mountains crowned with ice, for here the scorching Samoom never blows, nor wintry winds, that pierce and freeze and kill, but gentle breezes breathing sweet perfumes. No weeds, no thorns, no bitter poisonous fruits, no noxious reptiles, and no prowling beasts, for in this world of innocence and love no evil thoughts give birth to evil things. But many birds of every varied plume delight the ear with sweetest melody, and many flowers of every varied tent fill all the air with odors rich and sweet, and many fruits, suited to every taste, hang ripe and ready that who will may eat. A world of life with all its lights and shades, the bright original of our sad world, without its sin and storms, its thorns and tears. No letty sluggish waters lave its shores, nor solemn shades of poet's fancy bread sit idly here to boast of battle's past, nor wailing ghosts ring here their shadowy hands for lack of honor to their cast-off dust. But living men in human bodies clothed, not bodies made of matter, dull and coarse, from the dust and soon to dust returned, but living bodies, clothing living souls, bodies responsive to the spirit's will, clothing enacts the spirit's inmost thoughts, dwell here in many mansions large and fair, stretching beyond the keenest vision's hen, with room for each and more than room for all, for ever-filling and yet never full. Not clogged by matter, fast as fleeting birds, wishing to go they go, to come they come. No helpless infancy or pulsied age, but all in early manhood's youthful bloom, the old grown young, the child to man's estate. Gentle they seemed as they passed to and fro, gentle and strong, with every manly grace, busy as bees in summer's sunny hours, in works of usefulness and acts of love. No pinching poverty or grasping greed, gladly receiving they more gladly give, sharing in peace the bounty's freed wall. As lost in wonder and delight he gazed, he saw approaching from a pleasant grove two noble youths, yet full of gentleness, attending one from soul to crown a queen, with every charm of fresh and blooming youth, in every grace of early womanhood, her face the mirror of her gentle soul, her flowing robes finer than soft as silk. That as she moved seemed woven of the light, not borne by clumsy wings or labored steps, she glided on as if her will had wings that bore her willing body where she wished. As she approached, close by her side he saw, as through a veil or thin transparent mist, the form and features of the aged king, older and frailer by six troubled years than when they parted, yet his very face, whom she was watching with the tenderest care. In nearer scene each seeming youth was two, as when at first in Eden's happy shade our primal parents ere the tempter came, were twain and yet but one. So on they come, hand joined in hand, heart beating close to heart, one will their guide and sharing every thought, beaming with tender all-embracing love, whom God had joined and death had failed to part. God need of words to introduce his guests. Love knows her own, the mother greets her son. Her parents and the kings, who long had watched their common offspring with a constant care. Inspiring hope in breathing inward peace, when secret foes assailed on every side, now saw him burst the clouds that veiled their view, and stand triumphant full before their eyes. O happy meeting, joy profound, complete, soul greeting soul, heart speaking straight to heart, while countless happy faces hovered near, and songs of joy sound through Nirvana's heights. At length the transports of first meeting passed, more of this newfound world he wished to see, more of its peace and joy he wished to know. Led by his loving guides, enwrapped he saw such scenes of beauty passing human speech, such scenes of peace and joy past human thought, that he who sings must tune a heavenly lyre, and seraphs touch his lips with living fire. My unanointed lips will not presume to try such lofty themes, glad if I gain a distant prospect of the promised land, and catch some glimpses through the gates of jar. Long time he wandered through these blissful scenes, time measured by succession of delights, till, wearied by excess of very joy, both soul and body sunk in tranquil sleep. He slept while hosts of Deva's sweetly sung. Hail, great physician! Savior, lover, friend! Joy of the world's! Guide to Nirvana! Hail! From whose bright presence Mara's myriads fled, but Mara's self, subtlest of all, fled not, but, putting on a seeming yogi's form, wasted as if by fasts to skin and bone, on one foot standing, rooted to the ground, the other raised against his fleshless thigh, hands stretched aloft till joints had lost their use, and clenched so close, as if in firm resolve, the nails had quite grown through their festering palms, his tattered robes, as if worn out by age, hanging like moss from trees decayed and dead, while birds were nesting in his tangled hair. And thus disguised the subtle Mara stood, and when the master roused him from his sleep, his tempter cried in seeming ecstasy, O happy awakening! Joy succeeding grief! Peace after trouble! Rest that knows no end! Life after death! Nirvana found at last! Here let us wait, till, wasted by decay, the body's worn out fetters drop away. Such suffering brother, Buddha answered him, the weary traveler, wandering through the night, in doubt and darkness, gladly seized the dawn. The storm tossed sailor on the troubled sea, weary and drenched, with joy, re-enters port. But other nights succeed that happy dawn, and other seas may toss that sailor's bark. But he who sees Nirvana's sacred son, and when Nirvana's haven furls his sails, no more shall wander through the starless night. No more shall battle with the winds and waves. O joy of joys! Our eyes have seen that sun. Our sails have almost reached that sheltering port. But shall we, joyful at our own escape, leave our poor brothers battling with the storm, sails rent, barks leaking, helm encompassed lost, no light to guide, no hope to cheer them on? Each for himself must seek as we have sought, the tempter said, and each must climb alone, the rugged path, our weary feet of trod. No royal road leads to Nirvana's rest. No royal captain guides his army there. Why leave the heights with so much labor gained? Why plunge in darkness we have just escaped? Men will not heed the message we may bring. The great will scorn, the rabble will deride, and cry, He hath a devil, and is mad. True, answered Buddha, each must seek to find. Each for himself must leave the downward road. Each for himself must choose the narrow path that leads to purity and peace and life. But helping hands will aid those struggling up. A warning voice may check those hasting down. Men are like lilies and yawn shining pool. Some sunken evil grovel in the dust. Loving like swine to wallow in the mire. Like those that grow within its salient depths. Scarce raised above its black and oozy bed. While some love good and seek the purest light. Breathing sweet fragrance from their gentle lives. Like those that rise above its glassy face. Sparkling with dew drops royally arranged. Drinking the brightness of the morning sun. Distilling odors through the balmy air. But countless multitudes grope blindly on.  Willing to learn whom none will deign to teach. Willing to rise whom none will deign to guide. Who from the cradle to the silent grave. Helpless and hopeless. Only toil and weep. Like those that on the stagnant waters float. Smothered with leaves. Covered with ropey slime. That from the rosy dawn to dewy eve. Scarce catch one glimmer of the glorious sun. The good scarce need. The bad will scorn my aid. But these poor souls will gladly welcome help. Welcome to me the scorn of rich and great. Welcome the brahman's proud and cold disdain. Welcome revilings from the rabble route. If I can lead some groping soul's light. If I can give some weary spirits rest. Farewell my brother. You have earned release. Rest here in peace. I go to aid the poor. And as he spoke a flash of lured light shot through the air and Buddha stood alone. Alone to teach the warring nations peace. Alone to lead a groping world to light. Alone to give the heavy laden rest. Seven days had passed since first he saw the light, seven days of deep ecstatic peace and joy, of open vision of that blissful world of sweet communion with those dwelling there. But having tasted, seen and felt the joys of that bright world where love is all in all, filling each heart inspiring every thought guiding each will and prompting every act, he yearned to see the other darker side of that bright picture where the wars and hates, the lust, the greed, the cruelty and crime that fill the world with pain and want and woe have found their dwelling-place and final goal. Quicker than eagles soaring toward the sun till but a speck against the azure vault swooped down upon their unsuspecting prey. Quicker than watchfires on the mountaintops and warnings to the dwellers in the plain, led by his guides he reached Nirvana's verge, whence he beheld a broad and pleasant plain, spread with a carpet of the richest green and decked with flowers of every varied tint, whose blended odours fill the barmy air, where trees pleasant to sight and good for food, in rich abundance and spontaneous grow. A living stream as pure as crystal clear, with gentle murmurs wound along the plain, its surface bright with fairer lotus-flowers than mortal eye on earth had ever seen, while on its banks were cool and brageous graves, whose drooping branches spicy breezes stir, a singing bird in every waving bow, whose joyful notes the soul of music shed. A mighty multitude beyond the power of men to number moved about the plain, some seeming strangers wander through the graves and pluck the flowers or eat the luscious fruits, some seeming visitors from better worlds hear wait and watch as forexpected guests, while angel divas clothed in innocence, whose faces beam with wisdom glow with love, with loving welcomes greet each coming guest, with loving counsels aid, instruct, and guide. And as he looked the countless restless throngs seemed ever changing, ever moving on, so that this plain, comparing great to small, seemed like a station near some royal town, greater than London or old Babylon, where all the roads from some vast empire meet and many caravans or sweeping trains bring and remove the ever-changing throng. This plain a valley bordered deep and still, the very valley of his fearful dream, seen from the other side whose rising mists were all aglow with ever-changing light, like passing clouds above the setting sun through which as through a glass he darkly saw unnumbered funeral trains in sable clad, to solemn music and with measured tread bearing their dead to countless funeral piles, as thick as heaps that through the live-long day with patient toil the sturdy woodman rear, while clearing forests for the golden grain, and set a flame when evening's shades descend, filling the glowing woods with floods of light and ghostly shadows, so these funeral piles send up their curling smoke and crackling flames. Their eager flames devour an infant's flesh, hear loving arms that risen infant clasp, their loud laments bewail a loved one lost, hear joyful welcomes greet that loved one found, and there he saw a pompous funeral train bearing a body clothed in robes of state, to blare of trumpet sound of shell and drum, while many mourners bow in silent grief, and widows' orphans raise a loud lament as for a father a protector lost, and as the flames lick up the fragrant oils and whirl and hiss around that wasting form, an eager watcher from a better world welcomes her husband to her open arms. The cumbersome load of pomp and power cast off, while waiting divas in the happy throng, his power protected and his bounty blessed, with joy conduct his unaccustomed steps onwards and upwards to those blissful seats, where all his stores of duties well performed, of power well used and wealth in kindness given, were garnered up beyond the reach of thieves, where moths ne'er eat and rust can ne'er corrupt. Another train draws near a funeral pile of aloes, sandalwood and cassia-built, and drenched with every incense, breathing oil, and draped with silks and rich with rarest flowers, where grim officials clothed in robes of state placed one in royal purple decked with gems, whose word had been a trembling nation's law, whose angry nod was death to high or low. No mourners gather round this costly pile, the people shrink in terror from the sight.  But here that self-same monarch comes in view, for royal purple clothed in filthy rags, and lustiless that crown of priceless gems, those eyes whose bends so lately awed the world, blinking and blared and blinded by the light, those hands that later royal sceptre bore, shaking with fear and dripping all with blood. And as he looked that some should give him place, and lead him to a seat for monarch's fit, he only saw a group of innocents, his hands had slain, now clothed in spotless white, from whom he fled as if by furies chased, fled from those graves and gardens of delight, fled on and down a broad and beaten road, by many trod and toward a desert waste with distant dim and gloomy grim and vast, where piercing thorns and leafless briars grow, and dead sea-apples ashes to the taste, where loathsome reptiles crawl and hiss and sting, and birds of night and bat-winged dragons fly, where beatling cliffs seem threatening instant fall, and opening chasms seem yawning to devour, and sulfurous seas were swept with lurid flames that seethe and boil from hidden fires below. Then he saw, beyond that silent veil, one frail and old, without a rich man's gate, laid down to die beneath a peeple-tree, and parched with thirst and pierced with sudden pain, a root his pillow and the earth his bed. Alone he met the king of terrors there, whose wasting body, cumbering now the ground, chandalous cast upon the passing stream, to float and fester in the fiery sun, till world by eddies caught by roots it lay, a prey for vultures and for fish's food. That self-same day a dart of deadly pain shot through that rich man's hard and feeling heart, that laid him low beyond the power to save, even while his servants cast without his gates, that poor old man, who came to beg him spare his roof-tree where his fathers all had died, his hearth the shrine of all his inmost joys, his little home to every heart so dear, and in due season tongues of hissing flames that rich man's robes like snowflakes whirled in air, and curled his crackling skin, consumed his flesh, and sucked the marrow from his whitened bones. But here these two their places seemed to change, that rich man's houses, lands and flocks and herds, his servants' rich apparel's stores of gold, and all he loved and lived for left behind. The friends that nature gave him turned to foes, dependents whom his greed had wronged and crushed, shrinking away as from a deadly foe. No generous wish, no gentle tender, thought to hide his nakedness, his shriveled soul stood stark and bare, the gaze of passers by, nothing within to draw him on and up, he slinks away and wanders on and down, till in the desert grovelling in the dust, he digs and burrows, seeking treasures there. While that poor man, as we count poverty, is rich in all that makes the spirit's wealth, his heart so pure that thoughts of guile and evil purpose find no lodgement there, his life so innocent that bitter words and evil speaking there escape his lips, the little that he had he freely shared, and wished it more that more he might have given, now rich in soul, for here a crust of bread in kindness shared, a cup of water given, is worth far more than all Potosi's mines, and Arabie's perfumes and India's silks, and all the cattle on a thousand hills, and clothed as with a robe of innocence, the divas welcome him, his troubles past, the conflict ended and the triumph gained. And there two Brahmins pressed their funeral pile, and sink to dust amid the whirling flames, each from his lisping infancy had heard that Brahmins were a high and holy caste, too high and holy for the common touch, and each had learned that Vader's secret law, but here they parted, one was cold and proud, drawing away from all the humbler castes as made to toil, and only fit to serve. The other found within those sacred books that all were brothers made of common clay, and filled with life from one eternal source, while Brahmins only elder brothers were, with greater light to be his brother's guide, with greater strength to give his brother aid, that he alone a real Brahmin was, who had a Brahmin spirit not his blood. With patient toil from youth to hoary age, he taught the ignorant and helped the weak, and now they come where all external pomp and rank and caste and creed are nothing worth. But when that proud and haughty Brahmin saw poor Sudras and Chandalas clothed in white, he swept away with proud and haughty scorn, swept on and down where heartless selfishness alone can find congenial company. The other, full of joy, his brothers met, and in sweet harmony they journeyed on, where higher joys await the pure in heart. And there he saw all ranks and grades and castes, Chandala, Sudra, warrior, Brahmin, prince, the wise and ignorant, the strong and weak, in all the stages of our mortal round, from lisping infancy to pulsed age, by all the ways to human frailty known, enter that veil of shadows deep and still, leaving behind their pomp and power and wealth, leaving their rags and wretchedness and want, and cast off bodies, dust to dust returned, by flames consumed or mouldering to decay, while here the real character appeared, all shows, hypocrisies and shams cast off, so that a life of gentleness and love shines through the face and moulds the outer form, to living beauty, blooming not to fade, while every act of cruelty and crime seems like a gangrene'd ever-widening wound, wasting the very substance of the soul, marring its beauty, eating out its strength. And here arrived the good in little groups, together drawn by inward sympathy, and led by divas take the upward way, to those sweet fields his opened eyes had seen, those ever-widening mansions of delight. While those poor souls owe sad and fearful sight, the very wellsprings of the life corrupt, shrink from the light and shun the pure and good, fly from the divas who with perfect love would gladly soothe their anguish, ease their pain, fly on and down that broad and beaten road, till in the distance in the darkness lost. Lost, lost, and must it be for ever lost, the gentle Buddha's all-embracing love shrunk from the thought, but rather sought relief, in that most ancient faith by sages taught, that these poor souls at length may find escape, the grasping in the gross and greedy swine, the cunning in the sly and prowling fox, the cruel in some ravening beast of prey, while those less hardened, less depraved, may gain rebirth in men, degraded, grovelling base. But here in sadness let us drop the veil, hoping that he whose ways are not like ours, whose love embraces all his handiwork, who in beginnings sees the final end, may find some way to save these sinful souls, consistent with his fixed eternal law, that good from good, evil from evil flows. Here Buddha saw the mystery of life at last unfolded to its hidden depths. He saw that selfishness was sorrow's root and ignorance in stents and deadly shade. He saw that selfishness bred lust and hate, deformed the features and defiled the soul, and closed its windows to those waves of love, that flow perennial from Nirvana's sun. He saw that grovelling lusts and base desires, like noxious weeds and checked luxurious grow, making a tangled jungle of the soul, where no good seed can find a place to root, where noble purposes and pure desires and gentle thoughts wither and fade and die, like flowers beneath the deadly upus tree. He saw that selfishness bred grasping greed, and made the miser made the prowling thief, and bred hypocrisy, pretence, deceit, and made the bigot made the faithless priest, bred anger, cruelty, and thirst for blood, and made the tyrant stained the murderer's knife, and filled the world with war and want and woe, and filled the dismal regions of the lost with fiery flames of passions never quenched, with sounds of discord, sounds of clanking chains, with cries of anguish, howls of bitter hate, yet saw that man was free, not bound and chained, helpless and hopeless to a whirling wheel, rolled on resistless by some cruel power, regardless of their cries and prayers and tears, free to resist those gross and grovelling lusts, free to obey Nirvana's law of love, the law of order, primal highest law which guides the great artificer himself, who weaves the garments of the joyful spring, who paints the glories of the passing clouds, who tunes the music of the rolling spheres, guided by love in all his mighty works, filling with love the humblest, willing heart. He saw that love softens in sweeten's life, and stills the passions sooth the troubled breast, fills homes with joy and gives the nations peace, a sovereign balm for all the spirit's wounds, the living fountain of Nirvana's bliss, for here before his eyes were countless souls born to the sorrows of a sinful world, with burdens bowed by cares and griefs oppressed, who felt for others sorrows as their own, who lent a helping hand to those in need, returning good for evil, love for hate, whose garments now were white as spotless wool, whose faces beamed with gentleness and love, as onward, upward divas guide their steps, Nirvana's happy mansions full in view. He saw the noble eightfold path that mounts from life's low levels to Nirvana's heights, not by steep grades the strong alone can climb, but by such steps as feeblest limbs may take. He saw that day by day and step by step by lusts resisted and by evil shunned, by acts of love and daily duties done, soothing some heartache, helping those in need, smoothing life's journey for a brother's feet, guarding the lips from harsh and bitter words, guarding the heart from grace and selfish thoughts, guarding the hands from every evil act, Brahmin or Sudra high or low may rise till heaven's bright mansions open to the view, and heaven's warm sunshine brightens all the way, while neither hecatumes of victim's slain nor clouds of incense wafted to the skies, nor chanted hymns nor prayers to all the gods can raise a soul that clings to groveling lusts. He saw the cause of sorrow and its cure. He saw that waves of love surround the soul as waves of sunlight fill the outer world, while selfishness, the subtle alchemist concealed within, changes that love to hate, forges the links of karma's fatal chain, of passions, envy's lusts to bind the soul, and weaves his webs of falsehood and deceit to close its windows to the living light, changing its mansion to its prison-house, where it must lay self-chained and self-condemned, while dharma, truth, the law, the living word, brushes away those deftly woven webs, opens its windows to the living light, reveals the architect of all its ills, scatters the timbers of its prison-house, and snaps in twain those bitter, galling chains, so that the soul once more may stand erect, victor of self, no more to be enslaved, and live in charity and gentle peace, bearing all meekly loving those who hate. And when at last the fated stream is reached, with light and boat to reach the other shore. And here who found the light he long had sought, gilding at once Nirvana's blissful heights, and lighting life sequestered lowly veils, a light whose inner life is perfect love, a love whose outer form is living light. Nirvana's son, the light of all the worlds, heart of the universe, whose mighty pulse gives heaven the worlds and even hell their life, maker and father of all living things, Maitreya's self, the lover, saviour, guide, the last, the greatest Buddha who must rule as Lord of all before the Calpa's end. The way of life, the noble eightfold path, the way of truth, the dharma part of found, with joy he bade his loving guides farewell, with joy he turned from all his blissful scenes. And when the rosy dawn next tinged the east, and morning's burst of song had waked the day, with staff and bowl he left the sacred tree, where pilgrims passing pathless mountain heights, and desert sounds and oceans stormy waves, from every nation, speaking every tongue, should come in after times to breathe their vows, beginning on that day his pilgrimage of five and forty years from place to place, breaking the cruel chains of caste and creed, teaching the law of love the way of life. End of book six. Book seven of the Dawn and the Day. Alone on his great mission going forth, down Falgu's valley he retraced his steps, down past the seat where subtle Mara sat, and past the fountain where the siren sang, and past the city through the fruitful fields, and gardens he had traversed day by day, for six long years led by a strong desire to show his brahman teachers his new light. But ah! the change a little time had wrought, and new-made stupor held their gathered dust, while they had gone where all see eye to eye, the darkness vanished and the river crossed. Then turning sadly from this hallowed spot, hallowed by strivings for a higher life, more than by dust this little mound contained, he sought beneath the spreading banyan tree his five companions whom he lately left. Had at his own departure from the way the sacred Vedas and the Fathers taught, they too had gone to Varanasi-gon, high seat and centre of all sacred law. The day was well nigh spent, his cave was near, where he had spent so many weary years, and as he wither turned and upward climbed the shepherd's little child who watched the flock his love had rescued from the bloody knife, upon a rock that rose above his path saw him passed by, and ran with eagerness to bear the news, joy filled that humble home. He owed him all the best they had they brought, and offered it with loving gratitude. The master ate, and as he ate he taught these simple souls the great, the living truth, that love is more than costly sacrifice, that daily duties done are highest praise, that when life's duties end its sorrows end, and higher joys await the pure in heart. Their eager souls drank in his living words as those who thirst drink in the living spring. Then reverently they kissed his garment's hem, and home returned while he lay down to sleep, and sweetly as a babe the master slept, no doubts, no darkness, and no troubled dreams. When rosy dawn next lit the eastern sky, and morning's grateful coolness filled the air, the master rose and his ablutions made, with bowl and staff in hand he took his way, toward Varanasi hoping there to find the five toward whom his earnest spirit yearned. Ten days have passed, and now the rising sun, that hangs above the distant mountain peaks, is mirrored back by countless rippling waves, that dance upon the Ganges yellow streams. Swollen by rains and melted mountain snows, and glorifies the thousand sacred faines, with gilded pinnacles and spires and domes, that rise in beauty on its farther bank. While busy multitudes glide up and down, with lightly dipping oars and swelling sails, and pilgrims countless as those shining waves, from far and near, from mountain hill and plain, with dust and travel-stained footsaw heart-sick, here came to bathe within the sacred stream, here came to die upon its sacred banks, seeking to wash the stains of guilt away, seeking to lay their galling burdens down. Scoff not at these poor heavy laden souls, blindly they seek but that all-seeing eye, that sees the tiny sparrow when it falls, is watching them, his angels hover near.  The ancient writings say that having nought to pay the ferryman the churl refused to ferry him across the swollen stream, when he was raised and wafted through the air. What matter whether that all-powerful love which moves the worlds and bears with all our sins, sent him a chariot and steeds of fire, or moved the heart of some poor fisherman to bear him over for a brother's sake. All power is his, and men can never thwart his all-embracing purposes of love. Now past the stream and near the sacred grave, the deer-park called, the five saw him approach, but grieved at his departure from the way the ancient sages taught, said with themselves, they would not rise or do him reverence. But as he nearer came the tender love, the holy calm that shone upon his face, made them at once forget their firm resolve. They rose together, doing reverence, and bringing water washed his way-soiled feet, gave him a mat, and said as with one voice, Master Gautama, welcome to our grave, have rest your weary limbs and share our shade, have you escaped from karma's fatal chains and gained clear vision, found the living light? Call me not, Master, profitless to you, six years have passed, the Buddha answered them, in doubt and darkness, groping blindly on, but now at last the day has surely dawned. These eyes have seen Nirvana's sacred sun, and found the noble eightfold path that mounts from life's low levels, mounts from death's dark shades, to changeless day, to never ending rest. Then with the Prophet's newly kindled zeal, zeal for the truth his opened eyes had seen zeal for the friends who struggles he had shared, softened by sympathy and tender love, he taught how selfishness was primal cause, of every ill to which frail flesh is air, the poisoned fountain whence all sorrows flow, the loathsome worm that coils about the root, and kills the germ of every springing joy, the subtle foe that sows by night the tears that quickly springing choke the goodly seed, which left to grow would fill the daily life with barmy fragrance and with precious fruit. He showed that selfishness was life's soul-bane and love its great and sovereign antidote, he showed how selfishness would change the child from laughing innocence to greedy youth, and heartless manhood cold and cruel age, which past the veil and stripped of all disguise shrinks from the good and eager slinks away, and seeks those dismal regions of the lost his opened eyes with sinking heart had seen. Then showed how love its guardian angel paints upon the cooling infant's smiling face, graze into gentle youth and manhood rich in works of helpfulness and brotherhood, and ripens into mellow sweet old age, childhood returned with all its gentleness whose funeral pile but lights the upward way, to those sweet fields his opened eyes had seen, those ever-widening mansions of delight. Enwrapped the teacher taught the living truth, enwrapped the hearers heard his living words, the night unheeded winged its rapid flight, the morning found their souls from darkness free. Six yellow robes Benares daily saw, six wooden arms-balls held for daily food, six meeting sneers with smiles and hate with love, six watches by the pilgrim's dying bed, six noble souls united in the work of giving light and hope and help to all. A rich and noble youth and only son had seen Gautama passing through the streets, a holy calm upon his noble face, had heard him tell the pilgrims by the stream, gasping for breath and breathing out their lives, of higher life and joys that never end, and wearied sated by the daily round of pleasure, luxury and empty show that waste his days but fail to satisfy, yet fearing his companions' jibes and sneers he sought the master in the sacred grave, when the full moon was mirrored in the stream, the sleeping city silvered by its light, and there he lingered, drinking in his words, till night was passed and day was well nigh spent. The father anxious for his absent son had sought him through the night from street to street, in every haunt that youthful folly seeks, and now despairing sought the sacred grave, perhaps by chance, perhaps led by the light that guides the pigeon to her distant home, and found him there, he too, the Buddha heard, and finding the light and filled with joy, he said, illustrious master you have found the way, you place the upturned chalice on its base. You fill with light the sayings dark of old, you open-blinded eyes to see the truth. At length they thought of those poor hearts at home, mother and sister watching through the night, waiting and watching through the live-long day, startled at every step at every sound, startled at every beer that came in view, in that great city of the stranger dead, that city where the living came to die, and home returned when evenings rose and gold had faded from the sky, and myriad lamps danced on the sacred stream, and moon and stars hung quivering in its dark and silent depths. But day by day returned, eager to hear more of that truth that sweetens daily life, yet reaches upward to eternal day. A marriage-feast, three festivals in one, stares to its depths benar a social life, a gorgeous sunset ushers in the night, sunset and city mirrored in the stream. Broad marble steps upon the river bank lead to a garden where a blaze of bloom, a hedge of rose-trees forms the outer wall, an aged banyan tree whose hundred trunks sustain a vaulted roof of living green, which scarce array of noonday sun can pierce, the garden's vestibule and outer court, while trees of every varied leaf and bloom shade many winding walks where fountains fall with liquid cadence into shining pools, above beyond the stately palace stands inviting in, calling to peace and rest, as if a sole dwelt in its marble form. The darkness thickens when a flood of light fills every recess lighting every nook, the garden hedge a wall of mellow light, a line of lamps along the river's bank, with lamps in every tree and lining every walk, while lamps thick-sets around each shining pool, weaving with rainbow tints the falling spray, and now the palace through the darkness shines, a thing of beauty traced with lines of light. The guests arrive in light and graceful boats, in gay gondolas such as Venice used, with richest carpets, richest canopies, and overwalks with rose-leaves carpeted past to the palace whose wide open gates display within Benares rank and wealth. Proud Brahmin lords and stately Brahmin dames, and Brahmin youth and beauty all were there, of Aryan blood but bronzed by India's sun, not dressed like us as very fashion plates, but clothed in flowing robes of softest wool, and finest silk, a harmony of shades, sparkling with gems ablaze with precious stones.  The cares of home, with all its daily joys, had gained that look of holy motherhood, that millions worship on their bended knees as highest emblem of eternal love, and last that sister whose untiring love watched by her mother through the weary hours, her fair young face all trust and happiness. Before her rainbow-tinted hopes and joys, life's dark and cold and cruel side concealed, and by her side a noble Brahmin youth who sought in her his every hope fulfilled. But where is now that earring, wandering son, the pride of all those loyal loving hearts, heir to this wealth and hope of this proud house? Seven clothed in coarsest yellow robes draw near, with heads close shorn and bare, unsandled feet, arms bowled on shoulder slung and staff in hand, but moving with that gentle statelyness, that birth and blood not wealth and effort give, all in the strength of manhand's early prime all heirs to wealth rejected cast aside, but all united in the holy cause of giving light and hope and help to all, while earnest greetings from the evening's hosts show their welcome and expected guests. Startled the stately Brahmin's turn aside, the heir has lost his reason, whispered they, and joined that wandering prince who later peered among the yogis in the sacred grave, who thinks he sees the truth by inner sight, who feign would teach the wise and claims to know more than the fathers and the vaders teach, but as he nearer came his stately form, his noble presence, and his earnest face, beaming with gentleness and holy love, hushed into silence every rising sneer. One of their number, wise in sacred law, profoundly learned, in all the vaders versed, with courtly grace saluting Buddha said, Our Brahmin masters teach that many ways lead up to Brahma-loka, Brahma's rest, as many roads from many distant lands all meet before Benara's sacred shrines. They say that he who learns the vaders' hymns performs the rites and prays the many prayers, that all the sages of the past have taught, in Brahma's self shall be absorbed at last. As all the streams from mountain, hill, and plain, that swell proud gunja's broad and sacred stream, at last shall mingle with the ocean's waves, they say that Brahmins are a holy cast of whiter skin and higher purer blood, from Brahma's sprung and Brahma's only heirs, while you proclaim, if rumour speaks the truth, that only one hard road to Brahma leads, that every cast is pure of common blood, that all our brothers, all from Brahma's sprung. But Buddha, full of gentleness, replied, You call on Diyas-pitta, Brahma God, one God and Father, called by many names, one God and Father seen in many forms, seen in the tempest, mingling sea and sky, the blinding sandstorm changing day to night, in gentle showers refreshing thirsty fields, seen in the sun whose rising wakes the world, whose setting calls a weary world to rest, seen in the depot reaching as your vault, by day a sea of light shining by night, with countless suns of countless worlds unseen, making us seem so little, God so great. You say that Brahma dwells in purest light, you say that Brahma's self is perfect love, you pray to Brahma under many names to give you Brahma-loka's perfect rest, your prayers are vain unless your hearts are clean, for how can darkness dwell with perfect light, and how could hatred dwell with perfect love, the slandering tongue that stirs up strife and hate, the grasping hand that ticks but never gives, the lying lips, the cold and cruel heart, whence bitterness and wars and murders spring, can ne'er by prayers to Brahma-loka climb, the pure in heart alone with Brahma dwell.  But yet in Bactria whence our fathers came, and where their brothers and our kindred dwell, no Brahma ever wore the sacred cord. Has mighty Brahma there no sun, no air? The Brahma's mother suffers all the pangs to try a sudris or the vassus feel. The Brahma's body, when the soul has fled, a putrid mass defiles the earth and air, vile as the sudris or the lowest beasts, the Brahma's murderer, libertine or thief, you say will be reborn in lowest beast, while some poor sudra, full of gentleness and pity, charity and trust and love, may rise to Brahma-loka's perfect rest, why boast of castes that seem so little worth to raise the soul or ward off human ill? Why pray for what we do not strive to gain, like merchants on the swollen Ganji's bank, praying the further sure to come to them, taking no steps, seeking no means to cross? Far better strive to cast out greed and hate, live not for self but live for others good. No bitter speech, no bitter thoughts, help those in need give freely what we have. Kill not, steal not, and ever speak the truth, indulge no lust, taste not the maddening bowl that deadens senses and stirs all base desires, and live in charity and gentle peace, bearing all meekly loving those who hate. This is the way to Brahma-loka's rest, and ye who may come follow after me. Leave wealth and home and all the joys of life that we may aid a sad and suffering world, in sin and sorrow groping blindly on, becoming poor that others may be rich, wanderers ourselves to lead the wanderers home. And ye who stay ever remember this, that hearth is Brahma's altar where love reigns, that house is Brahma's temple where love dwells, ye ask my aged friends if death can break the bonds that binds your soul in wedded love. Fear not, death has no power to conquer love. Go hand in hand till death shall claim his own, then hand in hand ascend Nirvana's heights, there, hand in hand, heart beating close to heart, enter that life whose joys shall never end, perennial youth succeeding palsied age, mansions of bliss for this poor house of clay, labours of love instead of toll and tears. He spoke, and many to each other said, Why hear this babble arraile at sacred things? Our caste, our faith, our prayers, and sacred hymns, and strode away in proud and sovereign scorn, while some with gladness heard his solemn words all soon forgotten in the giddy world of daily business, daily joys and cares. But some drank in his words with eager ears, and asked him many questions, lingering long, and often sought him in the sacred grave to hear his burning words of living truth. And day by day some noble Brahmin youth foresook his well, foresook his home and friends, and took the yellow robe and begging-bowl to ask for arms where all had given him place. Meeting with gentleness the rabble's jibes, meeting with smiles the Brahmin's haughty scorn. Day by day this school of prophets grew beneath the banyan's columned vaulted shade, all earnest learners at the master's feet, until the city's busy bustling throng had come to recognize the yellow robe, the poor to know its wearer as a friend, the sick in suffering as a comforter. While to the dying pilgrim's glazing eyes he seemed a messenger from higher worlds, come down to raise his sinking spirit up, and guide his trembling steps to realms of rest. A year has passed, and of this growing band, sixty are rooted, grounded in the faith, willing to do what ere the master bids, ready to go where the master sends, eager to join returning pilgrim bands and bear the truth to India's farthest bounds. With joy the master saw their burning zeal, so free from selfishness, so full of love, and thought of all those blindly groping souls to whom those messengers would bear the light. Go, said the master, each a different way, go teach the common brotherhood of man. Preach dharma, preach the law of perfect love, one law for high and low, for rich and poor. Teach all to shun the cudgel and the sword, and treat with kindness every living thing. Teach them to shun all theft and craft and greed, all bitter thoughts and false and slanderous speech that serve as friends and stirs up strife and hate. Revere your own, revile no brother's faith. The light you see is from Nirvana's son, whose rising splendours promise perfect day. The feeble rays that light your brother's path are from the self-same son, by falsehood's hid, the lingering shadows of the passing night. Make none with ignorance, but teach the truth gently as mothers guide their infant steps, lest your rude manners drive them from the way that leads to purity and peace and rest. As some rude swaying in some sequestered veil, who thinks the visual line that girts him round the world's extreme would meet with steady blows, one rudely charging him with ignorance, yet gently led to some commanding height, whence he could see the Himalayan peaks, the rolling hills and India's spreading plains, with joyful wonder views the glorious scene. It was not to break the idols of the past, be guides and leaders not iconoclasts, their broken idols shock their worshippers, but led to light they soon forgotten lie. One of their number, young and strong and brave, a merchant ere he took the yellow robe, had crossed the frozen Himalayan heights, and found a race alien in tongue and blood, gentle as children in their daily lives, untaught as children in all sacred things, living in wagons wandering over the steppes, to-day all shepherds tending countless flocks, to-morrow warriors cruel as the grave.  He yearned to seek these children of the wilds, and teach them peace and gentleness and love.  Perna replied with gentleness and love. But said the master they may beat and wound.  But with slow torches they may even kill. I, with my latest breath, will bless their names, so soon to free me from this prison-house, and send me joyful to the other shore. Then said the master, Perna it is well, armed with such patience, seek these savage tribes, thyself delivered free from karmish chains, these souls enslaved, thyself consoled, console these restless children of the desert wastes, thyself this peaceful haven having reached, guide these poor wanderers to the other shore. With many councils, many words of cheer, he on their mission sent his brethren forth, armed with a prophet zeal, a brother's love, a martyr's courage, and the Christian's hope, that when life's duties end its trials end, and higher life awaits those faithful found. The days pass on, and now the rising sun looks down on bands of pilgrims homeward bound, some moving north, some south, some east, some west, toward every part of India's vast expanse, one clothed in orange robes with every band to guide their kindred on the upward road. But Perna joined the merchants he had led, not moved by thirst for gain but love for man, to seek the tata on his native steps. Meanwhile, the master with diminished band crossing the Ganges backward wends his way, towards Rajagriha and the Vulture Peak where he had spent so many weary years, whether he bade the brothers gather in, when summer's reigns should bring the time for rest. End of book seven . . . . . . .