CHAPTER 14 MEDITATION 1. Indian religions lay stress on meditation. It is not merely commended as a useful exercise, but by common consent it takes rank with sacrifice and prayer, or above them, as one of the great activities of the religious life, or even as its only true activity. It has the full approval of philosophy, as well as of theology. In early Buddhism, it takes the place of prayer and worship, and though in later times ceremonies multiply, it still remains the main occupation of a monk. The Jains differ from the Buddhists, chiefly in emphasizing the importance of self-mortification, which is put on a par with meditation. In Hinduism, as might be expected, in a fluctuating compound of superstition and philosophy, the schools differ as to the relative efficacy of meditation and ceremonial, but there is a strong tendency to give meditation the higher place. In all ages, a common characteristic appears in the most divergent Indian creeds, the belief that by a course of mental and physical training the soul can attain to a state of bliss, which is the prelude to the final deliverance attained after death. We may begin by examining Brahminic ideas as to meditation. Many of them are connected with the word yoga, which has become familiar to Europe. It has two meanings. It is applied first to a definite form of Indian philosophy, which is a theistic modification of the Sankhya, and secondly, to much older practices, sanctioned by that philosophy, but anterior to it. The idea which inspires these theories and practices is that the immaterial soul can, by various exercises, free itself from the fetters of matter. The soul is distinguished from the mind which, though composed of the subtlest matter, is still material. This presupposes the duality of matter and spirit taught by Jainism and the Sankhya philosophy. But it does not necessarily presuppose the special doctrines of either, nor do Vedanists object to the practice of the yoga. The systematic prosecution of mental concentration, and the idea that supernatural powers can be acquired thereby are very old, certainly older than Buddhism. Such methods had at first only a slight philosophic substratum, and were independent of Sankhya doctrines. Though these being a speculative elaboration of the same fundamental principles naturally commended themselves to those who practiced yoga. The two teachers of the Buddha, Allara and Udaka, were yogis, and held that beatitude or emancipation consisted in the attainment of certain transas. Gotama, while regarding their doctrine as insufficient, did not reject their practices. Our present yoga sutras are certainly much later than this state. They are ascribed to one Pantanjali, identified by Hindu tradition with the author of the Mahabhyashya who lived about 150 BC. Jacoby, however, is of opinion that they are the work of an entirely different person, who lived after the rise of the philosophy ascribed to Asana, sometimes called Yogachara. Jacoby's arguments seem to me suggestive, rather than conclusive. But if they are confirmed, they lead to an interesting deduction. There was some reason for thinking that Sankhara's doctrine of illusion was derived from the Buddhist Sanyavada. If Pantanjali sutras are posterior to Asana, it also seems probable that the codification of the yoga by the Brahmins was connected with the rise of the Yogachara among the Buddhists. The sutras describe themselves as an exposition of yoga, which has here the meaning of not of union with God, but rather of effort. The opening aphorisms state that yoga is the suppression of the activities of the mind, for then the spectator abides in his own form. At other times there is identity of form with the activities. This dark language means that the soul, in its true nature, is merely the spectator of the mind's activity, consciousness being due, as in the Sankhya, to the union of the soul with the mind which is its organ. When the mind is active, the soul appears to experience various emotions, and it is only when the mind seizes to feel emotions and becomes calm in meditation that the soul abides in its own true form. The object of the yoga, as of the Sankhya, is kaivalya or isolation in which the soul seizes to be united with the mind and is dissociated from all qualities, gunas, so that the shadow of the thinking principle no longer falls upon it. This isolation is produced by performing certain exercises, physical as well as mental, and, as a prelude to final and complete emancipation, superhuman powers are required. These two ideas, the efficacy of physical discipline and the acquisition of superhuman powers, have powerfully affected all schools of religious thought in India, including Buddhism. They are not peculiar to the yoga, but still it is in the yoga sutras that they find their most authoritative and methodical exposition. The practice of yoga has its roots in the fact that fasting and other physical mortifications induce a mental state in which the subject thinks that he has supernatural experiences. Among many savage tribes, especially in America, such fasts are practiced by those who desire communication with spirits. In the yoga philosophy, these ideas appear in a refined form and are for many parallels to European mysticism. The ultimate object is to dissociate the soul from its material envelopes, but in the means prescribed we can trace two orders of ideas. One is to mortify the body and suppress not only appetite and passion, but also discursive thought. The other is to keep the body in perfect health and ease, so that the intelligence and ultimately the soul may be untroubled by physical influences. These two ideas are less incongruous than they seem. Many examples show that extreme forms of asceticism are not unhealthy, but rather conducive to long life, and the yoga, in endeavoring to secure physical well-being, does not aim at pleasure, but at such a purification of the physical part of man that it shall be the obedient and unnoticed servant of the other parts. The branch of this system which deals with method and discipline is called Kriya Yoga, and in later works we also find the expression Hatha Yoga, which is specially used to designate mechanical means, such as postures, purification, etc., prescribed for the attainment of various mental states. In contrast to it is Raja Yoga, which signifies ecstasy and the method of obtaining it by mental processes. The immediate object of the Kriya Yoga is to destroy the five evils, namely ignorance, egoism, desire, aversion, and love of life. It consists of asceticism, recitations, and resignation to God, explained as meaning that the devotee fasts, repeats mantras, and surrenders to God the fruit of all his works and, feeling no more concern for them, is at peace, though the Yoga Sutras are theistic. Theism is accessory, rather than essential to their teaching. They are not a theological treatise, but the manual of an ancient discipline which recognizes the devotional feelings as one means to its end. The method would remain almost intact if the part relating to the deity were omitted, as in the Sankhya. God is not for the Yoga Sutras, as he is for many Indian and European mystics. The one reality, the wence and wither of the soul and world. Eight branches of practice are enumerated, namely, one, Yama or restraint, that is abstinence from killing, glying, stealing, incontinence, and from receiving gifts. It is almost equivalent to the five great precepts of Buddhism, two, Niyama or observance, defined as purification, contentment, mortification, recitation, and devotion to the Lord. Purification is treated at great length in the later treatises on Hatha Yoga under the name of Shatkarma, or sixfold work. It comprises not only ordinary ablutions, but cleansing of the internal organs, by such methods as taking in water by the nostrils and discharging it by the mouth. The object of these practices, which, though they assume queer forms, rest on sound therapeutic principles, is to remove adventitious matter from the system and to reduce the gross elements of the body. Three, asanam or posture is defined as a continuous and pleasant attitude. It is difficult to see how the latter objective applies to many of the postures recommended, for considerable training is necessary to make them even tolerable. But the object clearly is to prescribe an attitude which can be maintained continuously without creating the distracting feeling of physical discomfort, and in this matter, European and Oriental limbs feel differently. All the postures contemplated are different ways of sitting cross-legged. Later works revel in enumerations of them, and also recognize others called mudra. This word especially applied to a gesture of the hand, but is sometimes used in a less restricted sense. Thus, there is a celebrated mudra called khichari, in which the tongue is reversed and pressed into the throat, while the sight is directed to a point between the eyebrows. This is said to induce the catalytic trance in which yogis can be buried alive. Four, pranayama, a regulation of the breath. When the yogi has learnt to assume a permanent posture, he accosts himself to regulate the acts of inspiration and expiration so as to prolong the period of quiescence between the two. He will thus remove the veils which cover the light within him. This practice probably depends on the idea which constantly crops up in the Upanishads, that the breath is the life and the soul. Consequently, he who can control and hold his breath keeps his soul at home and is better able to concentrate his mind. Apart from such ideas, the fixing of the attention on the rhythmical succession of inspirations and expirations conduces to that peaceful and detached frame of mind on which most Indian sects set great store. The practice was greatly esteemed by the Brahmins, and is also enjoyed by the Taoists in China and among Buddhists in all countries, but I have found no mention of its use among European mystics. Five. Pratyahara, the retraction or withdrawing of the senses. They are naturally directed outwards toward their objects. The yogi endeavors to bring them into quiescence by diverting them from those objects and directing them inwards. From this, say the sutras, comes complete subjugation of the senses. Now comes the intellectual part of the process, consisting of three stages, called dharanya, dhyana, and samadhi. Dharanya means fixing the mind on a particular object, either a part of the body such as the crown of the head or something external such as the sky. Dhyana is the continuous intellectual state arising out of this concentration. It is defined as an even current of thought, undisturbed by other thoughts. Samadhi is a further stage of dhyana in which the mind becomes so identified with the thing thought of that consciousness of its separate existence seizes. The thinking power is merged in the single thought and ultimately a state of trance is induced. Several stages are distinguished in this samadhi. It is divided into conscious and unconscious, and of the conscious kind there are four grades, analogous though not entirely corresponding to the four jhanas of Buddhism. When the feeling of joy passes away and is lost in a higher sense of equanimity, there comes the state known by the remarkable name of dharma-mega, in which the isolation of the soul and its absolute distinctness from matter, which includes what we call mind, is realized and karma is no more. After the state of dharma-mega comes the unconscious samadhi in which the yogi falls into a trance and detains emancipation which is made permanent by death. The methods of the kriya yoga can be employed for the attainment not only of salvation but of miraculous powers. The subject is discussed in the third book of the yoga sutras, where it is said that such powers are obstructions in the contemplative and spiritual life, though they may lead to success in waking or worldly life. This is the same point of view as we meet in Buddhism, that is to say that though the miraculous powers resulting from meditation are real, they are not essential to salvation and may become dangerous hindrances. They are attained, according to the yoga sutras, by the exercise of samyama, which is the name given conjointly to the three states of dharanya, dhyana, and samadhi, when they are applied simultaneously or in immediate succession to one object of thought. The reader will remember that this state of contemplation is to be preceded by prachahara, or direction of the senses inwards, in which ordinary external stimuli are not felt. It is analogous to the hypnotic state in which suggestions made by the hypnotizer have for the subject the character of reality, although he is not conscious of his surroundings or auto-suggestions, that is, the expectations with which the yogi begins his meditation apparently have the same effect. The trained yogi is able to exercise samyama with regard to any idea, that is to say his mind becomes identified with that idea to the exclusion of all others. Sometimes this samyama implies simply a thorough comprehension of the object of meditation. Thus by making samyama on the samskaras or predispositions existing in the mind, a knowledge of one's previous births is obtained. By making samyama on sound, the language of animals is understood. But in other cases a result is considered to be obtained because the yogi in his trance thinks it is obtained. Thus if samyama is made on the throat, hunger and thirst are subdued. If on the strength of an elephant that strength is obtained. If on the sun the knowledge of all worlds is acquired. Other miraculous attainments are such that they should be visible to others, but are probably explicable as subjective fancies. Such are the powers of becoming heavy or light, infinitely large, or infinitely small, and of emitting flames. This last phenomenon is perhaps akin to the luminous visions called FOTISMS by psychologists, which not infrequently accompany conversion and other religious experiences and take the form of flashes or rays proceeding from material objects. The yogi can even become many persons instead of one, by calling into existence other bodies by an effort of his will, and animating them all by his own mind. Europeans are unfavorably impressed by the fact that the yoga devotes much time to the cultivation of hypnotic states of doubtful value, both for morality and sanity. But the meditation which it teaches is also akin to aesthetic contemplation, when the mind forgets itself, and is conscious only of the beauty of what is contemplated. Schopenhauer has well expressed the Indian idea in European language. When some sudden cause or inward disposition lifts us out of the endless stream of willing, the attention is no longer directed to the motives of willing, but comprehends things free from their relation to the will, and thus observes them, without subjectivity, purely objectively, gives itself entirely up to them so far as they are ideas, but not insofar as they are motives. Then all at once the peace which we are always seeking, but which always fled from us on the former path of the desires, comes to us of its own accord, and it is well with us. And though the yoga sutras represent superhuman faculties, as depending chiefly on the hypnotic condition of Samyama, they also say that they are obtainable, at any rate such of them as consistent superhuman knowledge, by Pratibha or illumination. By this term is meant a state of enlightenment, which suddenly floods the mind prepared by the yoga discipline. It precedes emancipation as the morning star precedes the dawn. When this light has once come, the yogi possesses all knowledge without the process of Samyama. It may be compared to the Dibha Kaku or divine eye and the knowledge of the truths, which according to Pitakas precede arhatship. Similar instances of sudden intellectual enlightenment are recorded in the experience of mystics in other countries. We may compare the haplosis or ecstasis of Plutinus, or the visions of St. Teresa or St. Ignatius, in which such mysteries as the Trinity became clear, as well as the raptures in which various Christian mystics experienced the feeling of levitation and thought that they were being literally carried off their feet. The practices and theories which are systemized in the yoga sutras are known to the Upanishads, particularly those of the Atharva Veda, but even the earlier Upanishads allude to the special physical and mental discipline necessary to produce concentration of mind. The Metruyana Upanishad says that the sixfold yoga consists of restraint of the breath, restraint of the senses, meditation, fixed attention, investigation, absorption. The Svesta Vatara Upanishad speaks of the proper places and postures for meditation, and the Chandogya of concentrating all the senses on the self, a process which is much the same as the Pratyahara of the yoga. A later and mysterious but most important method of yoga is known to the Tantras as Shat Chakra Veda, or piercing of the six chakras. These are dynamic or nervous centers distributed through the human body, from the base of the spinal cord to the eyebrows. In the lowest of them resides the Devi Kundalini, a force identical with Sakthi, who is the mode of power of the universe. In ordinary conditions this Kundalini is pictured as lying asleep and coiled like a serpent, but appropriate exercises cause her to awake and ascend until she reaches the highest chakra when she unites with Shiva. An ineffable bliss and emancipation are attained. The process, which is said to be painful and even dangerous to health, is admittedly unintelligible without oral instruction from a guru, and as I have not had this advantage, I will say no more on the topic except this, that strange and fanciful as the description of Shat Chakra Veda may seem, they can hardly be pure inventions, but must have a real counterpart in nervous phenomena which apparently have not been studied by European physiologists or psychologists. 2. When we turn to the treatment of meditation and ecstasy in the earlier Buddhist writings, we are struck by its general resemblance to the program laid down in the Yoga Sutras, and by many coincidences of detail. The exercises, rules of conduct, and the powers to be incidentally obtained are all similar. The final goal of both systems also seems similar to the outsider, although a Buddhist and a Yogi might have much to say about the differences, for the Yoga wishes to isolate a soul which is complete and happy in its own nature if it can be disentangled from its trammels, whereas Buddhism teaches that there is no such soul awaiting release and that religious discipline should create and foster good mental states. Just as the atmosphere of the patakas is not that of the Brahmanas or sutras, so are their ideas about Jhana and Samhati somewhat different. Though hypnotic and even cataleptic phases are not wanting, the journey of the religious life as described in the patakas is a progress of increasing peace, but also of increasing intellectual power and activity. Gotama did not hold Jhana or regulated meditation to be essential to nirvana or arhatship, for that state was attainable by laymen and apparently through sudden illumination. But such cases were the exception. His own mental evolution which culminated in enlightenment comprised the four Jhanas. Also in the eightfold path, which is essential to arhatship and nirvana, the last and highest stage is samasamati, right rapture or ecstasy. Jhana is difficult for laymen, but it was the rule of the order to devote at least the afternoon to it. We might compare this with the solitary prayer of Christians, and there is real similarity in the process and the result. It brought peace and strength to the mind, and we hear of the bright clear faces and the radiantly happy expression of those who return to their duties after such contemplation. But Christian prayer involves the idea of self-surrender and throwing open the doors and windows of the soul to an influence which streams into it. Buddhist meditation is rather the upsoring of the mind which rises from ecstasy to ecstasy, until it attains not some sphere where it can live in bliss, but a state in which is in itself satisfying and all comprising. All mental states to which such names as ecstasy, trance, and vision can be applied involve a dangerous element, which, if not actually pathological, can easily become so. But the account of meditation put in the Buddha's own mouth does not suggest either morbid dejection or hysterical excitement, and it is stated expressly that the exercise should be begun after the midday meal, so that any visions which may come cannot be laid to the charge of an empty stomach. Jhana is not the same as Samadhi or concentration, though the jhanas may be an instance of Samadhi. This latter is capable of marvelous extension and development, but essentially it is a mental quality, like samasati, or right mindfulness, whereas jhana is a mental exercise or progressive rapture passing through to find stages. Any system which analyzes and tabulates stages of contemplation and ecstasy may be suspected of being late, and of having lost something of the glow and impetus which its cold formulae try to explain. But the impulse to catalog is old in Buddhism, and one important distinction in the various mental states lumped together under the name of meditation deserves attention, namely that according to the oldest documents, some of them are indispensable preliminaries to nirvana and some are not. Buddha-Gosa, reviewing the whole matter in scholastic fashion in his way of purity, divides the higher life into three sections. Firstly, conduct or morality as necessary foundation. Secondly, attisitta, higher consciousness or concentration which leads to samadho or peace. And thirdly, adipanya or the higher wisdom which leads to vipassanya or insight. Of these, adipanya and vipassanya are superior in as much as nirvana cannot be obtained without them. But the methods of attisitta, though admirable and followed by the Buddha himself, are not equally indispensable. They lead to peace and happiness, but not necessarily to nirvana. It is probably unwise, at any rate for Europeans, to make two precise statements, for we do not really know the nature of the physical states discussed. Adipanya assuredly includes the eightfold path ending with samadhi, which is defined by the Buddha himself in this connection in terms of the four jhanas. On the other hand, the doctrine that nirvana is attainable merely by practicing the jhanas is expressly reprobated as heresy. The teaching of the patakas seems to be that nirvana is attainable by living the higher life in which meditation and insight both have a place. In normal saints, both sides are developed. Raptures and trances are their delight and luxury, but in some cases nirvana may be obtained by insight only. In others, meditation may lead to ecstasy and more than human powers of mind, but yet stop short of nirvana. The distinction is not without importance, for it means that knowledge and insight are indispensable for nirvana. It cannot be obtained by hypnotic trances or magical powers. The Buddha is represented as saying that in his boyhood, when sitting under a tree, he once fell into a state of contemplation, which he calls the first jhana. It is akin to sensation which comes to Europeans most frequently in childhood, but sometimes persists in mature life when the mind, usually under the influence of pleasant summer scenery, seems to identify itself with nature and on returning to its normal state asks with surprise. Can it be that what seems a small distant personality is really I? The usual form of jhana comprises four stages. The first is a state of joy and ease born of detachment, which means physical calm, as well as the absence of worldly desires and irrelevant thoughts. It is distinguished from the subsequent stages by the existence of reasoning and investigation, and while it lasts, the mind is compared to water agitated by waves. In the second jhana, reasoning and investigation cease, the water becomes still and the mind set free, rises slowly above the thoughts which had encumbered it, and grows calm and sure, dwelling on high. In this jhana, the sense of joy and ease remains, but in the third stage joy disappears, though ease remains. This case, sukham, is the opposite of dukkham, the discomfort which characterizes all ordinary states of existence. It is in part a physical feeling, for the text says that he who meditates has this sense of ease in his body, but this feeling passes away in the fourth jhana, in which there is only a sense of equanimity. This word, though perhaps the best rendering which can be found for the Pali upikha, is inadequate, for it suggests merely the absence of inclination, whereas upikha represents a state of mind which, though rising above hedonistic views, is yet positive, and not merely the negation of interest and desire. In the passage quoted, the Buddha speaks as if only an effort of will were needed to enter into the first jhana, but tradition, supported by the patakas, sanction the use of expedience to facilitate the process. Some are topics on which attention should be concentrated, others are external objects known as kasina. This word, equivalent to the Sanskrit kritsna, means entire, or total, and hence something which engrosses the attention. Thus, as the procedure known as the earth kasina, the bhiku, who wishes to enter into the jhana, makes a small circle of reddish clay and then gazes at it fixedly. After a time he can see it as plainly when his eyes are closed as when they are open. This is followed by entry into jhana, and he should not continue looking at the circle. There are ten kinds of kasina differing from that described, merely in substituting for the earthen circle of some other object, such as water, light, gold, or silver. The whole procedure is clearly a means of inducing a hypnotic trance. The practice of tranquilizing the mind by regulating the breathing is recommended repeatedly in suttas which seem ancient and authentic, for instance, in the instruction given by the Buddha to his son Rahula. On the other hand, his account of his fruitless self-mortification shows that the exercise even in its extreme forms is not sufficient to secure enlightenment. It appears to be a method of collecting and concentrating the mind not necessarily hypnotic. All Indian precepts and directions for mental training attach far more importance to concentration of thought and the power of applying the mind at will to one subject exclusively than is usual in Europe. Buddha-Gosa at the beginning of his discussion of Adesita enumerates 40 subjects of meditation, namely the ten kasinas, ten impurities, ten reflections, four sublime states, Ramavihara, the four formless states, one perception, and one analysis. The kasinas have been already described. The ten impurities are a similar means of inducing meditation. The monk fixes his attention on a corpse in some horrible stage of decay, and thus concentrates his mind on the impermanence of all things. The ten recollections are a less gloomy exercise, but similar in principle, as the attention is fixed on some religious subject such as the Buddha, his law, his order, etc. The Brahma-Vaharas are states of emotional meditation which lead to rebirth in the heavens of Brahma. They are attained by letting love or some other good emotion dominate the mind, and by pervading the whole world with it. This language about pervading the world with kindly emotion is common in Buddhist books, though alien to European idiom. The mind must harbor no uncharitable thought, and then its benevolence becomes a psychic force which spreads in all directions, just as the sound of a trumpet can be heard in all four quarters. These Brahma-Vaharas are sometimes represented as coming after the four jhanas, sometimes as replacing them. But the object of the two exercises is not the same, for the Brahma-Vaharas aim at rebirth in a better world. They are based on the theory common to Buddhism and Hinduism, that the predominant thoughts of a man's life, and especially his thoughts when near death, determine the character of his next existence. The trances, known as the four formalist states, are analogous to the Brahma-Vaharas, their object being to ensure rebirth not in the heaven of Brahma, but in one of the heavens known as formless worlds, where the inhabitants have no material form. They are sometimes combined with other states into a series of eight, known as the Eight Deliverances. The more advanced of these stages seem to be hypnotic and even cataleptic. In the first formalist state, the monk who is meditating rises above all idea of form and multiplicity, and reaches the sphere in which the infinity of space is the only idea present to his mind. He then passes to the sphere where the infinity of thought only is present, and thence to the sphere in which he thinks nothing at all exists, though it would seem that the consciousness of his own mental process is undiminished. The teaching of Alarakalama, the Buddhist first teacher, made the attainment of this state its goal. It is succeeded by the state in which neither any idea nor the absence of any idea is specially present to the mind. This was the goal of Udaka Ramaputa, his second teacher, and is illustrated by the simile of a bowl which has been smeared with oil inside. That is to say, consciousness is reduced to a minimum. Beyond these four stages is yet another, in which a complete cessation of perception and feeling is attained. This state differs from death only in the fact that heat and physical life are not extinct, and while it lasts, there is no consciousness. It is stated that it could continue during seven days, but not longer. Such hypnotic trances have always inspired respect in India, but the Buddha rejected as unsatisfying the teaching of his masters, which made them the final goal. But let us return to his account of Jhana and its results. The first of these is a correct knowledge of the body and of the connection of consciousness within the body. Next comes the power to call up out of the body a mental image which is apparently the earliest form of what has become known in later times as the astral body. In the account of the conversion of Angulimala, the Brigand, it is related that the Buddha caused to appear an image of himself which Angulimala could not overtake, although he ran with all his might and the Buddha was walking quietly. The five states or faculties which follow in the enumeration are often called, though not in the earliest texts, Abhina or transcendental knowledge. They are iti or the wondrous gift, the heavenly ear which hears heavenly music, the knowledge of others' thoughts, the power of remembering one's own previous births, the divine eye which sees the previous births of others. It would appear that the order of these states is not important and that they do not depend on one another. Iti, like the power of evoking a mental image, seems to be connected with hypnotic phenomena. It means, literally, power, but is used in the special sense of magical or supernatural gifts, such as ability to walk on water, fly in the air, or pass through a wall. Some of these sensations are familiar in dreams and are probably easily attainable as subjective results in trances. I am inclined to attribute accounts implying their objective reality to the practice of hypnotism and to suppose that a disciple in a hypnotic state would on the assurance of his teacher believe that he saw the teacher himself or some person pointed out by the teacher, actually performing such feats. Of iti we are told that a monk can practice it, just as a potter can make anything he likes out of prepared clay, which is a way of saying that he who has his mind perfectly controlled can treat himself to any mental pleasure he chooses. Although the Buddha and others are represented as performing such feats as floating in the air whenever it suits them, yet the instruction given as to how the powers may be acquired starts by bidding the neophyte pass through the four stages of jhana or meditation in which ordinary external perception seizes. Then you will be able to have the experiences described. And it is probable that the description gives a correct account of the sensations which arise in the course of a trance, particularly if the trance has been entered upon with the object of experiencing them. In other words, they are hypnotic states, and often the result of suggestion, since he who meditates knows what the result of his meditation should be. Sometimes, as mentioned, jhana is inducted by methods familiar to mesmerists, such as gazing at a circle or some bright object. But such expedience are not essential. And with this European authorities agree. Thus, Bernheim states that even when a subject is hypnotized for the first time, no gestures or passes are necessary provided he is calm. It suffices to bid him look at the operator and go to sleep. He adds that those who are most susceptible to the hypnotic influence are not nervous and hysterical subjects, but docile and receptive natures who can concentrate their attention. Now it is hardly possible to imagine better hypnotic subjects than the pupils of an Indian religious teacher. They are taught to regard him with deep respect and complete confidence. They are continually in a state of expectant receptivity, assimilating not only the texts and doctrines which he imparts, but his way of life. Their training leads them to believe in the reality of mental and physical powers exceeding those of ordinary mankind and intend to think that if they do not have such experiences, it is through some fault of their own. The teachers, though ignorant of hypnotism as such, would not hesitate to use any procedure which seemed to favor progress in meditation and the acquisition of supernatural powers. Now a large number of Indian marvels fall under two heads. In the first case, Buddha, Krishna, or any personage raised above the ordinary human level, points out to his disciples that wonders are occurring or will occur. He causes people to appear or disappear. He appears himself in an amazing form which he explains. In the other case, the possessor of marvelous powers has experience which he subsequently relates. He goes up to heaven or flies to the uttermost parts of the earth and returns. Both of these cases are covered by the phenomena of hypnotism. I do not mean to say that any given Indian legend can be explained by analyzing it as if it were a report of a hypnotic operation, but merely that the general character of these legends is largely due to the prevalence of hypnotic experiences among their composers and hearers. Two obscure branches of hypnotism are probably of great importance in the religious history of the human race, namely self-hypnotization without external suggestions and the hypnotization of crowds. India affords plentiful materials for the study of both. There is no reason to doubt that the Buddha believed in the existence of these powers and countenanced the practices supposed to lead to them. Thus Mogulanya, second only to Sariputa. Among his disciples was called the Master of Eidhi, and it is mentioned as a creditable and enjoyable accomplishment. But it made equally plain that such magical or hypnotic practices are not essential to the attainment of the Buddha's ideal. When lists of attainments are given, Eidhi does not receive the first place, and it may be possessed by bad men. Divadatta, for instance, was proficient in it. It is even denounced in the story of Pandola Bharadvaja and in the Kavada Sutta. In this curious dialogue, the Buddha is asked to authorize the performance of miracles as an advertisement of the true faith. He refuses categorically, saying there are three sorts of wonders, namely Eidhi that is flying through the air, etc., the wonder of manifestation, which is thought-reading, and the wonder of education. Of the first two he says, I see danger in their practice, and therefore I loathe, abhor, and am ashamed of them. Then, by one of those characteristic turns of language, by which he uses old words and new senses, he adds that the true miracle is the education of the heart. Neither are other transcendental powers necessary for emancipation. Sariputta had not the heavenly eye, yet he was the chief disciple and an eminent arhat. This heavenly eye, Dibha Kaku, is not the same as the Eye of Truth, Dhamma Kaku. It means perfect knowledge of the operation of karma, and hence a panoramic view of the universe, whereas the Eye of Truth is a technical phrase for the opening of the eyes, the mental revolution which accompanies conversion. But though transcendental knowledge is not indispensable for attaining nirvana, it is an attribute of the Buddha, and in most of its forms amounts to an exceptional insight into human nature and the laws of the universe which, though after the Indian manner exaggerated and pedantically defined, does not differ essentially from what we call genius. The power of recollecting one's previous births, often mentioned in the Patakas, has been described in detail by Buddhist writers, and Buddha-Gosa distinguishes between the powers possessed by various persons. The lowest forms of recollection merely passes from one mental state to a previous mental state, and so on backwards through successive lives, not however understanding each life as a whole. But even ordinary disciples can not only recollect previous mental states but can also travel backwards along the sequence of births and deaths and bring up before their minds the succession of existences. A Buddha's intelligence dispenses with the necessity of moving backwards from birth to birth, but can select any point of time and see at once the whole series of births, extending from it in both directions backwards and forwards. Buddha-Gosa then goes on to prescribe the method to be followed by a monk who tries for the first time to recollect previous births. After taking his midday meal he should choose a quiet place and, sitting down, pass through the four jhanas in succession. On rising from the fourth trance he should consider the event which last took place, namely his sitting down. And then in retrograde, order all that he did the day and night before and so backwards month after month and year after year. A clever monk, so says Buddha-Gosa, is able at the first trial to pass beyond the moment of his conception and the present existence and to take as the object of his thought his individuality at the moment of his last death. But since the individuality of the previous existence seized and another one came into being, therefore that point of time is like thick darkness. Buddha-Gosa goes on to explain, if I apprehend his meaning rightly, that the proper recollection of previous births involves the element of form and the mind sharpened by the practice of the four trances, does not merely reproduce the feelings and impressions, but knows the name and events of the previous existence, whereas ordinary persons are apt to reproduce feelings and impressions without having any clear idea of the past existence as a whole. This, I believe, corresponds with the experience of modern Buddhists. It is beyond doubt that those who attempt to carry their memory back in the way described are convinced that they remember existences before the present life. As a rule it takes from a fortnight to a month to obtain such a remembrance clearly, and every day as the aspirant to a knowledge of previous births must carry his memory further and further back, dwelling less and less on the details of recent events. When he reaches the time of his birth, he feels as if there were a curtain of black darkness before him, but if the attention is concentrated, this curtain is rent and the end of the previous life is recovered behind it. The process is painful, for it involves the recollection of death and the even greater pains of birth. Many have not the courage to go beyond this point. It is not uncommon in Ceylon, Burma, Siam, and probably in all parts of the Far East to find people who are persuaded they can remember previous births in this way. But I have never met anyone who professed to recall more than two or three. There is no room in these modest modern visions for the long vistas of previous lives seen by the earlier Buddhists. Meditation also plays a considerable part in the Buddhism of the Far East under the name of Cha'an, or Zen, of which we shall have something to say when we treat of China and Japan. As already indicated, the methods and results of meditation is practiced by Brahmanic Hindus and by Buddhists show considerable resemblance to the experiences of Christian mystics. The coincidences do not concern mere matters of detail, although theology has done its best to make the content and explanation of the experiences as divergent as possible. But the essential similarity of form remains, and there is clearly no question of borrowing or direct influence. It is certain that what is sometimes called the mystic way is not only true as a succession of psychic states, but is, for those who can walk in it, the road to a happiness which, in reality, and power to satisfy, exceeds all pleasures of the senses and intellect, so that, when once known, it makes all other joys and pains seem negligible. Yet, despite the intense reality of this happy state, despite the illumination which floods the soul and the wide visions of a universal plan, there is no agreement as to the cause of the experience, nor strange to stay as to its meaning as opposed to its form. For many, both in the East and West, the one essential and indubitable fact throughout the experience is God, yet Buddhists are equally decided in holding that the experience has nothing to do with any deity. This is not a mere question of interpretation. It means that views as to the theism and pantheism are indifferent for the attainment of this happy state. The mystics of India are sometimes contrasted with their fellows in Europe, as being more passive and more self-centered. They are supposed to desire self-annihilation and to have no thought for others. And I doubt if the contrast is just. If Indian mysticism sometimes appears at a disadvantage, I think it is because it is popular and in danger of being stereotyped and sometimes vulgarized. Nowadays in Europe we have students of mysticism rather than mystics. The mystics of the Christian church were independent and distinguished spirits, who, instead of following the signposts of the beaten track, found out a path for themselves. But in India mysticism was and is as common as prayer and as popular as science. It was taught in manuals and parodied by charlatans. When mysticism is the staple crop of a religion and not a rare wildflower, the percentage of imperfect specimens is bound to be high. The Buddha, Sankara, and a host of less well-known teachers were as strenuous and influential as Francis of Assisi or Ignatius Loyola. Neither in Europe nor in Asia has mysticism contributed much directly to political and social reform. That is not its sphere. But within the religious sphere, in preaching, teaching, and organization, the mystic is intensely practical, and the number of successes, as a failure, is greater in Asia than in Europe. Even in theory Indian mysticism does not repudiate energy. No one enjoyed more than the Buddha himself what Risebrook called the mysterious peace dwelling in activity. For before he began his mission he had attained Nirvana, and such of his disciples as were Arhats were in the same case. Later, Buddhism recognizes a special form of Nirvana called a Pratishthita. Those who attain it see that there is no real difference between mundane existence and Nirvana, and therefore devote themselves to a life of beneficent activity. The period of transition and trial known to European mystics as the Dark Night of the Soul is not mentioned in Indian manuals as an episode of the spiritual life, for such an interruption would hardly harmonize with their curriculum of regular progress towards enlightenment. But mystic poetry testifies that in Asia, as in Europe, this feeling of desertion and loneliness is a frequent experience in the struggles and adventures of the soul. It is apparently not necessary, just as the incidental joys and triumphs of the soul, strains of heavenly music, aerial flights and divisions of the universal scheme, are also not essential. The essential features of the mystic way, as well as its unusual incidents, are common to Asia and Europe and in both continents are expressed in two forms. One view contrasts the surface life and a deeper life, when the intellect seizes to plague and puzzle, something else arises from the depth and makes its unity with some greater force to be felt as a reality. This idea finds ample expression in the many Brahmanic systems which regarded the center and core of the human being as an Atman or Purusha, happy when in the undisturbed peace of its own nature but distracted by the senses and intellect. The other view of mystic experiences regards them as a remaking of character, the evolution of a new personality, and in fact a new birth. This of course need not be a denial of the other view. The emergence of the latent self may affect the transformation of the whole being. But Buddhism, at any rate early Buddhism, formulates its theory in a polemical form. There is no ready-made latent self awaiting manifestation when its fetters and veils are removed. Man's inner life is capable of superhuman extension, but the extension is the result of enlargement and training, not of self-revelation. Mythology in Hinduism and Buddhism 1. The later phases of Buddhism, described as Mahayana, show this feature among many others, that the supernatural and mythological side of religion becomes prominent. Gods or angels play an increasingly important part. The Buddha himself becomes a being superior to all gods and Buddhas. Gods and saints perform it every turn, feats for which miracles seem too modest a name. The object of the present chapter is to trace the early stages of these beliefs, for they are found in the Pali canon, although it is not until later that they overgrow and hide the temple in whose walls they are rooted. 2. It may be fairly said that Buddhism is not a miraculous religion, in the sense that none of its essential doctrines depend on miracles. It would seem that such a religion as Mormonism must collapse if it were admitted that the Book of Mormon is not a revelation delivered to Joseph Smith. But the content of the Buddha's teaching is not miraculous, and though he is alleged to have possessed insight exceeding ordinary human knowledge, yet this is not exactly a miracle, and it is a question whether an unusual intelligence, disciplined by meditation, might not attain to such knowledge. Still though the essence of the doctrine may be detachable from miracles and even be scientific. One cannot read very far in the Vinaya or the Sutta Pathika without coming upon unearthly beings or supernatural occurrences. The credibility of miracles is to my mind simply a question of evidence. Any extraordinary event, such as a person doing a thing totally far into his character, is improbable a priari. But the law does not allow that the best of men is incapable of committing the worst of crimes, if the evidence proves he did. Nor can the most extraordinary violation of nature's laws be pronounced impossible if supported by sufficient evidence. Only the evidence must be strong in proportion to the strangeness of the circumstances. But I cannot see that the uniformity of nature is any objection to the occurrence of miracles, for as a rule a miracle is regarded not as an event without a cause, but as due to a new cause, namely the intervention of a superhuman person. Many of the best known miracles are such that one may imagine this person to effect them by understanding and controlling some unknown natural force, just as we control electricity. Only evidence is required to show that he can do so, but on the other hand the weakness of every religion, which depends on miracles, is that their truth is contested and not unreasonably. If they are true, why are they not certain? Of all the phenomena described as miracles, ghosts, fortune-telling, magic, clairvoyance, prophesying, and so on, none command unchallenged acceptance. In every age, miracles, portents, and apparitions have been recorded, yet none of them with a certainty that carries universal conviction. And in many ages contemporary skepticism was possible. Even in Vedic times there were people who did not believe in the existence of Indra. It is clear that some miracles require more evidence than others, and many old stories are so fantastic that they may justly be put aside, because those who reported them did not see, as we can, what difficulties they involve, and hence felt no need for caution in belief. Among ancient Indians or Hebrews, tales of seven-headed snakes or of stopping the sun did not arouse the critical spirit, for the phenomena did not seem much more extraordinary than centipedes or eclipses. Only those who understand that such stories upset all we know of anatomy and astronomy can realize their improbability, and the weight of evidence necessary to make them credible. The most important distinction in miracles—I use the word as a popular description of extraordinary events which is readily understood, though hard to define—is whether they are in any way subjective. That is to say that they depend in the last resort on an impression produced in certain, but not all, human minds. Or whether they are objective. That is to say that all witnesses would have seen them like any other event. A man rising into the air would be an objective miracle if we were admitted that this levitation was as real as the flight of a bird, and very strong evidence would be necessary to make us believe that such a movement had really been executed. But the case is different if we are dealing with the conviction of an enthusiast, that he rose aloft, or even with the conviction of his disciples, that they, being in ecstasy, saw him do so. There is no reason to doubt the subjective reality of well-authenticated visions, and as motives and stimuli to action that may have real objective importance. Miracles of healing are not dissimilar. A man's mind can affect his body, either directly through his conviction that certain physical changes are about to take place, or indirectly, as conveying the influence of some powerful external mind which may be either calming or stimulating, that some persons have a special power of healing, nervous or mental diseases, can hardly be doubted, and I am not disposed to reject any well-authenticated miraculous cure. Believing that sudden mental relief or acute joy can so affect the whole frame that, in the improved physical conditions thus caused, even diseases not usually considered as nervous may pass away. But though there is reason to discredit miracles of healing, it is clear that they are not only exaggerated but also distorted by reporters who do not understand their nature. Those who chronicle the cures, supposed to be effected at lords at the present day, keep within the bounds of what is explicable.  The miraculous events recorded in the Patakas differ from those of later works, whether Mahayana's literature or the Hindu Puranas and epics, chiefly in their moderation. They may be classified under several heads. Many of them are mere embroidery or embellishment, due to poetical exuberance, esteemed appropriate in those generous climates, though repugnant to our chilly tastes. In every country, poetry is allowed to overstep the prosaic borders of fact, without criticism. When an English poet says, the red rose cries, she is near, she is near, and the white rose weeps, she is late. The lockspur listens, I hear, I hear, and the lily whispers, I wait. No one thinks of criticizing the lines as absurd, because flowers cannot talk, or of trying to prove that they can. Poetry can take liberties with facts, provided it follows the lines of metaphors which the reader finds natural. The same latitude cannot be allowed in unfamiliar directions. Thus, though a shower of flowers from heaven is not more extraordinary than talking flowers, it is quite natural in Indian poetry. It would probably disconcert the English reader. An Indian poet would not represent flowers as talking, but he would give the same idea by saying that the spirits inhabiting trees and plants recited stanzas. Similarly, when a painter draws a picture of an angel, with wings rising from the shoulder blades, even the very scientific do not think it needful to point out that no such anatomical arrangement is known or probable, nor do the very pious maintain that such creatures exist. The whole question is allowed to rest happily in some realm of acquiescence, untroubled by discussions. And it is in this spirit that Indian books relate how when the Buddha went abroad, showers of flowers fell from the sky, and the air resounded with heavenly music would diversify their theological discussions with interludes of demons, nymphs, and magic serpents. And although this riot of the imagination offends our ideas of good sense and proportion, the Buddhists do not often lose the distinction between what Matthew Arnold called literature and dogma. The Buddhist visits to various heavens are not presented as articles of faith. They are simply a pleasant setting for his discourses. Some miracles, of course, have a more serious character, and can be less easily separated from the essentials of the faith. Thus the patakas represent the Buddha as able to see all that happens in the world, and to transport himself anywhere it will. But even in such cases, we may remember that when we say of a well-informed and active person that he is omniscient and ubiquitous, we are not misunderstood. The hyperbole of Indian legends finds its compensation in the small importance attached to them. No miraculous circumstance recorded of the Buddha has anything like the significance attributed by Christians to the virgin birth or the resurrection of Christ. His superhuman powers are in keeping with the picture drawn of his character. They are mostly the result of an attempt to describe a mind and will of more than human strength. But the superhuman, thus idealized, rarely works miracles of healing. He saves mankind by teaching the way of salvation, not by alleviating a few chance cases of physical distress. In later works, he is represented as performing plentiful and extraordinary miracles, but these are just the instances in which we can most clearly trace the addition of embellishments. The elaboration of marvelous episodes is regarded in India as a legitimate form of literary art, no more blameable than dramatization, and in sacred writings it flourishes unchecked. In Hinduism, as in Buddhism, there is not wanting a feeling that the soul is weary of the crowd of deities who demand sacrifices and promise happiness, and on the serenar heights of philosophy, gods have little place. Still most forms of Hinduism cannot, like Buddhism, be detached from the gods, and no extravagance is too improbable to be included in the legends about them. The extravagance is the more startling because their exploits form part of a quasi-historical narrative. Rama and Krishna seem to be idealized and deify portraits of ancient heroes, who came to be regarded as incarnations of the Almighty. This is understood by Indians to mean not that the Almighty submitted consistently to human limitations, but that he, though incarnate, exercised whenever it pleased him, and often most capriciously, his full divine force. With this idea before them and no historical scruples to restrain them, Indian writers tell how Krishna held up a mountain on his finger. Indian readers accept the statement, and crowds of pilgrims visit the scene of the exploit. The later Buddhist writings are perhaps not less extravagant than the Puranas, but the Patakas are relatively sober, though not quite consistent in their account of the Buddha's attitude to the miraculous. Thus he encourages Sagata to give a display of miracles, such as walking in the air, in order to prepare the mind of a congregation to whom he is going to preach. But in other narratives, which seem ancient and authentic, he expresses his disapproval of such performances, just as Christ refused to give signs, and says that they do not conduce to the conversion of the unconverted, or to the increase of the converted. Those who know India will easily call up a picture of how the Bhikkhus strove to impress the crowd by exhibitions, not unlike a modern juggler's tricks, and how the masters stop them. His motives are clear. These performances had nothing to do with the essence of his teaching. If it be true that he ever countenanced them, he soon saw his error. He did not want people to say that he was a conjurer, who knew the Gandhara charm or any other trick, and though we have no warrant for doubting that he believed in the reality of the powers known as Eidhi, it is equally certain that he did not consider them essential or even important for religion. Somewhat similar is the attitude of early Buddhism to the spirit world, the hosts of deities and demons who people this and other spheres. Their existence is assumed, but the truths of religion are not dependent on them, and attempts to use their influence by sacrifices and oracles are deprecated as vulgar practices, similar to juggling. Later Buddhism became infected with mythology, and the critical change occurs when deities, instead of being merely protectors of the church, take an active part in the work of salvation. When the Hindu gods developed into personalities, who could appeal to religions and philosophic minds as cosmic forces, as revealers of the truth and guides to bliss, the example was too attractive to be neglected, and a pantheon of Bodhisattvas arose. But it is clear that when the Buddha preached in Kusala and Magadha, the local deities had not attained any such position. The systems of philosophy then in vogue were mostly not theistic, and, strange as the words may sound, religion had little to do with the gods. If this be thought, to rest on a mistranslation, it is certainly true that the Dhamma had very little to do with the devas. The example of Rome under the empire, or of modern China, makes the position clearer. In neither would a serious inquirer turn to the ancient national gods for spiritual help. Often as the devas figure in early Buddhist stories, the significance of their appearance nearly always lies in their relations with the Buddha or his disciples. Of mere mythology, such as the dealings of Brahma and Indra with other gods, there is little. In fact, the gods, though freely invoked as accessories, are not taken seriously. And there are some extremely curious passages in which Gotama seems to laugh at them, much as the skeptics of the 18th century laughed at Jehovah. Thus in the Kavadasuta he relates how a monk who was puzzled by a metaphysical problem applied to various gods and finally accosted Brahma himself in the presence of all his retinue. After hearing the question, which was, where do the elements seize and leave no trace behind? Brahma replies, I am the great Brahma, the supreme, the mighty, the all-seeing, the ruler, the lord of all, the controller, the creator, the chief of all, appointing to each his place the ancient of days the father of all that are and are to be. But, said the monk, I did not ask you, friend, whether you are indeed all you now say, but I ask where the four elements seize and leave no trace. Then the great Brahma took him by the arm and led him aside and said, these gods think I know and understand everything, therefore I gave no answer in their presence, but I do not know the answer to your question, and you had better go and ask the Buddha. Even more curiously, ironical, is the account given of the origin of Brahma. There comes a time when this world's system passes away, and then certain beings are reborn in the world of radiance and remain there a long time. Sooner or later the world's system begins to evolve again and the palace of Brahma appears, but it is empty. Then some being, whose time is up, falls from the world of radiance, comes to life in the palace and remains there alone. At last he wishes for company, and so it happens that other beings whose time is up fall from the world of radiance and join him, and the first being thinks that he is great Brahma, the creator, because when he felt lonely and wished for companions other beings appeared, and the other beings accept this view. And at last, one of Brahma's retinue falls from that state and is born in the human world, and if he can remember his previous birth he reflects that he is transitory. But that Brahma still remains. And from this he draws the erroneous conclusion that Brahma is eternal. He who dared to represent Brahma, for which name he might substitute Allah or Jehovah, as a pompous deluded individual, worried by the difficulty of keeping up his position, had more than the usual share of skepticism and irony. The compilers of such discourses regarded the gods as mere embellishments, as gargoyles and quaint figures in the cathedral porch, not as saints above the altar. The mythology and cosmology associated with early Buddhism are really extraneous. The Buddhist teachings is simply the four truths, and some kindred ethical and psychological matter. It grew up in an atmosphere of animism, which peopled the trees and streams and mountains with spirits. It accepted and played with the idea, just as it might have accepted and played with the idea of radioactivity. But such notions do not affect the essence of the Dharma, and it might be preached in severe isolation. Yet in Asia it hardly ever has been so isolated. It is true that Indian mythology has not always accompanied the spread of Buddhism. There is much of it in Tibet and Mongolia, but less in China and Japan, and still less in Burma. But probably in every part of Asia, the Buddhist missionaries found existing a worship of nature's spirits and accepted it, sometimes even augmenting and modifying it. In every age the elect may have risen superior to all ideas of gods and heavens and hells. But for any just historical perspective, for any sympathetic understanding of the faith, as it exists as a living force today, it is essential to remember this background and frame of fantastic but graceful mythology. Many later Mahayana books are full of Dharanis or spells. Dharanis are not essentially different from mantras, especially tantric mantras containing magical syllables. But whereas mantras are more or less connected with worship, Dharanis are rather for personal use. Spells to ward off evil and bring good luck. The Chinese pilgrim, Xuanzhuang, states that the sect of the Mahasangikas, which in his opinion arose in connection with the First Council, compiled a pataka of Dharanis. The tradition cannot be dismissed as incredible for even the Niga Nikaya relates how a host of spirits visited the Buddha in order to impart a formula which would keep his disciples safe from harm. Buddhist and Brahmanic mythology represented two methods of working up popular legends. The Mahabharata and Paranas introduce us to a moderately harmonious, if miscellaneous, society of supernatural personages, decently affiliated to one another and to the Brahmanic teaching. The same personages reappear in Buddhism, but are analogous to Christian angels or to fairies, rather than to minor deities. They are not so much the heroes of legends as protectors. They are interesting not for their past exploits, but for their readiness to help believers or to testify to the true doctrine. Still, there was a great body of Buddhist and Jain legend in ancient India which handled the same stories as Brahmanic legend, that is, the tale of Krishna, but in a slightly different manner. The characteristic form of Buddhist legend is the Jataka or birth story. Folklore and sagas, ancient jokes and tragedies, the whole stock-in-trade of rhapsodists and minstrels, are made in edifying an interesting branch of scripture by simply identifying the principal characters with the Buddha, his friends, and his enemies, in their previous births. But in Hinayana's Buddhism, legend and mythology are ornamental and edifying, nothing more. Spirits may set a good example or send good luck. They have nothing to do with emancipation or nirvana. The same distinction of spheres is not wholly lost in Hinduism. For though the great philosophic works treat of God under various names, they mostly ignore minor deities, and though the language of the Bhagavad Gita is exuberant and mythological, yet only Krishna is God. All other spirits are part of Him. The deities most frequently mentioned in Buddhist works are Indra, generally under the name of Saka, Sakra, and Brahma. The former is no longer the demon slaying soma-drinking deity of the Vedas, the heavenly counterpart of a pious Buddhist king. He frequently appears in the Jataka's stories as the protector of true religion and virtue, and when a good man is in trouble, his throne grows hot and attracts his attention. His transformation is analogous to the process by which heathen deities, especially in the Eastern Church, have been accepted as Christian saints. Brahma rules in a much higher heaven than Saka. His appearances on the earth are rarer and more weighty, and sometimes he seems to be a personification of whatever intelligence and desire for good there is in the world. But in no case do the Patakas concede to him the position of supreme ruler of the universe. In one singular narrative, the Buddha tells his disciples how he once ascertained that Brahma Bhaka was under the delusion that his heaven was eternal and cured him of it. All Indian religions have a passion for describing in bold imaginative outline the history and geography of the universe. Their ideas are juster than those of Europeans and Semites, insofar as they imply a sense of the distribution of life throughout the immensities of time and space. The Hindu perceived more clearly than the Jew and Greek, that his own age and country were merely parts of a much longer series and of a far larger structure or growth. He wished to keep this whole continually before the mind. But in attempting to describe it, he fell into that besetting intellectual sin of India, the systematizing of the imaginary. Ages, continents, and worlds are described in detailed statements which bear no relation to facts. Thus Brahmana cosmogony usually deals with a period of time called Kalpa. This is a day in the life of Brahma, who lives one hundred years of such days, and it marks the duration of a world which comes into being at its commencement, and is annihilated at its end. It consists of four thousand, three hundred and twenty times a million years, and is divided into fourteen smaller periods, called Manvantaras, each presided over by a super-human being called Manu. A Manvantara contains about seventy-one Mahayugas, and each Mahayuga is what men call the Four Ages of the World. Geography and astronomy show similar precision. The earth is the lowest of seven spheres or worlds, and beneath it are a series of hells. The three upper spheres last for a hundred Kalpas but are still material, though less gross than those below. The whole system of worlds is encompassed above and below by the shell of the egg of Brahma. Roundless again are envelopes of water, fire, ether, mind, and finally the infinite Pradhana, or cause of all existing things. The earth consists of seven land masses, divided and surrounded by seven seas. In the center of the central land mass rises Mount Meru, nearly a million miles high, and bearing on its peaks the cities of Brahma and other gods. The cosmography of the Buddhists is even more luxuriant, for it regards the universe as consisting of innumerable spheres, Kakavalas, each of which might seem, to a narrower imagination, a universe in itself, since it has its own earth, heavenly bodies, paradises, and hells. A sphere is divided into three regions, the lowest of which is the region of desire. This consists of eleven divisions, which beginning from the lowest are the hells, and the worlds of animals, pretas, hungry ghosts, asoras, titans, and men. This last, which we inhabit, consists of a vast circular plain, largely covered with water. In the center of it is Mount Meru, and it is surrounded by a wall. Above it rise six Devalokas, or heavens of the inferior gods. Above the realms of desire there follow sixteen worlds, in which there is form but no desire. All are states of bliss, one higher than the other, and are all attained by the exercise of meditation. Above these again come four formless worlds, in which there is neither desire nor form. They correspond to the four stages of Arupa trances. And in them the gross and evil elements of existence are reduced to a minimum, but still they are not permanent, and cannot be regarded as final salvation. We naturally think of this series of worlds as so many stories, rising one above the other, and they are so depicted, but it will be observed that the animal kingdom is placed between the hells and humanity. Obviously not as having its local habitation there, but as better off than the one, though inferior to the other, and perhaps if we pointed this out to the Hindu artist, he would smile and say that his many storied picture must not be taken so literally. All states of being are merely states of mind, hellish, brutish, human, and divine. Grotesque is Hindu notions of the world may seem. They include two great ideas of modern science. The universe is infinite, or at least immeasurable. The vision of the astronomer who sees a solar system in every star of the Milky Way is not wider than the thought that devised these kakavales or spheres, and each with a vista of heavens and a procession of buddhas to look after its salvation, yet compared with the sum of being a sphere in an atom. Space is filled by aggregates of them, considered by some as groups of three, by others as clusters of a thousand. And secondly, these world systems, with the living beings and plants in them, are regarded as growing and developing by natural processes, and equally in virtue of natural processes as decaying and disintegrating when the time comes. In the Agana Sutta, we have curious account of the evolution of man, which though not the same as Darwin's, shows the same idea of development, or perhaps degeneration and differentiation. Human beings were originally immaterial, aerial, and self-luminous, but as the world gradually assumed its present form, they took to eating first of all a fragrant kind of earth, then plants, with the result that their bodies became gross, and differences of sex and color were produced. No sect of Hinduism personifies the power of evil in one figure corresponding to Satan, or the araman of Persia. In proportion, as a nation thinks pantheistically, it is disinclined to regard the world as being mainly a contest between good and evil. It is true that there are innumerable demons and innumerable good spirits who withstand them. But just as there is no finality in the exploits of Rama and Krishna, so Ravana, and other monsters, do not attain to the dignity of the devil. In a sense the destructive forces are evil, but when they destroy the world at the end of a kalpa, the result is not the triumph of evil. It is simply winter, after autumn, leading to spring and another summer. Buddhism, having a stronger ethical bias than Hinduism, was more conscious of the existence of a tempter, or a power that makes men sin. This power is personified, but somewhat indistinctly, as Mara, originally and etymologically a god of death. He is commonly called Mara the Evil One, which corresponds to the Mricchia Papma of the Vedas. But as a personality he seems to have developed entirely within the Buddhist circle, and to be unknown to general Indian mythology. In the thought of the Patakas, the connection between death and desire is clear. The great evils and great characteristics of the world are that everything in it decays and dies, and that existence depends on desire. Therefore the ruler of the world may be represented as the god of desire and death. Buddha and his saints struggle with evil and overcome it by overcoming desire, and this triumphant struggle is regarded as a duel with Mara, who was driven off and defeated. Even in his most mythological aspects, Mara is not a deity of hell. He presides over desire and temptation, not over judgment and punishment. This is the function of Yama, the god of the dead, and one of the Brahmanic deities who have migrated to the Far East. He has been adopted by Buddhism, though no explanation is given of his status. But he is introduced as a vague but effective figure, and yet hardly more than a metaphor. Whenever it is desired to personify the inflexible powers that summon the living to the other world, and there make them undergo with awful accuracy, the retribution due for their deeds. In a remarkable passage called Death's Messengers, it is related that when a sinner dies he is led before King Yama who asks him if he never saw the three messengers of the gods sent as warnings to mortals, namely an old man, a sick man, and a corpse. The sinner under judgment admits that he saw but did not reflect, and Yama sentences him to punishment, until suffering commensurate to his sins has been inflicted. Buddhism tells of many hells, of which Avici is the most terrible. They are of course old temporary, and therefore purgatories, rather than places of eternal punishment, and the beings who inhabit them have the power of struggling upwards, requiring merit. But the task is difficult, and one may be born repeatedly in hell. The phraseology of Buddhism calls existences in heavens and hells new births. To us it seems more natural to say that certain people are born again as men, and that others go to heaven or hell, but the three destinies are really parallel. The desire to accommodate influential ideas, though they may be incompatible with the strict teaching of the Buddha, is well seen in the position accorded to spirits of the dead. The Buddha was untiring in his denunciation of every idea which implied that some kind of soul or double escapes from the body at death and continues to exist. But the belief in the existences of departed ancestors, and the presentation of offerings to them, have always formed a part of Hindu domestic religion. To gratify this persistent belief, Buddhism recognized the world of petas, that is, ghosts or spirits. Many varieties of these are described in later literature. Some are as thin and withered as leaves, and suffer from continual hunger, for their mouths are so small that they can take no solid food. According to strict theology, the petas are category of beings just above animals, and certain forms of bad conduct entail birth among them. But in popular estimation, they are merely the spirits of the dead who can receive nourishment and other benefits from the living. The veneration of the dead and the offering of sacrifices to or for them, which form a conspicuous feature in far eastern Buddhism, are often regarded as a perversion of the older faith, and so indeed they are. Yet in the Kodaka Pata, which, if not a very early work, is still part of the Sutta Pataka, found some curious and pathetic verses, describing how the spirits of the departed wait by walls and crossways and at the doors, hoping to receive offerings of food. When they receive it, their hearts are gladdened and they wish their relatives prosperity. As many streams fill the ocean, so does what is given here help the dead. Above all, gifts given to monks will weed down to the good of the dead for a long time. This last point is totally opposed to the spirit of Gotama's doctrine. But it contains the germ of the elaborate system of funeral masses, which has assumed vast proportions in the Far East. Four. What then is the position of the Buddha himself in this universe of many worlds and multitudinous deities? European writers sometimes fail to understand how the popular thought of India combines the human and superhuman. They divorce the two aspects and unduly emphasize one or the other. If they are impressed by the historical character of Gotama, they conclude that all legends with a supernatural tinge must be late and adventitious. If on the other hand they feel that the extent and importance of the legendary element entitles it to consideration, they minimize the historical kernel. But in India, reality and fancy, prosaic fact and extravagant imagination, are found not as successive stages in the development of religious ideas, but simultaneously and side by side. Kishubchundrasen was a babu of liberal views, who probably looked as prosaic a product of the 19th century as any radical politician. Yet his followers were said to regard him as a god. And whether this is a correct statement or not, it is certain that he was credited with superhuman power and received a homage which seemed even to Indians excessive. It is in the light of such incidents and such temperaments that we should read the story of the Buddha. Could we be transported to India in the days of his preaching? We should probably see a figure very like the portrait given in the more sober parts of the patakas, a teacher of great intelligence and personal charm, yet distinctly human. But had we talked about him in the villages which lay along his route, or even in the circle of his disciples? I think we should have heard tales of how Devas visited him and how he was want to vanish and take himself to some heaven. The Hindu attributes such feats to a religious leader, as naturally as Europeans would ascribe to him a magnetic personality and a flashing eye. The patakas emphasized the omniscience and sinlessness of the Buddha, but contained no trace of the idea that he is God in the Christian or Muhammadan sense. They are consistently non-theistic, and it is only later that Buddhas and Bodhisattvas become transformed into beings about whom theistic language can be used. But in those parts of the patakas which may be reasonably supposed to contain the ideas of the first century after the Buddha's death, he is constantly represented as instructing Devas and receiving their homage. In the Kudakapata the spirits are invited to come and do him reverence. He is described as the chief of the world with all its gods, and is made to deny that he is a man. If a Buddha cannot be called a Deva, rather than a man, it is only because he is higher than both. It is this train of thought which leads later Buddhists to call him Devatideva, or the Deva who is above all other Devas, and thus make him ultimately a being comparable with Siva or Vishnu. The idea that great teachers of mankind appear in regular series and at stated intervals is certainly older than Gotama, but it is hard to say how far it was systematized before his time. The greatness of the position which he won and the importance of the institutions which he founded naturally caused his disciples to formulate the vague traditions about his predecessors. They were called indifferently Buddha, Jina, Arhat, etc. It was only after the constitution of the Buddhist Church that these titles received fixed meanings. Closely connected with the idea of the Buddha or Jina is that of the Mahapurusha or Great Man. It was supposed that they are born from time to time supermen distinguished by physical marks who become either universal monarchs, kakravartan, or teachers of the truth. Such a prediction is said to have been made respecting the infant Gotama and all previous Buddhas. The marks are duly catalogued as 32 greater and 80 smaller signs. Many of them are very curious. The hair is glossy black. The tongue is so long that it can lick the ears. The arms reach to the knees in an ordinary upright position. The skin has a golden tinge. There is a protuberance on the skull and a smaller one like a ball between the eyebrows. The long arms may be compared with the person titled rendered in Latin by Longimanus, and it is conceivable that the protuberances on the head may have been personal peculiarities of Gotama. For though the 32 marks are mentioned in the Patakas, as well known signs, establishing his claims to eminence, no description of them has been found in any pre-Buddhist work, and they may have been modified to suit his personal appearance. At any rate, it is clear that the early generations of Buddhists considered that the master conformed to the type of the Mahapurusha and attached importance to the fact. The Patakas repeatedly allude to the knowledge of these marks as forming a part of brahmanic training, and in the account of the previous Buddha Vipassi they are duly enumerated. These ideas about a great man and his characteristics were probably current among the people at the time of Buddha's birth. They do not harmonize completely with later definitions of a Buddha's nature, but they show how Gotama's contemporaries may have regarded his career. In the older books of the Patakas, six Buddhas are mentioned as preceding Gotama, namely Vipassi, Sikhi, Visabhu, Kakusanta, Konagamana, and Kasapa. The last three at least may have some historical character. The Chinese pilgrim, Fa Xian, who visited India from 405 to 411 AD, saw their reputed birthplaces, and says that there still existed followers of Devadatta, apparently in Kausala, who recognized these three Buddhas, but not Gotama. Ahsoka erected a monument in honor of Konagamana and Nepal, with a dedicatory inscription which has been preserved. In the Majhima Nikaya we find a story about Kakusanta and his disciples, and Gotama once gave an extended account of Vipassi, whose teaching and career are represented as almost identical with his own. Different explanations have been given of this common element. There is clearly a wish to emphasize the continuity of the Dhamma and the similarity of its exponents in all ages. But are we to believe that the stories, true or romantic, originally told of Gotama, were transferred to his mythical forerunners, or that before his birth there was a Buddha legend to which the account of his career was accommodated? Probably both processes went on simultaneously. The notices of the Jain saints show that there must have been such legends and traditions independent of Gotama. To them we may refer things like the miracles attending birth. But the general outline of the Buddha's career, the departure from home, struggle for enlightenment, and hesitation before preaching, seem to be a reminiscence of Gotama's actual life, rather than an earlier legend. There is an interesting discourse describing the wonders that attend the birth of a Buddha, such as that he passes from the Tussita heaven to his mother's womb, that she must die seven days after his birth, that she stands when he is born, and so on. You may imagine that the death of the mother is due to the historical fact that Gotama's mother did so die, while the other circumstances are embellishments of the old Buddha and Mahapurusha legend. But the construction of this Tussita is curious. The monks in the Jitavana are talking of the wondrous powers possessed by Buddhas. Gotama enters and asks, what is the subject of their discourse? They tell him, and he bids Ananda describe more fully the wondrous attributes of a Buddha. Ananda gives a long list of marvels, and at the end, Gotama observes, take note of this too, as one of the wondrous attributes of a Buddha, that he has his feelings, perceptions, and thoughts under complete control. There are twenty-four Jain-Tair Tankaras, and according to some accounts, twenty-four incarnations of Vishnu. Probably all these lists are based on some calculation as to the proper allowance of saints for an eon. The biographies of these Buddhas are brief and monotonous. For each sage they record the number of his followers, the name of his city, parents, and chief disciples, the tree under which he attained enlightenment, his height and his age, both in extravagant figures. They also record how each met Gotama in one of his previous births, and prophesied his future glory. The object of these biographies is less to give information about previous Buddhas than to trace the career of Gotama as a bodhisattva. This career began in the time of Dipankara, the first of the twenty-five Buddhas, and calculable ages ago, when Gotama was a hermit called Simida. Seeing that the road over which Dipankara had to pass was dirty, he threw himself down in the mire, in order that the Buddha might tread on him and not soil his feet. At the same time he made a resolution to become a Buddha, and received from Dipankara the assurance that ages afterwards his wish would be fulfilled. This incident, called pranidhana, or the vow to become a Buddha, is frequently represented in the frescoes found in Central Asia. But their interest clearly centers in his last existence. They not infrequently use the word bodhisattva to describe the youthful Gotama or some other Buddha before the attainment of Buddhahood, but in later literature it commonly designates a being now existing, who will now be a Buddha in the future. In the old phase of Buddhism, attention is concentrated on a human figure which fills the stage, but before the canon closes we are conscious of a change which paves the way for the Mahayana. Our sympathetic respect is invited not only for Gotama the Buddha, but for the struggling bodhisattva, who battling towards the goal with incredible endurance and self-sacrifice, through lives innumerable, at last becomes Gotama. It is only natural that the line of Buddhas should extend after as well as before Gotama. In the pitakas there are allusions to such a posterior series, as when for instance we hear that all Buddhas past and to come, have had and will have attendants like Ananda. But Battalia, the Buddha of the future, has not yet become an important figure. He is just mentioned in the Diga-Nakaya, and Buddha, Vamsa and the Melinda-Pana quotes an utterance of Gotama to the effect that he will be the leader of thousands, as I am of hundreds. But the quotation has not been identified. The Buddhas enumerated are Supreme Buddhas, Samasambuddha. But there is another order, called Pakika, Sanskrit Parthyaka, or private Buddhas. Both classes attain by their own exertions to a knowledge of the four truths. But the Pakika Buddhas are not, like the Supreme Buddhas, teachers of mankind and omniscient. Their knowledge is confined to what is necessary for their own salvation and perfection. They are mentioned in the Nakayas as worthy of all respect, but are not prominent in either the earlier or later works, which is only natural, seeing, by their very definition, they are self-centered, and of little importance for mankind. The idea of the private Buddha, however, is interesting, in as much as it implies that even when the four truths are not preached, they still exist and can be discovered by anyone who makes the necessary mental and moral effort. It is also noticeable that the superiority of a Supreme Buddha lies in his powers to teach and help others. A passionless and self-centered sage falls short of the ideal. End of Chapter 15. End of Hinduism and Buddhism, in Historical Sketch, Volume 1, by Charles Eliot.


When one thinks of Spain and Portugal, incredible food, great weather and passionate people are usually the first things that come to mind. The Celtic history of these places does not usually enter the picture. In a previous video, I focused on the Celtic origins of the region of Galicia in Spain, which has the most famous Celtic connection to Spain. However, the influence of Celtic civilisation extends far beyond Galicia, with the lost part of the Iberian Peninsula having Celtic roots. Thousands of years ago, vast swaths of land we know as Spain and Portugal today were home to Celtic tribes. One of the most notable Celtic groups were the Celtiberians, who occupied the central eastern region of what we call Spain today. Various Celtic tribes made up the Celtiberians, including the Araveche, the Pelendones and the Titi. These people spoke the Celtiberian language, a now distinct Indo-European Celtic language, which was related to the Galician language spoken in the northwest corner of the Iberian Peninsula. Interestingly, there are over 200 inscriptions that have been found that contain the Celtiberian script, usually dating from the 2nd and 1st centuries BC. The Celtiberian script was an adaptation of the northeastern Iberian script and was used for writing. The Boterita bronze plaques contain the Celtiberian script, which were found near the city of Zaragotha in Spain and are dated to the 2nd century BC. Before we continue, please remember to subscribe and that you can support this work through buymeacoffee.com and Patreon. All the links are in the description below. Thank you, now back to the video. The Celtiberians also invented a type of sword that the Romans then adopted after conquering them. Prior to the switch, the Romans tended to use a sword that was mainly used for thrusting and was probably based on a Greek design. After the Romans witnessed, have effect of the Celtiberian sword where it slashing in addition to thrusting. The Romans decided to adopt a similarly designed Gladius, with Gladius being the Latin word for sword. Other ancient Celtic groups in the Iberian peninsula included the Visey, the Carpatani and the Celtice. With the Celtice occupying various regions of modern-day Portugal, including the Algarve region. The Celtice are thought to have strong links with the Galicians, with many Celtice migrating north into Galicia thousands of years ago. There were also many pre-Celtic and mixed Celtic groups, including the Lysitanians, who probably deserve a video of their own at some point in the future. The word Portugal itself may also be half Celtic. Portugal derives its name from an ancient Celtic town that the Romans called Portus Cal. Portus was the Roman word for port, but Cal is thought to be either Celtic or Greek in the Celtic version of the word. Cal could be derived from the Celtic Calaceae of ancient Galicia, or perhaps from the Celtic deity of the weather, known as the Caya or Cala. It is thought that these Celtic words meant port or harbour, with similar words used in Irish and Scottish Gaelic for port or harbour today. Therefore, strangely enough, Portus Cal could have literally meant port, port, over time. Portus Cal became Portus Cal, and eventually Portugal. As we have seen, the history of both Spain and Portugal have strong Celtic influences. Please let me know in the comments below of any other Iberian Celtic connections you know about.