SOME CONCLUDING REMARKS.

It is only when we come to take a bird's-eye view of these two great religions, which have exercised so enormous and so abiding an influence over the human race, and when clearness of vision is unobscured by numberless petty details and dogmas, that we can perceive the factors common to both which have given them their present stability and strength.

No religion, no system of morals, no philosophy, can be secure unless they rest upon the groundwork of universal truth and necessity; and it is certain that, if Christianity and Buddhism did not possess these supports, they would not now be what they actually are—the ruling forces to millions of human beings.

It has been said with much truth that the daily life of an ordinary man is a continual round of intoxication. Some form or other of inebriating excitement seems absolutely necessary to him, if he is to escape from the Slough of Despond of ennui and all its evil consequences. The remark is equally true of the human race as a whole. It cannot survive, apparently, without constant stimuli to urge and goad it forward. Were such stimuli wanting from time to time, man would probably degenerate, and cease to show that love of progress and activity which is so essential to his existence as man. Consequently, we note, looking back through the vista of history which lies open to our view, the periodical appearance of some great religious reformer, whose task it is to infuse new zeal and strength into the flagging energies of his fellow-creatures. Gotama, Jesus, Savonarola, General Booth, are all greater or lesser instances in point; have all worked upon the same basic conception, however different the condition of their times may have required the superficial doctrines of their various creeds to be.

Some—Jesus and Gotama, and possibly Mahomed—worked with the full cognizance of the task before them; others, who have not been gifted with so large a measure of divine insight, have wrought and lived for the same purpose, blindly, and unconscious of the complete significance of their action.

But, it may be asked, if Jesus and Gotama were gnomic, how comes it that the Buddhism and Christianity of to-day are so radically different in their outward manifestations? To answer this question we have merely to take a broad glance at history.

At the time of the advent of Gotama the people of India were in possession of a civilization remarkable in many respects, but most remarkable, perhaps, in the freedom and latitude of thought prevalent. It is difficult for many who have been brought up within the contracted influences of those who regard all alien religions and non-Christian countries as so many black spots on the pages of history and on the maps of the world, and who have been surrounded in their youth by the innumerable restrictions placed upon all speculative propensities, to realize that, at the time when they were mere cave-dwellers and unclothed sojourners with the beasts of the field, a great and lofty civilization was existent in what they would possibly consider a barbarous corner of the globe, and that a people there held dominion whose chief intellectual pastime was to range over the vast domains of speculative thought and all the interminable mysteries of life. The Indian has been a philosopher by birth and breeding from time immemorial; and only among a race of philosophers could such a religion as Buddhism, with its sudden iconoclasm, have been preached with so little opposition, and have taken root so rapidly, when we come to consider the strong hold the Brahmanical ceremonial had upon the people at that time.

With the inception of Christianity, however, the case was very different. At the birth of Jesus the inhabitants of Palestine, with the exception of the Essenes, were sunk low in the mire of bigotry, prejudice, and priestly domination. The mind of the people was less philosophically prepared to grasp a broad and exalted creed such as essential Christianity; it required dogmas more definite, doctrines more easily comprehended; and Jesus had perforce to mould his utterances to the temperament and mental capacity of the people among whom he preached.

To the east of the Holy Land was India, with its refined and more perfect civilization; to the west, Central Europe, with its savage and ignorant tribes, worshippers of trees, and in servitude to many superstitious practices and customs. Christianity, with its immense potential resources, its innate power for good, required some outlet for its activities; and, as was only natural, it spread in the direction where a pure and sublime religion was most needed, and experienced little difficulty in eventually conquering the savage intellect of Central Europe. Becoming appropriated by men who, living in the far North, depended for their very life upon a ceaseless struggle with adverse circumstances, it gradually lost the softening and refining influences which are so characteristic of the Oriental temperament, and became the vehicle for the passions and ambitions of a race more brutal and more unsympathetic than that among which it took its rise.

And to what an extent has this religion of Christ, the evangel of peace and goodwill, been since prostituted! The mistaken—though, no doubt, well-intended—dogmas formulated by the Holy Catholic Church proved to be, in their short-sightedness and complete lack of insight into human nature, a prolific source of degeneration, bigotry, persecution, ignorance, immorality, and extreme ecclesiastical tyranny in the Dark Ages. The rigid and narrow doctrines inculcated by the Puritans have been almost as fruitful a cause of moral perversion and reckless narrow-mindedness. To-day it must be acknowledged that we have outgrown the gross and debasing Christianity of those mediÆval times; but many of us are still fast chained in the shackles of prejudice and intolerance, with all their concomitant delusions and hypocrisies.

Bruno, in his day, said: "Christianity has been tried for eighteen centuries; the religion of Christ remains to be tried." This remark, however, overstates the case considerably, for it must be confessed that there have been many instances of individual lives which have approached as closely to the ideal as far as it has been practicable within human limits.

True Christianity many of us have yet to learn; it is but the husk which exists with the many as yet. Nevertheless, we flatter ourselves sometimes as the elect of the earth, and despatch emissaries of civilization to the darkest corners of heathendom to carry with them only a very imperfect presentment of our great religion in practice and doctrine.

It is but lately that stern necessity caused the deserts of the Soudan to be strewn with the corpses of many thousands of dervishes, and the pietist section of the British press rejoiced at the great victory of Christianity over Islam, and the fulfilment of a long-cherished revenge for the most truly Christian of English soldiers! To such an extent can inconsistency flourish among the most morally advanced of the earth's inhabitants. And if Europeans have been zealous in waging war to the death against the heathen in the name of their common religion, they have been no less ready to turn the gospel of peace into an apologia for such an internecine slaughter as few other causes have given rise to, until, at the present day, it is hardly possible to write seriously—in order that they may be taken seriously—the words, "How these Christians love one another!"

When we turn to India, to Ceylon, and more especially to Burmah, we are brought face to face with a very different state of things. It is true that in some parts—Thibet, for instance—Buddhism has been debased to an even worse state than Christianity in Europe; but, after all, that is merely asserting that human nature is human nature. The broader aspect of Buddhism in Asia must, to any unprejudiced observer, appear in striking contrast to the prostitution to which other religions in other corners of the earth have been subjected. It seems to be one of the unalterable laws which govern human conduct that the teaching of any great religious reformer should, in the centuries which follow his disappearance from the arena in which he had striven, be brought low and narrowed down, partly by the short-sightedness of its adherents, but mostly owing to the unhealthy influences of ecclesiastical domination such as was typical of mediÆval Europe and Brahmanical India. That Buddhism should in great degree have escaped such a fate must be attributed, not only to the intrinsic value of the system itself, but also to the character of the people among whom it has survived.

There have been many calumniators, from interested motives, of Buddhism; but no false representations, however frequently reiterated, can serve to mask the purity and nobility of this remarkable religion. It has never, like Christianity, been made the pretext of warfare and the conquest of alien races; no blood has ever been shed in its propagation; no despairing cries of martyred wives and orphan children rise up from the centuries that are past to stamp its forehead with the brand of Cain. By reason alone has it spread and become endeared to the many millions who now owe it allegiance; reason and truth are the only swords which have been unsheathed in the cause of its promulgation.[AT] It has, in fact, conquered by its sweet reasonableness alone, unaided by artificial and compulsory means.

The gradually diminishing popularity of the religious war sentiment which actuates people to perpetrate such iniquities as Crusades and Jehads will, it is presumed, afford relief in the future, at least to some sections of the Christian world, by removing an opportunity out of the way for the reproach of those who take their stand by the non-resistance principle as enunciated by the founder of the Christian faith. The carrying out of the non-resistance principle in its totality seems to increase in impracticability in proportion to the advancing complexity of social and national life. A very near approach to the achievement of the object embodied in the principle can only be imagined possible under the most primitive conditions of existence, notably in such cases where the country inhabited provides the necessities of life without involving any violent struggle for their acquisition. Christian nations, by the force of circumstances and the nature of their environment, are unfortunately impelled, it would seem, to disregard and set aside the very distinct teaching of Jesus on this point; and some of us, facing both ways, endeavour to escape from the dilemma, and pour balm upon our consciences, by assuming that war is amply justified by Scripture and expressly sanctioned by the Almighty. In this connection it would perhaps be the most straightforward course for us to frankly admit with Tolstoi that war is as fundamentally un-Christian as it is un-Buddhistic, and to be prepared to face the consequences of its unlawfulness in the sight of God rather than to dislocate the teaching of Jesus with a view to the selfish satisfaction of our consciences, and for the ultimate purpose of settling down into a comfortable frame of mind when brought into contact with this unpleasant subject.

In spite of the many detractors Buddhism has had, it has been appreciated in cultivated centres of Europe and America to an extent which is the surest token of its intrinsic worth. In Asia it is difficult to realize how profound and enduring has been its influence for good.

Perhaps, on account of the presence of dogmas, such as the negation of soul as a permanent individual entity and of immortality as it is known among us, which are to the average European intellect absurd and most repugnant, it has been more readily assimilated as a belief by races which, unlike ourselves, are philosophic by nature and by birth. But by far the most important part of Buddhism in its practical significance is the doctrine of Karma, which has proved so great a stumbling-block to many, and a medium of contempt for those professing other faiths. It would hardly be exaggeration to describe this as one of the grandest ethical theories ever devised by the brain of man, ranging as it does over the whole sphere of human activity and existence, and policing, as it were, the actions of human creatures.

Lest it should appear to any of my readers that I have laid undue stress upon the value and beauty of Buddhism in the foregoing pages, I would take this opportunity of disclaiming any intention on my part to draw invidious distinctions between the manifestations of the two faiths of which I have treated, and which, in my opinion, are fundamentally one and the same.

In this connection my sole aim has been to give prominence to the many excellent properties possessed by Buddhism, with a view to clearing the way for an impartial appreciation of this religion by those who have never yet bestowed their attention or extended their sympathies to the subject with unbiased minds.

The dissolution, not the destruction, of symbolism which I have endeavoured to accomplish in dealing with the metaphysic of Christianity and Buddhism—of that symbolism which is so apt, when taken as a thing in itself, to contract our sympathies and darken our vision in respect of religions—will have achieved an object if it succeeds in carrying with it the conviction, at present[AU] so indisturbably possessed by the writer, that essential Christianity and true Buddhism cannot be differentiated; that the ultimate source of their power and loveliness is one; that they rest upon the same imperishable foundations, which are lost to sight in billowy clouds of mystery, in a splendour beyond imagining.

The priest in Zola's Rome looked forward to the day when symbols and rites, so necessary in the infancy of the world, would disappear altogether—"to the time when enlarged, purified, and instructed humanity would be able to support the brightness of naked truth" without their assistance.

It may be, however, that any premature abandonment of symbols, rites, and ceremonies might, under present conditions, prove disastrous, as such a course would go far to arrest artistic tendencies and stifle within us those cravings for the beautiful which are such undeniably potent and useful factors in conducting us onward to a realization of the invisible. All that appears requisite in this direction at the present moment is that the symbolic element in symbolism should be clearly recognized, and symbolism appraised at its true value.

Concurrently with the development of a deeper insight into the realities which subsist in symbols, there should arise in these Northern latitudes a class of people who would demonstrate by their character and actions that, under existing social conditions, and in all the turmoil of modern civilization, a nearer approach to the ideal life than has yet been made by a community is within the range of practicalities. This is the most clamant need of the day.

In our Western world we are confronted with innumerable obstacles in the way of leading the ideal, or Christ-like, life. The ideal life-germ is in all of us, but too often hidden away under the veneer of respectability, and much obscured by conventionalities. This germ, if not very apparent in our public capacity, is distinctly discernible in the family life as typical of these islands. We see it in the eyes of the wife, in the restraint of the son, and we listen to it in the voices of our daughters. It struggles hard to develop itself in the face of stupendous difficulties. Its growth among our spiritual leaders is frequently handicapped by the isolating effects of aggrandizement. A cardinal, for instance—good and gracious as he invariably is—must always be more or less inaccessible and appalling. Our charities, too, are vitiated by ostentation. Prospectuses demand that a royalty should take the lead, and the titled figure as patrons, if the appeal made is designed to be irresistible. So that, to whichever side we turn, we find ourselves hampered in our aspirations towards the ideal by the exigencies of society, by our customs and absurdities.

Turning to the far East, we are face to face with other conditions, which undoubtedly lend themselves more readily to the impress of the ideal. Burmah is a country where strikingly successful endeavours continue to be made to hold constantly before the eyes of the people exemplars of the ideal life, and the results are astonishing—approximating a perfection which it is hardly possible to over-rate. Notwithstanding the enormous capacity and appreciation its inhabitants possess for the frivolities of existence, they are wont to support out of their slender resources a numerous staff of monks, who are to be found in all parts of the land, and in every place where their fellow-creatures congregate in small or large numbers.

However far laymen may deviate from the Path, the ideal life as exemplified by the monks must not be tampered with. It is the expressed will of the laity that this example should be unremittingly preserved in all its integrity and purity, whatever may be the sum of their own failings. It is this intense admiration and fervour on the part of the lay community for the ideal life, as known to them through the teaching of the Enlightened One, that has secured this incalculable blessing to the people, and made Burmah a model for all nations in this respect.

There is a sadness unspeakable in the thought that perhaps, ere long, this ancient and ennobling bond between the people and their religious teachers, between the material and the ideal, will be swept away in the wake of commerce and utilitarianism, and all their attendant debasements.

Mr. Fielding, in his book, The Soul of a People, brings all his unique experiences and intimate knowledge of the Burmese and the monkhood to impress upon us this marvellous object-lesson in the effect of a religion whose abiding principles are an ever-present, living force, and of which it may be truly said it is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.

Everywhere, intermingled with this light-hearted people, delighting in colour, dress, and decoration of all kinds, there is ever to be seen the serene and passionless personality of the monk; no reviler of alien creeds; no possessor of priestly power; poorer than the poorest, yet rich in the inheritance of the Dharma; no figure-head of some illustrious superstition, mitred, and heralded through the streets; nought—save a lowly follower of the Perfect One, whose law it is that guides to the Great Peace, which,