A Yankee in the Far East Part 14

"Buddhism," he scoffed, "Buddhism is only an offshoot from Hinduism, borrowed from Hinduism." There were saints and sages among Hindus, he told me. Saints could die, sages never. He had tried to be a saint, but gave it up. No one was worthy of what they got, he the least of all. Here he was getting $1.50 a day. If I had offered him anything he would have taken it--10c, 20c, and even then he wouldn't be worthy of it.

"Why in blazes didn't you tell me that before we closed for $1.50?" I asked him.

"I told you my price was $3.00, but that I would take anything you offered me. My offer stands," he said; "you offered me $1.50. At $1.50 I am riding around on a cus.h.i.+oned seat with a gentleman for four hours, as a day's work. Out there, digging in the street, in the hot sun, dressed only in a loin cloth, is a sweating, toiling brother Hindu, putting in ten hours a day for thirty cents. He is ent.i.tled to $1.50 for his day's work, more than I am ent.i.tled to thirty cents for my day's work."

He was a sinner and admitted it. A most unworthy sinner, and expected to get what was coming to him.

I dismissed him at lunch time to eat my lunch and prepare myself for three o'clock.

XX

PENANG--A BIRD, THE FEMALE OF ITS SPECIES, AND THE MANGOSTEEN

I want to draw a veil over my exit from Singapore on this trip.

There are some things that are too painful to talk about. What I think of the quarantine arrangements of that sun-blistered port, and what the health officials think of me will form no part of these notes of travel--suffice it to say that I got by the Singapore health officials. I escaped! I got away! Our expressions of endearment would be a new brand of travel stuff, and there are enough different kinds in these letters now.

After Singapore is Penang; and as I sit in my steamer chair, in my pajamas, in the grey of the dawning of a new day, on the freshly washed teak-deck of the steamer, as it sails through the peaceful strait nearing Penang, I can't see as there is a blessed thing to write about--not a blessed thing. A couple of junks float across the peaceful strait, the soft tropical breeze bellying their sails. One solitary bird, not a seagull, much bigger than a gull, lazily wings its way across the peaceful strait, aiming for the opposite sh.o.r.e. I think it's the female of its species, because when it gets nearly over it changes its mind, turns around, and flies back again across the peaceful strait.

The junks--the bird--the s.h.i.+p with its teak-decks freshly washed--the grey of the morning--the soft tropical breeze--the peaceful strait--me in my pajamas in a steamer chair--the low fringe of hills with cocoanut groves to the east--Penang rising out of the peaceful strait--not a blessed thing to write about.

The east reddens, the sun is going to rise over the peaceful strait.

It's a peaceful scene. I've mentioned that the straits are peaceful, haven't I? That feature of the scene especially appeals to me after my exit from Singapore.

But the sun is rising! While this is not an exciting or unusual thing--while one doesn't have to come to Penang to see the sun rise--while I feel safe in boldly a.s.serting that this is a matter of daily occurrence both here and at home, the chances are, kind reader, that you have never seen the sun rise. First you see a bright red convex streak, then the slice of a sphere, then more, and more, and more, and more, and more, and then the sun is up to meet the lark.

[Ill.u.s.tration: And now there _is_ something to write about--the mangosteen]

A Hindu comes with a cup of coffee, some toast, and six mangosteens on a tray, and asks: "Will master have his _chota hazri_ here?" And now there _is_ something to write about--the mangosteen!

The most unprepossessing fruit to look at, the size of a black walnut in its husk; an unlovely dark brown color on the outside. If you didn't know the mangosteen; if a plateful were brought to you for breakfast you'd eye the things askance, and say, "Take 'em away, please; take 'em away." But cut around its circ.u.mference through the husk, a quarter of an inch thick, and lift it apart. One of the halves makes a little bowl, its inside the most lovely old rose color, the other half holding a beautiful white pulp. The rich old rose edge of the husk hugs the mound of pulp, the combination making a color scheme to delight an artist's soul.

Insert a fork in the edge of the pulp, lift it out bodily, open your mouth, and--oh, say, after all the other delicious fruits on earth were made and p.r.o.nounced good by the beneficent Creator, it would seem as if He had said: "Go to, now, let one more fruit be made for man, more delicate in flavor, more delicious than all the rest"--so He made the mangosteen.

XXI

BURMA AND BUDDHA

And Rangoon is in Burma, a city of some three hundred thousand, the chief commercial city of Burma.

It is located in the south of that country, on one of the numerous mouths of the Irawadi River. Burma forms a part of the narrow Malay Peninsula, broadening out after Rangoon is reached, coming north from Penang, into a country as large as Texas, bounded on the west by India, on the north by Thibet, on the east by Siam, Laos and China, with the Bay of Bengal was.h.i.+ng its southern coast.

Burma is the most thoroughly Buddhistic country in the world.

Now Buddha was not a G.o.d, never claimed to be, and is not wors.h.i.+ped as one.

But he was a tremendous personage.

He was born in India 2500 years ago, and after that lapse of time his image and teachings live in the hearts of every third man on earth today.

That fact puts Buddha in a cla.s.s with such personages as Moses and Confucius.

These men are three of a kind and hard to beat when it comes to putting one's name over into the minds of men and making it stick. A score or so of other mere men since Adam's time, whose names loom large today, are mere pikers in comparison, and need not be considered in this short sketch.

The exact date of Buddha's birth seems shrouded in mystery, but it is placed during the sixth century, B. C.

He was born in the town of Kapila-Vastu. Since that time the town has changed its name to Kohana, and is located northeast of Benares.

Buddha spent his early boyhood in that region. His father's name was Suddodana, which same is a long, hard name to p.r.o.nounce, but his mother's name was Maya, and she died when Buddha was seven days old, and his aunt brought him up. Her name was Maha-Praj.a.pati.

There is not much known about his youth and early education, except that he was a promising boy and put over everything he undertook.

He was supposed to be a prince of the Royal blood. He was a Hindu, and was faithful to the demands of that faith.

He was married, and when he was thirty years old there was born to him a son named Rahlu.

No one knows how well his family did for him in picking out a wife, but it is of record that he left wife and son and home shortly after the boy was born.

He just left home one day, and when next heard from was at Rajagriha and was leading the life of an ascetic.

Buddha never did things by halves. He was out seeking the way of salvation in rigorous and excessive asceticism, and he went at it with such intense earnestness that he nearly lost his life--he overworked it, and was all played out when he came to the conclusion that he was on the wrong track.

Abandoning asceticism, he gave himself up to a life of thought and meditation, and as a result he gradually evolved his religious and philosophic theory of the general existence of evil, its origin, and its eradication.

He was sitting under a pipal tree in a little village named Buddh-gaya, southeast of Benares, when light dawned upon his soul. As the result of his emanc.i.p.ation of spirit he became a poet.

He became thoroughly convinced that the great end and aim of existence was to attain non-existence: and that the cause of all evil was wanting things. We were here through no fault of our own; that we would continue to be born over and over; and that the next state into which we were born would depend upon how we used our present life.

To ill.u.s.trate the idea: A tramp or hobo, if he tried to be as good a tramp or hobo as he could, would be born next time to be a roustabout, deck hand, or day laborer.

Continuing to be as good as possible in those callings, the next birth would be a step up, to, say, a bookkeeper, clerk, or possibly a commercial traveler.

The next birth, continuing meritorious in these last named capacities, would be a more desirable existence, and on up, pa.s.sing the stage of a successful politician with a pull, to still higher and higher existence, until finally, getting out of the trouble and vexation of being any of them, one's individuality would be lost entirely in the great spirit of Nirvana--rest--peace--out of it--finished.

On the other hand, the politician with a pull if he didn't keep his eyes set toward righteousness, would slip down the scale in a future birth, and, continuing bad behavior in new births, run clear down past the hobo to be nothing more than a potato-bug, to end that existence for one even lower than that; unless, perchance, he decided to be an exemplary potato-bug and climb back up again.

After Buddha had thoroughly worked out his solution of life's problems, he settled in Benares, gathered five choice spirits who had been companions in his life as an ascetic, imparted to them his discovery of what he believed to be the path of truth, and spent the rest of a long life developing truth as he believed it.

He had to compete with Hinduism in India, and was only measurably successful there, but his theories captured Burma, and overspread Ceylon, China, and j.a.pan, and, judging by results, anyone making a tour of China and j.a.pan must take off their hats to Buddha. His long ministry was marked with a life of purity, gentleness, earnestness, and firm convictions.

He preached his doctrines for forty years and lived to be eighty years of age.