A Question in the Zen Texts

Kutsuwamushi(natural size).

The most ancient poem on thekutsuwamushiis perhaps the following, by the Lady Idzumi-Shikibu:—

Waga seko waKoma ni makasétéKinikeri to,Kiku ni kikasuruKutsuwamushi kana!

—which might be thus freely rendered:

Listen!—his bridle rings;—that is surely my husbandHomeward hurrying now—fast as the horse can bear him!...Ah! my ear was deceived!—only the Kutsuwamushi!

This insect—also calledkantan-gisu, andkantan-no-kirigirisu,—is a dark-brown night-cricket. Its note—“zi-ï-ï-ï-in” is peculiar: I can only compare it to the prolonged twang of a bow-string. But this comparison is not satisfactory, because there is a penetrant metallic quality in the twang, impossible to describe.

Kantan(natural size).

Besides poems about the chanting of particular insects, there are countless Japanese poems, ancient and modern, upon the voices of night-insects in general,—chiefly in relation to the autumn season. Out of a multitude I have selected and translated a few of the more famous only, as typical of the sentiment or fancy of hundreds. Although some of my renderings are far from literal as to language, I believe that they express with tolerable faithfulness the thought and feeling of the originals:—

Not for my sake alone, I know, is the autumn’s coming;—Yet, hearing the insects sing, at once my heart grows sad.Kokinshū.

Not for my sake alone, I know, is the autumn’s coming;—Yet, hearing the insects sing, at once my heart grows sad.

Kokinshū.

Faint in the moonshine sounds the chorus of insect-voices:To-night the sadness of autumn speaks in their plaintive tone.I never can find repose in the chilly nights of autumn,Because of the pain I hear in the insects’ plaintive song.How must it be in the fields where the dews are falling thickly!In the insect-voices that reach me I hear the tingling of cold.Never I dare to take my way through the grass in autumn:Should I tread upon insect-voices[15]—what would my feelings be!The song is ever the same, but the tones of the insects differ,Maybe their sorrows vary, according to their hearts.Idzumi-Shikibu.Changed is my childhood’s home—all but those insect-voices:I think they are trying to speak of happier days that were.These trembling dews on the grass—are they tears for the death of autumn?—Tears of the insect-singers that now so sadly cry?

Faint in the moonshine sounds the chorus of insect-voices:To-night the sadness of autumn speaks in their plaintive tone.

I never can find repose in the chilly nights of autumn,Because of the pain I hear in the insects’ plaintive song.

How must it be in the fields where the dews are falling thickly!In the insect-voices that reach me I hear the tingling of cold.

Never I dare to take my way through the grass in autumn:Should I tread upon insect-voices[15]—what would my feelings be!

The song is ever the same, but the tones of the insects differ,Maybe their sorrows vary, according to their hearts.

Idzumi-Shikibu.

Changed is my childhood’s home—all but those insect-voices:I think they are trying to speak of happier days that were.

These trembling dews on the grass—are they tears for the death of autumn?—Tears of the insect-singers that now so sadly cry?

It might be thought that several of the poems above given were intended to express either a real or an affected sympathy with imagined insect-pain. But this would be a wrong interpretation.In most compositions of this class, the artistic purpose is to suggest, by indirect means, various phases of the emotion of love,—especially that melancholy which lends its own passional tone to the aspects and the voices of nature. The baroque fancy that dew might be insect-tears, is by its very exaggeration intended to indicate the extravagance of grief, as well as to suggest that human tears have been freshly shed. The verses in which a woman declares that her heart has become too affectionate, since she cannot but feel for the bell-insect during a heavy shower, really bespeak the fond anxiety felt for some absent beloved, travelling in the time of the great rains. Again, in the lines about “treading on insect-voices,” the dainty scruple is uttered only as a hint of that intensification of feminine tenderness which love creates. And a still more remarkable example of this indirect double-suggestiveness is offered by the little poem prefacing this article,—

“O insect, insect!—think you that Karma can be exhausted by song?”

The Western reader would probably suppose that the insect-condition, or insect-state-of-being, is here referred to; but the real thought of thespeaker, presumably a woman, is that her own sorrow is the result of faults committed in former lives, and is therefore impossible to alleviate.

It will have been observed that a majority of the verses cited refer to autumn and to the sensations of autumn. Certainly Japanese poets have not been insensible to the real melancholy inspired by autumn,—that vague strange annual revival of ancestral pain: dim inherited sorrow of millions of memories associated through millions of years with the death of summer;—but in nearly every utterance of this melancholy, the veritable allusion is to grief of parting. With its color-changes, its leaf-whirlings, and the ghostly plaint of its insect-voices, autumn Buddhistically symbolizes impermanency, the certainty of bereavement, the pain that clings to all desire, and the sadness of isolation.

But even if these poems on insects were primarily intended to shadow amorous emotion, do they not reflect also for us the subtlest influences of nature,—wild pure nature,—upon imagination and memory? Does not the place accorded to insect-melody, in the home-life as well as in the literature of Japan, prove an æsthetic sensibility developed in directions that yet remain for us almost unexplored? Does not the shrilling booth of the insect-seller at a night-festival proclaim even a popular and universal comprehension of things divined in the West only by our rarest poets:—the pleasure-pain of autumn’s beauty, the weird sweetness of the voices of the night, the magical quickening of remembrance by echoes of forest and field? Surely we have something to learn from the people in whose mind the simple chant of a cricket can awaken whole fairy-swarms of tender and delicate fancies. We may boast of being their masters in the mechanical,—their teachers of the artificial in all its varieties of ugliness;—but in the knowledge of the natural,—in the feeling of the joy and beauty of earth,—they exceed us like the Greeks of old. Yet perhaps it will be only when our blind aggressive industrialism has wasted and sterilized their paradise,—substituting everywhere for beauty the utilitarian, the conventional, the vulgar, the utterly hideous,—that we shall begin with remorseful amazement to comprehend the charm of that which we destroyed.

My friend opened a thin yellow volume of that marvellous text which proclaims at sight the patience of the Buddhist engraver. Movable Chinese types may be very useful; but the best of which they are capable is ugliness itself when compared with the beauty of the old block-printing.

“I have a queer story for you,” he said.

“A Japanese story?”

“No,—Chinese.”

“What is the book?”

“According to Japanese pronunciation of the Chinese characters of the title, we call itMu-Mon-Kwan, which means ‘The Gateless Barrier.’ It is one of the books especially studied by the Zen sect, or sect of Dhyâna. A peculiarity of some of the Dhyâna texts,—this being a good example,—is that they are not explanatory.They only suggest. Questions are put; but the student must think out the answers for himself. He mustthinkthem out, but not write them. You know that Dhyâna represents human effort to reach, through meditation, zones of thought beyond the range of verbal expression; and any thought once narrowed into utterance loses all Dhyâna quality.... Well, this story is supposed to be true; but it is used only for a Dhyâna question. There are three different Chinese versions of it; and I can give you the substance of the three.”

Which he did as follows:—

—The story of the girl Ts’ing, which is told in the Lui-shwo-li-hwan-ki, cited by the Ching-tang-luh, and commented upon in the Wu-mu-kwan (called by the Japanese Mu-Mon-Kwan), which is a book of the Zen sect:—

There lived in Han-yang a man called Chang-Kien, whose child-daughter, Ts’ing, was of peerless beauty. He had also a nephew called Wang-Chau,—a very handsome boy. Thechildren played together, and were fond of each other. Once Kien jestingly said to his nephew:—“Some day I will marry you to my little daughter.” Both children remembered these words; and they believed themselves thus betrothed.

When Ts’ing grew up, a man of rank asked for her in marriage; and her father decided to comply with the demand. Ts’ing was greatly troubled by this decision. As for Chau, he was so much angered and grieved that he resolved to leave home, and go to another province. The next day he got a boat ready for his journey, and after sunset, without bidding farewell to any one, he proceeded up the river. But in the middle of the night he was startled by a voice calling to him, “Wait!—it is I!”—and he saw a girl running along the bank towards the boat. It was Ts’ing. Chau was unspeakably delighted. She sprang into the boat; and the lovers found their way safely to the province of Chuh.

In the province of Chuh they lived happily for six years; and they had two children. But Ts’ing could not forget her parents, and often longed to see them again. At last she said to her husband:—“Because in former time I couldnot bear to break the promise made to you, I ran away with you and forsook my parents,—although knowing that I owed them all possible duty and affection. Would it not now be well to try to obtain their forgiveness?” “Do not grieve yourself about that,” said Chau;—“we shall go to see them.” He ordered a boat to be prepared; and a few days later he returned with his wife to Han-yang.

According to custom in such cases, the husband first went to the house of Kien, leaving Ts’ing alone in the boat. Kien, welcomed his nephew with every sign of joy, and said:—

“How much I have been longing to see you! I was often afraid that something had happened to you.”

Chau answered respectfully:—

“I am distressed by the undeserved kindness of your words. It is to beg your forgiveness that I have come.”

But Kien did not seem to understand. He asked:—

“To what matter do you refer?”

“I feared,” said Chau, “that you were angry with me for having run away with Ts’ing. I took her with me to the province of Chuh.”

“What Ts’ing was that?” asked Kien.

“Your daughter Ts’ing,” answered Chau, beginning to suspect his father-in-law of some malevolent design.

“What are you talking about?” cried Kien, with every appearance of astonishment. “My daughter Ts’ing has been sick in bed all these years,—ever since the time when you went away.”

“Your daughter Ts’ing,” returned Chau, becoming angry, “has not been sick. She has been my wife for six years; and we have two children; and we have both returned to this place only to seek your pardon. Therefore please do not mock us!”

For a moment the two looked at each other in silence. Then Kien arose, and motioning to his nephew to follow, led the way to an inner room where a sick girl was lying. And Chau, to his utter amazement, saw the face of Ts’ing,—beautiful, but strangely thin and pale.

“She cannot speak,” explained the old man; “but she can understand.” And Kien said to her, laughingly:—“Chau tells me that you ran away with him, and that you gave him two children.”

The sick girl looked at Chau, and smiled; but remained silent.

“Now come with me to the river,” said the bewildered visitor to his father-in-law. “For I can assure you,—in spite of what I have seen in this house,—that your daughter Ts’ing is at this moment in my boat.”

They went to the river; and there, indeed, was the young wife, waiting. And seeing her father, she bowed down before him, and besought his pardon.

Kien said to her:—

“If you really be my daughter, I have nothing but love for you. Yet though you seem to be my daughter, there is something which I cannot understand.... Come with us to the house.”

So the three proceeded toward the house. As they neared it, they saw that the sick girl,—who had not before left her bed for years,—was coming to meet them, smiling as if much delighted. And the two Ts’ings approached each other. But then—nobody could ever tell how—they suddenly melted into each other, and became one body, one person, one Ts’ing,—even more beautiful than before, and showing no sign of sickness or of sorrow.

Kien said to Chau:—

“Ever since the day of your going, my daughter was dumb, and most of the time like a person who had taken too much wine. Now I know that her spirit was absent.”

Ts’ing herself said:—

“Really I never knew that I was at home. I saw Chau going away in silent anger; and the same night I dreamed that I ran after his boat.... But now I cannot tell which was really I,—the I that went away in the boat, or the I that stayed at home.”

“That is the whole of the story,” my friend observed. “Now there is a note about it in theMu-Mon-Kwanthat may interest you. This note says:—‘The fifth patriarch of the Zen sect once asked a priest,—”In the case of the separation of the spirit of the girl Ts’ing, which was the true Ts’ing?”’ It was only because of this question that the story was cited in the book. But the question is not answered. The author only remarks:—‘If you can decide which wasthe real Ts’ing, then you will have learned that to go out of one envelope and into another is merely like putting up at an inn. But if you have not yet reached this degree of enlightenment, take heed that you do not wander aimlessly about the world. Otherwise, when Earth, Water, Fire, and Wind shall suddenly be dissipated, you will be like a crab with seven hands and eight legs, thrown into boiling water. And in that time do not say that you were never told about theThing.’... Now theThing—”

“I do not want to hear about the Thing,” I interrupted,—“nor about the crab with seven hands and eight legs. I want to hear about the clothes.”

“What clothes?”

“At the time of their meeting, the two Ts’ings would have been differently dressed,—very differently, perhaps; for one was a maid, and the other a wife. Did the clothes of the two also blend together? Suppose that one had a silk robe and the other a robe of cotton, would these have mixed into a texture of silk and cotton? Suppose that one was wearing a blue girdle, and the other a yellow girdle, would the result have been a green girdle?... Or did one Ts’ing simply slip outof her costume, and leave it on the ground, like the cast-off shell of a cicada?”

“None of the texts say anything about the clothes,” my friend replied: “so I cannot tell you. But the subject is quite irrelevant, from the Buddhist point of view. The doctrinal question is the question of what I suppose you would call the personality of Ts’ing.”

“And yet it is not answered,” I said.

“It is best answered,” my friend replied, “by not being answered.”

“How so?”

“Because there is no such thing as personality.”

Shindaréba koso ikitaré.“Only because of having died, does one enter into life.”—Buddhist proverb.

Shindaréba koso ikitaré.

“Only because of having died, does one enter into life.”—Buddhist proverb.

Behind my dwelling, but hidden from view by a very lofty curtain of trees, there is a Buddhist temple, with a cemetery attached to it. The cemetery itself is in a grove of pines, many centuries old; and the temple stands in a great quaint lonesome garden. Its religious name isJi-shō-in; but the people call it Kobudera, which means the Gnarled, or Knobby Temple, because it is built of undressed timber,—great logs ofhinoki, selected for their beauty or strangeness of shape, and simply prepared for the builder by the removal of limbs and bark. But such gnarled and knobby wood is precious: it is of the hardest and most enduring, and costs far more than common building-material,—as might be divined from the fact that the beautiful alcoves and the choicest parts of Japanese interiors are finished with wood of a similar kind. To build Kobudera was an undertaking worthy of a prince; and, as a matter of history, it was a prince who erected it, for a place of family worship. There is a doubtful tradition that two designs were submitted to him by the architect, and that he chose the more fantastic one under the innocent impression that undressed timber would prove cheap. But whether it owes its existence to a mistake or not, Kobudera remains one of the most interesting temples of Japan. The public have now almost forgotten its existence;—but it was famous in the time of Iyemitsu; and its appellation, Ji-shō-in, was taken from the kaimyō of one of the great Shogun’s ladies, whose superb tomb may be seen in its cemetery. Before Meiji, the temple was isolated among woods and fields; but the city has now swallowed up most of the green spaces that once secluded it, and has pushed out the ugliest of new streets directly in front of its gate.

Gate of Kobudera

This gate—a structure of gnarled logs, with a tiled and tilted Chinese roof—is a fitting preface to the queer style of the temple itself. From either gable-end of the gate-roof, a demon-head, grinning under triple horns, looks down upon the visitor.[16]Within, except at the hours of prayer, all is green silence. Children do not play in thecourt—perhaps because the temple is a private one. The ground is everywhere hidden by a fine thick moss of so warm a color, that the brightest foliage of the varied shrubbery above it looks sombre by contrast; and the bases of walls, the pedestals of monuments, the stonework of the bell-tower, the masonry of the ancient well, are muffled with the same luminous growth. Maples and pines and cryptomerias screen the façade of the temple; and, if your visit be in autumn, you may find the whole court filled with the sweet heavy perfume of themokusei[17]-blossom. After having looked at the strange temple, you would find it worth while to enter the cemetery, by the black gate on the west side of the court.

I like to wander in that cemetery,—partly because in the twilight of its great trees, and in the silence of centuries which has gathered about them, one can forget the city and its turmoil, and dream out of space and time,—but much more because it is full of beauty, and of the poetry of great faith. Indeed of such poetry it possesses riches quite exceptional. Each Buddhist sect hasits own tenets, rites, and forms; and the special character of these is reflected in the iconography and epigraphy of its burial-grounds,—so that for any experienced eye a Tendai graveyard is readily distinguishable from a Shingon graveyard, or a Zen graveyard from one belonging to a Nichiren congregation. But at Kobudera the inscriptions and the sculptures peculiar to several Buddhist sects can be studied side by side. Founded for the Hokké, or Nichiren rite, the temple nevertheless passed, in the course of generations, under the control of other sects—the last being the Tendai;—and thus its cemetery now offers a most interesting medley of the emblems and the epitaphic formularies of various persuasions. It was here that I first learned, under the patient teaching of an Oriental friend, something about the Buddhist literature of the dead.

No one able to feel beauty could refuse to confess the charm of the old Buddhist cemeteries,—with their immemorial trees, their evergreen mazes of shrubbery trimmed into quaintest shapes, the carpet-softness of their mossed paths, the weird but unquestionable art of their monuments. And no great knowledge of Buddhism isneeded to enable you, even at first sight, to understand something of this art. You would recognize the lotos chiselled upon tombs or water-tanks, and would doubtless observe that the designs of the pedestals represent a lotos of eight petals,—though you might not know that these eight petals symbolize the Eight Intelligences. You would recognize themanji, or svastika, figuring the Wheel of the Law,—though ignorant of its relation to the Mahâyâna philosophy. You would perhaps be able to recognize also the images of certain Buddhas,—though not aware of the meaning of their attitudes or emblems in relation to mystical ecstasy or to the manifestation of the Six Supernatural Powers. And you would be touched by the simple pathos of the offerings,—the incense and the flowers before the tombs, the water poured out for the dead,—even though unable to divine the deeper pathos of the beliefs that make the cult. But unless an excellent Chinese scholar as well as a Buddhist philosopher, all book-knowledge of the great religion would still leave you helpless in a world of riddles. The marvellous texts,—the exquisite Chinese scriptures chiselled into the granite of tombs, or limned by a master-brush upon thesmooth wood of thesotoba,—will yield their secrets only to an interpreter of no common powers. And the more you become familiar with their aspect, the more the mystery of them tantalizes,—especially after you have learned that a literal translation of them would mean, in the majority of cases, exactly nothing!

What strange thoughts have been thus recorded and yet concealed? Are they complex and subtle as the characters that stand for them? Are they beautiful also like those characters,—with some undreamed-of, surprising beauty, such as might inform the language of another planet?

As for subtlety and complexity, much of this mortuary literature is comparable to the Veil of Isis. Behind the mystery of the text—in which almost every character has two readings—there is the mystery of the phrase; and again behind this are successions of riddles belonging to a gnosticism older than all the wisdom of the Occident, and deep as the abysses of Space. Fortunately the most occult texts are also the leastinteresting, and bear little relation to the purpose of this essay. The majority are attached, not to the sculptured, but to the written and impermanent literature of cemeteries,—not to the stone monuments, but to the sotoba: those tall narrow laths of unpainted wood which are planted above the graves at fixed, but gradually increasing intervals, during a period of one hundred years.[18]

Sotoba in Kobudera Cemetery(The upper characters are “Bonti”—modified Sanskrit)

The uselessness of any exact translation of these inscriptions may be exemplified by a word-for-word rendering of two sentences written upon the sotoba used by the older sects. What meaning can you find in such a term as “Law-sphere-substance-nature-wisdom,” or such an invocation as “Ether, Wind, Fire, Water, Earth!”—for an invocation it really is? To understand thesewords one must first know that, in the doctrine of the mystical sects, the universe is composed of Five Great Elements which are identical with Five Buddhas; that each of the Five Buddhas contains the rest; and that the Five are One by essence, though varying in their phenomenal manifestations. The name of an element has thus three significations. The word Fire, for example, means flame as objective appearance; it means flame also as the manifestation of a particular Buddha; and it likewise means the special quality of wisdom or power attributed to that Buddha. Perhaps this doctrine will be more easily understood by the help of the following Shingon classification of the Five Elements in their Buddhist relations:—

I.Hō-kai-tai-shō-chi(Sansc. Dhârma-dhâtu-prakrit-gñâna), or “Law-sphere-substance-nature-wisdom,”—signifying the wisdom that becomes the substance of things. This is the element Ether. Ether personified is Dai-Nichi-Nyōrai, the “Great Sun-Buddha” (Mahâvairokana Tathâgata), who “holds the seal of Wisdom.”II.Dai-en-kyō-chi(Âdarsana-gñâna), or “Great-round-mirror-wisdom,”—that is to say the divine power making images manifest. This is the element Earth. Earth personified is Ashuku Nyōrai, the “Immovable Tathâgata” (Akshobhya).III.Byō-dō-shō-chi(Samatâ-gñâna), “Even-equal-nature-wisdom,”—that is, the wisdom making no distinction of persons or of things. The element Fire. Personified, Fire is Hō-shō Nyōrai, or “Gem-Birth” Buddha (Ratnasambhava Tathâgata), presiding over virtue and happiness.IV.Myō-kwan-zatsu-chi(Pratyavekshana-gñâna), “Wondrously-observing-considering-wisdom;”—that is, the wisdom distinguishing clearly truth from error, destroying doubts, and presiding over the preaching of the Law. The element Water. Water personified is Amida Nyōrai, the Buddha of Immeasurable Light (Amitâbha Tathâgata).V.Jō-shō-sa-chi(Krityânushthâna-gñâna), the “Wisdom-of-accomplishing-what-is-to-be-done;”—that is to say, the divine wisdom that helps beings to reach Nirvana. The element Air. Air personified is Fu-kū-jō-ju, the “Unfailing-of-Accomplishment,”—more commonly called Fuku-Nyōrai (Amoghasiddhi, or Sâkyamuni).[19]

I.Hō-kai-tai-shō-chi

(Sansc. Dhârma-dhâtu-prakrit-gñâna), or “Law-sphere-substance-nature-wisdom,”—signifying the wisdom that becomes the substance of things. This is the element Ether. Ether personified is Dai-Nichi-Nyōrai, the “Great Sun-Buddha” (Mahâvairokana Tathâgata), who “holds the seal of Wisdom.”

II.Dai-en-kyō-chi

(Âdarsana-gñâna), or “Great-round-mirror-wisdom,”—that is to say the divine power making images manifest. This is the element Earth. Earth personified is Ashuku Nyōrai, the “Immovable Tathâgata” (Akshobhya).

III.Byō-dō-shō-chi

(Samatâ-gñâna), “Even-equal-nature-wisdom,”—that is, the wisdom making no distinction of persons or of things. The element Fire. Personified, Fire is Hō-shō Nyōrai, or “Gem-Birth” Buddha (Ratnasambhava Tathâgata), presiding over virtue and happiness.

IV.Myō-kwan-zatsu-chi

(Pratyavekshana-gñâna), “Wondrously-observing-considering-wisdom;”—that is, the wisdom distinguishing clearly truth from error, destroying doubts, and presiding over the preaching of the Law. The element Water. Water personified is Amida Nyōrai, the Buddha of Immeasurable Light (Amitâbha Tathâgata).

V.Jō-shō-sa-chi

(Krityânushthâna-gñâna), the “Wisdom-of-accomplishing-what-is-to-be-done;”—that is to say, the divine wisdom that helps beings to reach Nirvana. The element Air. Air personified is Fu-kū-jō-ju, the “Unfailing-of-Accomplishment,”—more commonly called Fuku-Nyōrai (Amoghasiddhi, or Sâkyamuni).[19]

Now the doctrine that each of the Five Buddhas contains the rest, and that all are essentially One,is symbolized in these texts by an extraordinary use of characters calledBon-ji,—which are recognizably Sanscrit letters. The name of each element can be written with any one of four characters,—all having for Buddhists the same meaning, though differing as to sound and form. Thus the characters standing for Fire would read, according to Japanese pronunciation,Ra,Ran,Raän, andRaku;—and the characters signifying Ether,Kya,Ken,Keën, andKyaku. By different combinations of the twenty characters making the five sets, different supernatural powers and different Buddhas are indicated; and the indication is further helped by an additional symbolic character, calledShū-jior “seed-word,” placed immediately after the names of the elements. The reader will now comprehend the meaning of the invocatory “Ether, Wind, Fire, Water, Earth!” and of the strange names of divine wisdom written upon sotoba; but the enigmas offered by even a single sotoba may be much more complicated than the foregoing examples suggest. There are unimaginable acrostics; there are rules, varying according to sect, for the position of texts in relation to the points of the compass; and there are kabalismsbased upon the multiple values of certain Chinese ideographs. The whole subject of esoteric inscriptions would require volumes to explain; and the reader will not be sorry, I fancy, to abandon it at this point in favor of texts possessing a simpler and a more humane interest.

The really attractive part of Buddhist cemetery-literature mostly consists of sentences taken from the sûtras or the sastras; and the attraction is due not only to the intrinsic beauty of the faith which these sentences express, but also to the fact that they will be found to represent, in epitome, a complete body of Buddhist doctrine. Like the mystical inscriptions above-mentioned, they belong to the sotoba, not to the gravestones; but, while the invocations usually occupy the upper and front part of the sotoba, these sutra-texts are commonly written upon the back. In addition to scriptural and invocatory texts, each sotoba bears the name of the giver, the kaimyō of the dead, and the name of a commemorative anniversary. Sometimes a brief prayer is also inscribed, or a statement of the pious purpose inspiring the erection of the sotoba. Before considering the scripture-texts proper, in relation to their embodiment of doctrine, I submit examples of the general character and plan of sotoba inscriptions. They are written upon both sides of the wood, be it observed; but I have not thought it necessary to specify which texts belong to the front, and which to the back of the sotoba,—since the rules concerning such position differ according to sect:—

I.—Sotoba of the Nichiren Sect.(Invocation.)Ether, Wind, Fire, Water, Earth!—Hail to the Sutra of the Lotos of the Good Law!(Commemorative text.)To-day, the service of the third year has been performed in order that our lay-brother [kaimyō] may be enabled to cut off the bonds of illusion, to open the Eye of Enlightenment, to remain free from all pain, and to enter into bliss.(Sastra text.)Myō-hō-kyō-riki-soku-shin-jō-butsu!Even this body [of flesh] by the virtue of the Sutra of the Excellent Law, enters into Buddhahood.II.—Sotoba of the Nichiren Sect.(Invocation.)Hail to the Sutra of the Lotos of the Good Law!(Commemorative text.)The rite of feeding the hungry spirits having been fulfilled, and the service for the dead having been performed, this sotoba is set up in commemoration of the service and the offerings made with prayer for the salvation of Buddha on behalf of—(kaimyōfollows).(Prayer—with English translation.)Gan i shi kudokuFu-gyū o issaiGatō yo shujōKai-gu jō butsudo.By virtue of this good action I beseech that the merit of it may be extended to all, and that we and all living beings may fulfil the Way of Buddha.[20]The fifth day of the seventh month of the thirtieth year of Meiji, by —— ——, this sotoba has been set up.III.—Sotoba of the Jōdo Sect.(Invocation.)Hail to the Buddha Amida!(Commemorative mention.)This for the sake of—(here kaimyōfollows).(Sutra text.)The Buddha of the Golden Mouth, who possesses the Great-Round-Mirror-Wisdom,[21]has said: “The glorious light of Amida illuminates all the worlds of the Ten Directions, and takes into itself and never abandons all living beings who fix their thoughts upon that Buddha!”IV.—Sotoba of the Zen Sect.(Sastra text.)The Dai-en-kyō-chi-kyō declares:—“By entering deeply into meditation, one may behold the Buddhas of the Ten Directions.”(Commemorative text.)That the noble Elder Sister[22]Chi-Shō-In-Kō-Un-Tei-Myō,[23]now dwelling in the House of Shining Wisdom, may instantly attain to Bodhi.[24](Prayer.)Let whomsoever looks upon this sotoba be forever delivered from the Three Evil Ways.[25](Record.)In the thirtieth year of Meiji, on the first day of the fifth month, by the house of Inouyé, this sotoba has been set up.

I.—Sotoba of the Nichiren Sect.

(Invocation.)

Ether, Wind, Fire, Water, Earth!—Hail to the Sutra of the Lotos of the Good Law!

(Commemorative text.)

To-day, the service of the third year has been performed in order that our lay-brother [kaimyō] may be enabled to cut off the bonds of illusion, to open the Eye of Enlightenment, to remain free from all pain, and to enter into bliss.

(Sastra text.)

Myō-hō-kyō-riki-soku-shin-jō-butsu!

Even this body [of flesh] by the virtue of the Sutra of the Excellent Law, enters into Buddhahood.

II.—Sotoba of the Nichiren Sect.

(Invocation.)

Hail to the Sutra of the Lotos of the Good Law!

(Commemorative text.)

The rite of feeding the hungry spirits having been fulfilled, and the service for the dead having been performed, this sotoba is set up in commemoration of the service and the offerings made with prayer for the salvation of Buddha on behalf of—(kaimyōfollows).

(Prayer—with English translation.)

Gan i shi kudokuFu-gyū o issaiGatō yo shujōKai-gu jō butsudo.

By virtue of this good action I beseech that the merit of it may be extended to all, and that we and all living beings may fulfil the Way of Buddha.[20]

The fifth day of the seventh month of the thirtieth year of Meiji, by —— ——, this sotoba has been set up.

III.—Sotoba of the Jōdo Sect.

(Invocation.)

Hail to the Buddha Amida!

(Commemorative mention.)

This for the sake of—(here kaimyōfollows).

(Sutra text.)

The Buddha of the Golden Mouth, who possesses the Great-Round-Mirror-Wisdom,[21]has said: “The glorious light of Amida illuminates all the worlds of the Ten Directions, and takes into itself and never abandons all living beings who fix their thoughts upon that Buddha!”

IV.—Sotoba of the Zen Sect.

(Sastra text.)

The Dai-en-kyō-chi-kyō declares:—“By entering deeply into meditation, one may behold the Buddhas of the Ten Directions.”

(Commemorative text.)

That the noble Elder Sister[22]Chi-Shō-In-Kō-Un-Tei-Myō,[23]now dwelling in the House of Shining Wisdom, may instantly attain to Bodhi.[24]

(Prayer.)

Let whomsoever looks upon this sotoba be forever delivered from the Three Evil Ways.[25]

(Record.)

In the thirtieth year of Meiji, on the first day of the fifth month, by the house of Inouyé, this sotoba has been set up.

The foregoing will doubtless suffice as specimens of the ordinary forms of inscription. The Buddha praised or invoked is always the Buddha especially revered by the sect from whose sutra or sastra the quotation is chosen;—sometimes also the divine power of a Bodhisattva is extolled, as in the following Zen inscription:—

“The Sutra of Kwannon says:—‘In all the provinces of all the countries in the Ten Directions, there is not even one temple where Kwannon is not self-revealed.’”

Sometimes the scripture text more definitely assumes the character of a praise-offering, as the following juxtaposition suggests:—

“The Buddha of Immeasurable Light illuminates all worlds in the Ten Directions of Space.”This for the sake of the swift salvation into Buddhahood of our lay-brother named the Great-Secure-Retired-Scholar.

“The Buddha of Immeasurable Light illuminates all worlds in the Ten Directions of Space.”

This for the sake of the swift salvation into Buddhahood of our lay-brother named the Great-Secure-Retired-Scholar.

Sometimes we also find a verse of praise or an invocation addressed to the apotheosized spirit of the founder of the sect,—a common example being furnished by the sotoba of the Shingon rite:—

“Hail to the Great Teacher Haijō-Kongō!”[26]

Rarely the little prayer for the salvation of the dead assumes, as in the following beautiful example, the language of unconscious poetry:—

“This for the sake of our noble Elder Sister ----. May the Lotos of Bliss by virtue of these prayers be made to bloom for her, and to bear the fruit of Buddhahood!”[27]

But usually the prayers are of the simplest, and differ from each other only in the use of peculiar Buddhist terms:—

—“This for the sake of the true happiness of our lay-brother—[kaimyō],—that he may obtain the Supreme Perfect Enlightenment.”—“This tower is set up for the sake of ——, that he may obtain complete Sambodhi.”[28]—“This precious tower and these offerings for the sake of —— ——,—that he may obtain theAnattra-Sammyak-Sambodhi.”[29]

—“This for the sake of the true happiness of our lay-brother—[kaimyō],—that he may obtain the Supreme Perfect Enlightenment.”

—“This tower is set up for the sake of ——, that he may obtain complete Sambodhi.”[28]

—“This precious tower and these offerings for the sake of —— ——,—that he may obtain theAnattra-Sammyak-Sambodhi.”[29]

One other subject of interest belonging to the merely commemorative texts of sotoba remains to be mentioned,—the names of certain Buddhist services for the dead. There are two classes of such services: those performed within one hundred days after death, and those celebrated at fixed intervals during a term of one hundred years,—on the 1st, 2d, 7th, 13th, 17th, 24th, 33d, 50th, and 100th anniversaries of the death. In the Zen rite these commemorative services—(perhaps we might call them masses)—have singular mystical names by which they are recorded upon the sotoba of the sect,—suchas Lesser Happiness, Greater Happiness, Broad Repose, The Bright Caress, and The Great Caress.

But we shall now turn to the study of the scripture-texts proper,—those citations from sûtra or sastra which form the main portion of a sotoba-writing; expounding the highest truth of Buddhist belief, or speaking the deepest thought of Eastern philosophy.

At the beginning of my studies in the Kobudera cemetery, I was not less impressed by the quiet cheerfulness of the sotoba-texts, than by their poetry and their philosophy. In none did I find even a shadow of sadness: the greater number were utterances of a faith that seemed to me wider and deeper than our own,—sublime proclamations of the eternal and infinite nature of Thought, the unity of all mind, and the certainty of universal salvation. And other surprises awaited me in this strange literature. Texts or fragments of texts, that at first rendering appeared of the simplest, would yield to learnedcommentary profundities of significance absolutely startling. Phrases, seemingly artless, would suddenly reveal a dual suggestiveness,—a two-fold idealism,—a beauty at once exoteric and mystical. Of this latter variety of inscription the following is a good example:—

“The flower having bloomed last night, the World has become fragrant.”[30]

In the language of the higher Buddhism, this means that through death a spirit has been released from the darkness of illusion, even as the perfume of a blossom is set free at the breaking of the bud, and that the divine Absolute, or World of Law, is refreshed by the new presence, as a whole garden might be made fragrant by the blooming of some precious growth. But in the popular language of Buddhism, the same words signify that in the Lotos-Lake of Paradise another magical flower has opened for the Apparitional Rebirth into highest bliss of the being loved and lost on earth, and that Heaven rejoices for the advent of another Buddha.

But I desire rather to represent the general result of my studies, than to point out the specialbeauties of this epitaphic literature: and my purpose will be most easily attained by arranging and considering the inscriptions in a certain doctrinal order.

A great variety of sotoba-texts refer, directly or indirectly, to the Lotos-Flower Paradise of Amida,—or, as it is more often called, the Paradise of the West. The following are typical:—

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