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about his secret mission, the high Lama Sengchen knew at once that death was at his door, but was not afraid. For, when it was hinted at by his friends that he would become involved in a serious predicament, owing to his acquaintance with Rai Saraṭ, he replied that he had always considered it his heaven-ordained work to try to propagate and to perpetuate Buḍḍhism, not among his own countrymen only, but among the whole human race; that whether or not Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās was a man who had entered Tibet with the object of “stealing away Buḍḍhism,” or to play the part of a spy, was not his concern—the question had in any case never occurred to him—and that if he were to suffer death for having done what he had regarded it as his duty to do, he could not help it. That this holy Lama was an advocate of active propagandism may be gathered from the fact that, besides sending various Buḍḍhistic images and ritualistic utensils to India, he had caused several persons to go out there as missionaries, my teacher, the Manchurian Lama Serab Gyamtso, in the Ghoompahl Temple of Darjeeling, being one of these. Unfortunately, this undertaking did not prove a success, but none the less it shows the lofty aspirations which actuated the high Lama, who, as I was told, had deeply lamented the decadence, or rather the almost entire disappearance, of Buḍḍhism in the land of its origin, and was sincerely anxious to revive it there. It is nothing uncommon in Japan to meet with Buḍḍhist priests interested in the work or idea of foreign propagandism; but a person so minded is an extreme rarity in that hermit-country Tibet, and that Lama Sengchen was such a one indicates the greatness of his character, and that he was a man above sectarian differences and international prejudices, solely given to the noble idea of universal brotherhood under Buḍḍhism. Being the man he was, he had many enemies among the high officials of the hierarchical Government, who were in constant watch for an opportunity to bring about his downfall. To these, his enemies, the rumor about Prof. Saraṭ was a welcome one, which they lost no time in turning to account. In all haste they despatched men to Darjeeling, and ascertained that, in truth, Rai Saraṭ had smuggled himself into and out of Tibet, and that, as the fact was, he had done so at the request of the British Government of India. Then followed the incarceration, already mentioned, of all those who had had anything to do with Rai Saraṭ, the final upshot of which was sentence of death upon the high Lama Sengchen Dorjechan, on the ground that the latter had harbored in his temple, and divulged national secrets to, a foreign emissary. The holy man’s execution was carried out on a certain day of June, 1887, and took the form of sinking him till he became drowned in the river Konbo, which is a local name given to the great Brahmapuṭra. As I recall the scene of that occasion, as I heard it described, I see before my eyes the tear-drenched face of my friend Lama Shabdung, who, struggling with emotion, would often tell me what he witnessed on that day. Surrounded by an immense crowd of sympathising and sobbing people, the noble Lama was found seated, and reading the sacred Text, on a large piece of rock overhanging a side of the river, as the hour of his execution approached. He was clothed in a coarse white fabric, and looked serenely calm and perfectly composed, as he gave an order to his executioners in these words: “When, in a little while, I have finished reading the holy Text, I will shake this my finger three times thus, and that will be the signal for you to sink me in the river.” The instruction was in response to a question, if the high Lama wanted to say or have done anything ere his execution, asked by one of the executioners, who was already tying around the holy man’s body one end of a thick rope, with which he was to be lowered under the water. In the meantime, the suspense grew intense and the great multitude that had gathered around had become blind to everything but the mighty, cruel waters of the Brahmapuṭra, the executioners, and the holy priest, and deaf to all but their own sobbings and wailings. They saw before them a man of their hearts, of national esteem, profound in learning and saintly in behavior, who, as a priest of the highest order, should wear three layers of red and yellow silk, but who was wrapped in an unclean prison-suit of white, and was now to die a victim to his enemies’ malice. They knew all was not right, but they knew not how to undo the wrong, and they appealed to their own tears. As it happened, the day had been cloudy, and rain had even begun to come down in drops as the high Lama raised one of his hands, the purpose of which act was all too evident, and lamentation became loud and universal. Once, twice, and three times the noble prisoner had shaken his finger, but none of the executioners dared to come forward—they were in tears themselves. Then the high Lama said: “My time is come: what are ye doing? Speed me under water.” Thereupon, with heavy hands and heavier hearts the executioners, after having weighted the high Lama’s loins with a large stone, slowly lowered the whole burden into the rushing waters of the Brahmapuṭra. After a while they pulled up what they expected to have become the remains of the saintly man, but finding that life had not yet departed, they again went through the drowning process. When for a second time they raised the body, they found life still lingering in it. The multitude, which saw how things went, became clamorous in their demand that the holy man be now saved; while the executioners themselves seemed unnerved and unable to go to their cruel duty a third time. As the moments of indecision sped by, the high Lama, most wonderful to tell, recovered sufficient strength to speak, and say: “Lament ye not my death. For my phase of activity having come to an end, I now depart with gratification, and that means that my evil past ceases, so that my good future may begin—it is not ye that kill me. All that I wish for, after my death, is a greater and ever-growing prosperity for Buḍḍhism in Tibet. Now make ye haste, and sink me under the water.” Thus urged, the executioners, sorrow-ridden, obeyed the order, and they saw that life, in sooth, had departed at the third raising of the body. Then, as the custom is in Tibet, they severed all the limbs from the high Lama’s remains, and threw the different parts separately into the stream, thus ending the grim business of execution. It will be admitted by all, especially by all Buḍḍhists, that there was something loftily admirable in the personality of a man who had done and given his all for his faith and religion, and yet uttered not a word of complaint against Providence or man, but, in serene, noble meekness, met his most unmerited and most agonising death. As for me, besides finding it most affecting, I felt a peculiarly direct interest in the story of this high Lama’s execution, from the moment when I was told of it for the first time. For, was I not on my way to Tibet? Should I succeed in my purpose? Who could tell but that there might be a repetition of that sad and cruel scene?
THE LAMA’S EXECUTION.
CHAPTER IV.
Laying a false scent.
I rose early on the New Year’s day of 1898, and spent the greater part of the morning, as was usual with me, in reading the sacred Text in honor of the day, and also in praying for the health and long life of their Majesties the Emperor and the Empress, and his Highness, the Crown Prince, and for the prosperity of Japan. The New Year’s uta[1] which I composed on the occasion was as follows:
In glory yonder, lo! the New Year’s Sun,
His coruscating grateful beams forthshoots,
Diffusing lucid roses on the snows
That flash in dazzling spangles bright and clear;
That Sun, the symbol on the Japan-flag
My fancy lights with patriotic thrills.
I spent the twelve months following in closely devoting myself to the study, and in efforts at the practical mastery, of the Tibetan tongue, with the result that, toward the close of the year, I had become fairly confident of my own proficiency in the use of the language both in its literary and vernacular forms; and I made up my mind to start for my destination with the coming of the year 1899. Then, it became a momentous question for me to decide upon the route to take in entering Tibet.
Besides the secret path, the Khambu-Rong, i.e.,
