Visions of the Buddha Eviatar Shulman

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Visions of the Buddha
 Visions of the Buddha
Creative Dimensions of Early Buddhist Scripture
EVIATAR SHULMAN
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2021942901

ISBN 978–0–19–758786–7
eISBN 978–0–19–758788–1

DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197587867.001.0001
 For Yara,
Creativity itself
 Contents

Preface
Acknowledgments

PART I. THE LITERARY APPROACH TO THE EARLY DISCOURSES

1.Introduction: Rereading the Udumbarika-sutta
A First Textual Analysis: Why the Udumbarika-sutta?
The Formulaic Opening of the Mahāsakuludāyi-sutta as a
Literary Preamble to the Udumbarika
The Opening of the Pāli Udumbarika-sutta
The Philosophy of the Udumbarika
Versions of the Udumbarika-sutta
Conclusion
2.Literary Design in the Early Discourses
Multivalence in the Majjhima Nikāya: A Reading of the
Cūlataṇhāsankhaya-sutta
The Art of Narrative in the Sīla-kkhandha-vagga I: The
Brahmajāla
The Art of Narrative in the Sīla-kkhandha-vagga II: The
Sāmaññaphala
Applying and Reapplying the SKV Formula
What Is Editing?
Conclusion: The Art of Interpretation in the Nikāyas

PART II. INNER AND OUTER WORLDS OF LITERARY EXPRESSION

3.Mindfulness of the Buddha in the Mahāparinibbāna-sutta
Reading and Listening to the Mahāparinibbāna-sutta (MPS)
The Climax: The Buddha Relinquishes His Life
Nearing the Buddha’s Death
 Death and Its Aftermath
Epilogue: Ānanda’s Visualization of the Buddha before
Enlightenment
4.The Folklore of Sutta: Performance in the Early Discourses, and
Texts as Versions
Buddhist Fun in the Pāṭika-sutta
The Pāṭika as a Version
A Doctrinal Version
The Buddha’s Perplexing Austerities in the Mahāsīhanāda
Bring in the Jātakas
The Closing Section of the Pāṭika
Conclusion

PART III. COMPOSING BUDDHIST SCRIPTURE THROUGH THE PLAY

OF FORMULAS
5.The Play of Formulas: Toward a Theory of Composition for the
Early Discourses
The Perils of Historicism in Buddhist Studies
Literary Solutions to Historicist Fallacies
The Primacy of the Formula
An Alternative Approach
The Play of Formulas and the Unanswered Questions
Playing with Formulas on Brahmin-Householders
Conclusion: Buddhist Orality Revisited
6.Retelling the Buddha’s Enlightenment in the Majjhima Nikāya
Awakening in the Bhayabherava-sutta (“The Discourse on
Fear and Dread,” MN 4)
The Dvedhāvitakka-sutta (“The Discourse on Two Types of
Thoughts,” MN 19)
The Ariyapariyesanā-sutta (“The Discourse on the Noble
Search,” MN 26)
The Mahāsaccaka-sutta (“The Greater Discourse with
Saccaka,” MN 36)
The Bodhirājakumāra-sutta (“The Discourse to Prince
Bodhi,” MN 85)
 The Saṅgārava-sutta (“The Discourse to Saṅgārava,” MN
100)
Conclusion
7.Conclusion: The Play of Formulas and Meditative Practice

Bibliography
Index
 Preface

The main idea raised in this book is quite simple—that the early
discourses attributed by tradition to the historical Buddha, the texts
that purport to reveal his words, ideas, and instructions, are no less
a creative act of the Buddhist textual tradition and imagination than
an attempt to preserve his words or to relate the historical events of
his life. This understanding of the texts is quite different from the
one that is common both in popular perception and in scholarly
understanding, in the Buddhist world and in the modern West alike.
Even if some of us have learned to be suspicious of our intellectual
tendency to take scripture as an immediate and self-evident source
of authority, scripture has a special power, and it speaks authority
effortlessly; there still, we may admit, lurks in our minds an
underlying security—that the texts offer an epistemological
foundation, that somewhere in their midst can be found the truth, so
that if we clear away the right kinds of debris, we will know what
underlies the later accumulation of fantasy.
And indeed, this must be right; so much has been put into the
texts, perhaps the very best of human endeavor, of the humane
hope for a better reality and a more fulfilling life, so much effort has
been invested in the beautification of textual vision, that the texts
must tell us something very real about the life of tradition in its
earlier stages and about its foundational moments. Texts, in the
present case—foundational religious texts—are a very serious
business. But are they not playful as well? Are they not moved by a
vision or inspiration that explores its own potential no less than it
describes clearly defined ideas or portrays its idiosyncratic
understanding of historical events? And is this understanding not
itself a creative act of the imagination, driven both by lived realities
and by an impulse to change and retell them, and thereby to find
new expression for religious, or plainly human, consciousness?
Would one’s intuitions and insights about the Buddha not be part of
the way one told his or her story?
The texts are about the real; or better—they are about envisioning
and founding the real, about a creative, constitutive act that is at the
heart of scripture. Yet even this understanding, which posits
scripture as a subjective act rather than as an objective reality, rests
on a dichotomy between the real and the unreal that we can no
longer uphold. If we are to understand religious scripture, we must
shake away the remnants of an intellectual heritage that
distinguishes between essence and form, between abstract and
concrete, between underlying reality and surface facts, between the
historical or philosophical and the fantastical, between true and
false. Religious scripture—for us, again, mainly the words
represented as the Buddha’s own—conveys the truths of the
Buddha’s time, together with the truths of the times that shaped and
reworked the texts, yet this or these truths were never one-
dimensional, never straightforward and carefully bounded, never
static and uniform. Like our own speech, and probably even more
so, the Buddha’s words spoke on different levels to different crowds
and peoples. As these words were put into narrative context, they
further changed according to the consciousness of the time, in
tandem with new needs and impulses, fitting and giving voice to the
new visions of the people that shaped them—authors, editors,
collectors, reciters, and audiences. The Buddhist texts are, in this
sense, visions of the Buddha, both searching for him in the abysses
of memory or of history, and creating him anew ever again in the
evolving realities of tradition. The texts aim to reveal not just what
happened in the past, but how the past is perceived during the very
act of constituting scripture in the present.
The present work is mainly a detailed analysis of a selection of
prominent early Buddhist discourses from the so-called Pāli canon,
which aims to shed light on some of these texts’ creative
dimensions. Whether and to what degree these works were
considered “canonical” is less important for now than the fact that
these are distinctive and cherished specimens of foundational
Buddhist scripture. Religious Buddhist texts are deeply imaginative
and inventive; one of the main goals of this study is to identify some
of the rhetorical and artistic vectors within the corpus of Buddhist
scripture, and to draw the contours of the literary and aesthetic
faces of the early discourses. Observing some of the literary
techniques active in the suttas (the early discourses) will lead us to
see the contemplative, visionary element alive in the tradition, as
part of the established meditative practice of Buddha-anusmṛti,
“mindfulness of the Buddha.” Buddhist texts are meant to move
people, to cause them to engage emotionally with the master, to feel
his unique presence even in his absence, and to delve ever more
deeply into the mystery of his presence. The texts are designed to
produce a sense of beauty at his unique being, and to allow devotion
to grow in his followers’ hearts. The texts, also, aim to entertain.
There is one particularly fascinating manner in which the creative
activity we are identifying is materialized in the suttas. These
“discourses” were originally an oral literature, which was composed
of generally fixed and carefully patterned prose formulas. There is a
vast pool of such formulas that was available to the authors of the
discourses, some of which are more narrative in their character,
while others concern doctrine. A key idea of this study, which I call
the play of formulas, is that formulas, rather than discourses, are the
base level of the early literature, so that a legitimate discourse can
be composed by playfully combining formulas in whatever way tells
a good story; good stories can also bring out the deeper significance
of doctrine. This means that formulas are not a mere mnemonic
technique, but an aesthetic device as well. There are specific
formulas used to depict encounters with particular crowds—such as
Brahmins or rival ascetic teachers—and fixed literary trajectories
according to which a text may be put together. Although there was
always room for more creativity, and new formulas must have been
added with time, and although formulas could be combined with
each other and reworked in different ways, the basic technique of
composing the texts that we find today in the “Basket of Discourses”
(Sutta-piṭaka), and especially in the collections of “Longer and
Middle-Length Discourses” (Dīgha and Majjhima Nikāya), involved
making aesthetically pleasing combinations of the legitimate building
blocks of formulas.
There was much inspiration at work while the Buddhist textual
corpus was evolving. Authors were trying not only to record, but to
express; editors were not just collecting, but shaping and reshaping;
transmitters were not merely preserving but emotively playing on
their own and their audiences’ sensitivities, offering consolation and
entertainment. This work thus aims to retrieve the Buddhist texts
from the forceful grasp of overly conservative, even defensive,
scholarship. Although the tradition surely had its conservative sides,
and these are also important for understanding Buddhist scripture,
the almost exclusive focus these aspects of the texts have received
from scholars may obscure a crucial element of religious life.
While the heart of the argument I develop concerns the nature of
Buddhist texts, it is important to notice the broader point that
emerges in the analysis of scripture as an analytical category in the
study of religion. This is that scripture is never a dry recording of
events or doctrines, but is a creative act, which is reconstituted at
every moment in which it is used. Yes, the texts are ostensibly about
the Buddha. But the act of returning to the Buddha happens in the
here and now, and the Buddha of today is not that of yesterday, not
only because the times have changed, but also because the very act
of repetition and reconstitution changes both the subjects
performing the act and the object they are turning toward. Scripture
is the act of shaping memory into the present, and this act is
inspired and innovative, while being at the same time a faithful
representation of traditional patterns of thought. The act of scripture
is filled with longing and care (even if not only that), so that the
Buddha—in the present case; the same could be said about other
foundational figures and events—is, at times, almost an excuse for
the working of inspiration. This is a pragmatic understanding of
scripture as revelation.
We often think of the earthly motivations behind religion, and
indeed these are not always inspiring. And certainly, ritual, the body,
and the material constitute important aspects in the cultural role
played by these foundational texts. But when we look at scripture,
we must also see how carefully crafted it is, how much inspiration is
ensconced within the words of the texts, how much longing the
words carry. We know very well that so much of the genius of art in
the history of humanity has worked in the service of religious
expression; it is only natural to find much of the same creative
capacity alive in the texts, at first oral and later written, so that this
creativity must have been part of what put the texts together to
begin with. This means that the texts carry some of the central
impulses in the founding of the tradition, which may reveal some of
the ways the religion came together, but at the same time they do
this through much inventive inspiration and even playful
engagement. Experiencing and reporting the events of the time, and
of the later times that left their imprints on the texts while they were
taking shape, happened through a creativity that is a vital element in
the nature of scripture. As scholars, our job in deciphering the
tradition and facing its mysteries is thus not only to see how texts
took shape as artifacts, but also to understand the subjective
attitudes and processes that shaped the texts; this will probably tell
us more about the tradition than a study that focuses on texts as
things.
In the kaleidoscopic reality of change the Buddhists call
paṭiccasamuppāda—dependent origination, in which each and every
fact or idea is a product of a vast web of conditioning, which will
never be exhausted1—scripture mixes fact and fantasy, and is
packed with the different voices and dimensions it gives expression
to, while these continue to change and evolve within themselves.
The texts have some historical memory in them; they are also
literature—good, inspiring, and edifying stories, well told by expert
storytellers; they relate a philosophy, or a set of philosophies, but at
the same time are meant to arouse and to generate aesthetic and
emotional experiences. These emotions play on different
psychological registers, reminding people of what to them was or is
home or love, or of what home and love can never be. These
emotions can also be devotional, and they can work just as much to
create a sense of community and of social order, telling us who and
what we are and what we believe. The stories can also be plain fun,
quality entertainment, which also reinforces ethical boundaries and
teaches society its moral structures. The texts express all this and
more—the depths of ideology and cultural understanding, as well as
the weaving together of personal and public identities.
The early Buddhist discourses, and with them scripture in general,
is thereby kaleidoscopic in the manner in which different domains
are reflected in each other. Yet much like the kaleidoscope, these
domains continue to change and evolve, drawing in new materials
and creating new meaning, not only through the passage of time,
but by their dense constitution, which can never be exhausted by
study. When the Buddha meets a rival teacher, for example, there is
so much that is happening on so many of these levels, that the
kaleidoscope is continuing to revolve and reflect.
And the texts were created with some of these understanding at
least semi-conscious in the minds of their authors. The Buddhist
visions that were alive as the texts were composed were legitimate
patterns of perception that told the truth, even though this was not
what we define as historical truth, or if they traveled a great
distance as they were codified and continued to evolve afterward.
This is not a mistake on the part of authors who were just, as it
were, not sharp enough to analytically distinguish between fact and
fantasy. The mistake, rather, is ours, who cannot contemplate
enough dimensions, who must flatten things down to yes-or-no,
black-or-white, true-or-false, so that we fail to see how much our
own consciousness is creative as we speak, think, and act. Yes, we
know that perspective colors objects. Yet we think that the objects
are just out there waiting to be taken in, and that our minds are
adding hues to what is already established of itself. We see flat and
two-dimensional, when the world is round, multidimensional, and
dynamic. As discovered in the psychology of perception, the senses
reach out to objects just as much as they are receptive organs, so
that perception is innovative by definition;2 and certainly so in the
life of religion.
 Perhaps these statements seem extreme—scripture becomes
fixed, written words; its patterns of thought have been cultivated
over centuries within the life of tradition; its meanings not only
derive from personal and historical contexts but continue to echo
over vast expanses of time; the creativity they generate is bounded.
Surely these observations are true. But they do not change the fact
that the meaning of scripture becomes alive again and again through
its use, that the echoes are truly powerful, that the tradition relives
itself through the individual, who constitutes his or her very identity
while becoming an agent of the tradition; and that the live event of
today can never be the same as that of yesterday. Perhaps, when we
are studying the Buddhist case, which has little claims to
transcendence, and for which truth is immanent and potentially
accessible, it may be easier to see the full power of creativity that
the texts generate and give life to, and by which they were
constituted to begin with. This is thus a reflection on the creative
potency of text as a basic human phenomenon.3
In the attempt to delineate the creative sides of early Buddhist
scripture that I offer in this monograph, I often argue, as I have
done in these opening words, that the texts are literature rather
than history, folklore no less than philosophy, visionary
contemplation rather than dry documentation. This kind of argument
is meant to shed light on the mostly underappreciated, inventive
sides of Buddhist scripture. At times, we pay a price for such
dichotomies, since this way of thinking seems to prefer one side of a
continuum, while arguing against the necessity of the other.
However, the deeper point is that history and narrative are modes of
each other to begin with, that philosophy and folklore are points on
the same spectrum, that contemplation also documents, while
documentation is also inspired. Again, the creative reality of
scripture works at the intersection of these tensions, which is,
perhaps, what makes it so potent to begin with—being moved, in
such a humane way, by competing, and complementary, vectors.
 1
In the opening of the Mahānidāna-sutta (DN 15, II.55.7–9), Ānanda suggests that he
penetrates the concept of paṭiccasamuppāda and sees it clearly; Buddha rebukes him and
suggests this is impossible.
2
A classic study here is Gibson (1979), in which he elaborates on his ecological theory
of perception; more recent approaches include the enactivist stance, as developed by
Thompson (2015).
3
For intriguing ideas on revitalizing the study of scripture within the study of religion,
see Blackburn (2012).
 Acknowledgments

This work has matured over a number of years, and there are many
people and institutions to whom I am grateful for making it happen.
Interestingly, while Jerusalem is obviously the center of the world, it
is somehow on the margins of academic travel routes, so that this
book emerged very much through conference presentations and
lectures. The project began—if one can really define such a
beginning—when I was invited by Natalie Gummer and the late Luis
Gomez to participate in a conference on “The Language of the
Sūtras” at the Maṅgalam Institute in Berkeley in the summer of
2015. Inspired by their call, I first gave voice to the intuitions about
text I had been cultivating. In the same spring I gave two talks in
Germany, which helped me refine my ideas. The first was at the
CERES Center at Bochum University, one of the best places I have
found to discuss religion, and particularly so with my hosts Carmen
Meinert and Volkhard Krech. The second was at the Indology
Institute at Leipzig, which was followed by enriching discussions with
Eli Franco. Later, I spoke about the key ideas expressed in Chapter 3
in a conference on Buddhaghosa organized by Maria Heim at
Amherst in the fall of 2016, and then in a panel on “Buddhist ways
of reading” in the conference of the International Association of
Buddhist Studies, organized, again, by Natalie Gummer and Maria
Heim, and yet again at Bochum in a conference on “Self-reflective
traditions.” The responses I received on all these occasions were
very important for me as well. Materials from Chapter 4 were
presented in a February 2019 conference of the “Belief Narratives
Network” in Guwahati, Assam. There I learned much about the real
life of religion at its intersection with folklore, and was greatly
enriched by the feedback of participants, and especially that of Ülo
Valk. A more mature presentation of my ideas was given in
Jerusalem in December of the same year in the conference on “The
Idea of Text in Buddhism,” generously funded by the Khyentse
Foundation, where I had the opportunity to share my ideas with
some of the great luminaries of Buddhist studies and to feel that my
ideas—and especially the more radical theory of the play of formulas
—received good resonance. There, the responses from Paul Harrison
and Mark Allon were of special value to me. Mark also read and
commented on significant parts of the manuscript, as did Petra
Kieffer-pülz, to whom I offer my sincere thanks. Charles Hallisey was
present in many of these events, and has taught me more about
Buddhism, and about text, than anyone else. He has been a
wonderful inspiration and support all along, and has had a profound
effect on my academic path.
When all this began, I was in my second year as a Mandel
postdoctoral fellow at the Mandel Scholion Research Center at the
Hebrew University, which was for me a rich and valuable intellectual
home and which gave me wonderful space in which to mature. I
entered the Center with a project on “The Nature of a Buddha,”
which quickly proved to be a question about what the texts that
describe the Buddha actually are. I am extremely grateful to the
Center and the people behind it, and particularly to its director
during my tenure, Prof. Daniel Schwartz, for offering such a
consistently supportive environment, and for the trust in my
scholarship.
Most of this book was written, however, as a new faculty member
at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, which offered me an
intellectual environment I could only dream of. I am thankful first
and foremost to my students, who put up with my somewhat erratic
chiseling of the notion of textuality expressed in this study, and
especially to the ones who participated in the graduate seminar on
“Text and Its Sacrality in Buddhism” in the fall of 2017. Among my
students who helped me think through many of these ideas in an
especially significant way are Aviran Ben-David, Odeya Eshel, Gadi
Eimerl, who provided invaluable help in comparison with Chinese
materials, and Mathias Jalfim-Marashkin, who also assisted with
bibliographical work. Among my colleagues, I benefited much from
discussions with Uri Gabbay, Eitan Grossman, Naphtali Meshel,
Yonatan Moss, and Dani Schrire. Many more are responsible for the
warm academic, and emotional, welcome at the University, which
allowed me to find my ground so easily. Among the ones I wish to
mention and thank are my colleagues in the Departments of
Comparative Religion and Asian Studies, and especially those in the
Indian and Indonesian Studies Program, Ronit Ricci and Yigal
Bronner, as well as Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony, David Satran, Orna
Naphtali, Gideon Shelach-Lavi, Yuri Pines, and Nissim Otmazgin and
Rotem Geva. Discussions with Roy Tzohar of Tel-Aviv University over
the years have also been illuminating.
The research conducted in this study was financed in large part by
a grant from the Israel Science Foundation, to whom I am also
indebted. Thanks also to Gilly Nadel, who meticulously went through
the work before submission and helped me organize my ideas.
Further words of thanks are due to the two anonymous readers at
Oxford University Press, whose comments proved to be extremely
valuable.
Obviously, it is my family who not only bore much of the burden,
but who also provided me with so much inspiration. My parents,
Eileen and David Shulman, are always there, and lovingly so, while
my father is there academically as well. My in-laws, Silvana and Dov
Winer, are also responsible for so much of my well-being. Even
closer are my fabulous children, Nahar, Inbal, Laila, Be’er, and
Geshem, who teach me so much about life and about myself, so that
one can write a book even among all this dense turmoil; each one of
you is a sparkling light that has guided my way and given me
insight. Beyond all these wondrous hearts stands, amazingly, Yara,
my true partner, my guide, my love and best friend—I dedicate this
book to you—by your very being, you have taught me more about
creativity than anything, or anyone, else.
 PART I
THE LITERARY APPROACH TO THE EARLY
DISCOURSES
 1
Introduction

Rereading the Udumbarika-sutta

What are the “discourses”—suttas, sūtras—that present themselves

as the historical teachings of the Buddha? Are these texts simply
efforts to preserve the Buddha’s teachings, or are they literary
creations driven by other concerns? The first option receives much
support among scholars of Buddhism and Buddhist practitioners
from both East and West, as well as in popular perception. The
second perspective, which would allow a more nuanced
understanding of the religious motivations, literary proclivities,
aesthetic inspirations, and perhaps even the philosophical intuitions
and dynamics of meditative practice that moved the early Buddhist
tradition, receives little attention. This study therefore addresses the
nature of early Buddhist textuality and aims to refine our
understanding of what the early texts are about. While these
scriptures certainly demonstrate care for the Buddha’s philosophy
and teachings and are inspired by his instructions for life, his
guidelines for practice, and his ideas, the way they engage with
them is far richer and more complex than a mere attempt to record
and transmit his words and thought.1
The main goal of this study is thus to expand and enrich the
concept of “text” that scholars employ in the study of Buddhism,
specifically in relation to the early discourses attributed to the
Buddha. Scholarship is still dominated by a relatively flat idea of text,
which takes Buddhist scripture as conveying mainly informational
content. The central project of the texts is conceived as an effort to
preserve the Buddha’s teachings, a project that began orally, so that
the technical features of the literature—most importantly the reliance
on formulas—is understood only as a technology for recording the
Buddha’s words and ideas. Even though scholars have developed
sophisticated understandings of how the texts developed over time,
thereby allowing “the Word of the Buddha” (Buddha-vacana) a
remarkable degree of elasticity,2 the project is nevertheless
understood as a conservative, traditional effort to safeguard the
Buddha’s teachings.3
This leaves our understanding of the nature of early Buddhist
textuality surprisingly close to the one held in traditional circles,
according to which the texts were set for recitation in the first
council after the death of the Buddha, then to be kept and
transmitted by professional reciters. Although scholars doubt the
account of the first council and realize that the texts changed over
time, the lack of any other conceptual option regarding the
composition of the discourses causes scholarly perception to
gravitate back toward the traditional vision. Today—although this
view has by no means taken over scholarly perception—more and
more authors see the texts as records of the Buddha’s concrete
teaching events.4 A key argument of the current study is that the
articulation of the full text of “discourses” is too highly valued in the
appraisal of the literature and too easily assumed to be the basic
category of “text” in early Buddhism. Rather, it is formulas that are
the primary level of textual utterance, so that discourses are end
products of different dynamics of formula-combination.5 There is a
rich web of creative practices through which formulas can be
combined, which eventually leads to the shaping of full discourses—
so long as one uses the right formulas, any “discourse” is legitimate
and can be taken as Buddha-vacana, often with complete disregard
for historical semblance. Texts are composed according to
techniques we will call the play of formulas in a manner that is
sensitive at least as much to beauty, narrative form, and compelling
rhetoric than to any historical or philosophical content they may
happen to contain.
Of course, one of the driving impulses behind the Pāli Nikāyas (as
well as their counterparts in other Buddhist languages, such as
Chinese, Gāndhārī, Sanskrit, and Tibetan6) was to preserve early
Buddhist teachings, whether these were the Buddha’s real words or
idealized versions of them. Accordingly, much critical scholarship has
accepted the texts mainly as consisting of doctrinal information, and
has focused on asking whether this information is reliably attributed
to the Buddha.7 Yet, as important as this question is, it only
scratches the surface of the texts and avoids penetrating the inner,
creative realities of these Buddhist scriptures. As in almost any
religious tradition that relies on scripture, whether oral or written,8
the early discourses are not mere philosophical or doctrinal texts but
also literary creations, spurred by diverse motivations, and they are
meant not only to transmit the Buddha’s doctrine, but also to
generate rich, diverse patterns of Buddhist emotion and aesthetic
perception—to shape and channel Buddhist imagination. Their main
vector is a forward-moving, creative one, which nominally harks
back to the Buddha not in order to preserve, but rather to establish
a Buddhist cosmos with the Buddha as its axial pole.9
Modern scholarship, dominated by philological, historical, and
philosophical paradigms, places us in a position where we can
examine and appreciate the nature of the early Buddhist texts. Yet it
relies on assumptions that are rarely discussed and analyzed—
especially the one that text, or discourse, is a straightforward
category. In what follows, I unpack and critically assess some of the
main ideas behind such scholarship, in order to question what we
actually mean by discourse in early Buddhism. I do not intend to
supplant the “old” paradigm, however, but rather to broaden and
complement it and to offer new tools and perspectives within it. The
main part of the present study is thus constructive, enabling a new
understanding of the texts to emerge, one that will be sensitive to
underappreciated dimensions of their historical project. In a sense, I
offer a new map of the well-known ground of sutta, in order to
facilitate further expeditions.
To do this, I introduce four interrelated perspectives, moving from
the simpler to the more sophisticated and specialized. Each of these
approaches could easily take up a book in its own right, so this work
should in no way be seen as the last word on the matter, and much
terrain will remain unexplored. The discussion here is also
necessarily selective in the texts analyzed, with the Dīgha Nikāya
(DN, the Buddha’s “Long Discourses”) and Majjhima Nikāya (MN,
“Middle-Length Discourses”) receiving the bulk of attention. There
will thus be room to refine these approaches in applying them to
other textual collections.10
The first and most encompassing perspective is a treatment of
early Buddhist discourses as literature. We will observe the narrative
styling and aesthetic dimensions of the discourses and begin to
examine some of the motivations underlying their composition,
including the emotional realities they aim to generate. We will see
that the texts do much more than offer concrete presentations of
Buddhist philosophy, and that there is a subtle interplay between
ideas and their expression. Questions regarding the relation between
editing and authorship will come to the fore, and we will notice that
while narrative can be a vehicle to transmit philosophy, often
philosophy is an excuse for allowing narrative to have its say. This
level of our discussion, developed in this chapter and the next, will
frame a general appreciation of the literary project of the Nikāyas.
This understanding of the early discourses raises questions about
the literary imagination that is active in the discourses and the
contexts for which it was intended, setting the stage for the analysis
of a second dimension of Buddhist textuality—the contemplation of
the Buddha. The texts are, more often than not, meditations upon
the figure of the Buddha and a creative reflection upon his nature.
We will see that Buddhist textuality is often best interpreted as a
contemplative act of Buddha-anusmṛti (anussati), the traditional
practice of “mindfulness of the Buddha.” The Buddha is the key to
the Buddhist world; in Buddhist texts he appears no less divine than
human, no less cosmic than embodied. These texts not only
establish the Buddhist world order, but depict what is most
meaningful within it—the image of the Buddha. The unique nature of
the Buddha is thus an integral part of the philosophy presented by
the authors of the discourses, a theme that is the focus of Chapter
3.
Complementing the contemplative focus of Chapter 3, Chapter 4
addresses the texts’ folkloric aspect and examines their life in more
public settings. “Folklore” is a loose and dynamic term, which often
does not command enough respect in academia, perhaps because of
a commitment to the primacy of the written word; some intellectuals
still prefer not to let “popular culture” into their spotlight. However,
the texts clearly emerged from a broader cultural context than strict
monkish education and are also meant to entertain. Often, this level
of entertainment is subtle, but here we will examine some of the
more salient cases that will demonstrate that texts can have strong
performative dimensions. Although I do not argue that the texts are
records of live performances, an idea that has been heavily
contested in Buddhist studies (see later discussion), I will offer
support for the view that the texts were meant to do much more
than be repeated verbatim by expert transmitters. While the relation
between text and performance seems to have been complicated,
texts can be seen as versions, in the strong sense that each
discourse we find today is one possible articulation of the themes
that the text is interested in. These may include the outline of a
story, specific characters, related ideas and doctrines, etc., which can
be further developed according the focus of each particular
narration.
The idea of texts as versions relates not only to their possible
performative dimension, but also to their literary aspect and to their
very nature as written, and earlier oral, documents. Texts pretend to
be historical reports, but are actually creative statements within a
vast web of possibilities. The idea of texts as versions combats the
common philological approach that assumes that “parallel” texts, i.e.,
different versions of a text preserved in distinct canons and
languages, can be compared to each other in order to identify more
reliable, authentic, or “earlier” versions, and then to mark processes
of change or development. While this procedure may produce
revealing results in certain cases, other examples suggest that a text
is a potential more than a finalized reality, a course of articulation
more than a finite set of ideas that are set in a clearly defined
sequence. This means that there most commonly is no “Ur-text,” as
discussed insightfully by Jonathan Silk (2015).11 The changes a text
supposedly underwent are, actually, an integral part of its nature.
Understanding texts as versions brings us to the last dimension of
the texts we will discuss, which involves a re-evaluation of early
Buddhist oral culture. Oral formulas, I suggest, are primary to full
texts, so that these are the most significant “texts” of early
Buddhism. Full discourses offer rich narrative materials that relate
important values of early Buddhism, but they should not be
prioritized over the formulas from which they are made. As end
products of a dynamic that engages with formulas, full discourses
offer valuable communications that teach us much about the life of
the texts in the early tradition, but these are each only one possible
version, a conceivable articulation, a later encrusting of a much more
vibrant dynamic, in which authors—we can perhaps call them
“textual practitioners”—created novel texts through new
combinations of authorized formulas, at times making additions or
subtractions. This I define as the early Buddhist “play of formulas,”
which can be seen as an important element in the composition of
the early suttas. Formulas are much more than a technology for
preserving ideas in a culture that did not yet discover writing. Rather,
they are fundamental, authorized textual elements with which one
can compose legitimate discourses. Formulas also have powerful
aesthetic and expressive sides, which make them attractive for
different narrative settings. Composing a sutta is thus similar to
building a castle with bricks or Legos; hence, the play of formulas.12
True, in building a castle with Legos, one has a broader picture in
mind than the pieces themselves. But based on the analysis of the
diverse creative vectors of the early tradition conducted in the
previous chapters, at this stage we will be able to see that the castle
of a discourse is not only built top-down as a materialization of a
particular vision, but also bottom-up through a mix of playful
dynamics. Notice that the idea of play employed here is not meant
to allude to frivolity or lightheadedness; play can be quite serious. At
this level of analysis, we will observe some of the ways in which
formulas combine in the texts according to set patterns and methods
and appreciate their aesthetic role. At first, mainly in Chapter 5, the
focus will be more on narrative materials, but in Chapter 6 we will
examine philosophy, including that most cherished idea of the
Buddha’s liberation.13 Here we will observe the telling of the
Buddha’s enlightenment according to the logic of the play of
formulas.
Thus, when a monk was sutavā or bahussuta—“well-taught” or
“learned,” according to the dictionaries and translations14—he or she
was actually, quite literally, “one who has heard” or “heard much.”
This means—I suggest—that he or she knew many formulas by
heart, and probably worked with them in meaningful ways.
Tradition tells us that at the first council—the first joint recitation
of Buddhist texts following the Buddha’s death15—the discourses
were set for recitation and, from then on, were transmitted faithfully
by professional reciters called bhāṇakas until they were set to
writing.16 According to the reading I offer here, these people did
much more than recite; they also preached and probably created
new texts from combining the formulas they knew by heart.17 This
means that in accepting the idea of bhāṇakas as transmitting full
“texts,” i.e., complete discourses, which evolved only later, the
scholarly community has come too close to accepting the traditional
account. This approach also ignores much of the beauty of the texts.
Once again, my point is not that the Buddha’s teachings are not
part of the literature; rather, it is that if we are to appreciate these
teachings and to understand how the early Buddhists understood
them, we must expand our notion of what the texts we are reading
actually are. The four perspectives we will use to broaden our
reading—the literary, contemplative, folkloric, and oral—are all
densely intertwined within the texts, but each will receive separate
attention based on representative texts. As an introduction to these
four levels of analysis, this chapter offers a close reading of the
Udumbarika-sutta of the DN, first on its own in the Pāli, then as
compared with other extant versions. This will give us a more
reliable and comprehensive appreciation of what a discourse is trying
to achieve and will allow us to question more boldly what it is that
we are reading. It will also provide theoretical justification for my
reliance on the Pāli materials alone. While comparison to other
traditions can be rewarding, in the effort to conceptualize the nature
of the early texts it can easily lead us astray; when each text is a
viable version, the voice of each tradition can and should be
analyzed on its own, and each tradition serves as an example of the
creativity involved in the production of the texts.

A First Textual Analysis: Why the Udumbarika-

sutta?
The aspects of the early discourses that I will highlight—their
literary, contemplative, and folkloric dimensions, and their nature as
an oral literature—are all organically interrelated within the texts. For
example, in order to understand how a discourse utilizes doctrinal
formulas in a literary manner, we must perceive its character as an
oral literature and see how and why formulas combine; this could
result from a contemplative vision of the Buddha, from literary
considerations that may have a performative dimension, or from
other, more aesthetic or philosophical motivations. The formulas
themselves, in turn, serve as the texts’ primary oral characteristics
and function as parts of larger literary patterns. In a sense, the
situation is similar to the one described by the great Buddhist
philosopher Nāgārjuna in his discussion of conditionality—in order to
speak coherently about dependent origination, one must posit
certain non-relational points and then say how they relate to each
other. Thus, for example, fire and the burning material it consumes
depend on each other to such a degree that one cannot specify how
fire originates.18 Paradoxically, we need some point to begin our
analysis, but any such point depends on other elements.
We must therefore begin our discussion somewhere. In order to
penetrate the world of early Buddhist textuality, I have chosen
Discourse 25 of the Dīgha Nikāya, the Udumbarika-sutta, and
specifically its opening section, which sets up the discourse. I
selected the Udumbarika because its pleasing but relatively simple
play of formulas will help us observe the basic literary orientation of
early Buddhist oral literature. This discourse will also serve as an
introduction to the formulaic prose of the Nikāyas.
No less important, the Udumbarika is the central text analyzed by
Mark Allon in his landmark 1997 study of Buddhist oral literature.
Here Allon summarized most of the relevant research conducted
before him and set the tone for most of what has followed. Allon
provided the field with the conceptual arsenal necessary to discuss
this particular oral literary culture, devoting separate studies to the
three central features of the discourses: (1) their reliance on
formulas, (2) the ordering of words within formulas according to the
“waxing syllable principle,”19 and (3) the high degree of repetition in
each discourse. The second two investigations offer meticulous
analyses of the Udumbarika, while the first discusses “approach
formulas” throughout the DN. These are formulas used to describe
how people come to meet the Buddha, most commonly in the
opening part of a discourse that establishes the setting for the text.
For this reason, a rereading of the opening section of the
Udumbarika is an appropriate way to start a re-evaluation of the
nature of early Buddhist oral literature.
While Allon’s study is extremely valuable in laying the groundwork
for an appreciation of Buddhist orality in the Pāli Nikāyas, it is limited
in its conceptual range and theoretical sophistication. Allon’s
approach is that of the scrupulous textual scholar, who carefully
studies the texts for what they are, focusing on their specific
wording, but not always pausing to ask broader questions about
their nature. From a theoretical perspective, his analysis—like most
analyses in Buddhist studies that discuss the idea of orality—
evaluates the relevance of the immensely influential Parry-Lord
paradigm for understanding the early Buddhist discourses. This
theory, developed by Milman Parry and fully explicated by Albert
Lord in his classic The Singer of Tales (1960), proposes that the true
locus of oral literature is in live performances. Oral texts are loose
and dynamic, offering textual episodes and narrative patterns that
can be selected and combined according to the live situation; the
bard commands vast formulaic material and employs the parts he
deems fit for the occasion, based on the particular contextual
conditions of time and setting, the crowd, and his own idiosyncratic
inclinations. Parry and Lord’s main argument refers to epic, primarily
Homeric, poetry, which they analyze in light of the live oral tradition
of Yugoslavic bards, yet their approach has been applied in a vast
array of contexts. The question thus arose whether their theory
relates to the case of Buddhist oral literature as well.
In Buddhist studies, the Parry-Lord theory made its appearance in
a short 1983 article by Lance Cousins, who a little too easily
proposed that the early discourses are records of such
performances. Because oral literature was thought to operate
according to Parry and Lord’s ideas, and because it is widely
accepted that early Buddhist literature is oral, Cousins (1983: 2)
suggested that “. . . the great four Nikāyas often read as if they
were simply different performances of the same material.” What
changes between different recensions of the same texts is what “we
might expect to discover between different performances of oral
works.” Although this approach received an interesting elaboration
and refinement by Rupert Gethin (1992),20 with his emphasis on the
concept of lists (mātikas), it has been disputed by a number of
scholars, most importantly by Allon (1997), Alex Wynne (2004), and
Bhikkhu Anālayo (2007, 2011, and elsewhere).21 Allon’s main
argument is that the extensive repetition found in Buddhist texts—in
his analysis, no less than 87 percent of the Udumbarika is repetition
to some degree—rules out the possibility that the texts were
composed in performance; so much repetition would make a rather
uninteresting show. For Allon, the degree of repetition also implies
that the texts were composed in order to be memorized, and that
they were to be recited communally. According to this view, the main
performative context for the texts was joint recitation, which leaves
little room for personal improvisation. Although the Udumbarika may
be a text with more repetition than other discourses,22 and although
there are questions regarding how to quantify repetition,23 the basic
idea stands: a text like the Udumbarika does not seem to be a
recording of a live performance. When this interpretation is coupled
with the unquestioned assumption that the texts are efforts to
preserve the Buddha’s teachings, and that they are not meant to
entertain,24 the conclusion that the main function of the texts is joint
recitation seems inevitable.
The understanding that the texts’ main function is joint recitation
has proven particularly enduring and has been repeated again and
again by many scholars since Allon. Scholars have thus come to
accept that the texts are basically devoid of performative
dimensions. As a rebuttal of Cousins’s hasty equation between the
early discourses and the Parry-Lord theory this may do, but it is
insufficient in assessing the performative, and more generally the
creative, dimensions of this foundational strand of Buddhist
literature. In particular, the idea that the texts are mainly an effort to
preserve the Buddha’s instructions will crumble under a
straightforward reading.
I will evaluate many of the assumptions behind the current
approach to Buddhist texts in more detail, but this will take some
time to tackle. Let me state clearly at the outset, however, that I do
not aim to redeem or re-establish the Parry-Lord paradigm in
relation to the early Buddhist texts, and I certainly do not see them
as records of live performances. I also do not believe that we have
enough information to understand the precise, mainly social, realities
surrounding early Buddhist textual practices, and therefore our
appreciation of performance will inevitably fall short of what we
would like to know. Nevertheless, there is a vast conceptual zone
between Parry and Lord, on the one hand, and the idea of fixed
texts on the other, and in repudiating Parry and Lord’s specific view
of orality we should not discard the notion of performance. One of
our efforts in this study will be to ask what we can say positively
about performance in the early Buddhist context and to show that
the notion of fixed texts that are recited verbatim is only one far end
of the spectrum of text in early Buddhism.25
The analysis of the Udumbarika will also help us to confront
another central philological paradigm in contemporary Buddhist
studies, which is that the best way to understand the early texts is
to compare different versions of them. Most often, scholars compare
the versions extant in Pāli and Chinese, since these are the ones
most commonly found, yet at times there are surviving parallels in
Sanskrit, Tibetan, or Gāndhārī. Again, while this approach is highly
valuable, it hides too many unwarranted assumptions regarding the
nature of the texts. Comparing different versions assumes, without
real justification, that they are versions of an original, core text that
underwent historical changes. While this view may be true in certain
cases, or from a certain stage in which fully evolved discourses grew
in importance, this notion essentializes the discourses and inclines to
take them mainly as bodies of doctrine, which return to specific
historical settings. For example, Anālayo (2017: 501) reads Chinese
versions in order “to document the contribution Chinese Āgama
passages can offer for an alternative understanding, or even for a
correction, of their Pāli counterparts.” The price Buddhist studies has
been paying for following this approach is an implicit acceptance of
the traditional idealization of Buddhist scripture as the true word of
the Buddha, with no ability to acknowledge the deep creativity at
work within the Buddhist textual project and with fewer resources to
understand the meaning of the texts for the people who used them.
That is, scholars try to fix the word of the Buddha in a much
stronger way than tradition ever did.
Later in this chapter I will offer a close comparison of parts of the
surviving versions of the Udumbarika. This comparative analysis will
suggest that although there seems to be a general frame for the
Udumbarika, each version makes its own choices within its unique
narrative context. Local adaptation emerges as the basic rule, so the
idea of a fixed core text seems superfluous. Texts are always
versions, in the robust sense that authorizes variation and
storytelling. There is thus, in essence, little to compare, and shared
elements emerge as a general pattern of a story, which will always
receive new touches in each living rendition. Much in line with
Buddhist philosophical understanding, there is no true core to the
texts, or at least the core is loose and flexible to begin with, while
each version is legitimate within its own cultural and historical
context. Thus, in contrast to common practices that hypostasize an
original version that relies on the shared textual elements and that
sees divergences as mistakes, here we suggest that the unique
elements are more exciting, as they allow us to observe the specific
inclinations of each tradition. With this we come to realize that there
is much room for analyzing each tradition—in the present study, the
Pāli one—on its own, in order to achieve a richer understanding of
its idiosyncratic perspective and compositional practices, which can
later be compared to those of other traditions. Before scholarship
continues to compare texts, it should ask where comparison is
meant to lead us and acknowledge the creative vectors that were
active within the tradition, rather than seeing them as mistakes or
corruptions. Buddhist texts are not only pious; they are also fun.

The Formulaic Opening of the

Mahāsakuludāyi-sutta as a Literary Preamble
to the Udumbarika
In the beautiful, intertextual world of the Pāli suttas, the Udumbarika
shares its opening formula with other discourses, so that it is not a
thoroughly individual entity. In this case, we are better off beginning
our analysis with a simpler instance of this formula, and for this the
Mahāsakuludāyi-sutta (“The Great Discourse to Sakuludāyin,” MN 77)
will serve our purposes quite well.26 The Mahāsakuludāyi begins in
the following, quite usual way:
 Thus have I heard:27 at one time the Lord28 was staying at Rājagaha, in the bamboo
grove at the squirrel sanctuary. At that time a great many famous and well-known
wandering recluses (paribbājaka),29 such as Anugāro, Varadharo, and Sakuludāyin
the wandering recluse, as well as other famous and well-known wandering recluses,
were living in the recluse park at the peacock sanctuary. Then, in the morning the
Lord dressed, took his bowl and robe, and went into Rājagaha for alms.30

This opening reads like most other discourses in the MN and DN,
composed of a series of formulaic expressions that introduce the
context, including the characters who will take part in the action.
Next comes a longer narrative section that will set up the formulized
encounter between the Buddha and a wandering recluse
(paribbājaka) teacher:

Then it occurred to the Lord—“It is still too early to go into town for alms. Why don’t
I head toward the recluse park at the peacock sanctuary and visit the recluse
Sakuludāyin.” Then the Lord went to the recluse park at the peacock sanctuary.
At that time the wandering recluse Sakuludāyin was sitting with a large assembly
of recluses, who were shouting in great, high voices, who were talking different kinds
of beastly talk, such as talk of kings, thieves, and ministers; talk of armies, frights,
and battles; talk of food, drink, clothing, and beds; talk of garlands, smells, relatives,
and vehicles; talk of towns, villages, cities, and countries; talk of women and heroes;
street-corner gossip, gossip at the well, talk of departed spirits, other kinds of gossip,
many kinds of talk about the world or the ocean, talk about this is so or not so.31
Then Sakuludāyin saw the Lord coming from a distance and addressed his
assembly: “Be quiet, sirs, don’t make so much noise. This is the ascetic Gotama
coming, who likes little noise and praises little noise. Maybe if he knows our assembly
to be a quiet one, he will consider it worthy of a visit.” With this, the wandering
recluses became silent.
Then the Lord approached the wandering recluse Sakuludāyin, and Sakuludāyin
said to the Lord: “Come sir, Lord. Welcome sir, Lord. It is a long time since you have
taken the opportunity to come here. Please sit, sir, Lord, on this designated seat.”32
The Lord sat on the designated seat; the recluse Sakuludāyin took another, inferior
seat, and sat to one side.33
I hope it is clear to any reader that this formula is, first and
foremost, a literary element. We will later discuss what we mean by
“literary” in some detail, but it should be obvious that the people
who composed this formula were not interested in describing precise
historical events. At best, they were telling history through a well-
developed “theological” lens,34 but more realistically, they were
simply not concerned with the reality behind the story. They were,
rather, interested in offering—to themselves as well as to their
audiences—a compelling portrait of the Buddha, here receiving the
great respect of the rival teacher, who pays him deference by sitting
on a lower seat after silencing his noisy students. The Buddha
emerges as a marvelous figure, superior to any other religious
teacher or practitioner. This reflects his superior realization, which in
itself finds further expression in the exceptional depth and
significance of his teachings. The authors of the Pāli Nikāyas further
wished to convey his unique attitude—always composed and aware,
consistently sensitive to all levels of the situation, naturally and
spontaneously commanding attention and respect by almost
everybody he meets. This is the heart of the literary project of the
Nikāyas—to depict the magnificent Buddha. The point is not only
that the texts are not biography but hagiography,35 not doctrine but
literature. More important, underlying the Nikāyas is an
understanding that the very being of the Buddha is a fact with deep
metaphysical, and historical, significance: That there was such a fully
realized being who walked this earth is, for the authors of these
texts, the most important fact in history and the most revealing truth
about reality. Approaching him with devotion offers great prospects
for spiritual or karmic development.36
This example from the Mahāsakuludāyi is one of many texts that
strive to establish the correct relation between the Buddha and other
religious teachers of his day. The descriptions we find are not
realistic, but literary and polemical. While the texts are themselves a
contemplation of the Buddha’s preeminence, they also tell the story
of how other important religious figures, such as Jains and
Brahmins, came to the same conclusion.37
 The Nikāyas are full of stock formulas characterizing stock figures.
Among these, the texts describe various encounters between the
Buddha and paribbājakas (wandering recluses). What we have just
read from the Mahāsakuludāyi is a stylized opening of one of the
main literary trajectories that structures such debates: the Buddha
never leaves too early for his alms round when he meets anyone
other than a paribbājaka teacher; no assembly but one of
paribbājakas is noisy and worldly in this way; in no other context
does a teacher greet the Buddha and offer him a seat according to
this specific pattern.38 This is, we come to realize, a
conventionalized, literary method to structure discourses between a
Buddha and a paribbājaka, which is reproduced in a long list of
texts.39 Importantly, this formula on noisy ascetics makes a thematic
commitment, as the Buddha will have to offer a teaching that
depicts his silence, so it is not used for all encounters with this type
of teacher. Some texts simply say that a paribbājaka came to meet
the Buddha. But, if the texts do flesh out the encounter, this is the
one and only way they do so.40
In the passage I have quoted, we find the text fabricating a
historical pretext to present a caricature of wandering recluses as
horribly noisy and concerned with worldly, rather than religious or
spiritual, matters. They talk loudly of kings, wars, and women, etc.
Perhaps it was a common joke that wandering recluses were noisy,
yet any contextual reading misses the literary point. Here it may be
wise to heed the advice of Northrop Frye (1986), one of the most
sensitive scholars of the interaction between religion and literature,
who calls on scholars to abandon the practice of explaining literature
in terms of other analytical domains. Rather than seeing literature as
a reflection of social, cultural, political, or economic realities, Frye
urges an analysis of literature as literature.41 Again, this formula
offers much more than narrative, and there is a deep philosophical
point involved—the Buddha is the only recluse who knows true
quiet. In fact, this is the main point made by the Udumbarika, which
can even be seen as a sort of commentary on this formula, and
elaboration upon its theoretical significance.
 In the Mahāsakuludāyi, although wandering recluses are evidently
noisy and misguided, the paribbājaka teacher has enough sense to
capitalize on the opportunity of a visit from the Buddha; he is a
worthy rival who respects the Buddha. Sakuludāyin heads to
welcome him and has him sit on the teacher’s designated seat,
thereby signaling the Buddha’s higher status. It is clear that he sees
this moment as a great blessing and that he would like to receive a
teaching. In a parallel version of this text, the Cūḷasakuludāyi-sutta
(“The Short Discourse to Sakuludāyin,” MN 79), which is structured
according to the exact same formulas, Sakuludāyin will say at the
same moment in the narrative that he commands the respect of his
disciples, but that he and his disciples together pay respects to the
Buddha. The very fact that we have two discourses, a long and a
short version of a discussion between the Buddha and Sakuludāyin,
for which the same formulas are used, attests to the literary—rather
than historical—character of the narration.

The Opening of the Pāli Udumbarika-sutta

The Udumbarika offers a magnificent literary reworking of the
formula on the meeting with a paribbājaka teacher, which, according
to the play of formulas, is combined with another, related formula
used for setting up a meeting between a student of the Buddha and
another renunciate teacher. The discourse thus begins with a
householder student of the Buddha named Sandhāna,42 who wishes
to meet the Buddha but realizes that

it is not [yet] the time to see43 the Lord; the Lord is secluded in meditation
(paṭisallīna). It is also not the time to see the monks involved in mental cultivation;
the monks involved in mental cultivation are secluded in meditation.44

Just as the Buddha often meets a paribbājaka teacher because it is

too early for alms, a lay follower of the Buddha may head to meet a
paribbājaka teacher because it is not yet time to see the Lord; what
we have just read is the formula used in such a case.45 Sandhāna
decides to visit the wandering recluse Nigrodha, who lives in the
wandering-recluse park of Udumbarikā46 with 3,000 wandering
recluses. As we might expect, they are very noisy, “shouting in
great, high voices, speaking different kinds of lowly talk, such as talk
of kings, thieves, and ministers; talk of armies. . . .” This is, of
course, the same formula caricaturing paribbājaka assemblies that
we are already familiar with. Combining the two formulas thus
powerfully contrasts the paribbājaka with the quiet Buddha and
Buddhist monks, who are presented as meditating in seclusion, while
the Buddha’s followers witness the difference. Through this narrative
technique a valuable philosophical point is thereby suggested, which
proves to be the key point of the discourse.
In order to show how the Buddha’s student is welcomed, the
Udumbarika utilizes a formula that is an elaboration on the one we
saw in the previous section, which here describes Sandhāna as the
Buddha’s student who favors quiet and expresses the hope that he
may visit them. Nigrodha succeeds in silencing his assembly and
Sandhāna approaches, exchanges blessings with the recluse teacher,
and takes a seat. This act of deference places him in subordination
to the teacher, who keeps his seat while the householder “sits to one
side,” in line with Nikāya ideology that takes renunciates to be
superior to householders. The respect paid by Sandhāna to the
recluse will also serve to highlight the teacher’s inferiority to the
Buddha, who will soon enter the scene—at which point events will
proceed according to the formula we read from the Mahāsakuludāyi,
with the recluse honoring the Buddha. Before the Buddha arrives,
Sandhāna addresses the recluse teacher by speaking explicitly of the
great difference between recluses, who are so noisy, and the
Buddha, who is so marvelously quiet. Sandhāna emphasizes this
opposition in his opening remarks to Nigrodha:

It is indeed a great difference between other wandering-recluse teachers, who, when

they get together and meet, shout in great high voices and speak different kinds of
lowly talk, such as talk of kings, thieves, and ministers; talk of armies . . . and the
Lord, who resorts to remote resting places and to the forest paths in the jungle,
 which are quiet, with little noise, devoid of people, with no one there to be found,
and which are conducive to secluded meditation.47

Belaboring the distinction between quiet seclusion and noisy, vile

assemblies, Nigrodha attacks in response:

Surely, householder, you would know with whom the recluse Gotama talks, with
whom he holds discussions, with whom he attains a distinction in knowledge. The
recluse Gotama’s understanding is dumbfounded by empty dwellings; avoiding
assemblies, he does not talk at all; he keeps to the far edges. Like a bull blind in one
eye he walks in circles [along the edges of the pen] and keeps to the far edges. In
much the same way the recluse Gotama’s understanding is dumbfounded . . . to the
far edges. Come, householder, if the recluse Gotama would come to this assembly, we
would prove him wrong with one question, as if we were turning over an empty
pot.48

According to Nigrodha, the Buddha is not just quiet, but much too
quiet. His mind is ruined by too much meditation so that he cannot
debate anything in public; he has no philosophical stamina. Nigrodha
even thinks that he could put the Buddha to shame if he would only
visit. Nigrodha’s statement is intended to exhibit his false sense of
security, his faith in debate and in aggressive philosophical assertion,
and his mistaking the Buddha’s silence for a sign of weakness. All
this is carefully designed to frame the central philosophical point of
the discourse—the Buddha knows true quiet, so he is superior to
rival teachers—which comes through even more clearly in the
narrative section than in the philosophical one. The story is not
secondary; if anything, its doctrinal expression is.
Naturally, the Buddha will now make an appearance, redeem his
honor, defeat Nigrodha in debate, and prove the power of silence
over noise. To make this happen, the Nikāyas have a literary device
to make the Buddha show up. With his “purified divine ear element
that surpasses the human,”49 he overhears the conversation and
decides to arrive. The divine ear is a perplexing doctrinal element
that characterizes the magical abilities of the advanced meditator.50
In the literary context, however, its function is to bring the Buddha
onto the scene when he is far away, in this case on Vulture Peak
Mountain (gijjha-kūṭe pabbate). The Buddha will now descend from
the mountain and walk along the banks of the reservoir in the
peacock sanctuary, where Sandhāna and Nigrodha are having their
exchange.
John Miles Foley (1995), a leading scholar of oral literature, has
suggested that the utterances of oral poetry cannot be understood in
isolation, since the whole of the tradition is present in each and
every statement. Formulas “reach out of the immediate instance in
which they appear to the fecund totality of the entire tradition. . . .
Traditional referentiality, then, entails the invoking of a context that
is enormously larger and more echoic than the text or work itself”
(7). In the present context, this idea helps us to see how the
Buddha enters the action. The text mentions only that the Buddha
descends (orohitvā) from the mountain and walks along the banks of
the reservoir. The experienced listener would know, however, that
this happened through a formulaic magical flight, in which the
Buddha “disappeared from Vulture Peak and appeared on the bank
of the reservoir in the peacock sanctuary, just as a strong man
would bend his outstretched arm or extend his bent arm.”51 This
reading of this missing formula into the text would then be echoed
at the end of the discourse, when the Buddha will leave the scene
through magical flight.52 Similarly, in texts in which the Buddha
makes an appearance, interrupts a discussion, and asks, “In what
talk were you involved here now; what discussion of yours has been
interrupted [by my arrival]?”—as will soon happen here—readers
may understand that the Buddha knew of their talk through his
divine ear, as happens in the Udumbarika.53
Before the Buddha interrupts the talk at the peacock sanctuary,
the text must complete the formula that is its narrative and
philosophical core. Nigrodha spots the Buddha walking along the
reservoir and turns to quiet his students with the help of the formula
we read in the earlier quotation—“be quiet, sirs,” etc.—even though
they supposedly have already quieted for Sandhāna’s sake. The
recluse teacher continues to say that, if the Lord comes to visit
them, they will ask him through what teaching (dhamma) he guides
his disciples. Nigrodha then greets the Buddha and offers him the
high and respected teacher’s seat, after which he himself sits on the
lower, inferior seat to the side.
With this, the introduction is complete. Two points are especially
worthy of our attention at this stage. First, a great deal has
happened already, including the establishment of a clear hierarchy
between householders and renunciates, as well as between other
renunciates and the Buddha. This is a key feature of Nikāya
ideology. Yet according to the rules of the genre, the narrative
setting is provided in order that the Buddha may give instruction; his
speech, the articulation of his insight, is crucial to the literary
tradition, and is cherished as its driving rationale. This speech itself
is not only about the words, but is of value as a potent revelation,
imbued with magical power. Here we see how the point underlying
the narrative is often more important than the ideas presented in the
instruction—that the teacher who reveals them commands truth
unerringly, and thus that he is an utterly unique being. In the
present discourse, the instruction that the Buddha provides will not
do much more than deepen the main points made by the narrative—
that the Buddha’s superiority derives from his powerful acquaintance
with quiet, and that other teachers are not so wise or so lucky. In
fact, in many of the discourses in the DN, there is a fascinating
correspondence of this sort between narrative and philosophical
material. This skillful storytelling will be analyzed more carefully in
the next chapter.
Second, the authors of the Udumbarika demonstrate a dexterous
command of their materials as they “play” with formulas: Formulas
are an active, literary, imaginative, and expressive element with clear
emotive and aesthetic dimensions. Obviously, formulas have
mnemonic roles as well, but this does not exhaust their nature.
Here, the reshuffling of formulas we find in other contexts creates a
specific understanding of the Buddha and his relation to his peers.
With this, the Udumbarika carefully creates Buddhist vision with and
through formulas.54 The formula for the encounter between the
Buddha and a teacher of noisy recluses that we read in the
Mahāsakuludāyi is a powerful tool for depicting the Buddha, one that
has much to yield to experimentation, elaboration, expansion, and
reshaping. Thus, the Udumbarika combines it with the formula for a
lay student of the Buddha going to meet a paribbājaka teacher when
it is “not the time” to see the Buddha or the monks, who are all
meditating. Interweaving formulas was a central practice of textual
composition in early Buddhism, as this analysis has begun to reveal.
Before moving on with the Udumbarika, it is worth mentioning
some of the ways the formulas we looked at branch off in other
directions in interrelated texts. This can teach us much about textual
composition through the play of formulas, which works according to
a rhizomatic logic.55 One interesting connection is with the discourse
preceding the Udumbarika in the DN, the Pāṭika-sutta. This text,
which will be discussed extensively in Chapter 4, offers interesting
narrative priming to the Udumbarika, as it also begins with the “too
early” formula in which the Buddha goes to visit a paribbājaka
teacher early in the morning since it is not yet the time to go for
alms.56 In the Pāṭika, however, the theme is evidently not stillness,
as this text offers some of the wildest pictures of the Buddha’s
magical powers in the Nikāyas, in a demonstrably comical and
dramatic manner. In this context, there is no need to portray
Bhaggava, the paribbājaka that the Buddha comes to meet, as a
leader of a great crowd or to characterize that crowd as noisy and
worldly. Therefore, this part of the formula is omitted.57
Two other uses of the “it’s not the time” formula are found in
intriguing narrative contexts. First, in the Sakkapañha-sutta (“Sakka’s
Question,” DN 21), Sakka, king of the gods, has a strong urge to see
the Buddha, who is again in meditation. Sakka brings with him the
divine musician (gandhabba) Pañcasikha, who wakes the Buddha
from his meditation by playing a pleasing song on love. Pañcasikha
then announce Sakka’s visit, and Sakka relates how he was
disappointed in his previous attempt, since it was “not the time to
see the Buddha,” who had been in seclusion. A second case appears
in the first book of the Saṃyutta Nikāya (Sagāthā-vagga), a
collection in which the discourses’ poetic side is particularly
enhanced, as they are structured around succinct statements in
verse. The paradigmatic householder-supporter of the Buddha,
Anāthapiṇḍika, hears that “a Buddha has arisen in the world”58 and
wants to go see him. He understands, however, that it is “not the
time” and decides to go the following day. After a bad night, in
which he is awakened three times by a light that leads him to an
encounter with a ghost in a charnel ground, he goes to meet the
Buddha, who recites verses about the good sleep enjoyed by
enlightened beings. Notice the value that all these beings attribute
to seeing the Buddha, a theme we will return to later.
These examples are of little consequence to our analysis of the
Udumbarika, except in one important respect—they demonstrate
how formulas branch off and proliferate in infinitely creative ways. In
these last two cases, we are speaking of formulas within a narrative
context that combines poetry with the formulaic prose of the
discourse genre in order to create a sensitive aesthetic
presentation.59 In these texts, the “not the time” formula paves the
way for remarkable poetic expression—Anāthapiṇḍika’s visionary
night journey or a song about sensual love rousing the Buddha, an
ascetic, from his meditation. While these texts underscore the
Buddha’s preeminence, as the king of gods has a powerful impulse
to see him and the rich merchant becomes his student, their
expression is moving and sensuous. Yet, in the face of such
expressive depictions, scholars insist that the main driving impulse of
early Buddhist scripture is to preserve the teacher’s words.

The Philosophy of the Udumbarika

Out of the vast web of interconnected formulas, the authors of the
Udumbarika chose as their starting point a particular one, which
allowed them not only to introduce a debate between the Buddha
and a rival teacher, but also to demarcate the theme of the
discourse. Specifically, this formula establishes a strong opposition
between the noisy behavior of these teachers and their students and
the majestic calm of the Buddha and his students. We have seen
how the narrative itself conveys a powerful philosophy, and how the
authors invest great care in it, so that it should not be seen as
secondary. We will now see how the philosophy also serves narrative
purposes and combines with the story to offer another level of
conceptualization. While a full analysis of the Udumbarika is
impossible here—the discourses treated in this study are mostly very
long—we must pursue its development to see how philosophy is
integrated into the picture. This approach should help to clear any
last vestiges of the idea that the original core of the textual tradition
was philosophical and contemplative, and that narrative only caters
to popular sentiment. Again, a discourse is not an effort to preserve
the teachings, but a creative exposition that includes philosophical
materials.
Once the Buddha has entered the gathering of recluses, he asks
about the conversation he interrupted. Nigrodha, in line with his
earlier statement to his disciples, asks him how he directs his
disciples toward a pure intention of renunciation (ajjhāsayam
ādibrahmacariyam). The Buddha replies that it is difficult for one
who holds another view and undertakes a different practice to
understand his teaching, and suggests that they instead discuss a
statement Nigrodha would make about his own teaching, focusing
on the fulfillment of ascetic disgust (tapo-jigucchā), presumably a
major concern for the audience of renunciates. This move receives
awed applause from the paribbājakas, who are impressed by the
Buddha’s willingness to play in another teacher’s home court.
Nigrodha then asks the Buddha about the fulfillment of asceticism,
and the Buddha characterizes the renouncer according to a formula
found elsewhere in the Nikāyas regarding harsh asceticism, which
lists a long series of extreme behaviors, such as remaining naked,
drastically reducing food intake, and avoiding company.
The Buddha seems to accept this formula as a good
characterization of complete ascetic disgust. At the same time, he
sees such asceticism as giving rise to many kinds of defilements
(anekavihite upakkilese), and this is the heart of his instruction. He
proceeds to list a multitude of ways in which an ascetic who is too
committed to his extreme practice could get proud or overly rigid
and thus become critical of others who practice differently; turning
complacent, he would praise himself and denigrate others, and
thereby become negligent and defiled. From the Buddhist point of
view, these practices miss the true goal of asceticism, which is to
change one’s inner state of being; an ascetic who adopts these
extreme practices would achieve only a change of behavior.
Nigrodha acknowledges the problem and agrees with the Buddha
that if one were to practice austerities without creating these
defilements, his practice would be truly purified.
This exposition shifts the focus of renunciate training from an
external, bodily practice to an internal, mental one. The Buddha’s
point about mental training, which simply but powerfully posits the
Buddha or his advanced student as one who is not driven by the
search for honor or gain and who overcomes subtle levels of self-
grasping, explains why the Buddha has the ability to be truly quiet;
in contrast, wandering recluses are noisy, and their practice is coarse
and concerned only with external signs and behavior. This pleasing
demonstration of Buddhist polemics vis-à-vis Indian renunciate
culture is not the most exemplary of the Buddha’s teachings, but as
it is backed by the narrative setting, it makes a valuable point.
Although not the most striking expression of the relation between
philosophy and narrative that we will examine, this example shows
how philosophy is tailored to narrative concerns, no less than vice
versa—in this case, both aim to depict the inner quiet of the Buddha
or his ardent disciple.
Although the Buddha has demonstrated his advanced
understanding, Nigrodha is not yet defeated and has yet to take
back his supercilious statement that he would demolish the Buddha
in debate. To bring this about, Nigrodha now says that not only is
the ascetic practice that the Buddha just described purified, but it
has also “become foremost and reached the core” (aggapattā
sārapattā). The Buddha believes, however, that such purification has
attained only to the “outer bark.” He proceeds according to a favorite
textual image of the heartwood, first showing what the bark and
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 (Sealed) “MOHAMMED EL-AMEEN BEN MOHAMMED EL-
KANEMY .”
Dated “23d of Rabee-ul-thani, 1239,”
(Corresponding to January, 1824).

No. VII.

A Letter from the Chieftain Mohammed Gamsoo, at Sackatoo, to the

Prince of Ya-oory.

“In the name of God, the merciful and the clement; and prayers
and peace be unto our Lord, Mohammed.
“From the slave of God, Mohammed, son of the Hadgi Omar
Gamzoo, to our friend, the dearest we have, the Prince of Ya-oory.
“Salutation without end or termination be unto you and all your
friends and relations. If you inquire after our health, and that of the
Prince of the Mooslemeen, and our friends, we are all sound and
vigorous. Our slave has reached us with the letter from you, which I
showed and read to the prince, and he was delighted with it; and we
are prevented from sending you a messenger with an answer, only
by the prince having ordered us to proceed to the eastern parts of
the country to attend to some of his affairs there. But, if God be
pleased to cause us to return in safety, you shall receive an express
messenger from me.
“The prince now sends you the English Rayes Abdallah (Captain
Clapperton’s assumed name), who is anxious to see your country
and visit you. He has been honoured and esteemed by the sheikh (of
Bornou), and by the prince of Kanoo, as also by the prince of the
Mooslemeen; and as you rank among the generous, receive him and
honour him generously. When he returns, send us a letter, and
express all your wishes in it.
 “Give our salutation to our brother and all the friends, and we
exhort you to attend to the contents of this epistle for the sake of the
friendship which was established between you and our ancestors,
and is now between me and you; especially as you never behaved
towards us but very laudably. And may God bestow upon you more
good sense, in addition to that which you possess.”

No. VIII.

A Document relating to the Death of Mungo Park.

“Hence, be it known that some Christians came to the town of

Youri, in the kingdom of Yaoor, and landed and purchased
provisions, as onions and other things; and they sent a present to
the King of Yaoor. The said king desired them to wait until he should
send them a messenger, but they were frightened, and went away by
the sea (river). They arrived at the town called Bossa, or Boossa,
and their ship then rubbed (struck) upon a rock, and all of them
perished in the river.
“This fact is within our knowledge, and peace be the end.
“It is genuine from Mohammed ben Dehmann.”
[In addition to the above, there is a kind of postscript appended to
the document by a different hand; which, being both ungrammatical
and scarcely legible, I had some difficulty in translating and giving it
a proper meaning. The words, however, are, I think, as follows;
though most of them have been made out by conjecture.]
“And they agreed, or arranged among themselves, and swam in
the sea (river), while the men, who were with (pursuing) them,
appeared on the coast of the sea (bank of the river), and fell upon
them till they went down (sunk) in it.”
 No. IX.

A Letter from the Sheikh of Bornou to Captain Clapperton.

“Praise be to God, and prayers and peace be unto the Apostle of

God.
“From the slave of the high God, Mohammed El-ameen ben
Mohammed El-kanemy, to the Ra-yes Abd-allah, the Englishman.
Peace be unto him who follows the light of instruction.
“Hence, we received your letter, and comprehended its contents;
as also what you acquainted us with relative to the kindness and
friendship which the people showed you. May God bless them; and
we never doubted this behaviour on their part.
“With regard to what you stated upon the subject of the calumny
uttered by some of the Arabs against you, you need not turn your
mind to, nor think of it; as nothing shall befal you, while you are in
this land, but what God Almighty may inflict upon you, without the
instigation of any of his creatures.
“The physician your friend is dead. This is the state of the world;
and may God increase your life. Before his death, he promised to
give his pistols to us as a present; and on this condition he kept them
for his own use, as being borrowed from us, until his return to his
own country: but now, as he is dead, you may deliver them to our
friend Hadgi Saleh, to send them to us. And may God conduct you
(to your own country) in health and safety.
(Sealed) “MOHAMMED EL-AMEEN BEN MOHAMMED EL-
KANEMY .”
 No. X.

A Document made at the Court of Justice of Bornou.

“Praise be to God alone. May God bless our Lord Mohammed,

and all his relations and friends.
“Whereas, at the court of (here the titles of the sheikh and his
pedigree follow,) the Lord Sheikh Mohammed El-Kanemy, Hadgi Alij,
son of Hadgi Moosa ben Khalloom, and the English physician, with
his two friends, Rayes Abdallah, and Rayes Khaleel, appeared; the
physician demanded of the said Hadgi Alij the restitution of two
thousand hard silver dollars, which he and his said friends had lent
to his late brother Abu Bakr ben Khalloom, through the English
consul at Tripoli, on condition of repaying them after their arrival at
Barnooh, according to his own acknowledgment and a bond in the
said physician’s possession; and that they demanded this debt from
Hadgi Alij, because he took possession of all his deceased brother’s
property. Hadgi Alij replied, that he knew nothing of their claim upon
his late brother: but, if they possessed a bond, they might produce it
to prove their claim. They produced a paper, not written in Arabic,
bearing the seal of the said deceased Abu Bakr; and, as no one
could read what that paper contained, the judge told them that,
notwithstanding it bore the seal of the said deceased, it could not be
valid, nor of any use to them. They then produced one of the friends
of the deceased Abu Bakr, as witness, who attested that, while at
Tripoli, he was sent by him to the consul’s house, where he received
the two thousand dollars and delivered them to him (the deceased),
knowing that they were to be repaid at Barnooh, according to the
present claim. His testimony, however, was not approved of by the
judge.
“They appeared a second time at the said court of justice, and
alleged that Hadgi Alij, after their first appearance, acknowledged,
and pledged himself to pay them the two thousand dollars which
they claimed from his late brother; that he paid them a part of the
said sum in cotton clothes to the value of six hundred dollars in
Barnooh money, and that the remaining fourteen hundred were to be
repaid to them by him at the city of Kanoo in Soodan; and they,
therefore, wished to legalize this before the judge.
“Hadgi Alij, however, said, that he gave them the six hundred
dollars, merely as an act of kindness on his part, and as a loan from
him to them, which they were to return to him at Kanoo; and that he
never acknowledged, nor promised to pay his brother’s debt; but
that, he told them, if they should be in want of more money at Kanoo,
he would advance them as much as he could afford. They then
requested the judge to restrict him from selling, or sending his
brother’s property to Kanoo (lest it should be lost on the road), until
they had proved their claim by better evidence. Hadgi Alij, at last,
agreed, either himself or through his agent, to pay them five hundred
dollars more, in addition to the six hundred, two months after their
arrival at Kanoo; and fixed a period of one year, from the date of this
document between them and him, for the proof of the justice of their
claim; and that, if they fail to prove their demand upon his deceased
brother before the lapse of the said period, they were to repay him
the eleven hundred dollars, and forego all their claims. But if, on the
contrary, they should be able to substantiate their demand within the
stipulated period, he would then repay to them the nine hundred
dollars, balance of the two thousand.
“Upon these conditions, both parties agreed and declared
themselves content and satisfied, while they were in a perfect state
of health and mind as to deserve reliance and dependence upon.
“Issued from the Court of Justice of the honoured and learned
sheikh Mohammed El-ameen ben Mohammed El-kanemy, at
Barnooh, on the 27th day of Rabee-ul-a-wal, one thousand two
hundred and thirty-nine of the Prophetical Hejra, (corresponding to
December, 1823); in presence of Mohammed Zain-ul-Abedeen ben
Akhmed ben Mohammed; of Mohammed ben Akhmed ben Aba
Bakr; and of Mohammed ben Hadgi Meelad ben Taleb. And may the
high God be witness upon all.”
 No. XI.

Translation of Letters and Documents received from the Sheikh of

Bornou concerning Mr. Tyrwhit’s Death.

1.—A Letter from the above-mentioned Sheikh to the British Consul

at Tripoli.

“Praise be to God, and blessings and peace be unto the Apostle

of God, (Mohammed).
“From the slave of the High God, Mohammed El Ameen ben
Mohammed El Kanemy, to the head of his people, the respected and
honoured by the children of his nation, the English Consul resident at
Tripoli. After the due salutation, and our inquiry after your health, we
have to inform you that we are, by the grace of God, enjoying perfect
health and prosperity. Your letter which you sent to Fezzan has
reached us, and we comprehended its contents; but the letter you
sent by our messengers Abraham and Abdullah has not come to our
hand yet, though we hope their arrival will be soon.
“You are well aware, that the omnipotent God hath ordained to
every man a certain age, which can neither be increased nor
decreased, and hath destined to him a grave, in which he can
neither enter before his time, nor from which he can fly when his time
comes. Thus, when you know this, it may be an alleviation to your
sorrow and grief, when you hear of the death of your friends and
relations: so that we have now to acquaint you, that your son Tair
(Tyrwhit) ended his life, and his days and hours terminated by his
death, on Monday the end of Saffar 1240[68], while we were absent
in a war with our enemies. After his death and interment, the elders
and priests of our metropolis entered his house, to ascertain and
note down the effects he left, in order, and from fear, that in the
course of time, there may be no suspicion of distrust thrown upon
the trustees. They found the property he left was not considerable:
they made a list of it, which herewith you will receive, and left the
whole in the hands of his trustees, Eben Saada of Tripoli, and the
Hadje Aly El-ma-yel, who were his servants. But God knows whether
this was the whole of his property, or some of it was fraudulently
concealed by those who were in the house at his death.
“With regard to the desire which you expressed to us, to know the
source of the inundation of the river that divides our country, we have
to inform you that this sea (river) of ours is a great and extensive
lake, the circumference of which is about twenty days’ journey, and
into which various rivers empty themselves from the part of the land
of Soodan, and from the right and east of our country, which joins the
uninhabited mountains and the land of the Pagans, to whom no one
goes. And God only knows what is to be found on the other side of
these places.
“Send our salutation to the great King of the English, and to every
one who inquires after us amicably.
(Sealed) “MOHAMMED EL KANEMY .”
(Dated) “Sunday, the eve of the end of the month of
Rajab, 1240.” (About the 20th of March, 1825.)

2.—A Document containing the List of the Property left by Mr.

Tyrwhit, as alluded to in the foregoing Letter, and a Certificate of
his Death, and the Things that were found after the Return of the
Sheikh from his Expedition.

The List.

“Whereas the Elders and Priests of the metropolis of the Arabs

(Barnoo), having assembled and repaired to the house of the
deceased English traveller, named Tair (Tyrwhit), who died on
Monday the last day of Saffar, 1240, to ascertain and note down
what he left; it proved, in their presence, that all his property was as
follows:
 “First, two swords and a sash, a musket, a pair of pistols, another
pair ditto, three . . . ., a sash, six silver spoons, a fork, a razor,
fifteen bottles of . . . . . ., eleven . . . . . ., four coffee cups,
three cupping glasses, a sun scale (quadrant), a . . . . ., three
squares of soap, a box containing some . . . . ., four . . . . .,
two pair of boots or slippers, a skull cotton cap, a woollen ditto, an
Indian looking-glass, twenty pieces of wearing apparel, as shirts,
drawers, &c. of his country, six towels, a paper containing some
cinnamon, a black napkin handkerchief for his neck, four hand
napkins, two . . . . ., a pillow of Soodan manufacture, a silk sash,
a silk cord, a . . . . ., a jacket embroidered with silver, a yard of
red cloth, a canvas bag, three gun covers, a cord for trowsers, some
boxes containing part of these things, a pair of Constantinople
slippers, a pair of Barbary ditto, or shoes, two scrapers of pig’s hair
(tooth-brushes), a looking-glass, ten pounds of gunpowder, twenty-
three bundles of . . . . ., three looking-glasses for the nose
(spectacles), a . . . . ., another hand napkin, three empty . . . .
., a broken glass, three squares of soap again, a . . . . three watch
rings, a pair of fine razors, a pound of antimony, a pound of coral,
fifty-three beads of amber, a pair of Soodanie boots, three pair ditto
of his country, a red cloth bornouse or cloak, a . . . . ., fifty hard
dollars, fifty-two books, a coffee waiter, two tin cans, three burning
glasses, a telescope, a waistcoat, a white bornouse of Barbary, a
towel, another bornouse, a writing desk, an umbrella, two loaves of
sugar, a . . . . ., two time pieces for the road (compasses), a nose
looking-glass (spectacles), a razor, two cork-screws, or ramrod
screws, a . . . . ., five . . . . ., three pair of trowsers, four tiger
skins, two mats of Noofee, two beds, or small Turkish carpets, a
pillow of Soodan, five sacks, fifteen water skins, or leather bags, a
cooking pot, a saucepan, an ewer, two large jars, a pan, two coffee
pots, two . . . ., two hooks, four empty . . . . ., a chisel, a
hammer, a camel, a female ditto, a horse, a mule, two saddles of
Barnoo, one ditto of his country, three wax cloth covers, a . . . . .,
two sun glasses, fifty medicine bottles, a woollen bed or carpet, a . .
. . .; and Hamdo Et-tafteef has by him a network shirt or dress, a
bird called Jamaj-mak; and he confessed that he borrowed fifty
dollars from the deceased.
 “Besides the above property, it was found that he has to receive
twenty dollars from one of the inhabitants of Barnoo, and thirty from
another; as likewise twenty-four dollars from the servant of the sharif
Barakat, sixty dollars from the Mamluk Bey Mohammed, and 165
from the Mamluk Mohammed, son of Hadje Mahmood.
“His debts to various persons are as follows: fourteen and a half
dollars to Hamdo Et-tafteef for . . . . ., eight dollars to the same,
for a bed and six pounds of . . . . ., four feathers to . . . . ., and
the wages of his two servants; as likewise, three dollars to the
burying people, and two dollars to the man who watched his tomb at
night, to prevent the body from being devoured by the hyena.
“His servant Ben Saada stated that this account of the debts
owing by, and due to the deceased, were contracted through him for
his master.
“This is the whole of the property left by the deceased; and
whatever has been noted down in this document, whether of great or
little value, has been deposited in the hands of his abovenamed
servant Ben Saada of Tripoli, and his fellow-servants.”

THE CERTIFICATE.

“Whereas our Master and Lord, defender of the Moosleman faith,

the Sheikh Mohammed El Kanemy, having, after his return from
subduing his enemies, assembled the elders and priests of the
inhabitants of his metropolis, and gave them a special audience,
ordered that the foregoing list, which was written during his absence,
be read in their presence; and, after every one heard and
understood it, commanded a revisal of the property left by the
deceased Englishman to be made, to ascertain its amount afresh.
Accordingly, we the undersigned repaired to the house of the
deceased, and found all the beforementioned articles extant except
the following, which have been used or lost by his servant,
Mohammed ben Saada of Tripoli, who had the things under his care.
A pair of boots, four bottles out of the fifteen, a napkin or
handkerchief for the neck, three pair of trowsers, three . . . ., three
squares of soap, a canvas bag, and two . . . . . But a few more
articles, which had not been inserted in the list, were found. They are
as follows: a piece of Egyptian mat, two pieces of sealing-wax, a
bullet mould, four charts or maps, two travelling bags (one of which
contains some of the articles, and is deposited with his other servant
Hadje Aly El-ma-yel), a cannon ramrod screw, a pound of . . . . .,
two . . . . ., two bridles, a . . . . ., two covers, three horse-
shoes, five tin canisters for meat, a wooden bowl, a wax cloth cover,
a large tin canister, a writing box containing eight pens, two blank
books, nine . . . . ., and a bottle containing some oil.
“His horse, which is mentioned in the list, has been sold to
Mohammed Sal-ha for 172 dollars.
“His servant, Mohammed ben Saada, declared before the
assembly, that his master, the said deceased Englishman, named
Tair (Tyrwhit), on finding his life was hopeless, bequeathed the
following articles to his Excellency the Sheikh. A mule, a red
bornouse, a looking-glass, or telescope, a pair of pistols, ten
canisters of gunpowder, of which, however, eight only were found, a
pair of Egyptian shoes or slippers, a sword, though it was rusty, a . .
. . ., a dining waiter or table-cloth, and a . . . . .
“After this, the assembly agreed, by the order of our Lord the
Sheikh, to allow to each of the three servants of the deceased (who
are intrusted with the things he left), three dollars per month.
“Done on the evening of Monday, the last day of Rajab 1240, in
the presence of the noble Sheikh and his assembly, of which we the
undersigned are members, and do hereby bear witness before the
Almighty God.
(Sealed) “MOHAMMED EL AMEEN BEN MOHAMMED EL KANEMY .
(Signed) “YOUSOF BEN ABD ELKADER EL-KAKARY ,
“SALEH BEN EL-HADJE HAMED ,
“MOHAMMED EL WARDI BEN EL HADJE ALY ,
“BEN ABD ELKADER ABA-NEARAN ,
“MOHAMMED BEN IBRAHEEM ET-TAFTEEF ,
and “MOHAMMED BEN EL-HADJE ISSA BEN AHMED EL-
 MESSRATI [69].”

3. A Letter from the Sheikh to Ra-yes-Khaleel, or Major Denham.

“Praise be to God, and blessings and peace be unto the Apostle

of God.
“From the slave of the High God, Mohammed El Ameen ben
Mohammed El Kanemy, to the honoured by the children of his
nation, Ra-yes Khaleel, the Englishman. After our salutation and
inquiry after your health, we have to inform you that we are, by the
grace of God, enjoying perfect health and prosperity. Your letter has
reached us, and we comprehended its contents.
“You are well aware, that the Omnipotent God hath ordained to
every man a certain age, which can neither be increased nor
decreased; and hath destined to him a grave, in which he can
neither enter before his time, nor from which he can fly when his time
comes. Thus, when you know this, it may be an alleviation to your
sorrow and grief, when you hear of the death of your friends and
relations: so that we have now to acquaint you that your brother Tair
(Tyrwhit) ended his life, and his days and hours terminated by his
death, on Monday, the end of Saffar, 1240, while we were absent in
a war with our enemies. After his death and interment, the elders
and priests of our metropolis entered his house, to ascertain and
note down the effects he left, in order, and from fear that, in the
course of time, there might be no suspicion of distrust thrown upon
the trustees. They found the property he left was not considerable:
they made a list of it, which herewith you will receive, and left the
whole in the hands of his trustees, Eben Saada of Tripoli, and the
Hadje Aly El-ma-yel, who were his servants. But God knows whether
this was the whole of his property, or whether some of it might have
been fraudulently concealed by those who were in the house at his
death.
“The war in which we were engaged was with Aly Yamanook, who
first declared hostilities against us. We went out to him through the
Kanoom road on the last day of Moharram 1240, and arrived near
the islands in which he was intrenched on Thursday the 19th of the
month of the sacred birth of our Prophet[70].
“He entered the islands, and left between him and us seven
streams; two of which could not be crossed but in boats, two were as
deep as to cover a man to the neck, and the other three had their
water as high as the navel only, or perhaps lower.
“We besieged him till he was in great distress, suffered much
famine, and most of his animals perished; and when we had
collected canoes for the landing of our troops on the islands, he
submitted, and begged forgiveness. We at first refused; but when he
repeated his applications and solicitations, we consented, binding
him by many severe and heavy conditions, which he accepted, and
restored to us, according to our demands, all that he had taken from
our people. He then came out of the islands, humble like a camel led
by his driver, and submissive like a tender twig to the hand that roots
it out.
“Thus we withdrew our army, after a siege of three months and
ten days, and after having likewise subdued all the disobedient and
disorderly Arabs, and returned to our home on Sunday the middle of
Rajab[71].
“Nothing new has happened since you left us, but every good and
happiness, and the increase of tranquillity and cheapness. We,
however, have lost our illustrious and noble friend Hassan Et-Teflati,
who died in this town; as likewise Mohammed Ben Dehman of
Katacoom, and Yakoob El-Owjal of An-karno, to whom may God
show mercy and forgiveness.
“The news from the interior is, that the ruler of Wa-da-i made an
expedition against the eastern part of the country towards Tamak;
but that he was repulsed and returned routed. The truth of this,
however, we could not ascertain, because it came from indirect
channels.
“The ruler of Foor, also, sent an army against the Turks[72], who
are in Kordafal or Kordofal; and it is reported that they had a battle at
a place called Kajah, which ended with the defeat of the army of
Foor, and the death of three of their grandees, besides what fell of
the troops; but that the said chieftain is gathering a larger army, and
means to send it against them. God only, however, knows what will
be the result.
“The ruler of Bakermy, who last year fled to the land of the
Pagans, has not returned; and a brother of his from Wa-da-i has
collected what troops he could, and proceeded against him. But God
knows what will happen between them.
“Give our salutation to your sister, and all your family and friends;
and peace be with you.”
Dated and sealed as the foregoing, viz. Letter No. I.

FOOTNOTES:

[68]About the 22d or 23d of October 1824.

[69]Explanation. The blanks in this list are those of the names
of some articles which I could not make out; they being mostly
English in the Moorish character, or described according to the
idea those people have of their use. A. S.
[70]From this it seems, that the journey was made in forty-nine
days, viz. the last day of Moharram, which is the first month of the
year, the twenty-nine days of the following month Saffar, and
nineteen days of the month in which Mohammed was born, which
is the third in the year. Being unacquainted with the distance and
the spot, I cannot, of course, pretend to give any farther
illustration. A. S.
[71]The middle of Rajab is the 164th or 165th day from his first
departure; and according to this, it appears that the sheikh, on
returning home, made the journey in fifteen or sixteen days only;
whereas, on going, it took him forty-nine days. This difference
may perhaps be accounted for, on account of the incumbrances
and slow movement of the army. A. S.
[72]The Sheikh says “he went” through the Kanoom (or
Kanem) road, which is by the north side of the lake; and the
difference of time occupied in the journey out and home may
therefore be easily accounted for, by supposing him to have
returned across the Shary by the southern end of the lake, this
road being much the shortest, as will appear on referring to the
map. Indeed, I see no other way of accounting for the difference.
D. D.
 No. XII.

Translation of an Arabic MS. brought by Captain Clapperton from the

Interior of Africa, containing a geographical and historical Account
of the Kingdom of Tak-roor, now under the Control of Sultan
Mohammed Bello of Hoossa, extracted from a larger Work
composed by the said Sultan.

“In the name of God, the merciful and the clement, &c. &c.
“This is an extract taken from the work entitled, “Enfak El-may-
soor, fee tareekh belad Et-tak-roor,” (viz. The Dissolver of Difficulties,
in the History of the Country of Tak-roor), composed by the ornament
of his time, and the unequalled among his contemporaries, the
Prince of the faithful, and defender of the faith, Mohammed Belo, son
of the prodigy of his age, the noble Sheikh Ossman,” &c.

PART I.
THE GEOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT.

SECTION I.

“The first province of this dominion (Tak-roor), on the east side, is,
as it is supposed, Foor (Darfoor); and, next to it, on the west side,
are those of Wa-da-i, and Baghar-mee. Foor is an extensive country,
containing woods, and rivers, and fields fit for cultivation. Its
inhabitants are partly composed of itinerants who became settlers,
and partly of Arabs who still wander about; and it contains a great
number of herdsmen, or graziers of cattle. The food of these
inhabitants is the dokhn dura (millet), and the daj’r, or peas.
Mooslemanism spread itself very much in this province, and most of
its inhabitants perform the pilgrimage; and, it is said, have great
respect for the pilgrims, and interrupt them not on their way.
 “The inhabitants of Wa-da-i and Baghar-mee are nearly of the
same description. Baghar-mee, however, is now desolated. The
cause of its ruin was, as they say, the misconduct of her king, who,
having increased in levity and licentiousness to such a frightful
degree, as even to marry his own daughter, God Almighty caused
Saboon, the Prince of Wa-da-i, to march against him, and destroy
him, laying waste, at the same time, all his country, and leaving the
houses uninhabited, as a signal chastisement for his impiety.
“These provinces are bounded on the north by deserts and dry
sands, which, in the spring only, are frequented by herdsmen; and
on the south by a great many countries, inhabited by various tribes
of Soodan, each of whom speak a different language, and among
whom Mooslemanism is not much spread.
“Adjoining this country, Baghar-mee, on the west side, is the
province of Barnoo, which contains rivers, and forests, and extensive
sands. It has always been well peopled, even before the last
mentioned country, and its extent and wealth are unequalled by any
part of this tract of the earth. Its inhabitants are the Barbar, the
Felateen, the before-mentioned Arabs, and a great many of the
slaves of the Barbar. These Barbars are of the remnants of those
who first inhabited the country between Zanj and Abyssinia, and who
were expelled from Yemen by Hemeera[73], subsequent to their
establishment in that country by Africus. The cause of their being
brought to Yemen was, as it is related, as follows:—While Africus
reigned over Yemen, and the Barbars in Syria, the inhabitants of the
latter country, being oppressed by the iniquities and impiety of their
rulers, applied to Africus to deliver them from their hands, and, at the
same time, they proclaimed and acknowledged him as their legal
sovereign. He marched against the Barbars, fought and destroyed
them, except the children, whom he kept in Yemen as slaves and
soldiers. After his death, and the elapse of a long period, they
rebelled against Hemeera, who then ruled Yemen. He fought and
turned them out of that country; whence they emigrated to a spot
near Abyssinia (the coast of the Red Sea facing Mokha), where they
took refuge. They then went to Kanoom, and settled there, as
strangers, under the government of the Tawarék, who were a tribe
related to them, and called Amakeetan. But they soon rebelled
against them, and usurped the country. Fortune having assisted
them, their government flourished for some time, and their dominion
extended to the very extremity of this tract of the earth; and Wa-da-i
and Baghar-mee, as well as the country of Hoosa, with those parts
of the province of Bow-sher which belong to it, were in their
possession. In the course of time, however, their government
became weakened, and their power destroyed.

SECTION II.

“Adjoining this province (Barnou), on the south side, is that of

Aáheer, which is spacious, and contains extensive plains. It is
inhabited by the Tawarék, and by some remnants of the Sonhajá,
and the Soodan. This province was formerly in the hands of the
Soodan inhabitants of Ghoobér; but five tribes of the Tawarék, called
Amakeetan, Tamkak, Sendal, Agdálar, and Ajdaraneen, came out of
Aowjal, and took it from them; and, after having settled themselves,
they agreed to nominate a prince to rule over them, in order to
render justice to the weak against the powerful. They appointed a
person of the family of Ansatfén; but they soon quarrelled among
themselves, and dismissed him. They then nominated another, and
continued upon this system, viz. whenever a prince displeased them,
they dethroned him, and appointed a different one. These Tawaréks
were of the remnants of the Barbar, who spread themselves over
Africa at the time of its conquest.
“The Barbars are a nation, descendants of Abraham;—though it is
stated that they descended from Yafet (Japhet); and others say, from
Gog and Magog, whom “the two horned” Alexander (the great)
immured[74]; but that, at the time, a tribe of them, happening to be at
Ghair-oon, remained there, and intermarried with the Turks and
Tattars.
“It is likewise stated that they (the Barbars) originated from the
children of the Jan, or Jinn (Demon), under the following
circumstances:—A company of them having gone to Jerusalem, and
slept during the night in a plain there, their women became pregnant
by the Jinn of that spot. They are, therefore, naturally inclined to
blood-shedding, plundering, and fighting. It is also said, that they
were the people who slew the prophets Zachariah and Eliah; and
that, after leaving Palestine, they proceeded westwards till they
arrived at Wa-leeba and Morakéba,—two towns in the interior, west
of Egypt, where the Nile does not reach, but the inhabitants drink the
rain water[75],—where they fixed their residence for some time. They
then divided themselves into different tribes, and proceeded
westwards in Africa. The tribes of Zedata and Magh-yala first
entered the Gharb, and inhabited the mountains. These were
followed by that of Láwata, who inhabited the country of Enttablos
(Tripoli), which is Barka. They afterwards spread themselves over
the interior of the Gharb, till they reached the country of Soossa,
where the tribe of Hawazna took possession of the city of Lebda,
and the tribe of Nafoosa entered the city of Ssabra, and expelled the
Room (Greeks or Romans) who then ruled there.
“It is again stated that they descended from Farek, son of
Yonssar, son of Ham; and that, when Yonssar conquered Africa, they
spread themselves over the Gharb, and first inhabited Tunis. Thence
they proceeded in tribes towards the southern parts of the Gharb,
which communicates with the country of Soodan, where they settled
at Aowjal, Fazaran, Ghadamess, and Ghata.
“Thus they came in five tribes from Aowjal, as before mentioned,
and conquered this province (Aáheer), as before stated.

SECTION III.

“Next to the above-mentioned province, on the right hand side,

and west of Barnoo, the country of Howssa lies. It consists of seven
provinces, to each of which a prince is appointed to superintend its
affairs, and the inhabitants of the whole speak one language. The
central province of this kingdom is Kashnah, the most extensive is
Zag-Zag, the most warlike is Ghoobér, and the most fertile is Kanoo.
“It contains rivers, woods, sands, mountains, valleys, and thickets
inhabited by the Soodans (who originated from the slaves of the
Barbars, and from the people of Barnoo), the Falateen, and the
Tawarék. It is presumed that the first father of the Soodans of this
country was a slave, named Ba-oo, belonging to one of the former
kings of Barnoo; and, on this account we said above, their origin was
from the slaves of the Barbars, and the people of Barnoo.
“My friend, the prince of the faithful, Mohammed El-bákery, son of
Sultan Mohammed El-ad-dal, informed me that the inhabitants of
Kashnah, Kanoo, Zag-Zag, Dor, or Dowry, Ranoo, and Yareem,
originated from the children of the above-named slave, Ba-oo, but
that the people of Ghoobér are free born; because their origin was
from the Copts of Egypt, who had emigrated into the interior of the
Gharb, or western countries. This tradition he found in the records
which they possess.
“These seven provinces (of Howssa) contain a great many
wonderful and rare things; and the first who ruled over them was, as
it is stated, ’Amenáh, daughter of the Prince of Zag-Zag. She
conquered them by the force of her sword, and subjected them,
including Kashnah and Kanoo, to be her tributaries. She fought, and
took possession of the country of Bow-sher, till she reached the
coast of the ocean on the right hand and west side. She died at
Atágára, or Ataghér.
“In consequence of these conquests, the province of Zag-Zag is
the most extensive in the kingdom of Howssa, including in it the
country of Bow-sher; which consists of various provinces inhabited
by tribes of Soodan.
“Among the provinces of Bow-sher, the following are the most
considerable:—First is Ghoo-wary, which contains seven divisions,
inhabited by seven tribes of Soodan, who speak one language, and
who have not embraced Mooslimanism. Second is Ghoondar. Third
is Reer-wa, or Rear-wee, which contains a lead mine. Fourth, fifth,
sixth, and seventh, are Yass, Kodoor, Kotoo, and Aádám. Eighth is
another Kotoo, which contains a copper mine, and one of alum. And
ninth is Kornorfa, which embraces about twenty divisions, ruled by
one king, who often sallied forth upon Kanoo and Barnoo, and
caused much desolation. A gold mine is found in it, as likewise one
of salt, and another of antimony. Near to this province there is an
anchorage or harbour for the ships of the Christians, who are sent by
two sovereigns to traffic or trade with the people of Soodan.
“The province of Atagára, or Ataghér, is likewise one of the most
extensive in the territory of Zag-Zag; and near it there is also an
anchorage or harbour for the ships of the said Christians. Both these
places are on the coast of the ocean.
“In all the above-mentioned provinces of Bow-sher and Zag-Zag,
Mohammedanism was not known before our conquest.

SECTION IV.

“West of Kashnah and Ghoobér there are seven different

provinces, extending into the territory of Howssa, which are—
Zanfarah, Kabi, Ya-ory, Noofee, Yarba, Barghoo, and Ghoorma. To
each of these there is a prince appointed as governor.
“With regard to Zanfarah, it is presumed that the first father of its
inhabitants was from Kashnah, and their mother from Ghoobér. They
had the government of the province in their own hands, and their
authority increased after the decline of the power of the people of
Kabi. They had once a very ambitious sultan, named Yá-koob
(Jacob) ben Bub, who, on coming into power, marched against Kabí,
and conquered and ruined most of its towns and villages. He
likewise went to Kashnah, and conquered the greatest part of it.
Their power, however, was destroyed by one of the sultans of
Ghoobér, whose name was Bá-bari, and who, after taking
possession of their country (Zanfarah), entailed it upon his
generation for a period of fifty years, till they were conquered by us.
“Kabí is an extensive province, containing rivers, forests, and
sands. Its inhabitants, it is supposed, had their first father from
Sanghee, and their mother from Kashnah. They ruled their own
country, and their government flourished very much during the reign
of Sultan Kantá, who, it is said, was a slave of the Falateen. He
governed with equity, conquered the country, and established peace
in its very extremities and remotest places. His conquests, it is
stated, extended to Kashnah, Kanoo, Ghoobér, Zag-Zag, and the
country of Aáheer; but having oppressed the inhabitants of some of