of education. Of course, the
ignorant people believed in them. There were several sorts of charms.
You could be tattooed with certain mystic letters that were said to
insure you against being hit, and there were certain medicines you could
drink. There were also charms made out of stone, such as a little
tortoise he had once seen that was said to protect its wearer. There
were mysterious writings on palm-leaves. There were men, he said
vaguely, who knew how to make these things. For himself, he did not
believe in them.

I tried to learn from him then, and I have tried from others since,
whether these charms have any connection with Buddhism. I cannot find
that they have. They are never in the form of images of the Buddha, or
of extracts from the sacred writings. There is not, so far as I can make
out, any religious significance in these charms; mostly they are simply
mysterious. I never heard that the people connect them with their
religion. Indeed, all forms of enchantment and of charms are most
strictly prohibited. One of the vows that monks take is never to have
any dealings with charms or with the supernatural, and so Buddhism
cannot even give such little assistance to its believers as to furnish
them with charms. If they have charms, it is against their faith; it is
a falling away from the purity of their teachings; it is simply the
innate yearning of man to the supernatural, to the mysterious. Man's
passions are very strong, and if he must fight, he must also have a
charm to protect him in fight. If his religion cannot give it him, he
must find it elsewhere. You see that, as the teachings of the Buddha
have never been able to be twisted so as to permit war directly, neither
have they been able to assist indirectly by furnishing charms, by
making the fighter bullet-proof. And I thought then of the little prayer
and the cross that were so certain a defence against hurt.

We talked for a long time in the waning moonlight by the ruddy fire, and
at last we broke up to go to bed. As we rose a voice called to us across
the water from the little promontory. In the still night every word was
as clear as the note of a gong.

'Sleep well,' it cried--'sleep well--sle-e-ep we-l-l.'

We all stood astonished--those who did not know Burmese wondering at the
voice; those who did, wondering at the meaning. The sentries peered
keenly towards the sound.

'Sleep well,' the voice cried again; 'eat well. It will not be for long.