CHAPTER II. SĪLAVAGGA.
No. 11.
LAKKHAṆA JĀTAKA.
The Story of ‘Beauty.’
“The advantage is to the good.”—This the Master told while at the Bambu-grove near Rājagaha, about Devadatta.[279] For on one occasion, when Devadatta asked for the Five Rules,[280] and could not get what he wanted, he made a schism in the Order, and taking four hundred of the mendicants with him, went and dwelt at the rock called Gayā-sīsa.
Afterwards the minds of these mendicants became open to conviction. And the Master, knowing it, said to his two chief disciples, “Sāriputta! those five hundred pupils of yours adopted the heresy of Devadatta, and went away with him, but now their minds have become open to conviction. Do you go there with a number of the brethren, and preach to them, and instruct them in the Fruits of the Path of Holiness, and bring them back with you!”
They went, and preached to them, and instructed them in the Fruits, and the next day at dawn returned to the Bambu Grove, bringing those mendicants with them. And as Sāriputta on his return was standing by, after paying his respects to the Blessed One, the mendicants exalted him, saying to the Blessed One, “Lord! how excellent appears our elder brother, the Minister of Righteousness, returning with five hundred disciples as his retinue, whereas Devadatta is now without any followers at all!”
“Not only now, O mendicants! has Sāriputta come in glory, surrounded by the assembly of his brethren; in a former birth, also, he did the same. And not now only has Devadatta been deprived of his following; in a former birth also he was the same.”
The monks requested the Blessed One to explain how that was. Then the Blessed One made manifest a thing hidden by the interval of existence.
Long ago, in the city Rājagaha, in the land of Magadha, there ruled a certain king of Magadha. At that time the Bodisat came to life as a deer, and when he grew up he lived in the forest at the head of a herd of a thousand deer. He had two young ones, named Lakkhaṇa (the Beautifully-marked One, ‘Beauty’) and Kāḷa (the Dark One, ‘Brownie’).
When he had become old, he called them, and said, “My beloved! I am old. Do you now lead the herd about.” And he placed five hundred of the deer under the charge of each of his sons.
Now in the land of Magadha at crop time, when the corn is ripening in the fields, there is danger brewing for the deer in the adjoining forest. Some in one place, and some in another, the sons of men dig pit-falls, fix stakes, set traps with stones in them, and lay snares to kill the creatures that would eat the crops. And many are the deer that come to destruction.
So when the Bodisat saw that crop time was at hand, he sent for his sons, and said, “My children! the time of growing crops has come; many deer will come to destruction. We are old, and will get along by some means or another without stirring much abroad. But do you lead your herds away to the mountainous part of the forest, and return when the crops are cut!”
“Very well,” said they; and departed with their attendant herds.
Now the men who live on the route they have to follow know quite well, “At such and such a time the deer are wont to come up into the mountains; at such and such a time they will come down again.” And lurking here and there in ambush, they wound and kill many deer.
But Brownie, in his dullness, knew not that there were times when he ought to travel and times when he ought not; and he led his herd of deer early and late alike—at dawn, or in evening twilight—past the village gates. The men in different places—some in the open, some in ambush—destroyed, as usual, a number of the deer. So he, by his stupidity, brought many of his herd to destruction, and re-entered the forest with diminished numbers.
Beauty, on the other hand, was learned and clever, and fertile in resource; and he knew when to go on, and when to stay. He approached no village gates; he travelled not by day, nor even at dawn or by evening twilight; but he travelled at midnight, and so he reached the forest without losing a single animal.
There they stayed four months; and when the crops were cut they came down from the mountain-side. Brownie, going back as he had come, brought the rest of the herd to destruction, and arrived alone. But Beauty, without losing even one of his herd, came up to his parent attended by all the five hundred of his deer.
And when the Bodisat saw his sons approaching, he held a consultation with the herd of deer, and put together this stanza,—
The righteous man hath profit, and the courteous in speech.
Look there at Beauty coming back with all his troop of kindred,
Then look at this poor Brownie, deprived of all he had![281]
When he had thus welcomed his son, the Bodisat lived to a good old age, and passed away according to his deeds.
Thus the Master gave them this lesson in virtue in illustration of what he had said, “Not only now, O mendicants! has Sāriputta come in glory, surrounded by the assembly of his brethren; in a former birth, also, he did the same. And not now only has Devadatta been deprived of his following; in a former birth also he was the same.” And he united the two stories, and made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka as follows: “Then ‘Brownie’ was Devadatta, and his attendants Devadatta’s attendants. ’Beauty’ was Sāriputta, and his attendants the followers of the Buddha. The mother was the mother of Rāhula, but the father was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY ABOUT ‘BEAUTY.’
No. 12.
NIGRODHA-MIGA JĀTAKA.
The Banyan Deer.
“Follow the Banyan deer,” etc.—This the Master told while at Jetavana, about the mother of the Elder named Kumāra Kassapa.[282] She, we are told, was the daughter of a rich merchant of the city of Rājagaha; she was deeply rooted in virtue, and despised all transient things; she had reached her last birth, and in her heart the destiny of future Arahatship shone like a lamp within a translucent pitcher. From the time when she knew her own mind she had no pleasure in a lay life, but was desirous to take the vows. And she said to her parents,—
“Mother, dear! my heart finds no pleasure in household life. I want to take the vows according to that teaching of the Buddha which leads to Nirvāna. Let me be ordained!”
“What is it you are saying, dear? This family is of great wealth, and you are our only daughter. You cannot be allowed to take the vows.”
When, after repeated asking, she was unable to obtain her parents’ permission, she thought, “Let it be so. When I get to another family, I will make favour with my husband, and take the vows.”
And when she grew up, she entered another family as wife, and lived a household life as a virtuous and attractive woman. And in due time she conceived, but she knew it not.
Now in that city they proclaimed a feast. All the dwellers in the city kept the feast, and the city was decked like a city of the gods. But she, up to the time when the feast was at its height, neither anointed herself nor dressed, but went about in her every-day clothes. Then her husband said to her,—
“My dear! all the city is devoted to the feast; yet you adorn yourself not.”
“The body, Sir, is but filled with its thirty-two constituent parts. What profit can there be in adorning it? For this body has no divine, no angelic attributes: it is not made of gold, or gems, or yellow sandal-wood; it springs not from the womb of lotus-flowers, white or red; it is not filled with the nectar-balm of holiness. But verily it is born in corruption: it springs from father and mother: its attributes are the decomposition, the wearing away, the dissolution, the destruction, of that which is impermanent! It is produced by excitement; it is the cause of pains, the subject of mournings, a lodging-place for all diseases. It is the receptacle for the action of Karma; foul within, without it is ever discharging: its end is death: and its goal is the charnel-house,—there, in the sight of all the world, to be the dwelling-place of worms and creeping things!”[283]
“Dear Lord! what should I gain by adorning this body? Would not putting ornaments on it be like painting the outside of a sepulchre?”
“My dear!” replied the young nobleman, “if you think this body so sinful, why don’t you become a nun?”
“If you grant me leave, dear husband, I will take the vows this day!”
“Very well, then; I will get you ordained,” said he. And giving a donation at a great cost, he took her, with a numerous retinue, to the nunnery, and had her admitted into the Order of Nuns—but among those who sided with Devadatta. And she was overjoyed that her wish had been fulfilled, and that she had become a nun.
Now, as she became far gone with child, the nuns noticed the alteration in her person,—the swelling of her hands and feet and back, and the increase in her girth; and they asked her, “Lady, you seem to be with child. How is this?”
“I don’t know how it is, ladies; but I have kept the vows.”
Then the nuns led her to Devadatta, and asked him, “Sir! this young lady, after with difficulty gaining her husband’s consent, was received into the Order. But now it is evident that she is with child; and we know not whether she became so when she was a laywoman or when she was a nun. What shall we do now?”
Devadatta, not being a Buddha, and having no forbearance, kindness, or compassion, thought thus: “If people can say, ‘A nun of Devadatta’s side is carrying about a child in her womb, and Devadatta condones it,’ I shall be disgraced. I must unfrock this woman!” And without any inquiry, he answered with eagerness, “Go and expel this woman from the Order!”—just as if he were rushing forwards to roll away a mere piece of stone!
When they heard his decision, they arose, and bowed to him, and returned to the nunnery. But the young girl said to the nuns, “Ladies! the Elder, Devadatta, is not the Buddha. Not under him did I enter the religious life, but under the Buddha himself, who is supreme among men. What I obtained with such difficulty, O, deprive me not of that! Take me, I pray you, and go to the Master himself at Jetavana!”
And they took her; and passing over the forty-five leagues of road which stretched from Rājagaha to that place, they arrived in due course at Jetavana, and saluting the Master, told him the whole matter.
The Teacher thought, “Although the child was conceived when she was still in the world, yet the heretics will have an opportunity of saying, ‘The mendicant Gautama has accepted a nun expelled by Devadatta!’ Therefore, to prevent such talk, this case ought to be heard in the presence of the king and his ministers.”
So the next day he sent for Pasenadi the king of Kosala, Anātha Piṇḍika the Elder, Anātha Piṇḍika, the Younger, the Lady Visākhā the influential disciple, and other well-known persons of distinction. And in the evening, when all classes of disciples had assembled, he said to Upāli the Elder, “Go and examine into this affair of the young nun in the presence of the church!”
The Elder accordingly went to the assembly; and when he had seated himself in his place, called the Lady Visākhā before the king, and gave in charge to her the following investigation: “Do you go, Visākhā, and find out exactly on what day of what month this poor child was received into the Order, and then conclude whether she conceived before or after that day.”
The Lady agreed; and having had a curtain hung, made a private examination behind it of the young nun; and comparing the days and months, found out that in truth she had conceived while she was yet living in the world. And she went to the Elder, and told him so; and the Elder, in the midst of the assembly, declared the nun to be innocent.
Thus was her innocence established. And she bowed down in grateful adoration to the assembly, and to the Master; and she returned with the other nuns to the nunnery.
Now, when her time was come, she brought forth a son strong in spirit—the result of a wish she had uttered at the feet of Padumuttara the Buddha. And one day, as the king was passing near the nunnery, he heard the cry of a child, and asked his ministers the reason. They knew of the matter, and said, “O king! that young nun has had a son, and the cry comes from it.”
“To take care of a child, Sirs, is said to be a hindrance to nuns in their religious life. Let us undertake the care of it,” said he.
And he had the child given to the women of his harem, and brought it up as a prince. And on the naming-day they called him Kassapa; but as he was brought up in royal state, he became known as Kassapa the Prince.
When he was seven years old, he was entered in the noviciate under the Buddha; and when he attained the necessary age, received full orders; and, as time went on, he became the most eloquent among the preachers. And the Master gave him the pre-eminence, saying, “Mendicants! the chief of my disciples in eloquence is Kassapa the Prince.” Afterwards, through the Vammīka Sutta, he attained to Arahatship. His mother, the nun, too, obtained spiritual insight, and reached Nirvāna.[284] And Kassapa the Prince became as distinguished in the religion of the Buddhas as the full moon in the midst of the vault of heaven.
Now one day the Successor of the Buddhas, when he had returned from his rounds and taken his meal, exhorted the brethren, and entered his apartment. The brethren, after hearing the exhortation, spent the day either in their day-rooms or night-rooms, and then met together at eventide for religious conversation. And, as they sat there, they exalted the character of the Buddha, saying, “Brethren, the Elder Prince Kassapa, and the Lady his mother, were nearly ruined by Devadatta, through his not being a Buddha, and having no forbearance or kindness; but the Supreme Buddha, being the King of Righteousness, and being perfect in kindness and forbearance and compassion, became the means of salvation to them both!”
Then the Master entered the hall with the dignity peculiar to a Buddha, and seating himself, asked them, “What are you sitting here talking about, O mendicants?”
“Lord,” said they, “concerning your excellences!” And they told him the whole matter.
“Not now only, O mendicants!” said he, “has the Successor of the Buddhas been a source of salvation and a refuge to these two; formerly also he was the same.”
Then the monks asked the Blessed One to explain how that was; and the Blessed One made manifest that which had been hidden by change of birth.
Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat came to life as a deer. When he was born he was of a golden colour; his eyes were like round jewels, his horns were white as silver, his mouth was red as a cluster of kamala flowers, his hoofs were bright and hard as lacquer-work, his tail as fine as the tail of a Tibetan ox,[285] and his body as large in size as a foal’s.
He lived in the forest with an attendant herd of five hundred deer, under the name of the King of the Banyan Deer; and not far from him there dwelt another deer, golden as he, under the name of the Monkey Deer, with a like attendant herd.
The king of Benares at that time was devoted to hunting, never ate without meat, and used to summon all the townspeople to go hunting every day, to the destruction of their ordinary work.
The people thought, “This king puts an end to all our work. Suppose now in the park we were to sow food and provide water for the deer, and drive a number of deer into it, and close the entrance, and deliver them over to the king.”
So they planted in the park grass for the deer to eat, and provided water, and tied up the gate; and calling the citizens, they entered the forest, with clubs and all kinds of weapons in their hands, to look for the deer. And thinking, “We shall best catch the deer by surrounding them,” they encircled a part of the forest about a league across. And in so doing they surrounded the very place where the Banyan Deer and the Monkey Deer were living.
Then striking the trees and bushes, and beating on the ground, with their clubs, they drove the herd of deer out of the place where they were; and making a great noise by rattling their swords and javelins and bows, they made the herd enter the park, and shut the gate. And then they went to the king, and said to him:
“O king! by your constant going to the chase, you put a stop to our work. We have now brought deer from the forest, and filled your park with them. Henceforth feed on them!” And so saying, they took their leave, and departed.
When the king heard that, he went to the park; and seeing there two golden-coloured deer, he granted them their lives. But thenceforth he would sometimes go himself to shoot a deer, and bring it home; sometimes his cook would go and shoot one. The deer, as soon as they saw the bow, would quake with the fear of death, and take to their heels; but when they had been hit once or twice, they became weary or wounded, and were killed.
And the herd of deer told all this to the Bodisat. He sent for the Monkey Deer, and said:
“Friend, almost all the deer are being destroyed. Now, though they certainly must die, yet henceforth let them not be wounded with the arrows. Let the deer take it by turns to go to the place of execution. One day let the lot fall upon my herd, and the next day on yours. Let the deer whose turn it is go to the place of execution, put his head on the block, and lie down. If this be done, the deer will at least escape laceration.”
He agreed: and thenceforth the deer whose turn it was used to go and lie down, after placing his neck on the block of execution. And the cook used to come and carry off the one he found lying there.
But one day the lot fell upon a roe in the herd of the Monkey Deer who was with young. She went to the Monkey Deer, and said, “Lord! I am with young. When I have brought forth my son, we will both take our turn. Order the turn to pass me by.”
“I cannot make your lot,” said he, “fall upon the others. You know well enough it has fallen upon you. Go away!”
Receiving no help from him, she went to the Bodisat, and told him the matter. He listened to her, and said, “Be it so! Do you go back. I will relieve you of your turn.” And he went himself, and put his neck upon the block of execution, and lay down.
The cook, seeing him, exclaimed, “The King of the Deer, whose life was promised to him, is lying in the place of execution. What does this mean?” And he went hastily, and told the king.
The king no sooner heard it than he mounted his chariot, and proceeded with a great retinue to the place, and beholding the Bodisat, said, “My friend the King of the Deer! did I not grant you your life? Why are you lying here?”
“O great king! a roe with young came and told me that the lot had fallen upon her. Now it was impossible for me to transfer her miserable fate to any one else. So I, giving my life to her, and accepting death in her place, have lain down. Harbour no further suspicion, O great king!”
“My Lord the golden-coloured King of the Deer! I never yet saw, even among men, one so full of forbearance, kindness, and compassion. I am pleased with thee in this matter. Rise up! I grant your lives, both to you and to her!”
“But though two be safe, what shall the rest do, O king of men?”
“Then I grant their lives to the rest, my Lord.”
“Thus, then, great king, the deer in the park will have gained security, but what will the others do?”
“They also shall not be molested.”
“Great king! even though the deer dwell secure, what shall the rest of the four-footed creatures do?”
“They also shall be free from fear.”
“Great king! even though the quadrupeds are in safety, what shall the flocks of birds do?”
“Well, I grant the same boon to them.”
“Great king! the birds then will obtain peace, but what of the fish who dwell in the water?”
“They shall have peace as well.”
And so the Great Being, having interceded with the king for all creatures, rose up and established the king in the Five Precepts,[286] and said, “Walk in righteousness, O great king! Doing justice and mercy to fathers and mothers, to sons and daughters, to townsmen and landsmen, you shall enter, when your body is dissolved, the happy world of heaven!”
Thus, with the grace of a Buddha, he preached the Truth to the king; and when he had dwelt a few days in the park to exhort the king, he went away to the forest with his attendant herd.
And the roe gave birth to a son as beautiful as buds of flowers; and he went playing about with the Monkey Deer’s herd. But when its mother saw that, she said, “My son, henceforth go not in his company; you may keep to the Banyan Deer’s herd!” And thus exhorting him, she uttered the verse—
Follow the Banyan Deer:
Dwell not with the Monkey Deer.
Better death with the Banyan Deer,
Than life with the Monkey Deer.[287]
Now after that the deer, secure of their lives, began to eat men’s crops. And the men dared not strike them or drive them away, recollecting how it had been granted to them that they should dwell secure. So they met together in front of the king’s palace, and told the matter to the king.
“When I was well pleased, I granted to the leader of the Banyan Deer a boon,” said he. “I may give up my kingdom, but not my oath! Begone with you! Not a man in my kingdom shall be allowed to hurt the deer.”
When the Banyan Deer heard that, he assembled the herds, and said, “Henceforth you are not allowed to eat other people’s crops.” And so forbidding them, he sent a message to the men: “Henceforth let the husbandmen put up no fence to guard their crops; but let them tie leaves round the edge of the field as a sign.”
From that time, they say, the sign of the tying of leaves was seen in the fields, and from that time not a single deer trespassed beyond it; for such was the instruction they received from the Bodisat.
And the Bodisat continued thus his life long to instruct the deer, and passed away with his herd according to his deeds.
The king, too, hearkened to the exhortations of the Bodisat, and then, in due time, passed away, according to his deeds.
The Master, having finished the discourse in illustration of his saying, “Not only now was I the protector of the nun and of Kassapa the Prince; in a former birth I was the same,” he fully expounded the Four Truths. And when he had told the double story, he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka by saying, “He who was then the Monkey Deer was Devadatta, his herd was Devadatta’s following, the roe was the nun, her son was Kassapa the Prince, the king was Ānanda, but the royal Banyan Deer was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE BANYAN DEER.
No. 13.
KAṆḌINA JĀTAKA.
The Dart of Love.
[The Introductory Story is the same as that of the Indriya Jātaka in Book VIII.]
Long ago a king of Magadha was reigning in Rājagaha, in the country of Magadha. At the season of harvest the deer suffered much at the hands of the people of Magadha. So they were wont to go away to the forest at the foot of the mountains.
Now a certain mountain stag, who lived in that jungle, made friends with a roe from the inhabited country. And when those deer came down from the mountain-side to return home, he, being caught in the snares of love, went down with them.
Then she said to him, “You, Sir, are but a simple deer of the mountains, and the inhabited country is beset with danger and difficulty. Pray don’t go down with us!”
But he, being fallen deep into love for her, would not turn back, and went along with her.
Now when the people of Magadha saw that the time was come for the deer to return from the hills, they used to lie waiting in ambush all along the road. And just where those two were coming on, there stood a certain hunter behind a thicket.
The young roe smelt the smell of a man, and immediately thought, “There’ll be some hunter behind there.” And she let the foolish stag go on first, and kept back herself. The hunter with one shot from his bow felled the stag there on the spot; but the roe, as soon as she saw he was hit, fled away like the wind.
Then the hunter came out of his ambush, skinned that deer, made a fire, cooked the sweet flesh in the glowing charcoal, ate and drank, and carried off the rest all dropping with blood and gore, and went home to give his children a treat.
Now the Bodisat of that time was a tree fairy, dwelling in that wood. When he saw what had happened, he said to himself,
“Not through father, not through mother, but through lust, has this poor fool of a deer come to his death. In the dawn of passion creatures think themselves in bliss, but they end in losing their limbs in misery, or tasting the grief of all kinds of bonds and blows. What more shameful in this world than that which brings sorrow and death to others? What more despicable than the country where women administer and teach, a land under harem rule? What more wretched than the men who give themselves up to women’s control?” And then, whilst all the fairies of the wood cast bouquets before him and cheered him on, he brought the three rebukes into one verse, and made the whole wood ring as he uttered the stanza—
O dreadful barbéd dart of love, that tears men’s hearts!
O foolish land, where woman bears the rule!
O stupid men, who fall ‘neath woman’s power!
[288] When the Master had taught them this story, he proclaimed the Four Truths. And at the conclusion thereof that love-sick monk was converted. And the Master made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka by saying, “The mountain-deer of that time was the love-sick brother, the roe was his former wife, and the tree fairy, who preached the sermon showing the evil of passion, was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE DART OF LOVE.
No. 14.
VĀTA-MIGA JĀTAKA.
The Greedy Antelope.
“There is nothing worse than greed, they say.”—This the Master told when he was living at Jetavana about the Elder named Tissa the younger, the keeper of the law concerning food.
For when the Master, we are told, was residing at the Bambu-grove, near Rājagaha, a young man of a very wealthy family of distinction, by name Prince Tissa, went one day to the Bambu-grove, and when he had heard the Teacher’s discourse, he became desirous to devote himself to a religious life. And when, on his asking leave to enter the Order, his parents refused their consent, he compelled them to grant it, in the same manner as Raṭṭhapāla had done, by refusing to eat for seven days.[289] And he then took the vows under the Master.
The Master remained at the Bambu-grove about half a month after receiving him into the Order, and then went to Jetavana. There this young man of family passed his life, begging his daily food in Sāvatthi, and observing all the Thirteen Practices by which the passions are quelled. So under the name of “The Young Tissa who keeps the law concerning food,”[290] he became as distinguished and famous in Buddhadom as the moon in the vault of heaven.
At that time they were holding festival in Rājagaha, and the parents of the monk put away all the jewelry which had belonged to him in the days of his laymanship into a silver casket; and took the matter to heart, weeping, and saying, “At other festivals our boy used to keep the feast wearing this ornament or this. And now Gotama the Mendicant has taken him, him our only son, away to Sāvatthi! And we know not what fate is falling to him there.”
Now a slave-girl coming to the house, and seeing the wife of the lord weeping, asked her, “Why, Lady! do you weep?” And she told her what had happened.
“Well, Lady, what dish was your son most fond of?” said she.
“Such and such a one,” was the reply.
“If you grant me full authority in this house, I will bring your son back!” said she.
The Lady agreed, gave her wherewith to pay all her expenses, and sent her forth with a great retinue, saying, “Go now, and by your power bring back my son.”
So the girl then went to Sāvatthi in a palankeen, and took up her abode in the street in which the monk was wont to beg. And without letting him see the people who had come from the lord’s house, but surrounding herself with servants of her own, she from the very first provided the Elder when he came there with food and drink. Having thus bound him with the lust of taste, she in due course got him to sit down in her house; and when she saw that by giving him to eat she had brought him into her power, she shammed sickness, and lay down in her inner chamber.
Then the monk, when his begging time had come, arrived on his rounds at the door of the house. An attendant took his bowl, and made him sit down in the house. No sooner had he done so, than he asked, “How is the lady devotee?”
“She is sick, reverend Sir, and wishes to see you,” was the reply. And he, bound by the lust of taste, broke his observance and his vow, and went to the place where she was lying. Then she told him why she had come, and alluring him, so bound him by the lust of taste, that she persuaded him to leave the Order. And having brought him into her power, she seated him in her palankeen, and returned to Rājagaha with all her retinue.
And this news became the common talk. And the monks, assembled in the hall of instruction, began to say one to another, “A slave-girl has brought back Young Tissa, the keeper of the law concerning food, having bound him with the lust of taste.”
Then the Master, entering the chapel, sat down on his throne, and said, “On what subject are you seated here talking?”
And they told him the news.
“Not now only, O mendicants!” said he, “has this monk, caught by the lust of taste, fallen into her power; formerly also he did the same.” And he told a story.
Once upon a time Brahma-datta, the king of Benares, had a gardener named Sanjaya. Now a swift antelope who had come to the garden took to flight as soon as it saw Sanjaya. But Sanjaya did not frighten it away; and when it had come again and again it began to walk about in the garden. And day by day the gardener used to pluck the various fruits and flowers in the garden, and take them away to the king.
Now one day the king asked him, “I say, friend gardener, is there anything strange in the garden so far as you’ve noticed?”
“I’ve noticed nothing, O king! save that an antelope is in the habit of coming and wandering about there. That I often see.”
“But could you catch it?”
“If I had a little honey, I could bring it right inside the palace here!”
The king gave him the honey; and he took it, went to the garden, smeared it on the grass at the spot the antelope frequented, and hid himself. When the deer came, and had eaten the honey-smeared grass, it was bound with the lust of taste; and from that time went nowhere else, but came exclusively to the garden. And as the gardener saw that it was allured by the honey-smeared grass, he in due course showed himself. For a few days the antelope took to flight on seeing him. But after seeing him again and again, it acquired confidence, and gradually came to eat grass from the gardener’s hand. And when the gardener saw that its confidence was gained, he strewed the path right up to the palace as thick with branches as if he were covering it with mats, hung a gourdful of honey over his shoulder, carried a bundle of grass at his waist, and then kept sprinkling honey-smeared grass in front of the antelope till he led him within the palace.
As soon as the deer had got inside, they shut the door. The antelope, seeing men, began to tremble and quake with the fear of death, and ran hither and thither about the hall. The king came down from his upper chamber, and seeing that trembling creature, said, “Such is the nature of an antelope, that it will not go for a week afterwards to a place where it has seen men, nor its life long to a place where it has been frightened. Yet this one, with just such a disposition, and accustomed only to the jungle, has now, bound by the lust of taste, come to just such a place. Verily there is nothing worse in the world than this lust of taste!” And he summed up the lesson in this stanza:
“There’s nothing worse than greed, they say,
Whether at home, or with one’s friends.
Through taste the deer, the wild one of the woods,
Fell under Sanjaya’s control.”
And when in other words he had shown the danger of greed, he let the antelope go back to the forest.
When the Master had finished this discourse in illustration of what he had said (“Not now only O mendicants! has this monk, caught by the lust of taste, fallen into her power; formerly also he did the same”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka as follows: “He who was then Sanjaya was this slave-girl, the antelope was the monk, but the king of Benares was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE SWIFT ANTELOPE.
No. 15.
KHARĀDIYĀ JĀTAKA.
The Deer who would not learn.
“Though a deer be most swift, O Kharādiyā.”—This the Master told when at Jetavana, concerning a certain foul-mouthed monk. For that monk, we are told, was abusive, and would take no admonition.
Now the Master asked him, “Is it true what they say, O mendicant! that you are abusive, and will take no admonition?”
“It is true, O Blessed One!” said he.
The Master said, “Formerly also, by your surliness and your refusing to accept the admonition of the wise, you were caught in a snare and came to destruction.” And he told a story.
Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat became a stag, and lived in the forest, with a herd for his retinue.
Now his sister-roe (Kharādiyā) pointed out to him her son, and gave him in charge to him, saying, “Brother! this is your nephew. Teach him the devices of the deer.”
And he said to his nephew, “Come at such and such a time to learn.”
At the appointed time he did not go. And one day as he was wandering about, disregarding seven admonitions given on as many days, and not learning the devices of the deer, he was caught in a snare.
Then his mother went to her brother, and asked, “How now, brother! was your nephew instructed in the devices of the deer?”
“Think no more of that incorrigible fellow!” said the Bodisat. “Your son did not learn the devices of the deer.”
And then, to explain his own unwillingness to have anything further to do with him, he uttered this stanza:
“Though a deer be most swift,[291] O Kharādiyā!
And have antlers rising point o’er point,
If he transgress the seventh time,
I would not try to teach him more!”
But the hunter killed that wilful deer caught in the snare, and, taking his flesh, departed.
The Master having finished this discourse, in illustration of what he had said (“Formerly also, by your surliness and your refusing to accept the admonition of the wise, you were caught in a snare, and came to destruction”), made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka: “The nephew deer of that time was the abusive monk, the sister was Uppala-vaṇṇā, but the admonishing deer was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE DEER WHO WOULD NOT LEARN.
No. 16.
TIPALLATTHA-MIGA JĀTAKA.
The Cunning Deer.
“I’ve taught the deer in posture skilled.”—This the Master told when at the Badarika monastery in Kosambi, about his son Rāhula, who was over-anxious to observe the Rules of the Order.[292]
Once upon a time there was a king of Magadha reigning in Rājagaha. At that time the Bodisat came to life as a stag, and lived in the forest, attended by a herd of deer.
Now his sister brought her son to him, saying, “Brother! instruct this thy nephew in the devices of the deer.”
“Very well,” said the Bodisat, in assent, and directed his nephew, “Go away now, dear, and on your return at such and such a time you may receive instruction.”
And he failed not at the time appointed by his uncle, but went to him and received instruction.
One day as he was wandering about in the wood, he was caught in a snare. And he uttered a cry—the cry of a captive. Then the herd took to flight, and let the mother know that her son had been caught in a snare. She went to her brother, and asked him,—
“Brother! was your nephew instructed in the devices of the deer?”
“Suspect not your son of any fault,” said the Bodisat. “He has well learnt the devices of the deer. Even now he will come back to us and make you laugh for joy.” And he uttered this stanza:
I’ve trained the deer to be most swift,
To drink at midnight only, and, abounding in disguise,
To keep in any posture that he likes.
Breathing through one nostril hid upon the ground,
My nephew, by six tricks at his command
Will yet outdo the foe!
Thus the Bodisat, pointing out how thoroughly his nephew had learnt the devices of the deer, comforted his sister.
But the young stag, when he was caught in the trap, struggled not at all. He lay down on the ground as best he could; stretched out his legs; struck the ground near his feet with his hoofs, so as to throw up earth and grass; let fall his head; put out his tongue; made his body wet with spittle; swelled out his belly by drawing in his breath; breathed through the lower nostril only, holding his breath with the upper; made his whole frame stiff and stark, and presented the appearance of a corpse. Even the bluebottles flew round him, and here and there crows settled!
When the hunter came up, he gave him a blow on the stomach; and saying to himself, “He must have been caught early in the morning, he is already putrid,” he loosed the bands which tied him. And apprehending nothing, he began to collect leaves and branches, saying to himself, “I will dress him at once, here on the spot, and carry off the flesh.”
But the young stag arose, stood on his feet, shook himself, stretched out his neck, and, swiftly as a cloud driven by a mighty wind, returned to his mother!
The Teacher having finished this discourse, in illustration of his words (“Not now only, mendicants, was Rāhula devoted to instruction; formerly also he was so,” etc.), made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka: “At that time the nephew, the young stag, was Rāhula, the mother was Uppala-vaṇṇā, but the uncle was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE CUNNING DEER.[293] No. 17.
MALUTA JĀTAKA.
The Wind.
“Whenever the wind blows,” etc.—This the Master told when at Jetavana, about two Buddhist monks. They, we are told, were living a forest life in the country of Kosala; and one was called Dark and the other called Light. Now one day Light asked Dark, “Brother! at what time does the cold, as some people call it, come on?”
“In the dark half of the month!” said he.
But one day Dark asked Light, “Brother Light! at what time does the so-called cold come on?”
“In the light half of the month!” said he.
And neither of the two being able to solve the knotty point, they went to the Master, and after paying him reverence, asked him, “At what time, Sir, is the cold?”
When the Master had heard their story, he said, “Formerly also, O mendicants! I solved this question for you; but the confusion arising from change of birth has driven it out of your minds.” And he told a tale.
Once upon a time two friends, a lion and a tiger, were living in a certain cave at the foot of a hill. At that time the Bodisat, who had devoted himself to the religious life of a hermit, was living at the foot of that same mountain.
Now one day a dispute arose between the friends about the cold. The tiger said it was cold in the dark half of the month, the lion said it was cold in the light half. And as neither of them could solve the difficulty, they asked the Bodisat, and he uttered this stanza:
“It is whenever the wind blows,
In the dark half or in the light.
For cold is caused by wind: and so
You both are right.”
Thus the Bodisat pacified the two friends.
When the Master had finished this discourse (“Formerly also,” etc.), he proclaimed the Truths. And at the close thereof the two brethren were established in the Fruit of Conversion. The Master made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka: “He who was then the tiger was Dark, the lion Light, but the ascetic who answered the question was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY ABOUT THE WIND.[294]
No. 18.
MATAKA-BHATTA JĀTAKA.
On Offering Food to the Dead.
“If people would but understand.”—This the Teacher told when at Jetavana, about food offered to the dead.
For at that time people used to kill sheep and goats in large numbers in order to offer what is called “The Feast of the Dead” in honour of their deceased relatives. When the monks saw men doing so, they asked the Teacher, saying, “Lord! the people here bring destruction on many living creatures in order to provide the so-called ’Feast of the Dead.’ Can there possibly, Sir, be any advantage in that?”
The Teacher said, “Let not us, O mendicants! provide the Feast of the Dead: for what advantage is there in destroying life? Formerly sages seated in the sky preached a discourse showing the evils of it, and made all the dwellers in Jambu-dīpa give up this practice. But now since change of birth has set in, it has arisen again.” And he told a tale.
Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, a Brāhman, a world-famous teacher, accomplished in the Three Vedas, had a goat brought, with the intention of giving the Feast of the Dead, and said to his pupils:
“My lads! take this goat to the river, and bathe it, and hang a garland round its neck, and give it a measure of corn, and deck it out, and then bring it back.”
“Very well,” said they, and accordingly took it to the river; and when they had bathed it and decorated it, let it stand on the bank.
The goat, seeing in this the effect of his former bad conduct, thought to himself, “To-day I shall be free from that great misery;” and, glad at heart, he laughed a mighty laugh, in sound like the crashing of a jar. Then, thinking to himself, “This Brāhman, by killing me, will take upon himself like misery to that which I had earned,” he felt compassion for the Brāhman, and wept with a loud voice.
Then the young Brāhman asked him, “Friend goat! you have both laughed heartily and heartily cried. Pray, what is it makes you laugh, and what is it makes you cry?”
“Ask me about it in your teacher’s presence,” said he.
They took him back, and told their teacher of this matter. And when he had heard their story, he asked the goat, “Why did you laugh, goat, and why did you cry?”
Then the goat, by his power of remembering former births, called to mind the deeds he had done, and said to the Brāhman, “Formerly, O Brāhman, I had become just such another Brāhman,—a student of the mystic verses of the Vedas; and determining to provide a Feast of the Dead, I killed a goat, and gave the Feast. By having killed that one goat, I have had my head cut off in five hundred births, less one. This is my five hundredth birth, the last of the series; and it was at the thought, ‘To-day I shall be free from that great misery,’ that I became glad at heart, and laughed in the manner you have heard. Then, again, I wept, thinking, ‘I who just by having killed a goat incurred the misery of having five hundred times my head cut off, shall be released to-day from the misery; but this Brāhman, by killing me, will, like me, incur the misery of having his head cut off five hundred times;’ and so I wept.”
“Fear not, O goat! I will not kill you,” said he.
“Brāhman! what are you saying? Whether you kill me or not, I cannot to-day escape from death.”
“But don’t be afraid! I will take you under my protection, and walk about close to you.”
“Brāhman! of little worth is your protection; while the evil I have done is great and powerful!”
The Brāhman released the goat; and saying, “Let us allow no one to kill this goat,” he took his disciples, and walked about with it. No sooner was the goat at liberty, than, stretching out its neck, it began to eat the leaves of a bush growing near the ridge of a rock. That very moment a thunderbolt fell on the top of the rock, and a piece of the rock split off, and hit the goat on his outstretched neck, and tore off his head. And people crowded round.
At that time the Bodisat had been born as the Genius of a tree growing on that spot. By his supernatural power he now seated himself cross-legged in the sky in the sight of the multitude; and thinking, “Would that these people, seeing thus the fruit of sin, would abstain from such destruction of life,” he in a sweet voice taught them, uttering this stanza:
“If people would but understand
That this would cause a birth in woe,
The living would not slay the living;
For he who taketh life shall surely grieve!”
Thus the Great Being preached to them the Truth, terrifying them with the fear of hell. And when the people had heard his discourse, they trembled with the fear of death, and left off taking life. And the Bodisat, preaching to the people, and establishing them in the Precepts, passed away according to his deeds. The people, too, attending upon the exhortations of the Bodisat, gave gifts, and did other good deeds, and so filled the city of the gods.[295]
The Teacher having finished this discourse, made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka: “I at that time was the Genius of the tree.”
END OF THE STORY ON FOOD OFFERED TO THE DEAD.
No. 19.
ĀYĀCITA-BHATTA JĀTAKA.
On Offerings given under a Vow.
“Would you be saved,” etc.—This the Teacher told while at Jetavana, about making offerings under a vow to the gods.
At that time, we are told, men about to go on a trading journey used to kill animals, and lay an offering before the gods, and make a vow, saying, “When we have returned in safety and success, we will make an offering to you,” and so depart. Then when they returned safe and successful, thinking, “This has happened by the power of the God,” they killed animals, and made the offering to release themselves from the vow.
On seeing this, the mendicants asked the Blessed One, “Lord! is there now any advantage in this?” And he told a tale.
Once upon a time, in the land of Kāsi, a landed proprietor in a certain village promised an offering to the Genius of a Banyan-tree standing by the gate of the village. And when he had returned safely, he slew a number of animals; and saying to himself, “I will make myself free from my vow,” he went to the foot of the tree.
But the tree-god, standing in a fork of the tree, uttered this stanza:
Would you be free, you first must die!
Seeking for freedom thus, is being bound!
Not by such deeds as these are the wise made free:
Salvation is the bond of fools!”[296]
Thenceforward men refrained from such life-destroying deeds, and living a life of righteousness filled the city of the gods.
The Teacher, having finished this discourse, made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka: “I at that time was the Genius of the Tree.”
END OF THE STORY ON OFFERINGS GIVEN UNDER A VOW.
No. 20.
NAḶAPĀNA JĀTAKA.
The Monkeys and the Demon.
“He saw the marks of feet,” etc.—This the Teacher told about the Naḷa-canes, when he was living at the Ketaka wood, hard by the Lake of Naḷaka-pāna, after he had come to the village of that name on his tour through Kosala.
At that time the monks, after they had bathed in the Naḷaka-pāna lake, had the canes of the Naḷa-plant brought to them by the novices, for needle-cases. And finding them hollow throughout, they went to the Teacher, and asked him, “Lord! we had Naḷa-canes brought for needle-cases. They are hollow throughout, from root to point. How is this?”
“This, mendicants,” said he, “is a former command of mine.” And he told a tale.
This was formerly, they say, a densely-wooded forest. And in its lake there was a water-demon, who used to eat whomsoever went down into the water. At that time the Bodisat was a monkey-king, in size like the fawn of a red deer; and attended by a troop of monkeys about eighty thousand in number, he lived in that forest, preserving them from harm.
Now he exhorted the troop of monkeys, saying, “My children! in this forest there are poisonous trees, and pools haunted by demons. When you are going to eat fruits of any kind you have not eaten before, or to drink water you have not drunk before, ask me about it.”
“Very well,” said they. And one day they went to a place they had not been to before. There they wandered about the greater part of the day; and when, in searching about for water, they found a pond, they sat down without even drinking, and looked forward to the arrival of their king.[297]
When the Bodisat had come, he asked them, “Why, my children, do you take no water?”
“We awaited your arrival,” said they.
“It is well, my children!” said the Bodisat; and fixing his attention on the foot-marks close round the edge of the pond, he saw that they went down, but never came up. Then he knew that it was assuredly haunted by demons, and said, “You have done well, my children, not to have drunk the water. This pond is haunted!”
But when the demon of the water saw that they were not going down into it, he assumed the horrible shape of a blue-bellied, pale-faced, red-handed, red-footed creature, and came splashing out through the water, and cried out, “Why do you sit still here? Go down and drink the water!”
But the Bodisat asked him, “Are you the water-demon who haunts this spot?”
“Yes! I am he!” was the reply.
“Have you received power over all who go down into the pool?”
“Yes, indeed! I carry off even a bird when it comes down, and I let no one off. You too I will devour, one and all!”
“We shall not allow you to eat us.”
“Well, then! drink away!”
“Yes! we shall drink the water too, but we shall not fall into your hands.”
“How, then, will you get at the water?”
“You imagine, I suppose, that we must go down to drink. But you are wrong! Each one of us eighty thousand shall take a Naḷa-cane and drink the water of your pond without ever entering it, as easily as one would drink from the hollow stem of a water-plant. And so you will have no power to eat us!”
It was when the Teacher as Buddha had recalled this circumstance that he uttered the first half of the following stanza:
“I saw the marks of feet that had gone down,
I saw no marks of feet that had returned.”
(But then he said to the monkeys)—
“We’ll drink the water through a reed,”
(And turning to the demon, he added)—
“And yet I’ll not become your prey!”
So saying, the Bodisat had a Naḷa-cane brought to him, and appealing in great solemnity to the Ten Great Perfections (generosity, morality, self-denial, wisdom, perseverance, patience, truth, resolution, kindness, and resignation) exorcised by him in this and previous births, he blew into the cane.[298] And the cane became hollow throughout, not a single knot being left in it. In this manner he had another, and then another, brought, and blew into it.[299] Then the Bodisat walked round the pond, and commanded, saying, “Let all the canes growing here be perforated throughout.” And thenceforward, since through the greatness of the goodness of the Bodisats their commands are fulfilled, all the canes which grew in that pond became perforated throughout.
There are four miracles in this Kalpa (the period which elapses between the commencement of the formation of the world and its final destruction) which endure throughout a Kalpa—the sign of the hare in the moon will last the whole Kalpa:[300] the place where the fire was extinguished in the Quail-birth will not take fire again through all the Kalpa:[301] the place where the potter lived will remain arid through all the Kalpa: the canes growing round this pond will be hollow through all the Kalpa. These four are called the Kalpa-lasting Wonders.
After giving this command, the Bodisat took a cane and seated himself. So, too, those eighty thousand monkeys took, each of them, a cane, and seated themselves round the pond. And at the same moment as he drew the water up into his cane and drank, so, too, they all sat safe on the bank, and drank.
Thus the water-demon got not one of them into his power on their drinking the water, and he returned in sorrow to his own place. But the Bodisat and his troop went back again to the forest.
When the Teacher, having finished this discourse in illustration of his words (“The hollowness of those canes, mendicants, is a former command of mine”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, saying: “He who was then the water-demon was Devadatta; the eighty thousand monkeys were the Buddha’s retinue; but the monkey king, clever in resource, was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF NAḶAPĀNA.
No. 21.
KURUNGA-MIGA JĀTAKA.
The Wily Antelope.
“The Kurunga knows full well,” etc.—This the teacher told while at Jetavana about Devadatta.
For once when the monks had assembled in the lecture hall, they sat talking of Devadatta’s wickedness, saying, “Brother Devadatta has suborned archers, and hurled down a rock, and sent forth Dhanapālaka the elephant; in every possible way he goes about to slay the Sage.”
The Teacher came, and sat down on the seat reserved for him, and asked, “What is it, then, Mendicants, you are sitting here talking about?”
“Lord! we were talking about the wickedness of Devadatta in going about to slay you.”
The Teacher answered, “Not now only, O mendicants, has Devadatta gone about to slay me; formerly, too, he did the same, and was unsuccessful in his endeavour.” And he told a tale.
Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat became A KURUNGA ANTELOPE and lived in his forest home, feeding on fruits. And at one time he was eating the Sepaṇṇi fruit on a heavily-laden Sepaṇṇi tree.
Now, a deerstalker of that village used to note the tracks of the deer at the foot of the fruit-trees, build himself a platform on the tree above, and seating himself there, wound with a javelin the deer who came to eat the fruit, and make a living by selling their flesh.
On seeing, one day, the foot-marks of the Bodisat at the foot of the Sepaṇṇi-tree, he made himself a platform upon it, and having breakfasted early, he took his javelin with him, went to the wood, climbed up the tree, and took his seat on the platform.
The Bodisat, too, left his lair early in the morning, and came up to eat the Sepaṇṇi-fruits; but without going too hastily to the foot of the tree, he thought to himself, “Those platform-hunters sometimes make their platforms on the trees. I wonder can there be any danger of that kind.” And he stopped at a distance to reconnoitre.
But the hunter, when he saw that the Bodisat was not coming on, kept himself quiet, and threw down fruit so that it fell in front of him.
The Bodisat said to himself, “Why, these fruits are coming this way, and falling before me. There must be a hunter up there!” And looking up again and again, he discerned the hunter. Then pretending not to have seen him, he called out, “Hallo, O tree! You have been wont to let your fruit fall straight down, as if you were putting forth a hanging root: but to-day you have given up your tree-nature. So as you have surrendered the characteristics of tree-nature, I shall go and seek my food at the foot of some other tree.” So saying, he uttered this stanza:
“The Kurunga knows full well, Sepaṇṇi,
What kind of fruit you thus throw down.
Elsewhere I shall betake myself:
Your fruit, my friend, belikes me not.”[302]
Then the hunter, seated as he was on the platform, hurled his javelin at him, calling out, “Away with you! I’ve lost you this time!”
The Bodisat turned round, and stopped to cry out, “I tell you, O man, however much you may have lost me this time, the eight Great Hells and the sixteen Ussada Hells, and fivefold bondage and torment—the result of your conduct—these you have not lost!” And so saying, he escaped whither he desired. And the hunter, too, got down, and went whithersoever he pleased.
When the Teacher had finished this discourse in illustration of what he had said (“Not now only, O mendicants, does Devadatta go about to slay me; formerly, also, he did the same”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka as follows: “He who was then the hunter was Devadatta, but the Kurunga Antelope was I myself.”[303]
END OF THE STORY OF THE KURUNGA ANTELOPE.
No. 22.
KUKKURA JĀTAKA.
The Dog who turned Preacher.
“The dogs brought up in the king’s house,” etc.—This the Teacher told, while at Jetavana, about benefiting one’s relations. This will be explained in the Bhaddasāla Jātaka in the Twelfth Book. In confirmation of what is there related, he told a tale.
Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat, in consequence of an act which would have that effect, came to life as a dog, and lived in a great cemetery attended by a troop of several hundred dogs.
Now, one day the king mounted his state-chariot, drawn by milk-white steeds, went to his park, amused himself there the rest of the day, and after sunset returned to the city. And they put the carriage harness, just as it had been used, in the courtyard.
There was rain in the night, and the harness got wet. The royal dogs, too, came down from the flat roof of the palace, and gnawed at the leather work and straps. The next day the servants told the king, “Dogs have got in, O king, through the sliding door, and have eaten the leather work and the straps.”
The king, enraged at the dogs, gave orders that dogs should be killed wherever they were seen. So there ensued a wholesale destruction of dogs: and finding there was no safety for them anywhere else, they escaped to the cemetery, and joined themselves to the Bodisat.
The Bodisat asked them the reason of their coming in such numbers together. “People say,” was the answer, “that the leather work and the straps of a carriage in the harem have been gnawed by dogs. The king in his anger has commanded all dogs to be destroyed. Extreme is the danger we are in!”
The Bodisat said to himself, “There’s no opportunity for dogs from outside to get into a place so guarded. It must be the royal dogs from within the palace that have done this thing. And now nothing happens to the thieves, and the innocent are punished with death. What if I were to make the king see who the real culprits are, and so save the lives of my kinsfolk?”
And he comforted his relations with the words, “Don’t you be afraid! I will restore you to safety. Wait here whilst I go and see the king.”
Then guiding himself by thoughts of love, he called to mind his Perfections, and uttered a command; saying, “Let none dare to throw a club or a clod at me!” and so unattended he entered the city. And when they saw him, not a creature grew angry at the sight of him.
Now the king, after issuing the order for the destruction of the dogs, sat himself down in the seat of judgment. The Bodisat went straight up to the place, and rushing forwards, ran underneath the king’s throne. Thereupon the king’s attendants were about to drive him away, but the king stopped them.
After he had rested awhile, he came out from under the throne, and made obeisance to the king, and asked him, “Is it you who are having the dogs slain?”
“Yes; it is I,” was the reply.
“What is their fault, O king of men?”
“They have eaten the leathern coverings and straps of my chariot.”
“Do you know which ones did it?”
“That we don’t know.”
“To have all killed wherever they may be found, without knowing for certain who are the culprits that gnawed the leather, is not just, O king!”
“I gave orders for the destruction of the dogs, saying, ’Kill them all wherever they may be found,’ because dogs had eaten the carriage leather.”
“What then! Do your men kill all dogs, or are there some not punished with death?”
“There are some. The royal dogs in our house are exempt.”
“Great king! only just now you were saying you had given orders to kill all dogs, wherever found, because dogs had eaten the carriage-leather; and now you say that the well-bred dogs in your own house have been exempted. Now this being so, you become guilty of partiality and the other shortcomings of a judge.[304] Now, to be guilty of such thing is neither right, nor kingly. It behoves him who bears the name of king to try motives as with a balance. Since the royal dogs are not punished with death, whilst the poor dogs are, this is no sentence of death on all dogs, but slaughter of the weak.”
Then the Great Being further lifted up his pleasant voice, and said, “Great king! That which you are doing is not justice;” and he taught the king the Truth in this stanza:
“The dogs brought up in the king’s house,
The thoroughbreds in birth and strength—
Not these, but we, are to be killed.
This is no righteous vengeance; this is slaughter of the weak!”
When the king heard what the Bodisat said, he asked, “O Wise One, do you then know who it is has eaten the carriage leather?”
“Yes; I know it,” said he.
“Who are they then?”
“It is the thoroughbreds living in your own house.”
“But how can we know they are the guilty ones?”
“I will prove it to you.”
“Prove it then, O sage!”
“Send for the thoroughbreds, and have a little buttermilk and Dabba grass brought in.”
The king did so; and the Great Being said, “Have the grass crushed in the buttermilk, and give the dogs to drink.”
The king did so; and each of the dogs, as they drank it, vomited it up,—and bits of leather with it.
Then the king was delighted as with a decision by the all-wise Buddha himself; and gave up his sceptre to the Bodisat. But the Bodisat preached the law to the king in the ten verses on righteousness, from the story of the Three Birds, beginning—
Walk righteously, O great king!...
And confirming the king in the Five Commandments, and exhorting him thenceforward to be unweary (in well doing), he returned to the king his sceptre.
And the king listened to his exhortation, and granted security to all living creatures; and commanded a constant supply of food, like the royal food, for all the dogs from the Bodisat downwards. And he remained firm in the teaching of the Bodisat, and did works of charity and other good deeds his life long, and after death was reborn in the world of the gods.
Now the Exhortation of the Dog flourished for tens of thousands of years. But the Bodisat lived to a good old age and passed away according to his deeds.
When the Teacher had concluded this discourse, in illustration of his saying (“Not now only, O mendicants, did the Tathāgata act for the benefit of his relatives, formerly also he did so”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka by saying, “He who was then the king was Ānanda, the others were the Buddha’s attendants, but the Dog was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE DOG.
No. 23.
BHOJĀJĀNĪYA JĀTAKA.
The Bhoja Thoroughbred.
“Though fallen on his side,” etc.—This the Teacher told when at Jetavana, concerning a monk who had lost heart in the struggle after holiness. For the Master then addressed the monk, and said, “Formerly, O mendicants, the wise were wont to exert themselves unremittingly, and did not give up when they received a check.” And he told a tale.
Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat was born into the family of a thoroughbred Bhoja horse, and became the state charger of the king of Benares. He fed out of a priceless golden dish on the most delicious fine old rice; and he stood in a fragrant perfumed stall, hung round with curtains embroidered with flowers, covered with a canopy painted with golden stars, decked with garlands of sweet-smelling flowers, and furnished with a lamp of fragrant oil that was never extinguished.
Now there was no king who did not covet the kingdom of Benares. On one occasion seven kings surrounded the city, and sent a letter to the king of Benares, saying, “Either give us up the kingdom, or give us battle!”
The king called a council of his ministers, and told them this, and asked them what was to be done.
“You ought not yourself, O king, to go out to battle at once,” was the reply. “Send such and such a knight to give battle; and if he fails, we shall know what to do afterwards.”
The king sent for him, and said, “Can you give battle, well beloved, to these seven kings?”
“O king,” said he, “if I may have the thoroughbred Bhoja charger, I shall be able to fight, not only the seven kings, but the kings of all the continent of India.”
“Take the Bhoja or any other charger you like, my trusty friend, and give them battle,” said the king.
“Very good, my lord,” said he, and took his leave, and went down from the palace, and had the Bhoja brought, and carefully clad in mail. And himself put on all his armour, girt on his sword, mounted the horse, issued from the city, charged like lightning against the first entrenchment, broke through it, took one king alive, galloped back, and delivered him over to the city guard.
Then he started again, broke through the second, then the third, and so took five kings alive; and had broken through the sixth, and had just taken the sixth king prisoner, when the Bhoja thoroughbred received a wound, and blood gushed forth, and he began to be in severe pain.
When the horseman saw the Bhoja was wounded, he made him lie down at the king’s gate, loosened his mail, and began to harness another horse.
Whilst the Bodisat lay there as best he could, he opened his eyes, and saw the knight, and said to himself, “He is harnessing another horse. That horse won’t be able to break through the seventh line, or take the seventh king. What I have already done will be lost. The knight, too, who has no equal, will be killed; and the king, too, will fall into the enemy’s power. No other horse, save I alone, can break through that remaining line and take the seventh king.” And lying there as he was, he sent for the knight, and said—
“O friend! O knight! no other horse, save I alone, will be able to break through the remaining line and take that last king. And I will not myself destroy the deeds I have already done. Have me helped up, and put the armour on to me.” And so saying, he uttered this stanza:
“Though fallen on his side,
And wounded sore with darts,
The Bhoja’s better than a hack!
So harness me, O charioteer!”
Then the knight helped the Bodisat up, bound up his wound, put on all his harness, seated himself on his back, broke through the seventh line, took the seventh king alive, and delivered him over to the king’s guard.
They led the Bodisat, too, to the king’s gate, and the king went out to see him. Then the Great Being said to the king—
“O Great King! slay not those seven kings. Take an oath from them, and let them go. Let the honour due to me and to the knight be all given to him alone. It is not right to let a warrior come to ruin when he has taken seven kings prisoners and delivered them over to you. And do you give gifts, and keep the commandments, and rule your kingdom in righteousness and equity!”
And when the Bodisat had thus exhorted the king, they took off his harness. And as they were taking it off, piece by piece, he breathed his last.
Then the king had a funeral performed for him, and gave the knight great honour, and took an oath from the seven kings that they would not rebel against him, and sent them away each to his own place. And he ruled his kingdom in righteousness and equity, and so at the end of his life passed away according to his deeds.
The Teacher added, “Thus, O mendicants, the wise, even in former times, exerted themselves unremittingly, and did not give in when they received a check. How then can you lose heart, after being ordained according to a system of religion so adapted to lead you to salvation! And he then explained the Truths.
When his exhortation was concluded, the monk who had lost heart was established in the Fruit of Arahatship. Then the Teacher made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka by saying, “The king of that time was Ānanda, the knight was Sāriputta, but the Bhoja thoroughbred was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE BHOJA THOROUGHBRED.
No. 24.
ĀJAÑÑA JĀTAKA.
The Thoroughbred War Horse.
“At every time, in every place.”—This also the Master told, while at Jetavana, about that monk who lost heart.[305] But when he had addressed the monk with the words, “The wise in former times, O monk, continued their exertion, even though in the struggle they received a blow,” he told this tale.
Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, seven kings, as before, surrounded the city. Then a warrior who fought from a chariot harnessed two Sindh horses, who were brothers, to his chariot, issued from the city, broke through six lines and took six kings prisoners.
At that moment the eldest of the horses received a wound. The charioteer drove on till he came to the king’s gate, took the elder horse out, loosened his harness, made him lie down on his side, and began to harness another horse.
When the Bodisat saw this, he thought as before, sent for the charioteer, and lying as he was, uttered this stanza:
“At every time, in every place,
Whate’er may chance, whate’er mischance,
The thoroughbred’s still full of fire!
’Tis a hack horse who then gives in!”
The charioteer helped the Bodisat up, harnessed him, broke through the seventh line, and bringing the seventh king with him, drove up to the king’s gate and took out the horse.
The Bodisat, lying there on his side, exhorted the king as before, and then breathed his last. The king performed funeral rites over his body, did honour to the charioteer, ruled his kingdom with righteousness, and passed away according to his deeds.
When the Teacher had finished the discourse, he proclaimed the Truths, and summed up the Jātaka (that monk having obtained Arahatship after the Truths) by saying, “The king of that time was Ānanda, the horse the Supreme Buddha.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE THOROUGHBRED.
No. 25.
TITTHA JĀTAKA.
The Horse at the Ford.
“Feed the horse, then, charioteer,” etc.—This the Master told while at Jetavana about a monk who at that time was a co-resident junior under the Minister of Righteousness, but who had formerly been a goldsmith.
For the knowledge of hearts and motives belongs to the Buddhas only, and to no one else; and hence it was that even the Minister of Righteousness[306] prescribed corruption as a subject of meditation for the monk under his rule, through ignorance of his true character.
Now the monk derived no benefit from that religious exercise—for the following reason. He had come to life in five hundred successive births in a goldsmith’s house. From the continual sight through so long a period of the purest gold, the idea of impurity was difficult for him to grasp. Four months he spent without being able to get the faintest notion of it.
As the Minister of Righteousness was unable to bestow salvation (Arahatship) on his co-resident junior, he said to himself, “He must be one of those whom only a Buddha can lead to the Truth! We will take him to the Tathāgata.” And he led him to the Master.
The Master inquired of Sāriputta why he brought the monk before him. “Lord! I prescribed a subject of meditation for this brother, but in four months he has failed to get the most elementary notion of it; so I presumed he was one of those men whom only a Buddha can lead to the Truth, and I have brought him to you.”
“What was the particular exercise you prescribed for him, Sāriputta?”
“The Meditation on Impurity, O Blessed One!”
“O Sāriputta! you don’t understand the hearts and motives of men. Do you go now; but return in the evening, and you shall take your co-resident with you.”
Thus dismissing Sāriputta, the Teacher had the monk provided with a better suit of robes, kept him near himself on the begging-round, and had pleasant food given to him. On his return with the monks he spent the rest of the day in his apartment, and in the evening took that brother with him on his walk round the monastery. There, in a mango-grove, he created a pond, and in it a large cluster of lotuses, and among them one flower of surpassing size and beauty. And telling the monk to sit down there and watch that flower, he returned to his apartment.
The monk gazed at the flower again and again. The Blessed One made that very flower decay; and even as the monk was watching it, it faded away and lost its colour. Then the petals began to fall off, beginning with the outermost, and in a minute they had all dropped on the ground. At last the heart fell to pieces, and the centre knob only remained.
As the monk saw this, he thought, “But now this lotus-flower was exquisitely beautiful! Now its colour has gone; its petals and filaments have fallen away, and only the centre knob is left! If such a flower can so decay, what may not happen to this body of mine! Verily nothing that is composite is enduring!” And the eyes of his mind were opened. Then the Master knew that he had attained to spiritual insight; and without leaving his apartment, sent out an appearance as of himself, saying:
“Root out the love of self,
As you might the autumn lotus with your hand.
Devote yourself to the Way of Peace alone—
To the Nirvāna which the Blessed One has preached!”[307]
As the stanza was over the monk reached to Arahatship; and at the thought of now being delivered from every kind of future life, he gave utterance to his joy in the hymn of praise beginning—
He who has lived his life, whose heart is fixed,
Whose evil inclinations are destroyed;
He who is wearing his last body now,
Whose life is pure, whose senses well controlled—
He has gained freedom!—as the moon set free,
When an eclipse has passed, from Rahu’s jaws.
The utter darkness of delusion,
Which reached to every cranny of his mind,
He has dispelled; and with it every sin—
Just as the thousand-ray’d and mighty sun
Sheds glorious lustre over all the earth,
And dissipates the clouds!
And he returned to the Blessed One, and paid him reverence. The Elder also came; and when he took leave of the Teacher, he took his co-resident junior back with him.
And the news of this was noised abroad among the brethren. And they sat together in the evening in the Lecture Hall, extolling the virtues of the Sage, and saying, “Brethren, Sāriputta the Venerable, not possessing the knowledge of hearts and motives, ignored the disposition of the monk under his charge; but the Master, having that knowledge, procured in one day for that very man the blessing of Arahatship, with all its powers! Ah! how great is the might of the Buddhas!”
When the Teacher had come there and had taken his seat, he asked them what they were talking about. And they told him.
“It is not so very wonderful, O monks,” said he, “that I now, as the Buddha, should know this man’s disposition; formerly also I knew it.”
And he told a tale.
Once upon a time Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, and the Bodisat was his adviser in things spiritual and temporal.
Now somebody took a common hack to be rubbed down at the ford where the king’s state charger used to be bathed. The charger was offended at being led down into the water where a hack had been rubbed down, and refused to step into it.
The horsekeeper went and said to the king, “Your majesty! the state charger won’t enter the water.”
The king sent for the Bodisat, and said, “Do you go, Paṇḍit, and find out why the horse won’t go into the water when he is led down to the ford.”
“Very well, my Lord!” said he; and went to the ford, and examined the horse, and found there was nothing the matter with it. Then, reflecting what might be the reason, he thought, “Some other horse must have been watered here just before him; and offended at that, he must have refused to enter the water.”
So he asked the horsekeepers whether anything had been watered at the ford just before.
“A certain hack, my Lord!” said they.
Then the Bodisat saw it was his vanity that made him wish not to be bathed there, and that he ought to be taken to some other pond. So he said, “Look you, horsekeeper, even if a man gets the finest milky rice with the most delicious curry to eat, he will tire of it sooner or later. This horse has been bathed often enough at the ford here, take him to some other ford to rub him down and feed him.” And so saying, he uttered the verse—
“Feed the horse, then, O charioteer,
Now at one ford, now at another.
If one but eat it oft enough,
The finest rice surfeits a man!”
When they heard what he said, they took the horse to another ford, and there bathed and fed him. And as they were rubbing down the horse after watering him, the Bodisat went back to the king.
The king said, “Well, friend! has the horse had his bath and his drink?”
“It has, my Lord!”
“Why, then, did it refuse at first?”
“Just in this way,” said he; and told him all.
The king gave the Bodisat much honour, saying, “He understands the motives even of such an animal as this. How wise he is!” And at the end of this life he passed away according to his deeds. And the Bodisat too passed away according to his deeds.
When the Master had finished this discourse in illustration of his saying (“Not now only, O mendicants, have I known this man’s motive; formerly also I did so”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, by saying, “The state charger of that time was this monk, the King was Ānanda, but the wise minister was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE FORD.
No. 26.
MAHILĀ-MUKHA JĀTAKA.
Evil communications corrupt good manners.
“By listening first to robbers’ talk,” etc.[308]—This the Master told when at Jetavana, about Devadatta. Devadatta became well-pleasing to Prince Ajāta-sattu, and had great gain and honour. The Prince had a monastery built for him at Gayā-sīsa, and five hundred vessels-full of food made of the finest old fragment-rice provided for him daily. Through this patronage Devadatta’s following increased greatly, and he lived with his disciples in that monastery.
At that time there were two friends living at Rājagaha; and one of them took the vows under the Teacher, the other under Devadatta. And they used to meet in different places, or go to the monasteries to see one another.
Now one day Devadatta’s adherent said to the other, “Brother! why do you go daily with toil and trouble to beg your food? Ever since Devadatta was settled at the Gayā-sīsa Monastery he is provided with the best of things to eat. That’s the best way to manage. Why do you make labour for yourself? Wouldn’t it be much better for you to come in the morning to Gayā-sīsa and enjoy really good food—drinking our excellent gruel, and eating from the eighteen kinds of dishes we get?”
When he had been pressed again and again, he became willing to go; and thenceforward he used to go to Gayā-sīsa and take his meal, and return early to the Bambu Grove. But it was impossible to keep it secret for ever; and before long it was noised abroad that he went to Gayā-sīsa and partook of the food provided for Devadatta.
So his friends asked him if that were true.
“Who has said such a thing?” said he.
“Such and such a one,” was the reply.
“Well, it is true, brethren, that I go and take my meals at Gayā-sīsa; but it is not Devadatta, it is the others who give me to eat.”
“Brother! Devadatta is a bitter enemy of the Buddhas. The wicked fellow has curried favour with Ajāta-sattu, and won over his patronage by his wickedness. Yet you, who took the vows under a system so well able to lead you to Nirvāna, now partake of food procured for Devadatta by his wickedness. Come! we must take you before the Master!” So saying, they brought him to the Lecture Hall.
The Master saw them, and asked, “What, then! are you come here, O mendicants! bringing this brother with you against his will?”
“Yes, Lord,” said they. “This brother took the vows under you, and yet he partakes of the food which Devadatta’s wickedness has earned for him.”
The Teacher asked him whether this was true what they said.
“Lord!” replied he, “it is not Devadatta, but the others who give me food: that I do eat.”
Then said the Teacher, “O monk, make no excuse for it. Devadatta is a sinful, wicked man. How then can you, who took the vows here, eat Devadatta’s bread, even while devoting yourself to my religion? Yet you always, even when right in those whom you honoured, used to follow also any one you met.” And he told a tale.
Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat became his minister. At that time the king had a state elephant, named ‘Girly-face,’ who was good and gentle, and would hurt nobody.
Now one day, robbers came at night-time to a place near his stall, and sat down not far from him, and consulted about their plans, saying, “Thus should a tunnel be broken through; thus should housebreaking be carried out; goods should be carried off only after the tunnel or the breach has been made clear and open as a road or a ford; the taker should carry off the things, even with murder, thus no one will be able to stand up against him; robbery must never be united with scruples of conduct, but with harshness, violence, and cruelty.” Thus advising and instructing one another, they separated.
And the next day likewise, and so for many days they assembled there, and consulted together. When the elephant heard what they said, he thought, “It is me they are teaching. I am in future to be harsh, violent, and cruel.” And he really became so.
Early in the morning an elephant keeper came there. Him he seized with his trunk, dashed to the ground, and slew. So, likewise, he treated a second and a third, slaying every one who came near him.
So they told the king that ‘Girly-face’ had gone mad, and killed every one he caught sight of. The King sent the Bodisat, saying, “Do you go, Paṇḍit, and find out what’s the reason of his having become a Rogue!”[309]
The Bodisat went there, and finding he had no bodily ailment, thought over what the reason could be; and came to the conclusion that he must have become a Rogue after overhearing some conversation or other, and thinking it was meant as a lesson for him. So he asked the elephant keepers, “Has there been any talking going on at night time, near the stable?”
“O yes, sir! Some thieves used to come and talk together,” was the reply.
The Bodisat went away, and told the king, “There is nothing bodily the matter with the elephant, your Majesty; it is simply from hearing robbers talk that he has become a Rogue.”
“Well; what ought we to do now?”
“Let holy devotees, venerable by the saintliness of their lives,[310] be seated in the elephant stable and talk of righteousness.”
“Then do so, my friend,” said the king. And the Bodisat got holy men to sit near the elephant’s stall, telling them to talk of holy things.
So, seated not far from the elephant, they began: “No one should be struck, no one killed. The man of upright conduct ought to be patient, loving, and merciful.”
On hearing this, he thought, “It is me these men are teaching; from this time forth I am to be good!” And so he became tame and quiet.
The king asked the Bodisat, “How is it, my friend? Is he quieted?”
“Yes, my Lord! The elephant, bad as he was, has, because of the wise men, been re-established in his former character.” And so saying, he uttered the stanza:
By listening first to robbers’ talk,
’Girly-face’ went about to kill.
By listening to men with hearts well trained,
The stately elephant stood firm once more
In all the goodness he had lost.
Then the king gave great honour to the Bodisat for understanding the motives even of one born as an animal. And he lived to a good old age, and, with the Bodisat, passed away according to his deeds.
The Teacher having finished this discourse, in illustration of what he had said (“Formerly also, O monk, you used to follow any one you met. When you heard what thieves said, you followed thieves; when you heard what the righteous said, you followed them”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka by saying, “He who at that time was ‘Girly-face’ was the traitor-monk, the king was Ānanda, and the minister was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY ABOUT ‘GIRLY-FACE.’[311]
No. 27.
ABHIṆHA JĀTAKA.
The Elephant and the Dog.
“No longer can he take a morsel even,” etc.—This the Master told when at Jetavana about an old monk and a lay convert.
At Sāvatthi, the story goes, there were two friends. One of them entered the Order, and went every day to get his meal at the house of the other. The other gave him to eat, and ate himself; and went back with him to the monastery, sat there chatting and talking with him till sunset, and then returned to the city. The other, again, used to accompany him to the city gate, and then turn back. And the close friendship between them became common talk among the brethren.
Now one day the monks sat talking in the Lecture Hall about their intimacy. When the Teacher came, he asked them what they were talking about, and they told him. Then he said, “Not now only, O mendicants, have these been close allies; they were so also in a former birth.” And he told a tale.
Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat became his minister.
At that time a dog used to go to the state elephant’s stable, and feed on the lumps of rice which fell where the elephant fed. Being attracted there by the food, he soon became great friends with the elephant, and used to eat close by him. At last neither of them was happy without the other; and the dog used to amuse himself by catching hold of the elephant’s trunk, and swinging to and fro.
But one day there came a peasant who gave the elephant-keeper money for the dog, and took it back with him to his village. From that time the elephant, missing the dog, would neither eat nor drink nor bathe. And they let the king know about it.
He sent the Bodisat, saying, “Do you go, Paṇḍit, and find out what’s the cause of the elephant’s behaviour.”[312]
So he went to the stable, and seeing how sad the elephant looked, said to himself, “There seems to be nothing bodily the matter with him. He must be so overwhelmed with grief by missing some one, I should think, who had become near and dear to him.” And he asked the elephant-keepers, “Is there any one with whom he is particularly intimate?”
“Certainly, Sir! There was a dog of whom he was very fond indeed!”
“Where is it now?”
“Some man or other took it away.”
“Do you know where the man lives?”
“No, Sir!”
Then the Bodisat went and told the king, “There’s nothing the matter with the elephant, your majesty; but he was great friends with a dog, and I fancy it’s through missing it that he refuses his food.”
And so saying, he uttered the stanza:
No longer can he take a morsel even
Of rice or grass; the bath delights him not!
Because, methinks, through constant intercourse,
The elephant had come to love the dog.
When the king heard what he said, he asked what was now to be done.
“Have a proclamation made, O king, to this effect: ’A man is said to have taken away a dog of whom our state elephant was fond. In whose house soever that dog shall be found, he shall be fined so much!’”
The king did so; and as soon as he heard of it, the man turned the dog loose. The dog hastened back, and went close up to the elephant. The elephant took him up in his trunk, and placed him on his forehead, and wept and cried, and took him down again, and watched him as he fed. And then he took his own food.
Then the king paid great honour to the Bodisat for knowing the motives even of animals.
When the Teacher had finished this discourse, and had enlarged upon the Four Truths,[313] he made the connexion and summed up the Jātaka, “He who at that time was the dog was the lay convert, the elephant was the old monk, but the minister Paṇḍit was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY ON CONSTANCY.
No. 28.
NANDI-VISĀLA JĀTAKA.
The Bull who Won the Bet.
“Speak kindly.”—This the Master told when at Jetavana concerning the abusive language of the Six.[314]
For on one occasion the Six made a disturbance by scorning, snubbing, and annoying peaceable monks, and overwhelming them with the ten kinds of abuse. The monks told the Blessed One about it. He sent for the Six, and asked them whether it was true. And on their acknowledging it, he reproved them, saying, “Harsh speaking, O mendicants, is unpleasant, even to animals. An animal once made a man who addressed him harshly lose a thousand.” And he told a tale.
Long ago a king of Gandhāra was reigning in Takkasilā, in the land of Gandhāra. The Bodisat came to life then as a bull.
Now, when he was yet a young calf, a certain Brāhman, after attending upon some devotees who were wont to give oxen to priests, received the bull. And he called it Nandi Visāla, and grew very fond of it; treating it like a son, and feeding it on gruel and rice.
When the Bodisat grew up, he said to himself, “This Brāhman has brought me up with great care; and there’s no other ox in all the continent of India can drag the weight I can. What if I were to let the Brāhman know about my strength, and so in my turn provide sustenance for him!”
And he said one day to the Brāhman, “Do you go now, Brāhman, to some squire rich in cattle, and offer to bet him a thousand that your ox will move a hundred laden carts.”
The Brāhman went to a rich farmer, and started a conversation thus:
“Whose bullocks hereabout do you think the strongest?”
“Such and such a man’s,” said the farmer; and then added, “but of course there are none in the whole countryside to touch my own!”
“I have one ox,” said the Brāhman, “who is good to move a hundred carts, loads and all!”
“Tush!” said the squire. “Where in the world is such an ox?”
“Just in my house!” said the Brāhman.
“Then make a bet about it!”
“All right! I bet you a thousand he can.”
So the bet was made. And he filled a hundred carts (small waggons made for two bullocks) with sand and gravel and stones, ranged them all in a row, and tied them all firmly together, cross-bar to axle-tree.
Then he bathed Nandi Visāla, gave him a measure of scented rice, hung a garland round his neck, and yoked him by himself to the front cart. Then he took his seat on the pole, raised his goad aloft, and called out, “Gee up! you brute!! Drag ‘em along! you wretch!!”
The Bodisat said to himself, “He addresses me as a wretch. I am no wretch!” And keeping his four legs as firm as so many posts, he stood perfectly still.
Then the squire that moment claimed his bet, and made the Brāhman hand over the thousand pieces. And the Brāhman, minus his thousand, took out his ox, went home to his house, and lay down overwhelmed with grief.
Presently Nanda Visāla, who was roaming about the place, came up and saw the Brāhman grieving there, and said to him,
“What, Brāhman! are you asleep?”
“Sleep! How can I sleep after losing the thousand pieces?”
“Brāhman! I’ve lived so long in your house, and have I ever broken any pots, or rubbed up against the walls, or made messes about?”
“Never, my dear!”
“Then why did you call me a wretch? It’s your fault. It’s not my fault. Go now, and bet him two thousand, and never call me a wretch again—I, who am no wretch at all!”
When the Brāhman heard what he said, he made the bet two thousand, tied the carts together as before, decked out Nandi Visāla, and yoked him to the foremost cart.
He managed this in the following way: he tied the pole and the cross-piece fast together; yoked Nandi Visāla on one side; on the other he fixed a smooth piece of timber from the point of the yoke to the axle-end, and wrapping it round with the fastenings of the cross-piece, tied it fast; so that when this was done, the yoke could not move this way and that way, and it was possible for one ox to drag forwards the double bullock-cart.
Then the Brāhman seated himself on the pole, stroked Nandi Visāla on the back, and called out, “Gee up! my beauty!! Drag it along, my beauty!!”
And the Bodisat, with one mighty effort, dragged forwards the hundred heavily-laden carts, and brought the hindmost one up to the place where the foremost one had stood!
Then the cattle-owner acknowledged himself beaten, and handed over to the Brāhman the two thousand; the bystanders, too, presented the Bodisat with a large sum; and the whole became the property of the Brāhman. Thus, by means of the Bodisat, great was the wealth he acquired.
So the Teacher reproved the Six, saying, “Harsh words, O mendicants, are pleasant to no one;” and uttered, as Buddha, the following stanza, laying down a rule of moral conduct:
Speak kindly; never speak in words unkind!
He moved a heavy weight for him who kindly spake.
He gained him wealth; he was delighted with him!
When the Teacher had given them this lesson in virtue (“Speak kindly,” etc.), he summed up the Jātaka, “The Brāhman of that time was Ānanda, but Nandi Visāla was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE BULL WHO WON THE BET.
No. 29.
KAṆHA JĀTAKA.
The Old Woman’s Black Bull.
“Whene’er the load be heavy.”—This the Master told while at Jetavana, about the Double Miracle. That and the Descent from Heaven will be explained in the Birth Story of the Sarabha Antelope, in the Thirteenth Book.
The Supreme Buddha performed on that occasion the Double Miracle, remained some time in heaven, and on the Great Day of the Pavāraṇā Festival[315] descended at the city of Saŋkassa, and entered Jetavana with a great retinue.
When the monks were seated in the Lecture Hall, they began to extol the virtue of the Teacher, saying, “Truly, Brethren! unequalled is the power of the Tathāgata. The yoke the Tathāgata bears none else is able to bear. Though the Six Teachers kept on saying, ‘We will work wonders! We will work wonders!’ they could not do even one. Ah! how unequalled is the power of the Tathāgata!”
When the Teacher came there, he asked them what they were discussing, and they told him. Then he said, “O mendicants! who should now bear the yoke that I can bear? For even when an animal in a former birth I could find no one to drag the weight I dragged.” And he told a tale.
Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat returned to life as a bull.
Now, when it was still a young calf, its owners stopped a while in an old woman’s house, and gave him to her when they settled their account for their lodging. And she brought him up, treating him like a son, and feeding him on gruel and rice.
He soon became known as “The old woman’s Blackie.” When he grew up, he roamed about, as black as collyrium, with the village cattle, and was very good-tempered and quiet. The village children used to catch hold of his horns, or ears, or dewlaps, and hang on to him; or amuse themselves by pulling his tail, or riding about on his back.
One day he said to himself, “My mother is wretchedly poor. She’s taken so much pains, too, in bringing me up, and has treated me like a son. What if I were to work for hire, and so relieve her distress!” And from that day he was always on the look out for a job.
Now one day a young caravan owner arrived at a neighbouring ford with five hundred bullock-waggons. And his bullocks were not only unable to drag the carts across, but even when he yoked the five hundred pair in a row they could not move one cart by itself.
The Bodisat was grazing with the village cattle close to the ford. The young caravan owner was a famous judge of cattle, and began looking about to see whether there were among them any thoroughbred bull able to drag over the carts. Seeing the Bodisat, he thought he would do; and asked the herdsmen—
“Who may be the owners, my men, of this fellow? I should like to yoke him to the cart, and am willing to give a reward for having the carts dragged over.”
“Catch him and yoke him then!” said they. “He has no owner hereabouts.”
But when he began to put a string through his nose and drag him along, he could not get him to come. For the Bodisat, it is said, wouldn’t go till he was promised a reward.
The young caravan owner, seeing what his object was, said to him, “Sir! if you’ll drag over these five hundred carts for me, I’ll pay you wages at the rate of two pence for each cart—a thousand pieces in all.”
Then the Bodisat went along of his own accord. And the men yoked him to the cart. And with a mighty effort he dragged it up and landed it safe on the high ground. And in the same manner he dragged up all the carts.
So the caravan owner then put five hundred pennies in a bundle, one for each cart, and tied it round his neck. The bull said to himself, “This fellow is not giving me wages according to the rate agreed upon. I shan’t let him go on now!” And so he went and stood in the way of the front cart, and they tried in vain to get him away.
The caravan owner thought, “He knows, I suppose, that the pay is too little;” and wrapping a thousand pieces in a cloth, tied them up in a bundle, and hung that round his neck. And as soon as he had got the bundle with a thousand inside he went off to his ‘mother.’
Then the village children called out, “See! what’s that round the neck of the old woman’s Blackie?” and began to run up to him. But he chased after them, so that they took to their heels before they got near him; and he went straight to his mother. And he appeared with eyes all bloodshot, utterly exhausted from dragging over so many carts.
“How did you got this, dear?” said the good old woman, when she saw the bag round his neck. And when she heard, on inquiry from the herdsmen, what had happened, she exclaimed, “Am I so anxious, then, to live on the fruit of your toil, my darling! Why do you put yourself to all this pain?”
And she bathed him in warm water, and rubbed him all over with oil, and gave him to drink, and fed him up with good food. And at the end of her life she passed away according to her deeds, and the Bodisat with her.
When the Teacher had finished this lesson in virtue, in illustration of that saying of his (“Not now only, O mendicants, has the Bodisat been excellent in power; he was so also in a former birth”), he made the connexion, and, as Buddha, uttered the following stanza:
Whene’er the load be heavy,
Where’er the ruts be deep,
Let them yoke ‘Blackie’ then,
And he will drag the load!
Then the Blessed One told them, “At that time, O mendicants, only the Black Bull could drag the load.” And he then made the connexion and summed up the Jātaka: “The old woman of that time was Uppala-vaṇṇā, but ‘the old woman’s Blackie’ was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE OLD WOMAN’S BLACK BULL.[316]
No. 30.
MUṆIKA JĀTAKA.
The Ox who Envied the Pig.
“Envy not Muṇika.”—This the Master told while at Jetavana, about being attracted by a fat girl. That will be explained in the Birth Story of Nārada-Kassapa the Younger, in the Thirteenth Book.
On that occasion the Teacher asked the monk, “Is it true what they say, that you are love-sick?”
“It is true, Lord!” said he.
“What about?”
“My Lord! ‘tis the allurement of that fat girl!”
Then the Master said, “O monk! she will bring evil upon you. In a former birth already you lost your life on the day of her marriage, and were turned into food for the multitude.” And he told a tale.
Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat came to life in the house of a landed proprietor in a certain village as an ox, with the name of ’Big-red.’ And he had a younger brother called ‘Little-red.’ And all the carting work in the household was carried on by means of the two brothers.
Now there was an only daughter in that family, and she was asked in marriage for the son of a man of rank in a neighbouring city. Then her parents thinking, “It will do for a feast of delicacies for the guests who come to the girl’s wedding,” fattened up a pig with boiled rice. And his name was ‘Sausages.’
When Little-red saw this, he asked his brother, “All the carting work in the household falls to our lot. Yet these people give us mere grass and straw to eat; while they bring up that pig on boiled rice! What can be the reason of that fellow getting that?”
Then his brother said to him, “Dear Little-red, don’t envy the creature his food! This poor pig is eating the food of death! These people are fattening the pig to provide a feast for the guests at their daughter’s wedding. But a few days more, and you shall see how these men will come and seize the pig by his legs, and drag him off out of his sty, and deprive him of his life, and make curry for the guests!” And so saying, he uttered the following stanza:
“Envy not ‘Sausages!’
’Tis deadly food he eats!
Eat your chaff, and be content;
’Tis the sign of length of life!”
And, not long after, those men came there; and they killed ‘Sausages,’ and cooked him up in various ways.
Then the Bodisat said to Little-red, “Have you seen ’Sausages,’ my dear?”
“I have seen, brother,” said he, “what has come of the food poor Sausages ate. Better a hundred, a thousand times, than his rice, is our food of only grass and straw and chaff; for it works no harm, and is evidence that our lives will last.”
Then the Teacher said, “Thus then, O monk, you have already in a former birth lost your life through her, and become food for the multitude.” And when he had concluded this lesson in virtue, he proclaimed the Truths. When the Truths were over, that love-sick monk stood fast in the Fruit of Conversion. But the Teacher made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, by saying, “He who at that time was ‘Sausages’ the pig was the love-sick monk, the fat girl was as she is now, Little-red was Ānanda, but Big-red was I myself.”
END OF THE STORY OF THE OX WHO ENVIED THE PIG.[317]