INTRODUCTION.
It is well known that amongst the Buddhist Scriptures there is one book in which a large number of old stories, fables, and fairy tales, lie enshrined in an edifying commentary; and have thus been preserved for the study and amusement of later times. How this came about is not at present quite certain. The belief of orthodox Buddhists on the subject is this. The Buddha, as occasion arose, was accustomed throughout his long career to explain and comment on the events happening around him, by telling of similar events that had occurred in his own previous births. The experience, not of one lifetime only, but of many lives, was always present to his mind; and it was this experience he so often used to point a moral, or adorn a tale. The stories so told are said to have been reverently learnt and repeated by his disciples; and immediately after his death 550 of them were gathered together in one collection, called the Book of the 550 Jātakas or Births; the commentary to which gives for each Jātaka, or Birth Story, an account of the event in Gotama’s life which led to his first telling that particular story. Both text and commentary were then handed down intact, and in the Pāli language in which they were composed, to the time of the Council of Patna (held in or about the year 250 B.C.); and they were carried in the following year to Ceylon by the great missionary Mahinda. There the commentary was translated into Siŋhalese, the Aryan dialect spoken in Ceylon; and was re-translated into its present form in the Pāli language in the fifth century of our era. But the text of the Jātaka stories themselves has been throughout preserved in its original Pāli form.
Unfortunately this orthodox Buddhist belief as to the history of the Book of Birth Stories rests on a foundation of quicksand. The Buddhist belief, that most of their sacred books were in existence immediately after the Buddha’s death, is not only not supported, but is contradicted by the evidence of those books themselves. It may be necessary to state what that belief is, in order to show the importance which the Buddhists attach to the book; but in order to estimate the value we ourselves should give it, it will be necessary by critical, and more roundabout methods, to endeavour to arrive at some more reliable conclusion. Such an investigation cannot, it is true, be completed until the whole series of the Buddhist Birth Stories shall have become accessible in the original Pāli text, and the history of those stories shall have been traced in other sources. With the present inadequate information at our command, it is only possible to arrive at probabilities. But it is therefore the more fortunate that the course of the inquiry will lead to some highly interesting and instructive results.
In the first place, the fairy tales, parables, fables, riddles, and comic and moral stories, of which the Buddhist Collection—known as the Jātaka Book—consists, have been found, in many instances, to bear a striking resemblance to similar ones current in the West. Now in many instances this resemblance is simply due to the fact that the Western stories were borrowed from the Buddhist ones.
To this resemblance much of the interest excited by the Buddhist Birth Stories is, very naturally, due. As, therefore, the stories translated in the body of this volume do not happen to contain among them any of those most generally known in England, I insert here one or two specimens which may at the same time afford some amusement, and also enable the reader to judge how far the alleged resemblances do actually exist.
It is absolutely essential for the correctness of such judgment that the stories should be presented exactly as they stand in the original. I am aware that a close and literal translation involves the disadvantage of presenting the stories in a style which will probably seem strange, and even wooden, to the modern reader. But it cannot be admitted that, for even purposes of comparison, it would be sufficient to reproduce the stories in a modern form which should aim at combining substantial accuracy with a pleasing dress.
And the Book of Birth Stories has a value quite independent of the fact that many of its tales have been transplanted to the West. It contains a record of the every-day life, and every-day thought, of the people among whom the tales were told: it is the oldest, most complete, and most important Collection of Folk-lore extant.
The whole value of its evidence in this respect would be lost, if a translator, by slight additions in some places, slight omissions in others, and slight modifications here and there, should run the risk of conveying erroneous impressions of early Buddhist beliefs, and habits, and modes of thought. It is important, therefore, that the reader should understand, before reading the stories I intend to give, that while translating sentence by sentence, rather than word by word, I have never lost sight of the importance of retaining in the English version, as far as possible, not only the phraseology, but the style and spirit of the Buddhist story-teller.
The first specimen I propose to give is a half-moral half-comic story, which runs as follows.
The Ass in the Lion’s Skin.
SĪHA-CAMMA JĀTAKA.
(Fausböll, No. 189.)
Once upon a time, while Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the future Buddha was born one of a peasant family; and when he grew up, he gained his living by tilling the ground.
At that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in goods carried by an ass. Now at each place he came to, when he took the pack down from the ass’s back, he used to clothe him in a lion’s skin, and turn him loose in the rice and barley-fields. And when the watchmen in the fields saw the ass, they dared not go near him, taking him for a lion.
So one day the hawker stopped in a village; and whilst he was getting his own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion’s skin, and turned him loose in a barley-field. The watchmen in the field dared not go up to him; but going home, they published the news. Then all the villagers came out with weapons in their hands; and blowing chanks, and beating drums, they went near the field and shouted. Terrified with the fear of death, the ass uttered a cry—the cry of an ass!
Ana when he knew him then to be an ass, the future Buddha pronounced the First Stanza:
“This is not a lion’s roaring,
Nor a tiger’s, nor a panther’s;
Dressed in a lion’s skin,
’Tis a wretched ass that roars!”
But when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him till his bones broke; and, carrying off the lion’s skin, went away. Then the hawker came; and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight, pronounced the Second Stanza:
“Long might the ass,
Clad in a lion’s skin,
Have fed on the barley green.
But he brayed!
And that moment he came to ruin.”
And even whilst he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot!
This story will doubtless sound familiar enough to English ears; for a similar tale is found in our modern collections of so-called ‘Æsop’s Fables.’[1] Professor Benfey has further traced it in mediæval French, German, Turkish, and Indian literature.[2] But it may have been much older than any of these books; for the fable possibly gave rise to a proverb of which we find traces among the Greeks as early as the time of Plato.[3] Lucian gives the fable in full, localizing it at Kumē, in South Italy,[4] and Julien has given us a Chinese version in his ‘Avadānas.’[5] Erasmus, in his work on proverbs,[6] alludes to the fable; and so also does our own Shakespeare in ‘King John.’[7] It is worthy of mention that in one of the later story-books—in a Persian translation, that is, of the Hitopadesa—there is a version of our fable in which it is the vanity of the ass in trying to sing which leads to his disguise being discovered, and thus brings him to grief.[8] But Professor Benfey has shown[9] that this version is simply the rolling into one of the present tale and of another, also widely prevalent, where an ass by trying to sing earns for himself, not thanks, but blows.[10] I shall hereafter attempt to draw some conclusions from the history of the story. But I would here point out that the fable could scarcely have originated in any country in which lions were not common; and that the Jātaka story gives a reasonable explanation of the ass being dressed in the skin, instead of saying that he dressed himself in it, as is said in our ‘Æsop’s Fables.’
The reader will notice that the ‘moral’ of the tale is contained in two stanzas, one of which is put into the mouth of the Bodisat or future Buddha. This will be found to be the case in all the Birth Stories, save that the number of the stanzas differs, and that they are usually all spoken by the Bodisat. It should also be noticed that the identification of the peasant’s son with the Bodisat, which is of so little importance to the story, is the only part of it which is essentially Buddhistic. Both these points will be of importance further on.
The introduction of the human element takes this story, perhaps, out of the class of fables in the most exact sense of that word. I therefore add a story containing a fable proper, where animals speak and act like men.
The Talkative Tortoise.
KACCHAPA JĀTAKA.
(Fausböll, No. 215.)
Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the future Buddha was born in a minister’s family; and when he grew up, he became the king’s adviser in things temporal and spiritual.
Now this king was very talkative: while he was speaking, others had no opportunity for a word. And the future Buddha, wanting to cure this talkativeness of his, was constantly seeking for some means of doing so.
At that time there was living, in a pond in the Himālaya mountains, a tortoise. Two young haŋsas (i.e. wild ducks[11]) who came to feed there, made friends with him. And one day, when they had become very intimate with him, they said to the tortoise—
“Friend tortoise! the place where we live, at the Golden Cave on Mount Beautiful in the Himālaya country, is a delightful spot. Will you come there with us?”
“But how can I got there?”
“We can take you, if you can only hold your tongue, and will say nothing to anybody.”[12]
“O! that I can do. Take me with you.”
“That’s right,” said they. And making the tortoise bite hold of a stick, they themselves took the two ends in their teeth, and flew up into the air.[13]
Seeing him thus carried by the haŋsas, some villagers called out, “Two wild ducks are carrying a tortoise along on a stick!” Whereupon the tortoise wanted to say, “If my friends choose to carry me, what is that to you, you wretched slaves!” So just as the swift flight of the wild ducks had brought him over the king’s palace in the city of Benāres, he let go of the stick he was biting, and falling in the open courtyard, split in two! And there arose a universal cry, “A tortoise has fallen in the open courtyard, and has split in two!”
The king, taking the future Buddha, went to the place, surrounded by his courtiers; and looking at the tortoise, he asked the Bodisat, “Teacher! how comes he to be fallen here?”
The future Buddha thought to himself, “Long expecting, wishing to admonish the king, have I sought for some means of doing so. This tortoise must have made friends with the wild ducks; and they must have made him bite hold of the stick, and have flown up into the air to take him to the hills. But he, being unable to hold his tongue when he hears any one else talk, must have wanted to say something, and let go the stick; and so must have fallen down from the sky, and thus lost his life.” And saying, “Truly, O king! those who are called chatter-boxes—people whose words have no end—come to grief like this,” he uttered these Verses:
“Verily the tortoise killed himself
Whilst uttering his voice;
Though he was holding tight the stick,
By a word himself he slew.
“Behold him then, O excellent by strength!
And speak wise words, not out of season.
You see how, by his talking overmuch,
The tortoise fell into this wretched plight!”
The king saw that he was himself referred to, and said, “O Teacher! are you speaking of us?”
And the Bodisat spake openly, and said, “O great king! be it thou, or be it any other, whoever talks beyond measure meets with some mishap like this.”
And the king henceforth refrained himself, and became a man of few words.
This story too is found also in Greek, Latin, Arabic, Persian, and in most European languages,[14] though, strangely enough, it does not occur in our books of Æsop’s Fables. But in the ‘Æsop’s Fables’ is usually included a story of a tortoise who asked an eagle to teach him to fly; and being dropped, split into two![15] It is worthy of notice that in the Southern recension of the Pañca Tantra it is eagles, and not wild ducks or swans, who carry the tortoise;[16] and there can, I think, be little doubt that the two fables are historically connected.
Another fable, very familiar to modern readers, is stated in the commentary to have been first related in ridicule of a kind of Mutual Admiration Society existing among the opponents of the Buddha. Hearing the monks talking about the foolish way in which Devadatta and Kokālika went about among the people ascribing each to the other virtues which neither possessed, he is said to have told this tale.
The Jackal and the Crow.
JAMBU-KHĀDAKA JĀTAKA.
(Fausböll, No. 294.)
Long, long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the Bodisat had come to life as a tree-god, dwelling in a certain grove of Jambu-trees.
Now a crow was sitting there one day on the branch of a Jambu-tree, eating the Jambu-fruits, when a jackal coming by, looked up and saw him.
“Ha!” thought he. “I’ll flatter that fellow, and get some of those Jambus to eat.” And thereupon he uttered this verse in his praise:
“Who may this be, whose rich and pleasant notes
Proclaim him best of all the singing-birds?
Warbling so sweetly on the Jambu-branch,
Where like a peacock he sits firm and grand!”
Then the crow, to pay him back his compliments, replied in this second verse:
“’Tis a well-bred young gentleman, who understands
To speak of gentlemen in terms polite!
Good Sir!—whose shape and glossy coat reveal
The tiger’s offspring—eat of these, I pray!”
And so saying, he shook the branch of the Jambu-tree till he made the fruit to fall.
But when the god who dwelt in that tree saw the two of them, now they had done flattering one another, eating the Jambus together, he uttered a third verse:
“Too long, forsooth, I’ve borne the sight
Of these poor chatterers of lies—
The refuse-eater and the offal-eater
Belauding each other!”
And making himself visible in awful shape, he frightened them away from the place!
It is easy to understand, that when this story had been carried out of those countries where the crow and the jackal are the common scavengers, it would lose its point; and it may very well, therefore, have been shortened into the fable of the Fox and the Crow and the piece of cheese. On the other hand, the latter is so complete and excellent a story, that it would scarcely have been expanded, if it had been the original, into the tale of the Jackal and the Crow.[17]
The next tale to be quoted is one showing how a wise man solves a difficulty. I am sorry that Mr. Fausböll has not yet reached this Jātaka in his edition of the Pāli text; but I give it from a Siŋhalese version of the fourteenth century, which is nearer to the Pāli than any other as yet known.[18] It is an episode in
The Birth as ‘Great Physician.’[19]
MAHOSADHA JĀTAKA.
A woman, carrying her child, went to the future Buddha’s tank to wash. And having first bathed the child, she put on her upper garment and descended into the water to bathe herself.
Then a Yakshiṇī,[20] seeing the child, had a craving to eat it. And taking the form of a woman, she drew near, and asked the mother—
“Friend, this is a very pretty child, is it one of yours?”
And when she was told it was, she asked if she might nurse it. And this being allowed, she nursed it a little, and then carried it off.
But when the mother saw this, she ran after her, and cried out, “Where are you taking my child to?” and caught hold of her.
The Yakshiṇī boldly said, “Where did you get the child from? It is mine!” And so quarrelling, they passed the door of the future Buddha’s Judgment Hall.
He heard the noise, sent for them, inquired into the matter, and asked them whether they would abide by his decision. And they agreed. Then he had a line drawn on the ground; and told the Yakshiṇī to take hold of the child’s arms, and the mother to take hold of its legs; and said, “The child shall be hers who drags him over the line.”
But as soon as they pulled at him, the mother, seeing how he suffered, grieved as if her heart would break. And letting him go, she stood there weeping.
Then the future Buddha asked the bystanders, “Whose hearts are tender to babes? those who have borne children, or those who have not?”
And they answered, “O Sire! the hearts of mothers are tender.”
Then he said, “Whom think you is the mother? she who has the child in her arms, or she who has let go?”
And they answered, “She who has let go is the mother.”
And he said, “Then do you all think that the other was the thief?”
And they answered, “Sire! we cannot tell.”
And he said, “Verily this is a Yakshiṇī, who took the child to eat it.”
And they asked, “O Sire! how did you know it?”
And he replied, “Because her eyes winked not, and were red, and she knew no fear, and had no pity, I knew it.”
And so saying, he demanded of the thief, “Who are you?”
And she said, “Lord! I am a Yakshiṇī.”
And he asked, “Why did you take away this child?”
And she said, “I thought to eat him, O my Lord!”
And he rebuked her, saying, “O foolish woman! For your former sins you have been born a Yakshiṇī, and now do you still sin” And he laid a vow upon her to keep the Five Commandments, and let her go.
But the mother of the child exalted the future Buddha, and said, “O my Lord! O Great Physician! may thy life be long!” And she went away, with her babe clasped to her bosom.
The Hebrew story, in which a similar judgment is ascribed to Solomon, occurs in the Book of Kings, which is more than a century older than the time of Gotama. We shall consider below what may be the connexion between the two.
The next specimen is a tale about lifeless things endowed with miraculous powers; perhaps the oldest tale in the world of that kind which has been yet published. It is an episode in
Sakka’s Presents.
DADHI-VĀHANA JĀTAKA.
(Fausböll, No. 186.)
Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, four brothers, Brāhmans, of that kingdom, devoted themselves to an ascetic life; and having built themselves huts at equal distances in the region of the Himālaya mountains, took up their residence there.
The eldest of them died, and was reborn as the god Sakka.[21] When he became aware of this, he used to go and render help at intervals every seven or eight days to the others. And one day, having greeted the eldest hermit, and sat down beside him, he asked him, “Reverend Sir, what are you in need of?”
The hermit, who suffered from jaundice, answered, “I want fire!” So he gave him a double-edged hatchet.
But the hermit said, “Who is to take this, and bring me firewood?”
Then Sakka spake thus to him, “Whenever, reverend Sir, you want firewood, you should let go the hatchet from your hand, and say, ‘Please fetch me firewood: make me fire!’ And it will do so.”
So he gave him the hatchet; and went to the second hermit, and asked, “Reverend Sir, what are you in need of?”
Now the elephants had made a track for themselves close to his hut. And he was annoyed by those elephants, and said, “I am much troubled by elephants; drive them away.”
Sakka, handing him a drum, said, “Reverend Sir, if you strike on this side of it, your enemies will take to flight; but if you strike on this side, they will become friendly, and surround you on all sides with an army in fourfold array.”[22]
So he gave him the drum; and went to the third hermit, and asked, “Reverend Sir, what are you in need of?”
He was also affected with jaundice, and said, therefore, “I want sour milk.”
Sakka gave him a milk-bowl, and said, “If you wish for anything, and turn this bowl over, it will become a great river, and pour out such a torrent, that it will be able to take a kingdom, and give it to you.”
And Sakka went away. But thenceforward the hatchet made fire for the eldest hermit; when the second struck one side of his drum, the elephants ran away; and the third enjoyed his curds.
Now at that time a wild boar, straying in a forsaken village, saw a gem of magical power. When he seized this in his mouth, he rose by its magic into the air, and went to an island in the midst of the ocean. And thinking, “Here now I ought to live,” he descended, and took up his abode in a convenient spot under an Udumbara-tree. And one day, placing the gem before him, he fell asleep at the foot of the tree.
Now a certain man of the Land of Kāsi had been expelled from home by his parents, who said, “This fellow is of no use to us.” So he went to a seaport, and embarked in a ship as a servant to the sailors. And the ship was wrecked; but by the help of a plank he reached that very island. And while he was looking about for fruits, he saw the boar asleep; and going softly up, he took hold of the gem.
Then by its magical power he straightway rose right up into the air! So, taking a seat on the Udumbara-tree, he said to himself, “Methinks this boar must have become a sky-walker through the magic power of this gem. That’s how he got to be living here! It’s plain enough what I ought to do; I’ll first of all kill and eat him, and then I can get away!”
So he broke a twig off the tree, and dropped it on his head. The boar woke up, and not seeing the gem, ran about, trembling, this way and that way. The man seated on the tree laughed. The boar, looking up, saw him, and dashing his head against the tree, died on the spot.
But the man descended, cooked his flesh, ate it, and rose into the air. And as he was passing along the summit of the Himālaya range, he saw a hermitage; and descending at the hut of the eldest hermit, he stayed there two or three days, and waited on the hermit; and thus became aware of the magic power of the hatchet.
“I must get that,” thought he. And he showed the hermit the magic power of his gem, and said, “Sir, do you take this, and give me your hatchet.” The ascetic, full of longing to be able to fly through the air,[23] did so. But the man, taking the hatchet, went a little way off, and letting it go, said, “O hatchet! cut off that hermit’s head, and bring the gem to me!” And it went, and cut off the hermit’s head, and brought him the gem.
Then he put the hatchet in a secret place, and went to the second hermit, and stayed there a few days. And having thus become aware of the magic power of the drum, he exchanged the gem for the drum; and cut off his head too in the same way as before.
Then he went to the third hermit, and saw the magic power of the milk-bowl; and exchanging the gem for it, caused his head to be cut off in the same manner. And taking the Gem, and the Hatchet, and the Drum, and the Milk-bowl, he flew away up into the air.
Not far from the city of Benāres he stopped, and sent by the hand of a man a letter to the king of Benāres to this effect, “Either do battle, or give me up your kingdom!”
No sooner had he heard that message, than the king sallied forth, saying, “Let us catch the scoundrel!”
But the man beat one side of his drum, and a fourfold army stood around him! And directly he saw that the king’s army was drawn out in battle array, he poured out his milk-bowl; and a mighty river arose, and the multitude, sinking down in it, were not able to escape! Then letting go the hatchet, he said, “Bring me the king’s head!” And the hatchet went, and brought the king’s head, and threw it at his feet; and no one had time even to raise a weapon!
Then he entered the city in the midst of his great army, and caused himself to be anointed king, under the name of Dadhi-vāhana (The Lord of Milk), and governed the kingdom with righteousness.[24]
The story goes on to relate how the king planted a wonderful mango, how the sweetness of its fruit turned to sourness through the too-close proximity of bitter herbs, (!) and how the Bodisat, then the king’s minister, pointed out that evil communications corrupt good things. But it is the portion above translated which deserves notice as the most ancient example known of those tales in which inanimate objects are endowed with magical powers; and in which the Seven League Boots, or the Wishing Cup, or the Vanishing Hat, or the Wonderful Lamp, render their fortunate possessors happy and glorious. There is a very tragical story of a Wishing Cup in the Buddhist Collection,[25] where the Wishing Cup, however, is turned into ridicule. It is not unpleasant to find that beliefs akin to, and perhaps the result of, fetish-worship, had faded away, among Buddhist story-tellers, into sources of innocent amusement.
In this curious tale the Hatchet, the Drum, and the Milk-bowl are endowed with qualities much more fit for the use they were put to in the latter part of the story, than to satisfy the wants of the hermits. It is common ground with satirists how little, save sorrow, men would gain if they could have anything they chose to ask for. But, unlike the others we have quoted, the tale in its present shape has a flavour distinctively Buddhist in the irreverent way in which it treats the great god Sakka, the Jupiter of the pre-Buddhistic Hindus. It takes for granted, too, that the hero ruled in righteousness; and this is as common in the Jātakas, as the ’lived happily ever after’ of modern love stories.
This last idea recurs more strongly in the Birth Story called
A Lesson for Kings.
RĀJOVĀDA JĀTAKA.
(Fausböll, No. 151.)
Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the future Buddha returned to life in the womb of his chief queen; and after the conception ceremony had been performed, he was safely born. And when the day came for choosing a name, they called him Prince Brahma-datta. He grew up in due course; and when he was sixteen years old, went to Takkasilā,[26] and became accomplished in all arts. And after his father died he ascended the throne, and ruled the kingdom with righteousness and equity. He gave judgments without partiality, hatred, ignorance, or fear.[27] Since he thus reigned with justice, with justice also his ministers administered the law. Lawsuits being thus decided with justice, there were none who brought false cases. And as these ceased, the noise and tumult of litigation ceased in the king’s court. Though the judges sat all day in the court, they had to leave without any one coming for justice. It came to this, that the Hall of Justice would have to be closed!
Then the future Buddha thought, “From my reigning with righteousness there are none who come for judgment; the bustle has ceased, and the Hall of Justice will have to be closed. It behoves me, therefore, now to examine into my own faults; and if I find that anything is wrong in me, to put that away, and practise only virtue.”
Thenceforth he sought for some one to tell him his faults; but among those around him he found no one who would tell him of any fault, but heard only his own praise.
Then he thought, “It is from fear of me that these men speak only good things, and not evil things,” and he sought among those people who lived outside the palace. And finding no fault-finder there, he sought among those who lived outside the city, in the suburbs, at the four gates.[28] And there too finding no one to find fault, and hearing only his own praise, he determined to search the country places.
So he made over the kingdom to his ministers, and mounted his chariot; and taking only his charioteer, left the city in disguise. And searching the country through, up to the very boundary, he found no fault-finder, and heard only of his own virtue; and so he turned back from the outermost boundary, and returned by the high road towards the city.
Now at that time the king of Kosala, Mallika by name, was also ruling his kingdom with righteousness; and when seeking for some fault in himself, he also found no fault-finder in the palace, but only heard of his own virtue! So seeking in country places, he too came to that very spot. And these two came face to face in a low cart-track with precipitous sides, where there was no space for a chariot to get out of the way!
Then the charioteer of Mallika the king said to the charioteer of the king of Benāres, “Take thy chariot out of the way!”
But he said, “Take thy chariot out of the way, O charioteer! In this chariot sitteth the lord over the kingdom of Benāres, the great king Brahma-datta.”
Yet the other replied, “In this chariot, O charioteer, sitteth the lord over the kingdom of Kosala, the great king Mallika. Take thy carriage out of the way, and make room for the chariot of our king!”
Then the charioteer of the king of Benāres thought, “They say then that he too is a king! What is now to be done?” After some consideration, he said to himself, “I know a way. I’ll find out how old he is, and then I’ll let the chariot of the younger be got out of the way, and so make room for the elder.”
And when he had arrived at that conclusion, he asked that charioteer what the age of the king of Kosala was. But on inquiry he found that the ages of both were equal. Then he inquired about the extent of his kingdom, and about his army, and his wealth, and his renown, and about the country he lived in, and his caste and tribe and family. And he found that both were lords of a kingdom three hundred leagues in extent; and that in respect of army and wealth and renown, and the countries in which they lived, and their caste and their tribe and their family, they were just on a par!
Then he thought, “I will make way for the most righteous.” And he asked, “What kind of righteousness has this king of yours?”
And the other saying, “Such and such is our king’s righteousness,” and so proclaiming his king’s wickedness as goodness, uttered the First Stanza:
The strong he overthrows by strength,
The mild by mildness, does Mallika;
The good he conquers by goodness,
And the wicked by wickedness too.
Such is the nature of this king!
Move out of the way, O charioteer!
But the charioteer of the king of Benāres asked him, “Well, have you told all the virtues of your king?”
“Yes,” said the other.
“If these are his virtues, where are then his faults?” replied he.
The other said, “Well, for the nonce, they shall be faults, if you like! But pray, then, what is the kind of goodness your king has?”
And then the charioteer of the king of Benāres called unto him to hearken, and uttered the Second Stanza:
Anger he conquers by calmness,
And by goodness the wicked;
The stingy he conquers by gifts,
And by truth the speaker of lies.
Such is the nature of this king!
Move out of the way, O charioteer!”
And when he had thus spoken, both Mallika, the king and his charioteer alighted from their chariot. And they took out the horses, and removed their chariot, and made way for the king of Benāres!
But the king of Benāres exhorted Mallika the king, saying, “Thus and thus is it right to do.” And returning to Benāres, he practised charity, and did other good deeds, and so when his life was ended he passed away to heaven.
And Mallika the king took his exhortation to heart; and having in vain searched the country through for a fault-finder, he too returned to his own city, and practised charity and other good deeds; and so at the end of his life he went to heaven.
The mixture in this Jātaka of earnestness with dry humour is very instructive. The exaggeration in the earlier part of the story; the hint that law depends in reality on false cases; the suggestion that to decide cases justly would by itself put an end, not only to ‘the block in the law courts,’ but even to all lawsuits; the way in which it is brought about that two mighty kings should meet, unattended, in a narrow lane; the cleverness of the first charioteer in getting out of his difficulties; the brand-new method of settling the delicate question of precedence—a method which, logically carried out, would destroy the necessity of such questions being raised at all;—all this is the amusing side of the Jātaka. It throws, and is meant to throw, an air of unreality over the story; and it is none the less humour because it is left to be inferred, because it is only an aroma which might easily escape unnoticed, only the humour of naïve absurdity and of clever repartee.
But none the less also is the story-teller thoroughly in earnest; he really means that justice is noble, that to conquer evil by good is the right thing, and that goodness is the true measure of greatness. The object is edification also, and not amusement only. The lesson itself is quite Buddhistic. The first four lines of the Second Moral are indeed included, as verse 223, in the Dhammapada or ‘Scripture Verses,’ perhaps the most sacred and most widely-read book of the Buddhist Bible; and the distinction between the two ideals of virtue is in harmony with all Buddhist ethics. It is by no means, however, exclusively Buddhistic. It gives expression to an idea that would be consistent with most of the later religions; and is found also in the great Hindu Epic, the Mahā Bhārata, which has been called the Bible of the Hindus.[29] It is true that further on in the same poem is found the opposite sentiment, attributed in our story to the king of Mallika;[30] and that the higher teaching is in one of the latest portions of the Mahā Bhārata, and probably of Buddhist origin. But when we find that the Buddhist principle of overcoming evil by good was received, as well as its opposite, into the Hindu poem, it is clear that this lofty doctrine was by no means repugnant to the best among the Brāhmans.[31]
It is to be regretted that some writers on Buddhism have been led away by their just admiration for the noble teaching of Gotama into an unjust depreciation of the religious system of which his own was, after all, but the highest product and result. There were doubtless among the Brāhmans uncompromising advocates of the worst privileges of caste, of the most debasing belief in the efficacy of rites and ceremonies; but this verse is only one among many others which are incontestable evidence of the wide prevalence also of a spirit of justice, and of an earnest seeking after truth. It is, in fact, inaccurate to draw any hard-and-fast line between the Indian Buddhists and their countrymen of other faiths. After the first glow of the Buddhist reformation had passed away, there was probably as little difference between Buddhist and Hindu as there was between the two kings in the story which has just been told.