Chapter XIII: Book VIII (1)

* * * * *

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!”