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Title: Sagas from the Far East - or, Kamouk and Mongolian Traditionary Tales
Author: Various
Language: English
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                        SAGAS FROM THE FAR EAST;
                         Kalmouk and Mongolian
                          Traditionary Tales.

             With Historical Preface and Explanatory Notes.


    By the Author of "Patrañas," "Household Stories from the Land of
                              Hofer," &c.


                                London:
                          Griffith and Farran,
                   Successors to Newbery and Harris,
                    Corner of St. Paul's Churchyard.

                              MDCCCLXXIII.



    "It singularly happens that the Sagas of the ancient Indians are
    preserved to us in much fuller measure than their authentic
    history, which is scanty enough. Moreover to them their Sagas
    served as actual statements of facts, so that we can neither form
    a right conception of their mind, nor arrive at any knowledge of
    their history, without studying their Sagas."

                        Lassen, "Pref. to Ind. Alterthumskunde," p. vii.


    "The Mongol is candid and credulous as an infant, and
    passionately loves to listen to marvellous myths and tales."

                    Huc, "Travels in China and Tibet," vol. ii. ch. xii.



PREFACE.


The origin and migrations of myths have of late been the subject
of so much sifting and study, the elaborate results of which are
already before the world, that there is no need in this place
to offer more than a few condensed remarks in allusion to the
particular collections now, I believe, for the first time put into
English. Translations of some chapters of the "Adventures of the
Well-and-wise-walking Khan" have been made by Benj. Bergmann, Riga,
1804; by Golstunski, St. Petersburg, 1864; and by H. Osterley,
in 1867. Of "Ardschi-Bordschi," by Emil Schlaginweit; by Benfey,
in "Ausland," Nos. 34-36, and the whole of both by Professor Jülg,
1865-68; of these I have availed myself in preparing the following
pages; I know of no other translation into any European language
except one into Russ by Galsan Gombojew, published at S. Petersburg
in 1865-68 [1].

The first thirteen chapters of the "Well-and-wise-walking Khan" are a
Kalmouk (1) collection, all the rest Mongolian; and though traceable to
Indian sources, they yet have received an entire transformation in the
course of their adoption by their new country. In giving them another
new home, some further alterations, though of a different nature, have
been necessary. However much one may regret them such transformations
are inevitable. It seems a law of nature that history should to a
certain extent write itself. We know the age of a tree by its knots
and rings; and we trace the age of a building by its alterations and
repairs--and that equally well whether these be made in a style later
prevailing, utterly different from that of the original design, or in
the most careful imitation of the same; for the age of the workman's
hand cannot choose but write itself on whatever he chisels.

It is just the same with these myths. They cannot remain as if
stereotyped from the first; the hand that passes them on must mould
them anew in the process. You might say, they have been already
altered enough during their wanderings, give them to us now at least
as the Mongolians left them. But it is not possible, most of them
are too coarse to meet an eye trained by Christianity and modern
cultivation. The habit of mind in which they are framed is in places
as foreign as the idiom in which they are written; I have, however,
made it an undeviating rule to let such alterations be as few and as
slight as the case admitted, and that they should go no farther than
was necessary to make them readable, or occasionally give them point.

As I have said these stories have an 'Indian' source, it becomes
incumbent to spend a few lines on defining the use and reach of the
word [2].

The words >'Indoc and Indik`h occur for the first time among writers
of classical antiquity in the fragments that have come down to us
of the writings of Hecatæus, B.C. 500. Herodotus also uses the same;
from these they descended to us through the Romans. They both received
it through Persian means and used it in the most comprehensive sense,
though the Persian use of their equivalent at the time seems to have
been more limited. It is probable, however, that later the Persian
use became further extended; and through the Arabians, who also
adopted it from them, it became the Muhammedan designation of the
whole country. When they, in 713, conquered the country watered by
the lower course of the Indus, namely, Sinde, they confirmed the use
of this more extended application of the Persian word Hind, reserving
Sind, the local form of the same word--apparently without perceiving
it was the same--to this particular province.

The later Persian designation is Hindustan--the country of the
Hindu--and this is generally adopted in India itself to denote the
whole country, though many Europeans have restricted it to the Northern
half, in contradistinction from the Dekhan, or country south of the
Vindha-range (2), often excluding even Bengal.

The original native names are different. In the epic mythology occur,
Gambudvîpa, the island of the gambu-tree (Eugenia Jambolana), for
the central or known world of which India was part, and Sudarsana,
"of beautiful appearance," to denote both the tree and the "island"
named from it. The Buddhist cosmography uses Gampudvîpa for India
Proper. Within this the Brahmanical portion, lying to the south of
the Himâlajas, is designated as Bhârata or Bhâratavarsha. In the
great epic poem called the Mahâ Bhârata, the name is derived from
Bhârata, son of Dusjanta, the first known ruler of the country, and
several dynasties are called after him Bhâratides, though it is more
probable his name rather accrued to him from that of the country,
the word being derived from bhri, "to bring forth" or "nourish,"
hence, "the fruitful," "life-nourishing" land. Bhârata is also called
(Rig-Ved. i. 96, 3) "the nourisher," sustentator.

The native historical name is undoubtedly "Ârjâvata," the district of
the Ârja--"the venerable men"--or more literally, "worthy to be sought
after," keepers of the sacred laws, the people of honourable ancestry;
calling themselves so in contradistinction to the Mlêk'ha, barbarous
despisers of the sacred laws (Manu, i. 22; x. 45), also Ârja-bhûmi,
land of the Ârja. The Manu defines rigidly the original boundaries
of this sacred country; it lies between the Himâlaja and Vindhja
mountains, and stretches from the eastern to the western seas. Though
Ptolemy (Geog. vii. I) calls the people of the west coast, south of
the Vindhja, Âriaka, this was a later extension of the original term.

What gives the word a great historical importance is the circumstance
which must not be passed over here, that the original native name of
the inhabitants of Iran was either the same or similarly derived. Airja
in Zend stood both for "honourable" and for the name of the Iranian,
people. Concerning the Medes we have the testimony of Herodotus
that they originally called themselves >'Arioi, and we owe him the
information also that the original Persian name was >Artaio`i, a word
which has the same root as Ârja, or at least can have no very different
meaning. They do not seem ever to have actually called themselves Ârja,
although the word existed in their ancient tongue with the sense of
"noble," "honourable."

The earliest Indian Sagas speak of the Arja as already established in
Central India, and give no help to the discovery of when or how they
settled there. Like most other peoples of the old world, they believed
themselves aborigines, and they placed the Creation and the origin of
species in the very land where they found themselves living, nor do
their myths bear a trace of allusion to any earlier dwelling-place or
country outside their Bhâratavarsha (4). It is true, that the sanctity
they ascribe to the north country, and the mysterious allusions to the
sacred mountain-country of Meerû, the dwelling of the gods in the far,
far north, over the Himâlajas, is calculated to mislead for a moment
with the suggestion that they point to a possible immigration from
that north, but a closer observation shows that that very sacred regard
more probably arose from the very fact of its being an unknown country;
while the effect of the majestic and inaccessible heights, with their
glorious colouring and their peculiar natural productions, was enough
to suggest them the seat of a superior and divine race of beings.

The fact that Sanskrit, the ancient tongue of the Aryan Indians,
is so closely allied to the languages of so many western nations,
establishes with certainty the identity of origin of these people, and
lays on us the burden of deciding whether the Aryan Indians migrated to
India as the allied peoples migrated to their countries from a common
aboriginal home, or whether that aboriginal home was India, and all the
allied peoples migrated from it, the Indians alone remaining at home.

Reason points to the adoption of the former of these two solutions. In
the first place, it is altogether unlikely that in the case of a great
migration all should have migrated rigidly in one direction. It is
only natural to expect they should have poured themselves out every
way, and to look for the original home in a locality which should have
formed a central base of operations. The very feuds which would in many
cases lead to such outpourings would necessitate the striking out in
ever new directions. Then, there is nothing in the manners, ideas,
speech--in the names of articles of primary importance to support
life, in which at least we might expect to find such a trace--of the
other peoples to connect them in any way with India. Had they ever
been at home there, some remnants of local influence would have been
retained; but we find none. Besides this, we have, on the other hand,
very satisfactory evidence of at least the later journeyings of the
Indian family. Their warlike and conquering entrance into the Dekhan
and crossing of the Vindhja range is matter of positive history. Some
help for ascertaining their earlier route may be found in the necessity
established by the laws and limits of possibility. Encumbered with
flocks and herds, and unassisted by appliances of transport, we cannot
believe them to have traversed the steep peaks of the Himâlajas. The
road through eastern Caboolistan and the valley of the Pangkora, or
that leading from the Gilgit by way of Attok, or over the table-land
of Deotsu through Cashmere, are all known to us as most difficult
of access, and do not appear at any period to have been willingly
adopted. But the western passes of Hindukutsch, skirting round the
steep Himâlajas--the way trod by the armies of Alexander and other
warlike hosts, no less than by the more peaceful trains of merchants,
with whom it was doubtless traditional--affords a highly probable
line of march for the first great immigration.

We are reminded here of the fact already alluded to, of the common
origin of the earliest name of both Indians and Persians, leading us to
suppose they long inhabited one country in common. For this supposition
we find further support in other similarities: e. g. between the older
Sanskrit of the Vêda and the oldest poems of the Iranian tongue; also
between the teaching, mythology, the sagas, and the spoken language
of the two peoples. On the other hand, we find also the most diverse
uses given to similar expressions, pointing to a period of absolute
separation between them, and at a remote date: e.g. the Indian word
for the Supreme Being is dêva; in Zend, daêva, as also dêv in modern
Persian, stands for the Evil Principle. Again, in Zend dagju means a
province (and its use implies orderly division of government and the
tranquil exercise of authority); but in the Brahmanical code dasju
is used for a turbulent horde, who set law and authority at defiance.

Such transpositions seem the result of some fierce variance, leading
to division and hatred between peoples long united.

Proceeding now to trace the original wandering farther on, we find
some help from Iranian traditions. The Zendavesta distinctly tells
of a so-called Aîrjanem Vaêgo as a sacred country, the seat of
creation, and place it in the farthest east of the highest Iranian
table-land, the district of the source of the Oxus and Jaxartes; by
the death-bringing Ahriman it was stricken with cold and barrenness
(3), and only saw the sun thenceforth for two months of the year. The
particularity with which it is described would point to the fact
that the locality treated of was a distant one, with which the race
had a traditional acquaintance; while at the same time it cannot be
adopted too precisely in every detail, because details may be altered
by a poetical imagination--merits may be exaggerated by regret for
absence, and defects magnified by vexation, or invented in proof of
the effects of a predicated curse.

If we may conclude that we have rightly traced up the Indians and
Persians to a common home between the easternmost Iranian highlands
and the Caspian Sea, it follows from the linguistic analogies of
the so-called Indo-European peoples that this same home was also
theirs at a time when they were not yet broken up into distinct
families. This common local origin gives at once the reason for the
analogies in the grammatical structure of their languages, and no
less of their mythical traditions, which are far too widely spread,
and have entered too radically into the universal teaching of both,
to be supposed for a moment to have been borrowed by either from the
other within the historical period, or at all since their separation.



It remains only to say a few words on the scope and object of the
work, and the profit that may be derived from its perusal. I know
there are many who think that mere amusement is profit enough to
expect from a tale, and that to look for the extraction of any more
serious result is tedious. But I will give my young readers--or at
least a large proportion of them--credit for possessing sufficient
love of improvement to prefer that class of amusement which furthers
their desire for information and edification.

The collections of myths with which I have heretofore presented them
have all had either a Christian origin, or at least have passed through
a Christian mould, and have thus almost unconsciously subserved the
purpose of illustrating some phase of Christian teaching, which is
specially distinguished by keeping in view, not spasmodically and
arbitrarily, as in the best of other systems, but uniformly, in
its sublimest reach and in its humblest detail, the belief that an
eternal purpose and consequence pervades the whole length and breadth
of human existence.

Whether the story of "Juanita the Bald" was originally drawn by a
Christian desirous of inculcating the sacred principles of the new
covenant, or adapted to the purpose by such an one from the myth
of OEdipus and Antigone; whether that of "St. Peter's Three Loaves"
was really a traditional incident of our Lord's wanderings on earth
too insignificant to find place in the pages of Holy Writ, or adapted
from the myth of Baucis and Philemon; or whether all were adaptations
according to the special convictions of various narrators of great
primeval traditions, mattered very little, as each had an intrinsic
purpose and an interest of its own quite distinct from that accruing
to it through ascertaining its place in the history of the world's
beliefs. In telling them, it needed not to point a moral, for the
moral--i.e. some more or less remote application of the sacred and
civilizing teaching of the Gospel--was of the very essence of each.

With the Tales given in the following pages, however, it is quite
different. They come direct from the far East, and in most of them
nothing further has been aimed at than the amusement of the weary
hours of disoccupation, whether forced or voluntary, of a people
indisposed by climate, natural temperament, or want of cultivation
from finding recreation in the healthy exercise of mental effort.

To me it seems that before we can take pleasure in giving our time to
the perusal of such stories, we must invest them with, or discover
in them some sort of purpose. Nor is this so far to seek, perhaps,
as might appear at first sight.

Some, it must be observed, belong to the class which deals with the
deeds of heroes--fabling forth the grand all-time lesson of the
vigorous struggle of good with evil; the nobility of unflinching
self-sacrifice and of devotion to an exalted cause, setting the
model for the lowly sister of charity as much as for the victorious
leader of armies, and each all the while typical of Him who gave
Himself to be the servant of all, and the ransom of all. A German
writer rises so inspired from their study that he bursts forth into
this pæan:--"Eine Fülle der Göttergeschichte thut sich hier auf, und
nirgends lässt sich der eigenthümliche Naturcharacter in Fortbildung
des Mythus vollständiger erkennen, als an diesen Alterthümern. Götter
und vergötterte Menschen ragen hier, wie an den Wänden der Tempel
von Thebe hoch über das gewöhnliche Menschengestalt. Alles hat einen
riesenhaften Aufschwung zur himmlischen Welt [3]." Subsidiarily to
these conceptions of them, stories of this class have the further
merit of being one chief means of conveying the scanty data we possess
concerning the early history of the people of whose literature they
form part (5).

Others again may be placed in a useful light by endeavouring to trace
in them the journeyings they have made in their transmigration. Benfey,
a modern German writer who has employed much time and study "in tracing
the Mährchen in their ever-varying forms," while pointing out as many
others have also done (6), that the great bulk of our household tales
have come to us from the East, and have been spread over Europe in
various ways, points out that this was done for the South in great
measure through the agency of the Turks; but for the North it was by
the Mongolians during their two centuries of ascendancy in Eastern
Europe; the Slaves received them from them, and communicated them to
the German peoples (7).

If therefore you find some tales in one collection bearing a close
resemblance with those you have read in another, you should make it
a matter of interest to observe what is individual in the character
of each, and to trace the points both of diversity and analogy in
the mode of expression in which they are clothed, and which will be
found just as marked as the difference in costume of the respective
peoples who have told them each after their own fashion.

All of them have at least the merit of being, in the main, pictures
of life, however overwrought with the fantastic or supernatural
element, not ideal embodiments of the perfect motives by which people
ought to be actuated, but genre pictures of the modes in which they
commonly do act. As such they cannot fail to contain the means of
edification, though we are left to look for and discover and apply it
for ourselves. To take one instance. The Christian hagiographer could
never have written of a hero he was celebrating, as we find it said of
Vikramâditja, that as part of his preparation for the battle of life
"while learning wisdom with the wise, and the use of arms from men of
valour," "of the robber bands he acquired the art of stealing, and of
fraudulent dealers, to lie." If he had been illustrating the actual
biography of a Christian hero, it is a detail which could not have
entered, and if drawing an ideal picture, it would have been entirely
at variance with the system he was illustrating. Circumstances like
this which fail to serve as subject for imitation, must be turned to
account in exercising the powers of judgment, as well in distinguishing
what to avoid from what to admire, as in taking note of these very
variances between Christian and the best non-christian morality.



* * * The author feels bound to apologize for any inaccuracies
which may have crept into these pages owing to being abroad while
preparing them for the press.



CONTENTS.


    THE SAGA OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN.

                                                                    Page
    Dedication                                                         1
    Tales

        I.--The Woman who sought her Husband in the Palace of
            Erlik-Khan                                                10
       II.--The Gold-spitting Prince                                  17
      III.--How the Schimnu-Khan was slain                            36
       IV.--The Pig's-head Soothsayer                                 54
        V.--How the Serpent-gods were propitiated                     71
       VI.--The Turbulent Subject                                     82
      VII.--The White Bird and his Wife                               89
     VIII.--How Ânanda the Woodcarver and Ânanda the Painter strove
            together                                                  97
       IX.--Five to One                                              105
        X.--The Biting Corpse                                        115
       XI.--The Prayer making suddenly Rich                          120
      XII.--"Child-intellect" and "Bright-intellect"                 130
     XIII.--The Fortunes of Shrikantha                               135
      XIV.--The Avaricious Brother                                   146
       XV.--The Use of Magic Language                                157
      XVI.--The Wife who loved Butter                                165
     XVII.--The Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife                  173
    XVIII.--How Shanggasba buried his Father                         178
      XIX.--The Perfidious Friend                                    192
       XX.--Bhîxu Life                                               198
      XXI.--How the Widow saved her Son's Life                       206
     XXII.--The White Serpent-king                                   213
    XXIII.--What became of the Red-coloured Dog                      221
            Conclusion of the Adventures of the
            Well-and-Wise-Walking Khan                               229


    THE SAGA OF ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI AND VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE.

    Historical Notice of Vikramâditja                                230
    The Boy-King                                                     252
    The False Friend                                                 253
    The Pretended Son                                                257
    Ardschi-Bordschi discovers Vikramâditja's Throne                 262
    The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Birth  266
    The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Youth  273
        Schalû the Wolf-boy                                          277
        Vikramâditja and Schalû conquer the Schimnus                 284
    The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Deeds  291
        Vikramâditja acquires another Kingdom                        ib.
        Vikramâditja makes the Silent speak                          294
        Who invented Woman?                                          298
        The Voice-charmer                                            304
    The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning the Seventy-one
    Parrots and their Adviser                                        309
        How Naran Gerel swore falsely and yet told the Truth         315


    Notes                                                            325



THE SAGA OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN.


DEDICATION.


O thou most perfect Master and Teacher of Wisdom and Goodness! Teacher,
second only to the incomparable Shâkjamuni (1)! Thou accomplished
Nâgârg'una (2)! Thou who wast intimately acquainted with the Most-pure
Tripîtaka (3), and didst evolve from it thy wise madhjamika (4),
containing the excellent paramârtha (5)! Before thee I prostrate
myself! Hail! Nâgârg'una O!



It is even the wonderful and astounding history of the deeds of the
Well-and-wise-walking Khan, which he performed under the help and
direction of this same Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, that I propose
to relate in the form of the following series of narratives.

In the kingdom of Magadha (6) there once lived seven brothers who
were magicians. At the distance of a mile from their abode lived
two brothers, sons of a Khan. The elder of these went to the seven
magicians, saying, "Teach me to understand your art," and abode with
them seven years. But though they were always setting him to learn
difficult tasks, yet they never taught him the true key to their mystic
knowledge. His brother, however, coming to visit him one day, by merely
looking through a crack in the door of the apartment where the seven
brothers were at work acquired perfectly the whole krijâvidja (7).

After this they both went home together, the elder because he
perceived he would never learn any thing of the magicians, and the
younger because he had learnt every thing they had to impart.

As they went along the younger brother said, "Now that we know
all their art the seven magicians will probably seek to do us some
mischief. Go thou, therefore, to our stable, which we left empty, and
thou shalt find there a splendid steed. Put a rein on him and lead
him forth to sell him, only take care thou go not in the direction
of the dwelling of the seven magicians; and, having sold him, bring
back the price thou shalt have received."

When he had made an end of speaking he transformed himself into a
horse, and went and placed himself in the stable against his brother
arrived.

But the elder brother, knowing the magicians had taught him nothing,
stood in no fear of them. Therefore he did not according to the
words of his brother; but saying within himself, "As my brother is
so clever that he could conjure this fine horse into the stable, let
him conjure thither another if he wants it sold. This one I will ride
myself." Accordingly he saddled and mounted the horse. All his efforts
to guide him were vain, however, and in spite of his best endeavours
the horse, impelled by the power of the magic of them from whom the
art had been learnt, carried him straight to the door of the magicians'
dwelling. Once there he was equally unable to induce him to stir away;
the horse persistently stood still before the magicians' door. When
he found he could not in any way command the horse, he determined to
sell it to these same magicians, and he offered it to them, asking
a great price for it.

The magicians at once recognized that it was a magic horse, and they
said, among themselves, "If our art is to become thus common, and
every body can produce a magic horse, no one will come to our market
for wonders. We had best buy the horse up and destroy it." Accordingly
they paid the high price required and took possession of the horse
and shut it up in a dark stall. When the time came to slaughter it,
one held it down by the tail, another by the head, other four by the
four legs, so that it should in nowise break away, while the seventh
bared his arm ready to strike it with death.

When the Khan's son, who was transformed into the horse, had learnt
what was the intention of the magicians, he said, "Would that any sort
of a living being would appear into which I might transform myself."

Hardly had he formed the wish when a little fish was seen swimming down
the stream: into this the Khan transformed himself. The seven magicians
knew what had occurred, and immediately transformed themselves into
seven larger fish and pursued it. When they were very close to the
little fish, with their gullets wide open, the Khan said, within
himself, "Would that any sort of living being would appear into
which I might transform myself." Immediately a dove was seen flying
in the heavens, and the Khan transformed himself into the dove. The
seven magicians, seeing what was done, transformed themselves into
seven hawks, pursuing the dove over hill and dale. Once again they
were near overtaking him, when the dove took refuge in the Land Bede
(8). Southward in Bede was a shining mountain and a cave within it
called "Giver of Rest." Hither the dove took refuge, even in the very
bosom of the Great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una.

The seven hawks came thither also, fast flying behind the dove; but,
arrived at the entrance of Nâgârg'una's cave, they showed themselves
once more as men, clothed in cotton garments.

Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, "Wherefore,
O dove, flutterest thou so full of terror, and what are these seven
hawks to thee?"

So the Khan's son told the Master all that had happened between
himself, his brother, and the seven magicians; and he added these
words, "Even now there stand before the entrance of this cave seven
men clothed in cotton garments. These men will come in unto the Master
and pray for the boon of the ârâmela he holds in his hand. Meantime,
I will transform myself into the large bead of the ârâmela, and when
the Master would reach the chaplet to the seven men, I pray him that,
putting one end of it in his mouth, he bite in twain the string of
the same, whereby all the beads shall be set free."

The Master benevolently did even as he had been prayed. Moreover,
when all the beads fell showering on the ground, behold they were
all turned into little worms, and the seven men clothed in cotton
garments transformed themselves into seven fowls, who pecked up the
worms. But when the Master dropped the large bead out of his mouth on
to the ground it was transformed into the form of a man having a staff
in his hand. With this staff the Khan's son killed the seven fowls,
but the moment they were dead they bore the forms of men's corpses.

Then spoke the Master. "This is evil of thee. Behold, while I gave
thee protection for thy one life, thou hast taken the lives of these
men, even of these seven. In this hast thou done evil."

But the Khan's son answered, "To protect my life there was no
other means save to take the life of these seven, who had vowed to
kill me. Nevertheless, to testify my thanks to the Master for his
protection, and to take this sin from off my head, behold I am ready
to devote myself to whatever painful and difficult enterprise the
Master will be pleased to lay upon me."

"Then," said the Master, "if this is so, betake thyself to the cool
grove, even to the cîtavana (9), where is the Siddhî-kür (10). From
his waist upwards he is of gold, from his waist downwards of emerald;
his head is of mother-of-pearl, decked with a shining crown. Thus
is he made. Him if thou bring unto me from his Mango-tree (11), thou
shalt have testified thy gratitude for my protection and shalt have
taken this sin that thou hast committed from off thy head; for so
shall I be able, when I have the Siddhî-kür in subjection under me,
to bring forth gold in abundance, to give lives of a thousand years'
duration to the men of Gambudvîpa (12), and to perform all manner of
wonderful works."

"Behold, I am ready to do even as according to thy word," answered
the Khan's son. "Tell me only the way I have to take and the manner
and device whereby I must proceed."

Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, again, saying,--

"When thou shalt have wandered forth hence for the distance of about
an hundred miles, thou shalt come to a dark and fearsome ravine where
lie the bodies of the giant-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise
up and surround thee. But thou call out to them, 'Ye giant-dead,
hala hala svâhâ (13)!' scattering abroad at the same time these
barley-corns, consecrated by the power of magic art, and pass on thy
way without fear.

About another hundred miles' space farther hence thou shalt come
to a smooth mead by the side of a river where lie the bodies of
the pigmy-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise up and surround
thee. But thou cry out to them, 'Ye pigmy-dead, hulu hulu svâhâ!' and,
strewing thine offering of barley-corns, again pass on thy way
without fear.

At a hundred miles' space farther along thou shalt come to a garden
of flowers having a grove of trees and a fountain in the midst; here
lie the bodies of the child-dead. At thy approach they shall rise
up and running together surround thee. But thou cry out to them, 'Ye
child-dead, rira phad!' and, strewing thine offering of barley-corns,
again pass on thy way without fear.

Out of the midst of these the Siddhî-kür will rise and will run away
from before thee till he reaches his mango-tree, climbing up to the
summit thereof. Then thou swing on high the axe which I will give thee,
even the axe White Moon (14), and make as though thou wouldst hew
down the tree in very truth. Rather than let thee hew the mango-tree
he will come down. Then seize him and bind him in this sack of many
colours, in which is place for to stow away an hundred, enclose the
mouth thereof tight with this cord, twisted of an hundred threads of
different colours, make thy meal off this cake which never grows less,
place the sack upon thy shoulder, and bring him hither to me. Only
beware that by the way thou open not thy lips to speak!

"And now, hitherto hast thou been called the Khan's son, but now,
since thou hast found thy way even to the cave 'Giver of Rest,' thou
shalt be called no more the Khan's son, but 'the Well-and-wise-walking
Khan.' Go now thy way."

When the Master, Nâgârg'una, had given him this new name, he further
provided him with all the provisions for the undertaking which he
had promised him, and, pointing out the way, dismissed him in peace.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had overcome all the alarms and
difficulties of the way, and come in sight of the Siddhî-kür, he set
out swiftly to pursue him; but the Siddhî-kür was swifter than he,
and, reaching the mango-tree, clambered up to the summit. Then said
the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, "Behold, I come in the name of the
great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una. My axe is the axe 'White Moon,'
my provision for the journey is the cake which never diminishes,
my prison is the sack of many colours, in which is place to stow
away an hundred, my cord is the cord twisted of an hundred threads of
different colours, I myself am called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan;
I command thee, therefore, Siddhî-kür, that thou come down hither to
me, otherwise with my axe 'White Moon' will I fell the mango-tree."

At these words the Siddhî-kür cried, in answer, "Fell not the
mango-tree. Rather will I come down to thee." With that he came
down, and the Khan, taking him, put him in his sack of many colours,
in which was place to stow away an hundred, then he made the mouth
fast with the cord twisted of an hundred threads of various colours,
made his meal off his cake which never diminished, and proceeded on
his way to take him to the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una.

As they journeyed on thus day after day, and had grown weary, thus
spoke the Siddhî-kür, "Long is the journey, and both of us are weary,
tell thou now a story to enliven it."

But, remembering the words of Nâgârg'una, "Beware thou open not thy
lips to speak," he answered him never a word.

Then said the Siddhî-kür again, "If thou wilt not tell a story to
lighten the journey, at least listen to one from me, and to this
thou canst give assent without opening thy lips, if only thou nod
thy head backwards towards me. At this sign I will tell a tale." So
the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the
Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale:--



TALE I.

THE WOMAN WHO SOUGHT HER HUSBAND IN THE PALACE OF ERLIK KHAN.


Long ages ago there reigned a young Khan whose father had died early
and left him in possession of the kingdom. He was a youth comely to
look upon, and dazzling in the glory of his might. To him had been
given for his chief wife the daughter of a Khan of the South. But the
young Khan loved not this wife. At a mile's distance from his palace
there lived in her father's house a well-grown, beautiful maiden, of
whom he had made his second wife; as she was not a Khan's daughter
he feared to take her home to his palace, lest he should displease
his mother, but he came often to visit her, and as they loved each
other very much, she asked no more.

One night, when the moon was brightly shining, some one knocked at
the window, the maiden knew it was the Khan's manner of knocking,
so she opened to him,--but with trembling, for he had never been wont
to come at that hour; yet by the light of the moonbeam she saw that
it was indeed himself, only instead of his usual garments, he was
habited in shining apparel, which she could hardly look upon for its
brightness, and he, himself, too, looked more exceeding beautiful
than usual. When he had partaken of her rice-brandy and cakes,
he rose and stood upon the doorstep, saying, "Come, sweet wife,
come out together with me;" and when she had gone a little way with
him, he said, "Come, sweet wife, come a little farther with me." And
when she had gone a little farther with him, he said again, "Come,
sweet wife, come yet a little farther." So she went yet a little
farther till they had reached nearly to the gates of the palace, and
from within the courts of the palace there came a noise of shouting
and playing on instruments. Then inquired she, "To what end is this
shouting and this music?" And he replied, "It is the noise of the
sacrifice for the rites of the burial of the Khan (1)." "And why
do they celebrate the rites of the burial of the Khan?" she asked,
now beginning to fear in earnest. "Because I am dead, sweet wife, and
am even now on my way to the deva's kingdom. But thou listen to me,
and do according to my word, and all shall be well for thee and for
our son. Behold, even now, within the palace, my mother and my chief
wife strive together concerning a jewel which is lost. But I have
purposely hid the jewel under a god's image in the apartment. Thou,
therefore, pass the night in this elephant-stable of the palace
hard by, and there shall our son be born; and in the morning, the
elephant-tamers finding thee shall bring thee to my mother and my
chief wife. But thou, take the jewel and give it to the chief wife
and send her away to her own people. Then shall my mother have joy
in thee alone and in the child, and you two together shall direct
the Government till he be come to man's estate." Thus spoke the Khan.

While he spoke these words, the wife was so stricken with fear and
grief that she fell to the ground senseless, nor knew that he bore
her into the elephant-stable, and went up to the deva's kingdom.

In the night their son was born; and in the morning, the
elephant-tamers coming in, said, "Here is a woman and a babe lying
in the elephant-stable; this must not be, who knows but that it
might bring evil to the elephants (2)?" so they raised her up,
with her infant, and took her to the Khan's mother. Then she told
the Khan's mother all that had befallen her, and as the jewel was
found in the place the Khan had told her, it was taken for proof
of her truth. Accordingly, the jewel was given to the chief wife,
and she was dismissed to her own people; and as the Khan had left no
other child, the boy born in the elephant-stable was declared heir,
and his mother and the Khan's mother directed the Government together
till he should come to man's estate.

Thus the lowly maiden was established in the palace as the Khan
had promised. Moreover, every month, on the fifteenth of the month,
the Khan came in the night to visit her, disappearing again with the
morning light. When she told this to the Khan's mother, she would not
believe her, because he was invisible to all eyes but hers. And when
she protested that she spoke only words of truth, the Khan's mother
said, "If it be very truth, then obtain of him that his mother may
see him also."

On the fifteenth of the month, when he came again, she said therefore
to him, "That thou shouldst come thus to see me every month, on the
fifteenth of the month, is good; but that thou shouldst go away and
leave me all alone again, this is sad, very sad. Why canst thou not
come back and stay with us altogether, without going away any more?"

And he made answer: "Of a truth there would be one way, but it is
difficult and terrible, and it is not given to woman to endure so
much fear and pain."

But she replied, "If there were but any means to have thee back,
always by my side, I would find strength to endure any terror or pain,
even to the tearing out of the bones from the midst of my flesh."

"This is the means that must be taken then," said the Khan: "Next
month, on the fifteenth of the month, thou must rise when the moon's
light is at the full, and go forth abroad a mile's distance towards
the regions of the South. There shalt thou meet with an ancient man of
iron, standing on the watch, who, when he shall have drank much molten
metal, shall yet cry, 'Yet am I thirsty.' To him give rice-brandy and
pass on. Farther on thou shalt find two he-goats fighting together
mightily, to them give barm-cakes to eat and pass on. Farther along
thou shalt find a band of armed men who shall bar thy way; to them
distribute meat and pass on. Farther on thou shalt come to a frightful
massive black building round which runs a moat filled with human
blood, and from its portal waves a man's skin for a banner. At its
door stand on guard two terrible erliks (3), servants of Erlik Khan
(4); to each, offer an offering of blood and pass within the building.

"In the very midst of the building thou shalt find a Mandala (5)
formed by eight awful sorcerers, and at the feet of each will lie
a heart which will cry to thee, 'Take me! take me!' In the midst of
all will be a ninth heart which must cry 'Take me not!'

"If thou fortified by thy love shall be neither rendered afraid by
the aspect of the place, nor terrified by the might of the sorcerers,
nor confounded by the wailing of the voices, but shalt take up and
bear away that ninth heart, neither looking backwards nor tarrying
by the way, then shall it be granted us to live for evermore on
earth together."

Thus he spoke; and the morning light breaking, she saw him no
more. The wife, however, laid up all his words in her heart; and on
the fifteenth of the next month, when the moon shone, she went forth
all alone without seeking help or counsel from any one, content to
rely on her husband's words. Nor letting her heart be cast down by
fear or pain, she distributed to each of those she met by the way
the portion he had appointed. At last she reached the Mandala of
sorcerers, and, regardless of the conflicting cries by which she
was assailed, boldly carried off the ninth heart, though it said,
"Take me not!" No sooner had she turned back with her prize than the
eight sorcerers ran calling after her, "A thief has been in here,
and has stolen the heart! Guards! Up, and seize her!" But the Erliks
before the door answered, "Us she propitiated with a blood-offering;
we arrest her not. See you to it." So the word was passed on to the
company of armed men who had barred her passage; but they answered,
"Us hath she propitiated with a meat-offering; we arrest her not. See
you to it." Then the word was passed on to the two he-goats. But the
he-goats answered, "Us hath she propitiated with a barm-cake-offering;
we arrest her not. See you to it." Finally, the word was passed on
to the ancient man of iron; but he answered, "Me hath she propitiated
with a brandy-offering; I arrest her not."

Thus with fearless tread she continued all the way to the palace. On
opening the door of his apartment, the Khan himself came forward to
meet her in his beauty and might, and in tenfold glory, never to go
away from her again any more, and they fell into each other's arms
in a loving embrace.



"Scarcely could a man have held out as bravely as did this
woman!" exclaimed the Khan.

And as he uttered these words, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his
health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with
the cry "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through
the air, swift, out of sight.



Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the first chapter,
concerning the Woman who brought back her Husband from the palace
of Erlik-Khan.



TALE II.


When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had missed the end
and object of his journey, he forthwith set out again, without loss of
time, or so much as returning to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una,
but taking only a meal of his cake which never diminished; thus,
with similar toils and fears as the first time, he came again at
last to the cool grove where lay the child-dead, and among them the
Siddhî-kür. And the Siddhî-kür rose up before him, and clambered up
the mango-tree. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had summoned
him with proud sounding words to come down, threatening that otherwise
he would hew down the tree with his axe "White Moon," the Siddhî-kür
came down, rather than that he should destroy the mango-tree. Then
he bound him again in his bag of many colours, in which was place
to stow away an hundred, and bound the mouth thereof with the cord
woven of an hundred threads of different tints, and bore him along
to offer to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una.

But at the end of many days' journey, the Siddhî-kür said,--

"Now, in truth, is the length of this journey like to weary us even to
death, as we go along thus without speaking. Wherefore, O Prince! let
me entreat thee beguile the way by telling a tale."

But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, remembering the words of his
Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, which he spoke, saying, "See thou open
not thy lips to speak by the way," remained silent, and answered him
never a word. Then the Siddhî-kür, when he found that he could not be
brought to answer him, spake again in this wise: "If thou wilt not
tell a tale, then, at least, give some token by which I may know if
thou willest that I should tell one, and if thou speak not, at least
nod thine head backwards towards me; then will I tell a tale."

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards
the Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,--



THE GOLD-SPITTING PRINCE.

Long ages ago there was a far-off country where a mighty Khan
ruled. Near the source of the chief river of this country was a pool,
where lived two Serpent-gods (1), who had command of the water; and
as they could shut off the water of the river when they pleased, and
prevent it from overflowing and fertilizing the country, the people
were obliged to obey their behest, be it what it might. Now, the
tribute they exacted of the country was that of a full grown man, to
be chosen by lot, every year; and on whoso the lot fell, he had to go,
without redemption, whatever his condition in life. Thus it happened
one year that the lot fell on the Khan himself. In all the kingdom
there was no one of equal rank who could be received instead of him,
unless it had been his only son. When his son would have gone in his
stead, he answered him, "What is it to me if the Serpents devour
me, so that thou, my son, reignest in peace?" But the son said,
"Never shall it be that thou, my Khan and father, shouldst suffer
this cruel death, while I remain at home. The thought be far from
me. Neither will the land receive harm by my death; is not my mother
yet alive? and other sons may be born to thee, who shall reign over
the land." So he went to offer himself as food to the Serpent-gods.

As he went along, the people followed him for a long stretch of the
way, bewailing him; and then they turned them back. But one there
was who turned not back: it was a poor man's son whom the Prince had
all his life had for his friend; he continued following him. Then the
Prince turned and said to him, "Walk thou according to the counsels of
thy father and thy mother, and be prosperous and happy on the earth. To
defend this noble, princely country, and to fulfil the royal word of
the Khan, my father, I go forth to be food to the Serpent-gods."

But the poor man's son refused to forsake him. "Thou hast loaded
me with goodness and favours," he said, as he wept; "if I may not
go instead of thee, at least I will go with thee." And he continued
following the Prince.

When they got near the pool, they heard a low, rumbling, horrible
sound: it was the two Serpent-gods talking together, and talking about
them, for they were on the look-out to see who would be sent to them
this year for the tribute. The old gold-yellow Serpent was telling
the young emerald-green Serpent how the Prince had come instead of
his father, and how the poor man, who had no need to come at all,
had insisted on accompanying him.

"And these people are so devoted in giving their lives for one
another," said the young emerald-green Serpent, "and have not the
courage to come out and fight us, and make an end of paying this
tribute at all."

"They don't know the one only way to fight us," answered the
gold-yellow old Serpent; "and as all the modes they have tried have
always failed, they imagine it cannot be done, and they try no more."

"And what is the one only way by which they could prevail against
us?" inquired the young emerald-green Serpent.

"They have only to cut off our heads with a blow of a stout
staff," replied the old gold-yellow Serpent, "for so has Shêsa,
the Serpent-dæmon, appointed."

"But these men carry shining swords that look sharp and fearful,"
urged the young emerald-green Serpent.

"That is it!" rejoined the other: "their swords avail nothing against
us, and so they never think that a mere staff should kill us. Also,
if after cutting off our heads they were to eat them, they would be
able to spit as much gold and precious stones as ever they liked. But
they know nothing of all this," chuckled the old gold-yellow Serpent.

Meantime, the Prince had not lost a word of all that the two Serpents
had said to each other, for his mother had taught him the speech
of all manner of creatures. So when he first heard the noise of the
Serpents talking together, he had stood still, and listened to their
words. Now, therefore, he told it all again to his follower, and they
cut two stout staves in the wood, and then drew near, and cut off the
heads of the Serpents with the staves--each of them one; and when
they had cut them off, the Prince ate the head of the gold-yellow
Serpent, and, see! he could spit out as much gold money as ever he
liked; and his follower ate the head of the emerald-green Serpent,
and he could spit out emeralds as many as ever he pleased.

Then spoke the poor man's son: "Now that we have killed the Serpents,
and restored the due course of the water to our native country,
let us return home and live at peace."

But the Khan's son answered, "Not so, for if we went back to our own
land, the people would only mock us, saying, 'The dead return not to
the living!' and we should find no place among them. It is better we
betake ourselves to another country afar off, which knows us not."

So they journeyed on through a mountain pass.

At the foot of the mountains they came to the habitation of a beautiful
woman and her daughter, selling strong drink to travellers. Here they
stopped, and would have refreshed themselves, but the women asked
them what means they had to pay them withal, for they saw they looked
soiled with travel. "We will pay whatever you desire," replied the
Prince; and he began to spit out gold coin upon the table. When the
women saw that he spat out as much gold coin as ever he would, they
took them inside, and gave them as much drink as they could take,
making them pay in gold, and at many times the worth of the drink,
for they no longer knew what they did; only when they had made them
quite intoxicated, and they could not get any thing more from them,
in despite of all sense of gratitude or hospitality, they turned them
out to pass the night on the road.

When they woke in the morning, they journeyed farther till they came
to a broad river; on its banks was a palm-grove, and a band of boys
were gathered together under it quarrelling.

"Boys! what are you disputing about?" inquired the Prince.

"We found a cap on this palm-tree," answered one of the boys, "and
we are disputing whose it shall be, because we all want it."

"And what use would the cap be to you? What is it good for?" asked
the Prince.

"Why, that whichever of us gets it has only to put it on," replied the
boy, "and he immediately becomes invisible to gods, men, and dæmons."

"I will settle the dispute for you," rejoined the Prince. "You all of
you get you to the far end of this palm-grove, and start back running,
all fair, together. Whichever wins the race shall be reckoned to have
won the cap. Give it to me to hold the while."

The boys said, "It is well spoken;" and giving the cap to the Prince,
they set off to go to the other end of the grove. But they were no
sooner well on their way, than the Prince put on the cap, and then
joining hands with his companion, both became invisible to gods, men,
and dæmons; so that when the boys came back at full speed, though
they were both yet standing in the same place, none of them could
see them. After wandering about to look for them in vain, they at
last gave it up in despair, and went away crying with disappointment.

The Prince and his follower continued their journey by the side of
the stream till they came to a broad road, and here at the cross-way
was a crowd of dæmons assembled, who were all chattering aloud,
and disputing vehemently.

"Dæmons! What are you quarrelling about?" asked the Prince.

"We found this pair of boots here," answered the dæmons, "and whoever
puts these boots on has only to wish that he might be in a particular
place, and immediately arrives there; and we cannot agree which of
us is to have the boots."

"I will settle the dispute for you," replied the Prince. "You all go
up to the end of this road, and run back hither all of you together,
and whichever of you wins the race, he shall be reckoned to have won
the boots. Give them to me to hold the while."

So the dæmons answered, "It is well spoken;" and giving the boots
to the Prince, they set off to go to the far end of the road. But
by the time they got back the Prince had put on the invisible cap,
and joining hands with his companion had become invisible to gods,
men, and dæmons, so that for all their looking there was no trace of
them to be found. Thus they had to give up the lucky boots, and went
their way howling for disappointment.

As soon as they were gone the Prince and his follower began to examine
the boots, and to ponder what they should do with their treasure.

"A great gift and a valuable," said the latter, "hath been given
thee, O Prince, by the favour of fortune, and thy wisdom in acquiring
it. Wish now to reach a prosperous place to be happy; but for me I
shall not know where thou art gone, and I shall see thy face no more."

But the Prince said, "Nay, but wheresoever I go, thou shalt go
too. Here is one boot for me, and the other for thee, and when we have
both put them on we will wish to be in the place where at this moment
there is no Khan, and we will then see what is further to be done."

So the Prince put on the right boot, and his follower the left boot,
and they laid them down to sleep, and both wished that they might
come to a land where there was no Khan.

When they woke in the morning they found themselves lying in
the hollow of an ancient tree, in the outskirts of a great city,
overshadowing the place where the election of the Khan was wont
to be made. As soon as day broke the people began to assemble,
and many ceremonies were performed. At last the people said,
"Let us take one of the Baling-cakes out of the straw sacrifice,
and throw it up into the air, and on to whosoever's head it falls
he shall be our Khan. So they took the Baling-cake out of the straw
sacrifice, and it fell into the hollow tree. And the people said,
"We must choose some other mode of divination, for the Baling-cake
has failed. Shall a hollow tree reign over us?"

But others said, "Let us see what there may be inside the hollow tree."

Thus when they came to look into the tree they found the Prince and
his follower. So they drew them out and said, "These shall rule over
us." But others said, "How shall we know which of these two is the
Khan?" While others again cried, "These men are but strangers and
vagabonds. How then shall they reign over us?"

But to the Prince and his follower they said, "Whence are ye? and
how came ye in the hollow tree?"

Then the Prince began spitting gold coin, and his follower precious
emeralds. And while the people were busied in gathering the gold
and the emeralds they installed themselves in the palace, and made
themselves Khan and Chief Minister, and all the people paid them
homage.

When they had learned the ways of the kingdom and established
themselves well in it, the new Khan said to his Minister that he
must employ himself to find a wife worthy of the Khan. To whom the
Minister made answer,--

"Behold, beautiful among women is the daughter of the last Khan. Shall
not she be the Khan's wife?"

The Khan found his word good, and desired that she should be brought to
him; when he found she was fair to see, he took her into the palace,
and she became his wife. But she was with him as one whose thoughts
were fixed on another.

Now on the outskirts of the city was a noble palace, well kept and
furnished, and surrounded with delicious gardens; but no one lodged
there. Only the Minister took note that every third day the Khan's
wife went out softly and unattended, and betook herself to this palace.

"Now," thought the Minister to himself, "wherefore goes the Khan's
wife every third day to this palace, softly and unattended? I must
see this thing."

So he put on the cap which they had of the boys in the palm-grove,
and followed the Khan's wife as he saw her go the palace, and having
found a ladder he entered by a window as she came up the stairs. Then
he followed her into a sumptuous apartment all fitted with carpets
and soft cushions, and a table spread with delicious viands and
cooling drinks. The Khan's wife, however, reclined her on none of
these cushions, but went out by a private door for a little space,
and when she returned she was decked as never she had been when
she went before the Khan. The room was filled with perfume as she
approached, her hair was powdered with glittering jewels, and her
attire was all of broidered silk, while her throat, and arms, and
ankles were wreathed with pearls. The Minister hardly knew her again;
and with his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons,
he approached quite near to look at her, while she, having no suspicion
of his presence, continued busy with preparations as for some coming
event. On a vast circle of porphyry she lighted a fire of sandal wood,
over which she scattered a quantity of odoriferous powders, uttering
words the while which it was beyond the power of the Minister to
understand. While she was thus occupied, there came a most beautiful
bird with many-coloured wings swiftly flying through the open window,
and when he had soared round three times in the soft vapour of the
sweet-scented gums the Princess had been burning, there appeared a bird
no longer, but Cuklaketu, the beautiful son of the gods, surpassing
all words in his beauty. The transformation was no sooner effected,
than they embraced each other, and reclining together on the silken
couches, feasted on the banquet that was laid out.

After a time, Cuklaketu rose to take leave, but before he went, he
said, "Now you are married to the husband heaven has appointed you,
tell me how it is with him."

At these words the Minister, jealous for his master, grew very
attentive that he might learn what opinion the Khan's wife had of his
master and what love she had for him. But she answered prudently,
"How it will be with him I know not yet, for he is still young;
I cannot as yet know any thing of either his merits or defects."

And with that they parted; Cuklaketu flying away in the form of
a beautiful bird with many-coloured wings as he had come, and the
Khan's wife exchanging her glittering apparel for the mantle in which
she came from the Khan's palace.

The next time that she went out to this palace, the Minister put
on his cap and followed her again and witnessed the same scene,
only when Cuklaketu was about to take leave this time, he said,
"To-morrow, I shall come and see what your husband is like." And
when she asked him, "By what token shall I know you?" he answered,
"I will come under the form of a swallow, and will perch upon his
throne." With that they parted; but the Minister went and stood before
the Khan and told him all that he had seen.

"But thou, O Khan," proceeded the Minister, "Cause thou a great fire
to be kept burning before the throne; and I, standing there with the
cap rendering me invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, on my head, will
be on the look out for the swallow, and when he appears, I will seize
him by the feathers of his tail and dash him into the fire; then must
thou, O Khan, slay him, and hew him in pieces with thy sword."

And so it was, for the next morning early, while the Khan and his
Consort were seated with all their Court in due order of rank,
there came a swallow, all smirk and sprightly, fluttering around
them, and at last it perched on the Khan's throne. The Princess
watched his every movement with delighted eyes, but the Minister,
who waited there wearing his cap which made him invisible to gods,
men, and dæmons, no sooner saw him perch on the throne, than he seized
him by the feathers of his tail and flung him on the fire. The swallow
succeeded in fluttering out of the fire, but as the Khan had drawn his
sword to slay him and hew him in pieces, the Princess caught his arm
and held it tight, so that the swallow just managed to fly away with
his singed wings through the open window. Meantime, the Princess was
so overcome with fear and excitement that she fainted away into the
arms of the attendants, who were struck with wonder that she should
care so much about an injury done to a little bird.

As soon as the day came round for her to go to the palace in the
outskirts of the city, again the Minister did not fail to follow
closely on her steps. He observed that she prepared every thing
with greater attention than before and decked herself out with more
costly robes and more glittering gems. But when the minutes passed by
and the beautiful bird still appeared not, her fear waxed stronger
and stronger, and she stood gazing, without taking her eyes off the
sky. At last, and only when it was already late, Cuklaketu came flying
painfully and feebly, and when he had exchanged his bird disguise for
the human form, the traces of the treatment the Minister had given
him were plainly visible in many frightful blisters and scars.

When the Princess saw him in this evil plight, she lifted up her
voice, and wept aloud. But the Prince comforted her with his great
steadfastness under the infliction, only he was obliged to tell her
that both his human body and his bird feathers being thus marred, it
would be impossible for him to come and visit her more. "But," he said,
"the Khan, thy husband, has proved himself to exceed me in his might,
therefore he has won thee from me." So after much leave-taking, they
parted; and Cuklaketu flew away as well as his damaged wings would
carry him.

It was observed that after this the Princess grew much more attached
to her husband, and the Khan rejoiced in the sagacity and faithfulness
of his Minister.

Nor was this the only use the Minister made of his cap, which made him
invisible to gods, men, and dæmons. He was enabled by its means to see
many things that were not rightly conducted, to correct many evils,
punish many offenders who thought to escape justice, and learn many
useful arts.

One day as he was walking with this cap upon his head, he came to a
temple where, the door being closed, a servant of the temple, thinking
himself alone, began disporting himself after the following manner:
First, he took out from under a statue of Buddha a large roll of paper,
on which was painted a donkey. Having spread it out flat on the floor
of the temple, he danced round it five times; and immediately on
completing the fifth turn, he became transformed into a donkey like
the one that was painted on the paper. In this form he pranced about
for some time, and brayed till he was tired, then he got on to the
paper again, on his hind legs, and danced round five times as before,
and immediately he appeared again in his natural form. When at last he
grew tired of the amusement he rolled up his paper, and replaced it
under the image of Buddha, whence he had taken it. He had no sooner
done so than the Minister, under cover of his cap, which made him
invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, possessed himself of the paper
which had such mysterious properties, and betook himself with it to
the dwelling of the beautiful woman and her daughter who sold strong
drink to travellers, who had treated his master and him so shamefully
at the outset of their travels.

When they saw him approach, for he now no longer wore the invisible
cap, they began to fear he had come to bring them retribution, and
they asked him with the best grace they could assume what was his
pleasure. But he, to win their confidence, that he might the better
carry out his scheme, replied,--

"To reward you for your handsome treatment of me and my companion,
therefore am I come." And at the same time he gave them a handful of
gold coin.

And they, recollecting what profit they had derived from his companion
before, and deeming it likely there might be means for turning the
present visit to similar good account, asked him what were his means
for being able to be so lavish of the precious metal.

"Oh, that is easily told," replied the Minister. "It is true I have not
the faculty of spitting gold coin out of my mouth like my companion,
as you doubtless remember, but I have another way, equally efficacious,
of coming into possession of all the money I can possibly desire."

"And what may that way be?" inquired mother and daughter together in
their eagerness.

"I have only to spread out this roll of paper on the ground," and he
showed them the roll that he had taken from under the image of Buddha
in the temple, "and dance five times round it, and immediately I find
myself in possession of as much gold as I can carry."

"What a treasure to possess is that same roll of paper," cried the
women, and they exchanged looks expressing the determination each
had immediately conceived, of possessing themselves of it.

"But now," proceeded the Minister, not appearing to heed their mutual
signs, though inwardly rejoicing that they had shown themselves so
ready to fall into his snare," but now pour me out to drink, for I
am weary with the journey, and thirsty, and your drink I remember
is excellent."

The women, on their part, were equally rejoiced that he had given them
the opportunity of plying him, and did not wait to be asked twice. The
Minister continued to drink, and the women to pour out drink to him,
till he was in a state of complete unconsciousness.

They no sooner found him arrived at this helpless condition than they
took possession of the mysterious roll, and forthwith spreading it
out on the ground, proceeded to dance round it five times after the
manner prescribed.

When the Minister came to himself, therefore, he found his scheme
had fully taken effect, and the woman and her daughter were standing
heavy and chapfallen in the form of two asses. The Minister put a
bridle in their mouth, and led them off to the Khan, saying,--

"These, O Khan, are the women who sell strong drink to travellers,
and who entreated us so shamefully at the time when having slain
the dragons we went forth on our travels. I have transformed them
by my art into two asses. Now, therefore, shall there not be given
them burdens of wood, and burdens of stone to carry, heavy burdens,
so that they may be punished for their naughtiness?"

And the Khan gave orders that it should be done as he had said. But
when at the end of five years, they were well weighed down with the
heavy burdens, and the Khan saw them wearied and trembling, and human
tears running down from their eyes, he called the Minister to him,
and said,--

"Take these women, and do them no more harm, for their punishment
is enough."

So the Minister fetched the paper, and having spread it out on the
ground, placed the women on it, making them stand on their hind legs,
and led them round it five several times till they resumed their
natural form. But with the treatment they had undergone, both were
now so bowed, and shrunk, and withered, that no one could know them
for the beautiful women they had been.



"As well might he have left them under the form of asses, as restore
their own shape in such evil plight," here exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,--

"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
second chapter, concerning the deeds of the Gold-spitting Prince and
his Minister.



TALE III.


When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that once again he had
missed the end and object of his labour, he set out anew without
loss of time and without hesitation, and journeyed through toil and
terror till he came to the cool grove where rested the bodies of the
dead. The Siddhî-kür at his approach ran away before his face, and
clambered up the mango-tree; but when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan
had threatened to fell it, the Siddhî-kür came down to him rather
than that he should destroy the precious mango-tree. Then he bound
him in his bag and laded him on to his shoulder, and bore him away
to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una.

But after they had journeyed many days and spoken nothing, the
Siddhî-kür said, "See, we are like to die of weariness if we go
on journeying thus day by day without conversing. Tell now thou,
therefore, a tale to relieve the weariness of the way."

The Well-and-wise-walking Khan, however, mindful of the word of his
Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, saying, "See thou speak never a word
by the way," answered him nothing, neither spake at all.

Then said the Siddhî-kür, "If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least
give me some token by which I may know that thou willest I should
tell one, and without speaking, nod thy head backwards towards me,
and I will tell a tale."

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the
Siddhî-kür told this tale saying,--



HOW THE SCHIMNU-KHAN WAS SLAIN.

Long ages ago there lived on the banks of a mighty river a man who
had no wife, and no family, and no possessions, but only one cow; and
when he mourned because he had no children, and his cow had no calf,
and that he had no milk and no butter to live upon, his cow one day
gave birth, not to a calf, but to a monster, which seemed only to be
sent to mock him in his misery and distress; for while it had the head,
and horns, and long tail of a bull, it had the body of a man. Never was
such an ugly monster seen, and when the poor man considered it he said,
"What shall I now do with this monster? It is not good for him to live;
I will fetch my bow and arrows, and will make an end of him." But
when he had strung his bow and fixed his arrow, Massang of the bull's
head, seeing what he was going to do, cried out, "Master, slay me not;
and doubt not but that your clemency shall have its reward."

At these words the poor man was moved to clemency, and he put up his
arrows again, and let Massang live, but he turned away his face from
beholding him. When Massang saw that his master could not look upon
him, he turned him and fled into the woods, and wandered on till he
came to a place where was a black-coloured man sitting at the foot
of a tree. Seeing him, Massang said, "Who and whence art thou?"

And the black-coloured man made answer, "I am a full-grown man of
good understanding, born of the dark woods."

And Massang said, "Whither goest thou? I will go with thee and be
thy companion."

And the black-coloured man got up, and they wandered on together
till they came to a place in the open meadow, where they saw a
green-coloured man sitting on the grass. Seeing him, Massang said,
"Who and whence art thou?"

And the green-coloured man replied, "I am a full-grown man of good
understanding, born of the green meadows; take me with you too,
and I will be your companion."

And he wandered on with the other two, Massang and the black-coloured
man, till they came to a place where was a white-coloured man sitting
on a crystal rock. Seeing him, Massang said, "Who and whence art thou?"

And the white-coloured man replied, "I am a full-grown man of good
understanding, born of the crystal rock; take me with you, and let
me be your companion."

And he wandered on with the other three, Massang, and the
black-coloured man, and the green-coloured man, till they came to a
stream flowing between barren sandy banks; and farther along was a
grass-clad hill with a little dwelling on the top. Of this dwelling
they took possession, and inside it they found provisions of every
kind; and in the yard cattle and all that was required to maintain
life. Here, therefore, they dwelt; three of them going out every day
to hunt, and one staying at home to keep guard over the place.

Now the first day, Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the
white-coloured man and the green-coloured man; the black-coloured
man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to
prepare the dinner. He had made the butter, and sat with the milk
simmering, cooking the meat (1), when he heard a rustling sound as of
one approaching stealthily. Looking round to discover who came there,
he saw a little old woman not more than a span high, carrying a bundle
no bigger than an apple on her back, coming up a ladder she had set
ready for herself, without asking leave or making any sort of ceremony.

"Lackaday!" cried the little old woman, speaking to herself,
"methinks I see a youngster cooking good food." But to him she said
in a commanding tone, "Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk
and meat to taste."

Though she was so small, she wore such a weird, uncanny air that the
black-coloured man, though he had boasted of being a full-grown man
of good understanding, durst not say her "Nay;" though he contented
himself with keeping to the letter of her behest, and only gave her
the smallest possible morsel of the food he had prepared, only just
enough, as she had said, "to taste." But lo and behold! no sooner had
she put the morsel to her lips than the whole portion disappeared,
meat, milk, pot and all; and, more marvellous still, the little old
wife had disappeared with them.

Ashamed at finding himself thus overmatched by such a little old
wench, he reasoned with himself that he must invent something to
tell his companions which should have a more imposing sound than
the sorry story of what had actually occurred. Turning over all his
belongings to help himself to an idea, he found two horse's-hoofs,
and with these he made the marks as of many horsemen all round the
dwelling, and then shot his own arrow into the middle of the yard.

He had hardly finished these preparations when his companions came
home from the hunt.

"Where is our meal?" inquired they. "Where is the butter you were to
have made, and the meat you were to have cooked?"

"Scarcely had I made all ready," replied the black-coloured man,
"than a hundred strange men, on a hundred wild horses, came tearing
through the place; and what could I do to withstand a hundred? Thus
they have taken all the butter, and milk, and meat, and me they beat
and bound, so that I have had enough to do to set myself free, and
scarcely can I move from the effect of their blows. Go out now and
see for yourselves."

So they went out; and when they saw the marks of the horses'-hoofs
all round the dwelling, and the arrow shot into the middle of the
courtyard, they said, "He hath spoken true things."

The next day Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the
black-coloured man and the white-coloured man. The green-coloured man
being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the
dinner; and it was no sooner ready than the little old wife came in,
as she had done the day before, and played the same game.

"This is doubtless how it fell out with the black-coloured man,"
said he to himself, as soon as she was gone; "but neither can I own
that I was matched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the
same story about the horsemen. I know what I will do: I will fetch
up a yoke of oxen, and make them tramp about the place, and when the
others come home, I will say some men came by with a herd of cattle,
and, overpowering me, carried off the victuals." All this he did;
and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks
the oxen had made in tramping up the soil, they said, "He hath spoken
true things."

The day after, Massang went hunting, and took with him the
black-coloured man and the green-coloured man. The white-coloured
man being left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare
the dinner. Nor was it long before the same little old woman who had
visited his companions made her appearance; and soon she had made an
end of all the provisions. "This is doubtless how it fell out with
the green-coloured man yesterday, and the black-coloured man the
day before," said the white-coloured man to himself; "but neither
can I own any more than they that I was overmatched by such a little
old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story as they." So he fetched
a mule in from the field, and made it trot all round the dwelling,
that when his companions came in he might tell them that a party of
merchants had been by, with a file of mules carrying their packs of
merchandize, who had held him bound, and eaten up the provisions.

All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for
themselves the marks of the mule-hoofs all round the dwelling, they
said, "He hath spoken true things."

The next day it was Massang's turn to stay at home, nor did he neglect
the duty which fell upon him of cooking the food against the return
of the rest. As he sat thus occupied, up came the little old woman,
as on all the other days.

"Lackaday!" she exclaimed, as she set eyes on him. "Methinks I
see a youngster cooking good food!" And to him she cried, in her
imperious tone, "Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and
meat to taste."

When Massang saw her, he said within himself, "Surely now this is she
who hath appeared to the other three; and when they said that strangers
had broken in, and overpowered them, and stolen the food, was it not
that she is a witch-woman and enchanted it away. She only asks to taste
it; but if I do her bidding, who knows what may follow?" So he observed
her, that he might discover what way there was of over-matching her;
thus he espied her bundle, and bethought him it contained the means
of her witcheries. To possess himself of it he had first to devise
the means of getting her to go an errand, and leave it behind her.

"Belike you could help me to some fresh water, good wife," he said,
in a simple, coaxing tone; and she, thinking to serve her purpose by
keeping on good terms with him, replied,--

"That can I; but give me wherewithal to fetch it."

To keep her longer absent, he gave her a pail with a hole in it,
with which she went out. Looking after her, he saw that she made
her way straight up to the clouds, and squeezed one into her pail,
but no sooner was it poured in, than it ran out again. Meantime, he
possessed himself of her bundle, and turned it over; withal it was
not so big as an apple, it contained many things: a hank of catgut,
which he exchanged for a hank of hempen cord; an iron hammer, which
he exchanged for a wooden mallet; and a pair of iron pincers, which
he exchanged for wooden ones.

He had hardly tied up the bundle again, when the old woman came back,
very angry with the trick that had been played upon her with the
leaking pail, and exclaiming, "How shall water be brought in a pail
where there is a hole?" Then she added further, and in a yet angrier
key, "If thou wilt not give me to taste of thy food, beware! for then
all that thou hast becomes mine." And when she found that he heeded
her not, but went on with what he was doing, just as if she had not
spoken, she cried out, furiously,--

"If we are not to be on good terms, we must e'en match our strength;
if we are not to have peace, we must have war; if I may not eat with
you, I will fight you."

"That I am ready for," answered Massang, as one sure of an easy
victory.

"Not so confident!" replied the old one. "Though I am small and thou
so big, yet have I overcome mightier ones than thou."

"In what shall we match our strength?" said Massang, not heeding
her banter.

"We will have three trials," replied the old one; "the cord proof,
the hammer proof, and the pincers proof. And first the cord proof. I
will first bind thee, and if thou canst burst my bonds, well; then
thou shalt also bind me."

Then Massang saw that he had done well to possess himself of her
instruments, but he gave assent to her mode of proof, and let her
bind him as tight as ever she would; but as she had only the hempen
cord to bind him with, which he had put in her bundle in place of
the catgut, he broke it easily with his strength, and set himself
free again. Then he bound her with the catgut, so that she was not
able by any means to unloose herself.

"True, herein thou hast conquered," she owned, as she lay bound and
unable to move, "but now we will have the pincers proof." And as he
had promised to wage three trials with her, he set her free.

Then with her pincers she took him by the breast; but, as he had
changed her iron pincers for the wooden ones, he hardly felt the
pinch, and she did him no harm. But when, with her iron pincers, he
seized her, she writhed and struggled so that he pulled out a piece
of flesh as big as an earthen pot, and she cried out in great pain.--

"Of a truth thou art a formidable fellow, but now we will have the
hammer proof," and she made Massang lie down; but when she would
have given him a powerful blow on the chest with her iron hammer,
the handle of the wooden mallet Massang had given her in its stead
broke short off, and she was not able to hurt him. But Massang made
her iron hammer glowing hot in the fire, and belaboured her both on
the head and body so that she was glad to escape at the top of her
speed and howling wildly.

As she flew past, Massang's three companions came in from hunting
and said, "Surely now you have had a trial to endure." And Massang
answered,--

"Of a truth you are miserable fellows all, and moreover have
spoken that which is not true. Was it like men to let yourselves
be overmatched by a little old wife? But now I have tamed her, let
be. Let us go and seek for her corpse; maybe we shall find treasure
in the place where she lays it."

When they heard him speak of treasure they willingly went out after
him, and, following the track of blood which had fallen from the
witch-woman's wounds as she went along, they came to a place where
was an awful cleft in a mighty rock, and peeping through they saw, far
below, the bloody body of the old witch-woman, lying on a heap of gold
and jewels and shining adamant armour and countless precious things.

Then Massang said, "Shall you three go down and hand me up the spoil
by means of a rope of which I will hold the end, or shall I go down
and hand it up to you?"

But they three all made answer together, "This woman is manifestly
none other but a Schimnu (2). We dare not go near her. Go you down."

So Massang let himself down by the rope, and sent up the spoil by the
same means to his companions, who when they had possession of it said
thus to one another,--

"If we draw Massang up again, we cannot deny in verity that the spoil
is his, as he has won it in every way, but if we leave him down below
it becomes ours." So they left him below, and when he looked that
they should have hauled him up they gave never a sign or sound. When
he saw that, he said thus to himself, "My three companions have left
me here that they may enjoy the spoil alone. For me nothing is left
but to die!"

But as it grieved him so to die in his health and strength, he cast
about him to see whether in all that cave which had been so full
of valuables there was not something stored that was good for food,
yet found he nothing save three cherry-stones.

So he took the cherry-stones and planted them in the earth, saying,
"If I be truly Massang, may these be three full-grown cherry-trees by
the time I wake; but if not, then let me die the death." And with that
he laid him down to sleep with the body of the Schimnu for a pillow.

Being thus defiled by contact with the corpse, he slept for many
years. When at last he woke, he found that three cherry-trees had
sprung up from the seeds he planted and now reached to the top of
the rock. Rejoicing greatly therefore, he climbed up by their means
and reached the earth.

First he bent his steps to his late dwelling, to look for his
companions, but it was deserted, and no one lived therein. So, taking
his iron bow and his arrows, he journeyed farther.

Presently he came to a place where there were three fine houses,
with gardens and fields and cattle and all that could be desired by
the heart of man. These were the houses which his three companions
had built for themselves out of the spoil of the cave. And when he
would have gone in, their wives said--for they had taken to them wives
also--"Thy companions are not here; they are gone out hunting." So he
took up his iron bow and his arrows again, and went on to seek them,
and as he went by the way he saw them coming towards him with the
game they had taken with their bows. Then he strung his iron bow and
would have shot at them; but they, falling down before him, cried out,
"Slay us not. Only let us live, and behold our houses, and our wives,
and our cattle, and all that we have is in thine hand, to do with it
as it seemeth good to thee."

Then he put up his arrows again, and said to them only these words,
"In truth, friends, ye dealt evilly with me in that ye left me to
perish in the cave."

But they, owning their fault, again begged him that he would stay with
them and let their house be his house, and they entreated him. But
he would not stay with them, saying,--

"A promise is upon me, which I made when my master would have killed
me and I entreated him to spare my life, for I said to him that I
would repay his clemency to him if he spared me. Now, therefore,
let me go that I may seek him out."

Then, when they heard those words, they let him go, and he journeyed
on farther to find out his master.

One day of his journey, as he was wearied with walking, he sat down
towards evening by the side of a well, and as he sat an enchantingly
beautiful maiden came towards the well as if to draw water, and as
she came along he saw with astonishment that at every footstep as she
lifted up her feet a fragrant flower sprang up out of the ground (3),
one after another wherever she touched the ground. Massang stretched
out his hand to offer to draw water for her, but she stopped not at
the fountain but passed on, and Massang, in awe at her beauty and
power, durst not speak to her, but rose up and followed behind her
the whole way she went.

On went the maiden, and ever on followed Massang, over burning plain
and through fearful forest, past the sources of mighty rivers and over
the snow-clad peaks of the everlasting mountains (4), till they reached
the dwelling of the gods and the footstool of dread Churmusta (5).

Then spoke Churmusta,--

"That thou art come hither is good. Every day now we have to sustain
the fight with the black Schimnu; to-morrow thou shalt be spectator
of the fray, and the next day thou shall take part in it."

The next day Massang stood at the foot of Churmusta's throne, and
the gods waited around in silence. Massang saw a great herd as of
black oxen, as it were early in the morning, driven with terror to
the east side by a herd as of white oxen; and again he saw as it
were late in the evening, the herd as of white oxen driven to the
west side by the herd as of black oxen.

Then spoke the great Churmusta,--

"Behold the white oxen are the gods. The black oxen are the
Schimnus. To-morrow, when thou seest the herd as of black oxen driving
back the white, then string thine iron bow, and search out for thy
mark a black ox, bearing a white star on his forehead. Then send
thine arrow through the white star, for he is the Schimnu-Khan.

Thus spoke the dread Churmusta.

The next day Massang stood ready with his bow, and did even as
Churmusta had commanded. With an arrow from his iron bow he pierced
through the white star on the forehead of the black ox, and sent him
away roaring and bellowing with pain.

Then spake the dread Churmusta,--

"Bravely hast thou dealt, and well hast thou deserved of me. Therefore
thou shalt have thy portion with me, and dwell with me for ever."

But Massang answered,--

"Nay, for though I tarried at thy behest to do thy bidding, a promise
is upon me which I made when my master would have taken my life. For
I said, 'Spare me now, and be assured I will repay thy clemency.'"

Then Churmusta commended him, and bid him do even as he had
said. Furthermore he gave him a talisman to preserve him by the way,
and gave him this counsel,--

"Journeying, thou shalt be overcome by sleep, and having through
sleeping forgotten the way, thou shalt arrive at the gate
of the Schimnu-Khan. Then beware that thou think not to save
thyself by flight. Knock, rather, boldly at the door, saying,
'I am a physician.' When they hear that they will bring thee to the
Schimnu-Khan that thou mayest try thine art in drawing out the arrow
from his forehead. Then place thyself as though thou wouldst remove it,
but rather with a firm grasp drive it farther in, so that it enter
his brain, first offering up with thine hand seven barley-corns to
heaven; and after this manner thou shalt kill the Schimnu-Khan."

Thus commanded the dread Churmusta.

Then Massang came down from the footstool of Churmusta and the
dwelling of the gods, and went forth to seek out his master. But
growing weary with the length of the day, and lying down to sleep,
when he woke he had forgotten the direction he had to take, so he
pursued the path which lay before him, and it led him to the portal
of the Schimnu palace.

When he saw it was the Schimnu palace, he would have made good his
escape from its precincts, but remembering the words of Churmusta, he
knocked boldly at the door. Then the Schimnus flocked round him, and
told him he must die unless he could do some service whereby his life
might be redeemed; and Massang made answer, "I am a physician." Hearing
that, they took him in to the Schimnu-Khan, that he might pluck the
arrow out of his forehead.

Massang stood before the Schimnu-Khan; but when he should have
pulled out the arrow, he only pulled it out a little way, and the
Schimnu-Khan said,--

"Thus far is the pang diminished."

Then, however, first casting seven barley-corns on high towards heaven,
he plunged it in again even to the centre of his brain, so that he
fell down at his feet dead. And as the seven barley-corns reached
the heavens, there came down by their track an iron chain with a
thundering clang which the dread Churmusta sent down to Massang,
and Massang climbed up by the chain to the dwelling of the gods. But
there stood by the throne of the Schimnu-Khan a female Schimnu, out
of whose mouth came forth forked flames of fire, and when she saw
Massang ascending to heaven by the chain, she raised an iron hammer
high in air to strike it, and cleave it in two. But when she struck
it, there issued seven bright sparks, which floated up to heaven,
and remained fixed in the sky; and men called them the constellation
of the Pleiades.



"Thus, for all his promise, and after all his sacrifices, Massang
never went back to repay his master's clemency!" exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips!" And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift, out of sight.



Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
third chapter, showing how the Schimnu-Khan was slain.



TALE IV.


Then, when he saw he had again missed the end and object of his
journey, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan again set out as at the first,
till with toil and terror he reached the cool grove where lay the
dead. At his approach the Siddhî-kür clambered up into the mango-tree,
but rather than let the tree be destroyed he came down at the word
of the Khan threatening to fell it. Then the Khan bound him in his
bag and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una.

But when they had proceeded many days the Siddhî-kür said, "Tell, now,
a tale, seeing the way is long and weary, and we are like to die of
weariness if we go on thus speaking never a word between us." But the
Khan, mindful of the monition of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una,
answered him nothing. Then said the Siddhî-kür, "If thou wilt not
tell a tale, at least give me the token by which I may know that thou
willest I should tell one."

So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards
him, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,--



THE PIG'S HEAD SOOTHSAYER.

Long ages ago a man and his wife were living on the borders of a
flourishing kingdom. The wife was a good housewife, who occupied
herself with looking after the land and the herds; but the husband
was a dull, idle man, who did nothing but eat, drink, and sleep from
morning to night and from night to morning. One day, when his wife
could no longer endure to see him going on thus indolently, she cried
out to him, "Leave off thus idling thyself; get up and gird thyself
like a man, and seek employment. Behold, thy father's inheritance
is well nigh spent; the time is come that thou find the means to eke
it out."

And when he weakly asked her in return, "Wherein shall I seek to eke
it out?" she answered him, "How should I be able to tell this thing,
but at least get thee up and make some endeavour; get thee up and
look round the place and see what thou canst find," and with that
she went out to her work in the field.

When she had repeated these words many days, he at last went out one
day, and, not taking the trouble to bethink him what he should do,
he did just what his wife had said, and went to look round the place
to see what he could find. As he wandered about, he came to a spot on
which a tribe of cattle-herds had lately been encamped (1), and a fox,
a dog, and a bird were there fighting about something. Approaching
to see for what they contended, they all escaped in fear, and he was
left in possession of their booty, which was a sheep's paunch full
of butter (2). This he brought home and laid up in store. When his
wife came home and asked him whence it was, he told her he had found
it left on the camping-place of a family of herdsmen who had passed
that way seeking pasturage.

"Well it is to be a man!" exclaimed his wife. "I may toil all day
without making so much; but you go but out one day of your whole life
for one moment of time, and straightway you find all this wealth."

When the man heard these words, he took courage and thought he should
be fit to find better fortune still; so he said to his wife, "Give
me now only a good horse and clothes meet, and a dog, and a bow and
arrows, and you shall see what I can do."

The woman was glad to hear him show so much resolution, so she made
haste and gave him all the things that he required, and added a thick
felt cloak to keep out the rain, and a cap for his head, and helped
him to get on his horse, and slung his bow over his shoulder.

Thus he rode out over many a broad plain, but without purpose or
knowledge of whither he went, nor did he fall in with any living
creature whatever for many days. At last, riding over a vast steppe,
he espied at some distance a fox.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, "there is one of my friends of last time. To be
sure, there is no sheep's paunch of butter this time, but if I could
only kill him his skin would make a nice warm cap."

As he had never learnt to draw a bow, his arrows were of no service,
so he set his horse trotting after the fox; but the fox got away faster
than he could follow, and took refuge in the hole of a marmot (3).

"Now I have you!" he cried, and, dismounting from his horse, he took
off all his clothes to have freer use of his limbs and bound them on
his saddle; the dog he tied to the bridle of the horse, and stopped
the mouth of the hole with his cap; then he took a great stone and
endeavoured with heavy blows on the earth to crush the fox.

But the fox, taking fright at the noise, rushed out with such impetus
that it carried off the cap on its head. The dog, seeing it run,
gave chase, and the horse was forced to follow the dog, as they were
both tied together; so off he galloped, carrying on his saddle every
thing the man had in the world, and leaving him stretched on the
ground without a thread of covering.

Getting up, he wandered on to the banks of a river which formed
the boundary of the kingdom of a rich and powerful Khan. Going into
this Khan's stable, he laid himself down under the straw and covered
himself completely, so that no one could see him. Here he was warmed
and well rested.

As he lay there the Khan's beautiful daughter came out to take the
air, and before she went in again she dropped the Khan's talisman and
passed on without perceiving her loss. Though the bauble was precious
in itself for the jewels which adorned it, and precious also to the
Khan for its powers in preserving his life (4), and worthy therefore
to claim a reward, the man was too indolent to get up out of the
straw to pick it up, so he let it lie.

After sunset the Khan's herds came in from grazing, and the cow-wench,
when she had shut them into the stable, swept up the yard without
heeding the talisman, which thus got thrown on to a dung-heap. This
the man saw, but still bestirred him not to recover it.

The next day there was great stir and noise in the place; the Khan
sent out messengers into every district far and near to say that
the Khan's beautiful daughter had lost his talisman, and promising
rewards to whoso should restore it.

After this too, he ordered the great trumpet, which was only blown on
occasion of promulgating the laws of the kingdom, to be sounded and
proclamation to be made, calling on all the wise men and soothsayers
of the kingdom to exercise their cunning art, and divine the place
where the talisman should lay concealed.

All this the man heard as he lay under the straw, but yet he bestirred
him not. Early in the morning, however, men came to litter the
place for the kine with fresh straw; and these men, finding him,
bid him turn out. Now that it became a necessity to stir himself,
he bethought him of the talisman; and when the men asked him whence
he was, he answered "I am a soothsayer come to divine the place where
lies the Khan's talisman."

Hearing that, they told him to come along to the Khan. "But I have no
clothes," replied the man. So they went and told the Khan, saying,
"Here is a soothsayer lying in the straw of the stable, who is come
to divine where the Khan's talisman lies hid, but he cannot appear
before the Khan because he has no clothes."

"Take this apparel to him," said the Khan, "and bring him hither
to me."

When he came before the Khan, the Khan asked him what he required to
perform his divination.

"Let there be given me," answered the man, "a pig's head, a piece
of silk stuff woven of five colours, (5) and a large Baling (6);
these are the things which I require for the divination."

All these things being given him, he set up the pig's head on a
pedestal of wood, and adorned it with the silk stuff woven of five
colours, and put the Baling-cake in its mouth. Then he sat down over
against it, as if sunk in earnest contemplation. Then on the day which
had been named in the Khan's proclamation for the day of divination,
which was the third day, all the people being assembled, assuming the
air of a diviner of dreams, he wrapped himself in a long mantle, and
made as though he was questioning the pig's head. As all the people
passed, he seemed to gain the answer from the pig's head,--

"The talisman is not with this one," and "The talisman is not with
that one," so that he had many people on his side glad to be thus
pronounced free from all charge of harbouring the Khan's talisman.

At last he made a sign that this kind of divination was ended; and
pronounced that the Khan's talisman was not in possession of any man.

"And now," said he, "let us try the divination of the earth." With
that, he set out to make a circuit of the Khan's dwelling. Stepping on
and on from place to place, he continued to seem consulting the pig's
head, till he came to the place in the yard where the dung-heap was;
and here, assuming an imposing attitude, he turned round, and said
mysteriously, "Here somewhere must be found the Khan's talisman." But
when he had turned the heap over, and brought the talisman itself to
light, the people knew not how to contain themselves for wonderment,
and went about crying,--

"The Pig's head diviner hath divined wonderful things! The Pig's head
diviner hath divined wonderful things!"

But the Khan called to him, and said,--

"Tell me how I shall reward thee for that thou hast restored my
talisman to me."

But he, who did not exert himself to think of any thing but just of
what was most present to his mind, answered,--

"Let there be given me, O Khan, the raiment, and the horse, the fox,
the dog, and the bow and arrows which I have lost."

When the Khan heard him ask for nothing save his horse and dog,
and raiment, and a fox, and bows and arrows, he said,--

"Of a truth this is a singular soothsayer. Nevertheless, let there
be given him over and above the things that he hath required of us
two elephants laden with meal and butter."

So they gave him all the things he had required and two elephants
laden with meal and butter to boot. Thus they brought him back unto
his own home.

Seeing him yet afar, his wife came out to meet him, carrying
brandy. She opened her eyes when she saw the two elephants laden
with butter and meal; but knowing that he loved to be left at ease,
forbore to question him that night. The next morning she made him
tell her the whole story before they got up; but when she heard what
little demands he had made after rendering the Khan so great a service
as restoring his talisman, she exclaimed,--

"If a man would be called a man, he ought to know better how to use
his opportunities."

And with that she sat to work to write a letter in her husband's name
to the Khan.

The letter was conceived in these words:--

"During the brief moment that thy life-talisman was in my hands, I
well recognized that thou hast a bodily infirmity. It was in order
that I might conjure it from thee that I required at thy hands the
dog and the fox. What reward the Khan is pleased to bestow, this
shall be according to the mind of the Khan."

This letter she took with her own hands to the Khan.

When the Khan had read the letter, he was pleased to think the
soothsayer had undertaken to free him of a malady against which he
could never have made provision himself, as he had no knowledge of
its existence; so he ordered two elephant's-loads of treasure to
be given to the woman, who went back to her husband, and they had
therewith enough to live in ease and plenty.

Now this Khan had had six brethren, and it happened that once they had
gone out to divert themselves, and in a thick wood they saw a most
beautiful maiden playing with a he-goat, whom they stood looking at
till they were tired of standing, for of looking at one so beautiful
they could never be weary.

At last one of them said to her,--

"Whence comest thou, beautiful maiden?"

And she answered him,--

"By following after this he-goat, thus I came hither."

"Will you come with us seven brethren, and be our wife," rejoined
the brother, who had spoken first; and when she willingly agreed they
took her home with them.

But they both were evil Râkshasas (7), who had only come out to find
men whose lives to devour; the male Manggus (8), had taken the form
of a he-goat, and the female Manggus that of a beautiful maiden,
the better to deceive.

When therefore the seven took her home and the goat with her, the
two Manggus had ample scope to carry out their design, and every
year they devoured the life of one of the brothers, till now there
was only the Khan left, and they began to consume the life of him also.

When the ministers saw that all the brothers were dead, and only the
Khan left, they held a council, and they said, "Behold, all the other
Khans are dead, notwithstanding all the means we have at our command,
and despite the arts of all the physicians of this country." Now
there remains no other means for us but to send for the Pig's head
soothsayer who found the Khan's talisman, and get him to restore
the Khan to health." This counsel was found good, and they all said,
"Let us send for the Pig's head soothsayer."

Four men were sent off on horseback to call the Pig's head soothsayer,
who laid all the case before him.

When he heard it he was greatly embarrassed, and knew not what to
answer, but his vacancy passed, with them, for his being immersed in
deep contemplation, and they reverenced him the more. Meantime his
wife bid them put up their horses and stay the night.

In the night-time she asked of him what the men had come about,
and he told her all his embarrassment.

"True, last time you exerted yourself a little and had good luck," she
replied, "but now that you have been sitting here doing nothing, and
looking so stupid all this time, whether you will cut as good a figure,
who shall say? But go you must, seeing the Khan has sent for you."

The next morning he said to the messengers, "In the visions of the
night I have learned even how I may help the Khan, and presently I
will come with you."

Then he enveloped himself in a mantle, laid his hair over the crown
of his head, took a large string of beads in his left hand, bound the
silk stuff woven of five colours round his right arm, and carrying
the pigs' head set out with them.

When he arrived with this strange aspect at the Khan's dwelling
both the Manggus were much alarmed. They thought he must be some
cunning soothsayer who knew all about them; they had heard, too,
of his success in finding the Khan's talisman.

But the man continuing to support his character of soothsayer, ordered
a Baling as big as a man to be brought to the head of the Khan's bed,
and placed the pig's head on top of it, and then sat himself down
over against it, murmuring words of incantation (9).

The Manggus, thinking all these preparations showed that he was a
cunning soothsayer, went away to take counsel together, and the Khan
being thus delivered for the time from their evil arts, his pains
began to yield and he fell into a tranquil sleep. Seeing this his
attendants thought favourably of the cure, and trusting therefore
the more in the soothsayer's powers they left him in entire charge
of the patient. Being thus freed from observation he ventured to
leave his position of apparent absorption in contemplation, and to
take a stolen glance at the Khan. When he saw him in such a deep
sleep a great fear took him, thinking he must be very bad indeed,
and he did all he could to wake him, crying aloud,--

"O great Khan! O mighty Khan!"

Finding that the Khan remained speechless he thought he must be dead,
and resolved that his best part was to run away. This was not so easy,
for the first open door he found to take refuge in was that of the
Treasury, and the guard called out "Stop thief!" and when from thence
he tried to bestow himself in the store-chamber, the guard sang out
"Stop thief!" At last he went into the stable, to hide himself there,
but close by the door-way stood the he-goat, whom he feared to pass,
lest he should goad him with his horns. However, summoning up all
his courage, he got behind him, and sprang on his back, and gave
him three blows on his head; but instantly, even as the blue smoke
column is carried in a straight direction by the wind, so sped the
he-goat straight off to the Khanin leaving his rider stretched upon
the ground. As soon as he had got up again he ran after the he-goat,
to see whither he went so fast; following him, he came to the door
of the Khanin's apartment, and heard the he-goat talking to her
within. The two Manggus spoke thus:--

"The Pig's head soothsayer is a soothsayer indeed," said the he-goat;
"he divined that I was in the stable, and he came there after me,
and sprang upon my back, giving me three mighty blows, by which I
know the weight of his arm. The best thing we can do is to make good
our escape."

The Khanin made answer, "I, also, am of the same mind. I saw when
he first came in that he recognized us for what we are. We have had
good fortune hitherto, but it has forsaken us now; it were better
we got away. I know what he will do; in a day or two, when he has
cured the Khan by not letting us approach him to devour his life,
he will assemble together all the men of the place with their arms,
and all the women, telling them to bring each a faggot of wood for
burning. When all are assembled he will say, 'Let that he-goat be
brought to me,' so they will bind thee and take thee before him. Then
will he say to thee, 'Lay aside thine assumed form,' and it will be
impossible for thee not to obey. When he has shown thee thus in thine
own shape they will all fall upon thee, and put thee to death with
swords and arrows, and burn thee in the fire. And afterwards with me
will he deal after the same manner. Now, therefore, to-morrow or the
next day we will be beforehand with him, and will go where we shall
be safe from his designs."

When the man heard all this, he left off from following the goat,
and went back with good courage, to take up his place again over
against the pig's head by the side of the Khan's couch.

In the morning the Khan woke, refreshed with his slumber; and when
they inquired how he felt, the Khan replied that the soothsayer's
power had diminished the force of the malady.

"If this be even so," here interposed the soothsayer, "and if the Khan
has confidence in the word of his servant, command now thy ministers
that they call together all thy subjects--the men with their arms,
and the women each with a faggot of wood for burning." Then the Khan
ordered that it should be done according to his word. When they were
all assembled, the pretended soothsayer, having set up his pig's
head, commanded further that they should bring the he-goat out of
the stable before him; and when they had bound him and brought him,
that they should put his saddle on him. Then he sprang on to his back,
and gave him three blows with all his strength, and dismounted. Then
with all the power of voice he could command, he cried out to him,
"Lay aside thine assumed form!"

At these words the he-goat was changed before the eyes of all present
into a horrible Manggus, deformed and hideous to behold. With swords
and sticks, lances and stones, the whole people fell upon him, and
disabled him, and then burnt him with fire till he was dead.

Then said the soothsayer, "Now, bring hither the Khanin." So they
went and dragged down the Khanin to the place where he stood, with
yelling and cries of contempt.

With one hand on the pig's head, as if taking his authority from it,
the soothsayer cried out to her, in a commanding voice,--

"Resume thine own form!"

Then she too became a frightful Manggus, and they put her to death
like the other.

The soothsayer now rode back to the Khan's palace, all the people
making obeisance to him as he went along--some crying, "Hail!" some
strewing the way with barley, and some bringing him rich offerings. It
took him nearly the space of a day to make his way through such
a throng.

When at last he arrived, the Khan received him with a grateful welcome,
and asked him what present he desired of him. The soothsayer answered,
with his usual simplicity, "In our part of the country we have none
of those pieces of wood which I see you put here into the noses of
the oxen: let there be given me a quantity of them to take back with
me." The Khan then ordered there should be given him three sacks of
the pieces of wood for the oxen, and seven elephants laden with meal
and butter to boot.

When he arrived home, his wife came out to meet him with brandy, and
when she saw the seven elephants with their loads, she extolled him
highly; but when she came to learn how great was the deliverance he
had rendered to the Khan, she was indignant that he had not asked for
higher reward, and determined to go the next day herself to the Khan.

The next day she went accordingly, disguised, and sent in a letter
of the following purport to the Khan:--

"Although I, the Pig's head soothsayer, brought the Khan round from
his malady, yet some remains of it still hang about him. It was in
order to remove these that I asked for the pieces of wood for the
oxen; what guerdon has been earned by this further service it is for
the Khan to decide."

Such a letter she sent in to the Khan.

"The man has spoken the truth," said the Khan, on reading the
letter. "For his reward, let him and his wife, his parents and friends,
all come over hither and dwell with me."

When they arrived, the Khan said, "When one has to show his gratitude,
and dismisses him to whom he is indebted with presents, that does not
make an end of the matter. That I was not put to death by the Manggus
is thy doing; that the kingdom was not given over to destruction was
thy doing; that the ministers were not eaten up by the Manggus was thy
doing: it is meet, therefore, that we share between us the inheritance,
even between us two, and reign in perfect equality." With such words
he gave him half his authority over the kingdom, and to all his family
he gave rich fortunes and appointments of state. And thus his wife
became Khanin; so that while he could indulge himself in the same
idle life as before, she also enjoyed rest from her household and
pastoral cares (10).



"Though the woman despised her husband's understanding," exclaimed
the Khan, "yet was it always his doings which brought them wealth
after all!"

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips. "And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE V.


When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his journey, without hesitation or loss of
time he once more betook himself to the cool grove, and summoned the
Siddhî-kür to come with him, threatening to hew down the mango-tree.

But as he bore him along, bound in his bag of many colours, in which
was place to stow away an hundred, the Siddhî-kür spoke thus, saying,
"Tell thou now a tale to beguile the weariness of the way." But
the Well-and-wise-walking Khan answered him nothing. Then said the
Siddhî-kür again, "If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give the
token that I may know thou willest I should tell one."

So the Khan nodded his head backwards and the Siddhî-kür told this
tale, saying,--



HOW THE SERPENT-GODS WERE PROPITIATED.

Long ages ago there reigned over a flourishing province, a Khan named
Kun-snang (1). He had a son named "Sunshine" by his first wife who
afterwards died. He also had a second son named "Moonshine," by his
second wife. Now the second wife thought within herself, "If Sunshine
is allowed to live, there is no chance of Moonshine ever coming to the
throne. Some means must be found of putting Sunshine out of the way."

With this object in view she threw herself down upon her couch and
tossed to and fro as though in an agony of pain. All the night through
also instead of sleeping, she tossed about and writhed with pain. Then
the Khan spake to her, saying, "My beautiful one! what is it that
pains thee, and with what manner of ailment art thou stricken?" And
she made answer,--

"Even when I was at home I suffered oftwhiles after the same manner,
but now is it much more violent; all remedies have I exhausted previous
times, there remains only one when the pain is of this degree, and
that means is not available."

"Say not that it is not available," answered the Khan, "for all
means are available to me. Speak but what it is that is required, and
whatever it be shall be done, even to the renouncing of my kingdom. For
there is nothing that I would not give in exchange for thy life."

But for a long time she made as though she would not tell him, then
finally yielding to his repeated inquiries, she said, "If there were
given me the heart of a Prince, stewed in sesame-oil (2), I should
recover: it matters not whether the heart of Sunshine or of Moonshine,
but that Moonshine being my own son, his heart would not pass through
my throat. This means, O Khan, is manifestly not available, for how
should it be done to take the life of Prince Sunshine? Therefore say
no more, and let me die."

But the Khan answered, "Of a truth it would grieve me to take the
life of Prince Sunshine. Nevertheless, if there be no other means of
saving thy life, the thing must be done. I have not to consider 'Shall
the life of the Prince be spared or not?' but, 'Which shall be spared,
the life of the Prince, or the life of the Khanin?' And in this strait
who could doubt, but that it is the life of the Khanin that must be
spared by me? Therefore, be of good cheer, beautiful one, for that
the heart of Prince Sunshine shall be given thee cooked in sesame-oil."

This, he said, intending in his own mind to have the heart of a kid
of the goats prepared for her in sesame-oil, saying, "Behold, here
is the heart of Prince Sunshine," but to send away the Prince into a
far country that she might not know he was not dead. Only when she was
restored to health again, then he purposed to fetch back his son. But
Moonshine being in his mother's apartments overheard this promise which
the Khan had given, and he ran and told his brother all that the Khan,
his father, had said, saying, "When the Khan rises he will give the
order to put thee to death; how shall this thing be averted?" and he
wept sore, for he loved his brother Sunshine even as his own life.

Then Sunshine answered, saying, "Seeing this is so, remain thou with
our parents, loving and honouring them, and being loved by them. For
me, it is clear the time is come that I must get me away to a far
country. Farewell, my brother!"

But Moonshine answered, "Nay, brother, for if thou goest, I
also go with thee. How should I live alone here, without thee,
my brother?" Therefore they rose quickly before the Khan could
get up, and going privately to a priest in a temple hard by, that
no one else might hear of their design and betray it to the Khan,
they begged of him a good provision of baling-cakes (3), to support
life by the way; and he gave them a good provision, even a bag-full,
and they set out on their journey while it was yet night. It was the
fifteenth of the month, while the moon shed abroad her light, and they
journeyed towards the East, not knowing whither they went. But after
they had journeyed many days over mountain and plain, and come to a
land where was no water, but a muddy river the water whereof could
not be drunk, and where was no habitation of man, Moonshine fell down
fainting by the way. Sunshine therefore ran to the top of a high hill
to see if he could discern any stream of water, but found none. When
he came back Moonshine was dead! Then he fell down on the ground,
and wept a long space upon his body, and at nightfall he buried it
with solicitude under a heap of stones, crying, "Ah! my brother,
how shall I live without thee, my brother?" And he prayed that at
Moonshine's next re-birth (4) they might again live together.

Journeying farther on, he came to a pass between two steep rocks,
and in one of them was a red door. Going up to the door, he found an
ancient Hermit living in a cave within, who addressed him, saying,
"Whence art thou, O youth, who seemest oppressed with recent
grief?" And Sunshine told him all that had befallen him. Without
again speaking the Hermit put into the folds of his girdle a bottle
containing a life-restoring cordial, and going to the spot where
Moonshine lay buried, restored him to life. Then said he to the two
princes, "Live now with me, and be as my two sons." So they lived
with him, and were unto him as his two sons.

The desert where this Hermit lived belonged to the kingdom of a Khan
dazzling in his glory and resistless in might. Now it was about the
season when the Khan and his subjects went every year to direct the
flowing of water over the country for fructifying the grain-seeds;
but it was the custom every year at this season first, in order to
make the Serpent-gods (5) who lived at the water-head propitious,
to sacrifice to them a youth of a certain age; and on this occasion
it fell to the lot of a youth born in the Tiger-year (6). When the
Khan had caused search to be made through all the people no youth was
found among them all born in the Tiger-year. At last certain herdsmen
came before him, saying, "While we were out tending our cattle, behold
we saw in a cave nigh to a pass between two steep rocks a Hermit who
has with him two sons, and one of them born in the Tiger-year."

When the Khan had listened to their word he immediately sent three
envoys to fetch the Hermit's son for the sacrifice (7).

When the three envoys of the Khan had come and stood knocking before
the red door of the Hermit's cave, the Hermit cried out to them,
asking what they wanted of him. Then answered the chief of them,
"Because thou hast a son living with thee born in the Tiger-year, and
the Khan hath need of him for the sacrifice; therefore are we come,
even that we may bring him to the Khan."

When the Hermit had heard their embassage, he answered them, "How
should a Hermit have a son with him out here in the desert?" But he
took Sunshine, who was the youth born in the Tiger-year, and motioned
him into a farther hole of the cave where was a great vessel of
pottery; into this vessel he made him creep, then fastening the
mouth of the vessel with earth, he made it to appear like to a jar of
rice-brandy (8). Meantime, however, the Khan's envoys had broken down
the door, and began searching through every recess of the cave. Finding
nothing, they were filled with fury, and in their anger beat the
Hermit on whose account they had come a bootless errand. But when
Sunshine heard the men ill-treating the Hermit who had been to him
as a father, he could not refrain himself, and called out from within
the brandy-jar, "Unhand my father!" Then the envoys immediately left
off beating his father, but they turned and seized him and carried
him off to the Khan, while the Hermit was left weeping with great
grief at the loss of his adopted son, even as one like to die.

As the envoys dragged Sunshine along before the palace, the Khan's
daughter was looking out of window, and when she heard that the
handsome youth was destined for the Serpent-sacrifice, she was filled
with compassion. She went therefore to the men who had the charge to
throw him into the water, saying, "See how comely he is! He is worthy
to be saved, throw him not into the water. Or else if you will throw
him in, throw me in also with him." Then the men went and showed the
Khan her words; whereupon the king was wroth, and said, "She is not
worthy to be called the Khan's daughter; let them therefore be both
sewn up into one bullock's skin, and so cast into the water." The
men therefore did according to the Khan's bidding, and sewing them
both up in one bullock-hide together, cast them into the water to
the Serpent-gods.

Then began Sunshine to say, "That they should throw me to the
Serpent-gods, because I was the only youth to be found who was born
in the Tiger-year, was not so bad; but that this beautiful maiden,
who hath deigned to lift her eyes on me, and to love me, should be
so sacrificed also, this is unbearable!"

And the Khan's daughter in like manner cried, "That I who am only
a woman should be thrown to the Serpent-gods, is not so bad; but
that this noble and beautiful youth should be so sacrificed also,
this is unbearable!"

When the Serpent-gods heard these laments, and saw how the prince and
the maiden vied with each other in generosity, they sent and fetched
them both out of the water, and gave them freedom. Also as soon as
they were set free, they let the water gently flow over the whole
country, just as the people desired for their rice irrigation.

Meantime, Sunshine said to the Khan's daughter, "Princess, let us each
now return home. Go thou to thy father's palace, while I go back to the
Hermitage, and visit my adopted father, who is like to die of grief
for the loss of me. After I have fulfilled this filial duty, I will
return to thee, and we will live for ever after for each other alone."

The princess then praised his filial love, and bid him go console his
father, only begging him to come to her right soon, for she should
have no joy till he came back.

Sunshine went therefore to the Hermit, whom he found so worn with
grief, that he was but just in time to save him from dying; so having
first washed him with milk and water, he consoled him with many words
of kindness.

The princess, too, went home to the palace, where all were so
astonished at her deliverance that at first she could hardly obtain
admission. When they had made sure it was herself in very truth,
the people all came round her, and congratulated her with joy,
for never had any one before been delivered from the sacrifice to
the Serpent-gods.

Then said the Khan, "That the Khan's daughter should be spared by
the Serpent-gods was to be expected. They have the youth born in the
Tiger-year for their sacrifice."

But the princess answered, "Neither has he fallen sacrifice. Him also
they let free; and indeed was it in great part out of regard for his
abnegation and distress over my suffering that we were both let free."

Then answered the Khan, "In that case is our debt great unto this
youth. Let him be sought after, and besought that he come to visit
us in our palace."

So they went again to the cave in the rocky pass, and fetched Sunshine;
and when he came near, the Khan went out to meet him, and caused
costly seats to be brought, and made him sit down thereon beside him.

Then he said to him, "That thou hast delivered this country from the
fear of drought, is matter for which we owe thee our highest gratitude;
but that thou and this my daughter also have escaped from death is
a marvellous wonder. Tell me now, art thou in very truth the son of
the Hermit?"

"No," replied Sunshine, "I am the son of a mighty Khan; but my
step-mother, seeking to make a difference between me and this my
brother standing beside me, who was her own born son, and to put me
to death, we fled away both together; and thus fleeing we came to
the Hermit, and were taken in by his hospitality."

When the Khan had heard his words, he promised him his daughter
in marriage, and her sister, to be wife to Moonshine. Moreover, he
endowed them with immeasurable riches, and gave them an escort of
four detachments of fighting-men to accompany them home. When they
had arrived near the capital of the kingdom, they sent an embassage
before them to the Khan, saying,--

"We, thy two sons, Sunshine and Moonshine, are returned to thee."

The Khan and the Khanin, who had for many years past quite lost
their reason out of grief for the loss of their children, and held no
more converse with men, were at once restored to sense and animation
at this news, and sent out a large troop of horsemen to meet them,
and conduct them to their palace. Thus the two princes returned in
honour to their home.

When they came in, the Khan was full of joy and glory, sitting on his
throne; but the Khanin, full of remorse and shame at the thought of
the crime she had meditated, fell down dead before their face.



"That wretched woman got the end that she deserved!" exclaimed
the Khan.

"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips," said the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of
this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
fifth chapter, showing how the Serpent-gods were appeased.



TALE VI.


When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his journey, he proceeded once more by the same
manner and means to the cool grove. And, having bound the Siddhî-kür
in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and
Teacher Nâgârg'una.

But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he
would not answer begged for the token of his assent that he should
tell one, which when the Khan had given he told this tale, saying,--



THE TURBULENT SUBJECT.

Long ages ago there lived in a district called Brschiss (1) a haughty,
turbulent man. As he feared no man and obeyed no laws, the Khan of
that country sent to him, saying, "Since thou wilt obey no laws,
thou canst not remain in my country. Get thee gone hence, or else
submit to the laws!"

But the turbulent man chose rather to go forth in exile than submit
to the laws. So he went wandering forth till he came to a vast plain
covered with feather-grass, and a palm-tree standing in the midst,
with a dead horse lying beneath it. Under the shade of the palm-tree
(2) he sat down, saying, "The head of this horse will be useful
for food when my provisions are exhausted." So he bound it into his
waist-scarf and climbed up into the palm-tree to pass the night.

He had scarcely composed himself to sleep when there was a great noise
of shouting and yelling, which woke him up; and behold there came
thither towards the palm-tree, from the southern side of the steppe,
a herd of dæmons, having ox-hide caps on their heads, and riding on
horses covered with ox-hides. Nor had they long settled themselves
before another herd of dæmons came trooping towards the palm-tree
from the northern side of the steppe, and these wore paper caps and
rode on horses wearing paper coverings.

All these dæmons now danced and feasted together with great howling
and shouting. The man looked down upon them from the tree-top full
of terror, but also full of envy at their enjoyment. As he leant
over to watch them, the horse's head tumbled out of his girdle right
into their midst and scattered them in dire alarm in every direction,
not one of them daring to look up to see whence it came. It was not
till the morning light broke, however, that the man ventured to come
down. When he did so, he said, "Last night there was much feasting
and drinking going on here, surely there must be something left from
such a banquet." Searching through the long feather-grass all about,
he discovered a gold goblet full of brandy (3), from which he drank
long draughts, but it continued always full. At last he turned it
down upon the ground, and immediately all manner of meats and cakes
appeared. "This goblet is indeed larder and cellar!" said the man,
and taking it with him he went on his way.

Farther on he met a man brandishing a thick stick as he walked.

"What is your stick good for that you brandish it so proudly?" asked
the turbulent man.

"My stick is so much good that when I say to it, 'Fly, that man has
stolen somewhat of me, fly after him and kill him and bring me back
my goods,' it instantly flies at the man and brings my things back."

"Yours is a good stick, but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of
meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you
exchange your stick against my goblet?"

"That will I gladly," rejoined the traveller.

But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to
the stick, "Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill
him and bring me back my goblet! "Before the words had left his lips
the stick flew through the air, killed the man, and brought back the
goblet. Thus he had both the stick and the goblet.

Farther on he saw a man coming who carried an iron hammer.

"What is your hammer good for?" inquired he as they met.

"My hammer is so good," replied the traveller, "that when I strike
it nine times on the ground immediately there rises up an iron tower
nine storeys high."

"Yours is a good hammer," replied the turbulent man, "but look at my
goblet; whatever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides
for the wishing. Will you change your hammer against my goblet?"

"That will I gladly," replied the wayfarer.

But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to
the stick, "Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and
kill him and bring me back the goblet." The command was executed as
soon as spoken, and the turbulent man thus became possessed of the
hammer as well as the stick and the goblet.

Farther on he saw a man carrying a goat's leather bag.

"What is your bag good for?" inquired he as they met.

"My bag is so good that I have but to shake it and there comes a
shower of rain, but if I shake it hard then it rains in torrents."

"Yours is a good bag," replied the turbulent man, "but see my goblet;
whatsoever you desire of meat or drink it provides you for the
wishing. Will you exchange your bag against my goblet?"

"That will I gladly," answered the traveller.

But no sooner had the turbulent man possession of the bag than he
sent his stick as before to recover the goblet also.

Provided with all these magic articles, he had no fear in returning
to his own country in spite of the prohibition of the Khan. Arrived
there about midnight, he established himself behind the Khan's
palace, and, striking the earth nine times with his iron hammer,
there immediately appeared an iron fortress nine storeys high,
towering far above the palace.

In the morning the Khan said, "Last night I heard 'knock, knock,
knock,' several times. What will it have been?" So the Khanin rose and
looked out and answered him, saying, "Behold, a great iron fortress,
nine storeys high, stands right over against the palace."

"This is some work of that turbulent rebel, I would wager!" replied
the Khan, full of wrath. "And he has brought it to that pass that
we must now measure our strength to the uttermost." Then he rose and
called together all his subjects, and bid them each bring their share
of fuel to a great fire which he kindled all round the iron fortress;
all the smiths, too, he summoned to bring their bellows and blow it,
and thus it was turned into a fearful furnace.

Meantime the turbulent man sat quite unconcerned in the ninth storey
with his mother and his son, occupied with discussing the viands
which the golden goblet provided. When the fire began to reach the
eighth storey, the man's mother caught a little alarm, saying, "Evil
will befall us if this fire which the Khan has kindled round us be
left unchecked." But he answered, "Mother! fear nothing; I have the
means of settling that." Then he drew out his goat's-leather bag,
went with it up to the highest turret of the fortress, and shook it
till the rain flowed and pretty well extinguished the fire; but he
also went on shaking it till the rain fell in such torrents that
presently the whole neighbourhood was inundated, and not only the
embers of the fire but the smiths' bellows were washed away, and
the people and the Khan himself had much ado to escape with their
lives. At last the gushing waters had worked a deep moat round the
fortress, in which the turbulent man dwelt henceforth secure, and
the Khan durst admonish him no more.



"Thus the power of magic prevailed over sovereign might and majesty,"
exclaimed the Khan; and as he uttered these words the Siddhî-kür said,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the sixth chapter,
of how it fell out with the Turbulent Subject.



TALE VII.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his labour, he proceeded again by the same
manner and means to the cool grove, and having bound the Siddhî-kür
in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and
Teacher Nâgârg'una.

But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale; and when he
would not answer, craved the token of his assent that he should tell
one, which when the Khan had given, he told this tale, saying,--



THE WHITE BIRD AND HIS WIFE.

Long ages ago, there lived in a land called Fair-flower-garden,
a man, who had three daughters, who minded his herds of goats (1),
the three alternately.

One day, when it was the turn of the eldest sister to go with them,
she fell asleep during the mid-day heat, and when she awoke, she
found that one of the goats was missing. While she wandered about
seeking it, she came to a place where was a great red door. When she
had opened this, she found behind it, a little farther on, a great
gold door. And when she had opened this, she found farther on another
door all of shining mother-o'-pearl. She opened this, and beyond it
again there was an emerald door, which gave entrance to a splendid
palace full of gold and precious stones, dazzling to behold. Yet in
all the whole palace there was no living thing save one white bird
perched upon a costly table in a cage.

The bird espying the maiden, said to her, "Maiden, how camest thou
hither?" And she replied, "One of my father's goats has escaped
from the flock, and as I dare not go home without it, I have been
seeking it every where; thus came I hither." Then the White Bird said,
"If thou wilt consent to be my wife (2), I will not only tell thee
where the goat is, but restore it to thee. If, however, thou refuse
to render me this service, the goat is lost to thy father's flock
for ever." But the maiden answered, "How can I be thy wife, seeing
thou art a bird? Therefore is my father's goat lost to his flock for
ever." And she went away weeping for sorrow.

The next day, when the second daughter took her turn with the herds,
another goat escaped from the flock; and when she went to seek it, she
also came to the strange palace and the white bird; but neither could
she enter into his idea of her becoming his wife; and she therefore
came home, sorrowing over the loss to the herd under her care.

The day following, the youngest daughter went forth with the goats,
and a goat also strayed from her. But she, when she had come to the
palace, and the white bird asked her to become his wife, with the
promise of restoring her goat in case of her consent, answered him, "As
a rule, creatures of the male gender keep their promises; therefore,
O bird! I accept thy conditions." Thus she agreed to become his wife.

One day there was to be a great gathering, lasting thirteen days, in
a temple in the neighbourhood. And when all the people were assembled
together, it was found that it was just this woman, the wife of the
white bird, who was more comely than all the other women. And among
the men there was a mighty rider, mounted on a dappled grey horse,
who was so far superior to all the rest, that when he had trotted
thrice round the assembly and ridden away again, they could not cease
talking of his grace and comeliness, and his mastery of his steed.

When the wife came back home again to the palace in the rock, the
white bird said to her, "Among all the men and women at the festival,
who was regarded to have given the proofs of superiority?" And she
answered, "Among the men, it was one riding on a dappled grey horse;
and among the women, it was I." Thus it happened every day of the
festival, neither was there any, of men or women, that could compete
with these two.

On the twelfth day, when the woman that was married to the white
bird went again to the festival, she had for her next neighbour an
ancient woman, who asked her how it had befallen the other days of
the feast; and she told her, saying, "Among all the women none has
overmatched me; but among the men, there is none to compare with the
mighty rider on the dappled grey horse. If I could but have such a
man for my husband, there would be nothing left to wish for all the
days of my life!" Then said the ancient woman, "And why shouldst
thou not have such a man for thy husband?" But she began to weep,
and said, "Because I have already promised to be the wife of a white
bird." "That is just right!" answered the ancient woman. "Behold,
to-morrow is the thirteenth day of the assembly; but come not thou to
the feast, only make as though thou wert going: hide thyself behind the
emerald door. When thou seemest to be gone, the white bird will leave
his perch, and assuming his man's form, will go into the stable, and
saddle his dappled grey steed, and ride to the festival as usual. Then
come thou out of thy hiding-place, and burn his perch, and cage, and
feathers; so will he have henceforth to wear his natural form." Thus
the ancient woman instructed the wife of the white bird.

The next day the woman did all that she had been told, even according
to the words of the ancient woman. But as she longed exceedingly to see
her husband return, she placed herself behind a pillar where she could
see him coming a long way. At last, as the sun began to sink quite red
towards the horizon, she saw him coming on his dapple-grey horse. "How
is this?" he exclaimed, as he espied her. "You got back sooner than I,
then?" And she answered, "Yes, I got home the first." Then inquired he
further, "Where is my perch and cage?" And she made answer, "Those have
I burned in the fire, in order that thou mightest henceforth appear
only in thy natural form." Then he exclaimed, "Knowest thou what thou
hast done? In that cage had I left not my feathers only, but also my
soul (3)!" And when she heard that, she wept sore, and besought him,
saying, "Is there no means of restoration? Behold there is nothing
that I could not endure to recover thy soul." And the man answered,
"There is one only remedy. The gods and dæmons will come to-night to
fetch me, because my soul is gone from me; but I can keep them in
perpetual contest for seven days and seven nights. Thou, meantime,
take this stick, and with it hew and hew on at the mother-o'-pearl
door without stopping or resting day or night. By the close of the
seventh night thou shalt have hewn through the door, and I shall be
free from the gods and dæmons; but, bear in mind, that if thou cease
from hewing for one single instant, or if weariness overtake thee for
one moment, then the gods and dæmons will carry me away with them--away
from thee." Thus he spoke. Then the woman went and fetched little
motes of the feather-grass, and fixed her eyelids open with them,
that she might not be overtaken by slumber; and with the stick that
her husband had given her she set to work, when night fell, to hew
and hew on at the mother-o'-pearl door. Thus she hewed on and on,
nor wearied, seven days and seven nights: only the seventh night,
the motes of grass having fallen out of one of her eyes so that she
could not keep the lid from closing once, in that instant the gods
and dæmons prevailed against her husband, and carried him off.

Inconsolable, she set forth to wander after him, crying, "Ah! my
beloved husband. My husband of the bird form!" Notwithstanding that
she had not slept or left off toiling for seven days and seven nights,
she set out, without stopping to take rest, searching for him every
where in earth and heaven (4).

At last, as she continued walking and crying out, she heard his voice
answering her from the top of a mountain. And when she had toiled up to
the top of the mountain, crying aloud after him, she heard him answer
her from the bottom of a stream. When she came down again to the banks
of the stream, still calling loudly upon him, there she found him by
a sacred Obö, raised to the gods by the wayside (5). He sat there with
a great bundle of old boots upon his back, as many as he could carry.

When they had met, he said to her, "This meeting with thee once
more rejoices my heart. The gods and dæmons have made me their
water-carrier; and in toiling up and down from the river to their
mountain (6) so many times, I have worn out all these pairs of boots."

But she answered, "Tell me, O beloved, what can I do to deliver thee
from this bondage?"

And he answered, "There is only this remedy, O faithful one. Even
that thou return now home, and build another cage like to the one
that was burned, and that having built it, thou woo my soul back
into it. Which when thou hast done, I myself must come back thither,
nor can gods or dæmons withhold me."

So she went back home, and built a cage like to the one that was
burned, and wooed the soul of her husband back into it; and thus
was her husband delivered from the power of the gods and dæmons,
and came back to her to live with her always.



"In truth that was a glorious woman for a wife!" exclaimed the Khan.

"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips," replied the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of
this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
seventh chapter, of how it befell the White Bird and his Wife.



TALE VIII.


When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the
end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again as heretofore
to the cool grove, and having taken captive the Siddhî-kür bore him
along to present to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But by the way
the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak,
craved of him the token that he willed he should tell one; which,
when he had given, he told this tale, saying,--



HOW ÂNANDA THE WOOD-CARVER AND ÂNANDA THE PAINTER STROVE AGAINST
EACH OTHER.

Long ages ago there lived in a kingdom which was called Kun-smon
(1), a Khan named Kun-snang (2). When this Khan departed this life
his son named Chamut Ssakiktschi (3) succeeded to the throne.

In the same kingdom lived a painter named Ânanda (4), and a wood-carver
also named Ânanda. These men were friends of each other apparently,
but jealousy reigned in their hearts.

One day, now, it befell that Ânanda the painter, whom to distinguish
from the other, we will call by his Tibetian name of Kun-dgah instead
of by his Sanskrit name of Ânanda, appeared before the Khan, and spoke
in this wise: "O Khan, thy father, born anew into the kingdom of the
gods, called me thither unto him, and straightway hearing his behest,
I obeyed it." As he spoke he handed to "All-protecting" the Khan,
a forged strip of writing which was conceived after this manner:--

"To my son Chotolo (5) Ssakiktschi!

"When I last parted from thee, I took my flight out of the lower life,
and was born again into the kingdom of the gods (6). Here I have my
abode in plenitude, yea, superabundance of all that I require. Only
one thing is wanting. In order to complete a temple I am building,
I find not one to adorn it cunning in his art like unto Ânanda our
wood-carver. Wherefore, I charge thee, son Chotolo-Ssakiktschi, call
unto thee Ânanda the wood-carver, and send him up hither to me. The
way and means of his coming shall be explained unto thee by Kun-dgah
the painter."

Such was the letter that Kun-dgah the painter, with crafty art,
delivered to Kun-tschong (7), the Khan. Which when the Khan had read
he said to him--"That the Khan, my father, is in truth born anew into
the gods' kingdom is very good."

And forthwith he sent for Ânanda the wood-carver, and spoke thus to
him: "My father, the Khan, is new born into the gods' kingdom, and is
there building a temple. For this purpose he has need of a wood-carver;
but can find none cunning in his art like unto thee. Now, therefore,
he has written unto me to send thee straightway above unto him." With
these words he handed the strip of writing into his hands.

But the Wood-carver when he had read it thought within himself,
"This is indeed contrary to all rule and precedent. Do I not scent
here some craft of Kun-dgah the painter? Nevertheless, shall I not
find a means to provide against his mischievous intent?" Then he
raised his voice, and spoke thus aloud to the Khan:--

"Tell me, O Khan, how shall I a poor Wood-carver attain to the gods'
kingdom?"

"In this," replied the Khan, "shall the Painter instruct thee."

And while the Wood-carver said within himself, "Have I not smelt
thee out, thou crafty one?" the Khan sent and fetched the Painter
into his presence. Then having commanded him to declare the way and
manner of the journey into the gods' kingdom, the Painter answered
in this wise,--

"When thou hast collected all the materials and instruments
appertaining to thy calling, and hast gathered them at thy feet, thou
shalt order a pile of beams of wood well steeped in spirit distilled
from sesame grain to be heaped around thee. Then to the accompaniment
of every solemn-sounding instrument kindle the pile, and rise to the
gods' kingdom borne on obedient clouds of smoke as on a swift charger."

The Wood-carver durst not refuse the behest of the Khan; but obtained
an interval of seven days in order to collect the materials and
instruments of his calling, but also to consider and find out a
means of avenging the astuteness of the Painter. Then he went home,
and told his wife all that had befallen him.

His wife, without hesitating, proposed to him a means of evading while
seeming to fulfil the decree. In a field belonging to him at a short
distance from his house, she caused a large flat stone to be placed,
on which the sacrifice was to be consummated. But under it by night
she had an underground passage made, communicating with the house.

When the eighth day had arrived the Khan rose and said, "This is
the day that the Wood-carver is to go up to my father into the gods'
kingdom."

And all the people were assembled round the pile of wood steeped in
spirit distilled from sesame grain, in the Wood-carver's field. It
was a pile of the height of a man, well heaped up, and in its midst
stood the Wood-carver calm and impassible, while all kinds of musical
instruments sent up their solemn-sounding tones.

When the smoke of the spirit-steeped wood began to rise in concealing
density, the Wood-carver pushed aside the stone with his feet, and
returned to his home by the underground way his wife had had made
for him.

But the Painter, never doubting but that he must have fallen a prey
to the flames, rubbed his hands and pointing with his finger in joy
and triumph to the curling smoke, cried out to the people,--

"Behold the spirit of our brother Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending on
the obedient clouds as on a swift charger to the kingdom of the gods!"

And all the people followed the point of his finger with their eyes
and believing his words, they cried out,--

"Behold the spirit of Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending to adorn the
temple of the gods' kingdom."

And now for the space of a whole month the Wood-carver remained closely
at home letting himself be seen by no one save his wife only. Daily
he washed himself over with milk, and sat in the shade out of the
coloured light of the sun. At the end of the month his wife brought him
a garment of white gauze, with which he covered himself; and he wrote,
he also, a feigned letter, and went up with it to "All-protecting"
the Khan.

As soon as the Khan saw him he cried out,--

"How art thou returned from the gods' kingdom? And how didst thou
leave my father 'All-knowing' the Khan?"

Then Ânanda the wood-carver handed to him the forged letter which he
had prepared, and he caused it to be read aloud before the people in
these words:--

"To my son, Chotolo-Ssakiktschi.

"That thou occupiest thyself without wearying in leading thy people in
the way of prosperity and happiness is well. As regards the erection of
the temple up here, concerning which I wrote thee in my former letter,
Ânanda the wood-carver hath well executed the part we committed to him,
and we charge thee that thou recompense him richly for his labour. But
in order to the entire completion of the same, we stand in need of a
painter to adorn with cunning art the sculpture he hath executed. When
this cometh into thy hands, therefore, send straightway for Kun-dgah
the painter, for there is none other like to him, and let him come
up to us forthwith; according to the same way and manner that thou
heretofore sendedst unto us Ânanda the wood-carver, shall he come."

When the Khan had heard the letter, he rejoiced greatly, and said,
"These are in truth the words of my father, 'All-knowing' the
Khan." And he loaded Ânanda the wood-carver with rich rewards, but
sent and called unto him Kun-dgah the painter.

Kun-dgah the painter came with all haste into the presence of the Khan,
who caused the letter of his father to be read out to him; and he as
he heard it was seized with great fear and trembling; but when he saw
Ânanda the wood-carver standing whole before him, all white from the
milk-washing and clad in the costly garment of gauze as if the light
of the gods' kingdom yet clove to him, he said within himself,--

"Surely the fire hath not burnt him, as I see him before mine eyes,
so neither shall it burn me; and if I refuse to go a worse death will
be allotted me, while if I accept the charge I shall receive rich
rewards like unto Ânanda," So he consented to have his painter's
gear in readiness in seven days, and to go up to the gods' kingdom
by means of the pile burnt with fire.

When the seven days were passed, all the people assembled in the
field of Kun-dgah the painter, and the Khan came in his robes of
state surrounded by the officers of his palace, and the ministers of
the kingdom. The pile was well heaped up of beams of wood steeped in
spirit distilled from sesame grain; in the midst they placed Kun-dgah
the painter, and with the melody of every solemn-sounding instrument
they set fire to the pile. Kun-dgah fortified himself for the torture
by the expectation that soon he would begin to rise on the clouds of
smoke; but when he found that, instead of this, his body sank to the
ground with unendurable pain, he shouted out to the people to come
and release him. But the device whereby he had intended to drown the
cries of the Wood-carver prevailed against him. No one could hear
his voice for the noise of the resounding instruments; and thus he
perished miserably in the flames.



"Truly that bad man was rewarded according to his deserts!" exclaimed
the Prince.

And as he let these words escape him thoughtlessly, the Siddhî-kür
replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Prince hath
opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is
good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE IX.


When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again to the cool
grove, and having in the same manner as heretofore taken captive
the Siddhî-kür, bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher
Nâgârg'una.

But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he
would not speak craved the token that he willed he should tell one,
which when the Prince had given he told this tale, saying,--



FIVE TO ONE.

Long ages ago there lived among the subjects of a great kingdom
six youths who were all boon companions. One was a smith's son, and
one was a wood-carver's son; one was a painter's son, and one was a
doctor's son; one was an accountant's son, and one was a rich man's
son, who had no trade or profession, but plenty of money.

These six determined on taking a journey to find the opportunity of
establishing themselves in life; so they all six set out together,
having taken leave of their friends, and the rich man's son providing
the cost.

When they had journeyed on a long way together without any thing
particular befalling them, as they were beginning to weary of carrying
on the same sort of life day by day, they came to a place where the
waters of six streams met, flowing thither from various directions,
and they said, "All these days we have journeyed together, and none of
us have met with the opportunity of settling or making a living. Let
us now each go forth alone, each one following back the course of one
of these rivers to its source, and see what befalls us then." So each
planted a tree at the head of the stream he chose, and they agreed that
all should meet again at the same spot, and if any failed to appear,
and his tree had withered away, it should be taken as a token that
evil had befallen him, and that then his companions should follow
his river, and search for him and deliver him.

Having come to this agreement, each one went his way.

The rich man's son followed the wanderings of his stream without
falling in with any one till he had reached the very source of the
river-head; here was a meadow skirting a forest, and on the border of
the forest a dwelling. Towards this dwelling the youth directed his
steps. There lived here an ancient man along with his ancient wife,
who when they saw the youth opening the gate cried out to him,--

"Young man! wherefore comest thou hither, and whence comest thou?"

"I come from a far country," answered the youth, "and I am journeying
to find the occasion of settling myself in life; and thus journeying,
my steps have brought me hither."

When the ancient man and his wife saw that he was a comely youth and
well-spoken, they said, "If this is indeed so, it is well that thy
steps have brought thee hither, for we have here a beautiful daughter,
charming in form and delightful in conversation; take her and become
our son."

As they said these words the daughter appeared on the threshold of
the dwelling, and when the youth saw her he said within himself,
"This is no common child of earth, but one of the daughters of the
heavenly gods (1). What better can befall me than that I should marry
her and live here the rest of my days in her company?"

The maiden, too, said to him, "It is well, O youth, that thy steps
have brought thee hither." Thus they began conversing together, and
the youth established himself on the spot and lived with his wife in
peace and happiness.

This dwelling, however, was within the dominions of a mighty Khan. One
day, as his minions were disporting themselves in the river, they
found a ring all set with curious jewels, in cunning workmanship,
which the rich youth's wife had dropped while bathing, and the stream
had carried it along to where the Khan's minions were. As the ring
was wonderful to behold, they brought it to the Khan.

The eyes of the Khan, who was a man of understanding, no sooner
lighted on the ring than he turned and said to his attendants,--

"Somewhere on the borders of this stream, and higher up its course,
lives a most beautiful woman, more beautiful than all the wives of
the Khan; go fetch her and bring her to me."

The Khan's attendants set out on their mission, and visited all the
dwellers on the banks of the stream, but they found no woman exceeding
in beauty all the wives of the Khan till they came to the wife of
the rich youth. When they saw her, they had no doubt it must be she
that the Khan had meant. Saying, therefore, "The Khan hath sent for
thee," they carried her off to the palace; but the rich youth followed
mourning, as near as he could approach.

When the Khan saw her, he said, "This is of a truth no child of earth;
she must be the daughter of the heavenly gods. Beside of her all my
other wives are but as dogs and swine," and he took her and placed her
far above them all. But she only wept, and could think of nothing but
the rich youth. When the Khan saw how she wept and thought only of the
rich youth, he said to his courtiers, "Rid me of this fellow." And so,
to please the Khan, they treacherously invited him to a lone place
on the bank of the river, as if to join in some game; but when they
had got him there they thrust him into a hole in the ground, and then
rolled a piece of rock on the top of it, and so put him to death.

In the meantime, the day came round on which the six companions
had agreed to come together at the spot where the six streams met;
and there the five others arrived in due course, but the rich youth
came not; and when they looked at the tree he had planted by the
side of his stream, behold, it had withered away. In accordance with
their promise, therefore, they all set out to follow the course of his
stream and to search him out. But when they had wandered on a long way
and found no trace of him, the accountant's son sat down to reckon,
and by his reckoning he discovered that he must have gone so far into
such a kingdom, and that he must lie buried under a rock. Following
the course of his reckoning, the five soon came upon the spot where
the rich youth lay buried under the rock. But when they saw how big
the rock was, they said, "Who shall suffice to remove the rock and
uncover the body of our companion?"

"That will I!" cried the smith's son, and, taking his hammer, he
broke the rock in pieces and brought to light the body of the rich
youth. When his companions saw him they were filled with compassion
and cried aloud, "Who shall give back to us our friend, the companion
of our youth?"

"That will I!" cried the doctor's son, and he mixed a potion which,
when he had given it to the corpse to drink, gave him power to rise
up as if no harm had ever befallen him.

When they saw him all well again, and free to speak, they every one
came round him, assailing him with manifold questions upon how he
had fallen into this evil plight, and upon all that had happened to
him since they parted. But when he had told them all his story from
beginning to end, they all agreed his wife must have been a wonderful
maiden indeed, and they cried out, "Who shall be able to restore his
wife to our brother?"

"That will I!" cried the wood-carver's son. "And I!" cried the
painter's son.

So the wood-carver's son set to work, and of the log of a tree he
hewed out a Garuda-bird (2), and fashioned it with springs, so that
when a man sat in it he could direct it this way or that whithersoever
he listed to go; and the painter's son adorned it with every pleasant
colour. Thus together they perfected a most beautiful bird.

The rich youth lost no time in placing himself inside the beautiful
garuda-bird, and, touching the spring, flew straight away right over
the royal palace.

The king was in the royal gardens, with all his court about him, and
quickly espied the garuda-bird, and esteemed himself fortunate that
the beautiful garuda-bird, the king of birds, the bearer of Vishnu,
should have deigned to visit his residence; and because he reckoned
no one else was worthy of the office, he appointed the most beautiful
of his wives to go up and offer it food.

Accordingly, the wife of the rich youth herself went up on to the
roof of the palace with food to the royal bird. But the rich youth,
when he saw her approach, opened the door of the wooden garuda and
showed himself to her. Nor did she know how to contain herself for
delight when she found he was therein.

"Never had I dared hope that these eyes should light on thee again,
joy of my heart!" she exclaimed. "How madest thou then the garuda-bird
obedient to thy word to bring thee hither?"

But he, full only of the joy of finding her again, and that she still
loved him as before, could only reply,--

"Though thou reignest now in a palace as the Khan's wife in splendour
and wealth, if thine heart yet belongeth to me thine husband, come
up into the garuda-bird, and we will fly away out of the power of
the Khan for ever."

To which she made answer, "Truly, though I reign now in the palace as
the Khan's wife in splendour and wealth, yet is my heart and my joy
with thee alone, my husband. Of what have my thoughts been filled
all through these days of absence, but of thee only, and for whom
else do I live?"

With that she mounted into the wooden garuda-bird into the arms of
her husband, and full of joy they flew away together.

But the Khan and his court, when they saw what had happened, were
dismayed.

"Because I sent my most beautiful wife to carry food to the
garuda-bird, behold she is taken from me," cried the Khan, and he
threw himself on the ground as if he would have died of grief.

But the rich youth directed the flight of the wooden garuda-bird,
so that it regained the place where his five companions awaited him.

"Have your affairs succeeded?" inquired they, as he descended.

"That they have abundantly," answered the rich youth.

While he spoke, his wife had also descended out of the wooden
garuda-bird, whom when his five companions saw, they were all as madly
smitten in love with her as the Khan himself had been, and they all
began to reason with one another about it.

But the rich youth said, "True it is to you, my dear and faithful
companions, I owe it that by means of what you have done for me,
I have been delivered from the power of cruel death, and still more
that there has been restored to me my wife, who is yet dearer far to
me. For this, my gratitude will not be withheld; but what shall all
this be to me if you now talk of tearing her from mine arms again?"

Upon which the accountant's son stood forward and said, "It is to me
thou owest all. What could these have done for thee without the aid
of my reckoning? They wandered hither and thither and found not the
place of thy burial, until I had reckoned the thing, and told them
whither to go. To me thou owest thy salvation, so give me thy wife
for my guerdon."

But the smith's son stood forward and said, "It is to me thou owest
all. What could all these have done for thee without the aid of mine
arm? It was very well that they should come and find the spot where
thou wert held bound by the rock; but all they could do was to stand
gazing at it. Only the might of my arm shattered it. It is to me thou
owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon."

Then the doctor's son stood forward and said, "It is to me thou owest
all. What could all these have done without the aid of my knowledge? It
was well that they should find thee, and deliver thee from under the
rock; but what would it have availed had not my potion restored thee to
life? It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon."

"Nay!" interposed the wood-carver's son, "nay, but it is to my craft
thou owest all. The woman had never been rescued from the power of the
Khan but by means of my wooden garuda-bird. Behold, are we six unarmed
men able to have laid siege to the Khan's palace? And as no man is
suffered to pass within its portal, never had she been reached, but
by means of my bird. So it is I clearly who have most claim to her."

"Not so!" cried the painter's son. "It is to my art the whole is
due. What would the garuda-bird have availed had I not painted it
divinely? Unless adorned by my art never had the Khan sent his most
beautiful wife to offer it food. To me is due the deliverance, and
to me the prize, therefore."

Thus they all strove together; and as they could not agree which should
have her, and she would go with none of them but only the rich youth,
her husband, they all seized her to gain possession of her, till in
the end she was torn in pieces.



"Then if each one had given her up to the other he would have been no
worse off," cried the Prince. And as he let these words escape him, the
Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking
Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this
world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the ninth chapter,
of the story of Five to One.



TALE X.


When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that the Siddhî-kür had
once more escaped, he went forth yet another time to the cool grove,
and sought him out as before; and having been solicited by him to give
the sign of consent to his telling a tale, the Siddhî-kür commenced
after the following manner:--



THE BITING CORPSE.

Long ages ago, there lived two brothers who had married two
sisters. Nevertheless, from some cause, the hearts of the two
brothers were estranged from each other. Moreover, the elder brother
was exceeding miserly and morose of disposition. The elder brother
also had amassed great riches; but he gave no portion of them unto
his younger brother. One day the elder brother made preparations
for a great feast, and invited to it all the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood. The younger brother said privately to his wife on this
occasion, "Although my brother has never behaved as a brother unto
us, yet surely now that he is going to have such a great gathering
of neighbours and acquaintances, it beseemeth not that he should fail
to invite also his own flesh and blood."

Nevertheless he invited him not. The next day, however, he said again
to his wife, "Though he invited us not yesterday, yet surely this
second day of the feast he will not fail to send and call us."

Nevertheless he invited him not. Yet the third day likewise he expected
that he should have sent and called him; but he invited him not the
third day either. When he saw that he invited him not the third day
either, he grew angry, and said within himself, "Since he has not
invited me, I will even go and steal my portion of the feast."

As soon as it was dark, therefore--when all the people of his brother's
house, having well drunk of the brandy he had provided, were deeply
sunk in slumber,--the younger brother glided stealthily into his
brother's house, and hid himself in the store-chamber. But it was so,
that the elder brother, having himself well drank of the brandy, and
being overcome with sound slumbers (1), his wife supported him along,
and then put herself to sleep with him in the store-chamber. After a
while, however, she rose up again, chose of the best meat and dainties,
cooked them with great care, and went out, taking with her what she
had prepared. When the brother saw this, he was astonished, and,
abandoning for the moment his intention of possessing himself of a
share of the good things, went out, that he might follow his brother's
wife. Behind the house was a steep rock, and on the other side of the
rock a dismal, dreary burying-place. Hither it was that she betook
herself. In the midst of a patch of grass in this burying-place was
a piece of paved floor; on this lay the body of a man, withered and
dried--it was the body of her former husband (2); to him, therefore,
she brought all these good dishes. After kissing and hugging him,
and calling upon him by name, she opened his mouth, and tried to
put the food into it. Then, see! suddenly the dead man's mouth was
jerked to again, breaking the copper spoon in two. And when she had
opened it again, trying once more to feed him, it closed again as
violently as before, this time snapping off the tip of the woman's
nose. After this, she gathered her dishes together, and went home,
and went to bed again. Presently she made as though she had woke up,
with a lamentable cry, and accused her husband of having bitten off
her nose in his sleep. The man declared he had never done any such
thing; but as the woman had to account for the damage to her nose,
she felt bound to go on asseverating that he had done it. The dispute
grew more and more violent between them, and the woman in the morning
took the case before the Khan, accusing her husband of having bitten
off the tip of her nose. As all the neighbours bore witness that
the nose was quite right on the previous night, and the tip was now
certainly bitten off, the Khan had no alternative but to decide in
favour of the woman; and the husband was accordingly condemned to
the stake for the wilful and malicious injury.

Before many hours it reached the ears of the younger brother that
his elder brother had been condemned to the stake; and when he had
heard the whole matter, in spite of his former ill-treatment of him,
he ran forthwith before the Khan, and gave information of how the
woman had really come by the injury, and how that his brother had no
fault in the matter.

Then said the Khan, "That thou shouldst seek to save the life of
thy brother is well; but this story that thou hast brought before
us, who shall believe? Do dead men gnash their teeth and bite the
living? Therefore in that thou hast brought false testimony against the
woman, behold, thou also hast fallen into the jaws of punishment." And
he gave sentence that all that he possessed should be confiscated,
and that he should be a beggar at the gate of his enemies (3), with
his head shorn (4). "Let it be permitted to me to speak again," said
the younger brother, "and I will prove to the Khan the truth of what
I have advanced." And the Khan having given him permission to speak,
he said, "Let the Khan now send to the burying-place on the other side
of the rock, and there in the mouth of the corpse shall be found the
tip of this woman's nose." Then the Khan sent, and found it was even
as he had said. So he ordered both brothers to be set at liberty,
and the woman to be tied to the stake.



"It were well if a Khan had always such good proof to guide his
judgments," exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good,"
he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XI.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again, and
fetched the Siddhî-kür. And as he brought him along, the Siddhî-kür
told this tale:--



THE PRAYER MAKING SUDDENLY RICH.

Long ages ago, there was situated in the midst of a mighty kingdom
a god's temple, exactly one day's journey distant from every part
of the kingdom. Here was a statue of the Chongschim Bodhisattva (1)
wrought in clay. Hard by this temple was the lowly dwelling of an
ancient couple with their only daughter. At the mouth of a stream
which watered the place, was a village where lived a poor man. One
day this man went up as far as the source of the stream to sell his
fruit, which he carried in a basket. On his way home he passed the
night under shelter of the temple. As he lay there on the ground,
he overheard, through the open door of the lowly dwelling, the aged
couple reasoning thus with one another: "Now that we are both old and
well-stricken in years, it were well that we married our only daughter
to some good man," said the father. "Thy words are words of truth,"
replied the mother. "Behold, all that we have in this world is our
daughter and our store of jewels. Have we not all our lives through
offered sacrifice at the shrine of the Chongschim Bodhisattva? have we
not promoted his worship, and spread his renown? shall he not therefore
direct us aright in our doings? To-morrow, which is the eighth day
of the new moon, therefore, we will offer him sacrifice, and inquire
of him what we shall do with our daughter Suvarnadharî (2): whether
we shall devote her to the secular or religious condition of life."

When the man had heard this, he determined what to do. Having found a
way into the temple, he made a hole in the Buddha-image, and placed
himself inside it. Early in the morning, the old man and his wife
came, with their daughter, and offered their sacrifice. Then said the
father, "Divine Chongschim Bodhisattva! let it now be made known to
us, whether is better, that we choose for our daughter the secular
or religious condition of life? And if it be the secular, then show
us to whom we shall give her for a husband."

When he had spoken these words the poor man inside the Buddha-image
crept up near the mouth of the same, and spoke thus in solemn tones:--

"For your daughter the secular state is preferable. Give her for wife
to the man who shall knock at your gate early in the morning."

At these words both the man and his wife fell into great joy,
exclaiming, "Chutuktu (3) hath spoken! Chutuktu hath spoken!"

Having watched well from the earliest dawn that no one should call
before him, the man now knocked at the gate of the old couple. When
the father saw a stranger standing before the door, he cried, "Here
in very truth is he whom Buddha hath sent!" So they entreated him to
come in with great joy; prepared a great feast to entertain him, and,
having given him their daughter in marriage, sent them away with all
their store of gold and precious stones.

As the man drew near his home he said within himself, "I have got all
these things out of the old people, through craft and treachery. Now I
must hide the maiden and the treasure, and invent a new story." Then
he shut up the maiden and the treasure in a wooden box, and buried
it in the sand of the steppe (4).

When he came home he said to all his friends and neighbours, "With
all the labour of my life riches have not been my portion. I must
now undertake certain practices of devotion to appease the dæmons
of hunger; give me alms to enable me to fulfil them." So the people
gave him alms. Then said he the next day, "Now go I to offer up
'the Prayer which makes suddenly rich.'" And again they gave him alms.

While he was thus engaged it befell that a Khan's son went out hunting
with two companions, with their bows and arrows, having with them a
tiger as a pastime to amuse them while journeying. They rode across
the steppe, just over the track which the poor man had followed; and
seeing there the sand heaped up the Prince's attention fell on it,
and he shot an arrow right into the midst of the heap. But the arrow,
instead of striking into the sand, fell down, because it had glanced
against the top of the box.

Then said the Khan's son, "Let us draw near and see how this befell."

So they drew near; and when the servants had dug away the sand they
found the wooden box which the man had buried. The Khan's son then
ordered the servants to open the box; and when they had opened it
they found the maiden and the jewels.

Then said the Khan's son, "Who art thou, beautiful maiden?"

And the maiden answered, "I am the daughter of a serpent-god."

Then said the Khan's son, "Come out of the box, and I will take thee
to be my wife."

But the maiden answered, "I come not out of the box except some other
be put into the same."

To which the Prince replied, "That shall be done," and he commanded
that they put the tiger into the box; but the maiden and the jewels
he took with him.

Meantime the poor man had completed the prayers and the ceremonies
'to make suddenly rich,' and he said, "Now will I go and fetch the
maiden and the treasure." With that he traced his way back over the
steppe to the place where he had buried the box, and dug it out of
the sand, not perceiving that the Prince's servants had taken it up
and buried it again. Then, lading it on to his shoulder, he brought
the same into his inner apartment. But to his wife he said, "To-night
is the last of the ceremony 'for making suddenly rich.' I must shut
myself up in my inner apartment to perform it, and go through it all
alone. What noise soever thou mayst hear, therefore, beware, on thy
peril, that thou open not the door, neither approach it."

This he said, being minded to rid himself of the maiden, who might have
betrayed the real means by which he became possessed of the treasure,
by killing her and hiding her body under the earth.

Then having taken off all his clothes, that they might not be soiled
with the blood he was about to spill, and prepared himself thus to
put the woman to death, he lifted up the lid of the box, saying,
"Maiden, fear nothing!" But on the instant the tiger sprang out upon
him and threw him to the ground. In vain he cried aloud with piteous
cries. All the time that his bare flesh was delivered over to the
teeth and claws of the unpitying tiger his wife and children were
laughing, and saying, "How is our father diligent in offering up
'the Prayer which makes suddenly rich!'"

But when, the next morning, he came not out, all the neighbours came
and opened the door of the inner apartment, and they found only his
bones which the tiger had well cleaned; but having so well satisfied
its appetite, it walked out through their midst without hurting any
of them.

In process of time, however, the maiden whom the Khan's son had
taken to his palace had lived happily with him, and they had a
family of three children; and she was blameless and honoured before
all. Nevertheless, envious people spread the gossip that she had come
no one knew whence; and when they brought the matter before the king's
council it was said, "How shall a Khan's son whose mother was found
in a box under the sand reign over us? And what will be thought of
a Khan's son who has no uncles?"

These things reached the ears of the Khanin, and, fearing lest they
should take her sons from her and put them to death that they might not
reign, she resolved to take them with her and go home to her parents.

On the fifteenth of the month, while the light of the moon shone
abroad, she took her three sons and set out on her way.

When it was about midday she had arrived nigh to the habitation of
her parents; but at a place where formerly all had been waste she
found many labourers at work ploughing the land, directing them was
a noble youth of comely presence. When the youth saw the Khan's wife
coming over the field he asked her whence she came; answering, she
told him she had journeyed from afar to see her parents, who lived by
the temple of Chongschim Bodhisattva on the other side of the mountain.

"And you are their daughter?" pursued the young man.

"Even so; and out of filial regard am I come to visit them," answered
the Khanin.

"Then you are my sister," returned the youth, "for I am their son; and
they have always told me I had an elder sister who was gone afar off."

Then he invited her to partake of his midday meal, and after
they had dined they set out together to find the lowly dwelling
of their parents. But when they had come round to the other side
of the mountain in the place where the lowly habitation had stood,
behold there was now a whole congeries of palaces, each finer than the
residence of the husband of the Khanin! All over they were hung with
floating streamers of gay-coloured silks. The temple of the Chongschim
Bodhisattva itself had been rebuilt with greater magnificence than
before, and was resplendent with gold, and diamonds, and streamers
of silk, and furnished with mellow-toned bells whose sound chimed
far out into the waste.

"To whom does all this magnificence belong?" inquired the Khanin.

"It all belongs to us," replied the youth. "Our parents, too, are
well and happy; come and see them."

As they drew near their parents came out to meet them, looking hale and
hearty and riding on horses. Behind them came a train of attendants
leading horses for the Khanin and her brother. They all returned to
the palace where the parents dwelt, all being furnished with elegance
and luxury. When they had talked over all the events that had befallen
each since they parted, they went to rest on soft couches.

When the Khanin saw the magnificence in which her parents were living
she bethought her that it would be well to invite the Khan to come
and visit them. Accordingly she sent a splendid train of attendants
to ask him to betake himself thither. Soon after, the Khan arrived,
together with his ministers, and they were all of them struck with
the condition of pomp and state in which the Khanin was living,
far exceeding that of the Khan himself, the ministers owned, saying,
"The report we heard, saying that the Khanin had no relations but the
poor and unknown, was manifestly false;" and the Khan was all desire
that she should return home. To this request she gave her cordial
assent, only, as her parents were now well-stricken in years, and it
was not likely she should have the opportunity of seeing them more,
she desired to spend a few days more by their side. It was agreed,
therefore, that the Khan and his ministers should return home, and
that after three days the Khanin also should come and join him.

Having taken affectionate leave of the Khan and seen him depart,
she betook herself to rest on her soft couch.

When she woke in the morning, behold, all the magnificence of the
place was departed! There were no stately palaces; the temple of
the Chongschim Bodhisattva was the same unpretending structure it
had always been of old, only a little more worn down by time and
weather; the lowly habitation of her parents was a shapeless ruin,
and she was lying on the bare ground in one corner of it, with a
heap of broken stones for a pillow. Her parents were dead long ago,
and as for a brother there was no trace of one.

Then she understood that the devas had sent the transformation to
satisfy the Khan and his ministers, and, that done, every thing had
returned to its natural condition.

Grateful for the result, she now returned home, where the Khan received
her with greater fondness than before. The ministers were satisfied
as to the honour of the throne, all the gossips were put to silence
from that day forward, and her three sons were brought up and trained
that they might reign in state after the Khan their father.



"Truly, that was a woman favoured by fortune beyond
expectation!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words
escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the
Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry,
"To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air,
swift out of sight.



Thus far of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
eleventh chapter, concerning "The Prayer making suddenly Rich."



TALE XII.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and
fetched the Siddhî-kür; and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür
told this tale:--



"CHILD-INTELLECT" AND "BRIGHT-INTELLECT."

Long ages ago there lived a Khan who was called Küwôn-ojôtu
(1). He reigned over a country so fruitful that it was surnamed
"Flower-clad." All round its borders grew mango-trees and groves of
sandalwood (2), and vines and fruit-trees, and within there was of
corn of every kind no lack, and copious streams of water, and a mighty
river called "The Golden," with flourishing cities all along its banks.

Among the subjects of this Khan was one named Gegên-uchâtu (3),
renowned for his wit and understanding. For him the Khan sent
one day, and spoke to him, saying, "Men call thee 'him of bright
understanding.' Now let us see whether the name becomes thee. To this
end let us see if thou hast the wit to steal the Khan's talisman,
defying the jealous care of the Khan and all his guards. If thou
succeedest I will recompense thee with presents making glad the
heart; but if not, then I will pronounce thee unworthily named, and
in consequence will lay waste thy dwelling and put out both thine
eyes." Although the man ventured to prefer the remark, "Stealing have
I never learned," yet the Khan maintained the sentence that he had
set forth.

In the night of the fifteenth of the month, therefore, the man made
himself ready to try the venture.

But the king, to make more sure, bound the talisman fast to a marble
pillar of his bed-chamber, against which he lay, and leaving the
door open the better to hear the approach of the thief, surrounded
the same with a strong watch of guards.

Gegên-uchâtu now took good provision of rice-brandy, and going in to
talk as if for pastime with the Khan's guards and servants, gave to
every one of them abundantly to drink thereof, and then went his way.

At the end of an hour he returned, when the rice-brandy had done its
work. The guards before the gate were fast asleep on their horses;
these he carried off their horses and set them astride on a ruined
wall. In the kitchen were the cooks waiting to strike a light to
light the fire: over the head of the one nearest the fire he drew a
cap woven of grass (4), and in the sleeve of the other he put three
stones. Then going softly on into the Khan's apartment, without
waking him, he put over his head and face a dried bladder as hard
as a stone; and the guards that slept around him he tied their hair
together. Then he took down the talisman from the marble pillar to
which it was bound and made off with it. Instantly, the Khan rose
and raised the cry, "A thief has been in here!" But the guards could
not move because their hair was tied together, and cries of "Don't
pull my hair!" drowned the Khan's cries of "Stop thief!" As it was
yet dark the Khan cried, yet more loudly, "Kindle me a light!" And
he cried, further, "Not only is my talisman stolen, but my head is
enclosed in a wall of stone! Bring me light that I may see what it
is made of." When the cook, in his hurry to obey the Khan, began to
blow the fire, the flame caught the cap woven of grass and blazed up
and burnt his head off; and when his fellow raised his arm to help
him put out the fire the three stones, falling from his sleeve, hit
his head and made the blood flow, giving him too much to attend to
for him to be able to pursue the thief. Then the Khan called through
the window to the outer guards, who ought to have been on horseback
before the gate, to stop the thief; and they, waking up at his voice,
began vainly spurring at the ruined wall on which Gegên-uchâtu had set
them astride, and which, of course, brought them no nearer the subject
of their pursuit, who thus made good his escape with the talisman,
no man hindering him, all the way to his own dwelling.

The next day he came and stood before the Khan. The Khan sat on his
throne full of wrath and moody thoughts.

"Let not the Khan be angry," spoke the man of bright understanding,
"here is the talisman, which I sought not to retain for myself,
but only to take possession of according to the word of the Khan."

The Khan, however, answered him, saying, "The talisman is at thy
disposition, nor do I wish to have it back from thee. Nevertheless,
thy dealings this night, in that thou didst draw a stone-like bladder
over the head of the Khan, were evil, for the fear came therefrom upon
me lest thou hadst even pulled off my head; therefore my sentence
upon thee is that thou be taken hence to the place of execution and
be beheaded by the headsman."

Hearing this sentence, Gegên-uchâtu said, within himself, "In this
sentence that he hath passed the Khan hath not acted according to
the dictates of justice." Therefore he took the Khan's talisman in
his hand and dashed it against a stone, and, behold, doing so, the
blood poured out of the nose of the Khan until he died!



"That was a Khan not fit to reign!" exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking
Khan.

And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his
lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XIII.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and
fetched the Siddhî-kür, and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür
told him, according to the former manner, this tale, saying,--



THE FORTUNES OF SHRIKANTHA.

Long ages ago there was a Brahman's son whose name was Shrikantha
(1). This man sold all his inheritance for three pieces of
cloth-stuff. Lading the three pieces of cloth-stuff on to the back of
an ass, he went his way into a far country to trade with the same (2).

As he went along he met a party of boys who had caught a mouse and
were tormenting it. Having tied a string about its neck, they were
dragging it through the water. The Brahman's son could not bear to
see this proceeding and chid the boys, but they refused to listen to
his words. When he found that they would pay no heed to his words,
he bought the mouse of them for one of his pieces of stuff, and
delivered it thus out of their hands.

When he had gone a little farther he met another party of boys who
had caught a young ape (3) and were tormenting it. Because it did not
understand the game they were playing, they hit it with their fists,
and when it implored them to play in a rational manner and not be so
hasty and revengeful, they but hit it again. At the sight the Brahman
was moved with compassion and chid the boys, and when they would not
listen to him he bought it of them for another of his pieces of stuff,
and set it at liberty.

Farther along, in the neighbourhood of a city, he met another party of
boys who had caught a young bear and were tormenting it, riding upon
it like a horse and otherwise teasing it; and when by his chiding he
could not induce them to desist, he bought it of them for his last
piece of stuff, and set it at liberty.

By this means he was left entirely without merchandize to trade
with, and he thought within himself, as he drove his donkey along,
what he should do; and he found in his mind no better remedy than to
steal something out of the palace of the Khan wherewith to commence
trading. Having thus resolved, he tied his donkey fast in the thick
jungle and made his way with precaution into the store-chambers of
the Khan's palace. Here he possessed himself of a good provision of
pieces of silk-stuff, and was well nigh to have escaped with the same
when the Khan's wife, espying him, raised the cry, "This fellow hath
stolen somewhat from the Khan's store-chamber!"

At the cry the people all ran out and stopped Shrikantha and brought
him to the Khan. As he was found with the stuffs he had stolen still
upon him, there was no doubt concerning his guilt, so the Khan ordered
a great coffer to be brought, and that he should be put inside it,
and, with the lid nailed down, be cast into the water.

The force of the current, however, carried the coffer into the midst
of the branches of an overhanging tree on an island, where it remained
fixed; nevertheless, as the lid was tightly nailed down, it soon became
difficult to breathe inside the box. Just as Shrikantha was near to
die for want of air, suddenly a little chink appeared, through which
plenty of air could enter. It was the mouse he had delivered from
its tormentors who had brought him this timely aid (4). "Wait a bit,"
said the mouse, as soon as he could get his mouth through the aperture,
"I will go fetch the ape to bring better help."

The ape came immediately on being summoned, and tore away at the box
with all his strength till he had made a hole big enough for the man to
have crept out; but as the box was surrounded by the water he was still
a prisoner. "Stop a bit!" cried the ape, when he saw this dilemma;
"I will go and call the bear."

The bear came immediately on being summoned, and dragged the coffer
on to the bank of the island, where Shrikantha alighted, and all
three animals waited on him, bringing him fruits and roots to eat.

While he was living here water-bound, but abundantly supplied by
the mouse, the ape, and the bear with fruits to sustain life, he one
day saw shining in a shallow part of the water a brilliant jewel as
big as a pigeon's egg. The ape soon fetched it at his command, and
when he saw how big and lustrous it was he resolved that it must be a
talisman. To put its powers to the test, he wished himself removed to
terra firma. Nor had he sooner uttered the wish than he found himself
in the midst of a fertile plain. Having thus succeeded so well, he next
wished that he might find on waking in the morning a flourishing city
in the plain, and a shining palace in its midst for his residence,
with plenty of horses in the stable, and provisions of all kinds in
abundance in the store-chamber; shady groves were to surround it,
with streams of water meandering through them.

When he woke in the morning he found all prepared even as he had
wished. Here, therefore, he lived in peace and prosperity, free
from care.

Before many months had passed there came by that way a caravan of
merchants travelling home who had passed over the spot on their
outward-bound journey.

"How is this!" exclaimed the leader of the caravan. "Here, where a
few months ago grew nothing but grass; here is there now sprung up a
city in all this magnificence!" So they came and inquired concerning
it of the Brahman's son.

Then Shrikantha told them the whole story of how it had come to pass,
and moreover showed them the talisman. Then said the leader of the
caravan, "Behold! we will give thee all our camels and horses and
mules, together with all our merchandize and our stores, only give
us thou the talisman in exchange." So he gave them the talisman in
exchange, and they went on their way. But the Brahman's son went to
sleep in his palace, on his soft couch with silken pillows.

In the morning, when he woke, behold the couch with the silken pillows
was no more there, and he was lying on the ground in the island in
the midst of the water!

Then came the mouse, the ape, and the bear to him, saying--

"What misfortune is this that hath happened to thee this second
time?" So he told them the whole story of how it had come to pass. And
they, answering, said to him, "Surely now it was foolish thus to part
with the talisman; nevertheless, maybe we three may find it." And they
set out to follow the track of the travelling merchants. They were not
long before they came to a flourishing city with a shining palace in
its midst, surrounded by shady groves, and streams meandering through
them. Here the merchants had established themselves.

When night fell, the ape and the bear took up their post in a grove
near the palace, while the mouse crept within the same, till she came
to the apartment where the leader of the caravan slept--here she crept
in through the keyhole. The leader of the caravan lay asleep on a soft
couch with silken pillows. In a corner of the apartment was a heap of
rice, in which was an arrow stuck upright, to which the talisman was
bound, but two stout cats were chained to the spot to guard it. This
report the mouse brought to the ape and the bear. "If it is as thou
hast said," answered the bear, "there is nothing to be done. Let
us return to our master." "Not so!" interposed the ape. "There is
yet one means to be tried. When it is dark to-night, thou mouse,
go again to the caravan leader's apartment, and, having crept in
through the keyhole, gnaw at the man's hair. Then the next night, to
save his hair, he will have the cats chained to his pillow, when the
talisman being unguarded, thou canst go in and fetch it away." Thus
he instructed the mouse.

The next night, therefore, the mouse crept in again through the
keyhole, and gnawed at the man's hair. When the man got up in the
morning, and saw that his hair fell off by handfuls, he said within
himself, "A mouse hath done this. To-night, to save what hair remains,
the two cats must be chained to my pillow." And so it was done. When
the mouse came again, therefore, the cats being chained to the caravan
leader's pillow, she could work away at the heap of rice till the arrow
fell; then she gnawed off the string which bound the talisman to it,
and rolled it before her all the way to the door. Arrived here, she
was obliged to leave it, for by no manner of means could she get it
up to the keyhole. Full of sorrow, she came and showed this strait
to her companions. "If it is as thou hast said," answered the bear,
"there is nothing to be done. Let us return to our master."

"Not so!" interposed the ape; "there is yet one means to be tried. I
will first tie a string to the tail of the mouse, then let her go
down through the keyhole, and hold the talisman tightly with all her
four feet, and I will draw her up through the keyhole." This they did;
and thus obtained possession of the talisman.

They now set out on the return journey, the ape sitting on the back
of the bear, carrying the mouse in his ear and the talisman in his
mouth. Travelling thus, they came to a place where there was a stream
to cross. The bear, who all along had been fearing the other two
animals would tell the master how little part he had had in recovering
the talisman, now determined to vaunt his services. Stopping therefore
in the midst of the stream, he said, "Is it not my back which has
carried ye all--ape, mouse, and talisman--over all this ground? Is
not my strength great? and are not my services more than all of
yours?" But the mouse was asleep snugly in the ear of the ape, and
the ape feared to open his mouth lest he should drop the talisman;
so there was no answer given. Then the bear was angry when he found
there was no answer given, and, having growled, he said, "Since
it pleases you not, either of you, to answer, I will even cast you
both into the water." At that the ape could not forbear exclaiming,
"Oh! cast us not into the water!" And as he opened his mouth to speak,
the talisman dropped into the water. When he saw the talisman was lost,
he was full dismayed; but for fear lest the bear should drop him in
the water, he durst not reproach him till they were once more on land.

Arrived at the bank, he cried out, "Of a surety thou art a
cross-grained, ungainly sort of a beast; for in that thou madest me
to answer while I had the talisman in my mouth, it has fallen into
the water, and is more surely lost to the master than before." "If
it is even as thou hast said," answered the bear, "there is nothing
to be done. Let us return to the master." But the mouse waking up at
the noise of the strife of words, inquired what it all meant. When
therefore the ape had told her how it had fallen out, and how that they
were now without hope of recovering the talisman, the mouse replied,
"Nay, but I know one means yet. Sit you here in the distance and wait,
and let me go to work."

So they sat down and waited, and the mouse went back to the edge of
the stream. At the edge of the stream she paced up and down, crying
out as if in great fear. At the noise of her pacing and her cries,
the inhabitants of the water all came up, and asked her the cause of
her distress. "The cause of my distress," replied the mouse, "is my
care for you. Behold there is even now, at scarcely a night's distance,
an army on the march which comes to destroy you all; neither can you
escape from it, for though it marches over dry land, in a moment it
can plunge in the water and live there equally well." "If that is so,"
answered the inhabitants of the water, "then there is no help for
us." "The means of help there is," replied the mouse. "If we could
between us construct a pier along the edge of the water, on which you
could take refuge, you would be safe, for half in and half out of the
water this army lives not, and could not pursue you thither." So the
inhabitants of the water replied, "Let us construct a pier." "Hand
me up then all the biggest pebbles you can find," said the mouse,
"and I will build the pier." So the inhabitants of the water handed up
the pebbles, and the mouse built of the pebbles a pier. When the pier
was about a span long, there came a frog bringing the talisman, saying,
"Bigger than this one is there no pebble here!" So the mouse took the
talisman with great joy, and calling out, "Here it is!" brought the
same to the ape. The ape put the talisman once more in his mouth,
and the mouse in his ear; and having mounted on to the back of the
bear, they brought the talisman safely to Shrikantha (5).

Shrikantha not having had his three attendants to provide him with
fruits for so many days was as one like to die; nevertheless, when
he saw the talisman again, he revived, and said, "Truly the services
are great that I have to thank you three for." No sooner, however,
had he the talisman in his hand, than all the former magnificence came
back at a word--a more flourishing city, a more shining palace, trees
bending under the weight of luscious fruits, and birds of beautiful
plumage singing melodiously in the branches.

Then said Shrikantha again to his talisman, "If thou art really a good
and clever talisman, make that to me, who have no wife, a daughter of
the devas should come down and live with me, and be a wife to me." And,
even as he spoke, a deva maiden came down to him, surrounded with a
hundred maidens, her companions, and was his wife, and they lived a
life of delights together, and a hundred sons were born to him."



"Of a truth that was a Brahman's son whom fortune delighted to honour,"
exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan. And as he had marched fast,
and they were already far on their journey when the Siddhî-kür
began his tale, they had reached even close to the precincts of
the dwelling of the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, when he
spoke these words. Nevertheless, the Siddhî-kür had time to exclaim,
"Excellent! Excellent!" and to escape swift out of sight.



But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan stood before Nâgârg'una.

Then spoke the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, unto him, saying,--

"Seeing thou hast not succeeded in thine enterprise, thou hast
not procured the happiness of all the inhabitants of Gambudvîpa,
nor promoted the well-being of the six classes of living beings
(6). Nevertheless, seeing thou hast exercised unexampled courage and
perseverance, and through much terror and travail hast fetched the
Siddhî-kür these thirteen times, behold, the stain of blood is removed
from off thee, though thou fetch him not again. Moreover, this that
thou hast done shall turn to thy profit, for henceforth thou shalt
not only be called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, but thou shalt
exceed in good fortune and in happiness all the Khans of the earth."



TALE XIV.


Notwithstanding this generous promise and bountiful remission of his
master Nâgârg'una, the Khan set out on his journey once again, even as
before, determined this time to command his utterance and fulfil his
task to the end. Treading his path with patience and earnestness he
arrived at the cool grove, even to the foot of the mango-tree. There
he raised his axe "White Moon," as though he would have felled it.

Then spoke the Siddhî-kür, saying, "Spare the leafy mango-tree,
and I will come down to thee."

So the Khan put up his axe again and bound the Siddhî-kür on his back,
to carry him off to Nâgârg'una.

Now as the day was long, and the air oppressive, so that they were
well weary, the Siddhî-kür began to tempt the Khan to speak, saying,--

"Lighten now the journey by telling a tale of interest."

But how weary soever the Khan was, he pressed his lips together and
answered him never a word.

Then the Siddhî-kür finding he could not make him speak, continued,
"If thou wilt not lighten the journey by telling a tale of interest,
tell me whether I shall tell one to thee."

And when he found that he still answered him not, he said, "If thou
wilt that I tell the tale, make me a sign of consent by nodding thine
head backwards."

Then the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and
the Siddhî-kür proceeded to tell the tale in these words:--



THE AVARICIOUS BROTHER.

Long ages ago there dwelt in a city of Western India two brothers.

As the elder brother had no inheritance, and made a poor living by
selling herbs and wood, he suffered the common fate of those in needy
circumstances, and received no great consideration from his fellow-men.

The younger brother on the other hand was wealthy, yet gave he no
portion of his riches to his brother.

One day he gave a great entertainment, to which he invited all his rich
neighbours and acquaintances, but to his brother he sent no invitation.

Then spoke the brother's wife to her husband, saying,--

"It were better that thou shouldst die than live thus dishonoured
by all. Behold, now, thou art not even invited to thy brother's
entertainment."

"Thy words which thou hast spoken are true," replied the husband. "I
will even go forth and die."

Thus saying, he took up his hatchet and cord, and went out into the
forest, passing over many mountains by the way. On the banks of a
stream, running through the forest, he saw a number of lions and tigers
(1), and other savage beasts, so he forbore to go near that water,
but continued his way till he came to the head of the stream, and here
in the sheltering shade of a huge rock were a number of Dakinis (2),
dancing and disporting themselves to tones of dulcet music. Presently
one of the Dakinis flew up on high out of the midst of those dancing,
and took out of a cleft in the rock a large sack, which she brought
down to the grassy bank where the dancing was going on. Having spread
it out on the ground in the presence of them all, she took a hammer
out of it, and began hammering lustily into the bag. As she did so,
all kinds of articles of food and drink that could be desired presented
themselves at the mouth of the sack. The Dakinis now left off dancing,
and began laying out the meal; but ever as they removed one dish from
the mouth of the bag, another and another took its place.

When they had well eaten and drank, the first Dakini hammered away
again upon the bag, and forthwith there came thereout gold and silver
trinkets, diadems, arm-bands, nûpuras (3), and ornaments for all
parts of the body. With these the Dakinis decked themselves, till
they were covered from head to foot with pearls and precious stones,
and their hair sparkling with a powdering of gems (4). Then they flew
away, the first Dakini taking care to lay up the bag and hammer in
the cleft of the rock before taking her flight.

When they were far, far on their way, and only showed as specks in the
distant sky, then the man came forth from his hiding-place, and having
felled several trees with his axe, bound them together one on to the
end of the other with his cord, and by this means climbed up to the
cleft in the rock, where the Dakini had laid up the hammer and bag,
and brought them away.

He had no sooner got down to the ground again, than to make proof
of his treasure even more than to satisfy his ravenous appetite, he
took the hammer out of the bag, and banged away with it on to the bag,
wishing the while that it might bring him all manner of good things to
eat. All sorts of delicious viands came for him as quickly as for the
Dakinis, of which he made the best meal he had ever had in his life,
and then hasted off home with his treasure.

When he came back he found his wife bemoaning his supposed death.

"Weep not for me!" he exclaimed, as soon as he was near enough for
her to hear him; "I have that with me which will help us to live with
ease to the end of our days." And without keeping her in suspense,
he hammered away on his bag, wishing for clothes, and household
furniture, and food, and every thing that could be desired.

After this they gave up their miserable trade in wood and herbs,
and led an easy and pleasant life.

The neighbours, however, laid their heads together and said,--

"How comes it that this fellow has thus suddenly come into such easy
circumstances?"

But his brother's wife said to her husband,--

"How can thine elder brother have come by all this wealth unless he
hath stolen of our riches?" As she continued saying this often, the
man believed it, and called his elder brother to him and asked him,
"Whence hast thou all this wealth; who hath given it to thee?" And
when he found he hesitated to answer, he added, "Now know I that thou
must have stolen of my treasure; therefore, if thou tell me not how
otherwise thou hast come by it, I will even drag thee before the Khan,
who shall put out both thine eyes."

When the elder brother had heard this threat, he answered, "Going afar
off to a place unknown to thee, having purposed in my mind to die,
I found in a cleft of a rock this sack and this hammer (5)."

"And how shall this rusty iron hammer and this dirty sack give thee
wealth?" again inquired his brother; and thus he pursued his inquiries
until by degrees he made him tell the whole story. Nor would he be
satisfied till he had explained to him exactly the situation of the
place and the way to it. No sooner had he acquainted himself well of
this than, taking with him a cord and an axe, he set out to go there.

When he arrived, he saw an immense number of deformed, ugly spirits,
standing against the rock in eight rows, howling piteously. As he crept
along to observe if there was any thing he could take of them to make
his fortune as his brother had done, one of them happened to look
that way and espied him, after which it was no more possible to escape.

"Of a surety this must be the fellow who stole our bag and
hammer!" exclaimed the ugly spirit. "Let us at him and put him
to death."

The Dakinis were thoroughly out of temper, and did not want any
urging. The words were no soon uttered than, like a flock of birds,
they all flew round him and seized him.

"How shall we kill him?" asked one, as she held him tight by the
hair of his head till every single hair seemed as if forced out by
the roots.

"Fly with him up to the top of the rock, and then dash him down!" cried
some. "Drop him in the middle of the sea!" cried others. "Cut him in
pieces, and give him to the dogs!" cried others again. But the sharp
one who had first espied him said, "His punishment is too soon over
with killing him; shall we not rather set a hideous mark upon him,
so that he shall be afraid to venture near the habitations of his kind
for ever?" "Well spoken!" cried the Dakinis in chorus, something like
good-humour returning at the thought of such retribution. "What mark
shall we set upon him?"

"Let us draw his nose out five ells long, and then make nine knots
upon it," answered the sharp-witted Dakini.

This they did, and then the whole number of them flew away without
leaving a trace of their flight.

Fully crestfallen and ashamed, the avaricious brother determined
to wait till nightfall before he ventured home, meantime hiding
himself in a cave lest any should chance to pass that way and see
him with his knotted nose. When darkness had well closed in only he
ventured to slink home, trembling in every limb both from remaining
fright at the life-peril he had passed through, and from fear of some
inopportune accident having kept any neighbour abroad who might come
across his path.

Before he came in sight of his wife he began calling out most
piteously,--

"Flee not from before me! I am indeed thine own, very own
husband. Changed as I am, I am yet indeed the very self-same. Yet a
few days I will endeavour to endure my misery, and then I will lay
me down and die."

When his neighbours and friends found that he came out of his house
no more, nor invited them to him, nor gave entertainments more, they
began to inquire what ailed him; but he, without letting any of them
enter, only answered them from within, "Woe is me! woe is me!"

Now there was in that neighbourhood a Lama (6), living in contemplation
in a tirtha (7) on the river bank. "I will call in the same," thought
the man, "and take his blessing ere I die." So he sent to the tirtha
and called the Lama.

When the Lama came, the man bowed himself and asked his blessing, but
would by no means look up, lest he should see his knotted nose. Then
said the Lama, "Let me see what hath befallen thee; show it me." But
he answered, "It is impossible to show it!"

Then the Lama said again, "Let me see it; showing it will not harm
thee." But when he looked up and let him see his knotted nose, the
sight was so frightful that a shudder seized the Lama, and he ran away
for very horror." However, the man called after him and entreated him
to come back, offering him rich presents; and when he had prevailed
on him to sit down again, he told him the whole story of what had
befallen him.

To his question, whether he could find any remedy, the Lama made
answer that he knew none; but, remembering his rich presents, he
thought better to turn the matter over in case any useful thought
should present itself to his mind, and said he would consult his books.

"Till to-morrow I will wait, then, to hear if thy books have any
remedy; and if not, then will I die."

The next morning the Lama came again. "I have found one remedy,"
he said, "but there is only one. The hammer and bag of which your
brother is possessed could loose the knots; there is nothing else."

How elated so ever he had been to hear that a remedy had been found,
by so much cast down was he when he learnt that he would have to send
and ask the assistance of his brother.

"After all that I have said to him, I could never do this thing,"
he said mournfully, "nor would he hear me." But his wife would not
leave any chance of remedying the evil untried; so she went herself
to the elder brother and asked for the loan of the sack and hammer.

Knowing how anxious his brother had been to be possessed of such a
treasure, however, the brother thought the alleged misfortune was
an excuse to rob him of it; therefore he would not give it into
her hand. Nevertheless, he went to his brother's house with it,
and asked him what was the service he required of his sack. Then he
was obliged to tell him all that had befallen, and to show him his
knotted nose. "But," said he, "if with thy hammer thou will but loose
the knots, behold the half of all I have shall be thine."

His brother accepted the terms; but not trusting to the promise of one
so avaricious, he stipulated to have the terms put in order under hand
and seal. When this was done he set to work immediately to swing his
hammer, and let it touch one by one the knots in his brother's nose,
saying as he did so,--

"May the knots which the eight rows of evil Dakinis made so strong
be loosed."

And with each touch and invocation the knots began to disappear one
after the other.

But his wife began to regret the loss of half their wealth, and she
determined on a scheme to save it, and yet that her husband should
be cured. "If," said she, "I stop him before he has undone the last
knot he cannot claim the reward, because he will not have removed all
the knots, and it will be a strange matter if I find not the means
of obtaining the hammer long enough to remedy one knot myself." As
she reasoned thus he had loosed the eighth knot.

"Stop!" she cried. "That will do now. For one knot we will not make
much ado. He can bear as much disfigurement as that."

Then the elder brother was grieved because they had broken the
contract, and went his way carrying the sack, and with the hammer stuck
in his girdle. As he went, the younger brother's wife went stealthily
behind him, and when he had just reached his own door, she sprang upon
him, and snatched the hammer from out his girdle. He turned to follow
her, but she had already reached her own house before he came up with
her, and entering closed the door against him: then in triumph over
her success, she proceeded to attempt loosing the ninth knot. Only
swinging it as she had seen her brother-in-law do, and not knowing how
to temper the force so that it should only just have touched the nose,
the blow carried with it so much moment that the hammer went through
the man's skull, even to his brain, so that he fell down and died.

By this means, not the half, but the whole of his possessions passed
to his elder brother.



"If the man was avaricious, the woman was doubly avaricious," here
exclaimed the Khan, "and by straining to grasp too much, she lost all."

"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips," cried the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of
this world is good," he sped him through the air once again, swift
out of sight.



TALE XV.


When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had
once more failed in the end and object of his mission, he once more
took the way of the shady grove, and once more in the same fashion
as before he took the Siddhî-kür captive in his sack. As he bore
him along weary with the journey through the desert country, the
Siddhî-kür asked if he would not tell a tale to enliven the way,
and when he steadfastly held his tongue, the Siddhî-kür bid him,
if he would that he should tell one, but give a token of nodding his
head backwards, without opening his lips.

Then he nodded his head backwards, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale,
saying,--



THE USE OF MAGIC LANGUAGE.

Long ages ago there lived in Western India a King who had a very
clever son. In order to make the best advantage of his understanding,
and to fit him in every way to become an accomplished sovereign,
the King sent him into the Diamond-kingdom (1), that he might be
thoroughly instructed in all kinds of knowledge. He was accompanied
in his journey by the son of the king's chief minister, who was also
to share his studies, but who was as dull as he was intelligent. On
their arrival in the Diamond-kingdom, they gave each of them the sum
with which they had been provided by their parents to two Lamas to
conduct their education, and spent twelve years with them.

At the end of the twelve years the minister's son proposed to the
king's son that they should now return home, and as the Lamas allowed
that the king's son had made such progress in the five kinds of
knowledge that there was nothing more he could learn, he agreed to
the proposal, and they set out on their homeward way.

All went well at first; but one day passed, and then another, and yet
another, that they came to no source of water, and being parched nigh
unto death with thirst, the minister's son would have laid him down
to die. As he stood hesitating about going on, a crow passed and made
his cry of "ikerek." The prince now encouraged his companion, saying,
"Come but a little way farther, and we shall find water."

"Nay, you deceive me not like an infant of days," answered the
minister's son. "How shall we find water? Have we not laboured over
the journey these three days, and found none; neither shall we find
it now? Why should we add to this death of thirst the pangs of useless
fatigue also?"

But the king's son said again, "Nay, but of a certainty we shall now
find it."

And when he asked, "How knowest thou this of a certainty?" he replied,
"I heard yon crow cry as he passed, 'Go forward five hundred paces
in a southerly direction, and you will come to a source of pure,
bright fresh water.'"

The king's son spoke with so much certainty that he had not strength
to resist him; and so they went on five hundred paces farther in a
southerly direction, and then they indeed came upon a pure, bright
spring of water, where they sat down, and drank, and refreshed
themselves.

As they sat there, the minister's son was moved with jealousy, for,
thought he within himself, in every art this prince has exceeded me,
and when we return to our own country, all shall see how superior
he is to me in every kind of attainment. Then he said aloud to the
king's son,--

"If we keep along this road, which leads over the level plain, where
we can be seen ever so far off, may be robbers will see us, and,
coming upon us, will slay us. Shall we not rather take the path which
leads over the mountain, where the trees will hide us, and pass the
night under cover of the wood?" And this he said in order to lead the
prince into the forest, that he might slay him there unperceived. But
the prince, who had no evil suspicion, willingly agreed to his words,
and they took the path of the mountain. When they had well entered
the thick wood, the minister's son fell upon the prince from behind,
and slew him. The prince in dying said nothing but the one word,
"Abaraschika (2)."

As soon as he had well hidden the body, the minister's son continued
on his way.

As he came near the city, the King went out to greet him, accompanied
by all his ministers, and followed by much people; but when he found
that his son was not there, he fell into great anxiety, and eagerly
inquired after him. "Thy son," answered the minister's son, "died on
the journey."

At these words, the King burst into an agony of grief, crying,
"Alas, my son! mine only son! Without thee, what shall all my royal
power and state, what shall all my hundred cities, profit me?" Amid
these bitter cries he made his way back to the palace. As he dwelt
on his grief, the thought came to him, "Shall not my son when dying
at least have left some word expressive of his last thoughts and
wishes?" Then he sent and inquired this thing of his companion,
to which, the minister's son made answer, "Thy son was overtaken
with a quick and sudden malady, and as he breathed out his life,
he had only time to utter the single word, Abaraschika."

Hearing this the King was fully persuaded the word must have some deep
and hidden meaning; but as he was unable to think it out, he summoned
all the seers, soothsayers, magicians, and astrologers (3) of his
kingdom, and inquired of them what this same word Abaraschika could
mean. There was not, however, one of them all that could help him to
the meaning. Then said the King, "The last word that my son uttered,
even mine only son, this is dear to me. There is no doubt that it is a
word in which by all the arts that he had studied and acquired he knew
how to express much, though he had not time to utter many words. Ye,
therefore, who are also learned in cunning arts ought to be able to
tell the interpretation of the same, but if not, then of what use
are ye? It were better that ye were dead from off the face of the
earth. Wherefore, I give you the space of seven days to search in
all your writings and to exercise all your arts, and if at the end
of seven days ye are none of you able to tell me the interpretation,
then shall I deliver you over to death."

With that he commanded that they should be all secured in an exceeding
high fortress for the space of seven days, and well watched that they
might not escape.

The seven days passed away, and not one of them was at all nearer
telling the interpretation of Abaraschika than on the first day. "Of
a certainty we shall all be put to death to-morrow," was repeated all
through the place, and some cried to the devas and some sat still
and wept, speaking only of the relations and friends they would
leave behind.

Meantime, a student of an inferior sort, who waited on the others and
learned between whiles, had contrived to escape, not being under such
strict guard as his more important brethren. At night-time he took
shelter under a leafy tree. As he lay there a bird and its young
ones came to roost on the boughs above him. One of the young ones
instead of going to sleep went on complaining through the night, "I'm
so hungry! I'm so hungry!" At last the old bird began to console it,
saying, "Cry not, my son; for to-morrow there will be plenty of food."

"And why should there be more food to-morrow than to-day?" asked the
young bird.

"Because to-morrow," answered the mother, "the Khan has made
preparations to put a thousand men to death. That will be a feast
indeed!"

"And why should he put so many men to death?" persisted the young bird.

"Because," interposed the father, "though they are all wise men,
not one of them can tell him such a simple thing as the meaning of
the word Abaraschika."

"What does it mean, then?" inquired the young bird.

"The meaning of the word is this: 'This, my bosom friend, hath enticed
me into a thick grove, and there, wounding me with a sharp knife,
hath taken away my life, and is even now preparing to cut off my
head.'" This the old bird told to his young.

The young student, however, hearing these words waited to hear no
more, but set off at his best speed towards the tower where all his
companions were confined. About daybreak he reached the gates, and
made his way in all haste in to them. In the midst of their weeping
and lamenting over the morning which they reckoned that of their day
of death, he cried out,--

"Weep no more! I have discovered the meaning of the word."

Just then the Khan's guard came to conduct them to the Khan for
examination preparatory to their being given over to execution. Here
the young student declared to the Khan the meaning of the word
Abaraschika. Having heard which the Khan dismissed them all with rich
presents, but privately bid them declare to no man the meaning of the
word. Then he sent for the minister's son, and without giving him any
hint of his intention, bid him go before him and show him where lay
the bones of his son, which when he had seen and built a tomb over
them, he ordered the minister and his son both to be put to death.



"That Khan's son, so well versed in the five kinds of knowledge,
would have been an honour and ornament to his kingdom, had he not
been thus untimely cut off," exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XVI.


When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that he had again
failed in the end and object of his journey, he once more took the
way of the cool grove; and having taken the Siddhî-kür captive as
before in his bag, in which there was place for a hundred, and made
fast the mouth of the same with his cord woven of a hundred threads
of different colours, he bore him along to present to his Master and
Teacher Nâgârg'una.

And as they went the Siddhî-kür asked him to beguile the way with a
tale, or else give the signal that he should tell one. And when the
Well-and-wise-walking Khan had given the signal that the Siddhî-kür
should tell one, he began after this wise, saying,--



THE WIFE WHO LOVED BUTTER.

Long ages ago there dwelt in the neighbourhood of a city in the north
part of India called Taban-Minggan (1) a man and his wife who had
no children, and nine cows (2) for all possessions. As the man was
very fond of meat he used to kill all the calves as soon as they were
born that he might eat them, but the wife cared only for butter. One
day when there were no more calves the man took it into his head to
slaughter one of the cows; "What does it signify," said he to himself,
"whether there are nine or eight?" So he killed one of the cows and ate
it. When the meat of this cow was all at an end, he said to himself,
"What does it matter whether there are eight cows or seven?" And with
that he slaughtered another cow and ate it. When the meat of this cow
had come to an end, he said within himself again, "What does it matter
whether there are seven cows or six?" and with that he slaughtered
another cow and ate it. This he continued doing till there was one
only cow left. At last, when the wife saw that there was but one only
cow left, she could refrain herself no longer. Determined to save this
only cow from being slaughtered, she never let it out of her sight,
but wherever she went led it after her by a string.

One day, however, when the man had been drinking well of rice-brandy,
and was sound asleep, the wife having to go out to fetch water,
she thought it would be safe to leave the cow behind this once; but
scarcely was she gone out when the man woke up, and, seeing the cow
left alone behind, slaughtered it to eat.

When the woman came back and found the last remaining cow was killed,
she lifted up her voice and wept, saying, "What is there now left to
me wherewithal to support life, seeing that the last and only cow that
remained to us is killed." As she said these words, she turned her in
anger and went away, and as she went the man cut off one of the teats
of the cow and threw it after her. The woman picked up the teat and
took it along with her; but she went along still crying till she came
to a cave in a mountain side, where she took shelter. There she cast
herself down on the ground, addressing herself in earnest prayer to
the Three Precious Treasures (3) and the Ruler of Heaven and Earth,
saying, "Now that my old man has brought me to the last extremity,
depriving me of all that I had to support life, grant now, ye Three
Precious Treasures, and thou Ruler of Heaven and Earth, that I may
have in some way that which is needful to support life!" Thus she
prayed. Also, she flung from her the teat of the cow which she had
in her hand, and behold! it clove to the side of the cave, and when
she would have removed it, it would no more be removed, but milk ran
therefrom as from the living cow. And the milk thereof was good for
making butter, which her soul loved.

Thus she lived in the cave, and was provided with all she desired to
support life. One day it befell that the memory of her husband coming
over her, she said within herself, "Perhaps, now that the last cow
is slaughtered and eaten, my old man may be suffering hunger; who
knows!" Thus musing, she filled a sheep's paunch (4) with butter, and
went her way to the place where her husband lived, and having climbed
on to the roof, she looked down upon him through the smoke-hole (5).

He sat there in his usual place, but nothing was set before him to eat
saving only a pan of ashes, which he was dividing with a spoon, saying
the while, "This is my portion for to-day;" and "That much I reserve
for the portion of to-morrow." Seeing this, the wife threw her paunch
of butter hastily through the roof, and then went back to her cave.

Then thought the husband within himself, "Who is there in heaven
or earth who would have brought me this butter-paunch but my very
wife? who surely has said within herself, 'Perhaps, now that the last
cow is slaughtered, my old man is suffering hunger.'" And as every
night she thus supplied him with a butter-paunch, he got up at last
and followed her by the track of her feet on the snow till he came to
the cave where she dwelt. Nevertheless, seeing the teat cleaving to
the side of the cave, he could not resist cutting it off to eat the
meat thereof. Then he took to him all the store of butter the woman
had laid up and returned home; but the wife, finding her place of
refuge was known to him, and that he had taken all her store, left
the cave and wandered on farther.

Presently she came to a vast meadow well watered by streams, and herds
of hinds grazing amid the grass; nor did they flee at her approach,
so that she could milk them at will, and once more she could make
butter as much as ever she would.

One day it befell that, the memory of her husband coming over her,
she said within herself, "Perhaps, now that he will have exhausted
all the store of cow-milk-butter, my old man may be suffering hunger;
who knows!" So she took a sheep's paunch of the butter made of hind's
milk and went to the place where her husband lived. As she looked down
upon him through the smoke-hole in the roof, she found him once more
engaged sparingly dividing his portions of ashes. So she threw the
butter-paunch to him through the smoke-hole and went her way. When
she had done this several days, her husband rose and followed her by
her track on the snow till he came to where the herd of hinds were
grazing. But when he saw so many hinds, he could not resist satisfying
his love of meat; only when he had slaughtered many of the hinds,
these said one to another, "If we remain here, of a surety we shall
all be put to death;" therefore they arose in the night and betook them
afar, far off, whither neither the man nor his wife could follow them.

When the wife found her place of refuge was known to her husband,
and that he had dispersed her herd of hinds, she left the grassy
meadow and wandered on farther.

Presently, a storm coming on, she took shelter in a hole in a rock
where straw was littered down; so she laid herself to sleep amid the
straw. But the hole was the den of a company of lions, tigers, and
bears, and all manner of wild beasts; but they had a hare for watchman
at the opening of the hole. At night, therefore, they all came home
and laid down, but they perceived not the woman in the straw; only
in the night, the woman happening to move, a straw tickled the nose
of the hare. Then said the hare to a tiger who lay near him, "What
was that?" But the tiger said, "We will examine into the matter when
the morning light breaks." When the morning light broke, therefore,
they turned up all the straw and found the woman lying. When the
tiger and the other beasts saw the woman lying in their straw, they
were exceeding wroth, and would have torn her in pieces. But the hare
said, "What good will it do you to tear the woman in pieces? Women are
faithful and vigilant animals; give her now to me, and I will make her
help me watch the cave." So they gave her to the hare, and the hare
bade her keep strict watch over the cave, and by no means let any one
of any sort enter it; and he treated her well and gave her plenty of
game to eat, which the wild beasts brought home to their lair.

Thus she lived in the den of the wild beasts and did the bidding
of the hare. One day, however, it befell that, the memory of her
husband coming over her, she said within herself, "Perhaps, now that
the hinds are all dispersed, my old man may be suffering hunger;
who knows!" So she took with her a good provision of game, of which
the wild beasts brought in abundance, and went to the place where
her husband lived. He sat as before, dividing his portions of ashes;
so she threw the game she had brought down through the smoke-hole.

When she had thus provisioned him many days, he said within himself,
"Who is there in heaven or earth who should thus provide for me,
but only my loving wife?" So the next night he rose up and tracked
her by the snow till he came to the den of the wild beasts.

When the wife saw him, she cried, "Wherefore camest thou hither? This
is even a wild beasts' lair. Behold, seeing thee they will tear thee
in pieces!" But the man would not listen to her word, answering, "If
they have not torn thee in pieces, neither will they tear me." Then,
when she found that he would not escape, she took him and hid him in
the straw. At night, when the wild beasts came home, the hare said
to the tiger, "Of a certainty I perceive the scent of some creature
which was not here before;" and the tiger answered, "When morning
breaks we will examine into the matter." Accordingly, when morning
broke they looked over the place, and there in the straw they found
the woman's husband. When they saw the man they were all exceedingly
wroth, nor could the hare by any means restrain them that they should
not tear them both in pieces. "For," said they, "if of one comes two,
of two will come four, and of four will come sixteen, and in the
end we shall be outnumbered and destroyed, and our place taken from
us." So they tore them both in pieces, both the wife and her husband.



"That woman fell a sacrifice to her devotion to her husband, who
deserved it not at her hand!" exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XVII.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of
the cool grove, and brought thence bound the Siddhî-kür, who by the
way told him this story, saying--,



THE SIMPLE HUSBAND AND THE PRUDENT WIFE.

In the southern part of India lived a man who had a very large fortune
and a very notable wife, but possessing little sense or capacity
himself, nor sufficient understanding to think of trading with his
fortune. One day a caravan of merchants came by, with whom the wife
made some exchanges of merchandize while the husband stood by and
looked on. When they were gone, the wife said to him, "Why should
not you also go forth and trade even as these merchants trade?" And
he willing to do her a pleasure made answer, "Give me wherewithal to
trade, and I will see what I can do."

"This is but reasonable," thought the wife. "For how shall he trade
except he have some sort of merchandize to trade withal." So she made
ready for him an ass to ride, and a camel's burden of rice to trade
with, and arms to defend him from robbers, and provisions to sustain
him by the way. Thus she sent him forth.

On he rode till he came to the sea-shore, and as he could go no farther
he laid him down here at the foot of a high cliff to sleep. Just where
he lay was the entrance to a cave which he failed to discover. Towards
evening a caravan of merchants travelling by, took shelter in this
cave, leaving a bugle lying on the ground near the entrance, that
in case of an attack of robbers the first who heard their approach
might warn the others.

The man's face being turned, as he lay also towards the entrance of
the cave, came very near the mouthpiece of the bugle. About the middle
of the night when he was sleeping very heavily he began also to snore,
and his breath accidentally entering the bugle gave forth so powerful
a note (1), that it woke all the merchants together. "Who sounded
the bugle?" asked each. "Not I," "Nor I," "Nor I," answered one and
all. "Then it must be the thieves themselves who did it in defiance,"
said one. "They must be in strong force thus to defy us!" answered
another. "We had better therefore make good our escape before they
really attack us," cried all. And without waiting to look after their
goods, they all ran off for the dear life without so much as looking
behind them.

In the morning, finding the merchants did not return, the simple
man put together all the merchandize they had left behind them and
returned home with it. All the neighbours ran out to see him pass
with his train of mules and cried aloud, "Only see what a clever
trader! Only see how fortune has prospered him!"

Quite proud of his success and not considering how little merit he had
had in the matter, he said, "To-morrow I will go out hunting!" But his
wife knowing he had not capacity to have come by all the merchandize
except through some lucky chance, and thinking some equally strange
adventure might befall him when out hunting, determined to be even
with him and to know all that might come to pass.

Accordingly the next day she provided him with a horse and dog, and
bow and arrows, and provisions for the way. Only as he went forth, she
said, "Beware, a stronger than thou fall not upon thee!" But he, puffed
up by his yesterday's success, answered her, "Never fear! There is none
can stand against me." And she, smiling to see him thus highminded,
made reply, "Nevertheless, the horseman Surja-Bagatur (2) is terrible
to deal with. Shouldst thou meet him, stand aside and engage him not,
for surely he would slay thee." Thus she warned him. But he mounted
his horse and rode away, crying, "Him I fear no more than the rest!"

As soon as she had seen him start the wife dressed herself in man's
clothes, and mounting a swift horse (3) she rode round till she came
by a different path to the same place as her husband. Seeing him
trot across a vast open plain she bore down right upon him at full
gallop. The man, too much afraid of so bold a rider to recognize that
it was his wife, turned him and fled from before her. Soon overtaking
him, however, she challenged him to fight, at the same time drawing
her sword. "Slay me not!" exclaimed the simple man, slipping off
his horse, "Slay me not, most mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur! Take now
my horse and mine arms, and all that I have. Leave me only my life,
most mighty Surja-Bagatur!" So his wife took the horse and the arms,
and all that he had and rode home.

At night the simple man came limping home footsore and in sorry
plight. "Where is the horse and the arms?" inquired his wife as she
saw him arrive on foot.

"To-day I encountered the mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur, and having
challenged him to fight," answered he, "I overcame him and humbled
him utterly. Only that the wrath of the hero at what I had done might
not be visited on us, I propitiated him by making him an offering of
the horse and the arms and all that I had."

So the woman prepared roasted corn and set it before him; and when
he had well eaten she said to him, "Tell me now, what manner of man
is the hero Surja-Bagatur, and to what is he like (4)?"

And the simple man made answer, "But that he wore never a beard,
even such a man would he have been as thy father."

And the wife laughed to herself, but told him nothing of all she
had done.



"That was a prudent woman, who humbled not her husband by triumphing
over him!" exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



Of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the seventeenth
chapter, of the Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife.



TALE XVIII.


When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that the Siddhî-kür
had again made good his escape, he set out and came to the cool grove,
and took him captive and brought him, bound in his bag. And by the
way the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,--



HOW SHANGGASBA BURIED HIS FATHER.

Long ages ago, there lived in a city of Northern India a father and
son. Both bore the same name, and a strangely inappropriate name it
was. Though they were the poorest of men without any thing in the
world to call their own, and without even possessing the knowledge
of any trade or handicraft whereby to make a livelihood to support
them at ease, they were yet called by the name of Shanggasba, that is
"Renowned possessor of treasure (1)."

As I have already said, they knew no trade or handicraft; but to
earn a scanty means of subsistence to keep body and soul together,
they used to lead a wandering sort of life, gathering and hawking wood.

One day as they were coming down the steep side of a mountain forest,
worn and footsore, bending under the heavy burden of wood on their
backs, Shanggasba, the father, suddenly hastened his tired, tottering
steps, and, leading the way through the thickly-meeting branches to
a little clear space of level ground, where the grass grew green and
bright, called to his son to come after him with more of animation
in his voice than he had shown for many a weary day.

Shanggasba, the son, curious enough to know what stirred his father's
mind, and glad indeed at the least indication of any glimpse of a new
interest in life, increased his pace too, and soon both were sitting
on the green grass with their bundles of wood laid beside them.

"Listen, my son!" said Shanggasba, the father, "to what I have here
to impart to thee, and forget not my instructions."

"Just as this spot of sward, on which we are now seated, is bared of
the rich growth of trees covering the thicket all around it, so are my
fortunes now barren compared with the opulence and power our ancestor
Shanggasba, 'Renowned possessor of treasure,' enjoyed. Know, moreover,
that it was just on this very spot that he lived in the midst of his
power and glory. Therefore now that our wanderings have brought us
hither, I lay this charge upon thee that when I die thou bring hither
my bones, and lay them under the ground in this place. And so doing,
thou too shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence like to the
portion of a king's son. For it was because my father's bones were
laid to rest in a poor, mean, and shameful place, that I have been
brought to this state of destitution in which we now exist. But thou,
if thou keep this my word, doubt not but that thou also shalt become
a renowned possessor of treasure."

Thus spoke Shanggasba, the father; and then, lifting their faggots
on to their shoulder, they journeyed on again as before.

Not long after the day that they had held this discourse, Shanggasba,
the father, was taken grievously ill, so that the son had to go out
alone to gather wood, and it so befell that when he returned home again
the father was already dead. So remembering his father's admonition,
he laded his bones upon his back, and carried them out to burial in
the cleared spot in the forest, as his father had said.

But when he looked that the great wealth and honour of which his
father had spoken should have fallen to his lot, he was disappointed
to find that he remained as poor as before. Then, because he was
weary of the life of a woodman, he went into the city, and bought a
hand-loom and yarn, and set himself to weave linen cloths which he
hawked about from place to place.

Now, one day, as he was journeying back from a town where he had been
selling his cloths, his way brought him through the forest where
his father lay buried. So he tarried a while at the place and sat
down to his weaving, and as he sat a lark came and perched on the
loom. With his weaving-stick he gave the lark a blow and killed it,
and then roasted and ate it.

But as he ate it he mused, "Of a certainty the words of my father have
failed, which he spoke, saying, 'If thou bury my bones in this place
thou shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence.' And because this
weaving brings me a more miserable profit even than hawking wood,
I will arise now and go and sue for the hand of the daughter of the
King of India, and become his son-in-law."

Having taken this resolution, he burnt his hand-loom, and set out on
his journey.

Now it so happened that just at this time the Princess, daughter of the
King of India, having been absent for a long time from the capital,
great festivities of thanksgiving were being celebrated in gratitude
for her return in safety, as Shanggasba arrived there; and notably,
on a high hill, before the image of a Garuda-bird (2), the king of
birds, Vishnu's bearer, all decked with choice silk rich in colour.

Shanggasba arrived, fainting from hunger, for the journey had been
long, and he had nothing to eat by the way, having no money to buy
food, but now he saw things were beginning to go well with him, for
when he saw the festival he knew there would be an offering of baling
cakes of rice-flour before the garuda-bird, and he already saw them
in imagination surrounded with the yellow flames of the sacrifice.

As soon as he approached the place therefore he climbed up the
high hill, and satisfied his hunger with the baling; and then, as a
provision for the future, he took down the costly silk stuffs with
which the garuda-bird was adorned and hid them in his boots.

His hunger thus appeased, he made his way to the King's palace,
where he called out lustily to the porter in a tone of authority,
"Open the gate for me!"

But the porter, when he saw what manner of man it was summoned him,
would pay no heed to his words, but rather chid him and bid him
be silent.

Then Shanggasba, when he found the porter would pay no heed to his
words, but rather bid him be silent, blew a note on the great princely
trumpet, which was only sounded for promulgating the King's decrees.

This the King heard, who immediately sent for the porter, and inquired
of him who had dared to sound the great princely trumpet. To whom
the porter made answer,--

"Behold now, O King, there stands without at the gate a vagabond
calling on me to admit him because he has a communication to make to
the King."

"The fellow is bold; let him be brought in," replied the King. So
they brought Shanggasba before the King's majesty.

"What seekest thou of me?" inquired the King. And Shanggasba, nothing
abashed, answered plainly--

"To sue for the hand of the Princess am I come, and to be the King's
son-in-law."

The ministers of state, who stood round about the King, when they
heard these words, were filled with indignation, and counselled the
King that he should put him to death. But the King, tickled in his
fancy with the man's daring, answered,--

"Nay, let us not put him to death. He can do us no harm. A beggar may
sue for a king's daughter, and a king may choose a beggar's daughter,
out of that no harm can come," and he ordered that he should be taken
care of in the palace, and not let to go forth.

Now all this was told to the Queen, who took a very different view of
the thing from the King's. And coming to him in fury and indignation,
she cried out,--

"It is not good for such a man to live. He must be already deprived
of his senses; let him die the death!"

But the King gave for all answer, "The thing is not of that import
that he should die for it."

The Princess also heard of it; and she too came to complain to the
King that he should cause such a man to be kept in the palace; but
before she could open her complaint, the King, joking, said to her,--

"Such and such a man is come to sue for thy hand; and I am about to
give thee to him."

But she answered, "This shall never be; surely the King hath spoken
this thing in jest. Shall a princess now marry a beggar?"

"If thou wilt not have him, what manner of man wouldst thou
marry?" asked the King.

"A man who has gold and precious things enough that he should carry
silk stuff (3) in his boots, such a one would I marry, and not a
wayfarer and a beggar," answered the Princess.

When the people heard that, they went and pulled off Shanggasba's
boots, and when they found in them the pieces of silk he had taken
from the image of the garuda-bird, they all marvelled, and said never
a word more.

But the King thought thereupon, and said, "This one is not after the
manner of common men." And he gave orders that he should be lodged
in the palace.

The Queen, however, was more and more dismayed when she saw the token,
and thus she reasoned, "If the man is here entertained after this
manner, and if he has means thus to gain over to him the mind of the
King, who shall say but that he may yet contrive to carry his point,
and to marry my daughter?" And as she found she prevailed nothing
with the King by argument, she said, "I must devise some means of
subtlety to be rid of him." Then she had the man called into her,
and inquired of him thus,--

"Upon what terms comest thou hither to sue for the hand of my
daughter? Tell me, now, hast thou great treasures to endow her with as
thy name would import, or wilt thou win thy right to pay court to her
by thy valour and bravery?" And this she said, for she thought within
herself, of a surety now the man is so poor he can offer no dowry,
and so he needs must elect to win her by the might of his bravery,
which if he do I shall know how to over-match his strength, and show
he is but a mean-spirited wretch.

But Shanggasba made answer, "Of a truth, though I be called 'Renowned
possessor of treasure,' no treasure have I to endow her with; but
let some task be appointed me by the King and Queen, and I will win
her hand by my valour."

The Queen was glad when she heard this answer, for she said,
"Now I have in my hands the means to be rid of him." At this time,
while they were yet speaking, it happened that a Prince of the
Unbelievers advanced to the borders of the kingdom to make war upon
the King. Therefore the Queen said to Shanggasba,--

"Behold thine affair! Go out now against the enemy, and if thou canst
drive back his hordes thou shalt marry our daughter, and become the
King's son-in-law.

"Even so let it be!" answered Shanggasba. "Only let there be given
to me a good horse and armour, and a bow and arrows."

All this the Queen gave him, and good wine to boot, and appointed
an army in brave array to serve under him. With these he rode out to
encounter the enemy.

They had hardly got out of sight of the city, however, when the
captain of the army rode up to him and said, "We are not soldiers to
fight under command of a beggar: ride thou forth alone."

So they went their way, and he rode on alone. He had no sooner come
to the borders of the forest, however, where the ground was rough and
uneven, than he found he could in no wise govern his charger, and after
pulling at the reins for a long time in vain, the beast dashed with him
furiously into the thicket. "What can I do now?" mourned Shanggasba to
himself as, encumbered by the unwonted weight of his armour, he made
fruitless efforts to extricate himself from the interlacing branches;
"surely death hath overtaken me!" And even as he spoke the enemy's
army appeared riding down towards him. Nevertheless, catching hold
of the overhanging bows of a tree, by which to save himself from the
plungings of the horse, and as the soil was loose and the movement of
the steed impetuous, as he clung to the tree the roots were set free
by his struggles, and rebounding in the face of the advancing enemy,
laid many of his riders low in the dust.

The prince who commanded them when he saw this, exclaimed, "This one
cannot be after the manner of common men. Is he not rather one of the
heroes making trial of his prowess who has assumed this outward form?"

And a great panic seized them all, so that they turned and fled from
before him, riding each other down in the confusion, and casting away
their weapons and their armour.

As soon as they were well out of sight, and only the clouds of dust
whirling round behind them, Shanggasba rose from the ground where he
had fallen in his fear, and catching by the bridle one of the horses
whose rider had been thrown, laded on to him all that he could carry
of the spoil with which the way was strewn, and brought it up to the
King as the proof and trophy of his victory.

The King was well pleased to have so valiant a son-in-law,
and commended him and promised him the hand of the Princess in
marriage. But the Queen, though her first scheme for delivering her
daughter had failed, was not slow to devise another, and she said,
"It is not enough that he should be valiant in the field, but a
mighty hunter must he also be." And thus she said to Shanggasba,
"Wilt thou also give proof of thy might in hunting?"

And Shanggasba made answer, "Wherein shall I show my might in hunting?"

And the Queen said, "Behold now, there is in our mountains a great fox,
nine spans in length, the fur of whose back is striped with stripes;
him shalt thou kill and bring his skin hither to me, if thou wouldst
have the hand of the Princess and become the King's son-in-law."

"Even so let it be," replied Shanggasba; "only let there be given me
a bow and arrow, and provisions for many days."

All this the Queen commanded should be given to him; and he went out
to seek for the great fox measuring nine spans in length, and the
fur of his back striped with stripes.

Many days he wandered over the mountains till his provisions were
all used and his clothes torn, and, what was a worse evil, he had
lost his bow by the way.

"Without a bow I can do nothing," reasoned Shanggasba to himself,
"even though I fall in with the fox. It is of no use that I wait for
death here. I had better return to the palace and see what fortune
does for me."

But as he had wandered about up and down without knowing his way, it so
happened that as he now directed his steps back to the road, he came
upon the spot where he had laid down to sleep the night before, and
there it was he had left the bow lying. But in the meantime the great
fox nine spans long, with the fur of his back striped with stripes,
had come by that way, and finding the bow lying had striven to gnaw
it through. In so doing he had passed his neck through the string,
and the string had strangled him. So in this way Shanggasba obtained
possession of his skin, which he forthwith carried in triumph to the
King and Queen. The King when he saw it exclaimed, "Of a truth now is
Shanggasba a mighty hunter, for he has killed the great fox nine spans
long, and with the fur of his back striped with stripes. Therefore
shall the hand of the Princess be given to him in marriage."

But the Queen would not yet give up the cause of her daughter, and she
said, "Not only in fighting and hunting must he give proof of might,
but also over the spirits he must show his power." Then Shanggasba
made answer, "Wherein shall I show my power over the spirits?"

And the Queen said, "In the regions of the North, among the Mongols,
are seven dæmons who ride on horses: these shalt thou slay and bring
hither, if thou wouldst ask for the hand of the Princess and become
the King's son-in-law."

"Even so let it be," replied Shanggasba; "only point me out the way,
and give me provisions for the journey."

So the Queen commanded that the way should be shown him, and appointed
him provisions for the journey, which she prepared with her own hand,
namely, seven pieces of black rye-bread that he was to eat on his way
out, and seven pieces of white wheaten-bread that he was to eat on his
way home. Thus provided, he went forth towards the region of the North,
among the Mongols, to seek for the seven dæmons who rode on horses.

Before night he reached the land of the Mongols, and finding a hillock,
he halted and sat down on it, and took out his provisions: and it
well-nigh befell that he had eaten the white wheaten-bread first;
but he said, "Nay, I had best get through the black bread first." So
he left the white wheaten-bread lying beside him, and began to eat
a piece of the black rye-bread. But as he was hungry and ate fast,
the hiccups took him; and then, before he had time to put the bread
up again into his wallet, suddenly the seven dæmons of the country
of the Mongols came upon him, riding on their horses. So he rose
and ran away in great fear, leaving the bread upon the ground. But
they, after they had chased him a good space, stopped and took
counsel of each other what they should do with him, and though for
a while they could not agree, finally they all exclaimed together,
"Let us be satisfied with taking away his victuals." So they turned
back and took his victuals; and the black rye-bread they threw away,
but the white wheaten-bread they ate, every one of them a piece.

The Queen, however, had put poison in the white wheaten-bread, which
was to serve Shanggasba on his homeward journey; and now that the
seven dæmons ate thereof, they were all killed with the poison that
was prepared for him, and they all laid them down on the hillock and
died, while their horses grazed beside them (4).

But in the morning, Shanggasba hearing nothing more of the trampling
of the dæmons chasing him, left off running, and plucked up courage
to turn round and look after them; and when he saw them not, he
turned stealthily back, looking warily on this side and on that,
lest they should be lying in wait for him. And when he had satisfied
himself the way was clear of them, he bethought him to go back and
look after his provisions. When he got back to the hillock, however,
he found the seven dæmons lying dead, and their horses grazing beside
them. The sight gave him great joy; and having packed each one on
the back of his horse, he led them all up to the King and Queen.

The King was so pleased that the seven dæmons were slain, that he
would not let him be put on his trial any more. So he delivered the
Princess to him, and he became the King's son-in-law. Moreover, he
gave him a portion like to the portion of a King's son, and erected
a throne for him as high as his own throne, and appointed to him half
his kingdom, and made all his subjects pay him homage as to himself.



"This man thought that his father's words had failed, and owned not
that it was because he buried his bones in a prosperous place that
good fortune happened unto him," exclaimed the Prince.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, fleet out of sight.



TALE XIX.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of
the cool grove, and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his
bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished to strengthen
him for the journey, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this
tale, saying,--



THE PERFIDIOUS FRIEND.

Long ages ago there lived in a northern country of India a lioness
who had her den in the side of a snow-capped mountain. One day she had
been so long without food that she was near to have devoured her cub;
determining, however, to make one effort first to spare it, she went
out on a long journey till she came to a fair plain where there were
a number of cows grazing. When she saw the herd of cows she could
not refrain a terrible roar; but the cows, hearing the roar of the
lioness, said one to another, "Let us make haste to escape from the
lioness," and they all went their way. But there was one of the cows
which had a calf, and because she could neither make the calf go fast
enough to escape the lioness, nor could bring herself to forsake it,
she remained behind and fell a prey to the wild beast. The lioness
accordingly made a great feast, chiefly on the blood of the cow,
and carried the flesh and the bones to her den.

The calf followed the traces of its mother's flesh, and when the
lioness lay down to sleep the calf came along with her own cub to suck,
and the lioness being overcome, and as it were drunken with the blood
she had taken, failed to perceive what the calf did. In the morning,
as the calf had drunk her milk, she forbore to slay it, and the calf
and the cub were suckled together. After two or three days, when there
was nothing left for the lioness to eat but a few bones of the cow,
she devoured them so greedily in her hunger that one big knuckle-bone
stuck in her throat, and as she could by no means get it out again,
she was throttled by it till she died. Before dying she spoke thus
to the calf and the cub, "You two, who have been suckled with the
same milk, must live at peace with each other. If some day an enemy
comes to you and tries to set you one against the other, pay no heed
to his words, but remain at one as before." Thus she charged them.

When the lioness was dead the cub betook himself into the forest,
and the calf found its way to the sunny slope of a mountain side;
but at the hour of evening they went down to the stream together to
drink, and after that they disported themselves together.

There was a fox, however, who had been used to feed on the remnants
of the lion's meals, and continued now to profit by those of the cub;
he saw with a jealous eye this growing intimacy with the calf, and
determined to set them at variance (2).

One day, therefore, when the cub had just killed a beast and lay
sucking its blood, the fox came to him with his tail no longer cockily
curled up on his back, but low, sweeping the ground, and his ears
drooping. When the cub saw him in this plight, he exclaimed, "Fox! what
hath befallen thee? Tell me thy grief, and console thyself the while
with a bite of this hind." But the fox, putting on a doleful tone,
answered him, "How should I, thine uncle, take pleasure in eating flesh
when thou hast an enemy? hence is all pleasure gone from me." But the
cub answered carelessly, "It is not likely any one should be my enemy,
fox; therefore set to and eat this hind's flesh." "If thou refusest in
this lighthearted way to listen to the words of thine uncle," answered
the fox, "so shall the day come when thou wilt berue it." "Who then,
pray, is this mine enemy?" at last inquired the cub. "Who should it
be but this calf? Saith he not always, 'The lioness killed my mother;
therefore when I am strong enough I will kill the cub.'" "Nay, but
we two are brothers," replied the cub; "the calf has no bad thoughts
towards me." "Knowest thou then really not that thy mother killed
his mother?" exclaimed the fox. And the cub thought within himself,
"What the fox says is nevertheless true; and, further, is he not mine
uncle, and what gain should he have to deceive me?" Then said he aloud,
"By what manner of means does the calf purpose to kill me? tell me,
I pray." And the fox made answer, "When he wakes to-morrow morning,
observe thou him, and if he stretches himself and then digs his horns
into the earth, and shakes his tail and bellows, know that it is a sure
token he is minded to kill thee." The cub, his suspicions beginning
to be excited, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the calf.

Having succeeded thus far the fox went his way, directing his steps to
the sunny side of the mountain slope where the calf was grazing. With
his tail trailing on the ground, and his ears drooping, he stood
before the calf. "Fox! what aileth thee?" inquired the calf cheerily;
"come and tell me thy grief." But the fox answered, "Not for myself
do I grieve. It is because thou, O calf! hast an enemy; therefore
do I grieve." But the calf answered, "Be comforted, fox, for it
is not likely any should be an enemy to me." Then replied the fox,
"Beware thou disregard not my words, for if thou do, of a certainty
a day shall come when thou shalt berue it." But the calf inquired,
saying, "Who then could this enemy possibly be?" And the fox told him,
saying, "Who should it be other than the lion-cub in the forest on
the other side the mountain? Behold! doth he not use to say, 'Even
as my mother killed and devoured his mother, so also will I kill and
devour him.'" "Let not this disturb thee, fox," interposed the calf,
"for we two are brothers; he hath no bad thoughts against me." But
the fox warned him again, saying, "Of a surety, if thou disregard
my words thou shalt berue it. Behold! I have warned thee." Then the
calf began to think within himself, "Is it not true what he says that
the cub's mother killed my mother; and, further, what gain should he,
mine uncle, have in deceiving me?" Then said he aloud, "If thy warning
be so true, tell me further, I pray thee, by what manner of means
doth he design to put me to death?" And the fox told him, saying,
"When he wakes to-morrow morning observe thou him, and if he stretch
himself and shake his mane, if he draws his claws out and in, and
scratches up the earth with them, then know that it is a sure token
he is minded to slay thee." The calf, his suspicions beginning to be
awakened, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the cub.

The next morning, when they woke, each observed the other as he had
promised the fox, and each by natural habit, which the fox had observed
of old, but they not, gave the signs he had set before them for a
token. At this each was filled with wrath and suspicion against the
other, and when at sunrise they both went down to the stream to drink,
the cub growled at the calf, and the calf bellowed at the cub. Hence
further convinced of each other's bad intentions, they each determined
at the same instant to be beforehand with the other. The calf dug his
horns into the breast of the cub and gored it open, and the cub sprang
upon the calf's throat and made a formidable wound, from whence the
blood poured out. Thus they contended together till all the blood of
both was poured out, and they died there before the face of the fox.

Then came a voice out of svarga (3), saying, "Put never thy trust
in a false friend, for so doing he shall put thee at enmity with him
who is thy friend in truth."



"Nevertheless, as the cub was killed as well as the calf, the perfidy
of the fox profited him nothing as soon as he had made an end of
eating their flesh!" exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XX.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of
the cool grove; and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his
bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished, to strengthen
him for the journey, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this
tale, saying,--



BHIXU LIFE.

Long ages ago there lived in a country in the north of India, namely
Nepaul, on the banks of a river named the Hiranjâvati (1), an old
man and his old wife, who had no sons, but only one daughter. But
this one daughter was all in all to them; and they had only one care
in life, and that care was, how to establish her safely and well,
that she might not be left alone in the world when they were on it no
more. Nevertheless, though the maiden was fair to see, and wise and
prudent in her ways, and though her parents had laid by a rich dowry
for her portion, it so chanced that no one offered to marry her. Yet
the years went by, and the man and his wife were both growing old,
and they said, "If we marry her not now, soon will she be left all
alone in the world."

In a hut at some distance lived another aged couple, who were very
poor; but they had one only son. Then said the father of the maiden
to her mother, "We must give our daughter to the son of this poor
couple for a wife, otherwise she will be left alone in the world."

So they married the maiden to the son of this poor old couple, and
they took him into their house, and he lived together with them.

After a time, the husband felt a desire to return and see his parents;
so he took his wife with him, and they went to seek his parents. At
home, however, they were not, for they led a Bhixu life, and were
gone on a begging expedition through all the tribes; therefore they
went on, seeking them. About this time, a mighty Khan had given orders
for a great distribution of alms (2). All that any one asked for, it
was given him, whatsoever it might be. Only concerning the measure of
rice-brandy distributed to any one person was there any restriction;
but of all the rest there was no stint.

The man and his wife therefore came with the rest of the people,
and obtained their portion, according to their desire. When all
had been well served, and had returned every one to his home, the
man said to his wife, "If we would really be rich, and enjoy life,
the way to do it is to go round through all the tribes, living on
alms. So living, we have all we need desire. Moreover we need stand
in no fear of thieves and robbers; our strength will not be brought
down by labour by day, nor our sleep disturbed with anxiety by night;
in drought and murrain we shall have no loss to suffer, for the herds
of which we shall live will not be our own. To travel about ever among
new people is itself no small pleasure. Moreover we shall never be
vexed with paying tribute of that we have earned with the toil of our
arms. If even we go back and take to us the inheritance thy parents
promised to us, in how many days would it be all spent, and we become
again even as now! But by going from tribe to tribe, living on alms,
our store is never diminished, and there is nothing we shall lack (3)."

Thus they lived many months, begging alms and lacking nothing, even
as the man had said. Nevertheless, in the midst of their wanderings,
a son was born to them. Then said the woman, "These wild tribes among
whom we now are, give us nothing but rice-brandy, which is no food for
me; neither have I strength to carry the child as he gets older." And
as she knew her husband loved a vagabond life, and could not hear
of going to live at home with her parents, she added, "Let us now
go see my parents, and beg of them that they give us of their herds
an ass, on which the infant may ride withal when we go round among
the tribes seeking alms." To this proposition the man did not say
"Nay," and they journeyed towards the house of the woman's parents,
along the bank of the river Hiranjâvati.

When they arrived at home, they found that the woman's parents were
dead, nor was there the least remnant left of all their possessions:
the herds were dispersed, and the flocks had fallen a prey to the
wolves and the jackals; nothing remained but a few tufts of wool, which
had got caught on the ant-heaps (4). The wife picked up the tufts,
saying, "We will collect all these, and weave a piece of stuff out of
them." But her husband pointed out that, at no great distance, was a
plain with many tents, where, by asking alms, they could have plenty
of barley and rice, without the trouble of weaving. They continued
their way therefore towards the tents; but the woman continued saying,
"When we have woven our piece of stuff, we will sell it, and buy a
bigger piece, and then we will sell that and buy a bigger; and so on,
till we have enough to buy an ass, then we will set our little one
on it instead of carrying him. Then perhaps our ass will have a foal,
and then we shall have two asses." "Certainly," answered her husband,
"if our ass has a foal we shall have two asses." But the child said,
"If our ass has a foal, I will take the foal, and will ride him, going
about among the tribes, I also, asking alms even as you (5)." When
his mother heard him speak thus, she was angry, and bid him hold
his peace; she also went to correct him by hitting him with a stick,
but the boy tried to escape from her, and the blow fell upon his head
and killed him. Thus their child died.

At the time that the woman's parents died, and the herds were
dispersed, and the flocks devoured by wolves and jackals, one only
lamb had escaped from the destruction, and had taken refuge in a
hole in the ground, where it remained hid all day, and only came out
at night to graze (6). One day a hare came by, and as the lamb was
not afraid of the hare, she did not hide herself from him; therefore
the hare said to her, "O lamb, who art thou?" And the lamb answered,
"I belong to a flock whose master died of grief because his children
went away and forsook him; and when he died, the wolves and the
jackals came and devoured all his flock, and I, even I only, escaped
of them all, and I have hid myself in this hole. Thou, O hare, then,
be my protector." Thus spoke the lamb.

But the hare answered, "Must not a lamb live in a flock? How shall
a lamb live in a hole all alone? Behold, I will even bring thee to
a place where are flocks of sheep, with whom thou mayest live as
becometh a lamb."

"It were better we stayed here," replied the lamb trembling; "for if
we meet the wolf in the open country, how shall we escape him?" "For
that will I provide," answered the hare; "only come thou with me." So
they set out, the lamb and the hare together, for to seek a place
where grazed flocks in goodly company.

As they went along, they saw on the ground a hand-loom, which some
one sitting out there to weave had left behind. The hare bid the lamb
put it on her back, and bring it along with her. The lamb did as she
was bid. A little farther they saw a piece of yellow stuff lying on
the ground: this also the hare bid the lamb pick up and bring with
her. The lamb did as she was bid. And a little farther on they saw a
piece of paper, with something written on it, blown along by the wind;
this likewise the hare bid the lamb bring with her. And the lamb did
as she was bid.

A little farther on they saw a wolf coming. As he drew near them,
the hare said to the lamb, "Bring me now my throne." Then the lamb
understood that he meant the hand-loom, and she set it in the way. Then
the hare continued, "Spread abroad over me my gold-coloured royal
mantle." Then the lamb understood that he meant the piece of yellow
stuff he had bid her pick up, and she spread it over him as he sat
on the hand-loom for a throne. Then said the hare again "Reach me the
document which the moon sent down to me on the fifteenth of the month
(7)." So the lamb understood that he meant the piece of written paper
he had bid her pick up, and she gave it into his hand.

By this time the wolf had come up with them, and when he saw the
hare seated so majestically on the hand-loom for a throne, and with
the royal mantle of yellow stuff about him, and the written document
in his hand, the lamb moreover standing quietly by his side, he said
within himself, "These must be very extraordinary beasts, who do not
run away at my approach, after the manner of common beasts." Therefore
he stood still, and said to the hare, "Who and whence art thou?" But
the hare, still holding the piece of written paper in his hand, made
as though he were reading from it as follows:--"This is the all high
command of the god Churmusta (8) unto the most noble and honourable
hare, delivered unto him by the hands of the moon, on the fifteenth
of the month. On the same most noble and honourable hare I lay this
charge, that he do bring me, before the fifteenth of the next moon,
the skins of a thousand rapacious, flock-scattering wolves." And as
the hare read these words, he erected his ears with great importance
and determination of manner, and made as though he would have come
down from his throne to attack the wolf.

The wolf, still more alarmed at this proceeding, took flight, nor so
much as looked back to see whether the hare was really pursuing him.

As soon as he was well on his way, the hare and the lamb set out once
more on their journey, taking another direction from the wolf, and
arrived happily at one of the most fertile pastures in the kingdom
of Nepaul.



"The prudence of that hare was equal to his good feeling," exclaimed
the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XXI.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the
cool grove; and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his bag,
the Siddhî-kür as they went along told him this tale, saying,--



HOW THE WIDOW SAVED HER SON'S LIFE (1).

Long ages ago there lived in Chara Kitad (2), which lieth to the
east of India, a king named Daibang (3), who had one only son. But
this son never showed himself to the people. No one in the whole
empire had once set his eyes on him. Every day he sent and fetched a
handsome youth of the people to come and comb his hair for him, and
immediately that he had made an end of combing him he had him put to
death. Every day one. This went on for many years, and no one dared
to withhold their son from the king's command. At last it came to the
turn of a youth who was a widow's son. The widow, therefore, full of
anguish at the thought of her son, her eldest stay and consolation,
being taken from her and slain, made cakes of dough kneaded with her
own milk, and gave them to her son, saying, "Manage so that while thou
art combing the hair of the Khan, he shall eat one of these cakes."

The widow's son, therefore, came and stood before the Khan; and as he
combed the Khan's hair with the Khan's golden comb, he saw that the
ears of the Khan were formed like to the ears of an ass, and that it
was that his subjects might not know he had ears like to the ears of
an ass, that he put to death every day the young men, who, combing his
hair, had seen them. Nevertheless, the widow's son went on combing the
Khan's hair, and eating the cakes his mother had given him the while.

At last the Khan said, "What eatest thou?"

And he answered, "Cakes kneaded of rice-flour and milk; such cakes
do I eat."

And when the Khan asked for some to taste, he gave him one, and the
Khan ate it. When the Khan had eaten the cake, he said, "The scent and
the flavour of these cakes is good. How are they composed? tell me."

The widow's son answered, "My mother made them for me with milk of
her own breast, and kneaded them with rice-flour."

When the Khan heard that, he said within himself, "How shall I put this
youth to death, seeing he and I have both partaken of one mother's
milk? That were unnatural and unheard of." Then said he aloud, "If
that be so, I will not put thee to death this day; but only take an
oath of thee that thou tell no man that I have ears like to asses'
ears. Shouldst thou, however, break thine oath, then, know that thou
shalt surely be put to death."

"Unto no man, O Khan," swore the youth, "will I declare this
thing. Neither unto my mother herself." And having thanked the Khan
for sparing his life he went his way.

Day after day, however, all the youths who went in to comb the Khan's
hair were put to death as before, and all the people wondered greatly
why the widow's son had been spared. Nevertheless, remembering the
oath which he had given the Khan, he told no man how it had befallen
for all their wondering and inquiring, nor even his own mother.

But as he continued thus keeping his own counsel, and telling no man
the reason why the Khan killed all the other youths who combed his
hair and spared him, the secret vexed his heart, nor could he stand
against the oppression of his desire to speak it, so that he fell ill,
and like to die. Nor were medicaments nor yet offerings in sacrifice
(4) of any avail to heal him of that sickness, though many Lamas
were called to see him. At last a Lama came, who having felt his
pulse said, "In this kind of sickness medicaments avail nothing;
only tell what it is thou hast on thine heart, and as soon as thou
shalt have told it, to whomsoever it may be, thou shalt be relieved,
and be well again. Other remedy is there none." Thus spoke the Lama.

Then all they that stood by the bed spoke to him, saying, "If it
be that thou hast any thing on thy mind, as the Lama has said, even
though it be the least matter, speak it now and recover. Of what good
shall it be to thee to keep the secret if, after all, thou diest?"

But neither so would he break his oath to the Khan. But at night
when they were all gone, and his mother only was with him, and she
urged him much, he told her, saying, "Of a truth have I a secret;
but I have sworn to the Khan that I will tell it to no man, nor yet
even to thee, my mother."

Then spoke his mother again, saying, "If this be so, then go out far
from the habitations of men, and hiding thy face in a crack of the
earth where the soil is parched for want of moisture; or else, in the
hollow of an ancient tree, or in a narrow cleft of the everlasting
rock, and speak it there."

And the youth listened to her word; and he went out far from the
habitations of men till he came where there was a hole of a marmot
in the ground. Putting his mouth into the hole he cried, "Our Khan,
Daibang, has ears even like to the ears of an ass!" and he repeated
the same four times, and was well again.

But the marmot living in the hole, had heard the words, and she
repeated them to the echo, and the echo told them to the wind, and
the wind brought them to the Khan.

So the Khan sent, and called the youth, even the widow's son, before
him, saying, "Charged I thee not that thou told no man this thing,
and swarest thou not unto me that thou wouldst declare it to no man,
nor even to thine own mother? How then hast thou gone and spoken
it abroad?"

But the youth answered, saying, "To no man either at home or abroad
have I spoken the thing, O Khan!"

"How then came the words back to me unless it be that thou hast spoken
them, seeing that none other knows the thing save thee?" again asked
the Khan.

"I know not," replied the youth, "unless it be that through refraining
of myself that I might keep the secret I fell ill, and when all
medicaments and offerings of sacrifice failed, there came a Lama
who said there was no remedy save that I should unburden that which
oppressed my mind. Then to save my life, and yet not betray the
Khan's confidence, I spoke it in the hole of a marmot in the waste,
far from the habitations of men."

Then when the Khan found he was so faithful and discreet he believed
his word, and forbore to put him to death. Further he said to him,
"Tell me, now, canst thou devise any means by which these asses'
ears may be concealed, so that I may go forth among my subjects like
other Khans?"

"If the Khan would listen to the word of one so humble, even now a
means of concealment is plain to my mind," replied the youth.

And the Khan answered him, "Speak, and I will listen to what thou
hast to advise."

The youth therefore spoke, saying, "O mighty Khan! Let now a
high-fashioned cap be made to cover thine head, and let there be on
either side lappets to the cap, covering the ears. Then shall all
men when they see the Khan wearing such a cap deem it beseeming to
wear such a cap likewise." Thus the youth counselled the Khan.

And the Khan found the counsel good, and he made him a high-fashioned
cap with lappets covering the ears; and when the ministers of state
and the counsellors and nobles saw the Khan wearing such a cap,
they made to themselves caps like unto it, and all men wore it, and
it was known by the name of "the lappet cap." But no man knew that
the king's ears were like to asses' ears.

Furthermore, the Khan no longer had need to put to death the youths
who combed his hair, and all the people rejoiced greatly. But for
the youth, even the widow's son, he made him steward over all his
household, and whatsoever he did, he did with prudence and judgment,
his mother advising him.



"The Khan who put so many youths to death to save his own reputation
did not deserve so good a counsel!" exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XXII.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of
the cool grove, and, having brought thence the Siddhî-kür as on the
other times, bound in his bag with the cord woven of a hundred threads,
as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, saying,--



THE WHITE SERPENT-KING.

Long ages ago there lived in the east part of India a Khan whose
possessions were so large that he had ten thousand cities, and for
the administration of the affairs of the same he had not less than
thirty ministers. He had also a gold frog that could dance, and a
parrot that spoke wisely. A tamer was also appointed to have care of
them, and every day this keeper brought them before the Khan to divert
him. The frog danced every day a new dance, and the parrot now gave
wise answers to the questions he proposed, now sang melodious songs
with accomplished art.

One day there came to the court of this King a minstrel from a strange
land, in whose playing and singing the Khan took so great pleasure
that he gave him many rich presents, and the man went about saying,
"In all his dominions the King has no favourite in whom he takes so
great delight as in me who am a stranger; neither is there any other
who knows how to please him as I." When the keeper of the gold frog
and the parrot heard him make this boast, he answered him saying,
"Nay, much greater pleasure hath the Khan in his gold frog and his
parrot, of whom I am keeper." And they strove together. In the end the
minstrel said, "To-morrow we will both go up to the Khan together, and
while your gold frog dances his most elaborate dance, and your parrot
sings his most melodious songs, I also will play and sing my sagas to
the Khan; and behold! to whichever the Khan gives ear while he regards
not the other, he shall be accounted to have most pleased the Khan."

The next day they did even as the minstrel had said, and when the
minstrel began to sing the Khan paid no more heed at all to the frog
or the parrot, but listened only to the strange minstrel's words.

Then the tamer who had charge of the frog and the parrot, when he
saw that the strange minstrel was preferred, lost heart and came no
more before the Khan, but went and let fly the parrot, and threw the
gold frog out of a window of the palace. As he threw the gold frog
out of the window of the palace a crow was flying by, and seeing the
frog thrown out, and that it knew not which way to turn, he caught
it in his beak and flew away to a ledge of a rock. As he was about
to devour her, the frog said,--

"O crow! if thou art minded to devour me, first wash me in water,
and then come and devour me."

And the remark pleased the crow, and he said to the frog,--

"Well spoken, O frog! What is thy name?"

And the frog made answer,--

"Bagatur-Ssedkiltu (1). That is my name."

So the crow took her down to wash her in the streamlet which flowed
ceaselessly out of a hole in the rock. But the frog had no sooner
gained the water than she crept into the hole. The crow called
after her,--

"Bagatur-Ssedkiltu! Bagatur-Ssedkiltu, come thou here!"

But the frog answered him,--

"I should be foolish indeed if I came of my own account to give up
my sweet life to your voracity. The Three Precious Treasures (2)
may decide whether I have so little courage and pride as that!"

So saying, she leapt into a cleft of the rock out of reach of the crow.

Meantime her former tamer had come up, and began searching about,
trying to recover her, having bethought him he might incur the King's
anger in having let her go. And when he saw her not he began digging
up the earth and hewing the rock all round the streamlet.

When the frog saw him digging up the earth and breaking the rock all
round the streamlet, she cried out to him,--

"Dig not up the source of this spring. The King of the same hath
given me charge over it, and I will not that thou lay it bare by
digging round it." She said further, "Though now thou art in sorrow
and distress, I will presently render thee a gift that shall be a
gift of wonder. Listen and I will tell thee. I am the daughter of the
Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o'-pearl shells (3). One
day I went out to see the King's daughter bathe, and she, seeing me,
sent and had me fished out of the stream with a mother-o'-pearl pail,
and took me with her."

Meantime, the King began to notice that the parrot and the frog came
no more to entertain him, so he sent for the tamer, and inquired what
had become of his charges.

"The frog is gone her way in the stream," answered the man, "and the
parrot must have been taken by a hawk."

The Khan was wroth at this answer, and ordered that the man should
be taken and put to death.

Then came the first of the thirty ministers to the Khan, saying,--

"If we put this man to death, no more dancers or singers will come
any more to this court."

And the Khan answered,--

"It is well spoken; let him not be put to death." He sent him into
banishment, however, with three men to see him over the border of
his dominions, and a goat to carry his provisions. But he also had
him shod with a pair of shoes made out of stone, forbidding him to
return until the stone shoes should be worn through.

As soon as his guards had left him, the tamer sat down by the side of
the stream, and after soaking the stone shoes with water, rubbed them
with a piece of rough stone till they were all in holes. Then he came
back to his own country, with the goat that had carried his provisions,
and made him dig roots out of the earth for him to eat. And he lived
upon the roots.

One day he saw an owl flying by, which held in its mouth a white
serpent. The tamer knew him to be a serpent-prince, and to make
the owl release him, took off his girdle and held it in his mouth,
after the manner in which the owl held the serpent, and, standing over
against the owl, he cried out, "The thing held in the mouth burns with
fire!" at the same time dropping the girdle from his mouth suddenly,
as if it scorched him.

When the owl had heard his words, she also let the serpent fall out
of her beak.

Then the tamer took up the serpent, and put it on a piece of
grass near, and covered it with his cap. He had hardly done so,
when there came up out of the water a whole train of princes of the
serpent-dæmons, riding on horses, on to the bank of the stream, where
they dispersed themselves, searching about every where for the white
serpent, which was a serpent-prince.

After they had searched long and found nothing, there came up out
of the water, riding on a white horse, a white serpent, having on a
white mantle and a white crown (4).

He, seeing the tamer, said to him,--

"I am the Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o'-pearl
shells. I have lost my son. O man! say if thine eyes have lighted
on him."

The tamer asked of him, "What was thy son like?"

And the Serpent-king answered,--

"Even a white serpent was my son."

"If that is so," answered the tamer, thy son is with me. Even now a
mighty Garuda-bird had him in his beak and prepared to devour him. But
I, who am a tamer of all living creatures, knew how to entreat him
so that he should give the white serpent up to me."

Then he lifted his cap from off the grass and delivered the White
Serpent-prince unto the Serpent-king, his father.

The Serpent-king was full of delight at getting back his son, and
called a great feast of all his friends and acquaintance among the
serpent-princes to celebrate his joy. And the tamer he took into his
palace, and he dwelt with him.

After a time, however, the man desired to return to his own country,
and spoke to the Serpent-king to let him go. Then said the White
Serpent-king, who reigned over the white mother-o'-pearl shells--

"Behold, as thou hast dealt well with me, I will not let thee go
without bestowing somewhat on thee, and telling thee what good fortune
shall befall thee. Behold these two times hast thou served me well;
and long time have I sought thee to reward thee, for first thou
didst release my daughter, the Princess Goldfrog, from servitude,
putting her out of the window of the palace, and now thou hast
restored my son, even mine only son, to me. Know, therefore, that of
thee shall be born four sons, every one of whom shall be a king in
Gambudvîpa. Nevertheless, seeing it will befall that, ere that time
come, thou shalt pass through a season of trial, and be in need,
I give unto thee this Mirjalaktschi (5) and this wand. Whensoever
thou wantest for food, touch but this Mirjalaktschi with the wand,
and immediately every kind of viand shall be spread out before thee."

Then he brought him up to the edge of the water to let him depart,
giving him a brightly painted Mirjalaktschi and a mother-o'-pearl wand;
moreover, he gave him a red-coloured dog also.

Then the White Serpent-king went his way down under the water again
to his palace, and the tamer turned him towards his own country,
the red-coloured dog following behind him.



"Thus was the promise of Princess Goldfrog fulfilled," exclaimed
the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.



TALE XXIII.


Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of
the cool grove; and having taken the Siddhî-kür, and bound him in his
bag, as at other times, he brought him along to the great Master and
Teacher Nâgârg'una. As they went along by the way, the Siddhî-kür told
him this tale, of how it fell out with the red-coloured dog, saying,--



WHAT BECAME OF THE RED-COLOURED DOG.

When it was evening they went, the tamer and the red-coloured dog
together, into a grove to sleep, and by day they journeyed on. One day,
when they made their evening halt, the red-coloured dog laid aside her
dog's form, and appeared as a beautiful maiden, clothed in shining
robes of white, and with a crown of white flowers on her head; and,
when the tamer saw her, he loved her.

Moreover, she said to him, "Me hath the Serpent-king given to thee to
be thy wife." And he married her, and she was his wife. Every morning
she put on the form of the red-coloured dog again, and they journeyed
on. One morning, however, before she put on the dog form, she went
down to bathe in the river, and while she was gone, the man burnt the
dog form, saying, "Now must she always remain as a beautiful woman."

But when she came up from bathing, and found what he had done, she
said, with many other moving and sorrowful words, "Now can I no more
walk with thee, and share thy wanderings."

So they remained in that place.

Again, another day she went down to bathe in the river, and as she
bathed some of her hairs falling off, were carried down the stream.

At a place near the mouth of the stream, a maid belonging to the
service of the Khan had gone down to fetch water, and these hairs
came out of the water clinging to her water-jar. And as the hairs
were wonderful to behold, being adorned with the five colours and the
seven precious things (1), she wondered at them, and brought them to
the Khan for him to see.

The Khan had no sooner examined them than he came to this conclusion,
saying,--

"Somewhere along the course of this stream it is evident there must
be living a surpassingly beautiful woman. Only to such an one could
these hairs belong."

Then he called the captain of his guard, and bid him take of armed
men as many as ever he would, and by all means to bring unto him the
woman to whom these hairs belonged. Thus he instructed him.

But the woman had knowledge of what was going forward, and she came
weeping to her husband, and showed the thing to him, "And now,"
she said, "the Khan's soldiers will surround the place, neither is
there any way of escape, nor any that can withstand the orders of the
Khan. Hadst thou not burnt the red dog form, then had I had a means
of refuge."

Then the man wept too, and would have persuaded her to escape, but
she said,--

"It skills not, for they would pursue us and overtake us, and put you
to death out of revenge. By going at their command without resistance,
at least they will save you alive."

While they were speaking the captain of the Khan's guard came with
his men-at-arms, and posted them about the place. Then, while they
were taking their measures to completely surround the inclosure that
the woman might by no means break through, she said to her husband,--

"The only remedy that remains is that thou wait quietly for the space
of a year, and in the meantime I will arrange a stratagem. Then on the
fifteenth day of the month Pushja (2), I will go up on to the edge
of a mountain with the Khan. But thou, meantime, make to thyself a
garment of magpie's feathers, then come and dance before us, in it;
and I will invent some plan for escaping with thee."

Thus she advised him. And the soldiers came and took her to the Khan;
the husband making no resistance, even as she had counselled him.

Also, he let a year pass according to her word; but being alone, and
in distress for the loss of his wife, he neglected his work and his
business, and came to poverty. Then bethought he him of the word of
the White Serpent-king, saying, "There shall come a season when thou
shalt be in poverty." So he took out his Mirjalaktschi, and touched
it with the mother-o'pearl-wand, and it gave him all manner of food,
and he lived in abundance. Then he set snares, and caught magpies,
exceeding many, and made to himself a covering out of their feathers,
and practised himself in dancing grotesque dances.

On the fifteenth day of the month Pushja, the Khanin arranged to go
with the Khan to visit the mountain. On the same day the husband came
there also, dressed even as she had directed him, in a costume made
of magpie's feathers. Having first attracted the attention of the
Khan by his extraordinary appearance, he began dancing and performing
ludicrous antics.

The Khan, who was by this time tired of the songs of the foreign
minstrel, nor had found any to replace the gold frog and the parrot,
observed him with great attention. But the Khanin seeing how exact
and expert her husband was in following out her advice for recovering
her, felt quite happy as she had never done before since she was
taken from him; and to encourage him to go on dancing she laughed
loud and merrily.

The Khan was astonished, when he saw her laugh thus, and he said,
"Although for a whole year past I have devised every variety of
means to endeavour to make thee at least bear some appearance of
cheerfulness, it has profited nothing; for thou hast sat and mourned
all the day long, nor has any thing had power to divert thee. Yet
now that this man, who is more like a monster than a man, has come
and made all these ridiculous contortions, at this thou hast laughed!"

And she, having fixed in her own mind the part she had to play,
continued laughing, as she answered him,--

"All this year, even as thou sayest, thou hast laboured to make me
laugh; and now that I have laughed, it would seem almost that it
pleaseth thee not."

And the Khan hasted to make answer, "Nay, for in that thou hast laughed
thou hast given me pleasure; but in that it was at a diversion which
another prepared for thee, and not I, this is what pleased me not. I
would that thou hadst laughed at a sport devised for thee by me."

Then answered the Khanin, "Wouldst thou in very truth prepare for me
a sport at which I would surely laugh?"

And the Khan hasted to make answer, "That would I in very truth;
thou knowest that there is nothing I would not do to fulfil thy
bidding and desire."

"If that be so," replied the Khanin. "Know that there is one thing
at which I would laugh in right good earnest; and that is, if it were
thou who worest this monstrous costume. That this fellow weareth it is
well enough, but we know not how monstrous he may be by nature. But if
thou, O Khan, who art so comely of form and stature, didst put it on,
then would it be a sight to make one laugh indeed."

And her words pleased the Khan. So he called the man aside into a
solitary place that the courtiers and people might not see what he did,
and so become a laughing-stock to them. Then he made the man exchange
his costume of magpie's feathers against his royal attire and mantle,
and went to dance before the Khanin, bidding the man take his place
by her side.

No sooner, however, did the Khanin see him thus caught in her snare
than she returned with her own husband, habited in the Khan's royal
habiliments, to the palace. She also gave strict charge to her guard,
saying,--

"That juggler who was dancing just now upon the hill, dressed in
a fantastic costume of magpie's feathers, has the design of giving
himself out for being the Khan. Should he make the attempt, set dogs
(3) on him and drive him forth out of the country. Of all things,
on peril of your lives, suffer him not to enter the palace."

Scarcely had she made an end of speaking and conducted her husband into
the palace, when the Khan appeared, still wearing the magpie costume,
because the Khanin's husband had gone off with her, wearing his royal
habiliments, and would have made his way to his own apartments; but
the guards seeing him, and recognizing the man in the magpie disguise
the Khanin had designated, ordered him out.

The Khan asserted his khanship, and paid no heed to the guards;
but the more he strove to prove himself the Khan, the more were the
guards convinced he was the man the Khanin had ordered them to eject,
and they continued barring the way against him and preventing his
ingress. Then he grew angry and began to strive against them till they,
wearied with his resistance, called out the dogs and set them on him.

The dogs, taking him for a monstrous wild bird, eagerly ran towards
him, so that he was forced to turn and flee that he might by any means
save his life. But the dogs were swifter than he and overtook him,
and, springing upon him, tore him in pieces and devoured him.

Thus the husband of the Khanin became installed in all his governments
and possessions.

Moreover, that night there were born to the Khan four sons, who
were every one exceeding great rulers in Gambudvîpa, even as the
White Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o'-pearl shells,
had foretold.

The eldest of these four was renowned as the spiritual ruler of all
India (4). In one night he translated all the sacred books into a
thousand different languages for the use of devas and men, and in
one other night he erected a hundred thousand sacred temples all over
his dominions.

The brother next to him was endowed with all kinds of power and
strength in his earliest youth, and with every capacity. This Prince
was renowned as ruler of the Mongols by the name of Barin Tochedaktschi
Erdektu (5), for so expert and mighty was he in the use of the bow
that if he shot his arrow at four men standing side by side together,
every one of them was certain to fall to the earth, transfixed through
the centre of the heart.

The next brother raised up to himself a mighty host of a hundred
thousand men by pulling out a single hair of his head, and he led
them forth to battle, and was known to the whole earth by the name
of Gesser-Khan (6).

The fourth brother fitted out four caravans of merchandise all in one
day, and sent them forth to the four quarters of heaven. By these
means he obtained possession of the All-desire-supplying talisman,
Tschin-tâmani, and was Ruler of the Treasures of the earth, with the
title of Barss-Irbiss (7), Shah of Persia.



CONCLUSION OF THE ADVENTURES OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN.


The Well-and-wise-walking Khan listened till the Siddhî-kür had made
an end of speaking, but opened never his lips. Though he heaped up
wonders upon wonders as a man heaps up faggots on a funeral pile,
yet spake he never a word.

Therefore the sack remained fast bound with the cord of a hundred
threads of different colours, nor could the Siddhî-kür find means to
escape out of the same; but the Well-and-wise-walking Khan bore him
along to his journey's end, even to the feet of his great Master and
Teacher Nâgârg'una.

And Nâgârg'una took the mighty dead, even him endowed with perfection
of capacity and fulness of power, and laid him up in the cool grove
on the shining mountain of Southern India, venerated by all men as
the Siddhitu-Altan even unto this day.

By this means also great prosperity crowned the whole land of
Gambudvîpa. To all the men thereof were given knowledge and length
of days. The laws were obeyed and religion honoured, and happiness
had her abode among them.



THE SAGA OF ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI AND VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE.


HISTORICAL NOTICE OF VIKRAMÂDITJA.


The name of Vikramâditja is a household word in the epic mythology of
India; and freely it seems to have been adopted by or conferred upon
those who emulated the heroic acts of some first great bearer. But
as the legendary chroniclers are more occupied with extolling the
merits of their favourites, than with establishing their place in
the page of history, it becomes a well-nigh impossible task for the
modern investigator to trace out and fix the times and seasons of
all those who, either in fact or in fiction, have borne the name,
or even to distinguish with certainty how many there have been,
still less, what are the peculiar deeds and attributes of each.

A writer (1), who has examined painstakingly into the matter, tells
us that the popular mind is only conscious of one Vikramâditja,
so that without troubling itself to consider the insufficiency of
one life to embrace all the aggregate of wonderful works it has
to tell of him, it supposes him rather to have had a prolonged or
recurring existence as marvellous in itself as the events of which it
is composed. On the other hand, he found that native writers made out
the number variously from four to nine, though he could not find that
they determined with precision the existence of more than two. An
additional difficulty arises from this, that the very distinctive
super-appellations derived from their deeds by heroes bearing the
name seem to have passed over to others along with the name itself;
as, for instance, Gardabharâpa = "donkey-form," given to one of them
on account of his being temporarily transformed into a donkey by his
father; the name of Sakjaditja is similarly given indiscriminately
to others who lived at different periods, though the origin of the
word can only be found in an exploit of one of them, who with the
aid of Shêsa, the serpent-god, destroyed an oppressor named Sâkja
(2). While the name Vikramaâditja itself seems rather a descriptive
appellation than a name, being composed of the two Sanskrit words,
vikrama and âditja--the sun, or bright exposition of heroic virtue.

You may form some idea of the uncertainty thus created if you imagine
the Roman historians to have been silent, and suppose, that nothing
remained to us of the lives of the Emperors, for instance, but certain
panegyrics of bards and traditions of the people, eked out by a little
scanty assistance from inscriptions and coins, and unsystematic and
untrustworthy chronicles. You may then conceive, how with no fixed
dates marked out for determining the period of the reign of each,
and no literary criterion to distinguish incongruities, a fertile
imagination, aiming rather at exciting admiration than conveying
information, could run riot with the mass of the acts and adventures,
the victories and achievements of the whole number, because the names
or titles of "Augustus" and "Cæsar" could be applied to many or all.

There is also the further difficulty that the heroic myths of India
have travelled on from tribe to tribe, and from province to province
(3), the character of the hero and his exploits incurring many
transformations and fresh identifications under the process (4).

Not to go into the elaborate discussion which the intricate study
of the Indian dynasties has called forth, it may suffice in this
place to observe that, in the absence of more regular records, the
greatest aid we have in arriving at some fixed knowledge of the
events of a remote age in India is derived from inscriptions and
coins (5). And, as a specimen of the thought and care that has been
brought to bear on the matter, to specify the interesting circumstance
connected with this particular instance, that the nearest approach to
a satisfactory determination of the date of the chief bearer of the
name of Vikramâditja that is likely to be attained has been arrived at
from the observation of the influence of Greek art on the execution
of certain of the coins (6) which have been preserved and collected,
connecting them with the period succeeding Alexander's invasion. A
careful collation of these specimens with the most authentic list
of the kings has given tolerable authority for asserting that the
date of 57 B.C. may be assumed for the date of the first historic
(7) Vikramâditja, whose chief honour lies in having overcome and
superseded the descendants of the foreign race of rulers who had been
in possession of his native country before his time. In pursuing the
history of his dynasty, however, the help so far afforded by the coins
ceases, and the only written records of him are the collections of
popular fables of his deeds. Only one of these collections, and of
that the date is unknown, has any pretension to rank as history; and
even this is full of wonders and manifest exaggerations. Its author,
Ravipati Gurumûrti by name, informs the reader, however, that he had
brought together and compared many Sanskrit manuscripts, and sifted
much oral tradition in its compilation.

According to this account, Vikramâditja was the son of a Brahman named
Kandrasarman, the fourth son of Vishnusarman, inhabiting a city called
Vedanârâjanapura, a name not found in any other writer. Dissatisfied
with the ordinary occupations on which he was kept employed by
his parents, he ran away from home and after many adventures came
to Uggajini, where he married the daughter of Dhvagakîrti, the
reigning sovereign of Malâva (8). His son Vikramâditja was the more
celebrated hero, and according to another MS. (quoted in W. Taylor's
Examination of the Mackenzie MSS.) the former of these two was not
called Vikramâditja at all, but Govinda.

Feeling an interior conviction of his great destiny, Vikramâditja
(the son) determined on obtaining supernatural aid in fulfilling it;
and, with this view, he devoted himself to prayer and retirement, until
he had obtained an apparition of the goddess Kali, the chosen wife of
Shiva, who gave him the solemn promise that he should be invulnerable
to all enemies with the exception of one who should be supernaturally
born; and that he should rejoice in a happy reign of a thousand years
(9). By the shrewd advice of his half-brother Bhatti, whom he made
his minister, he contrived to obtain out of this promise double the
length of years actually named, for he arranged to reign for only six
months at a time, spending six months in contemplation in the jungle,
so that it took two thousand years to make up a thousand years' reign
(10). In another account, he is made to reign 949 years; and, on the
other hand, in another (11) only a hundred and six years.

It might have been expected that a people who raised themselves at
so remote a period to a comparatively high degree of civilization,
and in other departments of mental exertion distinguished themselves
in so marked a manner, should of all things have possessed a copious
historical literature, but there are other things to take into account
which explain why the contrary is the case (12). A German writer
(13) has put the case very summarily. "Their religion," he says,
"has destroyed all history for the Hindus. They are taught to look
on life as a mere passing condition of probation and sorrow, and its
incidents, consequently, as unworthy to be recorded." But this is
a hardly fair statement, and only true to a certain extent. Benfey
(14) perhaps reaches nearer the mark when he says,--"The life of man
was for them but a small portion of the immense divine life pervading
the whole universe. It lay, so to speak, rolled up in a fold of the
mantle of the godhead. Viewed thus, history became a theme so vast that
the infinitesimal human element of it was lost to view. Theosophies,
idealisms, allegories, myths, filled up the place of the record of the
doings of mortals." Troyer (15) takes nearly the same view, but further
calls attention to the influence exercised by the religious teaching
concerning re-births and transmigration of souls in working against
history becoming a science. Historical characters lost their positive
identity, and the effect a man's acts under a previous existence
were taught to exercise on his fate diminished the responsibility
and merit of, and consequently the interest in, his actions.

To arrive at a more exact view, however, it is necessary to
distinguish between the parts which Brahman and Buddhist teaching
have respectively to bear in the matter. The Brahmanical castes
became subdivided into groups composed of many families, with no
common founder, the preservation of whose name and deeds would have
afforded an instigation to building up the materials of a national
history. Only at a comparatively late period some traditions were
kept up of the heads of these groups, but this in such a way as to
serve rather to throw back attention on to the past and restrain it
from the contemplation and record of contemporary events, Caste took
the place of country, and the interest of the individual was drawn
away from national to local interest.

Next, the history of the gods possessed a much higher importance in
their eyes than that of the kings of the earth, while at the same
time the humanistic conception of their character rendered the myths
concerning them of a nature to clash with and supersede the records of
earthly notabilities. Their wars and their loves and their undertakings
were indeed often superhuman in scale, but they were yet for the
most part no more exalted in nature, than the occupations of men. But
from this habit of making their divinities actors in gigantic human
incidents, their mind grew used to regard the marvellous and unreal as
possible and true, and was at no pains to fix any data with exactness.

Then their contemplative mode of life kept them out of actual contact
with what was going on in the world around them. Most Brahmans lived
engrossed by the service of the temple, or else occupied with their
families or their disciples. Very few are the examples of their acting
as ministers or judges, or taking any part in public life.

Further, many elements of history may be said to have scarcely
existed at all. All changes of manners and customs, all growth of
arts and sciences, were impeded by the appointment of fixed laws,
and remained pretty much the same for long periods.

Again, the subdivision of the country into multitudinous governments,
and the comparatively short duration of any large union of them
under one dynasty--as, for instance, the Maurja or the Gupta--further
weakened any tendency to the formation of a national spirit. The best
preserved attempts at history are those of Lankâ (Ceylon), Orissa,
Cashmere, the Dekhan, and other kingdoms or provinces which have
all along preserved their identity. Where one country fell under
the empire of another its history naturally lapsed in that of the
conquering state, or became altogether lost; and as such annexations
were mostly effected by violence, it is only to be expected that
the conqueror should discourage any thing that would keep up the
memory of the rulers he had superseded. The Chronicle of Cashmere,
called the Râga Taraginî, or "Stream of Kings," is perhaps the best
written. It was compiled by Kalhana Pandita, who lived, however, as
late as 1150 of our era, and is carried down to the year 1125. He
appears to have laboured to make it as complete and reliable as
the vague and scattered materials at his disposal admitted; yet so
little was even he capable of appreciating the value of accuracy,
that he ascribes to a reign (removed from his own date by no more
remote period than 600 years) a length of 300 years. And this is
but a small fable by comparison with others of his statements. This
Chronicle possesses the peculiarity of being almost the only work of
an historical nature compiled under Brahman influence.

The only work which has any pretension to universality in its scope
is the Karnâtaka Râgakula. But though it begins with an account of the
creation of the world and the incarnations of Vishnu, and narrates the
deeds of typical heroes like Pandarva and Vikramâditja, it yet only
contains the history of the Dekhan, and is, after all, a modern work
edited at the bidding of English rulers. The only earlier work of the
same character is one professing to give the general history of India
from Ashokja to Pratîtasena, written in the fourteenth century. This,
however, is believed not to have been compiled by a native Indian,
and is, at any rate, not the work of a Brahman, though possibly of
a Buddhist.

In the matter of historical compilation we have in general more to
thank Buddhism than Brahmanism for. The simple Sûtra, or colloquies
of Shâkjamuni with his disciples, written in masajja, a poetical
prose pleasingly broken into a sort of cadence, themselves form
a kind of history of the country contained in this sort of memoir
of its great religionist. The simple Sûtra are of two classes. The
first class consists of an account of Buddha's own wanderings and
personal dealings both with his disciples and others, and were probably
compiled (16) by the first great Sangha, or Synod, within 100 years
after his death (17), though bearing marks in many places of having
been reconstructed at a later period. The other class takes notice
of events and persons belonging to a subsequent period. Besides
these there are the Mâhajâna-Sûtra, a more detailed and developed
continuation of the same species of chronicle, but bearing marks of
having been compiled at a much more advanced date still, for they
introduce ideas which do not belong to the early teaching of Buddhism,
but to a very late development.

These writings possess great historical importance, but yet are by no
means free from the faults of inaccuracy of date and arrangement; of
idealizations of the persons treated of; the introduction of fabulous
incidents, transmigrations, and such like. The very desire of the
Buddhists to make their records more complete and useful than the
Brahmans', often led to additional complications, because it induced
all manner of interpolations--as for instance, whole series of kingly
personages, the account of whose lives is not even to be set down to
the exaggerations of ill-preserved tradition, but to pure fabrication
of the imagination.

More reliance on the whole is to be placed on the great epic poems,
and, chiefly, the Purâna and Mahâ Bhârata.

The works which we now find extant, with the title of Purâna
(ancient)--eighteen in number,--are, however, at best but the
reproduction of six older compilations, either collected from the
recitations of Sûtas (bards), or themselves reproductions of still
older compilations, which have probably perished for ever. They
contain pretty well all that is known concerning the origin, mode of
life, heroic deeds, and ways of theological thought, of those Indian
nations who acknowledged either Vishnu or Shiva for their highest god;
and traces are to be distinguished by which the statement of earlier
and purer belief has been distorted or biassed according to the tenets
of the later compiler.

The Mahâ Bhârata concerns itself more exclusively with the deeds of the
gods and heroes, and is itself often referred to in the Purânas. Both
of them bear witness that it was the frequent custom, on occasions
of great gatherings of the people for public sacrifices and popular
festivals, and also in the places of retirement of religious teachers
round whom disciples gathered, that the stories of gods and heroes
should be sung or told, and eagerly listened to. Such stories were
collected into the Mahâ Bhârata by Vjâsa = "the Arranger" (who also
occupied himself with the recompilation of the Vêda), son of Satjavati
= "the truthful one," daughter to Vasu, king of Magadha. Vasu
had conferred great benefits on his subjects, and was held in
proportionate honour. His great work was the construction of a canal,
of which mythology has thus preserved the memory. The mountain-god,
Kôlâhola, fell in love with the stream-goddess, Shirktimatî. As she
sported past the tower of Kêdi, he barred her further progress by here
damming her course with a mountain. Vasu saw her distress, and came to
rescue her by striking the mountain with his foot, and thus delivering
her from her imprisonment. The goddess in gratitude devoted her twin
children to his service. He made her son the leader of his armies,
and married her daughter Girikâ, by whom he also had twins--a son,
whom he made king of Matsja; and a daughter, Satjavati, who, as we have
seen, married the father of Yjâsa. This was the Rishi Parâsara who
obtained for her the name of Gandha, and the corresponding character
of "sweet-scented," as heretofore, from the occupation to which she
had been devoted by her father of ferrying people across the Jamuna,
she had acquired a smell of fish. She is also called, Gandhahali =
"the sweet-scented dark one," which latter appellation is explained by
the story that she made Parâsara observe that the other Rishis were in
the habit of watching her from the other side of the river, on which
he constructed a mist to conceal her, or make her "dark" to them. Why
"the Arranger" of legends should have "the truthful one" ascribed
to him for his mother, is easy enough to see. Parâsra was reckoned
his father because he was the inventor of chronology, which ought to
precede any attempt to make chronicles out of traditions. The legend
further says that Parasâra made acquaintance with Satjavati while on
a pilgrimage, which may be taken as an embodiment of the fact that
it was such gatherings which afforded opportunity for collecting Sagas.

Of somewhat similar nature is the Râmâjana--a collection of Sagas
concerning Rama, sometimes called the brother, and sometimes an
incarnation of Vishnu, but also containing stories of other gods,
as well as a variety of quasi-religious episodes. While displaying
the usual exaggerations common to the Sagas of all nations, these
Indian Sagas have one leading peculiarity in the frequent Avatâra,
or incorporation of Vishnu or Rama in the persons of their heroes (18).

Lassen (19) reckons both the Mahâ Bhârata and the Râmâjana to have been
compiled about 300--50 B.C.; but it is impossible to fix the dates of
any of them with absolute certainty. One theory for arriving at it
is, that they possess strong inherent evidence of being Brahmanical
productions; and as they contain no allusion to so great an event as
the establishment of Buddhism, while they yet make allusions to certain
predictions of the wane of Brahmanism (seemingly suggested by details
of the mode of the sudden spread of the teaching of Shâkjamuni), it
may be inferred that the latest date for their compilation (which in
any case must have extended over a prolonged period) would be coeval
with the period of the greatest development in Central India of the
latter school.

It is evident, however, that none of these poems are of a nature
to supply any sound basis for the historiographer. The very lists
of the kings that they supply, carry with them inherent evidence of
untrustworthiness in the readiness with which recourse is had to the
introduction of supernatural means for supplying missing links in
the fabulous periods of their chronology.

In the tenth century and later, several Muhammedan writers undertook
the history of India; but they are very untrustworthy. For this
place, it may suffice to mention that, by the most important of them,
Vikramâditja is made out to be a grandson of Porus, and his name
transformed into that of Barkamaris (20).



I will now give you a specimen of what are considered the purely
legendary accounts of Vikramâditja's origin, and you will see that
they are barely more extravagant than the historical one I have
introduced above (21).

In a jungle (22) situated between the rivers Subhramatî and Mahi,
in Gurgâramandala, lived the Rishi Tâmralipta, who gave his daughter
Tamrasena for a wife to King Sadasvasena. They lived happily, and
had a family of six sons, but only one daughter, Madanrekhâ. One day,
when a servant of theirs named Devasarman was working in the forest,
he heard the voice of some invisible being speaking to him, and bidding
him go and demand for it the hand of Madanrekhâ in marriage. When
he hesitated, not daring to ask so great a matter of his master,
the voice threatened him with fearful penalties if he failed to obey
its behest. As the voice continued day after day to admonish him, he
at last begged his master to come and listen to it for himself; who,
recognizing it for that of King Gandharva, whom Indra had transformed
into an ass, he felt constrained to comply, and he accordingly bestowed
his daughter on him. Though proud of the alliance of so great a
king as Gandharva, Tâmrasena was nevertheless distressed that her
daughter's husband should wear so ungainly an appearance. What was
her joy when she one day discovered that, whenever he went to visit
her, he left his donkey's form outside the door, and appeared like
other men. She was not slow to take advantage of the circumstance
by burning the donkey's form: the spell was thus destroyed, and
Gandharva delivered from the operation of the curse. After a time
they had a son, whom Gandharva desired his wife to call Vikramâditja,
telling her at the same time that her handmaid would also have a son,
who was to be called Bhartrihari, and who should devote himself to
his service. Having uttered these counsels, he went up to the deva's
paradise. Meantime, Madanrekhâ, having heard that her father designed
to kill the infant, delivered it to the care of a gardener's wife, with
the charge to conceal it, and then put an end to her own life. The
gardener's wife fled with the young prince to Uggajini, where he
passed his youth. The incidents of the burning of a form temporarily
laid aside, of danger threatening the life of the infant, of a flight
from his birthplace, and of a half-brother, in some way inferior to
himself, yet devoted to him, pervade, not only both these accounts,
but also the more detailed legend which is to follow in the text.

While all this uncertainty surrounds the circumstances of
Vikramâditja's birth, his mode of attaining the throne, and the
extent and even the locality of his dominions, are narrated with
equal diversity; while, though an important era still in use is
dated from him, extending from 57 B.C. to 319 A.C. when commences the
Ballabhi-Gupta dynasty, the particular event by which he deserved so
distinguished a commemoration has been by no means determined with
certainty (23).

In a version of his story called Vikramakaritra, it is said simply,
that King Prasena of Uggajinî dying without heirs, Vikramâditja
was chosen king (24). According to another, the last king of the
Greco-Indian dynasty abdicated in his favour out of disgust with
life after the death of his wife. According to the legends a Vetâla
(25) obtained possession of the throne and every night strangled
the king, who had been raised to it in the course of the day by the
ministers, until Vikramâditja undertook to maintain himself in power,
and succeeded in propitiating the Vetâla. It is easy to read under
cover of this imagery the original fact of a hero delivering his
people from an oppressor.

What people or country it was that Vikramâditja delivered is difficult
to decide, as he is named in the sagas of many nations as belonging
to each (26). We have already seen him seated king in the capital
of Malwa. The more legendary accounts ascribe to him the widest
range of dominion. In the Ganamegaja-Râgavansâvali (27) we find him
in possession of Bengal, Hindostan, the Dekhan, and Western India;
and in the Bhogaprabandha (28) he is reckoned conqueror of the whole
of India; while in the Bhavishja-Purâna (29) it is told that he
had 800 kings tributaries under him, though whether the list could
be authentically made out is more than questionable. What can be
proved with some certainty is, that he reigned over Malwa, Cashmere,
and Orissa, from which it may perhaps be inferred that he was also
master of the intervening country--namely, the Punjaub and the eastern
portion of Rajputana (30).

Besides his glories as a warrior and deliverer of his country, the
honour is also ascribed to him of being the patron of science and
art. There is reason to think he promoted the study of architecture,
though no monuments actually remain which can with certainty be
ascribed to his reign. He attracted to his court the most distinguished
poets and learned men of his epoch, and an obscure poem concerning
nine jewels said to have adorned his throne is generally understood
to represent the votaries of a certain cycle of the arts and sciences
whom he had under his protection. It is true some of those he is said
to have protected are found to have actually lived at a subsequent
period; but this is only one of the chronological inaccuracies to which
I have already adverted as so common--the fact remains that he did
actually promote the pursuit of letters, not only on the testimony
of these exaggerated accounts, but also in the improvement which
may be observed from his time forward in the condition of public
muniments. One of the most fantastic stories about him, in which
(31) Indra defers to him to decide between the respective claims to
perfection in dancing of two apsarasas, or nymphs, shows at least that
he was considered an authority in matters of taste. The oldest Sanskrit
dictionary extant is reckoned the work of Amarasinha, or Amaradeva,
his minister, and one of the six of the above-named nine jewels who are
believed to have had an historical existence (32); in this dictionary
the Ram and the Bull of the Zodiac are mentioned in such a way that it
may be inferred he was familiar with the present nomenclature of the
twelve signs, giving support to the theory that the Greeks received
that terminology from the Chaldees, and did not originate it, as was
long supposed (33). An inscription found at Buddha-Gaja, and copied
by Wilmot in the year 1783, is preserved in As. Res. i. 284, though
the original stone has since been lost, in which a curious legend
is told of him, showing that as early as A.D. 948 (fixed by experts
for the date of the inscription) an undisputed tradition taught that
the oldest Sanskrit dictionary was written by one of the nine jewels
of Vikramâditja's throne. This legend says, "This Amaradeva, one of
the nine jewels of Vikramâditja's throne, and his first minister,
was a man of great talent and learning. Once, when on a journey, this
famous man found in the uninhabited forest the place where Vishnu was
incarnate in the person of Buddha. Here, therefore, he determined to
remain in prayer till Buddha should show himself to him. At the end
of twelve years of austerities he heard a voice calling to him and
asking what he desired. On his reply that he desired the god should
appear to him, he was told that in the then degenerate condition of
the world such a favour was impossible; but that he might set up an
image of him, which would answer the same purpose as an apparition. In
consequence of this communication he erected a stately temple, which
he furnished with images of Vishnu and his avatars, or incarnations,
Pândava, Brahma, Buddha, and the rest.

One of the earliest dramatists of India, Kâlidâsa, many of whose
plays possess great literary merit,--though some ascribed to him are
manifestly by inferior hands,--may have been, it is thought, one of
those who wrote under Vikramâditja's protection. In a play called
Maghadûta, he describes his capital of Uggajini with an enthusiasm
which suggests it was his own favourite place of residence. His plays
contain valuable pictures of the manners of the times. And from
these, among other details, it appears it was not only considered
an indispensable qualification of a well-bred man, that he should be
conversant with the great heroic poems, but that they were commonly in
the mouth of the people also. Other details imply the attainment of a
degree of civilization and refinement, which it would probably surprise
most of us to find existing at this date. His two most meritorious
pieces are entitled Abhignana-Shukuntalâ ("The finding of Shukuntalâ"),
and Vikramorvashi-Urvashi ("Urvashi won by Heroism.") We have
also three hundred short poems by Vikramâditja's brother or by some
courtier poet who gave him the honour of the composition; these poems
display unusual powers of description and delicacy of sentiment. The
first shataka, or hundred poems, is entitled shringâra, containing
love-songs; the second, niti, on the government of the world; and the
third, vairâgja, the suppression of human passions. It is probable
that the writer of a justly celebrated drama named Mrikkhakatika,
whose name has been merged in that of King Shûdraka, King of Bidisha
(now Bhilsa), his patron to whose pen he modestly ascribed his work,
lived also not long after this time.

The length of Vikramâditja's reign is as difficult to fix as any other
circumstance of his history, and it is not clear whether the æra which
dates from him was originally reckoned from the commencement or the end
of his reign; we have already seen the duration which fable ascribes
to it; to this may be added the further fabled promise which, it is
told, the great gods Vishnu and Shiva made concerning him, that he
should come back to earth in the latter times to deliver his people
from the oppression of the Mussulman invaders, just as the Mongols
expect Ghengis Khan and Timour (34), and just as in Europe similar
promises of a future return as a deliverer linger round the memories
of King Arthur, Charlemagne, and Frederick Barbarossa.

The legend of the Wisdom of Vikramâditja being so mysteriously
connected with his throne, that whosoever sat on it was endowed with
some measure of his excellences; and that the figures with which it
was adorned guarded it from the approach of the unworthy, is brought
forward in the story of more than one Indian sovereign. Travelling
in the wake of Buddhist literature, the myth came to the far East,
where Mongolian bards have worked out of it a saga connected with
one of their own rulers (35), with such variations in the treatment
as might be expected at their hands.



THE SAGA OF ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI AND VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE.


THE BOY-KING.


Long ages ago there lived a mighty king called Ardschi-Bordschi (1).

In the neighbourhood of his residence was a hill where the boys who
were tending the calves were wont to pass away the time by racing
up and down. But they had also another custom, and it was, that
whichever of them won the race was king for the day--an ordinary game
enough, only that when it was played in this place the Boy-king thus
constituted was at once endowed with such extraordinary importance
and majesty that every one was constrained to treat him as a real
king. He had not only ministers and dignitaries among his playfellows,
who prostrated themselves before him and fulfilled all his behests,
but whoever passed that way could not choose but pay him homage also.

At last the report of the matter filled all the land, and came also
to the ears of the King himself.

Ardschi-Bordschi had the whole matter exposed before him, and he
inquired into all the manners and ways of the boys; then he said,--

"If this thing happened every day to one and the same boy, then would
I acknowledge in him a Bodhisattva (2); but as every day a different
boy may win the race, and it would seem that whichever of them is
called king is clothed with equal majesty, it appears manifestly to
me that the virtue is not in the boy, but in the hill of which he
makes his throne."

Nevertheless the matter troubled the King, and he desired above all
things to obtain some certain knowledge concerning it, not seeing
how to search it out.



THE FALSE FRIEND (1)

In the meantime, it had come to pass that one of Ardschi-Bordschi's
subjects had gone out over the sea to search for precious stones. Being
detained on his journey beyond the allotted time, he was desirous of
making provision for his wife and children whom he had left behind,
and, finding that a friend of his company purposed to return home,
he trusted to him one of the jewels of which he had become possessed,
saying, "When thou comest to the place, deliver this jewel into the
hands of my wife, that she may be provided withal until the time of
my return. The man, however, sold the jewel and spent the proceeds
on his own purposes. When, therefore, the jewel-merchant came home,
he inquired of his wife, saying, "By a man named Dsük I sent unto
you a jewel so-and-so;" and when he learnt of his wife that the man
had brought no jewel, he took the matter before the King. The King
commanded the man called Dsük to be brought before him. But the man
having got wind that he would have to appear before the King to be
judged for the matter, he gave presents to two chief men of the court,
and agreed with them, saying, "You will stand witness for me that in
presence of you two I delivered the jewel to the man's wife (2)."

When, therefore, they were all before the King, the King spoke to the
man named Dsük, saying, "Did you, or did you not, give the jewel to
the man's wife?" And he boldly made answer, "In presence of these two
witnesses I delivered the jewel to her;" while the two great men of
the court stood forward and deposed, they also, "Yea, O King! even
in our presence he delivered over the jewel."

As the King could not gainsay the word of the witnesses, he decided the
case according to their testimony, and the man named Dsük was released
and went away to his home rejoicing at having been so successful in
his stratagem to deceive the King, and the two great men of the court
and the jewel-merchant went down every one to his home.

It so happened, however, that their way home lay past the hill where
the Boy-king sat enthroned. Now as they passed by, the four together,
the Boy-king sent and called them into his presence, nor could they
fail of compliance with his word.

When they had paid him their obeisance, bowing themselves many times
before him, the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, thus spoke,--

"The decision of your King is hasty, and can never stand. I will
judge your cause. Do you promise to abide by my decision?"

But the majesty of the Boy-king was upon him, and they could not
choose but accept.

The Boy-king therefore set the four men apart in four several places,
and to each one of them he gave a lump of clay, saying, "Fashion this
lump of clay like to the form of the jewel which was sent."

When they had all finished the task, it was found that the model of
the man who sent the jewel and that of the man who was the bearer
of it were alike; but the two great men of the court, who had never
seen the jewel, were thrown into great embarrassment by this means,
and their models were neither like those of the sender and bearer,
nor were they like each other's.

When the Boy-king saw this he thus pronounced judgment:--

"Because both these men saw and knew the jewel, they could make its
image in clay; but it is manifest the two witnesses have never seen
the jewel, but have made up their minds to deceive the King by false
testimony. Such conduct is most unworthy of all in great men of the
King's court."

Then he ordered the two false witnesses and the man named Dsük to
be secured and taken to the King, all three confessing their crime;
and he sent with them this declaration, written in due form of law:--

"According to the principles of earthly might and the sacred maxims of
religion hast thou not decided. O Ardschi-Bordschi! thus should not
an upright and noble ruler deal. Unless it is given thee to discern
good from evil, truth from falsehood, it were better thou shouldst
lay aside thy kingly dignity. But if thou desirest to remain king,
then judge nothing without duly investigating the matter, even as I."

With such a letter the Boy-king sent the prisoners to Ardschi-Bordschi.

When the King read the letter, he exclaimed, "What manner of boy is
this who writes thus to the King? He must be a being highly endowed
with wisdom. If it was the same boy who appeared every day so gifted,
I should hold him to be a Bodhisattva, or indeed a very Buddha; but
as on different days different boys attain to the same sagacity,
the source must remain one and the same for all. Shall it not be
that in the foundations of their hill or mound is some stupa (3),
where Buddhas or Bodhisattvas have propounded sacred teaching to
men? Or shall it be that there lies hidden therein some jewel (4),
gifted to impart wisdom to mortals? In some such way, of a certainty,
the spot is endowed with singular gifts."

Thus he spoke, and concluded the affair of the jewel in accordance
with the Boy-king's judgment, delivering the two witnesses over to
punishment, and condemning the man named Dsük to pay double the value
of the jewel to the merchant whom he had defrauded.



THE PRETENDED SON.

King Ardschi-Bordschi's minister had one only son. This son went out
to the wars, and returned home again after two years' absence. Just
while the minister was engaged with preparations for a festival of
joy to celebrate the return of his son, there appeared before him
suddenly another son in all respects exactly like his own. In form,
colour, and gait there was no sort of difference to be discerned
between them. Moreover, the horses they rode, their clothing, their
quivers, their mode of speech, were so perfectly similar that none
of the minister's friends, nor the very mother of the young man,
nor yet his wife herself, could take upon them to decide which of
the two was his very son.

It was not very long before there was open feud in the house between
the two; both youths declaring with equal energy and determination,
"These are my parents, my wife, my children...." Finding the case
quite beyond his own capacity to decide the minister brought the whole
before the King. As the King found himself similarly embarrassed
he sent and called all the relations; and to the mother he said,
"Which of these two is your son?" and to the wife, "Which of these
two is your husband?" and to the children, "Which of these two is
your father?" But they all answered with one consent, "We are not in
a condition to decide, for no man can tell which is which."

Then King Ardschi-Bordschi thought within himself, "How shall I
do to bring this matter to an end? It is clear not even the man's
nearest relations can tell which of these two is the right man;
how then can I, who never saw either of them before? Yet if I let
them go without deciding the matter, the Boy-king will send and tell
me I am not gifted to discern the true from the false, and counsel
me before all the people to lay aside my kingly dignity. Now then,
therefore, let us prove the matter even as the Boy-king would have
it proved. We will call the men hither before us, and will examine
them concerning their family and ancestors; he that is really the
man's son will know the names of his generations, but he that merely
pretendeth, shall he not be a stranger to these things?" So he sent
and called the men before him again separately and inquired of them,
saying, "Tell me now the names of thy father, and grandfather, and
great-grandfather up to the earliest times, so shall I distinguish
which of you is really this man's son." But the one of them who had
come the last from the wars, was no man but a Schimnu (1), who had
taken the son's form to deceive his parents, he by his demoniacal
knowledge could answer all these things so that the very father was
astonished to hear him, while the real son could go no farther back
than to give the name of his grandfather.

When Ardschi-Bordschi therefore found how much the Schimnu exceeded
the real son in knowledge of his family, he pronounced that he was
the rightful son, and the wife and parents and friends and all the
people praised the sagacity of the king in settling the matter.

Thus the Schimnu was taken home with joy in the midst of the gathering
of the family, and the real son not knowing whither to betake himself,
followed afar off, mourning as he went.

It so happened that their homeward way lay past the mound, where the
Boy-king sat enthroned, who, hearing the feet of many people, and the
voice of the minister's son wailing behind, called them all unto him,
nor could they fail of compliance with the word of the Boy-king in
his majesty.

When they had paid him their obeisance, bowing themselves many times
before him, the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, thus spoke:--

"The decision of your King is hasty, and can never stand. I will
judge your cause. Do you promise to abide by my decision?"

Then they could not choose but accept; and he made them state their
whole case before him, and explain how Ardschi-Bordschi had decided,
which when he had heard, he said,--

"I will set you the proof of whether of you two is the rightful son;
let there be brought me hither a water-jug." And one of the boys who
stood in waiting that day upon the Boy-king's throne, ran and fetched
a water-jug, holding in measure about a pint.

When he had brought it, the Boy-king ordered him to place it before
the throne; then said he, "Let me see now whether of you two can enter
into this water-jug; then shall we know which is the rightful son."

Then the rightful son turned away sorrowful and mourned more than
before, "For," said he, "how should I ever find place for so much as
my foot in this water-jug?"

But the Schimnu, by his demoniacal power easily transformed himself,
and entered the jug.

The Boy-king, therefore, no sooner saw him enclosed in the water-jug,
than he bound him fast within it by sealing the mouth with the
diamond-seal, which he might not pass (2), undismayed by the appalling
howling with which the Schimnu rent the air, at finding himself thus
taken captive.

Thus bound he sent him back to Ardschi-Bordschi, together with all
the family concerned in the case, and with them this declaration
written in due form of law:--

"According to the principles of earthly might, and the sacred maxims
of religion hast thou not decided, O Ardschi-Bordschi! Thus should
not an upright and noble ruler deal. The wife and children of thine
own subject hast thou given over to the power of a wicked Schimnu;
and sent the rightful and innocent away lamenting. Unless it is given
thee to discern good from evil, truth from falsehood, it were better
thou shouldst lay aside thy kingly dignity. But if thou desirest to
remain king, then judge nothing without duly investigating the matter
even as I."

With such a letter the Boy-king sent the men back to Ardschi-Bordschi.

When the King read the letter, he exclaimed, "What manner of boy is
this, who writes thus to the King? He must be a being highly endowed
with wisdom. If it was the same boy who appeared every day so gifted,
I should hold him to be a Bodhisattva or indeed a very Buddha; but
as on different days different boys attain to the same sagacity, the
source must remain one and the same for all. Shall it not be that
on the foundations of this hill or mound is a stupa, where Buddhas
or Bodhisattvas have propounded sacred teaching to men. Or shall it
be that there lies hidden therein some treasure gifted to impart
wisdom to mortals? In some way of a certainty the spot is endowed
with singular gifts."

Thus he spoke; and concluded the affair of the two sons in accordance
with the Boy-king's judgment, giving over the rightful one to his
family, and delivering the Schimnu to be burned.



ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI DISCOVERS VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE.

Ardschi-Bordschi could not rest, because of this matter of the
Boy-king. "For," said he, "if there is in my dominions a stupa where
so great wisdom is to be acquired, is it not to the King that it
should belong, that he may rule the people with sagacity? Let Us at
least see this thing, and perhaps We may discover what is the source
of the prodigy."

Very early in the morning, therefore, he arose, and calling all his
ministers, and counsellors, and all the great men of his court to
him, he went forth to the mound, and there he found all even as it
had been told him. There were the boys tending the calves; and when
they had leisure to play, they all ran a race over the hill, and he
who won the race was installed king on top of the mound, the other
boys paying him homage, and making obeisance to him as to a real king.

Then the most mighty king, even Ardschi-Bordschi himself, propounded
the question to the Boy-king, saying, "Tell us whence is it that
thou, who art only a boy and a herd of the calves, hast this wisdom,
surpassing the wisdom of the King. The wisdom by which it is given
thee to discern between right and wrong, truth and falsehood, shall
it not also tell thee what is the source of this prodigy?"

Then the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, made answer,--

"Let the King cause labourers to be fetched, and let them dig under
this mound, from the time of the rising of the sun even until the
setting thereof again; thus shall it be found whence ariseth the
prodigy."

With these words the Boy-king came down from the mound, and
Ardschi-Bordschi caused labourers to be fetched, and they began
digging at the mound as the sun rose above the mountains, and ceased
not till the setting thereof again; but then they came upon a throne
of gold, all dazzling with brightness, and by its light (1) they went
on working through the night, till the whole was delivered from its
covering of earth. So great was its splendour when the morning sun
rose upon it again, that all beholders were struck with awe, and the
people prostrated themselves before it.

Ardschi-Bordschi was filled with surpassing joy when he saw it, for
now he saw he had attained the desired seat of wisdom, by means of
which he should rule his people aright (2).

Heading a procession of all that was great and noble in his
realm, he had the throne brought, amid many ceremonies, to his
own residence. Then having called the wise men of the kingdom, and
inquired of them a lucky day, he summoned a great gathering of all
his subjects, to attend his mounting of this throne of prodigy, amid
singing, and offering of incense, and sounding of trumpet-shells (3).

The throne, which had been set up in his dwelling, meantime, was all
of pure and shining gold. The foundation of it rested on four terrible
lions of gold; and it was reached by sixteen steps of precious stones,
on every one of which were two figures of cunning workmanship--the
one a warrior, the other a Sûta (4)--sculptured in wood, standing to
guard the approach thereof. No such beautiful work had ever before
been seen in all the dominions of Ardschi-Bordschi.

When therefore the ministers and people were all arranged in order of
rank, and a great silence had been proclaimed on the shell-trumpets,
the King, habited in raiment of state, proceeded to mount the throne.

Ere he had set foot on the lowest step, however, the two figures
of sculptured wood that stood upon it, abandoning their guardant
attitude, suddenly came forward, and placed themselves before him,
as in defiance--the warrior striking him in the breast, while the
Sûta addressed him thus:--

"Surely, O Ardschi-Bordschi! it is not in earnest that thou art minded
to ascend the steps of this sacred throne?" And all the thirty-two
sculptured figures answered together,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!"

But the Sûta proceeded,--

"Knowest thou not, O Ardschi-Bordschi, that this throne in the days
of old was the seat of the god Churmusta, and that after him it was
given to none to set upon it, till Vikramâditja rose. Wherefore,
O Ardschi-Bordschi, approach not to occupy it. Unless thou also art
prepared to devote thy days, not to thine own pleasure, but to the
service of the six classes of living beings (5), renounce the attempt
to set foot on it." And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered
together,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!"

But the Sûta proceeded,--

"Art thou such a king as the great Vikramâditja? then come and sit
upon his throne; but if not, then desist from the attempt." And all
the thirty-two sculptured figures answered together,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!"

When they cried the third time, "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" the King
himself, and all who stood there with him, fell on their faces before
the throne, and worshipped it.

Then spoke another Sûta,--

"Listen, O Ardschi-Bordschi, and all ye people give ear, and I will
tell you out of the days of old what manner of king was the hero
Vikramâditja."



THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING VIKRAMÂDITJA'S BIRTH.

Long ages ago there lived a King named Gandharva. To him was wedded
Udsesskülengtu-Gôa-Chatun (1), the all-charming daughter of the mighty
king Galindari.

Gandharva was a noble King, and ruled the world with justice and
piety. Nevertheless Gandharva had no heir, though he prayed continually
to Buddha that he might have a son. And as he thus prayed and mourned
continually, Udsesskülengtu-Gôa came to him one day, and said, "My
lord, since thou art thus grieved at heart because no heir is given
to us, take now unto thee another wife, even a wife from among thy
people, and perhaps so shalt thou be blessed with succession to the
throne." And her words pleased the King, and he chose a wife of low
degree, and married her, and in due time she bore him a son.

But when Udsesskülengtu-Gôa, the all-charming one, saw that the heart
of the King was taken from her, and given to the wife of low degree,
because she had borne him a son, while she was less favoured by heaven,
she was grieved in spirit, and said within herself, "What shall I
do now that the heart of my lord is taken from me? Was it not by my
father's aid that he attained the throne? And was it not even by my
advice that he took this wife who has borne him a son? And yet his
heart is taken from me." Nevertheless she complained not to him,
but mourned by herself apart.

Then one of her maidens, when she saw her thus mourning apart, came to
her, and said, "Is there not living by the kaitja (2), on the other
side of the mountain, a lama, possessed of prodigious powers? Who
shall say but that he might find a remedy for the grief of the Khan's
wife." And Udsesskülengtu-Gôa listened to the maiden's words, and
leaving off from mourning, she rose, and called to her four of the
maidens, and prepared her to make the journey to visit the holy man
at the kaitja, on the other side the mountain, taking with her good
provision of tea (3) and other things needful for the journey.

Arrived at the kaitja, she made the usual obeisance, and would
have opened her suit; but the hermit was at that moment sunk in his
meditations, and paid her no heed until she had three times changed
(4) her place of kneeling. Then he said, "Exalted Queen! what grief or
what necessity brings thee hither to this kaitja thus devoutly?" And
when she had told him all her story, he replied,--

"Mayst thou be blessed with succession to the throne and with many
children to gladden thee." At the same time he gave her a handful
of earth, bidding her boil it in oil--sesame oil (5)--in a porcelain
vessel, and eat it all up.

The Queen returned home, and, believing in the promise of the hermit,
she boiled the earth in sesame oil in a new porcelain vessel, when
behold it was changed into barley porridge; but she neglected to eat
up the whole of it. Some time after the maiden who had counselled the
visit to the hermit, seeing that some of the porridge still remained
in the porcelain vessel, she also ate of it, saying, "Who knows what
blessing it may bring to me also?"

Many months had not passed when all manner of propitious tokens
appeared upon the land. Showers of brilliant blossoms fell in place
of rain from heaven, the melodious voice of the kalavinka (6) made
itself heard, and delicious perfumes filled the air. In the midst of
this rejoicing of nature the Queen bore the King a son.

The gladness of the King knew no bounds that now he had an heir to the
throne who was born of a princess and not of a wife of low degree, and
he ordered public rejoicings throughout the whole kingdom. Further, in
his joy he sent an expedition, with the younger wife at its head, and
many great men of state, to go to the lama of the kaitja, on the other
side of the mountain, and learn what should be the fate of the child.

When they came to him he was again sunk in his meditations; but
when they had opened their matter to him, almost without looking up,
he replied,--

"Tell the King your master that there be got ready for the child
against he grow up fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt, for that
will be but small compared with what will be required for the use of
his kitchen."

With such a message the expedition returned to the King.

When Gandharva heard the prognostics of the hermit, he was struck with
astonishment, and with indignation against the child, not understanding
the intention of the words. Then he called together the people and
announced the thing to them, adding these words, "Of a truth the
child must be a hundredfold a schimnu; how could a man use fifteen
thousand waggon-loads of salt for the seasoning of his food? It is
not good for such an one to live. Let him be taken forth and slain!"

But his ministers interceded with him and said, "Nay, shall the son
of the King and the heir to his royal throne be slain? Shall we not
rather take him to some solitary place and leave him to his fate in
a thick wood?"

And the King found their words good; so two of his ministers took
the child a long way off to a solitary place, and left him exposed
in a thick wood. But as they turned to go away, and one of them yet
lingered, the child called after him, saying,--

"Wait a little space, sir minister; I have a word to say to you!"

And the minister stood still in great astonishment. But the child said,
"Bear these words faithfully unto the King:--

"It is said that when the young of the peacock are first fledged their
feathers are all of one blue colour, but afterwards, as they increase
in proportions, their plumage assumes the splendid hues admired by
men. Even so when a King's son is born. For a while he remains under
the tutelage of his parents; but if, when he has come to man's estate,
he would be a great king, worthy to be called king of the four parts
of the universe (7), it will behove him to call together the princes
of the four parts of the universe to a great assemblage and prepare
for them a sacred festival (8), at which such may be their number who
may come together to honour it, that fifteen thousand waggon-loads
of salt may even fall short of what is required!

"So the parrots, when they first break through their egg-shell, appear
very much like any other birds, but when they are full grown they learn
the speech of man and grow in sagacity and wisdom (9). Even so when a
King's son is born. For a while he remains under the tutelage of his
parents; but when he comes to man's estate, if he would be a mighty
king, worthy of being called king of the four parts of the universe,
it will behove him to call together all kings and devas and princes of
the earth, with all the countless Bodhisattvas, and all the priests
of religion, and prepare for them a great religious banquet. At such
a banquet it is well if fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt suffice
for the seasoning. This for your King."

The minister took the message of the child word for word to the
Gandharva, who when he heard it clasped his hands in agony and rose
up, saying,--

"What is this that I have done! Of a certainty the child was a
Bodhisattva (10). But it is the truth that what I did to him I did in
ignorance. Run now swiftly and fetch me back my son." The minister
therefore set out on his way without stopping to take breath; but
what haste soever he made the King's eagerness was greater, and at
the head of a great body of the people Gandharva himself took his way
in all speed to the place in the thick grove where they had laid the
child. And since he did not find him at the first, he broke out into
loud lamentations, saying,--

"0 thou, mine own Bodhisattva! who so young yet speakest words of
wisdom, even young as thou art exercise also mercy and forgiveness. O
how was I mistaken in thee! Set it not down to me that I knew thee
not!"

While he wandered about searching and thus lamenting, the cry of
a child made itself heard from the depths of a grotto there was in
the grove, which when the King had entered he found eight princes
of the serpent-gods (11) busy tending the child. Some had woven for
him a covering of lotus-blossoms; others were dropping honey into
his mouth; others were on their knees, bowing their foreheads to the
ground before him. Thus he saw them engaged, only when he entered the
cave they all at once disappeared without leaving a trace behind (12).

Then the King laid the child on a litter borne by eight principal
men, and amid continual lamenting of his fault, saying, "O my son,
Bodhisattva, be merciful; I indeed am thy father," he brought him to
his dwelling, where he proclaimed him before all the people the most
high and mighty Prince Vikramâditja.



When the Sûta had concluded this narrative, he turned to
Ardschi-Bordschi and said,--

"Thus was Vikramâditja wise in his earliest youth; thus even in infancy
he earned the homage of his own father; thus was he innately great
and lofty and full of majesty. If thou, O Ardschi-Bordschi! art thus
nobly born, thus indwelt with power and might, then come and mount this
throne; but, if otherwise, then on thy peril desist from the attempt."

Then Ardschi-Bordschi once more approached to ascend the throne; but
as he did so two other of the sculptured figures, relinquishing their
guardant attitude, stood forward to bar the way, the warrior-figure
striking him on the breast, and the Sûta thus addressing him,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi! as yet hast thou but heard the manner of
the wonderful birth of Vikramâditja; as yet knowest thou not what
was the manner of his youth."

And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered and said,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!"

But the Sûta continued, saying, "Hearken, O Ardschi-Bordschi! and
ye, O people, give ear, and I will tell you out of the days of old
concerning the youth of Vikramâditja.



THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING VIKRAMÂDITJA'S YOUTH.

Gandharva, the hero's father, was himself also a mighty man of valour,
and a prince devoting himself to the well-being of his people. He not
only carried on wars against the enemies of his country, but exerted
himself to the utmost to deliver his subjects from the onslaught of
the wicked Schimnus.

One day, therefore, he went forth alone to do battle with a prince of
the Schimnus; and in order that he might be in a condition the better
adapted to match him, he left his body behind him, under shadow of
an image of Buddha. His younger wife, even the wife of low degree,
happening by chance to see him leaving the temple without his body,
was so delighted with the wonderfully beauteous appearance he
thus presented that she went to Udsessküleng-Gôa-Chatun, saying,
"Our master, so long as he went in and out among us, always was
clothed in human form like other men; but to-day, when he started
on his expedition against the Schimnus, he wore such a brilliant and
beautiful appearance that it would be a joy if he looked the same when
he is with us." But Udsessküleng-Chatun replied, "Because you are young
you understand not these things. It is only to preserve his body from
the fine piercing swords of the Schimnus that he left it behind him."

The younger wife, however, was not satisfied with the explanation,
and said within herself, "If I go and burn the body which the King
has left behind him, then must he wear his beautiful spirit-appearance
when he comes back to us."

She called together, therefore, all the other maidens, and having
kindled a great fire of sandal-wood, went back to the temple,
and fetched Gandharva's body from beneath the image of Buddha, and
burned it.

While this was going on the King appeared in his radiant form in the
heavens, and spoke thus to Udsessküleng-Gôa-Chatun, saying,--

"From my beloved subjects, for whom I have laboured so untiringly,
and from my dear wives and children and friends, and from my body
which has served me so faithfully that I cannot but love it also--I am
called to part. As my body is burnt, I cannot more visit the earth. My
only concern, however, is this, that I know within seven days the host
of the Schimnus will come down upon you, and I shall not be there to
defend you. Take, therefore, this counsel, giving which is all I can
do for you more, for I go to Nirvâna (1). Get you up then, and escape
with the young prince, even with the Bodhisattva Vikramâditja, within
these seven days, so that the Schimnus' host coming may not find you."

After these words they saw him no more, for he entered then upon
Nirvâna.

The officers and ministers and household and subjects gave themselves
to distressful grief when they knew that they should see their good
master Gandharva no more, but Udsessküleng-Chatun said, "If I give
myself over thus to grief it will not bring back my lord the Khan;
it were better that I stir myself to fulfil his all-wise counsel,
and bear his son to a place of safety." Having thus spoken, she called
all her maidens together and the child, and went to seek safety from
the Schimnus in her own country. As they journeyed, the young maiden
who had given her the counsel to visit the hermit of the kaitja, and
who had eaten what was left of the porridge made of earth boiled in
sesame oil in the porcelain vessel, she also had a child, and when
the Khanin was astonished at the thing, the maid confessed that she
had eaten of the porridge which the hermit gave her that was left
behind in the porcelain vessel, and the Khanin remembered that she
had neglected to fulfil the counsel of the hermit, saying to her,
"Eat it all up."

The other maidens now objected to the burden of having another
infant to take care of on a perilous journey, and would have put it
to death. But the Khanin said, "Nay, but shall a child that came of
the hermit's blessing be slain?" And when she found she could not
prevail with them to take it she bid them not slay it, but leave it
in shelter of a cave which there was by the way.

Then they journeyed farther amid many dangers and privations till
they came to the capital of the mighty King Kütschün-Tschidaktschi
(2) in the outskirts of which they encamped. All the people gathered,
however, on the other side of the way, struck with admiration by
the wondrous beauty of Udsessküleng-Chatun, all inquiring whence she
could be, and flocking to gain a sight of her (3).

The Khan, seeing this gathering of people from the terrace of his
palace, sent to inquire what it was, and a man of the train of the
Khanin sent answer, "It is the wife of a mighty King who is escaping
from the fear of the Schimnus, her lord having entered Nirvâna." The
King, therefore, went down, and spoke with the Khanin, and having
learnt from her that such was really the case, the younger wife
having burnt his body, and he having appeared in the sky to bid her
escape with their son from before the fury of the Schimnus, ordered
his ministers to appoint her a dwelling for her and her son, and
her train of followers, and to provide them richly with all things
befitting their rank.

All this the ministers did, and the Khanin and her son were hospitably
entertained.

Thus Vikramâditja was brought up in a strange land, but was exercised
in all kinds of arts; and increased in strength, well-favoured in
mind and body. He learned wisdom of the wise, and the use of arms
from men of valour; from the soothsayer learned he cunning arts,
and trading from sagacious traders; from robber bands learned he the
art of robbery, and from fraudulent dealers to lie.

It happened that while they were yet dwelling in this place, a caravan
of five hundred merchants came by, and encamped on the banks of a
stream near at hand.

As these men had journeyed along they had found a boy at play in a
wolf's den.

"How can a child live thus in a wolf's den?" said one of the merchants;
and with that they set themselves to lure the child to them.

"How canst thou, a child of men, live thus in common with a wolf's
cubs?" inquired they. "It were better thou camest with us."

But the child answered, "I am in truth a wolf-child, and had rather
remain with my wolf-parents."

But Galbischa, the chief of the merchants, said, "It must not be. A
child of men must be brought up with men, and not with wolves." So the
merchants took the boy with them, and gave him the name of Schalû (4).

Thus it came to pass that the child was with them, when they encamped
the night after they had taken him, in the neighbourhood of the city
where Vikramâditja and his mother lived. In the night the wolves came
near, and began to howl (5). Therefore, the merchants asked Schalû
in sport, "What are the wolves saying?"

But Schalû answered in all seriousness, "These wolves that you hear
are my parents; and they are saying to me, 'Years ago a party of
women passed by this way, and left thee with us as soon as thou wert
born; and we have nurtured thee, and made thee strong and brave;
and thou, without regard to our affection to thee, hast gone away
with strangers. Nevertheless, because we love thee, we will give thee
yet this piece of advice. To-night, there will be heavy torrents of
rain, and the river by which your caravan is encamped, will overflow
its banks. While the merchants, therefore, are engaged in hurry and
confusion seeking shelter, then break thou away from them, darling,
and come back to us. This further warning give we thee, that in the
neighbourhood prowls a robber.'"

Now it was so that Prince Vikramâditja, having seen the encampment of
the merchants, was lurking in the thicket, to exercise his prowess in
robbing them. Thus when he overheard how Schalû expounded all that
the wolves said, he thought within himself, "This is no ordinary
youth. That torrents of rain are about to fall might be a guess,
even though the sky presents no indication of a coming storm;
but how could he guess that I was prowling about to rob the
caravan? this, at least, shows he has command of some sort of
supernatural knowledge." Determining therefore to discover some
means of possessing himself of the boy, he went away for that night,
because the merchants having been warned by the wolves of his designs,
they would be on the watch to take him had he attempted an attack.

The merchants, meantime, believing the words of the wolves expounded to
them by Schalû, removed their encampment to a high hill, out of the way
of chances of damage by inundation. When night had fallen thick around,
the rain began to fall in heavy torrents, and the river overflowed its
banks, making particular havock of the very spot on which their tent
had been pitched. When the merchants in the morning saw this part of
the plain all under water, and the floods pouring over it, they said
one to another, "Without Schalû's aid we had certainly all been washed
away (6)," and out of gratitude they loaded him with rich presents.

At the end of the next day's journey they selected the dry bank
of a small tributary of the river for their camping-place. Prince
Vikramâditja, who, in pursuance of his determination of overnight,
had watched their movements from afar, drew near, under cover of
the shades of evening, and set himself once more to overhear what
Schalû might have to say. By-and-by two wolves approached, and began
howling. Then the merchants asked Schalû, saying, "What do the wolves
say?" And Schalû answered, "These are the wolves who have been to me
from my birth up in the place of parents, and they say, 'Behold, we
have watched over thee ever since thou wast born, and made thee brave
and strong, nevertheless, unmindful of our aid, thou hast forsaken us,
and betaken thyself to men, who are our enemies. This is the last
time that we can come after thee (7); but of our affection we give
thee this counsel: sleep not this night, for there is a robber again
lurking about the camp. Early in the morning also, if thou goest out
to the banks of the stream, thou shalt find a dead body brought down
by the waters; fish it out, and cut it open, for in the right thigh
is enclosed the jewel Tschin-tâmani (8), and whoso is in possession
of this talisman, has only to desire it, and he will become a mighty
King, ruler of the four parts of the earth.'"

When Vikramâditja had heard these words, he gave up his marauding
intention for that night also, his victims having been set upon
their guard. But he was satisfied with the prospect of having the
talisman for his booty. Going higher up the stream, therefore,
he fished out the dead body as it floated down before it came to
the merchants' encampment, opened the thigh, and took out the jewel,
and then committed it to the waters again, so that when the merchants
and Schalû took it, they found the treasure was gone. But he thought
within himself the while, "This Schalû is no common boy; some pretext
I must find to possess myself of him before the caravan leaves the
neighbourhood."

The next morning, therefore, before they struck their tents, he came
to them in the disguise of a travelling merchant, he also bringing
with him stuffs and other objects of barter, on which he had set
a private mark. While pretending to trade, he contrived to pick a
quarrel, as also to leave some of his wares unperceived hidden in
one of the tents. Then he went to King Kütschün-Tschidaktschi, and
laid this complaint before him:--

"Behold, O King, I was engaged in trading with a company of five
hundred merchants who are encamped outside this city, but a dispute
arising, they fell upon me, and used me contumeliously, and drove me
forth from among them, and, what is worst of all, they have retained
among them the half of my stuffs."

In answer to this complaint, the King sent two officers of the
court, and an escort of two hundred fighting-men, with instructions
to investigate the matter, and if they found that the five hundred
merchants had really stolen the stuffs, to put them all to the edge
of the sword; but if they found this was not the case, then to bring
Vikramâditja to him for judgment.

Then Vikramâditja once more prostrated himself before the King, and
said, "Upon all my things have I set a mark (so and so), whereby they
may be recognized, so that clearly may it be established whether they
have my stuffs in possession or not."

When the King's envoys came to the encampment of the five hundred
merchants, they arraigned them, saying--

"Young Vikramâditja lays this complaint against ye before the King,
namely, that you have used him shamefully, driving him away from you
contumeliously, and laying violent hands on his stuffs, wherewith
he sought to trade with you. Know therefore that the command of
our all-powerful King is, that if the stuffs of Vikramâditja are
found in your tents, you be all put to the edge of the sword." And
the merchants answered cheerfully, "Come in and search our tents,
for we have no man's goods with us, saving only our own."

Then the King's envoys searched through all the tents, no man hindering
them, so persuaded were the good merchants that none of their company
had defrauded any man. As they searched, behold, they found hidden in
one of the tents, where Vikramâditja had concealed them, the stuffs
bearing his marks, so and so, even as he had testified before the King.

When the merchants saw this they cried, saying, "Surely some evil
demon hath done this thing, for in our company is none who ever took
any man's goods;" and they all began to weep with one accord.

The King's envoys, however, said, "Weeping will bring you no help;
we must do according to the words of our all-powerful king." And they
called on the two hundred fighting-men to put the whole company of
merchants to the edge of the sword.

When the commotion was at the highest--the merchants entreating mercy
and protesting their innocence, and the envoys declaring the urgency of
the King's decree, and the fighting-men sharpening their swords--there
stood forward young Vikramâditja, and spoke, saying, "Nay, let not
so many men be put to death. Leave them their lives if they give me
in exchange the boy Schalû, whom they have in their company."

Then the merchants said to Schalû, "Already hast thou once saved
our lives; go now with this man, and save them for us even this
second time."

And Schalû made answer, "To have saved the lives of five hundred
men twice over, shall it not bring me good fortune?" So he went with
Vikramâditja, and the merchants loaded him with rich merchandize out
of gratitude, for his reward.

When Vikramâditja came home, bringing the boy with him, his mother
inquired of him, saying, "Vikramâditja, beloved son, where hast thou
been, and whence hast thou the child which thou hast brought?"

And Vikramâditja answered, "Beloved mother, when thou wast on thy way
hither fleeing from before the face of the Schimnus, did not one of
thy maidens leave a new-born infant in a wolves' den?"

And his mother answered, "Even so did one of my maidens, and the
child would now be about this age." So they took Schalû to them,
and he was unto Udsessküleng-Chatun as a son, but unto Vikramâditja
as a brother; and he went with him whithersoever he went.

One day Vikramâditja came to his mother, and said to her, "Beloved
mother! Live on here in tranquillity, while I, in company with Schalû,
will go to the capital where my father, the immortal Gandharva,
reigned, and see what is the fate of our people, and how I may recover
the inheritance."

But Udsessküleng-Chatun made answer, "Vikramâditja, beloved son! Is
not the way long, and beset with evil men, who are so many and so
bold? How then wilt thou ever arrive, or escape their wiles?"

Vikramâditja said to her, "How great soever the distance may be, by
hard walking I will set it behind me; and how many soever the enemy
may be, I shall overcome them, defying the violent with strength,
and the crafty with craftiness."

Thus he and Schalû set out to go to the immortal Gandharva's
capital. Inquiring by the way what fate had befallen the kingdom, he
found that Gandharva had no sooner entered Nirvâna, than his neighbour
King Galischa, had made the design to obtain possession of his throne;
but that the Schimnus' host had been beforehand with him, and had
already commenced to take possession. They made a compact, however,
by which the government was left to King Galischa, on condition of
his sending to the Schimnus in Gandharva's palace, a tribute of a
hundred men daily with a nobleman at their head.

Then Vikramâditja was grieved when he learned that it was thus the
usurping prince dealt with his subjects, and he proceeded farther
on his way. When he had come nigh the capital, he heard sounds of
wailing, proceeding from a hut on the outskirts; going in to discover
the cause, Vikramâditja found lying, with her face upon the floor,
a woman all disconsolate, and weeping piteously.

"Mother! What is thy grief wherewith thou art so terribly
oppressed?" inquired Vikramâditja of her.

"Ah!" replied the woman, "there is no cure for my grief. This King
Galischa, who has seized the kingdom of the immortal Gandharva, has
entered into a compact with the Schimnus to pay them a tribute of a
hundred men every day with a nobleman at their head. I had two sons,
one of them is gone I know not whither, and now to-day they have come
and taken the other to send in the tribute to the Schimnus, nor can I
by any means resist the will of the King. That is why I wail, and that
is why I am inconsolable." And she went on with her loud lament (9).

But Vikramâditja bid her arise and be of good cheer, saying, "I will
bring back thy son to thee alive this day, for I will go forth to
the Schimnus in his stead."

Then the woman said, "Nay, neither must this be. Thou art brave with
the valour of youth, even as a young horse snorting to get him away to
the battle. But when thou art devoured by the Schimnus, then shall thy
mother grieve even as I; and belike she is young and has many years
before her, whereas my life is well-nigh spent, and what matter if
I go down to the grave in sorrow? Who am I that I should bring grief
to the mother of thee, noble youth!"

But Vikramâditja said, "Leave that to me, and if I send not back
to thee thine own son as I have promised, then will I send back to
thee this youth, Schalû, who is my younger brother, and he shall be
thy son."

When he drew near the dwelling of King Galischa, the King was just
marshalling one hundred subjects, with a nobleman at their head, who
were to be sent that day to the Schimnus in tribute in Gandharva's
palace. But the King, espying him, inquired who and whence he was.

Then Vikramâditja answered him, "I am Vikramâditja, son of
Gandharva. When he died, my mother carried me, being an infant of
days, far away for fear of the Schimnus. But now that I have grown
to man's estate, I am come together with my younger brother to see
after the state of my father's kingdom."

Galischa then said, "It is well for thee that Heaven preserved
thee from coming before, otherwise thou mightest have had all the
travail which has fallen upon me; nevertheless, as I came first, I
am in possession. But I have every day in sorrow and agony to send
a tribute of one hundred subjects, with a nobleman at their head,
to be devoured by the Schimnus."

"This have I learnt," replied Vikramâditja, "and it is even on that
account that I am here. For have I not seen the grief of a mother
mourning over her son, and it is to take his place, and to go in his
stead, that I came hither to thee."

And Galischa said, "How canst thou, youth that thou art, defy all
the might of the Schimnus, doubt not now but that they will devour
thee before thou art aware."

"Then," replied the magnanimous prince, "if I do not prevail against
the Schimnus, this I shall gain, that because I have given my life
for another, I shall in my next birth rise to a higher place (10)
than at present."

"If that is thy mind," replied the King, "then do even as thou
hast said."

So Vikramâditja went out with the tribute of blood, and sent back
the youth whom he had come to replace, to his mother.

When the King saw him go forth with firm step, and as it were dancing
with joy over his undertaking, he said, "There is one case in which he
might turn out to be our deliverer; but if that case does not befall,
then will he but have come to swell the number of victims of the
Schimnus. Let us, however, all wait here together through the day,
to see what may befall."

Vikramâditja and his companions meantime arrived at Gandharva's
palace; and Vikramâditja, as if he had known the place all his life,
went straight up to the throne-room, where was the great and dazzling
Sinhâsana (11). Ascending it, therefore, he sat himself in it, and,
while his tears flowed down, he cried, "Oh for the days of my father,
the immortal Gandharva; for he reigned gloriously! But since he
hath entered Nirvâna we have had nothing but weariness. What would
my father have said had he seen his subjects made by hundreds at a
time food for the Schimnus? Schimnus, beware! lest I destroy your
whole race from off the face of the earth."

Thus spoke Vikramâditja, till, inspired by his royal courage, he had
sent all the hundred victims of this tribute back to their homes,
defying the anger of the Schimnus. But to the King he sent word,
"The Schimnus of whom thou standest in mortal dread will I curb
and tame. Meantime, let there be four hundred vessels of brandy
prepared." And the King did as he said, and sent and put out four
hundred vessels filled with strong brandy in the way.

When, therefore, the Schimnus came that they might devour their
victims as usual, they first came upon the four hundred vessels of
brandy, and seeing them, they set upon them greedily, and drank up
their contents. Overcome by the strong spirit, they lay about on the
ground half-senseless, and Vikramâditja came upon them and slew them,
and hewed them in pieces.

He had hardly despatched the last of them when their Schimnu-king,
informed of what had been done, came down in wrath and fury,
flourishing his drawn sword. But Vikramâditja said to him, "Halt! King
of the Schimnus; taste first of my brandy, and if it overcome thee,
then shalt thou be my slave; but if not, then will I serve thee. Then
the King of the Schimnus drank up all the brandy, and, overpowered
by the strong spirit, fell down senseless on the earth.

As he was about to slay him like the others, Vikramâditja thought
within himself, "After all, it will bring greater fame to overcome
him in fair fight than to slay him by stratagem." So he sat down
and waited till he came to himself; then he defied him to combat;
and when he stood up to fight, he raised his sword and cut him in two.

Then see! of the two halves there arose two men; and when he cut
each of these in two, there were four men; and when he cut these in
two, there were eight men, who all rushed upon him. Then the Prince
transformed himself into eight lions, which roared terribly, and tore
the eight men in pieces, and destroyed them utterly.

While this terrible combat was going on, there were frightful
convulsions of nature (12): mountains fell in, and in the place where
they had stood were level plains; and plains were raised up, and
appeared as mountains, water gushed out of them and overran the land,
and all the subjects of Gandharva fell senseless on the earth. But
when Vikramâditja had made an end of the Schimnus, and resumed his
own form again, he made a great offering of incense, and the earth
resumed her stability; the people were called back to life, and all
was gladness and thanksgiving. All the people, and King Galischa
at their head, acknowledged Vikramâditja as their lawful sovereign,
and he ascended the throne of his father Gandharva. Then he sent for
the Queen-mother, and made the joy of all his people.



When the Sûta had made an end of the narrative of Vikramâditja's youth,
he addressed himself to Ardschi-Bordschi, saying,--

"If thou canst boast of being such a King as Vikramâditja, then come
and ascend this throne; but if not, then beware, at thy peril, that
thou approach it not."

Ardschi-Bordschi then drew near once more to ascend the throne,
but two other of the sculptured figures, forsaking their guardant
attitude, came forward and warned him back.

Then another Sûta addressed him, saying, "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi! As
yet thou hast only heard concerning the birth and the youth of
Vikramâditja; now hearken, and I will tell thee some of his mighty
deeds."

And all the sculptured figures answered together,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!"



THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING VIKRAMÂDITJA'S DEEDS.

VIKRAMÂDITJA ACQUIRES ANOTHER KINGDOM.

While Vikramâditja continued to rule over his subjects in justice,
and to make them prosperous and happy, another mighty king entered
Nirvâna. As he left no son, and as there was no one of his family left,
nor any one with any title to be his heir, a youth of the people was
elected to fill the throne. The same night that he had been installed
on the throne, however, he came to die. The next day another youth
was elected, and he also died the same night. And so it was the next
night, and the next, and yet no one could divine of what malady all
these kings died.

At last the thing reached the ears of Vikramâditja.

Then Vikramâditja arose, and Schalû with him, and disguising themselves
as two beggars, they took the way to the capital of this sorely-tried
kingdom, to bring it deliverance.

When they came near the entrance of the city, they turned in to rest
at a small house by the wayside. Within they found an aged couple,
who were preparing splendid raiment for a handsome youth, who was
their son; but they cried the while with bitter tears. Then said
Vikramâditja,--

"Why do you mourn so bitterly, good people?"

"Our King is dead," replied they, "and as he has left no succession,
one of the people was chosen by lot to fill the office of King,
but he died the same night; and when another was similarly chosen,
he likewise died. Thus it happens every night. Now, to-day the lot
has fallen on our son; he will therefore of a certainty die to-night:
therefore do we mourn."

Then answered Vikramâditja, "To me and my companion, who are but two
miserable beggars, it matters little whether we live or die. Keep
your son with you, therefore, and we two will ascend the throne this
morning in his place and die to-night in his stead."

But the parents replied, "It is not for us to decide the thing. Behold,
the matter stands in the hands of three prudent and experienced
ministers, but we will go and bring the proposal before them."

The parents went, therefore, and laid the proposal of the beggars
before the three prudent and experienced ministers, who answered them,
saying, "If these men are willing to die after reigning but twenty-four
hours why should we say them nay? Let them be brought hither to us."

Then the beggars were brought in, and the ministers installed them on
the throne, saying to the people, "Hitherto we have been accustomed to
meet together early in the morning to bury our King. But this time,
as we shall have two kings to bury instead of one, see that you come
together right early."

Vikramâditja meantime set himself to examine all the affairs of the
kingdom, that he might discover to what was to be ascribed the death
of the King every night. And when he had well inquired into every
matter, he found that it had formerly been the custom of the King to
make every night a secret offering (1) to the devas, and to the genii
of earth and water, and to the eight kinds of spirits, but that the
succeeding kings had neglected the sacrifice, and therefore the spirits
had slain them. Then the most high and magnanimous king Vikramâditja
appointed out of the royal treasury what was necessary to pay for
the accustomed offering; then he called upon the spirits and offered
the sacrifice. The spirits, delighted to see their honour return,
made the king a present of a handsome Mongolian tent and went up again.

The people, too, who had come together early in the morning, with
much wood to make the funeral obsequies of the Kings, were filled
with delight to find the spell broken, and in return they gave him
the jewel Dsching, filling the air with their cries of gladness and
gratitude, calling him the King decreed by fate to rule over them. Thus
Vikramâditja became their King.



VIKRAMÂDITJA MAKES THE SILENT SPEAK.

While now Vikramâditja reigned over all his people in justice and
equity complaint was brought before him against one of his ministers,
that he oppressed the people and dealt fraudulently with them; and
Vikramâditja, having tried his cause, judged him worthy of death. But
when he was brought before him to receive sentence he pleaded for life
so earnestly that the magnanimous King answered him, "Why should the
life of the most abject be taken? Let him but be driven forth from
the habitation of men."

So they drove him forth from the habitation of men. Now it had been the
minister's custom, in pursuance of a vow, to observe three fast-days
every month (1). And so it happened, that one day after they had
driven him forth from the habitations of men, on the day succeeding
one of his fasts, he found himself quite without any thing to eat;
nor could he discover any fruit or any herb which could serve as a
means of subsistence. Recollecting, then, that one day he had made
four little offering-tapers out of wax and bread crumbs, he went and
searched out the shrine where he had offered them, that he might take
them to eat. But see! when he stretched forth his hand to take one
of them it glided away from before him and hid itself behind another
of the offering-tapers; and when he would have taken that one, they
both hid themselves behind the third. And when he stretched forth his
hand to have taken the third, the three together, in like manner,
glided behind the fourth. And when he stretched forth his hand to
have taken the four together, they all glided away together from
off the altar and out of the shrine altogether, and so swiftly that
it was as much as he could do to follow after them and keep them in
sight. Going on steadily behind them he came at last to a cave of a
rock, and brushwood growing over it. Herein they disappeared. Then
when he would have crept in after them into the cave of the rock, two
he-goats, standing over the portal of the cave, sculptured in stone,
spoke to him, saying, "Beware, and enter not! for this is a place of
bad omen. Within this cave sits the beauteous Dâkinî (2) Tegrijin Nâran
(3) sunk in deep contemplation and speaketh never. Whoso can make
her open her lips twice to speak to man, to him is the joy given to
bear her home for his own. But let it not occur to thee to make the
bold attempt of inducing her to open her lips to speak, for already
five hundred sons of kings have tried and failed; and behold they all
languish in interminable prison at the feet of the Silent Haughty One,
sunk in deep contemplation."

And as they spoke they bent low their heads, and pointed their horns
at him, to forbid him the entrance.

The minister, however, had no mind to try the issue, but rather
seized with a great panic he turned him and fled without so much as
heeding whither his steps led him. Thus running he chanced to come
with his head at full butt against the magnanimous King Vikramâditja,
just then taking his walk abroad.

"How now, evil man?" exclaimed the magnanimous King. "Whence comest
thou, fleeing as from an evil conscience?"

Then the minister prostrated himself before him, and told him all
he had learnt from the two he-goats sculptured in stone, concerning
Naran-Dâkinî.

When Vikramâditja had heard the story, he commanded that the evil
minister should be guarded, to see whether the event proved that he
had spoken the truth; but, taking with him Schalû and three far-sighted
and experienced ministers, he went on till he came to the cave and saw
the two he-goats sculptured in stone standing over the portal. The
he-goats would have made the same discourse to him as to the evil
minister, but he commanded them silence. Then he transformed Schalû
into an aramâlâ (4) in his hand, but the three ministers into the
altar that stood before the Dâkinî, and the lamp that burned thereon,
and the granite vessel for burning incense placed at the foot of the
same (5); laying this charge upon them: "I will come in," said he,
"as though a wayfarer who knew you not, and sitting down I will tell
a saga of olden time. Then all of you four give an interpretation of
my saga quite perverse from the real meaning, and if the Dâkinî be
prudent and full of understanding she will open her lips to speak to
vindicate the right meaning of the story."

Presently, therefore, after he had completed the transformation of
Schalû and the three far-seeing and experienced ministers, and having
himself assumed the appearance of a king on his travels, he entered
the cave and sat down over against the altar which stood before the
Dâkinî Naran, the Silent Haughty One, sunk in deep contemplation. Then
said he, "In that it was told me in this place dwells the all-fair
Tegrijin Naran-Dâkinî, I, who am King of Gambudvîpa, am come hither to
visit her;" and as he spoke he looked furtively up towards the Dâkinî,
to see whether he had moved her to open her lips to speak.

But the all-beauteous Naran-Dâkinî, the Silent Haughty One, sat still
and gave forth no sign.

Then spoke the King again, saying, "On occasion of this my coming,
O Naran-Dâkinî, tell thou me one of the sagas of old; or else, if
thou prefer to hold thy peace, then will I tell one to thee!"

Again he looked up, but Naran-Dâkinî Tegrijin, the Silent Haughty One,
sat sunk in deep contemplation and gave forth no sign.

As the King paused, one of the far-seeing and experienced ministers,
even the one whom he had transformed into the altar that stood before
the Dâkinî, spoke, saying,--

"While from the lips of the all-beauteous Naran-Chatun (6) no word
of answer proceeds, how should it beseem me, the Altar, a non-souled
object, to speak. Nevertheless, seeing that so great and magnanimous a
King has come hither and has propounded a question, I will yet dare,
even I, to answer him. For, seeing that Naran-Chatun is so immersed
in her own contemplations, she cannot give ear to the words of the
King, I who, standing all the day before her in silence, and hearing
no word of wisdom in any of the sagas of old, even I would fain be
instructed by the words of the King."

And as the altar thus spoke, Naran Tegrijin Dâkinî cast a glance
of scorn upon it, but the Silent Haughty One opened never her lips
to speak.

Then the King took up his parable and poured forth one of the sagas
of old after this manner, saying,--



WHO INVENTED WOMAN? (7)

"Long ages ago there went forth daily into one place four youths out
of four tribes, to mind their flocks, one youth out of each tribe,
and when their flocks left them leisure they amused themselves with
pastimes together. Now it came to pass that one day one of them rising
earlier than the rest, and finding himself at the place all alone,
said within himself,--

"'How is the time weary, being here all alone!'

"And he took wood and sculptured it with loving care until he had
fashioned a form like to his own, and yet not alike. And when he saw
how brave a form he had fashioned, he cared no more to sport with
the other shepherd youths, but went his way.

"The next morning the second of the youths rose earlier than the rest,
and, coming to the place all alone, said within himself,--

"'How is the time weary, being here all alone!'

"And he cast about him for some pastime, and thus he found the form
which the first youth had fashioned, and, finding it exceeding brave,
he painted it over with the five colours, and when he saw how fair a
form he had painted he cared no more to sport with the other shepherd
youths, but went his way.

"The next morning the third of the youths rose earlier than the rest,
and, coming to the place all alone, said within himself,--

"'How is the time weary, being here all alone!'

"And he cast about him for some pastime, and thus he discovered the
form which the first youth had fashioned and the second youth had
painted, and he said,--

"'This figure is beautiful in form and colour, but it has no wit or
understanding' So he infused into it wit and understanding.

"And when he saw how clever was the form he had endowed with wit and
understanding, he cared no more to sport with the shepherd youths,
and he went his way.

"The fourth morning the fourth of the youths rose up the earliest, and,
finding himself all alone at the trysting-place, said within himself,--

"'How is the time weary, being here all alone!'

"And, casting about to find some pastime, he discovered the form
which the first youth had fashioned so brave, and the second youth
had painted so fair, and the third youth had made so clever in wit
and understanding, and he said,--

"'Behold the figure is beautiful in form and fair to behold in colour,
and admirable for wit and understanding, but what skills all this when
it hath not life?' And he put his lips to the lips of the figure and
breathed softly into them, and behold it had a soul (8) that could
be loved, and was woman.

"And when he saw her he loved her, and he cared no more to sport with
the shepherd youths, but left all for her, that he might be with her
and love her.

"But when the other shepherd youths saw that the figure had acquired
a soul that could be loved, and was woman, they came back all the
three and demanded possession of her by right of invention.

"The first youth said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because I
fashioned her out of a block of wood that had had no form but for me.'

"The second said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because I
painted her, and she had worn no tints fair to behold but for me.'

"The third said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because I gave her
wit and understanding, and she had had no capacity for companionship
but for me.'

"But the fourth said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because
I breathed into her a soul that could be loved, nor was there any
enjoyment in her but for me.'

"And while they all joyed in the thought of possessing her, they
continued to strive on that they might see which should prevail. And
when they found that none prevailed against the rest, they brought
the matter before the King for him to decide.

"Say now therefore, O Naran-Dâkinî, I charge thee, in favour of which
of these four was the King bound to decide that he had invented woman?"

And as the King left off from speaking he looked towards Naran-Dâkinî
as challenging her to answer.

But Naran-Dâkinî, the Silent Haughty One, sat immersed in deep
contemplation and held her peace, speaking never a word.

Then when the far-sighted and experienced ministers saw that she held
her peace, one of them, even the one whom Vikramâditja had transformed
into the lamp before the altar, spoke, saying,--

"It were meet indeed that an unsouled object such as I, the
Lamp, should not venture to speak in presence of our mistress,
Naran-Chatun. But as so great a King has come to visit us, and has
propounded to us a question to which Naran-Chatun does not see fit
to reply, even I, the Lamp, will attempt to answer him. To me, then,
it seems that the answer is clear, for by whom could the figure be
said to be invented saving by the youth who first fashioned it? He
who gave a mere block of wood a beautiful form must be allowed to
have invented it."

Naran-Dâkinî cast a glance of disgust and scorn upon the lamp, yet
spoke she never a word.

Then spoke the far-seeing and experienced minister whom Vikramâditja
had transformed into the thurible at the foot of the altar, saying,--

"It were meet indeed that an unsouled object such as I, the
Incense-burner, should not venture to speak in presence of our
mistress, Naran-Chatun. But as so great a King has come to visit us,
and has propounded a question to us to which Naran-Chatun does not see
fit to reply, even I, the Thurible, will attempt to answer him. And
to me indeed the answer is plain, for to whom could the figure be
said to belong, if not to the youth who painted it and made a mere
stump beautiful and lifelike with fair tints of colour?"

At these words of the incense-vessel Naran-Dâkinî cast upon it a look
of scorn and contempt, but opened not her lips to speak.

Then spoke Schalû, whom Vikramâditja had transformed into his
aramâlâ, with impetuosity, saying, "Nay, but surely he alone could
have the right of invention who endowed a painted log with wit and
understanding. Surely he who made a stump of a tree to think must be
allowed to have invented it."

When Naran-Dâkinî saw with what a confident air the aramâlâ pronounced
this sentence, even as though he had settled the whole matter, she
could contain herself no longer, and then burst from her lips these
words, while her eyes lighted on the objects that had spoken with
exceeding indignation,--

"Of miserable understanding are ye all! How then venture ye, unsouled
objects, to expound the matter when I, a reasonable being, scarcely
dare pronounce upon the question? What other interpretation of
this parable, however, can there be than this:--The youth who first
fashioned the figure of a block of wood, did not he stand in place
of the father? He who painted it with tints fair to behold, did not
he stand in place of the mother? He who gave wit and understanding,
is not he the Lama? But he who gave a soul that could be loved, was
it not he alone who made woman? To whom, therefore, else should she
have belonged by right of invention? And to whom should woman belong
if not to her husband?"

Thus Tegrijin Naran Dâkinî had been brought to speak once; but the
proposition requiring that the Silent Haughty One should speak twice
to man, the magnanimous King proceeded without making allusion to
his first success, saying,--

"Now that I have told a saga of old, it is the turn that one of you
should also tell us a tale to entertain the mind." And as he spoke
he addressed himself to Naran-Dâkinî. Nevertheless Naran-Dâkinî
had entered again into her deep contemplation, and held her peace,
saying never a word.

Then said the far-seeing and experienced minister whom the King had
transformed into the altar,--

"As Naran-Chatun continues to sit in her place and to utter no sound
in answer to the word of the high King who has come so far to visit
us, even I, though I be an unsouled object, will venture to reply,
asking him that he will again open to us the treasures of story."

At these words Naran-Dâkinî cast a meaning glance upon her altar,
but spoke not.

Then opened the magnanimous King again the treasures of story.



THE VOICE-CHARMER (9).

"Long ages ago two were travelling through a mountainous country, a
man and his wife. And behold as they journeyed there reached them from
the other side of a rock a voice of such surpassing sweetness that the
two stood still to listen, the man and his wife; and not they only, but
their very beasts pricked up their ears erect to drink in the sound.

"Then spoke the woman,--

"'A man with a voice so melodious must be a man goodly to see. Shall
we not stop and find him out?'"

"But the saying pleased not her husband, nor was he minded that she
should see who it was that sang so sweetly; therefore he answered
her,--

"'Wherefore should we search him out; is it not enough that we hear
his voice?'

"When the wife had heard his answer, she said no more about searching
out whence the voice proceeded; only the first time they passed a
mountain-rill she said to her husband,--

"'Behold, I faint for thirst in this heat. Now, as thou lovest me,
fetch me a draught of that cool water from the mountain-rill.' So
the man got down from his horse, and, taking his wife's cup (10),
went to the rill to fetch water.

"While he was thus occupied, the wife slid down from off her horse
also, and, going silently behind him, pushed him over the precipice
and killed him. Then she set out to find out who it was sang so
melodiously. When she had followed up the sound she found herself in
presence, not of a man goodly to behold, but of a wretched, loathsome
object, sunk down against the foot of the rock, deformed in person
and covered with sores. Notwithstanding that the undeception was so
revolting, she yet took him up on her back and carried him with her;
but as the man was heavy and the way steep, the fatigue so wearied
her that at the end of a little time she died.

"Was this woman to be counted a good woman or a bad?"

When the King had made an end of telling the tale, he looked towards
Naran-Dâkinî as challenging her to answer.

But Naran-Dâkinî held her peace and spoke never a word.

Then, when the far-seeing and experienced minister whom Vikramâditja
had transformed into the lamp saw that she yet held her peace,
he said,--

"How should an unsouled being such as I, the Lamp, find out the right
meaning? nevertheless, not to leave the words of the high King without
an answer, I will even venture to suggest that to me it seemeth she
must be counted a good woman; because though she killed her husband,
yet she made atonement for her fault by raising the sick man and
carrying him with her--"

But before he could make an end of speaking Naran-Dâkinî cast at him
a glance of contempt and scorn, and she exclaimed,--

"How should there be any good in a woman who killed her lawful husband,
and that only because her ears were tickled with the artful melody
of an harmonious voice? Of a truth she must have been a veritable
schimnu, and if she took the sick man with her, was it not only that
she might devour him at leisure?"

Then spoke Vikramâditja,--

"Naran-Chatun! being he who hath induced thee to open thy lips to
speak these two times to man, give me my guerdon that thou accompany
me home to be my wife."

Very willingly coming down from her altar, Tegrijin Naran Dâkinî at
these words gave herself to Vikramâditja to accompany him home to be
his wife.

Vikramâditja having then given back to Schalû and to his three
far-seeing and experienced ministers their natural shapes, and to the
five hundred sons of kings who had failed in winning Naran-Dâkinî
theirs, with Naran-Dâkinî by his side, and all the rest in a long
procession behind him, the King arrived at his capital. Here he called
together all his people Tai-tsing (11) to a great assembly, where
he promulgated rules of faith and religion. By his good government
he made all his people so happy as no other sovereign ever did,
sitting upon his throne with his consort Tegrijin Naran as the
fate-appointed rulers.



When the Sûta had made an end of this narration of Vikramâditja's
deeds, he addressed himself to Ardschi-Bordschi, saying,--

"If thou canst boast, of being such a King as Vikramâditja, then
come and ascend this throne, but if not, then beware at thy peril
that thou approach it not."

Now Ardschi-Bordschi had seventy-one wives; taking by the hand the
chief of them therefore, he bid her make obeisance before the throne
and ascend it with him. Ere they had set foot on the first step two
other of the sculptured figures came forward, forsaking their guardant
attitude, and warned him back, the warrior smiting him in the breast,
and the Sûta thus addressing him,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi, and thou his wife! nor touch so much as
with thy prostrate heads the sacred steps. But first know what manner
of woman was the chief wife of Vikramâditja.

"The chief wife of Vikramâditja was Tsetsen Budschiktschi (12), and
she never had a word, or look, or thought but for her husband. If thy
wife be such a princess as she, then draw near to ascend the throne
together, but if otherwise, then at your peril draw not near it.

"But," he said furthermore, "hearken, and I will tell you, who have
seventy-one wives, the story of what befell seventy-one parrots and
the wife of another high King to whom one of them was counsellor."

And all the sculptured figures answered together,--

"Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!"



THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING THE SEVENTY-ONE PARROTS
AND THEIR ADVISER.

Long ages ago the wife of a high King was ill with a dire illness,
nor could the art of any physician suffice to cure her till one came
who said, "Let there be given her parrots' brains to eat."

When, therefore, the high King saw that eating parrots' brains
brought health it seemed good to him to take a tribute of parrots'
brains from his subjects.

He called unto him, therefore, the governor of a tributary province
and commanded him, saying, "Let there be delivered to me a tribute of
the brains of seventy-one parrots, otherwise thou must die the death."

That governor went out therefore trembling with fear, and he called
unto him immediately a birdcatcher and agreed with him for the price
of the brains of seventy-one parrots.

Now the birdcatcher knew a certain tree in which there roosted every
night seventy-one parrots, and he said within himself, "If I could
spread one net over the whole tree, with one haul the whole affair
would be finished." So he went and bought a great net ready to spread
over the whole tree.

But among these seventy-one parrots was one parrot exceeding wise, who
was always on the watch to see what the birdcatcher was about. When,
therefore, he saw him buy so great a net he said to his companions,
"To what end can the man have bought so big a net if not to spread
round the whole tree? let us, therefore, in future roost on yonder
rock." After this they went to roost on the rock. After they had
roosted four or five nights on the rock the wise parrot caught sight
of the birdcatcher prowling about, having followed them thither
and being engaged in settling in his own mind how he should lay his
nets. Then the wise parrot said to his companions, "The man has come
hither after us even to this rock; let us now, therefore, avoid his
snares by roosting in some other place."

But his companions, instead of accepting his counsel were provoked,
and answered him, saying, "How are we to endure thus changing our place
of roosting every night. We left our tree which sheltered us well and
came to this rock to please thy fancy; and now thou wouldst have us
make another change. But we will no more listen to thy suspicions."

They roosted, therefore, still upon the rock, and that night the
birdcatcher came with his nets and encompassed them all.

When they woke and found themselves imprisoned, loud were their shrieks
of lamentation as they fluttered and beat their wings fruitlessly
against the net; calling also on the wise parrot, saying, "You who
were so wise in foreseeing the danger, have you no means for delivering
us out of it?"

"Yes," replied the wise parrot, "I have thought of that. Leave off
every one of you from shrieking and fluttering about, and beating
your wings against the net, which is a new one and not the least
likely to give way. On the contrary, lie all of you on your backs
with your heads hanging as if you were dead. The birdcatcher being
satisfied you are dead will not kill you over again. Then observe
and see that the approach to this one rock is very narrow, and when
a man comes up it there is only just room for one foot-hold at the
ledge whence he can reach us, and it is as much as he can do to
get up and down with the use of both his hands as well as his feet;
he will not, therefore, go to carry us down or put us in a bag, but
will throw us one by one over the cliff, and sure enough he will say
out the number as he throws each down. Let, therefore, those who are
thrown down first remain still lying without motion so that he may not
suspect any of the rest are alive, only when he says out the number,
'Seventy-one!' then up and away, as at a signal of a race."

The other parrots did not venture to dispute the word of the wise
parrot this time, but all did exactly as he had said. When the
birdcatcher came and found what a steep rugged path he had to climb
he vowed all sorts of vengeance on the parrots for giving him so
much fatigue, and swore that he would break all their bones, for
the brain was the only part he cared to keep uninjured. When he had
got up to the ledge of rock by which he could reach them, however,
and found that they seemed already stone dead, seeing that to wreak
any vengeance on creatures that could not feel would be childish,
he contented himself with throwing them below one by one, calling
out as he did so the number to each. In this way he had thrown over
the seventy; last of all there remained the wise parrot, but the net
having fallen upon him he was rather longer loosing him than the rest,
so that he had called out "Seventy-one" before he was ready to throw
him down, moreover, his whetstone happening at that same instant to
tumble out of his girdle, the other parrots took the sound of its
fall for that of the wise parrot, and all of them together they spread
their wings and flew far away.

The birdcatcher saw this in time before he had let go his hold of
the wise parrot.

"Ah! vile, cunning parrots," he exclaimed in great wrath and
indignation, "what labour have you given me, and at last I have no
benefit for my exertion! One, at least, of you is still in my power,
and on him will I be avenged for the mischief of all the rest;
I will take him home and torture him at leisure, and then cook him
alive. The wise parrot heard all this, but thought to wait till his
fury was a little spent. But finding as time wore on the man only
got more and more wroth; and the matter beginning to get serious,
as they were coming near his dwelling, the wise parrot at last said,
"What end will it serve that thou kill me? It will not bring the other
parrots back--and, indeed, what grudge hast thou against me? I never
killed thee at any former time (1) that thou shouldst now kill me. Thou
hast attacked my life, and I have defended it by fair dealing. Other
grudge against me hast thou none; then why shouldst thou seek to maim
and injure me? Moreover, if thou do, be sure that the day will come
(2) when I should repay thee. But now, if thou sell me who am a wise
and understanding parrot, thou shalt receive for my price 100 ounces
of silver, and if with seventy-one ounces thou buy seventy-one other
parrots for him who hired thee there will still remain twenty-nine
ounces with which thou mayest make merry with all thy friends and
acquaintance."

When, therefore, the birdcatcher found he was a wise and understanding
parrot, he took him and sold him to a rich merchant for 100 ounces
of silver.

The merchant also, who bought the parrot, finding him so wise and full
of understanding, employed him in all sorts of ways to watch over his
belongings. At last, one day he came and said to the parrot, "Hitherto
thou hast done me good service in watching over the merchandize,
and I have regarded thee as my brother, now, therefore, that I go
on a journey of seventy-one days I entreat thee to watch over, as a
sister-in-law, my wife, who is very gay and thoughtless.

The wise parrot answered, "Be of good heart, brother, all shall be
right in thine absence."

At which the merchant replied, "If thou sayest so, brother Parrot,
I can go forth on my journey without anxieties."

He had not been gone long when his young wife rose up, saying, "Now
indeed I am for once my own mistress: I will go out and see all my
friends, and particularly those I dare not visit when my husband
is here." So she arrayed herself in all her gayest attire. But
when she would have gone out the parrot stopped her, saying, "Wait,
sister-in-law. A wife behoves it rather to set her household affairs
in order, than to go abroad paying visits when her husband is absent."

"Bad parrot!" exclaimed the wife, "what hast thou to do to hinder my
taking a little pleasure?"

The parrot answered, "Thy husband when he went away gave me strict
charge over thee, saying, 'I command thee that thou hinder her from
going forth alone.' This, however, it is not in me to do, for thou
art greater in might than I; and if I command thee not to go thou
wilt not obey by words. Only now, therefore, before thou goest out
sit down first and listen to the story that I will tell thee."

When the wife heard him promise to tell a story, she sat down, for
she loved to listen to the stories of the wise parrot.

Then the parrot began to tell her a story in this wise.



HOW NARAN GEREL SWORE FALSELY AND YET TOLD THE TRUTH.

"Long ages ago there lived a King named Tsoktu Ilagukssan (3), who had
one only daughter, whom he kept as the apple of his eye, and guarded
so jealously that she never saw any thing or any body. If any man went
near her apartment his legs were immediately broken and his eyes put
out. So relentless was the command of the King.

"One day Naran Gerel (4), such was the daughter's name, however, came
to her father, saying, "Being shut up here all day seeing nothing
and no man, my life is weariness unto me. Let me now go abroad on
the fifteenth of the month, that I may see something."

"But the King would not listen to her; only as she continued day by
day urging her request, the King at last gave permission that on
a certain day she might go abroad; but he gave orders also at the
same time that on that day every bazaar should be shut, every window
closed, and that all men, women, and beasts should be shut up close
out of sight of the Princess; and that whoso walked abroad, or but
looked out of window should be punished with death.

"On the fifteenth of the month, therefore, a new chariot was appointed
to Naran Gerel, and she went forth surrounded by a train of her
maidens, and drove all through the city; every bazaar being shut up,
every window closed, and all men, women, and beasts within doors out
of sight.

"Nevertheless, the King's minister Ssaran (5), overcome by his
curiosity to see the Princess, had gone up to the highest window of his
house, to obtain a glimpse of her unperceived. But what care soever
he took to be seen of none, the Princess, in her anxiety to make the
best use of her eyes on this her one opportunity of seeing the world,
discerned him.

"Never having seen any man but her father, who was already well
stricken in years, the appearance of the Minister, who was still young,
so charmed her that she instantly conceived a desire to see more of
him, and accordingly made a sign to him by raising the first finger
of her right hand and marking a circle round it with the other hand;
then clasping both hands tight together and throwing them open again,
finally laying one finger of each hand together and pointing with
them towards the palace.

"Very much perplexed at finding himself discovered by the Princess,
Ssaran came down; and when his wife saw him looking so bewildered,
she inquired of him, saying, 'Hast thou seen the Princess?'

"'Not only have I seen the Princess,' replied Ssaran, 'but she hath
seen me; and made all manners of signs, of which I understand nothing,
but that of course they were to threaten some dreadful chastisement.'

"'And of what nature were the signs, then?' further inquired his wife;
and when he had described them to her, she replied,--

"'These signs by no means betoken threatening. Listen, and I will
tell thee the interpretation of the same. In that she raised the
first finger of the right hand on high, she signified that in the
neighbourhood of her dwelling is a shady tree; that with the other
hand she described a circle round it, showed that the garden where
the tree stands is surrounded by a high wall; that she clasped both
hands together and then threw them open again, said, "Come unto me
in the garden of flowers;" and the laying of one finger of each hand
together, said, "May we be able to meet?"'

"'This were very well,' replied Ssaran, 'were the King's decree not
so terrible, and his wrath so unsparing.'

"But his wife answered him, 'When a King's daughter calls, can fear
stand in the way? Go now at her bidding, only take this jewel with
thee.'

"Ssaran accepted his wife's counsel, and, stowing the jewel away in a
safe place in the folds of his robe, betook himself to the shady tree
in the garden of the Princess. Here he found the Princess awaiting him,
and they spent the day happily together.

"Towards evening, just as Ssaran was about to take leave of the
Princess, they suddenly found themselves surrounded by a hundred
armed men, whom the captain that the King had set over the garden
had sent to take them both prisoners. Into a dark dungeon they were
accordingly thrown to await the King's decree saying by what manner
of means they should be put to death.

"Naran Gerel, who had been used to see every one obey her and bow
before her, desired the men to let her go home to her father; but
the captain said, 'How many men have suffered maiming and death for
nothing but because they have ventured near the precincts of thine
apartment! Now therefore it is thy turn that thou be put to death
also. So will there be an end of this peril to the King's subjects.'

"When Naran Gerel found she could prevail nothing with the captain,
she turned to Ssaran and entreated him that he should devise some way
of escape; but, sunk in fear and apprehension of the King's terrible
anger, he could not collect his ideas.

"'How comes it,' then inquired the Princess, 'that if thou hast so
little presence of mind as thou now displayest, thou wert able to
distinguish and unravel, and find courage to follow, the tokens that
I gave thee with my hands as I drove along the way?'

"'That,' said he, 'I discovered by the sharp wit of my wife, who also
gave me courage to obey thy call.'

"'And did she furnish thee with knowledge and courage, and yet send
thee forth with no sort of talisman?' said Naran Gerel.

"'She gave me nothing but this jewel,' replied the minister; 'and of
what use can that be?'

"The Princess, however, took the jewel, and, throwing it out of window,
cried to the guard, 'Ye men who are set to guard us, give ear. To
persons sentenced to death is a jewel of no further use; take it one
of you to whom it is permitted to live, only let whichever of you
takes it in possession do us this service, that he go to the house
of the minister Ssaran, and knock three times at the door.'

"One of the guard therefore took the jewel, and went and knocked
three times at the door of the minister Ssaran. But the wife of the
minister, knowing by this token that her husband was thrown into
prison together with Naran Gerel, the King's daughter, made haste
and attired herself in her finest apparel, and filled a basket with
all manner of juice-giving fruits. With these she came to the gate
of the prison where her husband was held bound, and spoke thus to
the captain of the guard,--

"'My husband being stricken with the fever, the physician hath ordered
that I take these fruits to him;' and the captain of the guard made
answer, 'If this be so, then take the fruits in to him, but loiter
not; return in all speed.' As soon as the wife entered the prison
she changed dresses hastily with Naran Gerel, bidding her escape and
go hence privately to her own apartment, while she remained beside
her husband.

"In the meantime morning had come, and the King and all his court
and his judges were astir, and before all other causes the captain of
the guard went to give account of the arrest of Naran Gerel and the
minister Ssaran. The high King was very wroth when he heard what his
daughter had done and the minister, and commanded that they should
instantly be brought before him. So the captain of the guard went
straight to the prison, and without waiting so much as to look at
them brought the two prisoners before the throne of the King.

"When the King saw the minister and his wife standing before him,
he asked them in a voice of thunder,--

"'Where is Naran Gerel?'

"And the minister's wife made answer,--

"'How can we tell thee this thing, seeing we have been kept in durance
all through the night?'

"'And wherefore have ye been kept in durance all through the
night?' pursued the King.

"'Concerning that also we know nothing further than that the captain
of the guard told us it was by the King's decree,' replied the woman.

"'Explain this matter,' then said the King, addressing the
minister. And he, his wife telling him what to say, made answer,
'Most high King, how shall I explain the matter, seeing that I myself
fail to know why we were arrested? My wife desired to see the garden
of the King, and I, thinking it was not beyond a minister's privilege,
took her yesterday to walk there, and we spent the day together under
the shady tree. For this were we put in prison.'

"The King then spoke to the captain of the guard, saying, 'Shall not
a man pass the day in a garden with his wife? Wherefore should they
be put in prison? Behold, since thou hast done this thing, thy life
is in this man's hand.' And he delivered the captain of the guard to
the minister to deal with him as he listed.

"But the captain of the guard said, 'For observing the King's decree
am I to be put to death? Before I die, however, let this justice
be done. Let Naran Gerel be summoned hither, and let her say on the
trial of barley-corns whether it was not she whom I arrested in the
King's garden.'

"So the King sent and called Naran Gerel and bid her say on the trial
of barley-corns whether it were not she whom the captain of the guard
had arrested in the King's garden.

"But Naran Gerel answered, 'Am I not then the King's daughter? How
should I, then, make the trial of barley-corns like one of the common
herd of the people? But call me an assembly, and before the assembly I
will swear. Shall not that suffice for the King's daughter?' But this
she said because in the trial of barley-corns if one speak falsely
the barley-corns will surely spring into the air and burst with a
loud noise; but if truth, then only they remain quiet. Naran Gerel
therefore feared to make the trial of barley-corns.

"But the King said, 'The words that Naran Gerel hath spoken are words
of justice. Let an assembly be called.' So they called together an
assembly, Naran Gerel having exchanged glances with the minister's
wife agreeing how they should proceed.

"Meantime the minister and his wife went home. The wife therefore
stained her husband all over with a black stain so that he looked quite
black, and she said to him, 'When the time comes that the Princess has
to take the oath in the assembly, do thou find thyself there doubled
up and making unmeaning grimaces and uncouth antics with an empty
water-pitcher. Perhaps the Princess will find the means to escape
hereby out of the judgment that threatens her.'

"The assembly was now gathered. The King was on his throne, and
Naran Gerel stood at its foot; and the minister, under the form of
a crippled beggar, black and loathsome to behold, was there also.

"Then the King called upon Naran Gerel to take the oath. And first
espying the pretended cripple, he commanded, saying, 'Let that
revolting object be removed;' and all the people loathed him. But the
minister, who acted the part of a cripple, only mouthed and wriggled
the more, and would not be removed, and as he threatened to make a
disturbance the King bid them unhand him again.

"But Naran Gerel stood forward, saying, 'Whereon shall I take this
oath? On the barley-corns it beseemeth not the King's daughter to
swear even as a common wench. And if I swear on any well-looking man
in this assembly, I shall run danger of having the former accusation
brought against me again. I will therefore swear by this cripple whom
all have loathed. Those who would accuse me to the utmost cannot see
any offence if I swear by an object so ungainly and revolting.'

"By this means, as she had sworn by a cripple who was no cripple,
she counted that it was no oath, while the King and all the people
were satisfied she had spoken the truth. The captain of the guard
was handed over to the minister's pleasure, who let him go free,
and the minister and Naran Gerel were pronounced innocent."



"The wife of the minister Ssaran was a devoted wife, well-being and
true to her husband," said the wise parrot when he had finished this
tale. "If, therefore, thou art devoted and brave even as the wife
of the minister Ssaran, then go abroad and pay visits according to
thy desire; but if not, then beware that thou set not foot outside
the door."

After these words the merchant's wife gave up her intention of going
out, and remained at home. And thus the wise parrot dealt with her
every day of the seventy-one days that the merchant was absent.



Then said the Sûta further to Ardschi-Bordschi, "If thy wife, O
Ardschi-Bordschi! is worthy to be compared to the wife of the minister
Ssaran, not to mention the comparison with Tsetsen Büdschiktschi,
wife of the magnanimous King Vikramâditja, then may she prostrate
herself with her forehead upon the foot of this throne; but if not,
then on her peril let her not approach it."



NOTES.


PREFACE.

1. Kalmuck. "The Khalmoucks or Calmuks, are very far from enjoying
in Asia the importance our books of geography assign them. In the
Khalmoukia of our imagining, no one knew of the Khalmouks. At last
we met with a Lama who had travelled in Eastern Tibet, and he told us
that one of the Kolo tribes is called Khalmouk." The Kolos are a nomad
people of Eastern Tibet, of predatory habits, living in inaccessible
gorges of the Bayen Kharet mountains, guarded by impassable torrents
and frightful precipices, towards the sources of the Yellow River;
they only leave their abode to scour the steppes on a mission of
pillage upon the Mongolians. The Mongolians of the Koukou-Noor (Blue
Lake) hold them in such terror, that there is no monstrous practice
they do not ascribe to them. They profess Buddhism equally with the
Mongolians. See "Missionary Travels in Tartary, Tibet, and China,"
by Abbé Huc, vol. i. chap. iv.

2. "The various Dekhan dialects, i.e. of the Tuluvas, Malabars, Tamuls,
Cingalese, of the Carnatic, &c., though greatly enriched from Sanskrit,
would appear to have an entirely independent origin. The same may be
said of the popular traditions." Lassen, vol. i. 362-364.

3. The Tirolean legend of the Curse of the Marmolata, which I have
given at pp. 278-335 of "Household Stories from the Land of Hofer,"
may well be thought to be a reproduction and reapplication of this,
one of the most ancient of myths.

4. Even the Mahâ Bhârata, however, gives no consecutive and reliable
account of the original settlement in the country. Franz Bopp, one
of the earliest to attempt its translation, thus happily describes
it. He likens it to an Egyptian obelisk covered with hieroglyphics,
"an dem die Grundform von der Erde zum Himmel strebe, aber eine
Fülle von Gestalten, (von denen eine auf die andre deute, eine ohne
die andre räthselhaft bleibe,) neben und durch einander hinziehe und
Irdisches und Himmlisches wundersam verbinde."--The pervading plan of
the work is one straining from earth upwards to heaven, but overlaid
with a multiplicity of figures, each one so intimately related with
the other, that any would be incomprehensible without the rest;
the thread of the life of one interwoven with those of the others,
and all of them together creating a wondrous bond between the things
of this world and the things which are above.

5. "The only way to gain acquaintance with the early history of India
is by making use of its Sagas." Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde,
vol. i., pref. p. vii. But I shall have more to say on this head when
I come to the story of Vikramâditja.

6. Some, however, seem to go too far, when they labour to prove
that this is the case with every individual European legend, many of
which are manifestly created by Christianity; and write as if every
accidental similarity of incident necessarily implied parentage
or connexion.

7. See introduction to his Translation of Pantschatantra. I have
thought it worth while to mention this on account of the present
collection being Mongolian.



DEDICATION.

1. Shâkjamuni--the family name of Buddha, the originator of
Buddhism. It means "Hermit of the tribe of Shâkja," the Shâkja
being one of the earliest Indian dynasties of which there are any
records. His great-grandfather was Gajasena, whose son Sinahânu married
Kâkkanâ, also of the Shâkja lineage. Their son Shuddhodana married
Mahâpragâpatî (more commonly called by her subsequently received name
of Mâja = "the creative power of the godhead") a daughter of Angana,
Kâkkanâ's brother, and became the father of Buddha [4].

According to the Mahavansha, Gajasena was descended from Ixvâku,
through the fabulous number of eighty-two thousand ancestors! He was
also wont to call himself Shramana-Gautama, to mark his alliance with a
certain priestly family of Brahmans and thereby disarm any animosity on
their part toward his teaching. He was also called Shâkjasinha = "Lion
of the tribe of Shâkja," to show that he belonged to the warrior caste.

He was brought up as heir to the crown, and was trained in the use of
arms and in all matters appertaining to the duties of a ruler. At the
age of sixteen he was married, and we have the names of his three
wives--Utpalavarnâ, Jashodharâ, and Bhadrakâkkanâ. Up to the age
of twenty-eight he lived a life entirely devoted to the pursuit of
pleasure, his time being passed between the respective attractions
of three splendid palaces built for him by his father. At about this
age he appears to have grown weary of this desultory kind of life,
and one day, meeting in his walks with an old man, a sick man, a
corpse, and a priest, he was led to turn his thoughts upon the evils
and the evanescence of life. Rambling on instead of returning home he
sat down to rest under the shade of a gambu-tree, and here he found
fresh food for his melancholy reflections in the miserable condition
of the country people living around. The legend says the Devatâ,
or gods, appeared to him in the shape of these suffering people in
order further to instruct him in his new views of existence. In all
probability his previous mode of life never having brought him in
contact with the actual miseries of the needy this sight appeared to
him in the light of an apparition.

The result of his deliberations was the resolve to withdraw to a
place of solitude, where he might be free to consider by what means
human beings could be relieved from their miseries [5].

With this view he forsook his family and his palatial residences, and
having laid aside his rich clothing he wandered forth unknown to all,
begging his food by the way till he found the retirement he sought
in the hermitages of various Brahmans of Gajâshira, a hill in the
neighbourhood of Gaja [6], whence he is sometimes called Gajashiras.

He first placed himself under the teaching of the Brahman Arâda
Kâlâma, afterwards under that of another called Rudraka, who was so
struck with the progress he made in the acquisition of every kind of
knowledge that he soon associated him with himself in the direction
of his disciples. Five of these (four of them belonging to the royal
Shâkja family), Âgnâta, Ashvagit, Bhadraka, Vashpa, and Mahârâta,
grew so much attached to him and his views that they subsequently
became the first followers of his separate school of teaching.

Having after some years exhausted the satisfaction he found in the
pursuit of study he set out restlessly on a new search after happiness,
followed by the five disciples I have named, and retired with them to
a more exclusive solitude still, where for six years he gave himself
up to unbroken contemplation amid the most rigid austerities. After
this he seems to have somewhat alienated his companions by relaxing
his severe mode of life, for they forsook him about this time and
took up their abode in the neighbourhood of Vârânasî [7], where they
continued to live as he had shown them at the first [8].

This mode of life even he, however, does not appear to have altered
except in the matter of abridging his fasts, for his habitual
meditations went on as before, and they were believed to have so
illumined his understanding that he finally received the appellation
of Buddha = "the enlightened one," while from his favourite habit
of making these meditations under the shade of the ashvattha,
the "trembling leaf" fig-tree, that tree, which has acquired so
prominent a place in Buddhist records, legends, and institutions,
came to be called the bodhiruma, literally, "tree of knowledge," and
it has even been distinguished by naturalists from the ficus indica,
of which it is a variety, by the title of ficus religiosa. It became
so inseparable an adjunct of Buddhism that wherever the teaching of
Shâkjamuni was spread this tree was transplanted too [9].

The oppression of solitude appears to have overcome Shâkjamuni at last,
and he consequently took the resolution of journeying to Vâranasî to
seek out his former companions. At their first meeting they were so
scandalized to see him look so well and hearty instead of emaciated
by austerities that they refused to pay him any respect. But
when he showed them that he had attained to the illumination of
a Buddha they accepted his teaching and put themselves entirely
under his guidance. The number of his disciples increased meantime
amazingly. As they lived by alms they received the name of Bhixu as
a term of reproach. Ere long we find him sending out sixty of them,
whom he invested with a certain high dignity he called Arhat [10],
to spread his teaching wherever they came. He himself wandered for
nineteen years over the central and eastern districts of the country,
teaching,--his agreeable presence and benevolence of manner, and,
the legends say, the wonderful things he did, winning him numerous
converts wherever he went [11]. Some gave themselves up to a life
of contemplation in the jungle, others associated themselves with
him in his travels. When the rainy season set in they had to find
shelter for the four months in such colleges of Brahmans or houses of
families as they found well inclined towards them. This Varshavasana,
as it was called, afforded them additional opportunity of making
known their ideas.

Shâkjamuni himself seems to have won over several kings to his way
of thinking; one of them, king of Pankâla, he made an Arhat; another,
the king of Koshala, stirred himself very much to awaken Shuddodana to
a sense of the merit of his son, sending to congratulate him because
one of whom he was progenitor had found the means by which mortals
might attain to unending happiness. For once, making an exception to
the proverb that a prophet meets with little honour in his own country,
fortune favoured him in this matter also, and his father, who violently
opposed his withdrawal from his due mode of life in the first instance,
sent eight messengers one after the other to beg him to come and adorn
his court with his wisdom. Each one of these, however, was so won by
his teaching that he never returned to the king, but remained at the
feet of Shâkjamuni. Last of all the king sent his minister Karka, who,
though he also adopted his views, prevailed on him to let him take
back the message that he would satisfy his father's requests. The
king meantime built a vihâra for him under a grove of his favourite
Njagrodha, or sacred fig-tree. His return home happened in the twelfth
year after his departure, but when he had made his teaching known
among his kindred he set out on his travels again, only returning at
intervals, as to any other vihâra, for the rainy season. A great many
of his family joined themselves to him, among them his son Râhula,
and his nephew Ânanda, who became one of his most celebrated followers.

In the twentieth year of his Buddhahood and the fifty-sixth of his
age, he was seized with a serious illness, during which he announced
his conviction that his end, or nirvâna, was at hand, that is,
his entering on that state which was the ultimate object which he
bid his followers strive to attain--the completion of all possible
knowledge and the consequent dissolution of personal individuality
[12]; further, that it should take place at Kushinagara, the capital
of the Malla people [13]. Soon after, he accomplished his prediction
by setting out for this place, visiting by the way many of the spots
where he had establishments of disciples, and arriving there in a
state of utter exhaustion and prostration. On this journey he made
more converts, but after his arrival gave himself up to contemplation
which he considered necessary to perfect his fifth or highest degree
of knowledge, until his death. This took place under a Shala-grove,
or grove of sal-trees. His body was by his own desire treated with the
honours only to be paid to a Kakravartin [14], or supreme ruler. After
burning his body the ashes were preserved in an urn of gold. His death
is reckoned to have taken place in the year 543 B.C. [15], according
to the Buddhists of Ceylon and Southern India generally. Those of the
northern provinces, the Japanese and Mongolians, have a very different
chronology, and place his birth about the year 950 B.C. The Chinese
are divided among themselves about it and say variously, 688, 1070,
and 1122 [16].

A great number of claimants demanded his ashes in memorial of him,
and finally, by the advice of a Brahman named Drona, they were
partitioned among eight cities, in each of which a kaitja, or shrine
[17], was erected to receive them. A great gathering of his followers
was held at Kushinagara, of which Kâshjapa was sanghasthavira, or
president, Buddha having himself previously designated him for his
successor. He had been a distinguished Brahman. It is said by one of
the exaggerations common in all Indian records that there were seven
hundred thousand of the new religionists present. Five hundred were
selected from among the most trustworthy to draw up the Sanghiti, or
good laws of Buddha. Then they broke up, determining to travel over
Gambudvîpa, consoling the scattered Bhixu for the loss of their master,
and to meet again at Râgagriha at the beginning of the month Ashâdha
(answering to the end of our June) for the Varshavasana.

This synod lasted seven months. Its chief work was the compilation of
the Tripitaka--"the three baskets" or "vessels" supposed to contain
all Shâkjamuni's teaching: 1. The Sutra-pitaka, containing the
conversation of Shâkjamuni (of these I have had occasion to speak
in another place [18]); 2. The Vinaja-pitaka, containing maxims by
which the disciple's life was to be guided; and the Ahidharma-pitaka,
containing an exposition of religious and philosophical teaching. The
first was under the revision of Ânanda; the second under that of Upâli;
and the third under that of Kâcjapa. The Tripitaka also bears the name
of Sthavira, because only such took part in its compilation; also "of
the five hundred," because so many were charged with its compilation.

It is important, however, to bear in mind, because of the monstrous
exaggerations and extravagant incidents subsequently introduced [19]
that these were only compilations preserved by word of mouth; the art
of writing was scarcely known in India at this time. "After the Nirvâna
of Buddha, for the space of 450 years, the text and commentaries and
all the words of the Tathâgato were preserved and transmitted by wise
priests orally. But having seen the evils attendant upon this mode of
transmission, 550 rahats of great authority, in the cave called Alôka
(Alu) in the province of Malaya, in Lankâ, under the guardianship
of the chief of that province caused the sacred books to be written
[20]." As this "text and commentaries" are reckoned to consist of
6,000,000 words, and the Bible of about 500,000, we may form some
idea of the impossibility of so vast a body of language being in any
way faithfully preserved by so treacherous a medium as memory.

Megasthenes (Fragm. 27, p. 421, b.) and Nearchos (Fragm. 7,
p. 60, b.) particularly mention that the Indians had no written
laws, but their code was preserved in the memory of their judges;
thus testifying to the practice of trusting to memory in the most
important matters. Schwanbeck (Megast. Ind. p. 51) remarks that
the Sanskrit word for a collection of laws--Smriti--means also
memory. J. Prinsep (in his paper on the Inscriptions of the Rocks
of Girnar, in Journ. of As. Soc. of Beng. vii. 271) is inclined to
think some of the rock-cut inscriptions are as early as 500 B.C.;
which would show they had some knowledge of a written character then;
Lassen, however, is of opinion that this is altogether too early;
but there seems no doubt that there are some both of and anterior to
the reign of Ashoka, 246 B.C. Megasthenes indeed mentions that he had
heard they used a kind of indurated cotton for writing on. But the
use, neither of this material nor of a written character, could have
been very common or extended, for Nearchos (Strabo, xvi. § 67) wrote,
"It is said by some, the Indians write on indurated cotton stuff,
but others say they have not even the use of a written alphabet."

Though thus disfigured and overlaid as time went by, the great
intention which Shâkjamuni himself seems to have had in view in the
preparation of his doctrine was to destroy the exclusiveness of the
Brahmanical castes, and that most especially in its influence on
the future and final condition of every man, and thus he accepted
men of all castes, even the very lowest [21], and the out-caste
too, among not only his disciples but among his priesthood. It was
thus in its origin a system of morals rather than of faith. It was
full of maxims inculcating virtue to be pursued--not indeed out of
obedience to the will of a Divine and all perfect Creator--but with
the object of escaping the necessity of the number of re-births
taught by the Brahmans and of sooner attaining to nirvâna. It set
up, therefore, no mythology of its own [22], nor put forward any
statement of what gods were to be honoured. Nevertheless it was
grafted on to the mythology prevailing at the time, and many of
the gods then honoured are incidentally mentioned in the Sutra as
accepted objects of veneration. The Vêda, or sacred teaching of
the Brahmans, is quoted in almost every page [23]. The gods who
thus come in for mention in the simple Sutra are the following
[24]:--The three gods of the later mythology bear here the names of
(1) Brahmâ and Pelâmaha; (2) Hari, Ganârdana, Nârâjana, and Upêndra
(it is important to note that the name of Krishna does not appear at
this period at all); (3) Shiva and Shankara. Indra was now placed at
the head of gods of the second rank. We have also Shakra, Vâsava,
and Shakipati, called the husband of Shaki. Of the other Lôkapâla,
Kuvera and Varunna are named. It is doubtless only by accident that
more do not find mention. Of the demigods Visvakarman, the Gandharba,
Kinnara, Garuda, Jaxa the Serpent-god, Asura, and Danava, along with
other evil genii and serpent-gods. The most often named--particularly
in the colloquies between Buddha and his disciples--is Indra with
the adjunctive appellation of Kaushika. Indra was at the time of
Shâkjamuni himself the favourite god; the other great gods had
not yet received the importance they afterwards acquired, nor had
any thing like the idea of a trine unity or equality been broached
[25] as we shall presently see; even these allusions were but scanty
[26]. It was long before the whole Brahmanical system of divinities
came to form an integral part of the Buddhist theosophy [27].

Hence Shâkjamuni, as well as his contemporary and earliest succeeding
disciples, lived for the most part [28] on good terms with the
Brahmans, some of whom were among the most zealous in securing the
custody of some part of his ashes. But they were not long ere they
perceived that as this new teaching developed itself its tendency
was to supersede their order. Then, a life and death struggle for the
upper-hand ensued which lasted for centuries, for while the Buddhists
were on the one side fighting against the attempted extermination, on
the other side they were spreading their doctrines over an ever-fresh
field by the journeyings of their missionaries, a proceeding the more
exclusive Brahmans had never adopted. This went on till by the one
means and the other Buddhism had been almost entirely banished from
Central India, where it took its rise, but had established itself
on an enduring basis as remote from its original centre as Ceylon,
Mongolia, China, Japan, the Indian Archipelago, and perhaps even Mexico
[29]. This state of things was hardly established before the 14th
century [30]. But from information on the condition of religion in
India preserved by the Chinese pilgrim Fahien, who traversed a great
part of Asia, A.D. 399-414, Buddhism had already at that time suffered
great losses, for at Gaja itself the temple of Buddha was a deserted
ruin. From the writings of another Chinese pilgrim, Hiuen Thsang,
whose travels took place in the 7th century, it would seem that the
greatest Brahmanical persecution of the Buddhists did not take place
before 670 [31]. That it had cleared them out of Central India by the
date I have named above is further confirmed by Mâdhava, a writer of
the 14th century, quoted by Professor Wilson, who "declares that at
his date not a follower of Buddha was to be found in all Hindustan,
and he had only met some few old men of that faith in Kashmir." "At
the present day," adds Wilson, "I never met with a person who had met
with natives of India Proper of that faith, and it appears that an
utter extirpation of the Buddha religion in India Proper was effected
between the 12th and 16th centuries." Nevertheless it is the system
of religion which next after the Catholic Church counts the greatest
number of followers.

Dr. Gützlaff (in his "Remarks on the Present State of Buddhism," in
"Journ. of R. As. Soc." xvi. 73.) tells us two-thirds of the population
of China is Buddhist. In Ungewitter's Neueste Erdebeschreibung,
the whole population is stated from native official statistics
at 360,000,000; whence it would follow that there are 240,000,000
Buddhists in China alone; probably, however, the Chinese figures are
to some extent an exaggeration.

Before concluding this brief notice of Buddhism it remains to say
a few words on the later developments of the system which have too
often been identified with its original utterances.

It does not appear to have been before the 10th century that Shâkjamuni
was reckoned to be an incarnation of a heavenly being; at least the
earliest record of such an idea is found in an inscription at Gaya,
ascribed to the year 948 [32], while much of his own teaching bears
traces of a lingering belief in a great primeval tradition of the unity
of the Godhead and the promise of redemption [33], as well as the great
primary laws of obedience and sacrifice more perfectly preserved to us
in the inspired writings committed to the Hebrews. The history of the
deluge, as given by Weber from the Mahâ Bhârata, is almost identical
in its leading features with the account in Genesis, bearing of course
some additions. A great ship was laden with pairs of beasts, and seeds
of every kind of plants, and was steered safely through the floods by
Vishnu under the form of a great fish, who ultimately moored it on the
mountain Naubandhana, one of the Himâlajas in Eastern Kashmere. The
early Vêda hymns, too, had thus spoken of the Creation, "At that time
there was neither being nor no being; no world, no air, nor any thing
beyond it. Death was not, neither immortality; nor distinction of
day and night. But It (tad) respired alone, and without breathing;
alone in Its self-consciousness (Svadha, which hence came to be used
for 'Heaven'). Besides It was nothing, only darkness. All was wrapt
in darkness, and undistinguishable fluid. But the bulk thus enveloped
was brought forth by the power of contemplation. Love (Kama) was first
formed in Its mind, and this was the original creative germ [34]." And
the Vêda was, we have seen, adopted in the main by Shâkjamuni; but the
development of his views came to imply that there was no Creator at
all, existences being only a series of necessary evolutions [35]. And
when later a Creator came again to be spoken of, the term was involved
in the most inconceivable contradictions [36]. A distinguished Roman
Orientalist also writes:--"The Vêda, and principally the Jazur-Vêda and
the Isa-Upanishad, contain not only many golden maxims, but distinct
traces of the primitive Monotheism. But these books exercise little
influence on the religion of the people, which is a mass of idolatry
and superstition; moreover, they are themselves filled with the most
absurd stories and fables. The Jazur-Vêda, which is the freest from
these defects, is a comparatively recent production, and the author
has manifestly drawn upon not only both Old and New Testament, but
also the Koran [37]."

An infusion of the revealed doctrines taught by Christianity was
also received into it from the teaching of the missionaries of the
first ages after the birth of Christ, though similarly disfigured and
overwrought. To distinguish the influence of the one and the other
would be a fascinating study, but one too vast for the limits of the
present pages. When we come presently to the history of Vikramâditja
we shall find it presents us with a striking idea of the facility with
which various ideals can be heaped upon one personality; this will
serve as a key to the mode in which an unenlightened admiration for the
story of our Divine Redeemer's life on earth may be supposed to have
induced the ascribing of His supernatural manifestations to another
being, already accepted as Divine. It is true that certain appearances
of Vishnu and Shiva on earth would seem to have been believed
before the Christian era; and apart from the Indian writings, the
dates of which are so difficult to fix, the testimony of Megasthenes
(the Historian of Seleucus Nicanor, who wrote B.C. 300) is quoted in
proof that at his time such incarnations were already held. But the
passages in Megasthenes, by the very fact that he identifies Vishnu
with Hercules, tend only to demonstrate a belief in a different kind
of manifestation of Divine power. Those who labour most to prove
that the Brahmanical idea of incarnation preceded the Christian have
to allow that it was only subsequently to the spread of Christian
teaching that it was fully developed. Thus Lassen writes, "I have,
therefore (i. e. in consequence of the allusions in Megasthenes), no
hesitation in maintaining that the dogma of Vishnu's incarnations
was in existence 300 years before the birth of Christ; still,
however, it only received its full development at a subsequent period
[38]." And in another place, speaking of the Avatâra (incarnations)
of Vishnu, in the persons of the heroes of the epic poems, he adds,
"this dogma is unknown (fremd) to the Vêda, and the few allusions
to such an idea existing in some of its myths, and which were later
reckoned among the incarnations of Vishnu, show that in the earliest
ages the recurring appearance in man's nature of 'the preserving god'
for the destruction of evil was not yet invented. [39]" And even of
the early epic poems he writes, that though such ideas are introduced,
yet the heroes still maintain their individuality. They are actuated
and indwelt by Vishnu, but they are not he. This, it will be seen,
is very different from the Christian dogma of the Incarnation.

Whether the extremely interesting and ancient tradition be genuine
(as maintained by Tillemont) or not, that Abgarus, king of Edessa,
sent messengers to our Lord in Judæa, begging Him to come and visit him
and heal him of his sickness, and that our Lord in reply sent him word
that He must do the work of Him Who sent Him and then return to Him
above, but that after His Ascension He would send an Apostle to him,
and that in consequence of this promise St. Thomas received the far
East for the field of his labours--and, however much be chronologically
correct of the mass of records and traditions which tell that this
Apostle travelled over the whole Asian continent, from Edessa to Tibet,
and perhaps China--it would appear to be intrinsically probable and
as well attested as most facts of equally remote date, that both this
Apostle and Thaddæus, one of the seventy-two disciples, preached the
Gospel in countries east of Syria, and that his successors, more or
less immediate, extended their travels farther and farther east. It
is mentioned in Eusebius (Book v. c. 10), that S. Pantæus, going to
India to preach the Gospel early in the 3rd century (Eusebius himself
wrote at the end of the same century), met with Brahmans who showed
him a copy of the Gospel of St. Matthew in Hebrew, which they said
had been given to their forerunners by St. Bartholomew [40]. Lassen
himself allows, that in all probability certain Brahmans, at a very
early date, fell in with Christian teachers, and brought them back
home with them. Further, that the idea of there being any merit in
bhakti, or pious faith, and a development in the teaching concerning
the duty of prayer may be traced to this circumstance. Nor does he
deny that when in 435, Eustathius, Bp. of Antioch, with the help
of Thomas Kama, a rich local merchant, went to found a mission at
Mahâdevapatma (Cranganore), he found Christians who dated their
conversion from St. Thomas living there. His further efforts to
disprove that St. Thomas himself penetrated very far east, and that the
early Christian establishments at Taprobane and Ceylon were founded
by Persian Christians, though far from conclusive, tend as far as
they go but to support all the more the theory of an admixture of
Christian with Brahmanical and Buddhist teaching; because, the less
pure the source of teaching the more likely it was to have resulted in
producing such an admixture in place of actual conversion. Nor does the
circumstance on which he lays much weight, that the Brahmans resented
the inroads of Christian teaching on their domain, even with severe
persecutions, at all afford any proof that there were not Brahmanical
teachers, who either through sincere admiration (for which they were
prepared by their early monotheistic tradition), or from a conviction
of the advantage to be derived in increase of influence by its means,
or other cause, may have thought fit, or been even unconsciously led
to incorporate certain ideas of the new school with their own.



I have only space left to touch upon two of the most important of
these identifications. And first the imitation of the doctrine of
the Holy Trinity. Lassen (i. 784 and iv. 570) fixes as late a date
as 1420-1445 for the introduction of the Trimurti worship, or, as
he expresses it, the bootless attempt to unite various schools by
propounding the equality and unity of the three great rival gods,
Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, who were the chief gods favoured by each
respectively. Devarâja of Vigajanagara erected the first temple to the
Trimurti about this date. Ganesha, the god of wisdom and knowledge,
appeared to his minister Laxmana and bid him build a temple on the
banks of the Penar to the Hiranjagarbha, called Brahma, Vishnu, and
Shiva; this is the first example of any inscription of honour paid
to the Trimurti [41].

Secondly, the worship of the god Crishna, whose name and attributes as
well as his substitution for Vishnu, the second god of the Trimurti,
present so many analogies with the teaching concerning our Divine
Lord [42]. Whatever difficulty there may be in fixing the date of the
origin of the great Pânkarâtra sect, there appears none in affirming
that the full development of its teaching in the direction of these
analogies was subsequent to the establishment of Christianity. This
is how A. Weber speaks of it [43]. Brahmans, who had travelled to
Alexandria, and perhaps Asia Minor, at a time when Christianity was
in its first bloom, brought back its teaching respecting a Supreme God
and a Christ whom they identified with and fastened upon their sage or
hero, who had already in some measure received Divine honours--Crishna
Devakiputra (Son of the divine woman). He also dwells on the influence
exercised by the teaching of Christian missionaries. The importance
given to Devaki would point to an incorporation of Christian
teaching concerning the Virgin Mary. Weber, in a paper entitled
"Einige Data auf das Geburtsfest Krishna's," instances many passages
in the Bavrishjottara-Purana (one of the latest Puranas), which it is
impossible to read without being reminded of the place of "the Virgin
and Child" in Christian tradition, and which find no counterpart in
earlier Indian writings. Similarly it was the later schools which
dwelt on the fact of his having Nanda the herdsman for his father,
seemingly suggested by our Lord's character of "the good Shepherd,"
because in the earlier Crishna Legends [44] this fact is sunk in the
view that (though sprung from the herdsmen) he was a warrior and a
hero. Nor was the teaching concerning this character of Crishna at all
rapid in its extension. Its chief seat, according to Lassen [45], in
what he expresses as "the earliest times," was Madura; but the first
date he mentions in connexion with it is 1017, when a Crishna temple
was destroyed by Mahmûd of Ghazna, Lalitâditja, king of Cashmere,
built him a temple containing a statue of solid silver, and he reigned
from 695 to 732; but the gold armour the image bore would point to
his warrior character still prevailing down to this time. Lassen even
finds [46] the introduction of the worship of Crishna [47] a subject
of opposition by certain Brahmans as late as the tenth century. The
great epic poem concerning him, the Gitagovinda, by Gajadeva (still
sung at the present day at the Resa festival), was not written till
the end of the 12th century [48]. In an inscription at Gajanagara,
not very far from Madura, Crishna is mentioned as an incarnation of
Vishnu, but the date of this is 1288; and the idea does not seem to
have reached Orissa till the end of the 15th century [49].

2. From this exordium we must plainly gather that the original
collector of these Tales was himself a Madhjamika, since he begins his
work with an invocation of Nâgârg'una, founder of that school. He
calls him "second teacher" because his undertaking was, not to
supersede, but to develope and perfect the teaching of Shâkjamuni,
whom he himself reverenced as first teacher [50].

Nâgârg'una was the 15th Patriarch in the Buddhist succession, born
in South India, and educated a Brahman; he wrote a Treatise, in 100
chapters, on the Wisdom of the Buddhist Theology, and died B.C. 212
(Lassen, "Indische Alterthumskunde," ii., Appendix, p. vi.); but at
p. 887 of the same volume, and again at p. 1072, he tells us he lived
in the reign of Abhimanju, king of Cashmere, and that it was by the
assistance of his sage advice that the Buddhists were enabled for a
while successfully to withstand opposition dictated by the Brahmanical
proclivities of this king, whose date he fixes at 45-65 A.C. The
difference between the two dates arises out of that existing between
the computations of the northern and southern Buddhists [51]. In the
Raga-Tarangini, ii. v. 172-177 (a chronicle of Cashmere, written not
later than A.D. 1148) Nâgârg'una is thus alluded to: "When 150 years
had passed by, since sacred Shâkjamuni had completed his time in this
world of sufferers, there was a Bodhisattva [52], who was supreme head
of all the earth. This was Nâgârg'una, who possessed in himself the
power of six Archats [53].... Protected by Nâgârg'una the Buddhists
obtained the chief influence in the country."

Among the Chinese Buddhists he is called Lung-shu, which name Abel
Rémusat tells us was given him because after death he was taken up
into the serpent-Paradise [54].

The following legend has been told concerning the manner of
his conversion from Brahmanism; but it is probable that what is
historically true in it belongs to the life of another and much later
Buddhist patriarch.

A Samanaer [55] came wandering by his residence. Seeing it to be nobly
built, and pleasantly situated amid trees and fountains, and provided
with all that was needful and desirable for the life of man, made
up his mind to obtain admission to it. Nâgârg'una, before admitting
him, required to know whence, and what manner of man he was. On his
declaring himself a teacher of Buddhism the door was immediately
closed against him. Determined not to be so easily repulsed the
Samanaer knocked again and again, till Nâgârg'una, provoked by his
pertinacity, appeared on the terrace above, and cried out to him,
"It is useless for you to go on knocking. In this house is nothing."

"Nothing!" retorted the Samanaer; "what sort of a thing is that, pray?"

Nâgârg'una saw by this answer the man must be of a philosophical
turn of mind, and was thus induced to break his rule, which forbid
him intercourse with Buddhists, and let him in that he might have
more discourse with him. The Samanaer by degrees fascinated his mind
with the whole Buddhist doctrine, and ultimately told him that Buddha
had left a prophecy, saying, that long years after he had departed
this life there should arise a great teacher out of Southern India,
who by the wisdom of his teaching should renew the face of the earth;
that this prophecy he was destined to accomplish. Nâgârg'una believed
his words, and subsequently fulfilled them.

His peculiar school received the name of Mâdhjamika, because of
three prevailing interpretations of the earlier Buddhist teaching he
chose the one which steered its course midway (madhjana) between two
extremes, one of which held that the Buddhist nirvâna, implied the
return and absorption of the soul at death into the creative essence
whence it had emanated; and the other, its total annihilation.

He left his ideas to posterity in a treatise, bearing the name of
Kârikâ, denoting an exposition of a theory in verse [56]. Some idea
of its intricacy may be formed from the fact that the shortest edition
of it contains eight thousand sections; while the most complete has a
hundred thousand. His teaching was followed up by two chief disciples,
Ârjadeva, a Cingalese, and Buddhapâlita, and still holds sway in the
higher schools of Tibet, which accounts for the homage of the editor
of these Mongolian tales. He is honoured almost everywhere where
Buddhism is honoured; near Gajâ is a kaitja, or rock-cut temple,
called Nâgârgunî, probably commemorating some visit of his to the
shrine of Shâkjamuni.

3. The whole of Buddhist literature is spoken of by its followers as
contained in three "vessels," or "baskets"--tripîtaka (Wassiljew,
p. 118, quoted by Jülg); in Tibetian called samatog (Köppen, Die
Lamaische Hierarchie, p. 57).

4. Madhjamika. See above, Note 2.

5. Paramârtha (true, exact, perfect understanding), and sanvrti
(imperfect, dubious understanding), were party words, arising out
of the philosophical disputes of the Madhjamika and Jogâtschârja
schools. Wassiljew, pp. 321-367.

6. Magadha. The legend is in this instance more precise than often
falls to the lot of works of this nature. Instead of transferring
the scene of action to a locality within the limits of the country
of the narrator however, he makes Nâgârg'una to have lived on the
borders of Magadha [57]. Lassen, speaking in allusion to the kaitja
named after him, mentioned above, says there is no allusion in any
authentic account of him to his ever being in this part of the country;
this Mongolian tradition however corroborates the local tradition of
the kaitja. I have already had occasion to mention how Magadha came
to receive its modern name of Behar [58].

The word Magadha is also used to designate a bard; as this meaning
rests on no etymological foundation, it is natural to suppose that
it arises from the fact of the country being rich in sagas, and that
successful bards sprang from its people. The office of the Magadha,
also called Vandin, the Speaker of praises, consisted chiefly in
singing before the king the deeds of his ancestors. In several
places the Magadha is named along with the Sûta [59]. It is quite
in accordance with this view that Vjâsa's [60] mother was reckoned
a daughter of a king of Magadha.

It is curious that the poetical occupation of bard came to be combined
with the sordid occupation of pedlar, or travelling trader, who is
also called a Magadha in Manu x. 47, and other places.

7. Krijâvidja. Writings concerning the study of magic.--Jülg.

8. Bede = Bhota, or Bothanga, the Indian name of Tibet. See Schmidt's
translation of the "History of the Mongols," by the native historian,
sSanang sSetsen.

Before proceeding farther it is necessary to say a few words
concerning the history, religions, and customs of Tibet and Mongolia,
to illustrate the local colouring the following Tales have received
by passing into Mongolia.

Buddhism nowhere took so firm a grasp of the popular mind as in Tibet,
where it was established as early as the 7th century by its greatest
king, Ssrong-Tsan-Gampo. No where, except in China, was its influence
on literature so powerful and so useful, for not only have we thus
preserved to us very early translations from the Sanskrit of most of
the sacred writings, but also original treatises of history, geography,
and philosophy. Nowhere, either, did it possess so many colleges and
teachers; it was by means of these that it was spread over Mongolia
in the 13th century; the very indistinct notions of religion there
prevailing previously, with no hierarchy to maintain them, readily
yielding at its approach. Mang-ku, grandson of Ginghis Khan [61],
added to the immense sovereignty his warlike ancestor had left him,
the whole of Tibet about the year 1248. His brother and successor,
Kublai Khan, who reigned from 1259 to 1290, occupied himself with
the internal development of his empire. He appears to have regarded
Christ, Moses, Muhammed, and Buddha as prophets of equal authority,
and to have finally adopted the religion of the last-named, because
he discerned the advantages to be derived in the consolidation of his
power from the assistance of the Buddhist priests already possessing
so great influence in Tibet. He was seconded in his design by the
eager assistance of a young Lama, named sSkja Pandita, and surnamed
Matidhvaga = "the ensign of penetration," whom he not only set over the
whole priesthood of the Mongolian empire, but made him also tributary
ruler of Tibet, with the grandiloquent titles of "King of the great
and precious teaching; the most excellent Lama; King of teaching in the
three countries of the Rhaghân (empire)." Among other rich insignia of
his dignity which he conferred on him was a precious jasper seal. He
is most commonly mentioned by the appellation, Phagss-pa = "the most
excellent," which has hence often been taken erroneously for his
name; his chief office was the coronation of the Emperor. The title,
Dalai Lama [62], the head of Tibetian Buddhism, is half Mongolian,
and half Tibetian. Dalai is Mongolian for "ocean," and Lama Tibetian
for "priest;" making, "a priest whose rule is vast as the ocean."

Of the four Khânats or kingdoms into which the Mongolian Empire
was divided, that called Juan bordered on Tibet, and to its Khâns
consequently was committed the government of that country; but they
interfered very little with it, so that the power of the people was
left to strengthen itself. The last of them, Shan-ti, or Tokatmar-Khân,
was turned out in 1368 by Hong-vu, the founder of the Ming dynasty,
who sought to extend his power by weakening that of the Lamas. In
order to this he set up four chief ones in place of one. Jong-lo who
reigned from 1403 to 1425, further divided the power among eight; but
this very subdivision tended to a return to the original supremacy of
one; for, while all bore the similar title of Vang = "little king,"
or "sub-king," it became gradually necessary that among so many one
should take the lead, and for this one the title of Garma or patriarch
was coined ere long.

The Tibetians and Mongolians receiving thus late the doctrines of
Shâkjamuni received a version of it very different from his original
teaching. The meditations and mystifications of his followers had
invested him with ever new prerogatives, and step by step he had
come to be considered no longer in the light of an extraordinary
teacher, or even a heaven-sent founder of religion, but as himself
the essence of truth and the object of supreme adoration. Out of
this theory again ramified developments so complicated as almost to
defy condensation. Thus Addi-Buddha, as he was now called, it was
taught was possessed of five kinds of gnâna or knowledge; and by five
operations of his dhjâna or contemplative power he was supposed to
have produced five Dhjâni-Buddhas, each of which received a special
name, and in process of time became personified and deified too,
and each by virtue of an emanation of the supreme power indwelling
him had brought forth a Dhjâni-Bodhisattva. The fourth of these,
distinguished as Dhjâni-Bodhisattva-Padmapâni, was the Creator, not
only of the universe, but also of Brahma and other gods whom Shâkjamuni
or his earlier followers had acknowledged as more or less supreme. And
as if this strange theogony was not perplexing enough, there had come
to be added to the cycle of objects of worship a multitude of other
deifications too numerous even to name here in detail.

Among all these, Dhjâni-Bodhisattva-Padmapâni is reckoned the chief
god by the Mongolians. The principal tribute of worship paid him
is the endless repetition of the ejaculation, "Om Manipadmi hum"
= "Hail Manipadmi O!" Every one has heard of the prayer-machine,
the revolutions of whose wheel set going by the worshipper count
as so many exclamations to his account. "The instrument is called
Tchu-Kor (turning prayer)," writes Abbé Huc. "You see a number of
them in every brook" (in the neighbourhood of a Lamaseri) "turned
by the current.... The Tartars suspend them also over the fireplace
to send up prayer for the peace and prosperity of the household;"
he mentions also many most curious incidents in connexion with this
practice. Another similar institution is printing the formulary an
immense number of times on numbers of sheets of paper, and fixing
them in a barrel similarly turned by running water. Baron Schilling de
Kanstadt has given us (in "Bulletin Hist. Phil. de l'Ac. des Sciences
de S. Petersburg," iv. No. 22) an interesting account of the bargain he
struck with certain Mongolian priests at Kiakhtu, on the Russo-Chinese
frontier. It was their great aim to multiply this ejaculation a hundred
million times, a feat they had never been able to accomplish. They
showed him a sheet which was the utmost reach of their efforts, but
the sum total of which was only 250. The Baron sent to St. Petersburg
and had a sheet printed, in which the words were repeated seventy
times one way and forty-one times the other, giving 2870 times, but
being printed in red they counted for 25 times as many, or 71,750;
then he had twenty-four such sheets rolled together, making 1,793,750,
so that about seventy revolutions of the barrel would give the required
number. In return for this help the Mongolian Lama gave him a complete
collection of the sacred writings in the Tibetian language; Tibetian
being the educated, or at least the sacred, language of Mongolia.

Concerning the meaning of this ejaculation, Abbé Huc has the
following:--"According to the opinion of the celebrated Orientalist
Klaproth, the 'Om mani padme houm' is merely the Tibetian transcription
of a Sanskrit formula brought from India to Tibet with the introduction
of Buddhism and letters.... This formula has in the Sanskrit a distinct
and complete meaning which cannot be traced in the Tibetian idiom. Om
is among the Hindoos, the mystic name of the Divinity, and all their
prayers begin with it. It is composed of A, standing for Vishnu, O,
for Siva, and M, for Brahma. This mystic particle is also equivalent
to the interjection O! It expresses a profound religious conviction,
and is a sort of act of faith; mani signifies a gem, a precious thing;
padma, the lotus, padme, vocative case. Lastly, houm is a particle
expressing a wish, and is equivalent to the use of the word Amen. The
literal sense then of this phrase is


                "Om mani padme houm."
                O the gem in the lotus. Amen.


In the Ramajana, where Vasichta destroys the sons of Visvamitra [63]
he is said to do so by his hungkara, his breathing forth of his desire
of vengeance, but literally by his breathing the interjection 'hum.'

"The Buddhists of Tibet and Mongolia, however, have tortured their
imagination to find a mystic interpretation of each of these six
syllables. They say the doctrine contained in them is so immense
that a life is insufficient to measure it. Among other things, they
say the six classes of living beings [64] correspond to these six
syllables.... By continual transmigrations according to merit, living
beings pass through these six classes till they have attained the
height of perfection, absorbed into the essence of Buddha.... Those
who repeat the formula very frequently escape passing after death
into these six classes.... The gem being the emblem of perfection,
and the lotus of Buddha, it may perhaps be considered that these
words express desire to acquire perfection in order to be united with
Buddha--absorbed in the one universal soul: "Oh, the gem of the lotus,
Amen," might then be paraphrased thus:--"O may I obtain perfection,
and be absorbed in Buddha, Amen!" making it a summary of a vast system
of Pantheism.

Buddhism, however, received its greatest and most remarkable
modification in this part of the world from the teaching of an
extraordinary Lama, named bThong-kha-pa, who rose to eminence in the
reign of Jong-lo, and is regarded with greatest veneration among not
only the Tibetians and Mongolians, including the remotest tribes of
the Khalmouks, but also by the more polished Chinese, and more or
less wherever Buddhism prevails.

Though subsequently pronounced to be an incarnation of Shiva he
was born in the year 1357, in the Lamaseri of ssKu-bun = "a hundred
thousand images," on the Kuku-noor, or Blue Lake, in the south-west
part of the Amdo country, several days' journey from the city of
Sining-fu. In his youth he travelled to gTsang-lschhn, or Lhassa,
in order to gain the most perfect knowledge of Buddhist teaching, and
during his studies there determined on effecting various reforms in
the prevailing ideas. He met with many partisans, who adopted a yellow
cap as their badge, in contradistinction from the red cap heretofore
worn, and styled themselves the dGe-luges-pa = "the Virtuous." Besides
introducing a stricter discipline his chief development of the Buddhist
doctrines consisted in teaching distinctly that Buddha was possessed
of a threefold nature, which was to be recognized, the first in his
laws, the second in his perfections, the third in his incarnations.

The supreme rule of the Buddhist religion in Tibet also received
its present form under the impulse of his labours. His nephew,
dGe-dun-grub-pa (born circa 1390, died 1475), was the first Dalai
Lama. He built the celebrated Lama Palace of bKra-schiss-Lhun-po,
thirty miles N. of Lhassa, in 1445. Under him, too, was established
the institution of the Pan-tschhen-Rin-po-tsche (the great venerable
jewel of teaching), or Contemplative Lama. Tsching-Hva, the eighth
Emperor of the Ming Dynasty, established their joint authority as
superior to all the eight princely Lamas set up by Jo-long [65].

Abbé Huc, in the course of his enterprising missionary travels,
visited all the places I have had occasion to mention, spending a
considerable time at some of them. By local traditions, collected by
word of mouth and from Lamaistic records, he gives us a most fantastic
and entertaining narrative of Tsong-Kaba, as he calls the Buddhist
reformer: of the fables concerning his birth; of the marvellous
tree that grew from his hair when his mother cut it; of his mature
intelligence in his tenderest years; his supernatural call to Lha-sa
(Land of Spirits); and of the very peculiar mode of argument by which
he converted Buddha Chakdja, the Lama of the Red Cap. More important
than all this, however, is the light he throws on the mode in which
the great incorporation of Christian ideas and ceremonial into Buddhist
teaching came about. During his years of retirement Tsong-Kaba became
acquainted with a mysterious teacher "from the far West," almost beyond
question "one of those Catholic missionaries who at this precise period
penetrated in such numbers into Upper Asia." The very description
preserved of his face and person is that of a European. This strange
teacher died, we know not by what means, while Tsong-kaba was yet in
the desert; and he appears to have accepted as much of his doctrine as
either he had only time to learn or as suited his purpose, and this
in the main had reference "to the introduction of a new Liturgy. The
feeble opposition which he encountered in his reformation would seem
to indicate that already the progress of Christian ideas in these
countries had materially shaken the faith in Buddha.... The tribe
of Amdo, previously altogether obscure, has since this reformation
acquired a prodigious celebrity.... The mountain at the foot of
which Tsong-Kaba was born became a famous place of pilgrimage; Lamas
assembled there from all parts to build their cells [66]; and thus
by degrees was formed that flourishing Lamasery, the fame of which
extends to the remotest confines of Tartary. It is called Komboun,
from two Tibetian words, signifying ten thousand images. He died at
the Lamasery of Khaldan ('celestial beatitude'), situated on the top
of a mountain about four leagues east of Lha-Ssa, said to have been
founded by him in 1409. The Tibetians pretend that they still see his
marvellous body there fresh and incorruptible, sometimes speaking,
and by a permanent prodigy always holding itself in the air without
any support.

"Mongolia is at present divided into several sovereignties, whose
chiefs are subject to the Emperor of China, himself a Tartar, but of
the Mantchu race. These chiefs bear titles corresponding to those of
kings, dukes, earls, barons, &c. They govern their states according
to their own pleasure. They acknowledge as sovereign only the Emperor
of China. Whenever any difference arises between them they appeal
to Pekin and submit to its decisions implicitly. Though the Mongol
sovereigns consider it their duty to prostrate themselves once a year
before the 'Sun of Heaven,' they nevertheless do not concede to him
the right of dethroning their reigning families. He may, they say,
cashier a king for gross misconduct, but he is bound to fill up the
vacant place with one of the superseded prince's sons.... Nothing can
be more vague and indefinite than these relations.... In practice
the will of the Emperor is never disputed.... All families related
to any reigning family form a patrician caste and are proprietors of
the soil.... They are called Taitsi, and are distinguished by a blue
button surmounting their cap. It is from these that the sovereigns of
the different states select their ministers, who are distinguished
by a red button.... In the country of the Khalkhas, to the north
of the desert of Gobi, there is a district entirely occupied by
Taitsi, said to be descendants of Tchen-kis-Khan.... They live in
the greatest independence, recognizing no sovereign. Their wealth
consists in tents and cattle. Of all the Mongolian regions it is
this district in which are to be found most accurately preserved
patriarchal manners, just as the Bible describes them, though every
where also more or less prevailing.... The Tartars who are not Taitsi
are slaves, bound to keep their master's herds, but not forbidden
to herd cattle of their own. The noble families differ little from
the slave families ... both live in tents and both occupy themselves
with pasturing their flocks. When the slave enters the master's tent
he never fails to offer him tea and milk; they smoke together and
exchange pipes. Round the tents young slaves and young noblemen romp
and wrestle together without distinction. We met with many slaves
who were richer than their masters.... Lamas born of slave families
become free in some degree as soon as they enter the sacerdotal life;
they are no longer liable to enforced labour, and can travel without
interference." He further describes the Mongols in general as a hardy,
laborious, peace-loving people, usually simple and upright in their
dealings, devout and punctual in such religious faith and observances
as they have been taught, caring, however, little for mental studies,
occupied only with their flocks and herds, and continually overreached
by the Chinese in all their dealings with them.

9. Cîtavana, a burying-place.--Jülg.

10. Siddhî-kür, a dead body endowed with supernatural or magic powers
(Siddhi, Sanskr., perfection of power).

11. Mango-tree, Mangifera indica. Lassen (Indische Alterthumskunde,
i. 276) calls it "the Indians' favourite tree; their household
companion; rejoicing their existence; the cool and cheerful shade
of whose groves embowers their villages, surrounds their fountains
and pools with freshness, and affords delicious coolness to the
Karavan-halt: one of the mightiest of their kings (Ashôka, 246
B.C.) makes it his boast (in an Inscription given in "Journal of
Asiatic Soc. of Bengal," vi. 595) that besides the wide-spreading shade
of the fig-tree he had also planted the leafy mango." In Sanskrit,
âmra, kûta, rasâla (rich in juice). Crawford (Ind. Arch. i. 424)
says the fruit is called in Sanskrit mahâphala, "the great fruit,"
whence the Telingu word Mahampala and the Malay Mamplans and Manga,
whence the European Mango. It grows more or less all over India from
Ceylon to the Himâlajas, except perhaps in the arid north-east highland
of the Dekhan, but it reaches its most luxuriant development in Malabar
and over the whole west coast. Besides its luxuriant shade its blossoms
bear the most delicious scent, and its glorious gold-coloured fruit
often attains a pound in weight, though its quality is much acted upon
by site and climate. In Malabar it ripens in April; in Bengal, in May;
in Bhotan, not till August. There are also many kinds--some affording
nourishment to the poorest, and some appearing only on the tables of
the opulent. Bp. Heber ("Journey," i. 522) pronounces it the largest
of all fruit-bearing trees. To the high regard in which this tree was
held it is to be ascribed that the story makes the Siddhî-kür prefer
giving himself up to the Khan rather than let it be felled.

12. Gambudvîpa, native name for India. See infra, Note 6, Tale XXII.,
and Note 6 to "Vikramâditja's Birth."

13. Only magic words of no meaning.

14. The "white moon," designated the moon in the waxing quarter;
meaning that the axe had the form of a sickle.--Jülg.



TALE I.

1. Songs commemorating the deeds of the departed, were sung at
their funeral rites, often instead of erecting monuments to them;
the fixing their acts in the memory of the living being considered
a more lasting memorial than a tablet of stone. Probably the custom
originated before the discovery of the art of writing; it seems,
however, to have been continued afterwards. Gâthâ was the name given to
these songs in praise of ancestry, particularly the ancestors of kings,
usually accompanied by the lute. Weber, Indische Studien, i. p. 186,
gives specimen translations from such.

2. The elephant is the subject of frequent mention in the very oldest
writings of India. He is mentioned as a useful and companionable beast
just as at the present day, in the Vêda, and the Manu (e. g. Rig-Vêda,
i. 84, 17, "Whoso calls upon Indra in any need concerning his sons,
his elephants, his goods and possessions, himself or his people,
&c."). In the epic poems, he is constantly mentioned as the ordinary
mount of warriors. There is no tradition, however, as to his being
first tamed and brought under the service of man, though the art
penetrated so little into the islands of Borneo and Sumatra, that the
inhabitants used to smear themselves and their plants with poison as
the best protection against being devoured by him as a wild beast.

The elephant is distributed over the whole of India from Ceylon to
China, wherever there is sufficient growth of foliage. In a domestic
state he may live to 120 years, probably nearly double that time
when left wild; he is reckoned at his strongest prime in his sixtieth
year. His habit is to live in herds.

A beast so intelligent and available as an aid to man, and particularly
to a primitive people, naturally took an important place in the
mythology of the country. We find this saliently impressed on the
architectural decorations of the country; constantly he is to be
seen used as a karyatyd; the world is again seen resting on the
backs of four huge elephants, or the king of gods carried along by
one. It is a curious instance of appreciativeness of the acuteness
of the sensibility of the elephant's trunk, that Ganesha, the god
who personifies the sense of touch, is represented gifted with
such an appendage. It is among the Buddhistic peoples we find him
most especially honoured. In Ceylon the white elephant (a variety
actually found in the most easterly provinces) is regarded as a divine
incarnation; "Ruler of the white elephant," is one of the titles of
the Birmese Emperor; in Siam also it is counted sacred. In war he was
an invaluable ally: they called him the Eightfold-armed one, because
his four tramping feet, his two formidable tusks, his hard frontal
bone and his tusk supply eight weapons. The number of elephants a
king could bring into the field was counted among his most important
munitions of war and constituted one principal element of his power.

The derivation of the word elephant does not seem easy to fix, but the
best supported opinion is that it is a Greek adoption of the Sanskrit
word for ivory ibhadanta, compounded with the Arabic article al from
its having been received along with the article itself through Arabian
traders; the transition from alibhadanta to >El'eyac, >El'eyantoc,
is easily conceived [67].

Among the Brahmanical writers the most ordinary designation was gag'a;
also ibha, probably from ibhja, mighty, but they had an infinite
number of others; such as râg avâhja, "the king-bearer;" matanga,
"doing that which (he) is meant (to do); dvirada, "the two-toothed;"
hastin or karin, "the handed" (beast), or beast with a hand, for the
Indians, like the Romans, call his trunk a hand; dvipa, dvipâjin,
anêkapa, "the twice drinking," or "more than once drinking," in
allusion to his taking water first into his trunk and then pouring
it down his throat. Among the facts and early notions concerning
him, collected and handed down by Ælianus, are the following:--that
elephants were employed by various kings to keep watch over them by
night, an office which their power of withstanding sleep facilitated;
that in a wild state, they frequently had encounters with the larger
serpents, whose first plan was to climb up into the trees and then
dart upon and throttle them. But the most curious remark of all is,
that they were endowed with a certain kind of religion, and that
when wounded, overladen, or injured, it was their custom to look
up to heaven, asking why they had been thus dealt with. (Ælianus,
De Nat. Anim. v. 49 and vii. 44; also Pliny, viii. 12. 2.) There
are also legends about their paying divine honours to the sun and
moon, and in the Indian collection of fables called the Hitopadesha,
there is one of an elephant being conducted by a hare to worship the
reflection of the moon in a lake.

In peace they were equally serviceable as in war, and were employed not
only for riding, but for ploughing. A beast so useful was naturally
treated with great regard, and we read of Indian princes keeping
a special physician to attend to the ailments of their elephants,
and particularly to have care of their eyesight (Ælianus, De
Nat. Anim. xiii. 7).

3. The office of the erliks or servants of Erlik-Khan, (see next note)
was to bring every soul before this judge to receive from him the
sentence determining their state in their next re-birth, according
to the merits or demerits of their last past existence. (Schmidt's
translation of sSanang sSetsen, 417-421, quoted by Jülg.)

4. Erlik-Khan is the Tibetian name of Jama (Sanskrit), the Judge
of the Dead and Ruler over the abode of the Departed; he is son of
Vivasvat or the Sun considered as "the bringer forth and nourisher of
all the produce of the earth and seer of all that is on it." Vivasvat
has another son, Manu, the founder of social life and source of
all kingly dynasties. (Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 19,
20.) As with all mythological personages or embodiments, however,
the characteristics of Jama have undergone considerable modifications
under the handling of different teachers and peoples in different
ages, and in some Indian writings he is spoken of as if he were
the personification of conscience. Thus, in the ancient collection
of laws called the Manu (viii. 92) occurs the following passage,
"Within thine heart dwells the god Jama, the son of Vivasvat: when
thou hast no variance with him, thou hast no need to repair to the
Gangâ, nor the Kuruxêtra;" meaning clearly, "If thou hast nothing on
thy conscience, thou hast no object in making a pilgrimage." Muni,
"who keepeth watch over virtue and over sin," however, more properly
represents conscience. Sir William Jones, in quoting the above passage,
inserts the words "subduer of all" after "Jama," probably not without
some good reason or authority for assigning to him that character.

Lassen finds early mention of a people living on the westernmost
borders of the valley of the Indus (iii. 352, 353) who paid special
honour to Jama as god of death, deprecating his wrath with offerings
of beasts; and he connects with it a passage in Ælianus, who wrote on
India in the 3rd century of our era, making mention of a bottomless
pit or cave of Pluto, "in the land of the Aryan Indians," into which
"every one who had heard a divine voice or met with an evil omen,
threw a beast according to the measure of his possessions; thousands
of sheep, goats, oxen and horses being sacrificed in this way. He says
further that there was no need to bind or drive them, as a supernatural
power constrained them to go without resistance. He appears also to
have believed that notwithstanding the height from which they were
thrown, they continued a mysterious existence in the regions beneath.

"To walk the path of Jama," is an expression for dying, in the very
early poems; and a battle-field was called the camp of Jama (Lassen,
i. 767). In the Vêda, the South, which is also reckoned the place of
the infernal regions, is spoken of as the kingdom of Jama (i. 772).

5. Mandala, a magic circle. (Wassiljew, 202, 205, 212, 216, quoted
by Jülg.)



TALE II.

1. Dragons, serpents, serpent-gods, serpent-dæmons (nâga), play a
great part in Indian mythology. Their king is Shesa. Serpent-cultus
was of very ancient observance and is practised by both followers of
Brahmanism and Buddhism. The Brahmans seem to have desired to show
their disapproval of it by placing the serpent-gods in the lower
ranks of their mythology (Lassen, i. 707 and 544, n. 2). This cultus,
however, seems to have received a fresh development about the time of
Ashoka, circa 250 B.C. (ii. 467). When Madhjantika went into Cashmere
and Gandhâra to teach Buddhism after the holding of the third Synod,
it is mentioned that he found sacrifices to serpents practised
there (ii. 234, 235). There is a passage in Plutarch from which it
appears the custom to sacrifice an old woman (previously condemned
to death for some crime) in honour of the serpent-gods by burying
her alive on the banks of the Indus (ii. 467, and note 4). Ktesias
also mentions the serpent-worship (ii. 642). In Buddhist legends,
serpents are often mentioned as protecting-patrons of certain towns
(ii. 467). Among the many kinds of serpents which India possesses,
it is the gigantic Cobra di capello which is the object of worship
(ii. 679). (See further notice of the serpent-worship, iv. 109.)

It would seem that the Buddhist teachers, too, discouraged the
worship at the beginning of their career at least, for when the
Sthavira Madhjantika was sent to convert Cashmere, as above mentioned
he was so indignant at the extent to which he found serpent-worship
carried, that it is recorded in the Mahâvansha, xii. p. 72, that he
caused himself to be carried through the air dispersing them; that
they sought by every means to scare him away--by thunder and storm,
and by changing themselves into all manner of hideous shapes, but
finding the attempt vain, they gave in and accepted the teaching of
the Sthavira, like the rest of the country. Under which last image,
we can easily read the fact that the Buddhist teacher suffered his
followers to continue the worship, while he set limits to it and
delivered them from the extreme awe in which they had previously
stood of the serpents. See also note 4 to Tale XXII.

2. Strong drink. See note 8 to Tale V., and note 3 to Tale VI.

3. Baling-cakes. See notes 6 and 9 to Tale IV.

4. On the custom adopted by priests of hiding precious objects in
the sacred images of the gods, see Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde,
iii. 351.



TALE III.

1. Milk-broth is mentioned by Abbé Huc repeatedly in his travels as
a staple article of food in Mongolia.

2. Schimnu or Schumnu (in Sanskrit, Kâma or Mâra) is the Buddhist
Devil, or personified evil. He is also the God of Love, Sin, and
Death, the Prince of the third or lower world. Sensuality is called
his kingdom. The Schumnus are represented as tempters and doing all
in their power to hinder mortals in their struggle after perfection,
and in this view, take every sort of forms according to their design
at the time. They as often appear in female as in male form. Schmidt's
translation of sSanang sSetsen.

3. As an instance of the migration of myths, I may mention here,
that I met in Spain with a ballad, which I am sorry I have mislaid
and cannot therefore quote the verse, in which the love-lorn swain in
singing the praises of his mistress, among other charms enumerates,
that the flowers spring from the stones as she treads her way through
the streets.

The present story, too, reminds forcibly in all its leading details of
the legend I have entitled "The Ill-tempered Princess," in "Patrañas,"
though so unlike in the dénouement.

4. I have had occasion to speak in another place of the early
Indian's belief in the dwelling of the gods being situated among
the inaccessible heights which bound his sight and his fancy. The
mountain of Meerû was a spot so sacred that it was fabled the sun
might not pass it. Consult Lassen, i. 847, &c. &c.

5. Churmusta = Indra. The ruler of the lower gods, king of the earth
and of the spirits of the air; his heaven is the place of earthly
pleasures. Dæmons often go to war with him to obtain entrance into
his paradise, and he can only fight them through the agency of an
earthly hero (Brockhaus, Somadeva Bhatta, i. 213); hence it is that
he calls Massang to fight the Schimnu-Khan for him.

According to Abbé Huc's spelling, Hormoustha.



TALE IV.

1. Here is one of the numerous instances where the Mongolian
tale-repeater introduces into the Indian story details drawn to the
life from the manners and customs around him of his own people. Compare
with it the following sketch from personal observation in Mongolia,
given in Abbé Huc's "Travels:"--"You sometimes come upon a plain
covered with animation; tents and herds dotted all over it.... It is
a place whither the greater supply of water and the choicer pastures
have attracted for a time a number of nomadic families; you see
rising in all directions tents of various dimensions, looking like
balloons newly inflated and just about to take flight; children with
a sort of hod upon their backs run about collecting argols (dried
dung for fuel), which they pile up in heaps round their respective
tents. The women look after the calves, make tea in the open air,
or prepare milk in various ways; the men, mounted on fiery horses,
armed with a long pole, gallop about, guiding to the best pastures
the great herds of cattle which undulate over the surrounding country
like waves of the sea. All of a sudden these pictures, anon so full
of animation, disappear. Men, tents, herds, all have vanished in the
twinkling of an eye. You see nothing left behind but deserted heaps
of embers, half-extinguished fires, and a few bones of which birds
of prey are disputing the possession. Such are the sole vestiges that
a Mongol tribe has just passed that way. The animals having devoured
all the grass around, the chief gives the signal for departure, and
all the herdsmen, folding their tents, drive their herds before them,
no matter whither, in search of fresh pastures."

This nomadic life, characteristic of the Mongols, would seem never
at any time to have entered into Indian manners and customs. Though
in early times pastoral occupations so engrossed them that they have
left deep traces in their language (e. g. gotra, meaning originally a
breed of cows, came to stand for a family lineage; and gôpa, gôpala,
originally a cowherd, for a prince), and the hymns of the Rig-Vêda
are full of invocations of blessings on the herds (Rig V. 1. 42,
8. 67, 3. 118, 2); yet wherever they came they occupied themselves
with agriculture also, and settled themselves down with social habits
which early led to the foundation of cities. Consult Lassen, i. 494,
685, 815, &c.

2. Abbé Huc incidentally mentions also this practice of carrying the
produce of the flocks and herds stored in sheep's paunches, as the
present common usage of the Mongolians, and adopted by himself among
the provisions for his journeyings among them (vol. ii. chap. iii.,
and other places).

3. Marmot. The sandy plains of Tibet are frequently inhabited by
marmots, who live together in holes, and whose fur is at the present
day an important article of the Tibetian trade both with India and
China. It is now generally allowed that it must be these beasts which
were intended in the marvellous accounts of the old Greek writers
of the gold-digging ants. Though the Indians themselves gave them
the name of ants, pipîlika (e. g. Mahâ Bhârata, i. p. 375, v. 1860),
the description of them would pass exactly for that of this little
animal--in size somewhat smaller than a fox, covered with fur, in
habits social, living in holes underground in the winter.

4. See note 3 to "The False Friend."

5. The number five is a favourite number in Buddhistic teaching,
ritual and ceremonies. (Wassiljew, quoted by Jülg.) To Bodhidsarma,
the last Indian patriarch, on his removal to China, is ascribed this
sentence: "I came to this country to make known the law and to free
men from their passions. Every blossom that brings forth fruit hath
five petals, and thus have I fulfilled my undertaking." (Abel Remusat,
Mel. As. p. 125.) One of Buddha, or at least, Âdi-Buddha's titles,
particularly in Tibet, is Pankagnânâtmaka, or "him possessed of five
kinds of gnâna" or knowledge (Notices of the Religion of the Bouddhas,
by B. Hodgson), and this formed the basis of the complicated system
of the later Buddhists.

The Brahmans, too, had five sacred observances which they aimed
at exercising; the study of their sacred books, to offer sacrifice
to the manes, the gods and all creatures, hospitality, and thereby
increase as well their own virtue and renown as that of their fathers
and mothers. The five necessary things are clothes, food, drink,
coverlets for sleeping, and medicine.

The five colours are blue, white, green, yellow, and red. (Köppen,
ii. 307, note 3.)

6. Baling-cakes are figures made of dough or rice paste, generally
pyramidal in form, covered with cotton wool or some inflammable
material smeared over with brown colour and then set fire to. (Jülg.)

7. Râkschasas, Bopp (note to his translation of the Ramajana) calls
them giants. In the mythology they are evil demons inimical to man;
vampires in human form, generally of hideous aspect, but capable of
assuming beautiful appearances in order to tempt and deceive.

There is no doubt, however, it was the Raxasas, the wild people
inhabiting the country south of the Vindhja range at the time of
the immigration of the Aryan Indians, whose fierce disposition, and
cruel treatment of the Brahmans gave rise to the above conception of
the word. Consult Lassen, Ind. Altert. i. 535, where passages giving
them this character are quoted; also pp. 582, 583.

8. Manggus, Mongolian name for Râkschasas. (Jülg.)

9. The present mode of treating the sick in Mongolia would seem much
the same. Abbé Huc thus describes what he himself witnessed:--"Medicine
is exclusively practised by the Lamas. When any one is ill the
friends run for a Lama, whose first proceeding is to run his fingers
over the pulse of both wrists simultaneously.... All illness is
owing to the visitation of a tchatgour or demon, but its expulsion
is a matter of medicine.... He next prescribes a specific ... the
medical assault being applied, the Lama next proceeds to spiritual
artillery. If the patient be poor the tchatgour visiting him can only
be an inferior spirit, to be dislodged by an interjectional exorcism
... and the patient may get better or die according to the decree of
Hormoustha.... But a devil who presumes to visit an eminent personage
must be a potent devil and cannot be expected to travel away like
a mere sprite; the family are accordingly directed to prepare for
him a handsome suit of clothes, a pair of rich boots, a fine horse,
sometimes also a number of attendants.... The aunt of Toukuna was
seized one evening with an intermittent fever.... The Lama pronounced
that a demon of considerable rank was present. Eight other Lamas were
called in, who set about the construction of a great puppet (baling)
which they entitled 'Demon of Intermittent Fevers,' and which they
placed erect by means of a stick in the patient's tent. The Lamas
then ranged themselves in a circle with cymbals, shells, bells,
tambourines, and other noisy instruments, the family squatting on
the ground opposite the puppet. The chief Lama had before him a large
copper basin, filled with millet and some more little puppets.... A
diabolical discordant concert then commenced, the chief Lama now and
then scattering grains of millet towards the four quarters of the
compass ... ultimately he rose and set the puppet on fire. As soon as
the flames rose he uttered a great cry, repeated with interest by the
rest, who then also rose, seized the burning figure, carried it away to
the plain, and consumed it.... The patient was then removed to another
tent.... The probability is that the Lamas having ascertained the time
at which the fever-fit would recur meet it by a counter excitement."

10. The respective occupations of men and women seem to remain at
the present pretty much the same in Mongolia as here introduced by
the tale-repeater. Abbé Huc writes: "Household and family cares rest
entirely upon the women; it is she who milks the cows and prepares
the butter, cheese, &c.; who goes no matter how far to draw water;
who collects the argols (dried dung for fuel), dries it and piles
it round the tent. The tanning skins, fulling cloth, making clothes,
all appertains to her.... Mongol women are perfect mistresses of the
needle; it is quite unintelligible how, with implements so rude, they
can manufacture articles so durable; they excel, too, in embroidery,
which for taste and variety of design and excellence of manipulation
excited our astonishment. The occupations of the men are of very
limited range; they consist wholly in conducting flocks and herds
to pasture. This to men accustomed from infancy to the saddle is a
mere amusement. The nearest approach to fatigue they ever incur is
in pursuing cattle which escape. They sometimes hunt; when they go
after roebucks, deer, or pheasants, as presents for their chiefs,
they take their bow and matchlock. Foxes they always course. They
squat all day in their tents, drinking tea and smoking. When the
fancy takes them they take down their whip, mount their horse, always
ready saddled at the door, and dash off across the broad plains, no
matter whither. When one sees another horseman he rides up to him;
when he sees a tent he puts up at it, the only object being to have
a gossip with a new person."



TALE V.

1. Kun-Snang = "All-enlightening." (Jülg.) The Mongolian tale-repeater
here gives the Khan a Tibetian name (Tibetian being the learned and
liturgical language of Mongolia), making one of the instances of which
the tales are full, of their transformation in process of transmission.

2. Sesame-oil is mentioned by Pliny in many places as in use in India
for medicinal purposes: as, xiii. 2, 7: xv. 9, 4: xvii. 10, 1, &c.

3. Baling-cakes.--See note 6, and note 9 to Tale IV.

4. The Brahmanical system of re-births was followed to a great extent
by Buddhists, notwithstanding that it had been one chief aim and object
of Shâkjamuni's teaching to provide mankind with a remedy against
their necessity. (See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, ii. 60, and
other places. Burnouf, Introd. à l'Hist. du Buddh. Ind. i. 153.) By
its teaching, every living being had to be born again a countless
number of times, leading them to higher or lower regions according
to their dealings under each earlier form. The gods themselves were
not exempt from the operation of this law.

5. Serpent-god. See note 1 to Tale II., and note 4 to Tale XXII.

6. Tiger-year. The Mongols reckon time by a cycle of sixty years,
designated by a subdivision under the names of five necessary articles,
and twelve beasts with the further adjuncts of male and female. The
present cycle began in 1864 and will consequently go on till 1923.

The following may serve as a specimen:--


    1864, male Wood-mouse-year, Mato khouloukhana po.
    1865, female Wood-bullock-year, Moto oukhere mo.
    1866, male Fire-tiger-year, Gal bara po.
    1867, female Fire-hare-year, Gal tole mo.
    1868, male Earth-dragon-year, Sheree lou po.
    1869, female Earth-serpent-year, Sheree Mokhee mo.
    1870, male Iron-horse-year, Temur mori po.
    1871, female Iron-sheep-year, Temur knoui mo.
    1872, male Water-ape-year, Oussou betchi po.
    1873, female Water-fowl-year, Oussou takia mo.
    1874, male Wood-dog-year, Moto nokhee po.
    1875, female Wood-pig-year, Moto khakhee mo.
    1876, male Fire-mouse-year, Gal khouloukhana po.
    1877, female Fire-bullock-year, Gal oukhere mo.
    1878, male Earth-tiger-year, Sheree bara po.
    1879, female Earth-hare-year, Sheree tolee mo.
    1880, male Iron-dragon-year, Temur lou po.
    1881, female Iron-serpent-year, Temur mokhee mo.


And so on to the end. The date always being quoted in connexion
with the year of each sovereign reigning at the time, to make the
distinction more definite.

7. Nothing can be much more revolting to our minds than the idea of
human sacrifices. Nevertheless, one of the grandest episodes of the
great epic poem called the Ramajana, is that in which King Ashokja
goes all the world over in search of a youth possessing all the
marks which prove him worthy to be sacrificed: "wandering through
tracts of country and villages, through town and wilderness alike,
holy hermitages also of high fame." When at last he has found one in
the person of Sunasepha, son of Ritschika, a great prince of seers,
Visvamitra, the great model penitent, calls on his own son to take
his place, crying up the honour of the thing in the most ardent
language. "When a father desires to have sons," he says to him, "it
is in order that they may adorn the world with their virtue and be
worthy of eternal fame. The opportunity for earning that fame has now
come to thee." And when his son refuses the exchange, he pronounces
on him the following curse, "Henceforth shalt thou be for many years
a wanderer and outcast, and despised like to a dealer in dog's flesh."

Concerning the serpent-cultus in general, see note 1, Tale II.,
and note 4, Tale XXII.

8. Rice is the most ancient and most widespread object of Indian
agriculture; it is only not cultivated in those districts where
either the heat or the means of natural or artificial irrigation
do not suffice for its production; and in easternmost islands of
the Archipelago, where the sago-palm replaces it. (Ritter iv. 1,
800.) The name, coming from vrih, to grow, to spread (whence also
vrihat, great), suggests, that it was regarded as the principal kind
of corn. All the Greek writers on India mention that an intoxicating
drink was made from rice, and the custom still prevails.



TALE VI.

1. Brschiss. I know not what country it is which is thus designated,
unless the word be derived from brizi, the ancient Persian for rice,
and is intended to denote a rice-producing territory.

2. Palm-tree. India grows a vast number of varieties of the palm-tree;
the general name is trinadruma, "grass-tree" (Ritter iv. 1,
827). The date-palm was only introduced by the Arabians (Lassen,
iii. 312). The fan-palm (borassus flabelliformis) is called trinarâga =
"the grass-king," in Sanskrit also tâla; the Buddhist priests in Dekhan
and also in China and Mongolia use its leaves as fans and sunshades,
and hence are often called tâlapatri, palm-bearers. Tâlânka and
Tâladhvaga are also titles of Krishna, when he carries a banner bearing
a palm-tree in memory of a legend which makes him the discoverer of
the means of utilizing the fruit of the cocoa-nut palm. "The mountain
Gôvardhana on the banks of the Jamunâ was thickly grown over with the
cocoa-nut palm, but it was kept in guard by a dæmon, named Dhênuka,
in the form of an ass, at the head of a great herd of asses, so that
no one could approach it. Krishna, however, in company with Rama,
went through the wood unarmed, but when they would have shaken down
the fruit from the trees, Dhênuka, who was sitting in its branches,
kicked them with his hoofs and bit them. Krishna pulled him down from
off the tree, and wrestled with him till he had crushed him to death;
in the same way he dealt with the whole herd. A lurid light gleamed
through the whole wood from the bodies of the dead asses, but from
that time forward, all the people had free use of the trees." (Hari,
v. 70, v. 3702 et seq. p. 577.)

3. The brandy spoken of is, probably, koumis, distilled from mare's
milk, and makes a very intoxicating drink. Concerning its preparation,
see Pallas, Sammlung historischer Nachrichten über die Mongolen.



TALE VII.

1. Compare note 10, Tale IV.

2. Legends of transformed maidens being delivered from the power of
enchantment and married by heroes and knights are common enough, but
we less frequently meet with stories presenting a reversed plot. I
have met with one, however, nearly identical with that given in the
text, attached to a ruined castle of Wâlsch-Tirol.

3. The Buddhist idea of the soul is very difficult to define. In other
legends given later in the present volume (e. g. the episode of the
burying of Vikramâditja's body and the action of the fourth youth in
"Who invented Women?") we find it, just as in the present one, spoken
of as a quite superfluous and fantastic adjunct without which a man
was to all intents and purposes the same as when he had it. Spence
Hardy affirms as the result of conversations with Buddhists during
half a life passed among them in Ceylon, as well as from the study
of their writings, that "according to Buddhism there is no soul."

4. Compare note 7 to "Vikramâditja's Birth."

5. Obö. "A heap of stones on which every traveller is expected of
his piety to throw one or more as he goes by." (Jülg.) Abbé Huc
describes them thus: "They consist simply of an enormous pile of
stones heaped up without any order, surmounted with dried branches
of trees, while from them hang other branches and strips of cloth on
which are inscribed verses in the Tibet and Mongol languages. At its
base is a large granite urn in which the devotees burn incense. They
offer besides pieces of money which the next Chinese traveller, after
sundry ceremonious genuflexions before the Obö, carefully collects
and pockets. These Obös are very numerous."

6. The sacred mountain of Meerû. See note 4, Tale III.



TALE VIII.

1. Kun-smon, all-wishing (Tibetian).               }
                                                   }
2. Kun-snang, all-enlightening (Tibetian).         }
                                                   }
3. Chamuk-Ssakiktschi, all-protecting (Mongolian). } (Jülg.)
                                                   }
4. Ananda, gladness (Sanskrit).                    }
                                                   }
5. Kun-dgah, all-rejoicing (Tibetian).             }

6. Chotolo has the same meaning as Chamuk, the one in Kalmuck and
the other in Tibetian.

7. See note 4 to Tale V., and note 7 to "Vikramâditja's Birth."

8. Kun-tschong = all-protecting (Tibetian). (Jülg.)



TALE IX.

1. Heaven-gods, sky-gods, devas. They hold a transition position
between men and gods, between human and Buddha nature. Their etherial
body enables these lowest of gods, or genii, to withstand the effects
of age better than mortals; also they can assume other forms and make
themselves invisible, powers seldom allotted to mortals, but they
are subject to illusion, sin, and metempsychosis like every other
creature. (Schott, Buddhaismus in Hoch-Asien, p. 5, quoted by Jülg.)

2. Garudâ.--Garut'man (whence Garudâ), means the winged one. In the
epic mythology of India Garudâ was son of Kashjapa and Vinatâ, daughter
of Daxa, king of the Suparn'a ("beautiful winged ones"), divine birds,
whose habitation was in the lower heavens. They were the standing foes
of the serpent-gods, on whose flesh they fed. In the Vêda it is spoken
of as a bird with beautiful golden wings. A Gaudharba of high degree,
bearing shining weapons, was placed over the higher heaven. It is said
that inhaling the balmy vapours, he gave birth to the refreshing rain;
and that when gazing through space with his eagle eye he broods over
the ocean, the rays of the sun pierce through the third heaven. From
this it may be gathered that the Garudâ originally represented the
morning mist preceding the sunrise over land and sea. The Garudâ,
was also the bearer of Vishnu, as the following legend from the Mâha
Bhârata tells:--"Mâtali, Indra's charioteer, had fixed his eyes on
Sumuka, grandson of the serpent-god Arjaka, to make him his son-in-law
by marrying his daughter, Gun'aka'shi, to him. Garudâ, however, had
already devoted him for his food, purposing to kill him in a month's
time; but at Mâtali's request Indra had given promise of long life
to Sumukha. When Garudâ heard this he went and stood before Indra and
told him that by such a promise he had destroyed himself and his race;
that he Garudâ, alone possessed the strength to bear him up through
all worlds, even as he bore up Vishnu, and that by his means he might
become lord of all and as great as Vishnu. But Vishnu made him feel the
weight of (only) his left arm, and straightway he fell down senseless
before him. After this he acknowledged that he was only the servant
of Vishnu, and promised not to talk rebellious words any more."

The descriptions of him do not give him entirely the form of a
bird, but rather of some combination with the human form; in what
he resembles a bird he seems to partake of the eagle, the vulture,
and the crane. (Schlegel, Ind. Bibl. i. 81.)



TALE X.

1. That the Indians were apt to yield to the temptation of drink
is asserted by the Greek writers on India, who also mention that,
in spite of the prohibition of their religion, wine was an article
of their import trade. See Lassen, ii. 606; iii. 50, and 345, 346.

2. That the wife should give herself to be burned with the body of
her husband was a very ancient custom, as it is alluded to as such
by the Greek writers on India. Nevertheless it was far from universal.

3. Comp. Mânu, dh. sh. viii. 29, concerning the punishment of the
false witness.

4. Shaving off the hair was reckoned the most degrading of
punishments. (Lassen, vi. 344.)



TALE XI.

1. Chongschim Bôdhisattva. Chongschim is probably derived from the
Chinese, Kuan-schi-in, also by the Mongols, called Chutuku niduber usek
tschi (He looking with the sacred eye), the present representative
of Shâkjamuni, the spiritual guardian and patron of the breathing
world in general; but, as Lamaism teaches, the Particular Protector
of the northern countries of Asia; and each succeeding Dalai Lama is
an incarnation of him. (Schott, Buddhaismus, and Köppen, Die Religion
des Buddha, i. 312; ii. 127.) Bôdhisattva, from Bôdhi, the highest
wisdom or knowledge, and Sattva, being. It is the last but one in the
long chain of re-births. (See Schott, Buddhaismus, quoted by Jülg.;
also Köppen, i. 312 et seq., 422-426, and ii. 18 et seq.; Wassiljew,
p. 6, 106, 134.)

It designates a man who has reached the intelligence of a Buddha
and destined to be re-born as such when the actual Buddha dies. This
intermediate time some have to pass in the Tushita-heaven, and none
of those thus dignified can appear on earth so long as his predecessor
lives. (Burnouf, Introduction à l'Histoire du Buddhisme Ind. i. 109.)

2. Suvarnadharî (Sanskr.), possessed of gold. (Jülg.)

3. Chutuktu, holy, consecrated, reverend, honourable--the Mongolian
designation of the priesthood in general. (Schott, Buddhaismus, p. 36.)

4. It requires nothing less than the creative power of an Eastern
imagination first to see a difficulty in a situation simple enough in
itself, and then set to work to remove it by means of a proceeding
calculated to create the most actual difficulties: it is a leading
characteristic of Indian tales. It would seem much more rational to
have made the poor man keep up the original story of Buddha having
designated him for the girl's husband, which the people at the mouth
of the stream would have been as prone to believe as those at its
source, than to resort to the preposterous expedient of leaving her
buried in a box.



TALE XII.

1. Küwön-ojôtu, of child intellect. (Jülg.)

2. Sandal-wood is a principal production of India. The finest grows
on the Malabar coast. Among its many names goshirsha is the only one
in use in the Buddhistic writings, being derived from a cow's head,
the smell of which its scent was supposed to resemble. (Burnouf,
Introd. à l'Hist. du Buddhisme i. 619.) Kandana is the vulgar name. It
was also called valguka = beautiful, and bhadrashri = surpassingly
beautiful. Its use, both as incense in the temples and for scent in
private houses, particularly by spreading a fine powdering of it on
damp mats before the windows, is very ancient and widespread.

3. Gegên uchâtu, of bright intellect. (Jülg.)

4. Cap woven of grass. Probably the Urtica (Boehmeria) utilis,
which is used for weaving and imported into Europe under the name of
China-grass. See Revue Horticole, vol. iv. ann. 1855.



TALE XIII.

1. Shrikantha, "one whose cup contains good fortune" = born with a
silver spoon in his mouth.

2. The merchant class acquired an important position in India at
an early date, as the Manu concerns itself with laws for their
guidance. The Manu, however, distinctly defines trading as the
occupation of the third caste (i. 90), "The care of cattle, sacrifice,
reading the Vêda, the career of a merchant, the lending of gold and
silver, and the pursuit of agriculture shall be the occupation of
the Vaishja." Similarly in the Jalimâlâ legend given in Colebrooke's
"Miscellaneous Essays," it is said "The Lord of Creation viewing them
(the various castes) said, 'What shall be your occupation?' These
replied, 'We are not our own masters, O God. Command what we shall
undertake.' Viewing and comparing their labours he made the first
tribe superior over the rest. As the first had great inclination
for the divine sciences (brahmaveda) it was called Brahmana. The
protector from ill was Kshatriga (warrior). Him whose profession (vesa)
consists in commerce, and in husbandry, and attendance on cattle he
called Vaisga. The other should voluntarily serve the three tribes,
and therefore he became Sudra." That a Brahman's son, therefore,
should condescend to engage in trade must be ascribed either to the
degeneracy of later times or to the ignorance of or indifference to
Brahmanical peculiarities of the Buddhist tale-repeater; or else his
parents were of mixed castes.

In legendary tales Banig is a typical merchant, and the name
ultimately came to designate the subdivision of the Vaishja caste,
in which trading had become hereditary. The word is derived from
pani, which means both to buy and to play games of hazard, and ga,
born or descended; hence Banig meant, literally, merchant's son. This
designation later became corrupted into Banyan.

It is not possible to learn very much about the merchant's early
status, as the subject of trade would naturally seem unworthy
of frequent mention in the great epic poems; nevertheless the
Ramajana (ii. 83, v. 11) speaks of "the honourable merchants"
(naigamâh). Mercantile expeditions, especially by sea, however, partook
of the heroic, and as such find a place even in the Mâha Bhârata;
and there is a hymn in the Vêda (Rig. V. i. 116, 5) praising Asvin
for protecting Bhugju's hundred-oared ship through the immeasurable,
fathomless ocean, and bringing it back safely to land.

3. Apes enter frequently not only into the fables but into the
epic poetry of India. The Ramajana, narrating the spreading of the
Aryan Indians over the south and far-east, speaks of the country as
inhabited by apes, and of Rama taking apes for his allies; also,
on one occasion, of his re-establishing an ape-king in possession
of his previous dominions. Consult Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde,
i. 534, 535. Megasthenes mentions various kinds of apes and monkeys,
with, however, scarcely recognizable descriptions, in his enumeration
of the wild animals of India (Fragm. x. p. 410). Kleitarchos tells
that when Alexander had reached a hill in the neighbourhood of the
Hydaspes, he came upon a tribe of apes arranged in battle array,
looking so formidable that he was about to give the signal for
attacking them, but was withheld by the representations of Taxiles,
king of the neighbouring country of Taxila, who accompanied him
(Fragm. xvi. p. 80). The Pantcha-Tantra contains a fable in which
the King of Kamanapura establishes an ape for his bodyguard as more
faithful and efficient than man; a thief, however, brings a serpent
into the apartment, and at sight of the mortal enemy of his kind,
the ape runs away. Another fable of the same collection tells of
a Brahman who, having succeeded in rearing a flourishing garden of
melons, found them all devoured as soon as ripe by a party of apes,
nor was he able by any means to get rid of them. One day he laid
himself down hid amid the leafage as if he had been dead, but with a
stick in his hand ready to attack them when they approached. At first
they indeed took him for dead and were venturing close up to him, when
one of them espied the stick and cried to the others, "Dead men do not
carry arms," and with that they all escaped; and it was the same with
every trap he laid for them, by their wariness they evaded them all.

4. The Indian world of story abounds in tales in which the low notion
of expecting some advantage to accrue in this life is proposed as
the object and reward of good actions. Instances will doubtless
occur to the reader. The Pantcha-Tantra Collection contains one in
which an elephant is caught by a Khan out hunting, by being driven
into a deep dyke. He asks advice of a Brahman who passes that way,
as to how he is to extricate himself. "Now is the time," answers the
Brahman, "to recall if you have ever done good to any one, and if so
to call him to your aid." The elephant thereupon recalls that he once
delivered a number of rats whom a Khan had hunted and caught and shut
up in earthen jars by lifting the earthen jars with his trunk and
gently breaking them. He accordingly invokes the aid of these rats,
who come and gnaw away at the earth surrounding the dyke, till they
have made so easy a slope of it that the elephant can walk out.

Christianity fortunately proposes a higher motive for our good actions,
and the experience of life would make that derived from results to
be expected from gratitude a very poor one.

5. A story, with a precisely similar episode of the recovery of a
jewel by ancillary beasts, comes into the legend of another ruin of
the Italian Tirol.

6. See note 4 to "Vikramâditja's Throne discovered."



TALE XIV.

1. I know not whether this placing together of lions and tigers is to
be ascribed to unacquaintance with their habits, or to idealism. Though
both natives of parts of India they have not even the same districts
assigned them by nature. So inimical are they also to each other,
and so unlikely to herd together, that it has been supposed the tiger
has exterminated the lion wherever they have met. (Ritter, Asien,
vol. iv. zweite Hälfte, 689, 703, 723.) Indian fable established the
lion as the king of beasts--Mrigarâga. Amara, the Indian Lexicographer,
places him at the head of all beasts. The ordinary Sanskrit name is
Sinha, which some translate "the killer," from sibh, to kill. The
same word (sinhanâda) stands for the roaring of the lion and for
a war cry. Sinhâsana, literally a lion-seat, stands for a throne;
for the lion was the typical ruler. The fables always make him out as
powerful, just, temperate, and willing to take the advice of others,
but often deceived by his counsellors. The lion also gave its name
to the island of Ceylon, which to the Greeks was known as Taprobane,
from Tâmbapanni or Tâmrapani, the capital built by Vigaja, its first
historical settler (said by the natives to come from tâmra, red, and
pâni, hand, because he and his companions being worn out with fatigue
on their arrival lay down upon the ground and found it made their
hands red; but tamra (neut.) means also red sandalwood, and parna
is a leaf, which makes a more probable interpretation, but there is
also another deriving from "a red swamp"). But this name passed quite
out of use both among native and Greek writers in the early part of
the first century. Ptolemy calls it Salik`h, the Indian word being
Sinhala, the Pali, Sîhala = "resting-place of the lion" (i.e. the
courageous warriors, the companions of Vigaja). Kosmas has S'ieled'iba
= Sinhaladvipa, "the island Sinhala." In the writings of the Chinese
pilgrims it is called Sengkiolo, which they render "lion's kingdom." In
the southern dialects of India l is often changed into r, and thus
in Marcellinus Ammianus we find the name has become Serendivus. Out
of this came zeilau and our Ceylon. In our word "Singhalese" we have
a plainer trace of the lion's share in the appellation.

The writers of the time of Alexander do not appear to have come across
any authentic account of the tiger, and his people seem to have known
it only from its skin bought as merchandize. Nearchos and Megasthenes
both quite overstate its size, as "twice as big as a lion," and "as big
as a horse." Augustus exhibited a tiger in Rome in the year 11 B.C.,
and that seems the first seen there. Claudius imported four. Pliny
remarks on the extreme swiftness and wariness of the tiger and the
difficulty of capturing him. His place in the fable world is generally
as representative of unmitigated cruelty. The Pantcha-Tantra contains
a tale, however, in which a Brahman, wearied of his existence by many
reverses, goes to a tiger who has a reputation for great ferocity
and begs him to rid him of his life. The tiger in this instance is
so moved by the recital of the man's afflictions that he not only
spares his life, but nurtures him in his den, enriching him also with
the jewelled spoil of the many travellers who fall victims to his
voracity. In the end, however, the inevitable fox comes in as a bad
counsellor, and persuades him the Brahman is intending to poison him,
and thus overcoming his leniency, induces him to break faith with
the Brahman and devour him.

2. Dakinis were female evil genii, who committed all sorts of horrible
pranks, chiefly among the graves and at night. In this place it is
more probably Raginis that are intended, beautiful beings who filled
the air with melody. (Schmidt, trans, of sSanang sSetsen, p. 438,
quoted by Jülg.)

3. Nûpuras, gold rings set with jewels, worn by women of rank, and
also by dancing girls.

4. The custom of wearing quantities of jewelled ornaments seems to
have passed into Rome, along with the jewels themselves, and to such
an extent that Pliny tells us (book ix.), that Roman women would
have their feet covered with pearls, and a woman of rank would not
go out without having so many pearls dangling from her feet as to
make a noise as she walked along. The long-shaped pearls of India,
too, were specially prized for ear-rings; he particularly mentions
their being made to bear the form of an alabaster vase, just as
lately revived in Rome. They particularly delighted in the noise
of two or more of these pendants together as a token of wealth, and
gave it the name of crotalia, which, however, they borrowed from the
Greeks. They also wore them pendant from their rings. The Singhalese
pearls are the most esteemed. The dangerous fishery of these forms
the occupation of a special division of the Parawa or Fisher-Caste of
the Southern Indians. The pearl-oysters were said to swim in swarms,
led by a king-oyster, distinguished by his superiority in size and
colouring. Fishers aimed at capturing the "king," as then the whole
swarm was dispersed and easily caught; as long as the king was free,
he knew how to guide the major part of his swarm of subjects out of
danger (Pliny, ix. 55, 1). They thought the pearl was more directly
under the influence of the heavens than of the sea, so that if it was
cloudy at the time of their birth, they grew dull and tinted; but if
born under a bright sky, then they were lustrous and well-tinted;
if it thundered at the time, they were startled and grew small and
stunted. Concerning the actualities of pearl-fishery, see Colebrook's
"Account" of the same in Trans. of R. As. Soc. ii. 452, et seq.

Megasthenes, Diodorus, Arrianus, and others (quoted by Lassen, 1,
649, n. 2), tell a curious legend by which Hercules as he parted
from earth gave to his young daughter Pandaia the whole of Southern
India for her portion, and that from her sprang the celebrated hero
dynasty of the Pândava; Hercules found a beautiful female ornament
called pearls on his travels, and he collected them all and endowed
his daughter's kingdom with them.

5. It is impossible not to be struck by the similarity of construction
between this tale and that of the Spanish colonial one I have given in
"Patrañas" with the title of "Matanzas," thus bringing the sagas of
the East and West Indies curiously together.

6. Lama, Buddhist priest: the tale-repeater again grafts a word of
his own language on to the Indian tale.

7. Tîrtha, from tri, to cross a river. It denoted originally a
ford; then, a bathing-place on the borders of sacred streams;
later its use became extended to all manner of pilgrimage-places,
but more frequently those situated at the water's edge. They were
the hermitages of Brahmans who gave themselves to the contemplative
life before the rise of Buddhism, while to many of them also were
attached legends of having been the dwellings of the mysterious
Rishi, similarly before the rise of Brahmanism. The fruits of the
earth and beasts brought to them as offerings at these holy places,
as also the mere visiting such spots, was taught to be among the
most meritorious of acts. "From the poor can the sacrifice, O king,
not be offered, for it needs to have great possessions, and to make
great preparations. By kings and rich men can it be offered. But not
by the mean and needy and possessing nothing. But hear, and I will
tell thee what is the pious dealing which is equal in its fruits to
the holy sacrifice, and can be carried out even by the poorest. This
is the deepest secret of the Rishi. Visits paid to the tîrtha are more
meritorious than even offerings" (made elsewhere). "He who has never
fasted for three nights, has never visited a tîrtha, and never made
offerings of gold and cows, he will live in poor estate" (at his next
re-birth). "But so great advantage is not gained by the Agnishtoma or
other most costly sacrifice as by visiting tîrthas." (Tirthagâtrâ,
iii. 82, v. 4055 et seq.) In other places it is prescribed that
visits paid to some one particular tîrtha are equal to an offering
of one hundred cows; to another, a thousand. To visiting another,
is attached the reward of being beautiful at the next rebirth; a
visit to another, cleansed from the stain of murder, even the murder
of a Brahman; that to the source of the Ganges, brings good luck to
a whole generation. Whoso passes a month at that on the Kanshiki,
where Vishvamitra attained the highest perfection, does equivalent
to the offering of a horse-offering and obtains the same advantage
(phala = fruit). Several spots on the Indus or Sindhu, reckon among
the holiest of tîrthas pointing to the course of the immigration
of the Aryan race into India. Uggana on its west bank is named as
the dwelling-place of the earliest Rishis and the scene of acts of
the gods. A visit to Gandharba at its source, or Sindhûttama the
northern-most tîrtha on its banks, was equivalent to a horse-offering.

The Puranas are full of stories and legends concerning tîrthas
noteworthy for the deeds of ancient kings and gods. They tell us
of one on the Jumna, where Brahma himself offered sacrifice. At the
Vârâha-tîrtha Vishnu had once appeared in the form of a wild boar. The
Mahâ Bhârata and other epic poems speak of these visits being made by
princes as a matter of constant occurrence, as well as of numbers of
Brahmans making the occasion of their visits answer the purpose of an
armed escort, to pay their devotions at the same time without incurring
unnecessary danger by the way. The Manu also contains prescriptions
concerning these visits. In consequence of the amount of travelling
they entailed the tîrthânusartri or tîrtha-visitor was quoted as a
geographical authority.

The Horse-sacrifice mentioned above was part of the early Vedic
religion. In the songs of Dirghatamas, Rig-Veda i. 22, 6 and 7, it
is described with great particularity. And instances are mentioned
of horse-sacrifices being performed, in the Ramajana, i. 13, 34,
and Mahâ Bhârata, xiv. 89 v. 2644. There is also a medal existing
struck by a king of the Gupta dynasty, in the 3rd century of our era,
commemorative of one at that date. There do not appear altogether to
be many instances named however. The Zendavesta (quoted by Burnouf,
Yacna, i. p. 444) mentions that it was common among the Turanian
people, on the other hand, to sacrifices horses to propitiate victory.



TALE XV.

1. "Diamond kingdom." It is probably Magadha (now Behar) that is
here thus designated (Jülg.); though it might stand for any part of
Central India: "Diamonds were only found in India of all the kingdoms
of antiquity" (Lassen, iii. 18), and (Lassen i. 240), "in India between
14° and 25°;" a wide range, but the fields are limited in extent and
sparsely scattered. The old world only knew the diamond through the
medium of India. In India itself they were the choicest ornaments of
the kings and of the statues of the gods. They thus became stored up
in great masses in royal and ecclesiastical treasuries; and became
the highest standard of value. The vast quantities of diamonds made
booty of during the Muhammedan invasion borders on the incredible. It
was thus that they first found their way in any quantity to the West
of Europe. Since the discovery of the diamond-fields of Brazil,
they have been little sought for in India. In Sanskrit, they were
called vag'ra, "lightning;" also abhêdja, "infrangible." It would
appear, however, that the Muhammedans were not the first to despoil
the Eastern treasuries, for Pliny (book ix.) tells us that Lollia,
wife of Claudius, was wont to show herself, on all public occasions,
literally covered from head to foot with jewels, which her father,
Marcus Lollius, had taken from the kings of the East, and which were
valued at forty million sesterces. He adds, however, this noteworthy
instance of retribution of rapacity, that he ended by taking his own
life to appease the Emperor's animosity, which he had thereby incurred.

Hiuen Thsang, the Chinese pilgrim who visited India about A.D. 640,
particularly mentions that in Maláva and Magadha were chief seats of
learned studies.

2. Abaraschika; magic word of no meaning. (Jülg.)

3. Astrologers. Colebrooke ("Miscellaneous Essays," ii. 440) is of
opinion that astrology was a late introduction into India. Divination
by the relative position of the planets seems to have been in part at
least of foreign growth and comparatively recent introduction among the
Hindus; (he explains this to refer to the Alexandrian Greeks). "The
belief in the influence of the planets and stars upon human affairs
is with them indeed remotely ancient, and was a natural consequence of
their early creed making the sun and planets gods. But the notion that
the tendency of that supposed influence and the manner in which it is
to be exerted, may be foreseen by man, and the effect to be produced
by it foretold through a knowledge of the position of the planets at a
given moment, is no necessary result of that belief; for it takes from
beings believed divine their free agency." See also Weber, "Geschichte
der Indischen Astrologie," in his Indische Studien, ii. 236 et seq.



TALE XVI.

1. Tabun Minggan = "containing five thousand." (Jülg.) The
tale-repeater again gives a name of his own language to a town which
he places in India.

2. Cows and oxen were always held in high estimation by the ancient
Indians. The same word that stood for "cow" expressed also "the earth,"
and both stand equally in the Vêda for symbols of fruitfulness and
patient labouring for the benefit of others. The ox stands in the Manu
for "uprightness" and "obedience to the laws." In the Ramajana (ii. 74,
12) Surabhi, the cow-divinity (see the curious accounts of her origin
in Lassen, i. 792 and note), is represented as lamenting that over
the whole world her children are made to labour from morning to night
at the plough under the burning sun. Cows were frequently devoted to
the gods and left to go whithersoever they would, even in the midst of
towns, their lives being held sacred (Lassen, i. 298). Kühn (Jahrbuch
f. w. K. 1844, p. 102) quotes two or three instances of sacrifices of
cows but they were very rare; either as sacrifices to the gods or as
rigagna ("sacrifices to the living") i. e. the offerings of hospitality
to the living. The ox was reckoned peculiarly sacred to Shiva, and
images were set up to him in the temples (see Lassen, i. 299). Butter
was the most frequent object of sacrifice (ib. 298). The Manu (iii. 70)
orders the Hôma or butter-sacrifice to be offered daily to the gods,
and the custom still subsists (see Lassen, iii. 325). Other names
for the cow were Gharmadhug = "giver of warm milk;" and Aghnjâ =
"the not to be slain;" also Kâmadhênu or Kâmaduh = "the fulfiller of
wishes," and (in the Mahâ Bhârata) Nandunî = "the making to rejoice"
(Lassen, i. 721). See also the story of Sabala, the heavenly cow
of the Ramajana, in note 8 to "Vikramâditja's Youth." Oxen were
not only used for ploughing, but also for charioteering and riding,
and were trained to great swiftness. Ælianus (De Nat Anim. xv. 24)
mentions that kings and great men did not think it beneath them to
strive together in the oxen-races, and that the oxen were better
racers than the horses, for the latter needed the spur while the
former did not. An ox and a horse, and two oxen with a horse between
them were often harnessed together in a chariot. He also mentions
that there was a great deal of betting both by those whose animals
were engaged in the race and by the spectators. The Manu, however
(d. p. c. ix. 221--225), forbids every kind of betting under severe
penalties. Ælianus mentions further the Kâmara, the long-haired ox
or yak, which the Indians received from Tibet.

3. The "Three Precious Treasures" or "jewels" of Buddhism are
Adi-buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, which in later Buddhism became a sort
of triad, called triratna, of supreme divinities; but, at the first,
were only honoured according to the actual meaning of the words
(Schmidt, Grundlehre der Buddhaismus, in Mem. de l'Ac. des Sciences
de S. Petersbourg, i. 114), viz. Sangha, sacred assembly or synod;
Dharma, laws (or more correctly perhaps, necessity, fate, Lassen,
iii. 397), and Buddha, the expounder of the same. (Burnouf, Introd. à
l'Hist. du Budd. i. 221.)

Consult Schott, Buddhaismus, pp. 39, 127, and C. F. Köppen, Die
Religion des Buddha, i. 373, 550-553, and ii. 292-294.

4. See note 2, Tale IV.

5. Abbé Huc describes the huts of the Tibetian herdsmen as thus
constructed with a hole in the roof for the smoke. The Mongolians
live entirely in tents which, if more primitive, seem cleaner and
altogether preferable.



TALE XVII.

1. Probably it was some version of this story that had travelled
to Spain, which suggested to Yriarte the following one of his many
fables directed against ignorant writers and bad critics.


            1.                          1.

    Esta fabulilla,             This fablette I know it
    Salga bien ó mal,             Is not erudite;
    Me he occorrida ahora       It occurr'd to my mind now
    Por casualidad.               By accident quite.

            2.                          2.

    Cerca de unos prados        Through a meadow whose verdure
    Que hay en mi lugar,          Fresh, seem'd to invite,
    Passaba un borrico          A donkey pass'd browsing
    Por casualidad.               By accident quite.

            3.                          3.

    Una flauta en ellos         A flute lay in the grass, which
    Halló que un zagal,           A swain over night
    Se dexó olvidado            Had left there forgotten
    Por casualidad.               By accident quite.

            4.                          4.

    Acercóse á olerla,          Approaching to smell it
    El dicho animal               This quadruped wight
    Y dió un resoplido          Just happen'd to bray then
    Por casualidad.               By accident quite.

            5.                          5.

    En la flauta el ayre        The air ent'ring the mouthpiece
    Se hubo de colar              Pass'd through as of right,
    Y sonó la flauta            And gave forth a cadence
    Por casualidad.               By accident quite.

            6.                          6.

    "O!" dixó el borrico        "Only hear my fine playing!"
    "Que bien sé tocar!           Cries Moke in delight,
    Y diran que es mala         "That dull folks vote my braying
    La musica asnal."             A nuisance, despite."

            7.                          7.

    Sin reglas del arte         It may happen some once, thus
    Borriquitos hay               Although they can't write,
    Que una vez aciertan        Human asses may hit off
    Por casualidad!               By accident quite!


2. The woman invents a name to frighten, and also as a trap for,
her husband. "Sûrja, is Sanskrit, and Bagatur, Mongolian for a
'Hero.' Such combinations are not infrequent." (Jülg.)

"Shura means a Hero in Sanscrit, agreeing not only in sense with
the Greek word , but also in derivation; thus revealing a primeval
agreement in the estimation in which hero-nature was held. It is more
properly written Sura, because it comes from Svar, heaven, and means
literally 'heavenly.' It is used in that form as an appellation of
the Sun. Heroes are so called, because when they fell in battle,
Svarga, the heaven of deified kings, was given them for their
dwelling-place. 'Indra shall give to those who fall in battle the
world where all wishes are fulfilled, for their portion. Neither
by sacrifices, nor offerings to the Brahmans, nor by contemplation,
nor knowledge can mortals attain to Svarga as securely as do heroes
falling in battle.' Mahâ Bhârata, xi. 2, v. 60." (Lassen, i. 69.)

3. "The women of Tibet are not indeed taught the use of the bow and
the matchlock, but in riding they are as expert and fearless as the
men, yet it is only on occasion that they mount a horse, such as when
travelling; or when there chances to be no man about the place to
look after a stray animal." (Abbé Huc's "Travels in China and Tibet,"
vol. i. ch. iii.)

4. A very similar story may be found in Barbazan's, "Fabliaux et
Contes des Poètes Français des XI-XV Siècles," in 4 vols., Paris 1808,
vol. iv. pp. 287-295. (Jülg.)



TALE XVIII.

1. Shanggasba is possibly a Tibetian word, bsang, grags, pa = "of good
fame," but more probably it is compounded from the Mongolian sSang,
"treasure." (Jülg.)

2. Garudâ: see note 2, Tale I. The allusion in this place is to an
image of him over a shrine.

3. Silk was cultivated in India at a very early date, probably much
earlier than any records that remain to us can show; there are twelve
indigenous species of silkworm. That of China was not introduced
into India before the year 419 of our era (Ritter, vol. vi. pt. 1,
698). The indigenous silkworms fed upon other trees besides the
mulberry and notably on the ficus religiosa. The Greeks would seem to
have learnt the use of silk from the Indians, or at least from the
Persians. Nearchos is the first Greek writer in whom mention of it
is found; he describes it as like the finest weft of cotton-stuff,
and says it was made from fibre scraped from the bark of a tree; an
error in which he was followed by other writers; others again wrote
that the fibres were combed off the leaf of a tree; yet Pausanias had
mentioned the worm as the intermediary of its production (C. Müller,
Pref. to his Edition of Strabo, and notes). The Romans also carried
on a considerable trade in silk with India, and Pliny, vi. 20, 2,
mentions one kind of Indian silk texture that was so fine and light,
you could see through it, "ut in publico matrona transluceat." Horace
also alludes to the same, Sat. i. 2, 101. Pliny also complains of the
luxury whereby this costly stuff was used, not only for dresses, but
for coverings of cushions. [68] Vopiscus, in his life of the Emperor
Aurelian, tells us that at that time a pound weight of silk was worth
a pound weight of gold. In India itself the luxurious use of silk has
restrictions put upon it in the Manu. It was also prescribed that when
men devoted themselves to the hermit life in the jungle, they should
lay aside their silken clothing; and we find Râma (Râmajana, ii. 37,
14) putting on a penitential habit over his silken robe. The Mâha
Bhârata (ii. cap. 50) contains a passage in which among the objects
brought in tribute to Judhishthira is kîtaga, or the "insect-product,"
a word used to designate both silk and cochineal.

4. A similar episode occurs in a tale collected in the neighbourhood
of Schwaz in North Tirol which I have given under the name of
"Prince Radpot" in "Household Stories from the Land of Hofer." The
rest of the story recalls that called "The three Black Dogs" in the
same collection, but there is much more grace and pathos about the
Tirolean version.



TALE XIX.

1. See note 2, Tale XVII.

2. The fox plays a similar part in many an Eastern fable. The first
book of the Pantscha Tantra Collection is entitled Mitrabheda, or
the Art of Mischief-making. A lion-king who has two foxes for his
ministers falls into great alarm one day, because he hears for the
first time in his life the roaring of an ox, which some merchants
had left behind them because it was lame and sick. The lion consults
his two ministers in this strait, and the two while laughing at
his fears determine to entertain them in order to enhance their
own usefulness. First they visit the ox and make sure he is quite
infirm and harmless, and then they go to the lion, and tell him it
is the terrible Ox-king, the bearer of Shiva, and that Shiva has
sent him down into that forest to devour all the animals in it small
and great. The lion is not surprised to hear his fears confirmed and
entreats his ministers to find him a way out of the difficulty. The
foxes pretend to undertake the negotiation and then go back to
the ox and tell him it is the command of the king that he quit the
forest. The ox pleads his age and infirmities and desolate condition,
and the foxes having made him believe in the value of their services
as intermediaries bring him to the lion. Both parties are immensely
grateful to the ministers for having as each thinks softened the
heart of the other, but the foxes begin to see they have taken a
false step in bringing the ox to the lion, as they become such fast
friends, that there is danger of their companionship being no longer
sought by their master. They determine, therefore, the ox must be
killed; but how are they to kill so disproportioned a victim? They
must make the lion do the execution himself. But how? they are such
sworn friends. They find the lion alone and fill his mind with alarm,
assure him the ox is plotting to kill him. They hardly gain credit,
but the lion promises to be on his guard; while they are on the watch
also for any accident which may give colour to their design. Meantime,
they keep up each other's courage by the narration of fables showing
how by perseverance in cunning any perfidy may be accomplished. At
last it happens one day that a frightful storm comes on while the
ox is out grazing. He comes galloping back to seek the cover of the
forest, shaking his head and sides to get rid of the heavy raindrops,
tearing up the ground with his heavy hoofs in his speed, and his
tail stretched out wildly behind. "See!" say the foxes to the lion;
"see if we were not right. Behold how he comes tramping along ready
to devour thee; see how his eyes glisten with fury, see how he gnashes
his teeth, see how he tears up the earth with his powerful hoofs!" The
lion cannot remain unconvinced in presence of such evidence. "Now is
your moment," cry the foxes; "be beforehand with him before he reaches
you." Thus instigated the lion falls upon the ox. The ox surprised
at this extraordinary reception, and already out of breath, is thrown
upon the defensive, and in his efforts to save himself the lion sees
the proof of his intention to attack. Accordingly he sets no bounds to
his fury, and has soon torn him in pieces. The foxes get the benefit
of a feast for many days on his flesh, besides being reinstated in
the full empire over their master. In one of the fables, however,
the tables are cleverly turned on Reynard by "the sagacity of the
bearded goat." An old he-goat having remained behind on the mountains,
one day, when the rest of the herd went home, found himself suddenly
in presence of a lion. Remembering that a moment's hesitation would
be his death, he assumed a bold countenance and walked straight up to
the lion. The lion, astonished at this unwonted procedure, thinks it
must be some very extraordinary beast; and instead of setting upon
it, after his wont, speaks civilly to it, saying, "Thou of the long
beard, whence art thou?" The goat answered, "I am a devout servant of
Shiva to whom I have promised to make sacrifice of twenty-one tigers,
twenty-five elephants, and ten lions; the tigers and the elephants
have I already slain, and now I am seeking for ten lions to slay." The
lion hearing this formidable declaration, without waiting for more,
turned him and fled. As he ran he fell in with a fox, who asked him
whither he ran so fast. The lion gives a ridiculous description of
the goat, dictated by his terror; the fox recognizes that it is only a
goat, and thinking to profit by the remains of his flesh perfidiously
urges him to go back and slaughter him. He accordingly goes back with
this intention, but the goat is equal to the occasion, and turning
sharply upon the fox, exclaims, "Did I not send thee out to fetch me
ten lions for the sacrifice? How then darest thou to appear before me
having only snared me one?" The lion thinking his reproaches genuine,
once more turns tail and makes good his escape. It has much similarity
with the episode of the hare and the wolf in the next tale.

3. Svarga. See note 2, Tale XVII.



TALE XX.

1. Hiranjavatî, "the gold-coloured river," also called Svarnavati,
"the yellow river," both names occurring only in Buddhist writers:
one of the northern tributaries of the Ganges, into which it falls
not far from Patna, and the chief river of Nepaul. Its name was
properly Gandakavatî = "Rhinoceros-river," or simply Gan'da'kî,
whence its modern name of the Goondook, as also that of Kondochates,
into which it was transformed by the Greek geographers. In its upper
course it often brings down ammonite petrifactions, which are believed
to be incarnations or manifestations of Vishnu, hence it has a sacred
character, and on its banks are numerous spots of pilgrimage.

2. Concerning such distributions of alms, see Koppen, i. 581 et seq.

3. The story affords no data on which to decide whether this cynical
speech is supposed to be a serious utterance representing the actual
motives on which the mendicant life was actually adopted under the
teaching of Buddhism, affording a strong contrast from those which
have prompted to it under Christianity, or whether it is intended as
a satire on the Bhixu. (For Bhixu, see pp. 330, 332.)

4. I know not how the tufts of wool could have got caught off
the sheeps' backs on to ant-heaps, unless it be that the marmots
being as we have already seen (note 3, Tale IV.) called ants, the
tale-repeater takes it for granted there are marmot-holes in Nepaul
like those familiar to him in Mongolia, which Abbé Huc thus describes
(vol. i. ch. ii.), "These animals construct over the opening of their
little dens a sort of miniature dome composed of grass artistically
twisted, designed as a shelter from wind and rain. These little heaps
of dried grass are of the size and shape of mole-hills. Cold made us
cruel, and we proceeded to level the house-domes of these poor little
animals, which retreated into their holes below, as we approached. By
means of this Vandalism we managed to collect a sackful of efficient
fuel, and so warmed the water which was our only aliment that day."

5. "Though there is so much gold and silver there is great destitution
in Tibet. At Lha-Ssa, for instance, the number of mendicants is
enormous. They go from door to door soliciting a handful of tsamba
(barley-meal), and enter any one's house without ceremony. The
manner of asking alms is to hold out the closed hand with the thumb
raised. We must add in commendation of the Tibetians that they are
generally very kind and compassionate, rarely sending the mendicant
away unassisted." (Abbé Huc, vol. ii. ch. v.)

6. Indian tales often remind one of the frequent web of a dream in
which one imagines oneself starting in pursuit of a particular object,
but another and another fancy intervenes and the first purpose becomes
altogether lost sight of. This was particularly observable in the tale
entitled "How the Schimnu-Khan was slain," in which, after many times
intending it, Massang never goes back to thank his master at last. The
present is a still more striking instance, in its consequence and
repeated change of purport. In pursuing the mendicant's life, the
search for the man's parents is forgotten; and the man and his wife
are themselves lost sight of in the episode of the lamb.

7. Concerning the combination of the Moon and the hare, see Liebrecht,
in Lazarus and Steinthal, Zeitschrift, vol. i. pt. 1. The Mongols
see in the spots in the moon the figure of a hare, and imagine it
was placed there in memory of Shâkjamuni having once transformed
himself into a hare out of self-sacrifice, that he might serve a
hungry wayfarer for a meal. (Bergman, Nomadische Streifereien unter
den Kalmüken, in 1802-3, quoted by Jülg.)

8. See note 5, Tale III.



TALE XXI.

1. Compare this story with the "Wunderharfe" in the "Mährchensaal"
of Kletke. (Jülg.) Its similarity with the story of King Midas will
strike every reader.

2. Chara Kitad = Black China; the term designates the north of China.

3. Daibang (in Chinese, Tai-ping = peace and happiness), the usual
Mongolian designation for the Chinese Emperor. (Jülg.)

4. See note 9, Tale IV.



TALE XXII.

1. Bagatur-Ssedkiltu, "of heroic capacity." (Jülg.) See Note 2,
Tale XVII.

2. The Three Precious Treasures, see note 3, Tale XVI.

3. Pearls. Arrianus (Ind. viii. 8) quotes from Megasthenes, a legend
in which the discovery of pearls is ascribed to Crishna. The passage
further implies that the Greek name margar'ithc was received from
an Indian name, which may be the case through the Dekhan dialect,
though there is nothing like it in Sanskrit, unless it be traced from
markarâ, a hollow vessel. The Sanskrit word for pearls is muktá,
"dropt" or "set free," "dropt by the rain-clouds." (See Lassen,
Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 244 n. 1. See also note 4, Tale XIV.) How
the Preserver of mother-o'-pearl shells comes to live up a river,
I know not, unless in his royal character he was supposed to have
an outlying country-villa. However Megasthenes (quoted by Lassen,
ii. 680, n. 2) tells us not only that there were many crocodiles and
alligators in the Indus, but also that many fishes and molluscs came
up the stream out of the sea as far as the confluence of the Akesines,
and small ones as far as the mountains. Onesikritos mentions the same
concerning other rivers.

4. The serpent-gods are spoken of sometimes as if they were supposed to
wear a human form and as often as in their reptile form. In the present
place in the text there is a strange confusion between the two ideas,
the "son" whom the White Serpent king comes to seek evidently wore
a reptile form, as when he was in the owl's mouth he resembled the
Tamer's girdle, yet the king himself and his companion are said to
be riding on horses; as it is also said they come out of the water
it was probably a crocodile that the story-teller had in his mind's
eye, and which might fancifully be conceived to be a serpent riding on
horseback, as a centaur represents a man on horseback. The serpent-gods
generally would seem to be more properly termed reptile-gods, as
not only ophidians and saurians seem to belong to their empire, but
batrachians also; in this very story the gold frog is reckoned the
actual daughter of the White Serpent-king, probably even emydians also,
though I do not recall an example. Water-snakes, however, are common in
Asia, and there is also there a group of batrachians called cæliciæ,
which are cylindrical in form, without feet and moving like serpents,
and considered to form a link between that family and their own. I do
not know if this in any way explains the symbolism whereby a creature
that had any right to be reckoned a frog could be called the daughter
of a serpent-king.

When the stories of encounters of heroes with huge malevolent
serpents, or crocodiles, passed into the mythology of Europe, these
were generally replaced by "dragons," or monsters, such as "Grendel"
in our Anglo-Saxon "Lay of Beowulf." There are some, however, in which
a bonâ fide serpent figures. In parts of Tirol, a white serpent is
spoken of as a "serpent-queen" and as more dangerous than the others;
various are the legends in which the release of a spell-bound princess
depends on the deliverer suffering himself to be three times encircled,
and the third time, kissed by a serpent; the trial frequently fails
at the third attempt. Sir Lancelot, if I remember right, accomplished
it in the end.

Every collection of mediæval legends contains stories of combats with
dragons, the groundwork probably brought from the East, and the detail
made to fit the hero of some local deliverance; the mythology of Tirol
is particularly rich in this class, almost every valley has its own;
at Wilten, near Innsbruck, the sting of a dragon is shown as of that
killed by the Christian giant Haymon; the one I have given in "Zovanin
senza paura," from the Italian Tirol (p. 348, "Household Stories
from the Land of Hofer"), has this similarity with Tales II. and V.,
that it is actually the water supply of the infested district which
is stopped by the dragon. There is this great difference, however,
between the Eastern and later Western versions of serpent myths. The
Indians having deified the serpent, their heroic tales have no further
aim than that of propitiating him. On the other hand, it was not long
before the religious influence under which the Christian myths were
moulded had connected and by degrees identified the serpent-exterior,
under the parable of which they set forth their local plague, with
that under which the adversary of souls is named in the sacred story
of the garden of Eden; and thus it became a necessity of the case
that the Christian hero should destroy or at least vanquish it.

Though the Indian serpent-gods seem to have been generally feared and
hated, we have instances--and that even in this little volume--of their
harmlessness also and even beneficence. An innocuous and benevolent
phase of dragon-character seems to have been adopted also in the early
heathen mythology of Europe. Nork (Mythologie der Volkssagen) tells
us the dragon was held sacred to Wodin, and its image was placed over
houses, town-gates, and towers, as a talisman against evil influences;
and I have met with a popular superstition lingering yet in Tirol that
to meet a crested adder (the European representative, I believe, of
the Cobra di capello, which is, as we have seen, the species specially
worshipped in India) brings good luck. I have said I do not remember
an instance in Indian mythology in which any member of the emydian
family comes under the empire of the serpent-god; I should expect
there are such instances, however, as the counterpart exists in Tirol,
where there are stories of mysterious fascination exercised by sacred
shrines upon the little land-tortoises and which have in consequence
been regarded by the peasantry as representing wandering souls waiting
for the completion of their purgatorial penance. See also concerning
the serpent-gods, note 1 to Tale II.

5. Mirjalaktschi. Jülg says, "Fettmacher" (fat-maker) is the best
equivalent he can give, but he is not convinced of its correctness,
and then exposes what he understands by "Fettmacher" by two German
expressions, one, meaning "pot-bellied," and the other not renderable
in English to ears polite. It would seem more in accordance with the
use of the name in the text to understand his own word Fettmacher,
as "he giving abundance," "he making fat."

6. Gambudvîpa. I have already (page viii.) had occasion to explain
this native name of India; otherwise spelt Dschambudvîpa and Jambudvîpa
and Jambudîpa. But as I only there spoke of the actual species of the
gambu-tree, one of the indigenous productions of India, I ought further
to mention that the name is rather derived from a fabulous specimen
of it, supposed to grow on the sacred mountain of Meru. Spence Hardy
("Legends and Theories of the Buddhists," p. 95) quotes the following
description of it from one of the late commentaries of the Sutras:
"From the root to the highest part is a thousand miles; the space
covered by its outspreading branches is three thousand miles in
circumference. The trunk is one hundred and fifty miles round, and five
hundred miles in height from the root to the place where the branches
begin to extend; the four great branches of it are each five hundred
miles long, and from between these flow four great rivers. Where the
fruit of the tree falls, small plants of gold arise which are washed
into one of the rivers." Earlier descriptions are less exaggerated;
details remaining in this one suggest that it has not been invented
without aid from some lingering remnant of an early tradition of the
Tree of Life and the four rivers of Paradise, "the gold of" one of
which "is good."

The great continent of India being called an island is explained in a
parable from the Jinâlankâra, given at p. 87 of the same work, likening
the outer Sakwala ridge or boundary of the universe to the rim of a
jar or vessel; the vessel filled with sauce representing the ocean
and the continents, like masses of cooked rice floating in the same.

At p. 82, he quotes from the first-mentioned commentary a description
of the mountain of Méru itself, illustrative of the habitual
exaggeration of the Indian sacred writers. "Between Maha Méru and
the Sakwala ridge are seven circles of rocks with seven seas between
them. They are circular because of the shape of Maha Méru. The first or
innermost, Yugandhara, is 210,000 miles broad; its inner circumference
is 7,560,000 miles, and its outer, 8,220,000 miles; from Maha Méru
to Yugandhara is 840,000 miles. Near Maha Méru, the depth of the sea
is 840,000 miles, &c.," the seven circles being all described with
analogous dimensions. Also p. 42, "Buddha knows how many atoms there
are in Maha Méru, although it is a million miles in height."



TALE XXIII.

1. "The five colours," see note 5, Tale IV.

"The seven precious things," are variously stated. Sometimes they
are gold, silver, lapis lazuli, crystal, red pearls, diamond and
coral. Sometimes gold and silver are left out of the reckoning,
and rubies and emeralds substituted. See Köppen, i. 540 et seq. The
extravagant and incongruous description in the text is not artistic.

2. The month Pushja. Before the time of Vikramâditja astronomy was not
studied in India as a science; the course of the heavenly bodies was
observed, but only for the sake of determining the times and seasons
of feasts and sacrifices. The moon was the chief subject of observation
and of the more correct results of the same. Her path was divided into
twenty-eight "houses" or "mansions" called naxatra. This division
was invented by the Chinese, and India received it from them about
1100 B.C. The naxatravidjâ or the knowledge of the moon-mansions,
is set down in one of the oldest Upanishad as a special kind of
knowledge. In the oldest enumeration extant of the moon-mansions only
twenty-seven are mentioned, and the first of them is called Krittikâ,
and Abhigit, which is the 20th, according to the latest enumeration,
is wanting; other lists have other discrepancies. It is worthy of
notice that Kandramas, the earliest name by which the moon is invoked
in the Vêda, is composed of kandra, "shining," and mas, "to measure,"
because the moon measured time, and the various names of the moon
in all the so-called Indo-European languages are supposed to come
from this last word. There were also four moon-divinities invoked,
as Kuhû, Sinivali, Râkâ, and Anumati, in the Rig Vêda hymns; these
are all feminine deities. Soma, the later moon-divinity, however,
was masculine, and had twenty-seven of the fifty daughters of Daxa
for his wives. Kandramas was also a male divinity. The worship of
the four goddesses I have named was afterwards superseded by four
(also feminine) deifications of the phases of the moon. There seems a
little difficulty, however, about fitting their names to them. Pushja,
with which we are more particularly concerned, would properly imply
"waxing," but she presided nevertheless over the last quarter; Krita,
meaning the "finished" course, over the new moon; the appellations
of the others fit better. Drapura (derived from dva, two) designated
the second quarter, and Khârvâ, "the beginning to wane," the full
moon. In the list given by Amarasinha of the moon-mansions, Pushja
is the name of the eighth, in the Mahâ Bhârata it stands for the sixth.

The month Pauscha answers to our December. (Lassen, iii. 819.)

3. We have many early proofs that India possessed an indigenous
breed of hunting-dogs of noble and somewhat fierce character. They
were much esteemed as hunting-dogs by the Persians, and formed an
important article of commerce. Herodotus (i. 192) mentions their being
imported into Babylon; whether the mighty hunter Nimrod had a high
opinion of them, there is perhaps no means of ascertaining. Strabo
(xv. i. § 31) says they were not afraid to hunt lions. In the Ramajana,
(ii. 70, 21) Ashvapati gives Rama a present of "swift asses and dogs
bred in the palace, large in stature, with the strength of tigers,
and teeth meet to fight withal." Alexander found them sufficiently
superior to his own to take with him a present of them offered him
by Sopeithes. Aristobulos, Megasthenes, and Ælianus mention their
qualities with admiration. Their strength and courage led to the
erroneous tradition that they were suckled by tigers (see Pliny,
viii. 65, I). Plutarch (De Soc. Anim. x. 4) quotes a passage from an
earlier Greek writer, saying they were so noble, that though when they
caught a hare they gladly sucked his blood, yet that if one lay down
exhausted with the course, they would not kill it, but stood round
it in a circle, wagging their tails to show their enjoyment was not
in the blood, but in the victory.

The house-dog and herd-dog, however, was rather looked down upon; it
and the ass were the only animals the Kandala or lowest caste were
allowed to possess (Manu, x. 51), and it is still called Paria-dog
(Bp Heber's "Journey," i. 490).

4. A functionary invented by the Mongolian tale-repeater. The idea
evidently borrowed from his knowledge of the paramount authority of
the Talé Lama of Tibet, leading him to suppose there must exist a
corresponding dignity in India.

5. Barin Tschidaktschi Erdekctu, "The mighty one at taking distant
aim." (Jülg.)

6. Gesser Khan, the great hero of Mongolian tales; called also "The
mighty Destroyer of the root of the seven evils in the seven places
of the earth." (Jülg.)

7. Tschin-tâmani, Sanskrit, "Thought-jewel," is a jewel possessing the
magic power of producing whatever object the possessor of it sets his
heart upon. (Böhtlingk and Roth, Sanskrit Dict.) See infra, note 2,
to "The False Friend," and note 8 to "Vikramâditja's Youth."

8. Barss-Irbiss, "leopard-tiger." (Jülg.)



HISTORICAL NOTICE OF VIKRAMÂDITJA.

1. Professor Wilson.

2. Reinaud, Fragments relatifs à l'Inde.

3. See a most extraordinary instance of this noticed in note 11 of
the Tale in this volume entitled "Vikramâditja makes the Silent Speak."

4. Thus Reinaud (Mémoire Géographique sur l'Inde, p. 80) speaks of a
king of this name who governed Cashmere A.D. 517, as if he were the
original Vikramâditja.

5. The honour of being the first to work this mine of information
belongs to H. Todd; see his "Account of Indian Medals," in Trans. of
As. Soc.

6. The art of coining at all was, in all probability, introduced
by the Greeks.--Wilson, Ariana Antiqua, p. 403; also Prinsep, in
Journ. of As. Soc. i. 394.

7. In the list of kings given by Lassen, iv. 969, 970, there are
eight kings called Vikramâditja, either as a name or a surname,
between A.D. 500 and 1000.

8. The kingdom of Malâva answers to the present province of Malwa,
comprising the table-land enclosed between the Vindhja and Haravatî
ranges. The amenity of its climate made it the favourite residence of
the rulers of this part of India, and we find in it a number of former
capitals of great empires. It lay near the commercial coast of Guzerat,
and through it were highways from Northern India over the Vindhja
range into the Dekhan. It is also well watered; its chief river, the
Kharmanvati (now Kumbal), rises in the Vindhja mountains, and falls
into the Jumna. At its confluence with the Siprâ, a little tributary,
was situated Uggajini = "the Victorious," now called Uggeni, Ozene,
and Oojein, and still the first meridian of Indian astronomers. It
also bore the name of Avantî = "the Protecting," from the circumstance
of its having given refuge to this Vikramâditja in his infancy.

9. This length of reign is actually ascribed to him in the
Chronological Table out of the Kalijuga-Râgakaritra, given in Journ. of
the As. Soc. p. 496.

10. This resolution was quite in conformity with the prevailing
religious teaching. In the collection of laws and precepts called the
Manû, many rules are laid down for this kind of life, and were followed
to a prodigious extent both by solitaries and communities; e.g. "When
the grihastha = 'father of the house,' finds wrinkles and grey hairs
coming, and when children's children are begotten to him, then it is
time for him to forsake inhabited places for the jungle." It is further
prescribed that he should expose himself there to all kinds of perils,
privations, and hardships. He is not to shrink from encounters with
inimical tribes; he is to live on wild fruits, roots, and water. In
summer he is to expose himself to the heat of fierce fires, and in
the rainy season to the wet, without seeking shelter; in the coldest
winter he is to go clothed in damp raiment. By these, and such means,
he was to acquire indifference to all corporeal considerations, and
reach after union with the Highest Being. Manû, v. 29; vii. 1-30;
viii. 28; x. 5; xi. 48, 53; xvii. 5, 7, 24; xviii. 3-5, &c., &c. It is
impossible not to be struck, in studying such passages as these, with
a reflection of the inferiority which every other religious system,
even in its sublimest aims, presents to Christianity. If, indeed,
there were a first uniform limit appointed to the hand of death at the
age of threescore years and ten, then it might be a clever rule to
fix the appearance of wrinkles, grey hairs, and children's children
as the period for beginning to contemplate what is to come after it;
but, as the number of those who are summoned to actual acquaintance
with that futurity before that age is pretty nearly as great as
that of those who surpass it, the maxim carries on the face of it
that it is dictated by a very fallible, however well-intentioned,
guide. Christianity knows no such limit, but opens its perfect teaching
to the contemplation of "babes;" while, practically, experience shows
that those who are called early to a life of religion are far more
numerous than those in advanced years.

11. Given in W. Taylor's Orient. Hist. MSS., i. 199.

12. "The Indians have no actual history written by
themselves." (Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 357, note 1.)

13. Klaproth, Würdigung der Asiatischen Geschichtschreiber.

14. Indien, p. 17.

15. Examen Critique, p. 347.

16. But only committed to memory. See supra, p. 333.

17. Burnouf, Introduction à l'Hist. du Buddh., vol i.

18. Concerning the late introduction of this idea, see supra,
pp. 337-8.

19. Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 839.

20. Lassen, iii., p. 44.

21. Mommsen (History of Rome, book iv., ch. viii.), writing of
Mithridates Eupator, who died within a few years of the date ascribed
to Vikramâditja's birth, says, "Although our accounts regarding him
are, in substance, traceable to written records of contemporaries,
yet the legendary tradition, which is generated with lightning
expedition in the East, early adorned the mighty king with many
superhuman traits. These traits, however, belong to his character
just as the crown of clouds belongs to the character of the highest
mountain peaks; the outline of the figure appears in both cases, only
more coloured and fantastic, not disturbed or essentially altered."

22. The legend from which the following is gathered has been given
by Wilford, in a paper entitled "Vikramâditja and Salivâhâna, their
respective eras."

23. See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, ii. 49-56.

24. Wilson, in Mackenzie Collection, p. 343.

25. A vetâla is a kind of sprite, not always bad-natured, usually
carrying on a kind of weird existence in burial-places. "They
can possess themselves of the forms of those who die by the hand
of justice, and assume them. By the power of magic men can make
them obedient, and use them for all manner of difficult tasks
above their own strength and sufficiency." Brockhaus' Report of
the R. Saxon Scientific Soc. Philologico-historical Class, 1863,
p. 181. "The Vetâlas were a late introduction among the gods of popular
veneration." (Lassen, iv. 570.) "They came also to be regarded as
incarnations of both Vishnu and Shiva." (Lassen, iv. 159.)

26. Two interesting instances of the way in which traditionary legends
become attached to various persons as they float along the current
of time, have been brought to my notice while preparing these sheets
for the press. I cannot now recall where I picked up the story of
"The Balladmaker and the Bootmaker," which I have given in "Patrañas,"
but I am sure it was told of a wandering minstrel, and as occurring on
Spanish soil, as I have given it. I have since met it in "The Hundred
Novels" of Sacchetti (written little after the time of Boccacio)
as an episode in a no less celebrated life than that of Dante, thus:
"... Going out and passing by Porta S. Piero (Florence), he (Dante)
heard a blacksmith beating on his anvil, and singing 'Dante' just
as one sings a common ballad; mutilating here, and mixing in verses
of his own there; by which means Dante perceived that he sustained
great injury. He said nothing, however, but went into the workshop,
to where were laid ready many tools for use in the trade. Dante first
took up the hammer and flung it into the road; took up the pincers
and flung them into the road; took up the scales and flung them out
into the road. When he had thus flung many tools into the road, the
blacksmith turned round with a brutal air, crying out, 'Che diavol'
fate voi? Are you mad?' But Dante said, 'And thou; what hast thou
done?' 'I am busied about my craft,' said the blacksmith; 'and you
are spoiling my gear, throwing it out into the road like that.' Said
Dante, 'If you don't want me to spoil your things, don't you spoil
mine.' Said the smith. 'What have I spoilt of yours?' Said Dante,
'You sing my book, and you say it not as I made it; poem-making is my
trade, and you have spoilt it.' Then the blacksmith was full of fury,
but he had nothing to say; so he went out and picked up his tools,
and went on with his work, And the next time he felt inclined to sing,
he sang Tristano and Lancellotte, and left Dante alone." "... Another
day Dante was walking along, wearing the gorget and the bracciaiuola,
according to the custom of the time, when he met a man driving an
ass having a load of street sweepings, who, as he walked behind
his ass, ever and anon sang Dante's book, and when he had sung
a line or two, gave the donkey a hit, and cried 'Arrri!' Dante,
coming up with him, gave him a blow on his shoulder with his armlet
('con la bracciaiuola gli diede una grande batacchiata,' literally
'bastonnade:' bracciaiuola stands for both the armour covering the arm,
and for the tolerably formidable wooden instrument, fixed to the arm,
with which pallone-players strike the ball), saying, as he did so,
'That "arrri" was never put in by me.' As soon as the ass-driver
had got out of his way, he turned and made faces at Dante, saying,
'Take that!' But Dante, without suffering himself to be led into an
altercation with such a man, replied, amid the applause of all, 'I
would not give one of mine for a hundred of thine!'" (2.) It was lately
mentioned to me that there is a narrow mountain-pass in the Lechthal,
in Tirol, which is sometimes called Mangtritt (or St. Magnus' step),
and sometimes Jusalte (Saltus Julii, the leap of Julius), because
one tradition says Julius Cæsar leapt through it on horseback, and
another that it opened to let St. Magnus pass through when escaping
from a heathen horde.

27. Quoted by W. Taylor, in Journ. of As. Soc. vii. p. 391.

28. Quoted by Wilford, as above.

29. Quoted in Wilford's "Sacred Isles of the West."

30. Lassen.

31. Roth, Extrait du Vikrama-Charitram, p. 279.

32. Lassen, ii. p. 1154.

33. Lassen, ii. 1122-1129.

34. Abbé Huc narrates how enthusiastically the young Mongol toolholos,
or bard, sang to him the Invocation of Timour, of which he gives the
refrain as follows:--"We have burned the sweet-smelling wood at the
feet of the divine Timour. Our foreheads bent to the earth, we have
offered to him the green leaf of tea, and the milk of our herds. We
are ready: the Mongols are on foot, O Timour!


        "O Divine Timour, when will thy great soul revive?
        Return! Return! We await thee, O Timour!"


35. See Note 11 to "Vikramâditja makes the Silent Speak."



THE BOY-KING.

1. Ardschi-Bordschi is a Mongolian corruption of King Bhoga. (Jülg.)

The name of Bhoga (also written Noe, Nauge, and Noza; the N having
entered from a careless following of the Persian historian Abulfazl,
n and b being only distinguished by a point in Persian writing; and
the z through the Portuguese, who habitually rendered the Indian g
thus) seems to have been almost as favourite an appellation as that
of Vikramâditja itself, and pretty equally surrounded with confusion
of fabulous incident.

The Bhoga were one of the mightiest dynasties of ancient India,
and the name was given to the family on account of their unbounded
prosperity; being derived from bhug = enjoyment. The most celebrated
king of the race bore a name which in our own day has become associated
with prosperous rule, Bhoga Bismarka, or Bhismarka, is celebrated
in ancient Sagas for his resistless might in the field, and was also
accounted the type of a prudent and far-sighted sovereign. Many glories
are fabled of him which I have not space to narrate, and even he only
reigned over a fourth part of the Bhoga.

The individual Bhoga, however, who is probably the subject of the
present story, and the details of whose virtues and wisdom present
particular analogies with the life of Vikramâditja is, comparatively
speaking, modern, as he reigned from A.D. 1037 to 1093 according
to some, or from 997 to 1053 according to others. He was likewise
originally King of Maláva or Malwa, and fabulous conquests and
extensions of dominion are likewise ascribed to him.

He was the greatest king of the Prâmâra dynasty, one of the four
so-called Agnikula, or "from-the-god-Agni-descended," or "fire-born"
tribes, and traced up his pedigree to a certain Paramâra, "The
destroyer of adversaries," born at the prayer of the Hermit Rishi
Vasichta on the lofty mountain of Arbuda (Arboo).

The story of this Bhoga is contained in two somewhat legendary
accounts, called (1) the Bhogaprabandha, or poetical narrative
concerning Bhoga; and (2) the Bhogakaritra, or the deeds of Bhoga. The
first was written or collected by the Pandit Vallabha about 1340. The
first part relates the circumstances concerning Bhoga's mounting the
throne, and the second part is a history of the poets and learned
men who flocked from all parts of India to his court. It tells
an intricate fable about his having been persecuted in youth by a
treacherous uncle who preceded him on the throne, but who afterwards
came to repentance, while a supernatural interposition delivered
Bhoga from all his machinations and made him master of Gauda or
Bengal, and many other parts of India. Other legends mention his
discovery of the throne of Vikramâditja, and make the figures on the
steps Apsarasas, or nymphs, who were delivered and set free by him
when he took possession of it and removed it to Dhara, whither he had
transferred his capital from Uggajini. An Inscription (given at length,
viii. 5, 6, in Journ. of As. Soc. of Bengal, v. p. 376) speaks thus
of him:--"The most prosperous king Bhogadeva was the most illustrious
of the whole generation of the Prâmâra. He attained to glory as great
as that of the destroyer (Crishna) and traversed the universe to its
utmost boundaries. His fame rose like the moonbeams over the mountains
and rivers of the regions of the earth, and before it the renown of
the inimical rulers faded away as the pale lotus-blossom is closed
up." The Persian historian Abulfazl testifies in somewhat more sober
language, that he greatly extended the frontiers of his kingdom.

His career was not one of unchecked prosperity however. According to
an Inscription he was at last subdued by his enemy, and it thus gently
tells the tale of his reverse:--"After he had attained to equality
with Vâsava (Indra) and the land was well watered with streams, his
relation Udajâditja became Ruler of the earth." His adversary being
a relation, and a Prâmâra like himself, the feud between them was
considered a scandal, and the inscription avoids perpetuating the
details of it. A legend in the Bhogakaritra supplies some. A hermit
had been rather severely judged by King Bhoga for a misdemeanour, and
condemned to ride through the streets of the capital on an ass. To
punish the king for this scandal he went into Cashmere till he had
acquired the power of making the soul of a man pass into another
body. Then he came back and constrained the soul of the king to pass
into the body of a parrot while he made his own soul pass into the
king's body; then he issued a decree commanding the slaughter of all
the parrots in the kingdom. The royal parrot, however, who was the
object of the decree, effected his escape and came to the court of
Kandrasena, where he became the pet bird of the princess his daughter;
to her he revealed the story of his transformation. At her instigation
the hermit-king was persuaded to come to Kandrasena's court to sue
for her hand, and there, by means of an intrigue of hers he was put
to death. Bhoga thus regained his original form and his kingdom.

Abulfazl celebrates his moderation and uprightness, as well as
his liberality and the encouragement he gave to men of learning,
of whom he had not less than five hundred at one time lodged in his
palace. This similarity of pursuits helped so to foster the tendency
of which I have already spoken, to confuse the deeds of one hero with
another, that one poet at least (Vararuki by name), who flourished
under Bhoga, is reckoned among the nine "jewels" of Vikramâditja's
court! Kalidasa, who was not very much, if at all later, is also
put among the protégés of Bhoga in the Bhogaprabandha. The actual
writers of any note belonging to Bhoga's age, whose names and works
have come down to us are chiefly Subandhu and Vâna, authors of two
poems entitled respectively Vâsavadattâ and Kâdambarî, of which a
reprint was issued at Calcutta in 1850. Dandi, who wrote a celebrated
drama called Dashakumârakaritra, affording a useful picture of the
manners prevailing in Hindustan and the Dekhan in his time; he also
left a treatise on the art of poetry, called Kâvjadarshâ. Another
poet of this date, named Shankara, has often been confounded with
a philosophical writer of the same name in the eighth century. The
Harivansha, a mythological poem in continuation of the Mâha Bhârata,
also belongs to this reign. Among numerous other works ascribed
to it, many of which have not yet been examined into by Europeans,
are several treatises of mathematics and astronomy. Bhoga himself is
entered in a list of the astronomers of his time, and he was said
to be the author of a treatise on medicine, called Vriddha Bhoga,
and of one on jurisprudence, called Smritishâstra.

2. Boddhisattva. See p. 342 and p. 365.



THE FALSE FRIEND.

1. Compare this story with that given Nights 589-593 of Arabian
Nights. (Jülg.)

2. That the jewel-merchant had no written proof of the trust he had
committed to his friend would appear quite in conformity with actual
custom, at least in primitive times. Megasthenes has left testimony
(Strabo xv. i. 53, p. 709), quoted by Schwanbeck (Megas. Ind. p. 113),
in favour of the general uprightness of the Indians and their little
inclination to litigation, which he bases on the fact that it was
the custom to take no acknowledgment under seal or writing of money
or jewels entrusted to another, or even to call witnesses to the
fact; that the word of the man who had entrusted another with such
sufficed; also Ælianus, V. H. iv. i. This, notwithstanding that the
Manu (dh. c. viii. 180) contains provisions for regulating such
transactions in due form and order; the man accordingly does not
think of denying that he received the jewel, which would seem the
easier way of concealing his fraud, because he knew the word of the
jewel-merchant would be taken against his.

3. Stupa, a shrine; often a natural cave; often one artificially hewn;
containing relics, or commemorating some incident considered sacred in
the life of a noted Buddhist teacher. We read of stupas instituted at
a spot where there was a tradition Shâkjamuni had left a foot-print;
and another at Kapilvastu, his native place, over the spot where, as we
saw in his life, he was led to devote himself to serious contemplations
by meeting a sick man, &c. When of imposing proportion it was called a
mâhastûpa. When such monuments on the other hand were put together with
stones (usually pyramidal in form) they were called dhâtugopa, whence
Europeans give them the name of Dagobas. The word Pagoda, with which
we are familiar, is probably derived from the Sanskrit bhâgavata =
"Worthy to be venerated." The syllable ava was transformed in Prakrit
into o, and the ta into da. The Portuguese took the word as applied to
religious edifices as distinguished from the kaitja [69], or rock-hewn
temples. The word pagoda, however, is usually reserved for Brahmanical
temples. The word stupa has now become corrupted into tope, by which
word you will find it designated by modern writers on India. The
etymology of the word makes it mean much the same as tumulus, but
kaitja conveys further the meaning that it was a sacred place.

4. The notion of jewels being endowed with talismanic properties is
common in Eastern story. Ktesias (Fragm. lvii. 2, p. 79) mentions
a celebrated Indian magic jewelled seal-ring called Pantarba, which
had the property when thrown into the water of attracting to it other
jewels, and that a merchant once drew out one hundred and seventy-seven
other jewels and seals by its means.



THE PRETENDED SON.

1. Schimnu. See supra, note 2, Tale III.

2. Diamond, Sanskrit, vadschra, originally the thunderbolt, Indra's
sceptre; then the praying-sceptre of the priests; the symbol of
durability, immovability, and indestructibility. (Köppen i. 251,
and ii. 271, quoted by Jülg.) It was permitted to none but kings to
possess them. (Lassen, iii. 18.) See also note 1, Tale XV.



ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI DISCOVERS VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE.

1. We read of a silver statue in one of the many temples founded
by Lalitâditja, King of Cashmere, whose bright golden cuirass "gave
forth a stream of light like a river of milk." Mentioned in Lassen,
iii. p. 1000, and iv. 575.

2. It will be perceived the story is not without a certain meaning. It
inculcates regard for the example and experience of the ancient and
wise--the wisdom of the hero Vikramâditja (typified by his throne)
was to be the model and guide of other kings and dynasties.

3. Sounding of trumpet-shells. The shankha or concha seems to have been
the earliest form of trumpet used in war. It often finds mention in the
heroic poems. Crishna used one in his warrior character; and Vishnu,
from bearing one, had the appellation shankha and shankhin. To the
present day it is used in announcing festivals in Mongolia.

4. Sûta, bard. To this order it is that we are indebted for the
preservation of so many myths and heroic tales. He was also the
charioteer of the kings.

5. The six classes, states, or stages of living beings, by passing
through which Buddhahood was to be attained--(1) Pure spirit or
the devas gods (Skr. Surâs; Mongolian, Tegri; Kalm. Tenggeri); (2)
the unclean spirits, enemies of the gods (Skr. Asurâs); (3) men;
(4) beasts; (5) Pretâs, monsters surrounding the entrance of hell;
(6) the hell-gods. (Köppen, i. 238, et seq., quoted by Jülg.)



VIKRAMÂDITJA'S BIRTH.

1. Udsesskülengtu-Gôa-Chatun, a heaping up of synonyms of which
we had an example, note 2, Tale XVII. Both words mean "beautiful,"
"charming." Goâ is a Mongolian expression by which royal women are
called (as also chatun). Thus we sometimes meet with Udsessküleng,
sometimes Udsesskülengtu (the adjunct tu forming the adjective
use of the word); Udsesskülengtu-Goa, Udsesskülengtu-Chatun, or
Udessküleng-Gôa-Chatun. (Jülg.)

2. Kaitja or Chaitga is a sacred grotto where relics were preserved,
or marking a spot where some remarkable event of ancient date had
taken place. We are told that King Ashokja (246 B.C.) caused kaitjas
to be built, or rather hewn, in every spot in his dominions rendered
sacred by any act of Shâkjamuni's life [70]; as also over the relics
of many of the first teachers (p. 390). The number of these is fabled
in the Mahâvansha (v. p. 26) to have been not less than 84,000! He
opened seven of the shrines in which the relics of Shâkjamuni were
originally placed, and divided them into so many caskets of gold,
silver, crystal, and lapis lazuli, endowing every town of his dominion
with one, and building a kaitja over it. These were all completed
by one given day at one and the same time, and the authority of the
Dharma (law) of Buddha was proclaimed in all. In process of time great
labour came to be spent on their decoration, till whole temples were
hewn out of the living stone, forming almost imperishable records
of the earliest architecture of the country, and to some extent of
its history and religion too. The most astonishing remains are to
be seen of works of this kind, with files of columns and elaborate
bas-reliefs sculptured out of the solid rock.

3. Abbé Huc tells us that the Mongolians prepare their tea quite
differently from the Chinese. The leaves, instead of being carefully
picked as in China, are pressed all together along with the smaller
tendrils and stalks into a mould resembling an ordinary brick. When
required for use a piece of the brick is broken off, pulverized,
and boiled in a kettle until the water receives a reddish hue, some
salt is then thrown in, and when it has become almost black milk is
added. It is a great Tartar luxury, and also an article of commerce
with Russia; but the Chinese never touch it.

4. An accepted token of veneration and homage. (Jülg.)

5. Sesame-oil. See note 2, Tale V.

6. Kalavinka = Sanskrit, Sperling, belongs to the sacred order of
birds and scenes, in this place to be intended for the Kokila. (Jülg.)

The Kokila, or India cuckoo, is as favourite a bird with Indians as
the nightingale is with us. For a description of it see "A Monograph
of Indian and Malayan Species of Cuculidæ," in Journal of As. Soc. of
Bengal, xi. 908, by Edward Blyth.

7. You are not to imagine that by "four parts of the universe"
is meant any thing like what we have been used to call "the four
quarters of the globe." The division of the Indian cosmogony was
very different and refers to the distribution of the (supposed) known
universe between gods of various orders and men, to the latter being
assigned the fourth and lowest called Gambudvîpa [71].

8. Concerning such religious gatherings, see Köppen, i. 396, 579-583;
ii. 115, 311.

At such a festival held by Aravâla, King of Cashmere, on occasion
of celebrating the acceptance of the teaching of Shâkjamuni as the
religion of his dominion, it is said in a legend that there were
present 84,000 of each order of the demigods, 100,000 priests, and
800,000 people.

9. The parrot naturally takes a prominent place in Indian fable,
both on account of his sagacity, his companionable nature, and his
extraordinary length of days. He did not fail to attract much notice
on the part of the Greek writers on India; and Ktesias, who wrote
about 370 B.C., seems to have caught some of the peculiar Indian
regard for his powers, when he wrote that though he ordinarily spoke
the Indian's language, he could talk Greek if taught it. Ælianus says
they were esteemed by the Brahmans above all other birds, and that
the princes kept many of them in their gardens and houses.

10. Bodhisattva. See p. 346 and note 1, Tale XI.

11. Concerning the serpent-gods, see supra, note 1 to Tale II.;
and note 4, Tale XXII.

12. A legend containing curiously similar details is told in the
Mahâvansha of Shishunâga, founder of an early dynasty of Magadha
(Behar). The king had married his chief dancer, and afterwards sent
her away. Partly out of distress and partly as a reproach she left
her infant son exposed on the dunghill of the royal dwelling. A
serpent-god, who was the tutelar genius of the place, took pity on
the child, and was found winding its body round the basket in which it
was cradled, holding its head raised over the same and spreading out
its hood (it was the Cobra di capello species of serpent, which was
the object of divine honours) to protect him from the sun. The people
drove away the serpent-god (Nâga) with the cry of Shu! Shu! whence
they gave the name of Shishunâga to the child, who, on opening the
basket, was found to be endowed with qualities promising his future
greatness. In this case, however, the serpent-god seems to have borne
his serpent-shape, and in that of Vikramâditja, the eight are spoken
of as in human form.



VIKRAMÂDITJA'S YOUTH.

1. Nirvâna. See supra, p. 330, note, p. 334, and p. 343. The word is
sometimes used however poetically, simply as an equivalent for death.

2. Kütschun Tschindaktschi = "One provided with might." (Jülg.)

3. "The custom of requiring women to go abroad veiled was only
introduced after the Mussulman invasion, and was nearly the only
important circumstance in which Muhammedan influenced Indian
manners." See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, iii. p. 1157. In
Mongolia, however, Abbé Huc found that women have completely preserved
their independence. "Far from being kept down as among other Asiatic
nations they come and go at pleasure, ride out on horseback, and
pay visits to each other from tent to tent. In place of the soft
languishing physiognomy of the Chinese women, they present in their
bearing and manners a sense of power and free will in accordance with
their active life and nomad habits. Their attire augments the effect
of their masculine haughty mien."

In chapter v. of vol. ii., however, he tells of a custom prevailing
in part of Tibet of a much more objectionable nature than the use
of a veil:--"Nearly 200 years ago the Nome-Khan, who ruled over
Hither-Tibet, was a man of rigid manners.... To meet the libertinism
prevailing at his day he published an edict prohibiting women from
appearing in public otherwise than with their faces bedaubed with
a hideous black varnish.... The most extraordinary circumstance
connected with it is that the women are perfectly resigned to
it.... The women who bedaub their faces most disgustingly are deemed
the most pious.... In country places the edict is still observed with
exactitude, but at Lha-Ssa it is not unusual to meet women who set it
at defiance, ... they are, however, unfavourably regarded. In other
respects they enjoy great liberty. Instead of vegetating prisoners
in the depths of their houses they lead an active and laborious
life.... Besides household duties, they concentrate in their own
hands all the retail trade of the country, and in rural districts
perform most of the labours of agriculture."

4. Schalû. In another version of the legend he is called Sakori, the
soothsayer, because he made these predictions. (Journal of As. Soc. of
Bengal, vi. 350, in a paper by Lieut. W. Postans.)

5. The wolf-nurtured prince has a prominent place in Mongolian
chronicles. Their dynasty was founded by Bürte-Tschinoa = the Wolf
in winter-clothing. See I. J. Schmidt's Die Völker Mittel-Asiens,
vorzüglich die Mongolen und Tibeter, St. Petersburg, 1824, pp. 11-18,
33 et seq.; 70-75; and sSanang sSetsen, 56 and 372.

6. I cannot forbear reference to notices of such sudden storms and
inundations in Mongolia made from personal experience by Abbé Huc
"Travels in China and Tartary," chapters vi. and vii.

7. The persistent removal of the child after such tender entreaties and
such faithful unrequited service carries an idea of heartlessness, but
in extenuation it should be mentioned that while the Indians honoured
every kind of animal by reason of their doctrine of metempsychosis,
the wolf was just the only beast with which they seem to have had
no sympathy, and they reckoned the sight of one brought ill-luck, a
prejudice probably derived from the days of their pastoral existence
when their approach was fraught with so much danger to their flocks. In
Mongolia, where the pastoral mode of life still continues in vogue,
the dread of the wolf was not likely to have diminished. Thus Abbé
Huc says, "Although the want of population might seem to abandon the
interminable deserts of Tartary to wild beasts, wolves are rarely met,
owing to the incessant and vindictive warfare the Mongolians wage
against them. They pursue them every where to the death, regarding
them as their capital enemy on account of the great damage they may
inflict upon their flocks. The announcement that a wolf has been
seen is a signal for every one to mount his horse ... the wolf in
vain attempts to flee in every direction; it meets horsemen from
every side. There is no mountain so rugged that the Tartar horses,
agile as goats, cannot pursue it. The horseman who has caught it
with his lasso gallops off, dragging it behind, to the nearest tent;
there they strongly bind its muzzle, so that they may torture it
securely, and by way of finale skin it alive. In summer the wretched
brute will live in this condition several days; in winter it soon
dies frozen." The wolf seems fully to return the antipathy, for
(chapter xi.) he says, "It is remarkable wolves in Mongolia attack
men rather than animals. They may be seen sometimes passing at full
gallop through a flock of sheep in order to attack the shepherd."

8. Tschin-tâmani, Sanskrit, "thought-jewel," a jewel having the magic
power of supplying all the possessor wishes for. Indian fable writers
revel in the idea of the possession of a talisman which can satisfy
all desire. The grandest and perhaps earliest remaining example of it
occurs in the Ramajana, where King Visvamitra = the universal friend,
who from a Xatrija (warrior caste) merited to become a Brahman, visits
Vasichtha, the chief of hermits, and finds him in possession of Sabala,
a beautiful cow, which has the quality of providing Vasichtha with
every thing whatever he may wish for. He wants to provide a banquet
for Visvamitra, and he has only to tell Sabala to lay the board with
worthy food, with food according to the six kinds of taste and drinks
worthy of a king of the world. She immediately provides sugar, and
honey, and rice, maireja or nectar, and wine, besides all manner of
other drinks and various kinds of food heaped up like mountains; sweet
fruits, and cakes, and jars of milk; all these things Sabala showered
down for the use of the hosts who accompanied Visvamitra. Visvamitra
covets the precious cow, and offers a hundred thousand cows of earth in
barter for her. But Vasichtha refuses to part with her for a hundred
million other cows or for fulness of silver. The king offers him
next all manner of ornaments of gold, fourteen thousand elephants,
gold chariots with four white steeds and eight hundred bells to them,
eleven thousand horses of noble race, full of courage, and a million
cows. The seer still remaining deaf to his offers the king carries
her off by force.

The heavenly cow, however, in virtue of her extraordinary qualities,
helps herself out of the difficulty. It is her part to fulfil her
master's wishes, and as it is his wish to have her by him she
gallops back to him, knocking over the soldiers of the earthly
king by hundreds in her career. Returned to her master, the Brahman
hermit, she reproaches him tenderly for letting her be removed by the
earthly king. He answers her with equal affection, explaining that
the earthly king has so much earthly strength that it is vain for
him to resist him. At this Sabala is fired with holy indignation. She
declares it must not be said that earthly power should triumph over
spiritual strength. She reminds him that the power of Brahma, whom
he represents, is unfailing in might, and begs him only to desire of
her that she should destroy the Xatrija's host. He desires it, and
she forthwith furnishes a terrible army, and another, and another,
till Visvamitra is quite undone, all his hosts, and allies, and
children killed in the fray. Then he goes into the wilderness and
prays to Mahâdeva, the great god, to come to his aid and give him
divine weapons, spending a hundred years standing on the tips of his
feet, and living on air like the serpent. Mahâdeva at last brings
him weapons from heaven, at sight of which he is so elated that
"his heroic courage rises like the tide of the ocean when the moon
is at the full." With these burning arrows he devastates the whole
of the beautiful garden surrounding Vasichta's dwelling. Vasichta,
in high indignation at this wanton cruelty, raises his vadschra,
the Brahma sceptre or staff, and all Visvamitra's weapons serve him
no more. Then owning the fault he has committed in fighting against
Brahma he goes into the wilderness and lives a life of penance a
thousand years or two, after which he is permitted to become a Brahman.

9. Those who can see one and the same hero in the Sagas of Wodin, the
Wild Huntsman, and William Tell [72], might well trace a connexion
between such a legend as this and the working of the modern law of
conscription. There is no country exposed to its action where such
scenes as that described in the text might not be found. There have
been plenty such brought under my own notice in Rome since this
"tribute of blood," as the Romans bitterly call it, was first
established there last year.

10. I have spoken elsewhere in these pages of the question of rebirth
in the Buddhist system. Though not holding so cardinal a place as in
Brahmanism the necessity for it remained to a certain extent. All
virtues were recommended in the one case as a means to obtaining a
higher degree at the next re-birth, and in the other the same, but
less as an end, than as a means to earlier attaining to Nirvâna. Of
all virtues the most serviceable for this purpose was the sacrifice
of self for the good of the species.

11. Sinhâsana, lit. Lion-throne; a throne resting on lions, as before
described in the text.

12. At the exercise of such heaven-given powers nature was supposed
to testify her astonishment, and thus we are told of sacrifices and
incense offered for the pacification of the same. (Jülg.)



VIKRAMÂDITJA ACQUIRES ANOTHER KINGDOM.

1. Concerning such sacrifices, see Köppen, i. 246 and 560, and
Trans. of sSanang sSetzen, p. 352.



VIKRAMÂDITJA MAKES THE SILENT SPEAK.

1. The Kalmucks make the 8th, 15th, and 30th of every month fast-days;
the Mongolians, the 13th, 14th, and 15th. (Köppen, i. 564-566;
ii. 307-316, quoted by Jülg.)

2. Dakini. See note 2, Tale XIV., infra.

3. Dakini Tegrijin Naran = the Dakini sun of the gods. (Jülg.)

4. Aramâlâ, a string of beads used by Buddhists in their devotions.

5. Abbé Huc mentions frequently meeting with such wayside shrines,
furnished just as here described.

6. Chatun. See note 1 to "Vikramâditja's Birth."

7. This beautiful story, which does not profess to be original,
but a reproduction of one of the sagas of old, is to be found under
various versions in many Indian collections of myths.

8. Compare note 3, Tale VII.

9. This story also holds a certain place among Indian legends, but
is not so popular as the last.

10. Cup. No one travels or indeed goes about at all in Tibet and
Mongolia without a wooden cup stuck in his breast or in his girdle. At
every visit the guest holds out his cup and the host fills it with
tea. Abbé Huc supplies many details concerning their use. They are
so indispensable that they form a staple article of industry; their
value varies from a few pence up to as much as 40l.

11. Tai-tsing = the all-purest, the name of the Mandschu or Mantschou
dynasty (or Mangu, according to the spelling of Lassen, iv. 742),
who, from being called in by the last emperor of the Ming dynasty
to help in suppressing a rebellion, subsequently seized the throne
(1644). This dynasty has reigned in China ever since, while the
Mantchou nationality has become actually forced on the Chinese.

Previously, however, the Mantchous were a tribe of Eastern Tartars
long formidable to the Chinese. The introduction of a king of the
Mantchous, therefore, as identical with Vikramâditja, presents the
most remarkable instance that could be met with of what may be called
the confusion of heroes, in the migration of myths.

12. Tsetsen Budschiktschi = the clever dancer. (Jülg.)



THE WISE PARROT.

1. "At any former time," i. e. in a previous state of existence,
according to the doctrine of metempsychosis.

2. "The day will come"--similarly on occasion of a subsequent rebirth.

3. Tsoktu Ilagukssan = brilliant majesty. (Jülg.)

4. Naran Gerel = sunshine. (Jülg.)

5. Ssaran = moon. (Jülg.)



FOOTNOTES


[1] The few notes I have taken from Jülg's translation, I have
acknowledged by putting his name to them.

[2] The following paragraphs are chiefly gathered and translated from
Lassen's work on the Geography of Ancient India, vol. i.

[3] Heeren, Indische Literatur.

[4] Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, ii. 67, 68.

[5] Mahavansha, ii. v. 11.

[6] Now called Gaya, still an important town in the province of
Behar. Vihara, whence Behar (for B and V are allied sounds in
Sanskrit), is the Buddhist word for a college of priests, and the
substitution of Behar for Magadha, the more ancient name of the
province, points to a time when Buddhism flourished there and had
many such colleges (see Wilson in Journal of As. Soc. v. p. 124).

[7] Benares.

[8] Burnouf, Introd. à l'Hist. du Buddhisme, i. 157.

[9] In the far east of India and in Ceylon, where it is not indigenous,
we have historical evidence that it was introduced by the Buddhists;
also in Java. Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 257; also p. 260,
note 1, where he gives the following comparative descriptions of the
two species, though he also points out that in ancient descriptions
the characteristics of the two trees are often confused. The ficus
indica or banian (it received the name of banyan from the Indian
merchants, Banjans, by whose means it was propagated), is called in
Bengal Njagrôdha and Vata (the Dutch call it "the devil's tree"). The
ficus religiosa is called ashvattha, and pippala. They plant the
one by the side of the other with marriage ceremonies in the belief
that otherwise the banian would not complete its peculiar mode of
growth. Hence arises a most pleasing contrast between the elegant
lightness of the shining foliage of the ficus religiosa and the solemn
grandeur of the ficus indica with its picturesque trunks, its abundant
leafage, its spangling of golden fruits, its pendulous roots, enabling
it to reproduce itself after the fashion of a temple with countless
aisles. It affords cool salubrious shade, a single one forming in time
a forest to itself, and sufficing to house thousands of persons. The
leaves of both supply excellent food for elephants, and birds and
monkeys delight in its fruit, which, however, is not edible by man,
nor is its wood of much use as timber. The pippala does not grow to
nearly so great a size as the other, never attaining so many stems,
but nothing can be more graceful than its appearance when, overgrowing
from a building or another tree; its leaves tremble like those of the
aspen (Lassen, i. 255-261, and notes). Under its overarching shade
altars were erected and sacrifice offered up. To injure it wilfully
was counted a sin (an instance is mentioned in Bp. Heber's "Journey,"
i. 621). A most prodigious Boddhi-tree, or rather five such growing
together, still exists in Ceylon, which tradition says was transplanted
thither with most extraordinary pomp and ceremonies at the time of the
introduction of Buddhism into the island. They grow upon the fourth
terrace of an edifice built up of successive rows of terraces, forming
the most sacred spot in the whole island. Upon the above supposition
this Boddhi-grove would be something like 2000 years old. Several very
curious legends concerning it are given in a paper called "Remarks
on the Ancient City of Anarâjapura," by Captain Chapman, in Trans. of
R. As. of Gr. Br. i. and iii. The Brahmans honoured it as well as the
Buddhists, and made it a parable of the universe, its stem typifying
the connexion of the visible world with a divine invisible spirit,
and the up and-down growth of the branches and roots the restless
striving of all creatures after an unattainable perfection; but it was
the Buddhists for whom it became in the first instance actually sacred
by reason of the conviction said to have been received by Shâkjamuni
while observing its growth (reminding forcibly of the tradition about
Sir I. Newton and the apple), that the perpetual struggles of this
changeful life could only find ultimate satisfaction in that reunion
with the source whence they emanated, which he termed Nirvâna.

[10] Burnouf, i. 295.

[11] Burnouf, p. 194.

[12] Nirvâna means literally in Sanskrit "the breathing out,"
"extinction"--extinction of the flame of life, eternal happiness,
united with the Deity. Böhtlingk and Roth's Sanskrit Dictionary,
iv. 208. In Buddhist writings, however, it is difficult to make out
any idea of it distinct from annihilation. Consult Schmidt's Trans. of
sSanang sSetzen, pp. 307-331; Schott. Buddhaismus, p. 10 and 127;
Köppen, i. 304-309. "Existence in the eye of Buddhism is nothing but
misery.... Nothing remained to be devised as deliverance from this
evil but the destruction of existence. This is what Buddhists call
Nirwana." (Alwis' Lectures on Buddhism, p. 29.)

[13] Concerning the locality of the Malla people, see Lassen, Indische
Alterthumskunde, i. 549.

[14] This word is a favourite with Buddhist writers, and means
literally "him of the rolling wheel," primarily used to denote a
conqueror riding on his chariot. See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde,
i. 810, n. 2.

[15] Lassen, ii. 52, n. 1, and 74, n. 6; and i. 356, n. 1.

[16] Professor Wilson seems to have been so much perplexed by these
divergencies of chronology, that in a paper by him, published in
Journ. of R. As. Soc. vol. xvi. art. 13, he endeavours to show on this
(and also on other grounds) that it is possible no such person ever
existed at all!

[17] See Burnouf, p. 348, n. 3; see also infra, n. 3 to "The False
Friend;" also note 2 to "Vikramâditja's Birth."

[18] Supra, Notice of Vikramâditja, pp. 238, 239.

[19] "Only about a hundred years elapsed between the visit of
Fa-Hian to India and that of Soung-yun, and in the interval
the absurd traditions respecting Sâkya-Muni's life and actions
would appear to have been infinitely multiplied, enlarged,
and distorted." (Lieut.-Col. Sykes' Notes on the Religious,
Moral, and Political State of Ancient India, in Journ. of
R. As. Soc. No. xii. p. 280.)

[20] Turnour, in Journ. of As. Soc. of Bengal, 722.

[21] Lassen, ii. 440.

[22] Lassen, ii. 453, 454.

[23] Burnouf, Introd. a l'Hist. du Buddh. i. 137.

[24] Burnouf, Introd. &c. i. 131 et seq.

[25] "There is no reference even in the earlier Vêda to the Trimurti:
to Donga, Kali, or Rama." (Wilson, Rig-Vêda Sanhîta.)

[26] Burnouf, i. 90, 108.

[27] Lassen, ii. 426, 454, 455 and other places.

[28] "No hostile feeling against the Brahmans finds utterance in the
Buddhist Canon." (Max Müller, Anc. Sanskr. Literature.)

[29] Lassen, iv. 644, 710.

[30] Lassen, ii. 440.

[31] Lassen, iv. 646-709.

[32] As. Rec. i. 285.

[33] Genesis iii. 15.

[34] Rig-Vêda, bk. x. ch. xi.

[35] Burnouf, Introd. i. 618.

[36] See infra, Note 8 of this "Dedication;" on the word "Bede,"
p. 346.

[37] Verità della Religione Cristiana-Cattolica sistematicamente
dimostrata, da Monsignor Francesco Nardi U. di S. Rota. Roma, 1868.

[38] Lassen, ii. 1107.

[39] Lassen, i. 488.

[40] A great number of early authorities are quoted in Butler's
"Lives," vol. xii., pp. 329-334. The subject has also been handled
by Gieseler, Lehrbuch der Kirchengeschichte; Wilson's "Sketch of
the Religious Sects of the Hindus;" Swainson's "Memoir of the Syrian
Christians;" most ably by A. Weber, and by many others.

[41] In note 2 of p. 182, vol. iv., Lassen quotes several authors on
the meaning of the word and its identity with the triratna, as Wilson
calls the Buddhist Trinity of Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. See also
infra, n. 1, Tale XVII.

[42] At the same time it presents also, of course, many frightful
divergencies, and of these it may suffice to mention that the
number of wives ascribed to Crishna is not less than 16,000. Lassen,
vol. i. Appendix p. xxix.

[43] Indische Studien, i. 400-421, and ii. 168.

[44] The very earliest, however, do not go very far back; he was never
heard of at all till within 200 B.C., and seems then to have been set
up by certain Brahmans to attract popular worship, and to counteract
the at that period rapidly-spreading influence of the Buddhists. See
Lassen, i. 831--839. See also note 1, p. 335, supra.

[45] Lassen, iv. 575.

[46] Lassen, p. 576.

[47] "On trouvera plus tard que l'extension considérable qu'a prise
le culte du Krishna n'a été qu'une réaction populaire contre celui
du Buddha; réaction qui a été dirigée, ou pleinement acceptée par
les Brahmanes." Burnouf, Introd. i. p. 136, n. 1.

[48] Lassen, iv. 815-817.

[49] Lassen, iv. 576.

[50] The best account of his life and teaching is given by
S. Wassiljew, of St. Petersburg, "Der Buddhismus; aus dem Russischen
übersetzt," to which I have not had access.

[51] See supra, p. 332.

[52] See infra, Note 1, Tale XI.

[53] See supra, p. 330.

[54] Concerning Serpent-worship see infra, Note 1, Tale II.

[55] Travelling Buddhist teacher. Lassen.

[56] Burnouf, Introduction à l'Histoire du Buddhisme, ii. 359.

[57] "Southward in Bede." See Note 8.

[58] Spence Hardy, "Legends and Theories of the Buddhists," p. 243,
when mentioning this circumstance, makes the strange mistake of
confounding Behar with Berar.

[59] See Note 4, "Vikramâditja's Throne discovered."

[60] See supra, p. 241.

[61] According to Abbé Huc's spelling, Tchen-kis Khan.

[62] According to Abbé Huc's spelling, Tale Lama.

[63] See the story in Note 8 to "Vikramâditja's Youth."

[64] See Note 4 to "Vikramâditja's Throne discovered."

[65] Consult C. F. Köppen, Die Lamaische Hierarchie.

[66] According to Huc's version of his history he was not born in
a Lamasery, but in the hut of a herdsman of Eastern Tibet, in the
county of Amdo, south of the Kouku-Noor.

[67] This elaborate derivation, however, has been disputed, and
it is more probable the name is derived from two words, signifying
"the Indian ox." In Tibet it has no name but "great ox."

[68] Virgil, Georg. ii. 121, "Velleraque ut foliis depectant
tenuia Seres;" and Pliny, H. N. vi. 20, 2, "Seres, lanicio silvarum
nobiles, perfusam aqua depectentes frondium canitiem." Also 24, 8;
and xi. 26, 1.

[69] See infra, note 2 to "Vikramâditja's Birth."

[70] Burnouf, i. 265.

[71] See supra, p. 351 and p. 385.

[72] See Max Müller's "Chips from a German Workshop."





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