THE Fables of Bidpai, or Kalila waDimna, as they are more commonly named from the principal piece in the Arabic version, are of great antiquity, and have ever been very famous in the East. This appears from the number of versions that have been made in the Oriental tongues. Their origin was undoubtedly Indian; the most remote appearance that can be traced being in an ancient Brahmanic book entitled Pantcha-tantra. The first translation was into the old Pehlvi language, of which there is a full account given in one of the Arabic Introductions. The book had become very famous for its wisdom, and for the ingenuity and elegance of its composition. On this account Nouschirewan, sovereign of Persia, was very desirous of obtaining a copy. This, however, was very difficult, as the book was jealously guarded by the Indian monarch, and great pains taken to prevent any copy or translation of it from being carried out of the country. A secret mission, therefore, was entrusted to the physician Barzouyeh, who went to India in disguise, became familiar with its learned men, obtained the confidence of one of them, and finally, by surreptitious means, succeeded in accomplishing his object. On his return to Persia, the only recompense he would receive was the king's promise that a special memoir of his mission should be written, and forever attached to the book. The Arabic version, in one of the introductions to which this memoir is found, was the work of Abdallah ben Al mokaffa, a man of Persian descent, but who became a Mohammedan in the time of the first Khalifs of the House of Abbas, Saftah and Mansour. Besides these, there were translations into the Syriac, and one into the later or Talmudic Hebrew made by Rabbi Joel. A Greek version was made at Constantinople by

the Byzantine writer Simeon Seth, or Simeon son of Seth, who lived under the emperors Nicephorus Botaniates and Alexis Comnenus, about the year 1080. This was made from the Arabic, and, though very defective, is of great use in determining various readings, and, sometimes, in fixing the meaning of corrupt and difficult passages. The first printed edition, under the added title of Specimen Sapientia Indorum, was by Sebastian Godofr. Stark, Berolini, 1697, with a Latin translation; another has lately been printed at Athens, date, 1851. From this Greek version, and the Arabic before mentioned, there have been made entire or partial translations into French and German, but none, to the writer's knowledge, have appeared in English.

The Arabic version, as published by De Sacy, de l'imprimerie royale, Paris, 1816, is a beautiful specimen of typography, and has an introduction giving all the information that could be procured respecting this curious and most ancient production.

In one of the Arabic introductions, ascribed to Bahnoud ben Sahwan, there is given the traditional account of its first Indian origin in the reign of Dabschelim, who obtained the throne after the departure of Alexander the Great. He was a monster of a tyrant, to whom no one dared to give counsel, until the dangerous office was assumed by a Brahmanic philosopher named Bidpai. He succeeded in gaining audience of the king, and in interesting him in these ingenious fables, wherein political and moral truths are presented in the language and actions of animals. Dabschelim admires their theoretical wisdom, and, finally, becoming a practical convert, reigns virtuously and gloriously under the philosopher's guidance. Each piece commences as a conversation between the king and Bidpai-the

former asking an illustration of some virtue in which he wishes to be confirmed, or of some vice to which a ruler is especially exposed, and the other replying by the narration of some one of the stories of which the book is composed.

The difference between this and all other collections of fables, ancient or modern, is very striking. There are the same leading animal characters, the lion, the eagle, the bear, &c., with the difference, that the jackal takes the place of the fox, and that there are introduced more of the smaller species. There are also the same animal traits, showing great acuteness and fixedness of zoological observation from the earliest times; but instead of being brief apologues, with a single event, and one brief moral deduced, like the Greek fables of Esop, or the Arabian of Lokman, they are long, continued histories, involving a great variety of events, having each their social or political aspects, forming a narration highly interesting in itself, exhibiting sometimes the most exquisite moral, and yet, with rare ingenuity, preserving the peculiar characteristics of each species. Thus, for example, in the principal story of king lion, and his friend the bull, who are set at variance by the unprincipled jackal, the lion is alarmed at hearing for the first time the bull's deep bellow, so different from his own hoarse roar; he is not afraid, not he, but then there is something mysterious about it, and prudence is a virtue. And so again, the generous monarch resists the efforts of the crafty calumniator, by representing the difference of their habits-the one eating flesh and the other grass-as taking away all ground of rivalry in their intercourse. Sometimes, indeed, the philosopher seems to forget himself; the peculiar animal traits are lost sight of, and they are simply men talking, wisely or absurdly, in animal forms; but in general the dramatic proprieties are well observed. This, we think, will be seen in the one which we venture here to translate. The actors are taken from the least

powerful of the animal tribes; and this is essential to the dramatic design, which is to show how the varied adaptation of different gifts, even of the smallest kind, builds up a secure society for the weak, inspiring mutual confidence, and giving mutual help, even against the most powerful foes. Granting them speech, and a measure of reason adapted to their state, every thing else is in accordance with their animal ways and instincts, whilst the whole presents a picture of quiet friendship, of charming constancy, of tender mutual regard, from which our lordly race may derive a lesson of practical wisdom not to be despised. The pervading moral, Love is strength, is one that appears in the aphorisms and in the songs of Scripture. See Prov. xxx. 24-28, Canticles viii. 7.

In this introductory notice, we would only farther advert to one feature pervading the collection, and furnishing internal evidence, not only of the antiquity, but of the wide influence of these fables in the East, as shown even in the modifications they have received. The various versions, although presenting substantially the same events, and, in great part, the same unbroken narration, do yet show differences arising from the peculiar coloring that religious ideas have assumed in different lands, and as they have passed through successive ages. Some pious animal, such as a devout jackal, a very virtuous lion, in one place a very pious cat, and in another a very hypocritical one who makes religion a cloak for her atrocities, is quite a favorite personification. This recluse character has, in the original Pantcha-tantra, or Indian legend, quite an ascetic aspect, is very quietistic, eats no flesh-in other words, shows the predominance of Brahmanic and Buddhist ideas. In the Persian (ante-islamic) it has more of the Magian look. In the Arabic, the pious fox, &c., is an orthodox Mohammedan, a Nasek, or extraordinary devotee, who is ever attentive to the call of the Muezzin, says extra prayers, quotes the Koran, and makes extra pilgrimages to

Mecca. In the Greek version of Simeon Seth, on the other hand, he has become à decided monk or hermit; to accommodate him ablutions are turned into penance, and sometimes the translator renders Arabic phrases by literal quotations from the Scriptures. Not content with this, Simeon Seth sometimes makes all the animals talk Homerically, and parodies, in this way, entire hexameters from the Iliad or the Odyssey. In the story here given, however, there are no decidedly religious characters; they are animals purely natural, unsophisticated, unindoctrinated, and presenting only an amiable and natural morality. It is selected for its purity of diction, its beautiful simplicity of narration, and as having a convenient measure of extent between the longer and the shorter pieces.

The translation from the Arabic is made as idiomatic and as colloquial as possible, whilst, at the same time, faithful to the spirit of the words as well as to the exact truth of the thought. It is entitled,

BAB ALHAMAMAT ALMOTAWWAKAT,

that is,

CHAPTER OF THE RING-DOVE.

Said Dabschelim, the king, to Bidpai the philosopher: I have heard from you the story of the two friends, and how a liar made division between them, and all how the matter ended; now tell me, if you know any story of the kind, about true and constant friends, and how their friendship commenced, and how they mutually helped each other. Said the philosopher, The truly wise man will regard nothing as of equal account with friends; for they are helpers in prosperity, and consolers in adversity; and among the histories to this effect is that of the ring-dove, and the field-mouse, and the deer, and the raven. How was that? said the king. They say, said Bidpai, that in the land of Sakawindajina there was a certain city by the name of Daher, and near that city a place abounding in game, to

which huntsmen were constantly resorting. Now there was in this place a tree with numerous limbs, and thick covering leaves, and in this tree a raven had his nest. It happened then, one day, as the raven was settling into his nest, that, lo and behold, a huntsman made his appearance. A vile-looking fellow he was, and of most evil intent. On his shoulder he carried his net and in his hand a staff. As he drew nigh the tree, the raven was terribly frightened. Surely, said he, this man comes here for my destruction, or the destruction of my neighbors; and so I will remain quietly in my place, until I see what he is about. Then the huntsman fixed his net, and when he had spread the grain upon it, and hid himself close by, he had to wait but a very short time, when, lo and behold, there passed by a dove called the ring-dove, and with her a great many other doves. As neither she nor her companions saw the net, they fell upon the grain, and began to pick it up, when suddenly the net closed and had them all as fast as a locked door. The huntsman was coming up with great joy, when all the doves began to struggle in the cords, each one seeking only his own freedom. Hold, said the ring-dove; do not thus defeat your own effort, by being each one of you more concerned for himself than for his neighbor; but let us all help, and all pull together upon the net, and we shall every one escape. Then they all pulled together, each one helping the other, and up they went into the air, net and all. The huntsman, however, did not despair of catching them; for he thought that they would only go a short distance before dropping down. Now, says the raven, will I follow on and see what becomes of these fellows. Just then the ringdove turned short round, and saw the huntsman following. Here he comes, said she; he is close after us. Now if we take the way of the open country, it will be impossible for us to escape his eye, and he will keep right on in pursuit; but if we go the way of the fields and forests, he will lose sight

of us and turn back. There is a certain place where lives a field-mouse, a very dear friend of mine, and if we can only reach it, he will gnaw the net for us. They followed the advice, and the huntsman turned back in despair; but the raven followed on. When the ringdove found that they had come to the place of the field-mouse, she bid them settle down. Now the mouse had a great many holes as places of refuge in dangerous times; and when the dove called him by name-for his name was Zirak-he answered her from one of these holes. Who are you, and where do you come from? I am your friend, said the ring-dove. Then the mouse came up very promptly. What brought you into this trouble? said he. Don't you know, said the dove, that nothing befalls one, whether of good or of evil, except by the decree of the Fates? That is what brought us into this trouble; for there is no escaping the Fates, either for great or small; even the sun suffers eclipse, and the moon, too, when the Fates have so decreed for them. Then the mouse began to cut the knot which was near the ring-dove, when the latter cried out, Begin with the others, and after that come to me. This she had to repeat many times before the mouse paid any attention to it. Why, how is this, he said at last, that you seem to have no pity or care for yourself? Says the ring-dove, I fear lest, if you begin with me, you may become weary, and give up before doing it for the rest; whilst I know very well that, should you be ever so tired, you would never leave me in the net. Ah, said the mouse, that is the very thing that makes me love you so. Then he went on with his work until he had finished it all, when out went the dove and all her companions with her.

Now the raven had watched this proceeding of the mouse, and it produced in him a great desire for his friendship and further acquaintance. So he called, Mousy! Mousy! until out came the little head. What do you want? said the mouse. Your friendship and acquaintance, said he. There can be none

between us, replied the mouse; for one who is wise should only seek that for which nature has made a way, and ever avoid the contrary. Now, you are a devourer, and I am your meat; there can be no true friendship between us. Not so, said the raven; though the mouse is my meat, as you say, I could never have any satisfaction in eating you. Your friendship is all the more dear to me notwithstanding what you have said; and when I thus seek it, you ought not to repel me. There is something so good and clever about you, that I cannot help loving you; you are so modest, too, and make so little show of your merits. But surely one who is wise should not seek to hide his excellency; for virtue is like musk; conceal it as you will, nothing can prevent the spread of its fragrant odor. Be that as it may, said the mouse, there is no stronger enmity than that of nature, and of this there are two kinds. One of them is the mutual, such as that which exists between the lion and the elephant; for sometimes the lion kills the elephant, and sometimes the elephant kills the lion; the other is the one-sided enmity, such as that which exists between me and the cat, or between me and thee; for it never hurts you, whilst the pain and damage ever return to me. It is like water; make it ever so hot, that does not prevent its quenching the fire. He who has such an enemy, and rashly comes to terms with him, is like a man who carries a serpent in his sleeve; and one who is wise will, of all things, avoid every approach to familiarity with a shrewd and crafty foe. I understand you, said the raven; yet such is the goodness of your disposition, that you ought to perceive the sincerity of my words, and not be hard upon me, or say that there can be no friendship between us; for the wise seek not recompense for kindness, and friendship with the virtuous is quick to form, slow to break. It is like a golden pitcher, hard to fracture, and easy to be repaired should it get a dent or a bruise. So, too, the friendships of the bad are quick to break,

slow to form; resembling in this the earthen pitcher, easy to crack with the slightest injury, and then past all mending. The noble love the noble; the vile love no one except in appearance, through desire of gain or fear of harm. But I have need of thy love and kindness, because thou art generous, and I stand at thy gate resolved to take no food until you receive me as a friend and brother. Said the field-mouse, I accept your brotherhood, for I can repel no one from his urgent need; but I began this talk, as I did, that I might assure myself in acting prudently, and that you might never have it to say, should you do me harm, that you found the mouse quick to be deceived. Then he went out of his inner hole and stood by the entrance. What hinders you from coming clear out? said the raven; and why do you not treat me with more familiarity? Have you some doubt remaining, after all? There are two things, said the mouse, in respect to which the people of the world mutually give and take, and hold friendly intercourse. These are the soul and the hand. Some give to each other of their souls; these are the real hearty friends, pure and true. Those who give of the hand only, they are, indeed, helpers to each other, yet do they desire, each one, their own profit. Now he who acts on these worldly principles of gain, is like the huntsman who spreads grain for the birds, with no desire for any good of the birds, but all for his own. But the giving of the soul goes far beyond the giving of the hand, and that is what I have ventured to do to thee; I have given to thee my very soul-my life. Nothing now prevents my going wholly out, but one thought that occurs to me. You know very well that you have companions, other ravens, of a nature like your own, but without your thought and purpose; I am afraid of them. But, said the raven, surely it is a sign of friendship that one should be a friend to his friend's friend, and a foe to his friend's foe; and there is no friend of mine, I am certain, who will not love you.

Should there be such a one, I could very easily cut his acquaintance.

Then went forth the field-mouse to the raven, and they gave each other the hand, and pledged a pure friendship. They became, too, very familiar with each other, and after some time had passed, says the raven to the mouse, You live too near the roadside, and I am afraid that some of the boys may hit you with stones; but if you will go with me, I know of a very retired place, where lives one of the tortoise family, a very good friend of mine, who feeds on fish, and where we, too, will find every thing we may want to eat. Suppose that I take you along, that we may live there in all security. There is one thing I have not mentioned, says the mouse; I know a good many curious stories that you will be delighted to hear when we get to that quiet place; so take me along, and I will do whatever you may wish. Then the raven took up the field-mouse by the tail, and flew with him until they reached the spot. When they came to the spring where the tortoise lived, she looked out from the water, and behold! the raven carrying the mouse by the tail. Not seeing, at first, that it was her friend, she was greatly frightened at so strange a sight. Then the raven called to her; upon which she went out, and asked him, What is the matter, and where do you come from? So he told her the whole story-how he had followed the doves, and the matter of the field-mouse, and all about it until they came to that very place. When the tortoise had heard the whole affair, she greatly admired the good sense and integrity of the raven's little friend, and after she had courteously saluted him, began to ask him many questions about his coming there. Now, says the raven to the mouse, since we are in this quiet place, it is a good time to tell us some of those stories you spoke of, besides answering the questions the tortoise has put to you concerning the events of your life; for she stands to you the same as I. Then the mouse began as follows: One of the first things in my experience was