THIS second volume completes the translation of the principal Upanishads to which Sankara appeals in his great commentary on the Vedânta-Sûtras, viz.:
These eleven have sometimes been called the old and genuine Upanishads, though I should be satisfied to call them the eleven classical Upanishads, or the fundamental Upanishads of the Vedânta philosophy.
Vidyâranya, in his Elucidation of the meaning of all the Upanishads, Sarvopanishadarthânubhûti-prakâsa, confines himself likewise to those treatises, dropping, however, the Îsâ, and adding the Maitrâyana-upanishad, of which I have given a translation in this volume, and the Nrisimhottara-tapanîya-upanishad, the translation of which had to be reserved for the next volume.
It is more difficult to determine which of the Upanishads were chosen by Sankara or deserving the honour of a special commentary. We possess his commentaries on the eleven Upanishads mentioned before, with the exception of the Kaushîtaki-upanishad. We likewise possess his commentary on the Mândûkya-upanishad, but we do not know for certain whether he left commentaries on any of the other Upanishads. Some more or less authoritative statements have been made that he wrote commentaries on some of the minor Upanishads, such as the Atharvasiras, Atharva-sikhâ, and the Nrisimhatâpani. But as, besides Sankarâkârya, the disciple of Govinda, there is Sankarânanda, the disciple of Ânandâtman, another writer of commentaries on the Upanishads, it is possible that the two names may have been confounded by less careful copyists.
With regard to the Nrisimhatâpanî all uncertainty might seem to be removed, after Professor Râmamaya Tarkaratna has actually published its text with the commentary of Sankarâkârya in the Bibliotheca Indica, Calcutta, 1871. But some uncertainty still remains. While at the end of each Khanda of the Nrisimha-pûrvatâpanî we read that the Bhâshya was the work of the Paramahamsa-parivrâgakâkârya Srî-Sankara, the pupil of Govinda, we have no such information for the Nrisimha-uttaratâpani, but are told on the contrary that the words Srî-Govindabhagavat &c. have been added at the end by the editor, because he thought fit to do so. This is, to say the least, very suspicious, and we must wait for further confirmation. There is another commentary on this Upanishad by Nârâyanabhatta, the son of Bhatta Ratnâkara, who is well known as the author of Dîpikâs on several Upanishads.
I subjoin a list of thirty of the smaller Upanishads, published by Professor Râmamaya Tarkaratna in the Bibliotheca Indica, with the commentaries of Nârâyanabhatta.
We owe to the same editor in the earlier numbers of the Bibliotheca the following editions:
Lastly, Harakandra Vidyâbhûshana and Visvanâtha Sâstrî have published in the Bibliotheca Indica an edition of the Gopâlatâpani-upanishad, with commentary by Visvesvara.
These editions of the text and commentaries of the Upanishads are no doubt very useful, yet there are many passages where the text is doubtful, still more where the commentaries leave us without any help.
Whatever other scholars may think of the difficulty of translating the Upanishads, I can only repeat what I have said before, that I know of few Sanskrit texts presenting more formidable problems to the translator than these philosophical treatises. It may be said that most of them had been translated before. No doubt they have been, and a careful comparison of my own translation with those of my predecessors will show, I believe, that a small advance, at all events, has now been made towards a truer understanding of these ancient texts. But I know full well how much still remains to be done, both in restoring a correct text, and in discovering the original meaning of the Upanishads; and I have again and again had to translate certain passages tentatively only, or following the commentators, though conscious all the time that the meaning which they extract from the text cannot be the right one.
As to the text, I explained in my preface to the first volume that I attempted no more than to restore the text, such as it must have existed at the time when Sankara wrote his commentaries. As Sankara lived during the ninth century A.D., and as we possess no MSS. of so early a date, all reasonable demands of textual criticism would thereby seem to be satisfied. Yet, this is not quite so. We may draw such a line, and for the present keep within it, but scholars who hereafter take up the study of the Upanishads will probably have to go beyond. Where I had an opportunity of comparing other commentaries, besides those of Sankara, it became quite clear that they often followed a different text, and when, as in the case of the Maitrâyana-brâhmana-upanishad, I was enabled to collate copies which came from the South of India, the opinion which I have often expressed of the great value of Southern MSS. received fresh confirmation. The study of Grantha and other Southern MSS. will inaugurate, I believe, a new period in the critical treatment of Sanskrit texts, and the text of the Upanishads will, I hope, benefit quite as much as later texts by the treasures still concealed in the libraries of the Dekhan.
The rule which I have followed myself, and which I have asked my fellow translators to follow, has been adhered to in this new volume also, viz. whenever a choice has to be made between what is not quite faithful and what is not quite English, to surrender without hesitation the idiom rather than the accuracy of the translation. I know that all true scholars have approved of this, and if some of our critics have been offended by certain unidiomatic expressions occurring in our translations, all I can say is, that we shall always be most grateful if they would suggest translations which are not only faithful, but also idiomatic. For the purpose we have in view, a rugged but faithful translation seems to us more useful than a smooth but misleading one.
However, we have laid ourselves open to another kind of censure also, namely, of having occasionally not been literal enough. It is impossible to argue these questions in general, but every translator knows that in many cases a literal translation may convey an entirely wrong meaning. I shall give at least one instance.
My old friend, Mr. Nehemiah Goreh—at least I hope he will still allow me to call him so—in the Occasional Papers on Missionary Subjects, First Series, No. 6, quotes, on p. 39, a passage from the Khândogya-upanishad, translates it into English, and then remarks that I had not translated it accurately. But the fault seems to me to lie entirely with him, in attempting to translate a passage without considering the whole chapter of which it forms a part. Mr. Nehemiah Goreh states the beginning of the story rightly when he says that a youth by name Svetaketu went, by the advice of his father, to a teacher to study under him. After spending twelve years, as was customary, with the teacher, when he returned home he appeared rather elated. Then the father asked him:
Uta tam âdesam aprâksho yenâsrutam srutam bhavaty amatam matam avigñatam vigñâtam iti?
I translated this: “Have you ever asked for that instruction by which we hear what cannot be heard, by which we perceive what cannot be perceived, by which we know what cannot be known?”
Mr. Nehemiah Goreh translates: “Hast thou asked (of thy teacher) for that instruction by which what is not heard becomes heard, what is not comprehended becomes comprehended, what is not known becomes known?”
I shall not quarrel with my friend for translating rn an by to comprehend rather than by to perceive. I prefer my own translation, because manas is one side of the common sensory (antahkarana), buddhi, the other; the original difference between the two being, so far as I can see, that the manas originally dealt with percepts, the buddhi with concepts. But the chief difference on which my critic lays stress is that I translated asrutam, amatam, and avigñâtam not by “not heard, not comprehended, not known,” but by “what cannot be heard, what cannot be perceived, what cannot be known.”
Now, before finding fault, why did he not ask himself what possible reason I could have had for deviating from the original, and for translating avigñâta by unknowable or what cannot be known, rather than by unknown, as every one would be inclined to translate these words at first sight? If he had done so, he would have seen in a moment, that without the change which I introduced in the idiom, the translation would not have conveyed the sense of the original, nay, would have conveyed no sense at all. What could Svetaketu have answered, if his father had asked him, whether he had not asked for that instruction by which what is not heard becomes heard, what is not comprehended becomes comprehended, what is not known becomes known? He would have answered, “Yes, I have asked for it; and from the first day on which I learnt the Sikshâ, the A B C, I have every day heard something which I had not heard before, I have comprehended something which I had not comprehended before, I have known something which I had not known before.” Then why does he say in reply, “What is that instruction?” Surely Mr. Nehemiah Goreh knew that the instruction which the father refers to, is the instruction regarding Brahman, and that in all which follows the father tries to lead his son by slow degrees to a knowledge of Brahman. Now that Brahman is called again and again “that which cannot be seen, cannot be heard, cannot be perceived, cannot be conceived,” in the ordinary sense of these words; can be learnt, in fact, from the Veda only. It was in order to bring out this meaning that I translated asrutam not by “not heard,” but by “not hearable,” or, in better English, by “what cannot be heard.”
Any classical scholar knows how often we must translate invictus by invincible, and how Latin tolerates even invictissimus, which we could never render in English by “the most unconquered,” but “the unconquerable.” English idiom, therefore, and common sense required that avigñâta should be translated, not by inconceived, but by inconceivable, if the translation was to be faithful, and was to give to the reader a correct idea of the original.
Let us now examine some other translations,to see whether the translators were satisfied with translating literally, or whether they attempted to translate thoughtfully.
Anquetil Duperron's translation, being in Latin, cannot help us much. He translates: “Non auditum, auditum fiat; et non scitum, scitum; et non cogniturn, cognitum.”
Rajendralal Mitra translates: “Have you enquired of your tutor about that subject which makes the unheard-of heard, the unconsidered considered, and the unsettled settled?”
He evidently knew that Brahman was intended, but his rendering of the three verbs is not exact.
Mr. Gough (p. 43) translates: “Hast thou asked for that instruction by which the unheard becomes heard, the unthought thought, the unknown known?”
But now let us consult a scholar who, in a very marked degree, always was a thoughtful translator, who felt a real interest in the subject, and therefore was never satisfied with mere words, however plausible. The late Dr. Ballantyne, in his translation of the Vedânta-Sâra, had occasion to translate this passage from the Khândogya-upanishad, and how did he translate it? “The eulogizing of the subject is the glorifying of what is set forth in this or that section (of the Veda); as, for example, in that same section, the sixth chapter of the Khândogya-upanishad, the glorifying of the Real, besides whom there is nought else, in the following terms: ‘Thou, O disciple, hast asked for that instruction whereby the unheard-of becomes heard, the inconceivable becomes conceived, and the unknowable becomes thoroughly known.’”
Dr. Ballantyne therefore felt exactly what I felt, that in our passage a strictly literal translation would be wrong, would convey no meaning, or a wrong meaning; and Mr. Nehemiah Goreh will see that he ought not to express blame, without trying to find out whether those whom he blames for want of exactness, were not in reality more scrupulously exact in their translation than he has proved himself to be.
Mr. Nehemiah Goreh has, no doubt, great advantages in interpreting the Upanishads, and when he writes without any theological bias, his remarks are often very useful. Thus he objects rightly, I think, to my translation of a sentence in the same chapter of the Khândogya-upanishad, where the father, in answer to his son's question, replies: “Sad eva, Somya, idam agra âsîd ekam evâdvitîyam.” I had tried several translations of these words, and yet I see now that the one I proposed in the end is liable to be misunderstood. I had translated. “In the beginning, my dear, there was that only which is, one only, without a second!” The more faithful translation would have been: “The being alone was this in the beginning.” But “the being” does not mean in English that which is, [tò hón], and therefore, to avoid any misunderstanding, I translated “that which is.” I might have said, however, “The existent, the real, the true (satyam) was this in the beginning,” just as in the Aitareya-upanishad we read: “The Self was all this, one alone, in the beginning.” But in that case I should have sacrificed the gender, and this in our passage is of great importance, being neuter, and not masculine.
What, however, is far more important, and where Mr. Nehemiah Goreh seems to me to have quite misapprehended the original Sanskrit, is this, that sat, [tò hón], and âtmâ, the Self, are the subjects in these sentences, and not predicates. Now Mr. Nehemiah Goreh translates: “This was the existent one itself before, one only without a second;” and he explains: “This universe, before it was developed in the present form, was the existent one, Brahma, itself.” This cannot be. If “idam,” this, i.e. the visible world, were the subject, how could the Upanishad go on and say, “tad aikshata bahu syâm pragâyeyeti tat tego 'srigata,” “that thought, may I be many, may I grow forth. It sent forth fire.” This can be said of the Sat only, that is, the Brahman. Sat, therefore, is the subject, not idam, for a Vedântist may well say that Brahman is the world, or sent forth the world, but not that the world, which is a mere illusion, was, in the beginning, Brahman.
This becomes clearer still in another passage, Maitr. Up. VI, 17, where we read: “Brahma ha vâ idam agra âsîd eko 'nantah,” “In the beginning Brahman was all this. He was one, and infinite.” Here the transition from the neuter to the masculine gender shows that Brahman only can be the subject, both in the first and in the second sentence.
In English it may seem to make little difference whether we say, “Brahman was this,” or “this was Brahman.” In Sanskrit too we find, Brahma khalv idam vâva sarvam, “Brahman indeed is all this”(Maitr. Up. IV, 6), and Sarvam khalv idam Brahma, “all this is Brahman indeed” (Khând. Up. III, 14, I). But the logical meaning is always that Brahman was all this, i.e. all that we see now, Brahman being the subject, idam the predicate. Brahman becomes idam, not idam Brahman.
Thus the Pañkadasî, I, 18, says:
Ekâdasendriyair yuktyâ sâstrenâpy avagamyate Yâvat kimkid bhaved etad idamsabdoditam gagat,
which Mr. A. Venis (Pandit, V, p. 667) translates: “Whatever may be apprehended through the eleven organs, by argument and revelation, i.e. the world of phenomena, is expressed by the word idam, this.” The Pankadasî then goes on:
Idam sarvarn purâ srishter ekam evâdvitâyakam Sad evâsîn nâmarûpe nâstâm ity Âruner vakah.
This Mr. Venis translates: “Previous to creation, all this was the existent (sat), one only without a second: name and form were not:—this is the declaration of the son of Aruna.”
This is no doubt a translation grammatically correct, but from the philosophical standpoint of the Vedânta, what is really meant is that before the srishti (which is not creation, but the sending forth of the world, and the sending forth of it, not as something real, but as a mere illusion), the Real alone, i.e. the Brahman, was, instead of this, i.e. instead of this illusory world. The illusion was not, but the Real, i.e. Brahman, was. What became, or what seemed to change, was Brahman, and therefore the only possible subject, logically, is Brahman, everything else being a predicate, and a phenomenal predicate only.
If I were arguing with a European, not with an Indian scholar, I should venture to go even a step further, and try to prove that the idam, in this and similar sentences, does not mean this, i.e. this world, but that originally it was intended as an adverb, meaning now, or here. This use of idam, unsuspected by native scholars, is very frequent in Vedic literature, and instances may be seen in Boehtlingk's Dictionary. In that case the translation would be: “The real ([tò hón ]), O friend, was here in the beginning.” This meaning of idam, however, would apply only to the earliest utterances of ancient Brahmavâdins, while in later times idam was used and understood in the sense of all that is seen, the visible universe, just as iyarn by itself is used in the sense of the earth.
However, difficulties of this kind may be overcome, if once we have arrived at a clear conception of the general drift of the Upanishads. The real difficulties are of a very different character. They consist in the extraordinary number of passages which seem to us utterly meaningless and irrational, or, at all events, so far-fetched that we can hardly believe that the same authors who can express the deepest thoughts on religion and philosophy with clearness, nay, with a kind of poetical eloquence, could have uttered in the same breath such utter rubbish. Some of the sacrificial technicalities, and their philosophical interpretations with which the Upanishads abound, may perhaps in time assume a clearer meaning, when we shall have more fully mastered the intricacies of the Vedic ceremonial. But there will always remain in the Upanishads a vast amount of what we can only call meaningless jargon, and for the presence of which in these ancient mines of thought I, for my own part, feel quite unable to account. “Yes,” a friend of mine wrote to me, after reading some of the Sacred Books of the East, “you are right, how tremendously ahead of other sacred books is the Bible. The difference strikes one as almost unfairly great.” So it does, no doubt. But some of the most honest believers and admirers of the Bible have expressed a similar disappointment, because they had formed their ideas of what a Sacred Book ought to be, theoretically, not historically. The Rev. J. M. Wilson, in his excellent Lectures on the Theory of Inspiration, p. 32, writes: “The Bible is so unlike what you would expect; it does not consist of golden sayings and rules of life; give explanations of the philosophical and social problems of the past, the present, and the future; contain teachings immeasurably unlike those of any other book; but it contains history, ritual, legislation, poetry, dialogue, prophecy, memoirs, and letters; it contains much that is foreign to your idea of what a revelation ought to be. But this is not all. There is not only much that is foreign, but much that is opposed, to your preconceptions. The Jews tolerated slavery, polygamy, and other customs and cruelties of imperfect civilisation. There are the vindictive psalms, too, with their bitter hatred against enemies—psalms which we chant in our churches. How can we do so? There are stories of immorality, of treachery, of crime. How can we read them?” Still the Bible has been and is a truly sacred, because a truly historical book, for there is nothing more sacred in this world than the history of man, in his search after his highest ideals. All ancient books which have once been called sacred by man, will have their lasting place in the history of mankind, and those who possess the courage, the perseverance, and the self-denial of the true miner, and of the true scholar, will find even in the darkest and dustiest shafts what they are seeking for—real nuggets of thought, and precious jewels of faith and hope.
The Katha-upanishad is probably more widely known than any other Upanishad. It formed part of the Persian translation, was rendered into English by Râmmohun Roy, and has since been frequently quoted by English, French, and German writers as one of the most perfect specimens of the mystic philosophy and poetry of the ancient Hindus.
It was in the year 1845 that I first copied at Berlin the text of this Upanishad, the commentary of Sankara (MS. 127 Chambers), and the gloss of Gopâlayogin (MS. 224 Chambers). The text and commentary of Sankara and the gloss of Ânandagiri have since been edited by Dr. Roer in the Bibliotheca Indica, with translation and notes. There are other translations, more or less perfect, by Râmmohun Roy, Windischmann, Poley, Weber, Muir, Regnaud, Gough, and others. But there still remained many difficult and obscure portions, and I hope that in some at least of the passages where I differ from my predecessors, not excepting Sankara, I may have succeeded in rendering the original meaning of the author more intelligible than it has hitherto been.
The text of the Katha-upanishad is in some MSS. ascribed to the Yagur-veda. In the Chambers MS. of the commentary also it is said to belong to that Veda, and in the Muktikopanisbad it stands first among the Upanishads of the Black Yagur-veda. According to Colebrooke (Miscellaneous Essays, 1, 96, note) it is referred to the Sâma-veda also. Generally, however, it is counted as one of the Âtharvana Upanishads.
The reason why it is ascribed to the Yagur-veda, is probably because the legend of Nakiketas occurs in the Brâhmana of the Taittirîya Yagur-veda. Here we read (III, 1, 8):
Vâgasravasa, wishing for rewards, sacrificed all his wealth. He had a son, called Nakiketas. While he was still a boy, faith entered into him at the time when the cows that were to be given (by his father) as presents to the priests, were brought in. He said: “Father, to whom wilt thou give me?” He said so a second and third time. The father turned round and said to him: “To Death, I give thee.”
Then a voice said to the young Gautama, as he stood up: “He (thy father) said, Go away to the house of Death, I give thee to Death.” Go therefore to Death when he is not at home, and dwell in his house for three nights without eating. If he should ask thee, “Boy, how many nights hast thou been here?” say, “Three.” When he asks thee, “What didst thou eat the first night?” say, “Thy offspring.” “What didst thou eat the second night?” say, “Thy cattle.” “What didst thou eat the third night?” say, “Thy good works.”
He went to Death, while he was away from home, and he dwelt in his house for three nights without eating. When Death returned, he asked: “Boy, how many nights hast thou been here?” He answered: “Three.” “What didst thou eat the first night?” “Thy offspring.”, “What didst thou eat the second night?” “Thy cattle.” “What didst thou eat the third night?” “Thy good works.”
Then he said: “My respect to thee, O venerable sir! Choose a boon.”
“May I return living to my father,” he said.
“Choose a second boon.”
“Tell me how my good works may never perish.”
Then he explained to him this Nâkiketa fire (sacrifice), and hence his good works do not perish.
“Choose a third boon.”
“Tell me the conquest of death again.”
Then he explained to him this (chief) Nâkiketa fire (sacrifice), and hence he conquered death again.
This story, which in the Brâhmana is told in order to explain the name of a certain sacrificial ceremony called Nâkiketa, was used as a peg on which to hang the doctrines of the Upanishad. In its original form it may have constituted one Adhyâya only, and the very fact of its division into two Adhyâyas may show that the compilers of the Upanishad were still aware of its gradual origin. We have no means, however, of determining its original form, nor should we even be justified in maintaining that the first Adhyâya ever existed by itself, and that the second was added at a much later time. Whatever its component elements may have been before it was an Upanishad, when it was an Upanishad it consisted of six Vallîs, neither more nor less.
The name of vallî, lit. creeper, as a subdivision of a Vedic work, is important. It occurs again in the Taittirîya Upanishads. Professor Weber thinks that vallî, creeper, in the sense of chapter, is based on a modern metaphor, and was primarily intended for a creeper, attached to the sikhâs or branches of the Veda. More likely, however, it was used in the same sense as parvan, a joint, a shoot, a branch, i.e. a division.
Various attempts have been made to distinguish the more modern from the more ancient portions of our Upanishad. No doubt there are peculiarities of metre, grammar, language, and thought which indicate the more primitive or the more modern character of certain verses. There are repetitions which offend us, and there are several passages which are clearly taken over from other Upanishads, where they seem to have had their original place. Thirty-five years ago, when I first worked at this Upanishad, I saw no difficulty in re-establishing what I thought the original text of the Upanishad must have been. I now feel that we know so little of the time and the circumstances when these half-prose and half-metrical Upanishads were first put together, that I should hesitate before expunging even the most modern-sounding lines from the original context of these Vedântic essays.
The mention of Dhâtri, creator, for instance (Kath. Up. II, 20), is certainly startling, and seems to have given rise to a very early conjectural emendation. But dhâtri and vidhâtri occur in the hymns of the Rig-veda (X, 82, 2), and in the Upanishads (Maitr. Up. VI, 8); and Dhâtri, as almost a personal deity, is invoked with Pragâpati in Rig-veda X, 184, I. Deva, in the sense of God (Kath. Up. II, 12), is equally strange, but occurs in other Upanishads also (Maitr. Up. VI, 23; Svetâsv. Up. I, 3). Much might be said about setu, bridge (Kath. Up. III, 2; Mund. Up. II, 2, 5), âdarsa, mirror (Kath. Up.VI, 5), as being characteristic of a later age. But setu is not a bridge, in our sense of the word, but rather a wall, a bank, a barrier, and occurs frequently in other Upanishads (Maitr. Up. VII. 7; Khând. Up. VIII, 4; Brih. Up. IV, 4, 22, &c.), while âdarsas, or mirrors, are mentioned in the Brihadâranyaka and the Srauta-sûtras. Till we know something more about the date of the first and the last composition or compilation of the Upanishads, how are we to tell what subjects and what ideas the first author or the last collector was familiar with? To attempt the impossible may seem courageous, but it is hardly scholarlike.
With regard to faulty or irregular readings, we can never know whether they are due to the original composers, the compilers, the repeaters, or lastly the writers of the Upanishads. It is easy to say that adresya (Mund. Up. I, 1, 6) ought to be adrisya; but who would venture to correct that form? Whenever that verse is quoted, it is quoted with adresya, not adrisya. The commentators themselves tell us sometimes that certain forms are either Vedic or due to carelessness (pramâdapâtha); but that very fact shows that such a form, for instance, as samîyâta (Khând. Up. I, 12, 3) rests on an old authority.
No doubt, if we have the original text of an author, and can prove that his text was corrupted by later compilers or copyists or printers, we have a right to remove those later alterations, whether they be improvements or corruptions. But where, as in our case, we can never hope to gain access to original documents, and where we can only hope, by pointing out what is clearly more modem than the rest or, it may be, faulty, to gain an approximate conception of what the original composer may have had in his mind, before handing his composition over to the safe keeping of oral tradition, it is almost a duty to discourage, as much as lies in our power, the work of reconstructing an old text by so-called conjectural emendations or critical omissions.
I have little doubt, for instance, that the three verses 16-18 in the first Vallî of the Katha-upanishad are later additions, but I should not therefore venture to remove them. Death had granted three boons to Nakiketas, and no more. In a later portion, however, of the Upanishad (II, 3), the expression srinkâ vittamayî occurs, which I have translated by “the road which leads to wealth.” As it is said that Nakiketas did not choose that srinkâ, some reader must have supposed that a srinkâ was offered him by Death. Srinkâ, however, meant commonly a string or necklace, and hence arose the idea that Death must have offered a necklace as an additional gift to Nakiketas. Besides this, there was another honour done to Nakiketas by Mrityu, namely, his allowing the sacrifice which he had taught him, to be called by his name. This also, it was supposed, ought to have been distinctly mentioned before, and hence the insertion of the three verses 16-18. They are clumsily put in, for after “punar evâha,” “he said again,” verse 16 ought not to have commenced by tam abravît, “he said to him.” They contain nothing new, for the fact that the sacrifice is to be called after Nakiketas was sufficiently indicated by verse 19, “This, O Nakiketas, is thy fire which leads to heaven, which thou hast chosen as thy second boon.” But so anxious was the interpolator to impress upon his hearers the fact that the sacrifice should in future go by that name, that, in spite of the metre, he inserted tavaiva, “of thee alone,” in verse 19.
 See Deussen,Vedânta, Einleitung, p. 38. Sankara occasionally refers also to the Paingi, Agnimhasya, Gâbâla, and Nârâyanîya Upanishads.
 Deussen, loc. cit. p. 82.
 I state this on the authority of Professor Cowell. See also Fitzedward Hall, Index to the Bibliography of the Indian Philosophical Systems, pp. 116 and 236.
 They have been published by Dr. Roer in the Bibliotheca Indica.
 Dr. Weber's statement that Sankara wrote a commentary on the Kaushîtaki-upanishad has been corrected by Deussen, loc. cit. p. 39.
 See Deussen, loc. cit. p. 39.
 A long list of works ascribed to Sankara may be seen in Regnaud, Philosophie de I'Inde, p. 34, chiefly taken from Fitzedward Hall's Index of Indian Philosophical Systems.
 See Tarkaratna's Vigñâpana, p. 3, 1. 5.
 India, What can it teach us? p. 360.
 Mr. Nehemiah Goreh writes aprâkshyo, and this is no doubt the reading adopted by Roer in his edition of the Khândogya-upanishad in the Bibliotheca Indica, p. 384. In Sankara's commentary also the same form is given. Still grammar requires aprâksho.
 The Pañkadasî (I, 20) distinguishes between manas and buddhi, by saying, mano vimarsarûpam syâd buddhih syân niskâyatmikâ, which places the difference between the two rather in the degree of certainty, ascribing deliberation to manas, decision to buddhi.
 In the Vedânta-Sara, Sadânanda lays great stress on the fact that in this very chapter of the Khândogya-upanishad, the principal subject of the whole chapter is mentioned both in the beginning and in the end. Tatra prakaranapratipâdyasyarthasya tadâdyantayor upâdânam upakramasamhâram. Yathâ Khândogyashashthaprapâthake prakaranapratipâdyansyadvitîyavastuna ekam evâdvitîyam (VI, 2, 1) ityâdâv aitadâtmyam idam sarvam (VI, 16, 3) ity ante ka pratipâdanam. “The beginning with and ending with” imply that the matter to be declared in any given section is declared both at the beginning and at the end thereof:—as, for instance, in the sixth section of the Khândogya-upanishad, “the Real, besides which there is nought else”—which is to be explained in that section—is declared at the outset in the terms, “One only, without a second,” and at the end in the terms “All this consists of That.”
 Vedânta-Sâra, No. 118, tatraivâdvitîyavastuno mânântarâvishayîkaranam.
 See Mund. Up. I, 1, 6, adresyam agrâhyam.
 Lecture on the Vedânta, embracing the text of the Vedânta-Sâra, Allababad, 1851, p. 69. Vedântasâra, with Nrisimha-Sarasvatî's Subodhinî and Râmatîrtha's Vidvanmanorañginî, Calcutta, 1860, p. 89. Here we find the right reading, aprâkshah.
 Âtmâ vâ idam eka evâgra âsît.
 Sankara says (p. 398, 1. 5): “ekam evâdvitîyam paramârthata idam buddhikâle 'pi tat sad aikshata.”
 MS. 133 is a mere copy of MS. 127.
 Yagurvede Kathavallîbhâshyam.
 The commentator explains punar-mrityu as the death that follows after the present inevitable death.
 History of Indian Literature, p. 93, note; p. 157.
 Though it would be unfair to hold Professor Weber responsible for his remarks on this and other questions connected with the Upanishads published many years ago (Indische Studien, 1853, p. 197), and though I have hardly ever thought it necessary to criticise them, some of his remarks are not without their value even now.
 See Regnaud, Le Pessimisme Brahmanique, Annales du Musée Guimet, 1880; tom. i, p. 101.