bosom, and a gold-flowered net thrown back
from her beautiful brow, showing the black
eye tinged with a deeper blue than even that
which the shade of the long lashes throw on
her cheek—such are their earthly adornments.
Their couch is embroidered in gold
and gems, representing birds, and trees, and
flowers, with almost the vividness of Nature;
her hands and feet are died rose red—the
"crimson of consent," the "lotos mark," so
often sung by the poets, and met with in
every description of Indian beauty; and they
are covered with gems that glitter in the
light. On his head, Seshnaga, the thousand
headed snake, and now striped blue and
white, is coiled into a beautiful turban round
his yellow locks; the multiple heads make a
pretty centre ornament; and, as the thousand
eyes move restlessly about, they seem like
strings of diamonds set over with pearls and
sapphires. There, and thus, they sit; Parvati
leaning fondly on her Lord's bosom, and every
now and then giving him to drink of the
amrita (the ambrosia of Hindûsthan)—the
immortal and divine drink of the gods—from
a cup of gold, jewelled like all the rest. But
they are not alone in their paradise. As
their guests, may be seen, Vishnû, seated
on his vahan or vehicle—Garuda, the
cherub-formed, with the body of an eagle;
Ganesa, elephantine and wise; and the Hindû
god-of-arms, the young hero Carteciya, both
sons of Mahadevi; and they fan him with the
long white ox-tails, used to this day in the
courts of the dusky Indian princes. And
before the divine pair, Apsaras sing to their
lutes, and play ravishing music, more
exquisite than even the unearthly strains of
Orpheus, which charmed the very dead to
life again. The lotos and the clustering blossoms
of the voluble "asocæ" wave under the
fresh airs, which others of the nymphs create
by their large peacock-fans; and Parvati's
long hair flows adorned around, rippling into
light curls, as the feathers brush past it;
and she flings it back with her rosy fingers,
dipping them for coolness in the fountains
that plash up from the eternal source of
waters. The amra-flower, which tips one of
the five darts of love, grows in profusion
round the crimson couch—birds sing in the
blue clouds—waters dance in the golden light
—music, beauty, youth, flowers—the luscious
drops of the drink of the Gods—make up
Mahadevi's heaven. Was the island of Calypso
more beautiful than the gardens of Kailysa?
—were the fields of Asphodel more lovely
than the home of Parvati? If the Elysian
plains, foreshadowed in this paradise, had
been translated into Hindû, and if Kailysa
had been rhythmed in Greek, men would not
have been long at a loss which to choose; the
glowing, vivid, living forms of the one against
the pale, calm statuesque, though so noble
images of the other.

But to return to Brahma, the chief subject
of this present mythological memoir.

The enmity between Brahma and Siva still
continued; as when did not matter and spirit,
creation and destruction, the beginning and
time, war ever in this world! It was carried
even into their mortal shapes, where it had
disastrous consequences enough. Brahma was
incorporated once in the form of Dachsha—
sometimes called himself, sometimes his son.
Dachsha partook of the original nature of
boastfulness; swaggering about this world of
men, as much as Brahma before him had
swaggered over the illimitable body of
Mahadeva. In full assembly, one day, he affirmed
that he was the supreme ruler of mankind;
the god-parliament rose up and did him
honour on the strength of the assertion.
Mahadevi, who had had a taste of the Brahma
characteristics before, was indignant at this
continued lying; he kept his seat, bit his
thumb, knit his brow, and looked in a general
state of bile and discontent. Dachsha
resented the blue-throated God's contumacy,
cursing him in his human shape, and wishing
that he might remain a vagabond for ever on
the face of the earth. He ordered, also, that
he should be avoided by all well-disposed
citizens, and deprived of his share of the sacrifices
and offerings. Mahadevi threw back the
gracious sentence, and a terrible affray took
place. The gods were alarmed, and the
"three worlds" (heaven, earth and hell)
trembled: at last the combatants were
separated, and a Punic faith established between
them. To cement the truce, Dachsha gave
his daughter Sati in marriage to Mahadevi,
and for a time "things went merry as a
wedding-bell."

Now Srideva, the wife of Dachsha, had
no son. She had one hundred and one
daughters, but never a male among them—
all "lotos-bearers," no warriors nor sages.
Deeply lamenting, she and her husband
Dachsha convened a general assembly of the
gods and men to make a solemn sacrifice
and prayer. Mahadevi alone was left out
of the invitation cards, in pursuance of the
general system of "spiteing" carried on
between the two. Now Mahadevi was not
small-minded; he cared nothing for the
affront, and would have let it pass by, quietly
enough, but for Sati. She, though Dachsha's
own daughter, was excessively angry; and
in spite of all her husband's remonstrances,
persisted in her intention of going to the fête
masked. Like a malignant fairy, she sped
through the air, gained the assembly just at
the most important moment, and flung herself
into the sacrificial fire at the very instant
when the vow was to be fulfilled. Mahadevi
had a dim sense of decorum, and a proper
respect for his creed. To punish the
sacrilegious goddess, he cursed her to a
transmigration of one thousand years. Poor Sati's
body fell lifeless to the ground, while her soul
flew upward, calling "cuckoo! cuckoo!" in the
shape of a pretty little Pica. Mahadevi
became a Pica to please her, and so they flew