the lotus expanding itself to the rosy touch of the morning sun—so beautifully blooming, so exquisitely fragrant, so overflowing with honey, so resplendent; neither closing nor lacking moisture, and 'clothed with transcendent brightness.' The rays of the sun are beaten off by the expanded leaves, yet its face ever beams with a smile. O reader, have you ever witnessed 'beauty's splendour'? You may at least have heard of such a thing. Many a fair one illumines all round with her beauty. The daughter-in-law of many a man illumines his home. In the land of Vraja[1] and in the war of Nisumbha,[2] the world was ablaze with dark lustre. But has the gentle reader now understood what I mean by 'beauty's splendour'? Bimala shined in beauty but her light was that of the pradipa,[3] somewhat dim, wanting oil, though sufficient for domestic use; it can light you from room to room; with it you can cook your food, prepare your bed &c; but you must not touch it, on pain of being burnt. Tilottama too shined in beauty but her light was like the soft rays of the crescent moon—pure, balmy, cool, but ill fitted for daily use, not powerful and coming from afar. Aesha shined in beauty, and it was the full effulgence of the mid-day sun,—flaming, darting myriads of rays and imprinting a laugh on whatever it fell.
What the lotus is to the garden is Aesha to this story; and I am therefore anxious to make the reader realize her form and face. Were I gifted with a cunning pencil—could I prepare that color—not champaka-like, nor red, nor yet like the unblown white lotus, but a happy mixture of all three—could
