Kathasaritsagara (the Ocean of Story)

by Somadeva | 1924 | 1,023,469 words | ISBN-13: 9789350501351

This is the English translation of the Kathasaritsagara written by Somadeva around 1070. The principle story line revolves around prince Naravāhanadatta and his quest to become the emperor of the Vidhyādharas (‘celestial beings’). The work is one of the adoptations of the now lost Bṛhatkathā, a great Indian epic tale said to have been composed by ...

[M] (main story line continued) THEN Naravāhanadatta, having obtained that new bride, Lalitalocanā, sported with her on that very Malaya mountain, delightful on account of the first burst of spring, in various forest purlieus adorned with flowering trees.

And in one grove his beloved, in the course of gathering flowers, disappeared out of his sight into a dense thicket; and while he was wandering on, he saw a great tank with clear water, that, on account of the flowers fallen from the trees on its banks, resembled the heaven studded with stars.[1]

And he thought:

“I will wait until my beloved, who is gathering flowers, returns to me; and in the meanwhile I will bathe in this lake and rest for a little upon its bank.”

So he bathed and worshipped the gods, and then he sat down on a slab of rock in the shade of a sandalwood-tree. While sitting there he thought of his beloved Madanamañcukā, who was so far off, beholding the gait of the female swans that rivalled hers, and hearing the singing of the female cuckoos in the mango-creepers that equalled hers, and seeing the eyes of the does that recalled hers to his mind. And as soon as he recollected her, the fire of love sprang up in his breast, and tortured him so that he fainted; and at that moment a glorious hermit came there to bathe, whose name was Piśaṅgajaṭa. He, seeing the prince in such a state, sprinkled him with sandal-water, refreshing as the touch of his beloved. Then he recovered consciousness and bowed before the hermit. But the hermit said to him:

“My son, in order that you may obtain your wish, acquire endurance, for by means of that quality everything is acquired. And in order that you may understand this, come to my hermitage and hear the story of Mṛgāṅkadatta, if you have not already heard it.”

When the hermit had said this, he bathed and took the prince to his hermitage, and quickly performed his daily prayers. And Piśaṅgajaṭa entertained him there with fruits, and ate fruits himself, and then he began to tell him this tale of Mṛgāṅkadatta.


163. Story of Mṛgāṅkadatta [2]

There is a city of the name of Ayodhyā famous in the three worlds. In it there lived in old time a king named Amaradatta. He was of resplendent brightness, and he had a wife named Surataprabhā, who was as closely knit to him as the oblation to the fire.[3] By her there was born to him a son named Mṛgāṅkadatta, who was adored for his ten million virtues, as his bow was bent by the string reaching the notches.[4]

And that young prince had ten ministers of his own: Pracaṇḍaśakti and Sthūlabāhu, and Vikramakeśarin, and Dṛḍhamuṣṭi, and Meghabala and Bhīmaparākrama, and Vimalabuddhi, and Vyāghrasena and Guṇākara, and the tenth, Vicitrakatha. They were all of good birth, young, brave and wise, and devoted to their master’s interests. And Mṛgāṅkadatta led a happy life with them in his father’s house, but he did not obtain a suitable wife.

And one day his minister Bhīmaparākrama said to him in secret:

“Hear, Prince, what happened to me in the night. I went to sleep last night on the roof of the palace, and I saw in a dream a lion, with claws terrible as the thunderbolt, rushing upon me. I rose up, sword in hand, and then the lion began to flee, and I pursued him at my utmost speed. He crossed a river, and stuck out his long tongue[5] at me, and I cut it off with my sword. And I made use of it to cross that river, for it was as broad as a bridge. And thereupon the lion became a deformed giant.

I asked him who he was, and the giant said:

‘I am a Vetāla, and I am delighted with your courage, my brave fellow.’

Then I said to him:

‘If this is the case, then tell me who is to be the wife of my master Mṛgāṅkadatta.’

When I said this to the Vetāla, he answered:

‘There is in Ujjayinī a king named Karmasena. He has a daughter, who in beauty surpasses the Apsarases, being, as it were, the receptacle of the Creator’s handiwork in the form of loveliness. Her name is Śaśāṅkavatī, and she shall be his wife, and by gaining her he shall become king of the whole earth.’

When the Vetāla had said this he disappeared, and I came home: this is what happened to me in the night, my sovereign.”

When Mṛgāṅkadatta heard this from Bhīmaparākrama, he summoned all his ministers, and had it told to them, and then he said:

“Hear what I too saw in a dream. I thought we all entered a certain wood; and in it, being thirsty with travelling, we reached with difficulty some water; and when we wished to drink it, five armed men rose up and tried to prevent us. We killed them, and then in the torments of our thirst we again turned to drink the water, but lo! neither the men nor the water were to be seen. Then we were in a miserable state; but on a sudden we saw the god Śiva come there, mounted on his bull, resplendent with the moon on his forehead; we bent before him in prayer, and he dropped from his right eye a teardrop on the ground. That became a sea, and I drew from it a splendid pearl necklace and fastened it round my neck. And I drank up that sea in a human skull stained with blood. And immediately I awoke, and lo! the night was at an end.”

When Mṛgāṅkadatta had described this wonderful sight that he had seen in his dream, the other ministers rejoiced, but Vimalabuddhi said:

“You are fortunate, Prince, in that Śiva has shown you this favour. As you obtained the necklace and drank up the sea, you shall without fail obtain Śaśāṅkavatī and rule the whole earth. But the rest of the dream indicates some slight amount of misfortune.”

When Vimalabuddhi had said this, Mṛgāṅkadatta again said to his ministers:

“Although the fulfilment of my dream will no doubt come to pass in the way which my friend Bhīmaparākrama heard predicted by the Vetāla, still I must win from that Karmasena, who confides in his army and his forts, his daughter Śaśāṅkavatī by force of policy. And the force of policy is the best instrument in all understanding. Now listen, I will tell you a story to prove this.


163a. King Bhadrabāhu and his Clever Minister

There was a king in Magadha named Bhadrabāhu. He had a minister named Mantragupta, most sagacious of men. That king once said of his own accord to that minister:

“The King of Vārāṇasī, named Dharmagopa, has a daughter named Anaṅgalīlā, the chief beauty of the three worlds. I have often asked for her in marriage, but out of hostility that king will not give her to me. And he is a formidable foe, on account of his possessing an elephant named Bhadradanta. Still I cannot bear to live any longer without that daughter of his. So I have no measure which I can adopt in this business. Tell me, my friend, what I am to do.”

When the king said this, his minister answered him:

“Why, King, do you suppose that courage and not policy ensures success? Dismiss your anxiety; I will manage the matter for you by my own ingenuity.”

So, the next day, the minister set out for Vārāṇasī, disguised as a Pāśupata ascetic, and he took six or seven companions with him, who were disguised as his pupils,[6] and they told all the people, who came together from all quarters to adore him, that he possessed supernatural powers. Then, as he was roaming about one night to find out some means of accomplishing his object, he saw in the distance the wife of the keeper of the elephants leave her house, going along quickly through fear, escorted in some direction or other by three or four armed men.

He at once said to himself:

“Surely this lady is eloping somewhere, so I will see where she is going.”

So he followed her with his attendants. And he observed from a distance the house into which she went, and then he returned to his own lodging.

And the next day, as the elephant-keeper was wandering about in search of his wife, who had gone off with his wealth, the minister contrived to send his own followers to meet him. They found that he had just swallowed poison because he could not find his wife, and they counteracted by their knowledge the effect of the poison, pretending that they did it out of pure compassion. And they said to him, “Come to our teacher, for he is a seer and knows everything”; and so they brought him to the minister. And the elephant-keeper fell at the feet of the minister, who was rendered more majestic by the insignia of his vow, and asked him for news of his wife. The minister pretended to meditate, and after a time told him the place where she was taken by the strange men at night, with all the signs by which he might recognise it. Then the elephant-keeper bowed again before him, and went with a host of guards and surrounded that place. And he killed those wicked men who had carried off his wife, and recovered her, together with her ornaments and his wealth.

And the next day he went and bowed before, and praised, that supposed seer, and invited him to an entertainment. And as the minister did not wish to enter a house, and said that he must eat at night, he made an entertainment for him at nightfall in the elephant-stables. So the minister went there and feasted with his followers, taking with him a concealed serpent, that he had by means of a charm got to enter the hollow of a bamboo. Then the elephant-keeper went away, and, while the others were asleep, the minister introduced, by means of the bamboo, the serpent into the ear of the elephant Bhadradanta, while it was asleep. And he spent the night there, and in the morning went back to Magadha, his native land. But the elephant died from the bite of the snake.

When the clever minister returned, having smitten down the elephant as if it were the pride of that King Dharmagopa, the King Bhadrabāhu was in ecstasies. Then he sent off an ambassador to Vārāṇasī to ask for the hand of Anaṅgalīlā. The king, who was helpless from the loss of his elephant, gave her to him; for kings, who know times and seasons, bend like canes, if it is expedient to do so.


163. Story of Mṛgāṅkadatta

“So, by the sagacity of that minister Mantragupta, the King Bhadrabāhu obtained Anaṅgalīlā. And in the same way I must obtain that wife by wisdom.”

When Mṛgāṅkadatta said this, his minister Vicitrakatha said to him:

“You will succeed in all by the favour of Śiva which was promised you in a dream. What will not the effective favour of the gods accomplish? Hear in proof of it the story I am now going to tell.


163b. Puṣkarākṣa and Vinayavatī

There was in the city of Takṣaśilā a king of the name of Bhadrākṣa. He, desiring a son, was worshipping Lakṣmī every day with one hundred and eight[7] white lotuses upon a sword. One day, as the king was worshipping her without breaking silence, he happened to count the lotuses mentally, and found that there was one missing. He then gave the goddess the lotus of his heart spitted on the sword, and she was pleased and granted him a boon that would ensure his having a son that would rule the whole earth. And she healed the wound of the king and disappeared. Then there was born a son to the king by his queen, and he possessed all the auspicious marks. And the king called him Puṣkarākṣa, because he obtained him by the gift of the lotus of his heart. And when the son, in course of time, grew up to manhood, Bhadrākṣa anointed him king, as he possessed great virtues, and himself repaired to the forest.

Puṣkarākṣa, for his part, having obtained the kingdom, kept worshipping Śiva every day, and one day, at the end of his worship, he asked him to bestow on him a wife.

Then he heard a voice come from heaven, saying:

“My son, thou shalt obtain all thy desire.”

Then he remained in a happy state, as he had now a good hope of success. And it happened that one day he went to a wood inhabited by wild beasts, to amuse himself with hunting. There he saw a camel about to eat two snakes entwined together, and in his grief he killed the camel.

The camel immediately became a Vidyādhara, abandoning its camel body, and, being pleased, said to Puṣkarākṣa: “You have done me a benefit. So hear what I have to tell you.

“There is, King, a mighty Vidyādhara named Raṅkumālin. And a beautiful maiden of the Vidyādhara race, named Tārāvalī, who admired good looks, saw him and fell in love with him, and chose him for her husband.[8] And then her father, angry because they had married without consulting anything but their own inclination, laid on them a curse that would separate them for some time. Then the couple, Tārāvalī and Raṅkumālin, sported, with ever-growing love, in various regions belonging to them.

“But one day, in consequence of that curse, they lost sight of one another in a wood, and were separated. Then Tārāvalī, in her search for her husband, at last reached a forest on the other side of the western sea, inhabited by a hermit of supernatural powers. There she saw a large jambu tree in flower, which seemed compassionately to console her with the sweet buzzing of its bees. And she took the form of a bee, and sat down on it to rest, and began to drink the honey of a flower. And immediately she saw her husband, from whom she had been so long separated, come there, and she bedewed that flower with a tear of joy. And she abandoned the body of a bee, and went and united herself to her husband Raṅkumālin, who had come there in search of her, as the moonlight is united to the moon.

“Then she went with him to his home: but from the jambu flower bedewed with her tear[9] a fruit was produced.[10] And in course of time a maiden was produced inside the fruit. Now once on a time the hermit, who was named Vijitāsu, was wandering about in search of fruits and roots, and came there; and that fruit, being ripe, fell from the jambu tree and broke, and a heavenly maiden came out of it, and respectfully bowing, saluted the feet of that hermit. That hermit, who possessed divine insight, when he beheld her, at once knew her true history, and being astonished, took her to his hermitage, and gave her the name of Vinayavatī. Then in course of time she grew up to womanhood in his hermitage, and I, as I was roaming in the air, saw her, and being infatuated by pride in my own good looks and by love, I went to her, and tried to carry her off by force against her will.

At that moment the hermit Vijitāsu, who heard her cries, came in, and pronounced this curse upon me:

‘O thou whose whole body is full of pride in thy beauty, become an ugly camel. But when thou shalt be slain by King Puṣkarākṣa, thou shalt be released from thy curse. And he shall be the husband of this Vinayavatī.’

“When cursed in these words by the hermit I became a camel on this earth, and now, thanks to you, my curse is at an end; so go to that forest on the other side of the western sea, named Surabhimāruta, and obtain for a wife that heavenly creature, who would make Śrī herself lose all pride in her own beauty.”

When the heavenly Vidyādhara had said this to Puṣkarākṣa, he flew up to the sky. Then Puṣkarākṣa returned to his city, and entrusted his kingdom to his ministers, and, mounting his horse, went off alone at night. And at last he reached the shore of the western sea, and there he reflected: “How shall I cross over this sea?” Then he saw there an empty temple of Durgā, and he entered it, and bathed, and worshipped the goddess. And he found there a lyre, which had been deposited there by someone, and he devoutly sang to it in honour of the goddess songs composed by himself. And then he lay down to sleep there. And the goddess was so pleased with his lyric worship that in the night she had him conveyed across the sea by her attendant demons, while he was asleep.

Then he woke up in the morning on the other side of the sea, and saw himself no longer in the temple of Durgā, but in a wood. And he rose up in astonishment, and wandered about, and beheld a hermitage, which seemed to bow before him hospitably by means of its trees weighed down with fruit, and to utter a welcome with the music of its birds. So he entered it, and saw a hermit surrounded by his pupils. And the king approached the hermit, and bowed at his feet.

The hermit, who possessed supernatural insight, received him hospitably, and said to him:

“King Puṣkarākṣa, Vinayavatī, for whom you have come, has gone out for a moment to fetch firewood, so wait a little: you shall to-day marry her who was your wife in a former life.”

Then Puṣkarākṣa said to himself:

“Bravo! this is that very hermit Vijitāsu, and this is that very wood; no doubt the goddess has had me carried across the ocean. But this that the hermit tells me is strange, that she was my wife in a previous state of existence.”

Then he asked the hermit in his joy the following question:

“Tell me, reverend sir, how was she my wife before?”

Then the hermit said:

“Listen, if you feel curious on the point.


163bb. The Adventures of Puṣkarākṣa and Vinayavatī in a Former Life

There was in old time a merchant in Tāmraliptī, named Dharmasena, and he had a beautiful wife named Vidyullekhā. As it happened he was robbed by bandits and wounded with weapons by them, and longing for death, he went out with his wife to enter the fire. And the two saw suddenly a beautiful couple of swans coming through the air. Then they entered the fire, and died with their minds fixed on those swans, and so the husband and wife were born in the next birth as swans.

Now, one day in the rains, as they were in their nest in a datepalm-tree, a storm uprooted the tree and separated them. The next morning the storm was at an end, and the male swan went to look for his female, but he could not find her in the lakes or in any quarter of the sky. At last he went, distracted with love, to the Mānasa lake, the proper place for swans at that season of the year, and another female swan, that he met on the way, gave him hopes that he would find her there. There he found his female, and he spent the rainy season there, and then he went to a mountain-peak to enjoy himself with her. There his female was shot by a fowler. When he saw that, he flew away, distracted with fear and grief. The fowler went off, taking with him the dead female swan, and on the way he saw many armed men at a distance coming towards him, and he thought that they would perhaps take the bird from him, so he cut some grass with his knife, and covering up the bird with that, left her on the ground. After the men had gone, the fowler returned to take the female swan. But it happened that among the grass which he had cut was a herb which possessed the power of raising the dead to life. By means of the juice of this herb the female swan was restored to life,[11] and before his eyes she flung off the grass, and flew up into the sky, and disappeared.

But in the meanwhile the male swan went and settled on the shore of a lake among a flock of swans, distracted with grief at seeing his mate in this state.[12] Immediately a certain fisherman threw a net, and caught all those birds, and thereupon sat down to take his food. Then the female swan came there in search of her husband, and found him caught in the net, and in her grief she cast her eyes in every direction. Then she saw on the bank of the lake a necklace of gems, which a certain person, who had gone into the water to bathe, had laid on the top of his clothes. She went and carried off the necklace without that person seeing her do it, and she flew gently through the air past the fisherman, to show him the necklace. The fisherman, when he saw the female swan with the necklace in her beak, left the net full of birds and ran after her, stick in hand. But the female swan deposited the necklace upon the top of a distant rock, and the fisherman proceeded to climb up the rock to get the necklace. When the female swan saw that, she went and struck in the eye with her beak a monkey that was asleep on a tree, near where her husband lay caught in the net. The monkey, being terrified by the blow, fell on the net and tore it, and so all the swans escaped from it. Then the couple of swans were reunited, and they told one another their adventures, and in their joy amused themselves as they would. The fisherman, after getting the necklace, came back to fetch the birds, and the man whose necklace had been taken away met him as he was looking for it; and as the fact of the fisherman’s being in possession of the necklace was revealed by his fear, he recovered it from him and cut off his right hand with his sword. And the two swans, sheltering themselves under one lotus by way of umbrella, rose up in the middle of the day from the lake and roamed in the sky.

And soon the two birds reached the bank of a river haunted by a certain hermit, who was employed in worshipping Śiva. Then the couple of swans were shot through with one arrow by a fowler, as they were flying along, and fell together to the earth. And the lotus, which they had used as an umbrella, fell on the top of a liṅga of Śiva, while the hermit was engaged in worship. Then the fowler, seeing them, took the male swan for himself, and gave the female swan to the hermit, who offered it to Śiva.[13]


163b. Puṣkarākṣa and Vinayavatī

“Now you, Puṣkarākṣa, were that very male swan; and by the virtue of that lotus, which fell on the top of the liṅga, you have been now born in a royal family. And that female swan has been born in a family of Vidyādharas as Vinayavatī, for Śiva was abundantly worshipped with her flesh. Thus Vinayavatī was your wife in a former birth.”

When the hermit Vijitāsu said this to Puṣkarākṣa, the king asked him another question:

“How comes it, hermit, that the entering the fire, which atones for a multitude of sins, produced in our case the fruit of birth in the nature of a bird?”

Thereupon the hermit replied:

“A creature receives the form of that which it was contemplating at the moment of death.


163bbb. Lāvaṇyamañjarī

For there was in the city of Ujjayinī a holy Brāhman virgin of the name of Lāvaṇyamañjarī, who observed a vow of perpetual chastity; she once saw a Brāhman youth of the name of Kamalodaya, and her mind was suddenly attracted to him, and she was consumed with the fire of love, but she did not abandon her vow. She went to the shore of the Gandhavatī and abandoned her life in a holy place, with her thoughts intently fixed on his love.

But on account of that intent meditation she was born in the next birth as a courtesan, of the name of Rūpavatī, in a town named Ekalavyā. However, owing to the virtue of her vow and of the holy bathing-place, she remembered her former birth, and in conversation she related that secret of her former birth to a Brāhman named Coḍakarṇa, who was always engaged in muttering prayers, in order to cure him of his exclusive devotion to muttering; and at last, though she was a courtesan, as her will was purified, she attained blessedness.


163b. Puṣkarākṣa and Vinayavatī

“So, King, you see that a person attains similarity to that which he thinks of.”

Having said this to the king, the hermit dismissed him to bathe, and he himself performed his midday ablutions.

But King Puṣkarākṣa went to the bank of the river, that flowed through the forest, and saw Vinayavatī there gathering flowers. Her body gleamed as if she were the light of the sun come to visit the wood out of curiosity, as it had never been able to penetrate its thickets.

He thought to himself: “Who can this be?”

And she, as she was sitting in conversation with her maid, said to her:

“My friend, the Vidyādhara, who wished long ago to carry me off, came here to-day released from his curse, and announced the arrival of my husband.”

When the friend heard that, she answered the hermit-maiden:

“It is true, for this morning the hermit Vijitāsu said to his pupil Muñjakeśa:

‘Go and bring here quickly Tārāvalī and Raṅkumālin, for to-day will certainly take place the marriage of their daughter Vinayavatī to King Puṣkarākṣa.’

When Muñjakeśa received this order from his teacher, he said, ‘I obey,’ and started on his journey. So come, my friend, let us now go to the hermitage.”

When she said this, Vinayavatī departed, and Puṣkarākṣa heard the whole conversation from a distance without being seen. And the king returned quickly to the hermitage of Vijitāsu, after he had plunged in the river, as if to cool the burning heat of love. There Tārāvalī and Raṅkumālin, who had arrived, honoured him when he bent before them, and the hermits gathered round him. Then, on an altar-platform illuminated by the great hermit Vijitāsu with his austerities, as if by a second fire in human form, Raṅkumālin gave that Vinayavatī to the king, and he bestowed on him at the same time a heavenly chariot, that would travel in the sky.

And the great hermit Vijitāsu conferred on him this boon:

“Rule, together with her, the earth with its four seas.”

Then, with the permission of the hermit, the King Puṣkarākṣa took his new wife with him, and mounted that heavenly chariot that travelled through the air, and, crossing the sea, went quickly to his own city, being like the rising of the moon to the eyes of his subjects.

And then he conquered the earth and became emperor of it by virtue of his chariot, and lived a long time in enjoyment with Vinayavatī in his own capital.


163. Story of Mṛgāṅkadatta

“So a task, which is very difficult in itself, succeeds in this world if the gods are propitious, and so, King, you may be certain that your enterprise also will succeed soon by the favour of the god Śiva, promised you in a dream.”

When Mṛgāṅkadatta had heard this romantic story from his minister, being very eager to obtain Śaśāṅkavatī, he made up his mind to go to Ujjayinī with his ministers.

Footnotes and references:


So “one who dwelt by the castled Rhine” called the flowers "the stars that in earth’s firmament do shine” [Longfellow, Flowers].


This story extends to the end of Book XII—i.e. we do not get back to the Main Story again till the very end of the next volume. This is chiefly due to the introduction of the Vetāla stories. —n.m.p.


The word tejas also means “courage.”


An elaborate pun, only intelligible in Sanskrit.


Cf. the long black tongue which the horrible black man protrudes in Wirt Sikes’ British Goblins, p. 177. In Birlinger’s Aus Schwaben, vol. i, p. 341, the fahrende Schiller puts out his tongue in a very uncanny manner.


For a most interesting paper, “On False Ascetics and Nuns in Hindu Fiction,” see Bloomfield, Journ. Amer. Orient. Soc.t vol. xliv, 1924, pp. 202-242.—n.m.p.


See Vol. I, p. 242n3. The number of beads in both Tibetan and Burmese rosaries is usually one hundred and eight. Colonel L. A. Waddell refers me to his article “Burmese Buddhist Rosaries” Proc. As. Soc. Bengal, December 1892, pp. 189-191, and to his Buddhism of Tibet, pp. 203, 204.—n.m.p.


I.e. by the gāndharva form of marriage.—n.m.p.


The original Sanskrit word, which I translate “tear,” is vīrya.


Cf Ralston’s Russian Folk-Tales, p. 15, Giles’ Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, vol i, p. 294, and the classical legend of the birth of Adonis. A similar story will be found in Liebrecht, Zur Volkskunde, p. 306. In Bernhard E. Schmidt’s Griechische Mārchen, No. 5, three maidens come out of a citron, and one of them again out of a rose-bush. For other parallels see the notes to No. 21 in Miss Stokes’ Indian Fairy Tales. Cf. “Das Rosmarinsträuchlein” in Kaden’s Unter den Olivenbäumen (Stories from the South of Italy), p. 10; Rohde, Der Griechische Roman, p. 195; and Ralston’s Tibetan Tales, p. lii.——See the references already given in Vol. II, p. 136n1, and Vol. III, p. 218n1. To the Chauvin reference I would add—see also p. 294. In Basile’s Il Pentamerone (Ninth Diversion of the Fifth Day) is the tale of “The Three Citrons,” in which each time a citron is cut a beautiful fairy appears and demands something to drink. The prince is too overcome to give it at once and the fairy disappears. The third time, however, he is more lucky, and, after the usual vicissitudes, marries the fair maiden (Burton’s translation, vol. ii, pp. 546-558). See also Cosquin, Les Contes Indiens et l’Occident, 1922, p. 72.—N.M.P.


See the story of Polyidus, in Preller, Griechische Mythologie, vol. ii, p. 478. Preller refers to Nonnus, xxv, 451 et seq. The story terminates ψυχὴ δ’ εἰς δέμας ἦλθε τὸ δεύτερον. See also Baring Gould’s Curious Myths of the Middle Ages, new edition, 1869, pp. 399-402, and Rohde, Der Griechische Roman, pp. 112 and 126.——See also Cosquin, Contes Populaires de Lorraine, vol. i, p. 80n1, and Chauvin, op. cit., vi, p. 74. For the story of Polyidus see Apollodorus’ Library, 111, iii, i (Frazer’s trans. in Loeb Classics, vol. i, p. 313 and note). From it was derived Grimm’s No. 16, Die drei Schlangenblätter. For numerous analogues see Bolte and Polivka, op. cit., vol. i, p. 126 et seq. —N.M.P.


Dr Kern conjectures evam.


In Bengal no animal sacrifices are offered to Śiva at the present day.

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