as the Quarterly Review. Southey, Gifford, &c. have their faults-above all, they have their affectations-but, Heaven preserve us! what a plunge it is from their worst to the best that even Lord Byron seems capable of giving us since his conjunction with these deluded drivellers of Cockaigne! There we have at least strong English prejudices delivered in the strong clear language of England! Here, what have we got? Stupid French books translated, not into stupid English, but into stupid Cockneyeze-wit, that won't make the Duke of Sussex himself chuckle-verse, that Charles Young himself could not read, so as to produce anything like the effect of musical cadence-jests, that even the Laureate will not feel-in short, to say all that can be said-a book which, though written by Lord Byron, is published by, without elevating the brotherhood of, the Hunts! I do not mean to say that there are not some half-dozen or two of stanzas not quite unworthy of the better days of Lord Byron. There are. But I have already occupied far too many of your columns with a production which, with fewer exceptions than anything that has been published this year, (save only perhaps the Liber Amoris,) by any man of the least pretension and talent of any kind, appears deserving of sovereign and universal neglect "CHRISTIAN, OR THE ISLAND," contained two pages, and just two of Byronian Poetry-all the rest was mere translation, and generally feeble translation. This contains no passage equal to the two I allude to in Christian none whatever. It contains nothing that the moment it is read makes everybody exclaim, "Well, say what you please of the book-but here is a stanza which no living man but Lord Byron could have written." There is nothing of this class here-there was in the worst of the preceding cantos; and, in one word, Don Juan appears, like Lord Byron himself, to be getting into his dotage before his time. I don't remember anything so com plete as the recent fall of Lord Byron's literary name. I don't mean to insinuate that people of taste think less highly now, than they did five, six, seven, or eight years ago, of the genius of Byron, in his true works of genius. But what I mean to say is this, that his name can no more sell a book now, than Jeremy Bentham's. Christian, for instance, did not sell a bit better than any new poem of Mr Milman's, or Mrs Hemans's, would do and this continuation of Don Juan is obliged to be sold for a shilling, and is very moderately taken off even at that rate, although, of course, it has all the advantage of being believed to be a licentious thing. Never, to be sure, was a more egregious tumble. If it were only to check the joy which must prevail in a certain quarter, (which I need not name,) if this goes on-Lord Byron ought really to pull up, and make at least one more exertion worthy of himself, and of the original expectations of a reading public, that has unwillingly deserted, and that would most gladly return to him, even after all that has happened. I do not believe Lord Byron to be a bad man-I mean a deliberately, resolvedly wicked man. I know him to. be a man of great original power and genius, and, from report, I know him to be a kind friend where his friendship is wanted. I cannot consent to despair of Lord Byron-but as to his late publications, he may depend upon it, they are received by the people of Britain" with as much coldness and indifference," (to use an expression in one of Cobbett's late Registers,) "as if they were as many ballads from Grub Street, or plays from Lord John Russel."-He must adopt an entire change of system, or give the thing up altogether. So thinks sincerely, and in the spirit of kindness and of regret, much more than in any other spirit, Yours ever, T. T. THE INHABITED WELL. From the Hindoostanee. THE name of Mahummud, as the founder of a false religion, is familiar to every one; and, in this view, his history has been studied, and his impostures exposed by philosophers and divines. But it has been, perhaps, less remarked, that, among the vulgar of those nations where his religion is professed, he is better known as the hero of a series of romantic tales, as the King Arthur, in short, of eastern chivalry, than as the saint or lawgiver. His friends and companions (ushab) are exactly the knights of his round-table; and their common exploits have been the subject of as much rugged rhyme as those of the champions of Christendom. The Koran, which contains what is really known concerning Mahummud, never having been profaned by translation, has left room, among his ignorant followers, for a plentiful crop of romance; and of this circumstance the ballad-chroniclers of the East have not omitted to take due advantage. Every exploit of which the actor was a name, either obsolete or unknown, has found a ready hero in this favourite of their devotion; and many a pearl which glittered of old in the romantic diadems of Rustam, Secunder, or the forgotten heroes of Ind, has been translated to a situation where it may shine to more advantage in the tiara of Mahummud. Some of these gems, it must be confessed, are but "barbaric pearl;" but many appear to be really interesting, and will bear a comparison with anything of the same kind in European literature. The following is one which has frequently amused me, and which I translated from a manuscript given me by an old Moollah from Surat; the story is familiar to the Indian Mussulmans, and perhaps also to those of other countries. There are many passages in this, as in other specimens of Oriental narrative, whose extravagance at once startles a European imagination out of the dream of reality which more gentle management might have prolonged to the end of the fiction. Most of these, as they are not necessary to the general outline of the story, I have retrenched or changed; the rest, without much violating the better regulations of European literature, will still give a sufficient specimen of what is required from the poets of Hindoostan* to gratify the wild taste of their countrymen. SHAGIRD. THE INHABITED WELL. PART I. When mid-day's fierce and cloudless sun From dawn till noon their march had sped, For April's fresh'ning spring was pass'd, It may amuse some readers to trace similarities between languages so remote as the Hindoostanee and vulgar Scots. The following are a few of the more striking coincidences : PART II. BRAVE Malik wheel'd his followers round, The fearless Ali seized his steed Again they sought the camp; The list'ning soldiers heard afar Their horses' hast'ning tramp. With instant speed his sov'reign's tent He told the strange event, the deed The sorrowing Prophet heard the tale- Unheard by all, an answering voice Obeisance, grateful, then he paid; He spoke and first on Malik sad "A messenger, unseen by men, To me a word has brought: Alone by Ali, lion-hand, May this emprize be wrought. "A Rebel Peri holds the den, "Go, Ali, seize thy sword of proof; Go seize thy matchless steed; By thee must this emprize be wrought, If mortal hand may speed. "If earthlike foes shall meet thee there, "But if their demon arts are tried, Unearthly force to bring, Thy sword from me shall power receive, "Go seek their den: thy sword of might He seized his sword of might; The faithful bands more near approach'd, Amid their ranks the Prophet stood Intent on Ali's fate. But Ali now has reach'd the brink ; Within the pit that yawn'd obscure, But narrower soon the deepening gulf The crumbling stones, unfaithful grown, The crags his eager grasp had seiz'd, He raised his eyes aloft to gaze; Amid the dangers thickening round, "Now, God me speed !" the hero cried, "This den is guarded well: I would its sprites might stand to view Nor thus in darkness yell. "But yet their waters I shall taste, Did Death sit grimly there: The sculking fiends, within their haunt, My trusty sword shall dare." He said and down the fearful deep, Amid the plashing waves beneath, And lo! a thousand gathering tongues They cried, "Our fated foe is come:Arm, mighty Genii, arm!" |