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promised reward; so he was seized with the disease of envy, which preyed in flames upon his heart and his body, particularly when he heard that Antar had slain the son

of his uncle; then he resolved to betray Antar, and make him drink of the cup of perdition. So he waited till both were in volved in dust, when he drew from under his thigh a dart more deadly than the misfortunes of the age; and when he came near Antar he raised his arm and aimed at him the blow of a powerful hero. It started from his hand like a spark of fire: but Antar was quick of mind, and his eyes were continually

turning to the right and to the left, for he was amongst a nation that were not of his own race, and that put him on his guard, and he instantly perceived Bahram as he aimed his dart at him; and then casting away his spear out of his hand, he caught the dart in the air with his heaven-endowed force and strength, and rushing at the Greek, and shouting at him with a paralysing voice, he struck him with that very dart in the chest, and it issued out quivering like a flame through his back; then wheeling round Abjer, like a frightful lion he turned down upon Bahram ; but Chosroe, terrified lest Antar should slay Bahram, cried out to his attendants Keep off Antar from Bahram, or he will kill him, and pour down annihilation upon him. So the warriors and the satraps hastened after the dreadful Antar, and conducted him to Chosroe, and as the

foam burst from his lips, and his eye-balls flashed fire, he dismounted from Abjer, and thus spoke:

May God perpetuate thy glory and happiness, and mayst thou ever live in eternal bliss! O thou king mighty in power, and the source of justice on every occasion! I have left Badhramoot prostrate on the sands-wallowing in blood. At the thrust of my spear he fell dead, and his flesh is the prey of the fowls of the air. I left the gore spouting out from him like the stream on the day of the copious rain. I am the terrible warrior; renowned is my name, and I protect my friend from every peril. Should Cæsar himself oppose thee, O King, and come against thee with his countless host, I will leave him dead with his companions. True and unvarnished is this promise. O King, sublime in honours illustrious and happy, thou art now my firm refuge, and my stay in every crisis. Be kind then, and grant me leave to go to my family, and to prepare for my departure: for my anxiety, and my passion for the nobleminded, brilliant-faced Ibla are intense. Hail for ever-be at peace-live in everlasting prosperity, surrounded by joys and pleasures!"

Soon after the narration of this exploit, the present translation closes. Antar is left returning towards his own country, loaded with honours and gifts, by Nushirvan, and intent on at last re

ceiving the great reward of all his heroism in the embrace of Ibla. We would hope Mr Hamilton's diligence may be such as to enable us, ere long, to lay before our readers an abstract of his ulterior progress.

In the meantime, even the short and imperfect account which we have given, will furnish some idea of the species of amusement to be met with in this very novel publication. We forbear, for the present, entering into any critical disquisition concerning its merits, satisfied that a few extracts will be more instructive than any remarks we could offer; and satisfied, moreover, that the book itself will soon be universally in the hands of old and One remark, however, we shall hazard, young. and this is, that Antar is the only considerable work of fiction of Arabic origin, which our readers have in their possession. It is long since M. Langles asserted his belief that the tales of the thousand and one nights are not original in the Arabic, from which we have received them, but translations from the old Persian or Pelhevi. This hypothesis has been adopted by the great Orientalist of our time, Von Hammer, in his history of Persian poetry; a most important work, of which we shall soon give some account to our readers. Were any thing wanting to confirm the opinion of these scholars, it might be found abundantly in the contrast presented by Antar to the Arabian Nights. The simplicity of scenery and action, and the almost total absence of supernatural agency on the one side, compared with the endless richness and pomp, the exquisitely artificial intrigues, and the perpetual genii, talismans, and sorcerers, on the other; all these circumstances, and a thousand minor ones, which the reader will easily gather, even from the limited shew incontestibly that the two works, extracts we have given, are sufficient to though written in the same beautiful dialect, and perhaps much about the same time, belong in truth to two several nations, differing widely from each other in faith, in laws, in modes of life, and in character.

It is the highest compliment which can be paid to Thalaba, that it looks as if it were merely a more polished strain, framed for the same ear, which had been long accustomed to the story of Antar. Our perusal of this real Bedoueen story has vastly increased

our love for that most exquisite and most characteristic of all Mr Southey's poems; because it has satisfied us of its perfect fidelity. No man of high original genius ever possessed the power of imitation in the same measure as Mr Southey. His genius seems to be come intensely infused into his imitation.

THOUGHTS ON NOVEL WRITING.

SINCE, in modern times, the different modes of national existence are no longer capable of being represented in epic poems, it has become the task of the novelist to copy, in an humbler style, the humbler features exhibited by human life. Of all novels, Don Quixote (which was the earliest great work in that line) has most resemblance to an epic. It has little to do with cities, but relates chiefly to the indigenous national manners remaining visible in Spanish country-life, and to chivalry; which, being unable any longer to hold its place in society, could not be introduced among contemporary objects, except in masquerade. Fielding also represented English country-manners with their roots still fixed in their native soil. Le Sage and Smollet both bear traces of the adulteration which natural characteristics undergo, when plucked up, and boiled together, in the town cauldrons. Goethe has preserved the rural life of the Germans in Herman and Dorothea; which, although written in the form of a poem, bears a close affinity to some of the higher sorts of novels. And, lastly, some person, who seems averse to have his name too often repeated, has fairly pasted the flowers of Scotland into his herbals of Guy Mannering, Old Mortality, &c. for perpetual preservation.

These form the highest class of the novels which have dealt in actual existences, and not in pastimes of imagination. In proportion as society has undergone the influence of detrition, succeeding novels of the pourtraying class have grown more limited in their objects, more slight in their execution, and more ephemeral in their interest. The external aspect of town-life no longer affords any thing worthy of being painted for posterity; and the country-people, feeling the influence of an intellectual ascendancy proceeding from the cities, have lost confi

dence in their own impressions. The uniformity of habits, imposed by most trades and professions, has eradicated freedom and variety of volition from those who exercise them, and has caused every unfolding of character, except what bears on a certain point, to be considered as superfluous and pernicious. Novelists have therefore, for some time past, found more persons in the highest circles fit for exhibition than any where else, except in life approaching to barbarism. Unshackled by the drudgeries of life, and standing in awe of few persons' opinions, the leaders of fashion have been able to let their minds shoot forth in a considerable variety of forms and af fectations, which, although neither noble nor useful, have served to afford some amusement to gaping spectators in the other classes. Only such individuals of the lower class have dragged in, as happened to retain some uncouth traits of physiognomy.

However, as the manifestations exhibited in fashionable life are without system or coherency, and have no root in any thing permanent, they cannot be painted, once for all, in any standard performance; and hence a succession of flimsy publications keeps pace with their changes. The manners and concerns of the middle classes have al so been handled in works, which are not written like the highest novels, for the sake of recording the developements exhibited by the human mind, but which may be called moral novels; because they have generally a didactic purpose, relating to existing circumstances, and are meant to shew the causes of success or failure in life, or the ways in which happiness or misery is produced by the different management of the passions and affections.

To judge how far the modes of existence of the different classes are worth painting, it would be necessary to take a glance at the objects, passions, or employments which respectively fill up their lives. The highest class has more room than any other, to sprout forth in spontaneous forms; but its aims are for the most part neither high nor serious, and its force like that of rockets, is spent chiefly in vacuo, without being directed towards any manly or rational purposes. Their volitions, not being sufficiently tasked against obstacles, want nerve and concentration; and the rapid whirl of objects around them prevents any faculty from being exert,

it would lighten the pressure of a taxation which preys upon the daily comforts of their existence. Vanity and ambition do not lead them to hate their superiors; they only wish to be relieved from physical causes of suffering. In this class, the uniformity of occupations is such, as to destroy all variety in the developements of the mind. The external aspect of their existence is without any features worthy of being represented; but a source of internal life is often lighted up within them by the most beautiful sentiments of piety, and by the feelings engendered out of domestic re

ed, for so long a continuance, as to at-
tain its full growth. Except in so far
as the tone of their existence is strength-
ened by political-partizanship (which
among them is not conducted so as to
exercise the higher faculties), their time
is either spent in enjoyments and
amusements, quite ephemeral and
selfish, or in contests of vanity, relat-
ing to objects of no practical import-
ance, except within the circles of
fashion. Persons of the learned pro-
fessions have a line chalked out for
them, in which direction they must
spend their energies. Perseverance,
and a regular exercise of the under-
standing, are the things chiefly requir-lations.
ed from them; and their leisure time,
of course, is not apt to produce any
very spirited or forcible manifestations
of character. It is chiefly spent in
squaring their manners to those of the
higher classes, and in partaking of simi-
lar amusements. The next compre-
hensive class is that of shop-keepers
and master-tradesmen, whose existence
seems to be chiefly occupied by the
passion for money-making, and the
enjoyments of physical luxury, and
often by the sectarian forms of religion.
Among the richer portion of this class,
the advantages, and the external show
procurable by wealth, serve to engross
the attention of their self-love, and to
confine its operations within the circle
of their own acquaintances; but, among
the poorer set, self-love, being unable
to spend itself in that manner, takes a
different direction, and assumes the form
of political fanaticism. Unsatisfied pride,
finding nothing in the station which it
occupies, to allay its fever, grasps at an
increase of political functions, with
which to dignify its existence; and,
being always at war with the lazy and
inactive importance of property, wishes
to change the field of society in a
gymnastic arena, where advantages are
to be gained or lost, according as indi-
viduals possess that sort of activity and
address, which are inspired by envy
and ambition. The sturdy malcontent,
finding no peace within, wishes to ex-
ercise his itching sinews in wrestling
matches with those members of society
who feel more at ease, and whose mus-
cular powers are not in the same fever-
ish state of excitement. In the next
lower class, that of workmen and me-
chanics, the desire of political change,
where it exists, proceeds from different
motives; namely, from the belief that

Since external existence no longer presents the same striking objects as it has done at former periods, a new species of novels (of which Werter and the Nouvelle Heloise are examples) has sprung up, and has for its purpose the exhibition of the internal growth and progress of sentiments and passions, and their conflicts. Great genius may be shewn in works of this kind, and probably no kind of writing has exerted more influence over modern habits of thought; yet they cannot well be considered as any thing more than a spurious sort of literature, and one that is not perhaps very salutary in its effects. They are not memorials of what has existed; for such combinations of sentiment as they represent never took place in any human mind. Neither are they didactic works; for no person, in reading them, ever picked up rules of practical prudence, or gained more control over his passions. Mastery over our feelings is gained by exerting the will in the course of our personal experience; but, in reading a novel, the will remains totally inactive. And, lastly, in novels of this kind, such is the crude mixture of beauty and deformity, and of what is to be chosen with what avoided, that they cannot be regarded as works of art, holding up models of perfection to the imagination. Therefore, the only purpose they can serve is to afford a temporary excitement, neither very pure in its kind, nor even always agreeable to feel, from its want of harmony and consistency.

When literature has become so redundant, and conceptions have been so largely accumulated, as in this coun try, the spirit of system is needed to enable authors to discover the true

places which ideas should occupy, and the proper forms in which they should be arranged. Every unprejudiced spectator must perceive that English literature is running waste, and sinking into degradation, from the want of a philosophy to guide its combinations. The earliest forms given to literature are generally dictated by instinctive impressions which authors have received from real life. Later authors are apt to bewilder themselves among the variety of existing models, and to choose modes of writing which do not always harmonize with the principal When ideas they mean to convey. the lights and instincts of nature have been lost sight of (as they always must be after a long series of artificial compositions), it is only by the influence of philosophy that literature can be regenerated, and made to spring up again in pure and symmetrical forms. English literature, indeed, has all along been more remarkable for substance and vigour, than for fine proportions or flowing outlines. The external causes of that vigour, however, are now on the decline; and there remains but one chance for our literature, namely, that of being regenerated by a spirit of system, proceeding out of a more profound analytical examination of human nature, than has hitherto taken place in England. If nothing of that sort comes round, our literature must go rapidly down the hill. Schlegel has a passage on this subject, which we have already quoted in a former number of this publication. It contains so much truth, that we earnestly request our readers to turn back to No XVII. Vol. III. page 509, and read it over again.

LETTERS FROM THE LAKES.

(Translated from the German of Philip Kempferhausen-written in the Summer of 1818.)

LETTER I.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I MAY now safely say that I know something of the character of the north of England ; and if you afford me any encouragement to write long letters, I shall attempt to give you some description of the infinite beau

ties of that wonderful region of lakes
and mountains. I have indeed lived a
month in Paradise, and scarcely know,
when I return-as I must do to that
dull native city of mine, how I shall be
able to endure existence. But to begin.
You know that I had too long been
kept, sorely against my will, in the
dreariest part of England, and when
I found myself among the mountains
of the north, I felt as if I had been
dropt from the sky into some far dis-
tant land of enchantment. My very
soul seemed changed with the scenery
around me, and I gave myself up to a
crowd of delightful emotions that
formed, as it were, a new and com-
plete life of themselves, independent
of all former recollections. I was in-
sulated, among the dreary sea of human
existence, in a spot that seemed sacred
to happiness,-care, sorrow, and anxi-
ety, were shut out by an everlasting bar-
rier of mountains; there was a bright
regeneration of all the brightness of
early youth, and I walked along like a
being who had never suffered the de-
pression of mortality, but was strong
in the spirit of gladness that seemed
to pervade universal nature. These
feelings may seem exaggerated or in-
comprehensible to those who have
lived all their days in a beautiful and
magnificent country, or to those whose
hearts are bound only to cities and
communities of men. The first can-
not fully understand the glorious ex-
ultation of novelty that expands the
soul of an enthusiast, admitted but
"in angel-visits short and far be-
tween" to communion with those
great and lovely forms of nature,
among which they themselves have
passed all their tranquil lives-while
the second can yet less sympathize
with that devotional feeling excited
by objects which to them yield, at best,
but a transitory entertainment. It is
perhaps on persons such as I that na-
ture most omnipotently works, persons
who have known enough of her and
her wonders to have conceived for her
a deep and unconquerable passion, but
whom destiny has debarred from fre-
quent intercourse, and chained down
among scenes most alien indeed to all
her holiest influences.

"My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky."

Those little secret haunts of beauty
which one sometimes sees near the

suburbs of a great smoky city, never fail to touch my heart with inexpressible pleasure. They seem vestiges of my past youth-groves of gladness left sacred in the melancholy waste of time and peopled with a thousand visions. They have often made me feel how imperishable is the love of nature-a love that may sleep, but may not be extinguished-that, like an early attachment to a human soul, can live for ever on occasional or recollected smiles, and is unconsciously strong in the mournfulness of absence as in the bounding bliss of enjoyment. For nearly fifteen years of a life yet short, I had seen mountains, and glens, and cataracts only on the canvass-silent shadows of thunderous magnificence, -fair gleamings of light and verdure, that no art can steal from the bosom of inimitable Nature. But now I was restored to my birth-right-the mountains, the rocks, the lakes, the clouds, the very blue vault of heaven itself were felt to belong to me, and my soul, expanding like a rainbow, embraced the whole horizon in its own brightening joy.

The circumstances in which I was, drew around me a peculiar atmosphere of feeling. I was a stranger-a foreigner-in this heavenly land. All the mountains that rose up before me had each its own name unknown to me on every hand streams came dancing by me, that doubtless gave appropriate appellations to the long winding vallies which they made so beautiful-cottages peeped from every little covert of wood, and shone in clusters on every hill-side, filled with happy beings all strangers to me, and now for the first time brought into the existing world of my imagination-aneient halls, impressed with a solemn shade of hereditary grandeur, at times lifted themselves above the fine oak woods-there hung a mossy bridge that for centuries had spanned the cliffy torrent-there stood a chapel bright in a green old-age of ivy-there lay a gray heap of stones-burial-place, or cairn, or shapeless and undistinguishable ruin of some dwelling of the days gone by. The great objects of nature herself speak an universal language, and I understood at once the character of the noble mountains of England. But here, there were under tones new to my heart; the spirit of human life breathed a peculiar music-shed a

peculiar light over the face of Nature. For a while I was haunted by a delightful perplexity concerning the moral character of the happy people, whose figures, faces, dresses, fields, gardens, houses, churches, all seemed to me so interesting and so impres sive. Nature, thought I, is in herself most beautiful-and beautiful would this region be, even were it a region of lifeless solitude. But here, there is a subordination of all the various works of man to the spirit that reigns over all the vast assemblage of these various works of nature. The very houses seem to grow out of the rocks-they are not so much on the earth, as of the earth every thing is placed seemingly just where it ought to be-there is a concord and a harmony in the disrupted fragments of the cliffs that have overstrewed the plains with treecrowned natural edifices, no less than in the artificial habitations that are mingled with that mountain-architecture, in every imaginable shape of fantastic beauty. Here must dwell an indigenous population-their outward forms and shews of life are moulded visibly by the influence of these superincumbent mountains-the genius of the place the "Relligio Loci" has made what it willed of the human life over which it presides. Never before had I seen nature so powerful in the birth of beauty, harmony, solemnity, gentleness, and peace, all blending with and sustaining the works and the spirit of animated existence.

For the first day or two I understood every thing I saw imperfectly, but there was unspeakable delight in the constant flow of images that kept passing through my soul. In a foreign country almost every thing is, to a certain degree, new to us. Things so familiar to the natives as not even to be seen by them, touch a stranger with an inquiring emotion, and as he is becoming gradually acquainted with the meaning, and purposes, and character of every thing around him, his mind enjoys a singular union of the pleasure of mere perception, with that of imagination, and even of the reasoning faculty. It is like acquiring a new language, when words seem gradually to brighten into things, and when the page of a book, at first dim and perplexing, seems at last crowded with pictures brightly painted and clearly defined. I had not slept two nights

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