But we must here terminate a discussion which already we have probably extended much too far for the general reader. It will be understood, however, that these constitute only a few of the many remarkable analogies which our author has pointed out. Yet they seem to us much more than sufficient to demonstrate, that the internal structure of the Greck, Latin, and Sanscrit tongues, is regulated on the same principles, and cast in the same mould. Our author's comparison of these with the Persian and Gothic, affords results no less interesting. If there be any who can still think that such coincidences might arise from the casual intercourse of commercial relations, or from the Greek kingdom of Bactria, during the brief period of the reign of the Seleucides in that country, we cannot help thinking that these gentlemen should be prepared to show, that the much nearer vicinity and longer domination of the Macedonian and Greek empire, had produced similar effects on the languages derived from the Hebraic stem. The Greeks were finally expelled from Bactria by the Arsacidæ, about two centuries after its conquest by Alexander. If that period were sufficient to admit of their stamping such indelible traces on the language of India, why should no vestige of the same influence be discovered in the Arabic, though Arabia was for a much longer period bounded on the north and west by the kingdoms founded by the successors of Alexander? Another work by the same author has recently been published in England. It is a literal translation into Latin of the celebrated story of Nala and Damayanti, which has served as a foundation for many Indian poems, and at least of one Indian drama. Our author's object in this work is thus stated. The perfection of the structure of the Sanscrit language, and its immense copiousness in grammatical forms, although they conduce to a more definite knowledge of a writer's meaning when the language has become familiar, and certainly admit of less ambiguity than in other Eastern tongues destitute of these advantages; yet, to a learner, are productive of considerable difficulty. Having myself acquired a knowledge of the Sanscrit without an instructor, so much the more did a literal translation, in which each word should be rendered by a corresponding one, appear to me desirable; although the excellent English translations sufficiently supplied the place of general guides. The Latin language is peculiarly adapted for a version, in which the order of the words in the original is to be uniformly preserved. Yet even in it, this object cannot always be attained without some sacrifice of elegance, and frequent deviations from the customary col location." The story is comprised in an episode of the Mahábhárat: Ff VOL. XXXIII. NO. 66. It is related in a style of great simplicity; contains some passages of exquisite pathos; and everywhere exhibits the mythology, manners, and character of the wonderful people amongst whom the scene is laid. Nala, the tamer of horses, had just succeeded his father on the throne of Nishádha, when the beauty and virtues of Damayanti, daughter of Bhima, king of Vidarbha, became the theme of universal praise. The valour of Nala, his manly form, and his skill in guiding the rapid car, had also reached the ears of the princess; and each had conceived a mutual passion before they met. In days of yore, when the daughter of a king in India had attained a proper age, her father celebrated a tournament, to which all the neighbouring kings and their sons, with persons of the military cast in general, were invited. Into this assembly it was the custom for the princess to enter, and to choose for herself a husband, by throwing a necklace of flowers round the neck of the favoured youth. Hence the ceremony was called Swayambara, or self-election. When Bhima ordered the Swayambara of his daughter Damayanti to be proclaimed, all India hastened to obey the summons. Princes, with their retinues, advanced from the most distant places towards Vidarbha. Nala, inflamed by love and impatience, approached the city; but the gods had determined to put his virtue to no common trial. Indra, the god of the firmament; Agni, god of fire; Yama, the judge of departed souls; and Varuna, the god of the waters, appeared in the air in their celestial chariots, and, alighting close to Nala, thus addressed him. King of men, we rely on thy fidelity. Perform a service to the gods, and be our messenger.' Nala, after having venerated the divinities, promised to fulfil their commands. We are deities come on account of Damayanti; I am Indra; these are the lords of fire and of the waters, and this the destroyer of mortal forms. Go to Damayanti, inform her of our arrival, that we desire her choice to fall on one of us, and use your own eloquence to persuade her to yield to our desires. Her bower is impervious to all others; but, by our celestial power, you will enter unperceived.' In vain Nala represented his ardent passion, and implored the gods to release him from his rash promise. At last he repaired sorrowfully to the bower of Damayanti, and first beheld her surrounded by attendant nymphs. Sweetly smiling, her form was beautiful, like that of the sea-born goddess; and her bright eyes kindled anew his latent passion. Damayanti and her nymphs are no less struck with the manly beauty of the young hero; and, on their interrogating him, he relates what had happened, delivers the message of the gods, and conscientiously enforces the duty of compliance. He then 6 retires, inwardly assured, that although he had faithfully fulfilled his promise, he himself must be the object of her choice. On the first auspicious day, the Swayambara commenced. When Damayanti entered the circus, amidst the prodigious concourse of chiefs and warriors, she looked round for the King of Nishádha; but, instead of discovering one, she beheld with dismay a groupe of five, in form, dress and feature, absolutely undistinguishable from him she sought, and recognised the presence of the divinities. She implores their pity in a hymn; and instantly the four gods appear in their celestial forms and attributes-pure, with chaplets of heavenly blossoms, their feet not touching the ground, their eyes never closing, and unaccompanied by shadow. The blushing maid then timidly advancing, throws the flowery necklace over the shoulders of Nala; and the ceremony finishes, amidst the applause of gods and men. Nala carries his bride to Nishádha, who produces him a son and daughter. Their happiness found no parallel on earth; his subjects lived contented under his government, and protected by his justice; he formed the regal sacrifice of a horse, with a magnificence equal to Yayáti; and preserved from spoil the earth fertile in rich gifts. per But the scene was soon to change. When the gods withdrew from the Swayambara, they met the vindictive demon Cali, the genius of the iron age, hastening to the entertainment. Informed that he was too late, and of Nala's success, this malignant spirit vowed revenge. By the approved and very reasonable rules of demonology, an evil spirit cannot take possession of a man, until some fault on his part furnishes an opportunity. It was long before this presented itself; but at last, by the accidental omission of some rite, Cali found an entrance, and, taking possession of Nala, perverted his intellect, changed his disposition, and all but his love for Damayanti. In this state, Cali inspires Pushcara (the unworthy brother of Nala) with the project of challenging him to play at dice. Every thing he possessed, his treasures, palaces, and at last his kingdom, are successively lost. Damayanti, perceiving her husband's infatuation, directs a faithful servant to harness his favourite steeds, and, placing both her children in the chariot, to drive them to Vidarbha, and there leave them at her father's court. The demoniac, now deprived of all, is only troubled to find out what to stake; for even their clothes had been played for. 'You have now nothing left but Damayanti,' cried Pushcara; let her be the stake, and the game be continued. When Nala heard these words, his heart was rent; but, fixing his eyes on Pushcara, without a reply, he divested himself of the regal ornaments, now the property of another, and quitted the palace, followed by Damayanti.' The first act of his brother's government was an edict, declaring that, whoever might afford shelter or sustenance to Nala and Damayanti, should be punished with death. Fainting with fatigue and hunger, they reached the desert. Nala in vain urges her to return to her father's court, pointing out the way. Her reply, even in so literal a translation, seems to us singularly simple and pathetic. Tremit mei cor, sidunt membra omnino, Tuum, Rex, consilium cogitantis iterum iterum ; Privatum regno, privatum opibus, orbum veste, fame, siti affectum In sylvâ terribili, magne Rex, delebo ego lassitudinem. She concludes by entreating him to accompany her to Vidarbha, and by expressing her firm resolve never to quit him, either in prosperous or in adverse circumstances. Thus conversing, they arrive at a deserted cottage; and, sitting down on the grass, Damayanti, overcome by fatigue, soon falls into a profound sleep. But the unhappy demoniac was a stranger to repose. What course should I now pursue or shun? Is death, or a religious seclusion, best adapted to my wretched condition? My lovely companion only suffers from my sorrows: separated from me, she would repair to her father's mansion. With me, her lot must be misery; at a distance, there is a chance of her tasting joy. But may not some injury befal her in the solitary way?' Thus revolving opposite views, his mind still infatuated by the malignant Cali, he determines on leaving her whilst asleep, as the only method of forcing her to return to her father. We cannot help thinking the following passage replete with true pathos. 'He fled distracted, leaving Damayanti sleeping on the ground. Then, relenting, he returns, and, gazing upon her as she lay, shed a flood of tears, saying, She, who never before was exposed even to the air or the sun, she even now lies sleeping on the bare ground, as one who has none to help her. Sweetly smiling as she lies wrapped in a scanty garment, what will be her situation when she awakes? How will she traverse this forest, only inhabited by wild beasts and serpents? May the divine Aditya and the Vasava protect her! May the twin gods and the deities of the winds defend her, as she lies here deserted by all but her virtues. Thus having said, he again ran from the spot; but, again repenting, he returns. At last, urged by the demon in his breast, he finally rushed distracted from the forest.' The astonishment and despair of Damayanti, when she awoke after a long interval, and found herself deserted by her lord, is painted with much natural simplicity. The subject has been treated by the finest Roman poets. Catullus, in his Nuptials of Peleus and Thetis, and Ovid in his Epistles, have sung Ariadne deserted by the faithless Theseus, on the desert island of Naxos. Both are highly finished pictures, particularly the first. There is, however, a charm of innocence in the wailings of Damayanti, who, regardless of herself, thinks only of her husband's fate, that is not to be found in the furious transports of the daughter of Pasiphaé. After a variety of adventures, in which she is exposed to the greatest perils, her state approaches to distraction. She sees a lofty mountain, holy, with innumerable cliffs, with rocks of refulgent brightness, stretching to the skies, placed as if for a rampart to the subjacent forest. Its recesses gave shelter to the lion, the tiger, the wild elephant and the boar: the voices of innumerable birds resounded from its sides, covered with the deep dyes of many flowering shrubs. I will interrogate, said the distracted queen, the genius of this sacred mountain, with his streams and birds and cliffs, concerning the king of Nishádha. God of this holy mountain, whose aspect is divine, affording refuge to multitudes, hail! Salutation to thee, O pillar of the earth! Having approached, I reverently salute thee. Know me for the wife and daughter of a king, and called Damayanti. The mighty warrior, Bhima, who rules Vidarbha, is my father, a monarch affording protection to the four casts. He has performed the royal sacrifice of a horse, and the rite was accompanied by royal gifts. Nala, the slayer of foes, is my husband,-devout, skilled in the Vedas, munificent, attentive to holy rites. In sacrifice, in beneficence, and in war, equally renowned. I have approached thee, deserted by fortune, forsaken by my lord, and sunk in calamity, seeking my husband, the king of men. Chief of mountains, from your lofty summits rising to the skies, have you beheld the king of Nishadha wandering in this frightful forest? Has Nala been seen by you? Holy mountain, why do you not console me, as your own daughter, by a reply?' The Hindu mythology, animating all nature, assigning to each fountain its nymph, and to each mountain its divinity, prevents the above spirited apostrophe from appearing forced or unnatural. Such notions, indeed, pervade the whole poem. Journeying through the forest, she comes to a secluded deil, to which a party of the philosophers, called Gymnosophists by the Greeks, though partially covered with the bark of trees, had retired from the busy world. On her entrance, the hermits, surprised at the appearance of a form of so much delicacy and beauty, thus address her, All hail, fair vision! Speak, O thou of faultless beauty, who art thou, and what do you require? Beholding thy fair form in this forest, astonishment fills our minds. Compose yourself, and cease to grieve. Art thou the goddess of this forest, or the genius of this mountain, or the nymph of this stream?" |