M. Klaproth, in fact, accuses M. Champollion, and distinctly proves his charge, of "giving to the unknown signs the value most convenient to himself, and of constructing the very language in which he wished the inscription should be written."

In his "Observations on the Phonetic Alphabet," M. Klaproth shows the uncertainty which prevails throughout all the readings of M. Champollion, as well as certain liberties most unjustifiably taken with the text. The original hieroglyphics, which are exhibited in the work before us in very elegant types, are compared with the renderings, and it is clearly shown that M. Champollion has rendered them differently in different cases, often in opposition to his own laws; that the freedoms taken with the Coptic language are such as to make that language speak any meaning: in short, that there is nothing certain, nothing credible, but the translations of the cartouches, the point from whence M. Champollion set out.

As an example, not the strongest, of the vague manner in which this Egyptologist proceeded in his interpretations, we take, at random, his explanation of a group of four hieroglyphics, which, he says, denotes "king of an obedient people"; being an abbreviation of the phonetic group yielding stn, king,' and a character purely symbolical, the bee, a laborious insect.

"The first objection," observes M. Klaproth, "which occurs to this specious demonstration is, that it nowhere appears that the word stn, which M. Champollion would have pronounced souten, ever had the signification of 'king' in the Egyptian language. Nothing like it is found in ancient authors; on the contrary, we know, from the historical books of the Hebrews, that Pharaoh was the title of the kings of Egypt. Syncellus likewise informs us that the general name of all the kings of that country was Pharaoh. Julius Africanus, cited by Eusebius, attests the same thing. The only term for king, in the Coptic language, is ouro, and with the article, piouro, pouro, or fouro. Another difficulty which presents itself is this, that if the root stn signified 'king,' it could not be found in the group in question, which consists of s and t, but there is no trace of n."

The Egyptian mythology of M. Champollion is of the vaguest and most uncertain character. We might perhaps expect that he would find in the hieroglyphics names of deities hitherto unknown to us, but we had a right to look for more correspondence between the hieroglyphical and recorded attributes of those we did know. M. Champollion was, we believe, but an indifferent classical scholar, and was even indebted to others for his translations from the Greek.

A decided proof of the inefficacy of M. Champollion's reputed discoveries is, that he has been unable, with the help of them, and

* In the translation of the N. T. the word Karag is invariably rendered by pouro. Other Coptic words, belonging to the same root, are tiouro, 'queen '; ariouro, 'kingdoms;' erouro, to reign."

with the aid of the Greek and demotic translations, to make out the hieroglyphics on the Rosetta stone. He has merely cited a few groups and very short passages. If his system was a sound one, the Rosetta inscription would naturally be the first to the test of which he would be desirous of bringing it; if otherwise, he would naturally shun it.

Upon the whole, without entering further into the subject, we recommend this volume strongly to the attention of English Egyptologists and antiquaries, as one which will afford them a firm footing for their future exertions.

[From "The Asiatic Journal, No. 36."]

ART. IV. Oriental Scenes, Sketches, and Tales.
ROBERTS. Bull. London. 1832.

By EMMA

THE reputation of Miss Emma Roberts, as a poetess of very considerable taste and talent, is well-established throughout British India. The specimens we have occasionally seen of her compositions, in Anglo-Indian publications, have compelled us to admire the ease and gracefulness of her versification, and especially her powers in descriptive poetry.

Bating the enfeebling influence of the climate, India is of all countries in the world the best-adapted to develope the seeds of poesy. The voluptuousness of the air, the rich and varied hues of vegetation, the local features of the country, grand, wild, terrific, or decked in all the luxuriant colors of a fairy landscape, the vast scale of objects there, the animals, the people, the costumes, the edifices, the very conflict of the elements, are poetry embodied into reality, and a portraiture of them, sketched from nature, in India, by the most matter-of-fact pencil, will rival the utmost stretch of a northern imagination, heated by an over-boiling enthusiasm. India is, therefore, a school for descriptive poets; and accordingly, most of the poetry of Anglo-Indians consists of descriptions of local scenery, with occasional sketches and tales borrowed from Eastern legends, or supplied from the fancy, which afford scope for the delineation of manners, customs, and what in other countries constitutes the subsidiary parts or costume of poetry.

But we are not criticizing Anglo-Indian poetry, but that of Miss Emma Roberts, which is among the most advantageous specimens of it we have met with. The pieces, of which the volume consists, are stated by the authoress to have been written to illustrate scenes and incidents which, during her travels in India, struck her as particularly interesting and picturesque, and to amuse an idle hour or fill a niche in a periodical. Most of them, perhaps all, have

therefore been already published in India, but they are not, on that account, less new to most English readers.

The following poem will, at the same time, illustrate our preceding remarks, and exhibit the felicitous style of Miss Roberts' versification :

"THE NORTH-WESTER.

"Evening approaches, and the tropic sun
The western arch of ruddy heaven has won,
And, yielding to the balmy close of day,
Its scorching heat, its most oppressive ray,
Now 'mid ten thousand swiftly fading dyes
Looks smiling down from yonder roseate skies.
How beautiful, how placid, fair, and bright,
The gorgeous scene that greets its parting light!
The stately river's calm and waveless tide
In its deep slumber scarce is seen to glide;
So tranquil is the stream, the lotus crown,
By some fond maid, or anxious lover thrown -
A bark of hope-unstirred upon its breast,
In lingering tenderness appears to rest.
The idle goleeah, from his flower-wreathed prow,
With careless eye surveys the flood below;
And all the hundred oars, that proudly sweep
The polished surface of the glassy deep,
Mocked by the lazy currents, vainly seek
To urge their shallops round yon woody creek.
Its marble wings up-springing from the shade,
By the dark peepul's glossy foliage made,
The waving neem, the willow-like bamboo,
And shrubs of fragrant scent and brilliant hue,
The nazim's regal palace proudly gleams
In pearl-like splendor in the evening beams;
While each surrounding crag and sun-kissed slope,
Crowned with the bright luxuriant mango tope
Each vagrant creeper with its starry wreath,
Are softly mirrored in the stream beneath.
"Where'er the wandering eyes delighted roam,
From groves embowering peeps the graceful dome
Of some small mosque, or holy brahmin's cell,
Where the lamp glances, and the silvery bell
Makes gentle music in the balmy air;
No other sounds the listening echoes bear
On this calm eve, save snatches of sweet song,
Which rise at intervals from yonder throng
Assembled on the terraced ghaut, to fling
O'er Ganges' wave each flowery offering.

Sudden the fierce North-west breaks loose- and while
Half the bright landscape still is seen to smile,
The sultry air grows thick, the skies are dark,
The river swells, and now the struggling bark
Along the rushing wave is wildly driven,

And thunder bursts from every gate of heaven;

O'er tower and palace, hut and holy fane,
In frantic madness sweeps the hurricane;
And trees uprooted strew the earth; and air
Is filled with yells, and shrieks of wild despair.
"The sun sinks down in splendor to the west,
The skies are in their richest colors drest;
And where a blackened wreck was seen to float,
A lamp within the palm-nut's fragile boat
Glides tranquilly;

the stars shine forth - the vale

Is vocal with the bulbul's sweetest tale;
The air is gemmed with fire-flies; and the breeze
Is filled with perfume from the lemon trees:

The storm has passed- and now the sparkling river
Runs calm, and smooth, and beautiful as ever."

The following is an extract from "The Taaje Mahal":

"Of precious marbles richly blent
Shines the imperial monument;
A gorgeous fabric, spreading wide
Its glittering pomp of colonnades,
Fit palace for the peerless bride
Reposing in its hallowed shades.
Too beautiful for mortal hands,

Its clustering cupolas and towers
Seem the light work of fairy wands,

And fashioned out of pearls and flowers,
Or moon-beams gathered in the bright
Effulgence of a cloudless night;

And as o'er these fair spires and domes
The stranger's eye enchanted roams,
Lost in delight he almost deems

That wrought by some fantastic spell,
"T will vanish like his summer dreams,
Or cloud-encircled citadel,
Floating along the summer sky,
In evanescent pageantry.

"Beside the alabaster tomb

All richly wreathed with glittering gems,
And shining like the jewelled plume

O'er eastern monarch's diadems,

Fond lovers kneel and as they gaze
Upon each ingot's brilliant blaze,
The bright mosaic of the floor,
Where many-colored agates vie
With onyx thickly scattered o'er,
Turquoise, and lapis lazuli ;
They dash away the rising tear,

They fear no change nor falsehood here.
Oh! every flower-enamelled gem
Is worth a mine of gold to them;
It tells of love divinely pure-

The record that a monarch gave,
That strong affection may endure
In human hearts beyond the grave!"

We close our extracts with the following lines suggested by a passage in Bishop Heber's Journal, in which he mentions the popular superstition of the Hindus, who hang gurrahs (jars) of water upon the branches of the peepul trees, in order that the spirits of their deceased relatives, who are supposed to haunt the sacred foliage, may drink of the holy stream of the Ganges.

"THE HINDOO GIRL.

"She sits beneath a lonely peepul tree,

Whose waving boughs shadow a fairy mound,
Her rich dark locks flow down below the knee,
Their glossy braids in mournful guise unbound.
"No tear is springing from those sad sweet eyes,
Mute is the pensive sorrow of her breast,
It breaks not forth in anguish-breathing sighs,
Each struggling passion now has sunk to rest.

"Yet the meek sufferer cannot long sustain,
Though deeply schooled, her self-denying part,
Hers are the lips that will not smile again,
Hers is the calmness of a broken heart.

"No more shall menial hands each silken tress
Enwreath with freshly-gathered coronals,
No more shall gems the slender anklets press,
Ringing in music o'er the marble halls.

"Her graceful form couched on the lonely hill,
The features cast in beauty's softest mould,
Seem like some wonder of the sculptor's skill,
Some breathing statue of a nymph of old.

"A gurrah hangs upon the boughs above,

Brought from the distant river's sedge-crowned brink,
In the fond fancy that her spirit love,

Will stoop o'er Ganges' holy wave to drink.

"And the desponding soul can still rejoice,

When, as the twilight air its music weaves,
She hears, or thinks she hears, a thrilling voice
Sighing amid the peepul's waving leaves.

"Although the cold and cheerless tomb inurns
The ashes from funereal piles conveyed,
The dead, the loved, lamented one returns,
Haunting the sacred peepul's hallowed shade.

"Few are the trees beneath an Indian sun,

Wooed by the spicy East's ambrosial kiss,
Of form and tint more beautiful — and none
Girt with such touching memories as this.”