who are descended from Sin moo ten ô, or 'the divine warrior,' and are consequently regarded as sprung from a divine stock, though without being incarnations of the divinity, like the dalaï lama of Tibet. Nor are they the visible heads of the church, or high priests of the nation, as superficial writers have so often repeated.

The Nipon o dae itsi ran commences with the first daïri, Sin moo ten ô, and is continued down to the hundred and eighth, Go yo ze-no in. It was compiled by order of a prince of Wakassa, named Minarioto Tada katsoo, by the Buddha priest Sioonzae rinsioo, in 1652. This work gives a very accurate view of all the remarkable events, chronologically arranged, which have happened in Japan from the year 660 B.C. to A.D. 1660. It enjoys a high reputation in Japan, and Dr. Siebold states that it is one of the best historical works extant in the country, and that a faithful translation of it would be very desirable. The translation, which the Oriental Translation Committee are about to publish, was made in Japan, under the direction of Mr. Titsingh, by the interpreters belonging to the Dutch factory at Dezima. It required, however, careful revision and comparison with the original, which is written in Chinese characters, and this laborious critical office was undertaken by M. Klaproth, whose extraordinary qualifications for a task which demands rare acquirements, few will venture to question. His comprehensive knowledge of Japanese and Chinese history and literature has enabled him to add a vast number of explanatory notes, and an introduction concerning the origin of the mythological history of the Japanese. The printing of this curious work, which is done at Paris, is, we understand, in a very forward state, and it will probably make its appearance by the end of the present year.

REVENUE SETTLEMENTS.

EXTRACT from the Evidence of James Mill, Esq. before the Select Committee of the Commons on East-India Affairs, 23d August 1831:

"Q. Comparing the extraordinary increase which has taken place in the revenues of all the countries permanently-settled, with the decline which, with a solitary exception, has taken place in all those parts in which temporary and periodical settlements, and above all, ryotwar settlements, prevail; does this fact not throw some doubt over the supposed advantages of temporary settlements?-A. What is assumed in the preamble of the question I do not altogether admit, because I should say that a continued increase is only exemplified in Bengal and Benares. I do not admit that there is this increase in the permanently-settled districts at Madras. In Bengal, the increase has arisen mainly from salt and opium; and when it is considered that Bengal is not only the most fertile portion of India, by many degrees, but one of the most fertile places on the face of the earth, under circumstances peculiarly favourable from the regularity of the irrigation; when it is further considered that the land-revenue, speaking in round numbers, is, in the lower and permanently-settled provinces, three millions, and that in the upper provinces it is also three millions; considering, in the next place, that Bengal enjoys the great advantages of a navigable river running through the heart of it; considering, above all, that the population of Bengal is double the amount of that of the upper provinces, the small amount of comparative financial prosperity it exhibits appears to me one of the strongest proofs which can be adduced, that it is under some very pernicious system of management."

MISS ROBERTS' "ORIENTAL SCENES."*

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. This lady has now made her début in England, by the publication of the little volume before us; and although it be true that "the reading world has been satiated by the perusal of poetry of the highest order," if equitably dealt with, we are of opinion that she will not have reason to be displeased with her reception.

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 colours 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. Of vigorous delineation of character, of dramatic action, of depth of sentiment, of deep musings, of that searching, penetrating thought, which arrests the heart and enchains the fancy, we have seen few or no rudiments in Oriental-English poetry: the Anglo-Indian Shakspeares, Miltons, Drydens, Popes, and Byrons are yet to be born.

These deductions from the merit of our Indian poets we hope will not be esteemed as invidiously meant, we should regret if our fair authoress thought so; they are deductions which will apply to a large portion of our home authors. The strongest pledge of the soundness of Lord Byron's judgment, and of the sterling quality of his genius, is afforded by his admiration of Pope, his honest condemnation of his own style of poetry, and his avowed conviction that our modern poetical standard is a vicious one.

But we are not criticising 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.

* Oriental Scenes, Sketches, and Tales, by EMMA ROBERTS. London, 1832. Bull.

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 splendour 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 splendour to the west,
The skies are in their richest colours 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,
'Twill 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-coloured 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 (which, with the stanzas inserted in p. 291 of our last volume, will afford an idea of the powers of Miss Roberts) 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,
'Her's are the lips that will not smile again,

Her's is the calmness of a broken heart.

བཱ་།,་

No more shall menial hands each silken tress
Enwreath with freshly-gathered coronals,
No more shall
hall gems the ste

the slender anklets press, se oni potu5925 la

Ringing in music o'er the marble halls.

other po 1) 129 Her graceful form couched on the lonely hill,wak noe duismnis, CA The features cast in beauty's softest mould, to Jesupton o's Seem like some wonder of the sculptor's skill, biod, und eil bezle?

Some breathing statue of a nymph of old,

A gurrah hangs upon the boughs above,

gun qe te 6400 Brought from the distant river's sedge-crowned brink,219 4083A In the fond fancy that her spirit love,

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

And the desponding soul can still rejoice, ugi on, none wod): 69197
When as the twilight air its music

music weaves,

She hears, or thinks she hears, a thrilling voice
Sighing amid the peepul's waving leaves.

ARTOZE 2 OF ¡Although the cold and cheerless tomb inurns
The ashes from funereal piles conveyed, walking
The dead, the loved, lamented one, returns,
Haunting the sacred peepul's hallowed shade.