one of the majestic elephants of Pegu or Ceylon, which Dara had been in the habit of mounting, pompously caparisoned, the harness gilt, and trappings decorated with figured work, and carrying a beautifully painted chair, inlaid with gold, and a magnificent canopy to shelter the prince from the sun; Dara was now seen seated on a miserable and worn-out animal, covered with filth; he no longer wore the necklace of large pearls which distinguished the princes of Hindostan, nor the rich turban and cabaïes, or embroidered vest; he and his son were now habited in dirty cloth of the coarsest texture, and his sorry turban was wrapped round with a scarf of Cashmere wool, resembling that worn by the meanest of the people. Such was the appearance of Dara when led through the bazaars and every quarter of the city. I could not divest myself of the idea that some dreadful execution was about to take place, and felt surprised that government should have the hardihood to commit all these indignities upon a prince confessedly popular among the lower orders, especially as I saw scarcely any armed force. The people had for some time inveighed bitterly against the unnatural conduct of Aurengzebe: the imprisonment of his father, of his son, Sultan Mahmud, and of his brother, Morâd Bakche, filled every bosom with horror and disgust. The crowd assembled upon this disgraceful occasion was immense; and everywhere I observed the people weeping, and lamenting the fate of Dara in the most touching language. I took my station in one of the most conspicuous parts of the city, in the midst of the largest bazaar; was mounted on a good horse, and accompanied by two servants, and two intimate friends. From every quarter I heard piercing and distressing shrieks; men, women, and children, wailing as if some mighty calamity had happened to themselves. Jihon-Khan rode near the wretched Dara; and the abusive and indignant cries vociferated as the traitor moved along were absolutely deafening. I observed some Fakirs and several poor people throw stones at the infamous Patan; but not a single movement was made with a view of delivering the beloved and compassionated prince. When this disgraceful procession had passed through every part of Delhi, the poor prisoner was shut up in one of his own gardens, called Heider-Abad. Aurengzebe was immediately made acquainted with the impression which this spectacle produced upon the public mind, the indignation manifested by the populace against Jihon-Khan, the threats held out to stone the perfidious man, and with the fears entertained of a general insurrection. A second council was consequently convened, and the question discussed, whether it were more expedient to conduct Dara to Gualior, agreeably to the original intention, or to put him to death without farther delay. By some it was maintained that there was no reason for proceeding to extremities, and that the prince might safely be taken to Gualior, provided he were attended with a strong escort: Danechmend-Khan, although he and Dara had long been on bad terms, enforced this opinion with all his powers of argument: but it was ultimately decided that Dara should die, and that Sipper-Shekô should be confined in Gualior. At this meeting Rochinara-Begum betrayed all her enmity against her hapless brother, combating the arguments of Danechmend, and exciting Aurengzebe to this foul and unnatural murder. Her efforts were but too successfully seconded by Calil-ullah Khan and Shaista Khan, both of them old enemies of Dara; and by Takarrub-Khan, a wretched parasite recently raised to the rank of omrah, and formerly a physician. He was originally distinguished by the appellation of Hakin-Davoud, and had been compelled to fly from Persia. This man rendered himself conspicuous in the council by his violent harrangue. "Dara ought not to live," he exclaimed, "the safety of the state depends upon his immediate execution; and I feel the less reluctant to recommend his being put to death, because he had abjured his religion, and avowed himself a kafir. If it be sinful to shed the blood of such a person, may the sin be visited upon my own head!" an imprecation which was not allowed to pass unregarded; for divine justice overtook this man in his career of wickedness; he was soon disgraced, declared infamous, and sentenced to a miserable death. The charge of this atrocious murder was intrusted to a slave of the name of Nazir, who had been educated by Shan Jehan, but experienced some ill-treatment from Dara. The prince, apprehensive that poison would be administered to him, was employed with Sipper-Shekô in boiling lentils, when Nazir and four other ruffians entered his apartment. "My dear son," he cried out, “these men are come to murder us!" He then seized a small kitchen knife, the only weapon in his possession. One of the murderers having secured Sipper-Shekô, the rest fell upon Dara, threw him down, and while three of the assassins held him Nazir decapitated his wretched victim. The head was instantly carried to Aurengzebe who commanded that it should be placed on a dish, and that water should be brought. The blood was then washed from the face, and when it could no longer be doubted that it was indeed the head of Dara, he shed tears, and said, "Ah, Bedbakt! unhappy man! let this shocking sight no more offend my eyes, but take away the head, and bury it in Humaioon's sepulchre." 122.-EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. S. ROGERS. [IN 1786 was published, 'An Ode to Superstition, with other Poems.' This was the first work of Samuel Rogers, one of our living authors. Mr. Rogers, himself a banker of the city of London, was the son of a city banker. He received a liberal education; his taste was assiduously cultivated. At a time which preceded the early days of Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and Southey, and Campbell, Mr. Rogers produced 'The Pleasures of Memory,' which appeared in 1792. His other most considerable poem, Italy,' did not appear till 1890. There are few such examples of the imagination and the taste remaining unchanged for half a century. The 'Epistle to a Friend," which we give below, was printed in the same beauti ful illustrated volume with the 'Pleasures of Memory,' in 1834, but was originally published in 1798. In his preface to this charming poem Mr. Rogers says, "It is the design of this epistle to illustrate the virtue of True Taste; and to show how little she requires to secure, not only the comforts, but even the elegancies of life. True Taste is an excellent economist. She confines her choice to few objects, and delights in producing great effects by small means; while False Taste is for ever sighing after the new and the rare; and reminds us, in her works, of the scholar of Apelles, who, not being able to paint his Helen beautiful, determined to make her fine."] When, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing, Its subtle web-work, or its venomed sting; Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours, Point out the green lane rough with fern and flowers; And the white front thro' mingling elms revealed. To simple comforts, and domestic rites, Siill must my partial pencil love to dwell When April verdure springs in Grosvenor Square, Yet still the seasons circle as before. Ah! still as soon the young Aurora plays, Tho' moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze; There let her strike with momentary ray, Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; Yet modest ornament, with use combined, Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. Small change of scene, small space his home requires, Who leads a life of satisfied desires. What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, From every point a ray of genius flows! Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; And cheaply circulates, through distant climes, Here from the mould to conscious being start Soon as the morning dream my pillow flies, But could thine erring friend so long forget Tho' my thatched bath no rich mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. Emblem of life! which still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! The shadowy walls record, with Attic art, The strength and beauty which its waves impart. Here Thetis, bending with a mother's fears, Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears; There Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise, As her fair self, reflected, seems to rise! Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, And all the dull impertinence of life, These eyelids open to the rising ray, And close, when Nature bids, at close of day. Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows; There noon-day levees call from faint repose. Here the flushed wave flings back the parting light; To muse unnoticed-while around him press And (tho' perchance of current coin possest, No tuneful echoes, ambushed at my gate, When Christmas revels in a world of snow, To range the murmuring market-place, and view When spring bursts forth in blossoms thro' the vale, Nor boast, O Choisy, seat of soft delight, The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. |