(WRITTEN ORIGINALLY FOR “LALLA ROOKH” IN THE COLLECTED
EDITION OF MOORE’S WORKS.)
--------------
The Poem, or Romance, of LALLA ROOKH, having now reached, I understand,
its twentieth edition, a short account of the origin and progress of a
work which has been hitherto so very fortunate in its course, may not be
deemed, perhaps, superfluous or misplaced.
It was about the year 1812, that, far more through the encouraging
suggestions of friends than from any confident promptings of my own
ambition, I conceived the design of writing a Poem upon some Oriental
subject, and of those quarto dimensions which Scott’s successful
publications in that form had then rendered the regular poetical
standard. A negotiation on the subject was opened with the Messrs.
Longman in the same year; but, from some causes which I cannot now
recollect, led to no decisive result; nor was it till a year or two
after, that any further steps were taken in the matter,—their house
being the only one, it is right to add, with which, from first to last,
I held any communication upon the subject.
On this last occasion, Mr. Perry kindly offered himself as my
representative in the treaty; and, what with the friendly zeal of my
negotiator on the one side, and the prompt and liberal spirit with which
he was met on the other, there has seldom, I think, occurred any
transaction in which Trade and Poesy have shone out so advantageously in
each other’s eyes. The short discussion that then took place, between
the two parties, may be comprised in a very few sentences. “I am of
opinion,” said Mr. Perry,—enforcing his view of the case by arguments
which it is not for me to cite,—“that Mr. Moore ought to receive for his
Poem the largest price that has been given, in our day, for such a
work.” “That was,” answered the Messrs. Longman, “three thousand
guineas.” “Exactly so,” replied Mr. Perry, “and no less a sum ought he
to receive.”
It was then objected, and very reasonably, on the part of the firm, that
they had never yet seen a single line of the Poem; and that a perusal of
the work ought to be allowed to them, before they embarked so large a
sum in the purchase. But, no;—the romantic view which my friend, Perry,
took of the matter, was, that this price should be given as a tribute to
reputation already acquired, without any condition for a previous
perusal of the new work. This high tone, I must confess, not a little
startled and alarmed me; but, to the honour and glory of Romance,—as
well on the publisher’s side as the poet’s,—this very generous view of
the transaction was, without any difficulty, acceded to, and the firm
agreed, before we separated, that I was to receive three thousand
guineas for my Poem.
At the time of this agreement, but little of the work, as it stands at
present, had yet been written. But the ready confidence in my success
shown by others, made up for the deficiency of that requisite feeling,
within myself; while a strong desire not wholly to disappoint this
“auguring hope,” became almost a substitute for inspiration. In the year
1815, therefore, having made some progress in my task, I wrote to report
the state of the work to the Messrs. Longman, adding, that I was now
most willing and ready, should they desire it, to submit the manuscript
for their consideration. Their answer to this offer was as follows:—“We
are certainly impatient for the perusal of the Poem; but solely for our
gratification. Your sentiments are always honourable.”[i]
I continued to pursue my task for another year, being likewise
occasionally occupied with the Irish Melodies, two or three numbers of
which made their appearance, during the period employed in writing Lalla
Rookh. At length, in the year 1816, I found my work sufficiently
advanced to be placed in the hands of the publishers. But the state of
distress to which England was reduced, in that dismal year, by the
exhausting effects of the series of wars she had just then concluded,
and the general embarrassment of all classes both agricultural and
commercial, rendered it a juncture the least favourable that could well
be conceived for the first launch into print of so light and costly a
venture as Lalla Rookh. Feeling conscious, therefore, that under such
circumstances, I should act but honestly in putting it in the power of
the Messrs. Longman to reconsider the terms of their engagement with
me,—leaving them free to postpone, modify, or even, should such be their
wish, relinquish it altogether, I wrote them a letter to that effect,
and received the following answer:—“We shall be most happy in the
pleasure of seeing you in February. We agree with you, indeed, that the
times are most inauspicious for ‘poetry and thousands;’ but we believe
that your poetry would do more than that of any other living poet at the
present moment.”[ii]
The length of time I employed in writing the few stories strung together
in Lalla Rookh will appear, to some persons, much more than was
necessary for the production of such easy and “light o’ love” fictions.
But, besides that I have been, at all times, a far more slow and
painstaking workman than would ever be guessed, I fear, from the result,
I felt that, in this instance, I had taken upon myself a more than
ordinary responsibility, from the immense stake risked by others on my
chance of success. For a long time, therefore, after the agreement had
been concluded, though generally at work with a view to this task, I
made but very little real progress in it; and I have still by me the
beginnings of several stories continued, some of them, to the length of
three or four hundred lines, which, after in vain endeavouring to mould
them into shape, I threw aside, like the tale of Cambuscan, “left
half-told.” One of these stories, entitled The Peri’s Daughter, was
meant to relate the loves of a nymph of this aërial extraction with a
youth of mortal race, the rightful Prince of Ormuz, who had been, from
his infancy, brought up in seclusion, on the banks of the river Amou, by
an aged guardian named Mohassan. The story opens with the first meeting
of these destined lovers, then in their childhood; the Peri having
wafted her daughter to this holy retreat, in a bright, enchanted boat,
whose first appearance is thus described:—
* * * * *
For, down the silvery tide afar,
There came a boat, as swift and bright
As shines, in heav’n, some pilgrim-star,
That leaves its own high home, at night,
To shoot to distant shrines of light.
“It comes, it comes,” young Orian cries,
And panting to Mohassan flies.
Then, down upon the flowery grass
Reclines to see the vision pass;
With partly joy and partly fear,
To find its wondrous light so near,
And hiding oft his dazzled eyes
Among the flowers on which he lies.
* * * * *
Within the boat a baby slept,
Like a young pearl within its shell;
While one, who seem’d of riper years,
But not of earth, or earth-like spheres,
Her watch beside the slumberer kept;
Gracefully waving, in her hand,
The feathers of some holy bird,
With which, from time to time, she stirr’d
The fragrant air, and coolly fann’d
The baby’s brow, or brush’d away
The butterflies that, bright and blue
As on the mountains of Malay,
Around the sleeping infant flew.
And now the fairy boat hath stopp’d
Beside the bank,—the nymph has dropp’d
Her golden anchor in the stream;
* * * * *
A song is sung by the Peri in approaching, of which the following forms
a part:—
My child she is but half divine,
Her father sleeps in the Caspian water;
Sea-weeds twine
His funeral shrine,
But he lives again in the Peri’s daughter.
Fain would I fly from mortal sight
To my own sweet bowers of Peristan;
But, there, the flowers are all too bright
For the eyes of a baby born of man.
On flowers of earth her feet must tread;
So hither my light-wing’d bark hath brought her;
Stranger, spread
Thy leafiest bed,
To rest the wandering Peri’s daughter.
In another of these inchoate fragments, a proud female saint, named
Banou, plays a principal part; and her progress through the streets of
Cufa, on the night of a great illuminated festival, I find thus
described:—
It was a scene of mirth that drew
A smile from ev’n the Saint Banou,
As, through the hush’d, admiring throng,
She went with stately steps along,
And counted o’er, that all might see,
The rubies of her rosary.
But none might see the worldly smile
That lurk’d beneath her veil, the while:—
Alla forbid! for, who would wait
Her blessing at the temple’s gate,—
What holy man would ever run
To kiss the ground she knelt upon,
If once, by luckless chance, he knew
She look’d and smil’d as others do.
Her hands were join’d, and from each wrist
By threads of pearl and golden twist
Hung relics of the saints of yore,
And scraps of talismanic lore,—
Charms for the old, the sick, the frail,
Some made for use, and all for sale.
On either side, the crowd withdrew,
To let the Saint pass proudly through;
While turban’d heads of every hue,
Green, white, and crimson, bow’d around,
And gay tiaras touch’d the ground,—
As tulip-bells, when o’er their beds
The musk-wind passes, bend their heads.
Nay, some there were, among the crowd
Of Moslem heads that round her bow’d,
So fill’d with zeal, by many a draught
Of Shiraz wine profanely quaff’d,
That, sinking low in reverence then,
They never rose till morn again.
There are yet two more of these unfinished sketches, one of which
extends to a much greater length than I was aware of; and, as far as I
can judge from a hasty renewal of my acquaintance with it, is not
incapable of being yet turned to account.
In only one of these unfinished sketches, the tale of The Peri’s
Daughter, had I yet ventured to invoke that most home-felt of all my
inspirations, which has lent to the story of The Fire-worshippers its
main attraction and interest. That it was my intention, in the concealed
Prince of Ormuz, to shadow out some impersonation of this feeling, I
take for granted from the prophetic words supposed to be addressed to
him by his aged guardian:—
Bright child of destiny! even now
I read the promise on that brow,
That tyrants shall no more defile
The glories of the Green Sea Isle,
But Ormuz shall again be free,
And hail her native Lord in thee!
In none of the other fragments do I find any trace of this sort of
feeling, either in the subject or the personages of the intended story;
and this was the reason, doubtless, though hardly known, at the time, to
myself, that, finding my subjects so slow in kindling my own sympathies,
I began to despair of their ever touching the hearts of others; and felt
often inclined to say,
“Oh no, I have no voice or hand
For such a song, in such a land.”
Had this series of disheartening experiments been carried on much
further, I must have thrown aside the work in despair. But, at last,
fortunately, as it proved, the thought occurred to me of founding a
story on the fierce struggle so long maintained between the
Ghebers,[iii] or ancient Fire-worshippers of Persia, and their haughty
Moslem masters. From that moment, a new and deep interest in my whole
task took possession of me. The cause of tolerance was again my
inspiring theme; and the spirit that had spoken in the melodies of
Ireland soon found itself at home in the East.
Having thus laid open the secrets of the workshop to account for the
time expended in _writing_ this work, I must also, in justice to my own
industry, notice the pains I took in long and laboriously _reading_ for
it. To form a store-house, as it were, of illustration purely Oriental,
and so familiarise myself with its various treasures, that, as quick as
Fancy required the aid of fact, in her spiritings, the memory was ready,
like another Ariel, at her “strong bidding,” to furnish materials for
the spellwork,—such was, for a long while, the sole object of my
studies; and whatever time and trouble this preparatory process may have
cost me, the effects resulting from it, as far as the humble merit of
truthfulness is concerned, have been such as to repay me more than
sufficiently for my pains. I have not forgotten how great was my
pleasure, when told by the late Sir James Mackintosh, that he was once
asked by Colonel W⸺s, the historian of British India, “whether it was
true that Moore had never been in the East?” “Never,” answered
Mackintosh. “Well, that shows me,” replied Colonel W⸺s, “that reading
over D’Herbelot is as good as riding on the back of a camel.”
I need hardly subjoin to this lively speech, that although D’Herbelot’s
valuable work was, of course, one of my manuals, I took the whole range
of all such Oriental reading as was accessible to me; and became, for
the time, indeed, far more conversant with all relating to that distant
region, than I have ever been with the scenery, productions, or modes of
life of any of those countries lying most within my reach. We know that
D’Anville, though never in his life out of Paris, was able to correct a
number of errors in a plan of the Troad taken by De Choiseul, on the
spot; and, for my own very different, as well as far inferior, purposes,
the knowledge I had thus acquired of distant localities, seen only by me
in my day-dreams, was no less ready and useful.
An ample reward for all this painstaking has been found in such welcome
tributes as I have just now cited; nor can I deny myself the
gratification of citing a few more of the same description. From another
distinguished authority on Eastern subjects, the late Sir John Malcolm,
I had myself the pleasure of hearing a similar opinion publicly
expressed;—that eminent person in a speech spoken by him at a Literary
Fund Dinner, having remarked, that together with those qualities of a
poet which he much too partially assigned to me was combined also “the
truth of the historian.”
Sir William Ouseley, another high authority, in giving his testimony to
the same effect, thus notices an exception to the general accuracy for
which he gives me credit:—“Dazzled by the beauties of this
composition,[iv] few readers can perceive, and none surely can regret,
that the poet, in his magnificent catastrophe, has forgotten, or boldly
and most happily violated, the precept of Zoroaster, above noticed,
which held it impious to consume any portion of a human body by fire,
especially by that which glowed upon their altars.” Having long lost, I
fear, most of my Eastern learning, I can only cite, in defence of my
catastrophe, an old Oriental tradition, which relates, that Nimrod, when
Abraham refused, at his command, to worship the fire, ordered him to be
thrown into the midst of the flames.[v] A precedent so ancient for this
sort of use of the worshipped element, would appear, for all purposes at
least of poetry, fully sufficient.
In addition to these agreeable testimonies, I have also heard, and, need
hardly add, with some pride and pleasure, that parts of this work have
been rendered into Persian, and have found their way to Ispahan. To this
fact, as I am willing to think it, allusion is made in some lively
verses, written many years since, by my friend, Mr. Luttrell:—
“I’m told, dear Moore, your lays are sung,
(Can it be true, you lucky man?)
By moonlight, in the Persian tongue,
Along the streets of Ispahan.”
That some knowledge of the work may have really reached that region,
appears not improbable from a passage in the Travels of Mr. Frazer, who
says, that “being delayed for some time at a town on the shores of the
Caspian, he was lucky enough to be able to amuse himself with a copy of
Lalla Rookh, which a Persian had lent him.”
Of the description of Balbec, in “Paradise and the Peri,” Mr. Carne, in
his Letters from the East, thus speaks: “The description in Lalla Rookh
of the plain and its ruins is exquisitely faithful. The minaret is on
the declivity near at hand, and there wanted only the muezzin’s cry to
break the silence.”
I shall now tax my reader’s patience with but one more of these generous
vouchers. Whatever of vanity there may be in citing such tributes, they
show, at least, of what great value, even in poetry, is that prosaic
quality, industry; since, as the reader of the foregoing pages is now
fully apprized, it was in a slow and laborious collection of small
facts, that the first foundations of this fanciful Romance were laid.
The friendly testimony I have just referred to, appeared, some years
since, in the form in which I now give it, and, if I recollect right, in
the Athenæum:—
“I embrace this opportunity of bearing my individual testimony
(if it be of any value) to the extraordinary accuracy of Mr.
Moore, in his topographical, antiquarian, and characteristic
details, whether of costume, manners, or less-changing
monuments, both in his Lalla Rookh and in the Epicurean. It has
been my fortune to read his Atlantic, Bermudean, and American
Odes and Epistles, in the countries and among the people to
which and to whom they related; I enjoyed also the exquisite
delight of reading his Lalla Rookh, in Persia itself; and I have
perused the Epicurean, while all my recollections of Egypt and
its still existing wonders are as fresh as when I quitted the
banks of the Nile for Arabia:—I owe it, therefore, as a debt of
gratitude (though the payment is most inadequate), for the great
pleasure I have derived from his productions, to bear my humble
testimony to their local fidelity.