511
burgh friends, procured Leyden much kindness and
attention among persons of rank and literary distinc-
tion. His chief protector and friend, however, was
Mr. George Ellis, the well-known editor of the
Specimens of Ancient English Poetry. To this
gentleman he owed an obligation of the highest
possible value, in a permission which he kindly
granted him to change, on account of illness, from
one vessel to another, the former being afterwards
unfortunately cast away in going down the river,
when many of the passengers were drowned.
After this providential exchange of destination,
the delay of the vessel to which he was transferred
permitted his residence in London until the begin-
ning of April, 1803, an interval which he spent in
availing himself of the opportunities which he now
enjoyed of mixing in the most distinguished society
in the metropolis, where the novelty and good
humour of his character made ample amends for the
native bluntness of his manners. In the beginning
of April he sailed from Portsmouth in the Hugh
Inglis, where he had the advantage of being on
board the same vessel with Mr. Robert Smith, the
brother of his steady friend the Rev. Mr. Sidney
Smith. And thus set forth on his voyage perhaps
the first British traveller that ever sought India moved
neither by the love of wealth nor of power, and who,
despising alike the luxuries commanded by the one
and the pomp attached to the other, was guided
solely by the wish of extending our knowledge of
oriental literature, and distinguishing himself as its
most successful cultivator. This pursuit he urged
through health and through sickness, unshaken by
all the difficulties arising from imperfect communica-
tion with the natives, from their prejudices and those
of their European masters, and from frequent change
of residence; unmoved either by the charms of plea-
sure, of wealth, or of that seducing indolence to
which many men of literature have yielded after
overcoming all other impediments. To this pursuit
he finally fell a sacrifice, as devoted a martyr in the
cause of science as ever died in that of religion.
We are unable to trace his Indian researches and
travels with accuracy similar to that with which we
have followed those which preceded his departure
from Europe, but we are enabled to state the follow-
ing outlines of his fortune in the East.
After a mutiny in the vessel, which was subdued
by the exertions of the officers and passengers,
and in which Leyden distinguished himself by his
coolness and intrepidity, the Hugh Inglis arrived at
Madras, and he was transferred to the duties of his
new profession. His nomination as surgeon to the
commissioners appointed to survey the ceded districts
seemed to promise ample opportunities for the cul-
tivation of oriental learning. But his health gave
way under the fatigues of the climate; and he has
pathetically recorded, in his Address to an Indian
Gold Coin, the inroads which were made on his
spirits and constitution. He was obliged to leave
the presidency of Madras, suffering an accumulation
of diseases, and reached with difficulty Prince of
Wales Island. During the passage the vessel was
chased by a French privateer, which was the occa-
sion of Leyden's composing, in his best style of border
enthusiasm, an Ode to a Malay Cris, or dagger, the
only weapon which his reduced strength now ad-
mitted of his wielding. The following letter to Mr.
Baljantyne, dated from Prince of Wales Island, 24th
October, 1805, gives a lively and interesting account
of his occupations during the first two years of his
residence in India.
" Puloo Penang, October 24th, 1805.
"My dear Ballantyne,—Finding an extra India-
man, the Revenge, which has put into this harbour
in distress, bound to Europe, I take another oppor-
tunity of attempting to revive, or rather commence,
an intercourse with my European friends, for since
my arrival in India I have never received a single
scrap from one of them,—Proh Deum! Mr. Constable
excepted; and my friend Erskine writes me from
Bombay, that none of you have received the least
intelligence of my motions since I left Europe. This
is to me utterly astonishing and incomprehensible,
considering the multitude of letters and parcels that
I have despatched from Mysore, especially during
my confinement for the liver disease at Seringapatam,
where I had for some months the honour of inhabiting
the palace of Tippoo's prime minister. I descended
into Malabar in the beginning of May, in order to
proceed to Bombay, and perhaps eventually up the
Persian Gulf as far as Bassorah, in order to try the
effect of a sea voyage. I was, however, too late,
and the rains had set in, and the last vessels sailed
two or three days before my arrival. As I am always
a very lucky fellow, as well as an unlucky one, which
all the world knows, it so fell out that the only vessel
which sailed after my arrival was wrecked, while
some secret presentiment, or rather 'sweet little
cherub, that sits up aloft,' prevented my embarking
on board of her. I journeyed leisurely down to
Calicut from Cananore, intending to pay my respects
to the cutwall and the admiral, so famous in the
Lusiad of Camoens; but only think of my disap-
pointment when I found that the times are altered,
and the tables turned with respect to both these
sublime characters. The cutwall is only a species
of borough-bailiff, while the admiral, God help him,
is only the chief of the fishermen. From Calicut I
proceeded to Paulgautcherry, which signifies in the
Tamal language 'the town of the forest of palms,'
which is exactly the meaning of Tadmor, the name
of a city founded by Solomon, not for the Queen of
Sheba, but as it happened, for the equally famous
Queen Zenobia. Thus having demonstrated that
Solomon understood the Tamal language, we may
proceed to construct a syllogism in the following
manner: 'Solomon understood the Tamal language,
and he was wise—I understand the Tamal language,
therefore I am as wise as Solomon!' I fear you
logical lads of Europe will be very little disposed to
admit the legitimacy of the conclusion; but, however
the matter may stand in Europe, I can assure you it's
no bad reasoning for India. At Paulgautcherry I
had a most terrible attack of the liver, and should
very probably have passed away, or, as the Indians
say, changed my climate—an elegant periphrasis for
dying, however—had I not obstinately resolved on
living to have the pleasure of being revenged on all
of you for your obstinate silence and 'perseverance
therein to the end.' Hearing about the middle of
August that a Bombay cruiser had touched at Aleppo,
between Quilod and Cochin, I made a desperate
push through the jungles of the Cochin rajah's
country, in order to reach her, and arrived about
three hours after she had set sail. Anybody else
would have died of chagrin, if they had not hanged
themselves outright. I did neither one nor the
other, but 'tuned my pipes and played a spring to
John o' Badenyon;' after which I set myself coolly
down and translated the famous Jewish tablets of
brass, preserved in the synagogue of Cochin ever
since the days of Methusalem. Probably you may
think this no more difficult a task than deciphering
the brazen tablet on any door of Princes or Queen
Street. But here I beg your pardon; for, so far
from anybody, Jew, Pagan, or Christian, having
ever been able to do this before, I assure you the