a political finish;-the sure result of just and necessary wars, interminable burthens upon affectionate people, green bags, strangled sultanas, and murdered mobs. There are in the world all shades and gradations of tyranny. The Turkish, or last, puts the pistol and stiletto in action. Anastasius, therefore, among his other pranks, makes nothing of two or three murders; but they are committed in character, and are suitable enough to the temper and disposition of a lawless Turkish soldier; and this is the justif cation of the book, which is called wicked, but for no other reason than because it accurately paints the manners of a people become wicked from the long and uncorrected abuses of their Government.

One cardinal fault which pervades this work is that it is too long; in spite of the numerous fine passages with which it abounds, there is too much of it; and it is a relief, not a disappointment, to get to the end. Mr. Hope, too, should avoid humour, in which he certainly does not excel. His attempts of that nature are among the most serious parts of the book. With all these objections (and we only mention them in case Mr. Hope writes again), there are few books in the English language which contain passages of greater power, feeling, and eloquence than this novel-which delineate frailty and vice with more energy and acuteness, or describe historical scenes with such bold imagery and such glowing language. Mr. Hope will excuse us--but we could not help exclaiming, in reading it, is this Mr. Thomas Hope? Is this the man of chairs and tables-the gentleman of sphinxes-the ŒŒdipus of coalboxes-he who meditated on muffineers and planned pokers? Where has he hidden all this eloquence and poetry up to this hour? How is it that he has all of a sudden burst out into descriptions which would not disgrace the pen of Tacitus-and displayed a depth of feeling and a vigour of imagination which Lord Byron could not excel? We do not shrink from one syllable of this eulogium. The work now before us places him at once in the highest list of eloquent writers, and of superior men.

Anastasius, the hero of the tale, is a native of Chios, the son of the drogueman to the French consul. The drogueman, instead of bringing him up to make Latin verses, suffered him to run wild about the streets of Chios, where he lives for some time a lubberly boy, and then a profligate youth. His first exploit is to debauch the daughter of his acquaintance, from whom (leaving her in a state of pregnancy) he runs away, and enters as a cabin-boy in a Venetian brig. The brig is taken by Maynote pirates: the pirates by a Turkish frigate, by which he is landed at Nauplia, and marched away to Argos, where the captain, Hassan Pacha, was encamped with his army.

"I had never seen an encampment; and the novel and striking sight absorbed all my faculties in astonishment and awe. There seemed to me to be forces sufficient to subdue the whole world; and I knew not which most to admire, the endless clusters of tents, the enormous piles of armour, and the rows of threatening cannon, which I met at every step, or the troops of well-mounted spahees, who, like dazzling meteors, darted by us on every side, amid clouds of stifling dust. The very dirt with which the nearer horsenien bespattered our humble troop, was, as I thought, imposing; and everything upon which I cast my eyes gave me a feeling of nothingness, which made me shrink within myself like a snail in its shell. I envied not only those who were destined to share in all the glory and success of the expedition, but even the meanest follower of the camp, as a being of a superior order to myself; and, when suddenly there arose a loud flourish of trumpets, which, ending in a concert of cymbals and other warlike instruments, re-echoed in long peals from all the surrounding mountains, the clang shook every nerve in my body, thrilled me to the very soul, and infused in all my veins a species of martial ardour, so resistless, that it made me struggle with my fetters, and try to tear them asunder. Proud as I was by nature, I would have knelt to whoever had offered to liberate my limbs, and to arm my hands with a sword or a battle-axe."-(I. 36, 37.)

From his captive state he passes into the service of Mavroyeni, Hassan's drogueman, with whom he ingratiates himself, and becomes a person of conse

quence. In the service of this person he receives from old Demo, a brother domestic, the following admirable lecture on masters :—

"Listen, young man,' said he, whether you like it or not. For my own part, I have always had too much indolence, not to make it my study throughout life rather to secure ease than to labour for distinction. It has therefore been my rule to avoid cherishing in my patron any outrageous admiration of my capacity, which would have increased my dependence while it lasted, and exposed me to persecution on wearing out;-but you, I see, are of a different mettle. I therefore may point out to you the surest way to that more perilous height, short of which your ambition I doubt will not rest satisfied. When you have compassed it, you may remember old Demo, if you please.

666 Know, first, that all masters, even the least lovable, like to be loved. All wish to be served from affection rather than duty. It flatters their pride, and it gratifies their selfishness. They expect from this personal motive a greater devotion to their interest, and a more unlimited obedience to their commands. A master looks upon mere fidelity in his servant as his due, as a thing scarce worth his thanks; but attachment he considers as a compliment to his merit, and, if at all generous, he will reward it with liberality. Mavroyeni is more open than anybody to this species of flattery. Spare it not therefore. If he speak to you kindly, let your face brighten up. If he talk to you of his own affairs, though it should only be to dispel the tedium of conveying all day long other men's thoughts, listen with the greatest eagerness. A single yawn, and you are undone! Yet let not curiosity appear your motive, but the delight only of being honoured with his confidence. The more you appear grateful for the least kindness, the oftener you will receive important favours. Our ostenta. tious drogueman will feel a pleasure in raising your astonishment. His vanity knows no bounds. Give it scope therefore. When he comes home choking with its suppressed ebullitions, be their ready and patient receptacle ;-do more; discreetly help him on in venting his conceit; provide him with a cue; hint what you heard certain people, not knowing you to be so near, say of his capacity, his merit, and his influence. He wishes to persuade the world that he completely rules the Pasha. Tell him not flatly he does, but assume it as a thing of general notoriety. Be neither too candid in your remarks, nor too fulsome in your flattery. Too palpable deviations from fact might appear a satire on your master's understanding. Should some disappointment evidently ruffle his temper, appear not to conceive the possibility of his vanity having received a mortification. Preserve the exact medium between too cold a respect and too presumptuous a forwardness. However much Mavroyeni may caress you in private, never seem quite at ease with him in public. A master still likes to remain master, or, at least, to appear so to others. Should you get into some scrape, wait not to confess your imprudence until concealment becomes impossible; nor try to excuse the offence. Rather than you should, by so doing, appear to make light of your guilt, exaggerate your self-upbraidings, and throw yourself entirely upon the drogueman's mercy. On all occasions take care how you appear cleverer than your lord, even in the splitting of a pen; or if you cannot avoid excelling him in some trifle, give his own tuition all the credit of proficiency. Many things he will dislike, only because they come not from himself. Vindicate not your innocence when unjustly rebuked; rather submit for the moment; and trust that, though Mavroyeni never will expressly acknowledge his error, he will in due time pay you for your forbearance.'"-(I. 43-45.)

your

In the course of his service with Mavroyeni, he bears arms against the Arnoots, under the Captain Hassan Pacha; and a very animated description is given of his first combat.

"I undressed the dead man completely.-When, however, the business which engaged all my attention was entirely achieved, and that human body, of which, in the eagerness for its spoil, I had only thus far noticed the separate limbs one by one, as I stripped them, all at once struck my sight in its full dimensions, as it lay naked before me ;-when I contemplated that fine athletic frame, but a moment before full of life and vigour unto its finger ends, now rendered an insensible corpse by the random shot of a raw youth whom in close combat its little finger might have crushed, I could not help feeling, mixed with my exultation, a sort of shame, as if for a cowardly advantage obtained over a superior being; and in order to make a kind of atonement to the shade of an Epirote-of a kinsman-I exclaimed with outstretched hands, 'Cursed be the paltry dust which turns the warrior's arm into a mere engine, and striking from afar an invisible blow, carries death no one knows whence to no one knows whom; levels the strong with the weak, the brave with the dastardly; and enabling the feeblest hand to wield its fatal lightning, makes the conqueror slay without anger, and the conquered die without glory.""'-(I. 54, 55.)

The campaign ended, he proceeds to Constantinople with the drogueman, where his many intrigues and debaucheries end with the drogueman's turning him out of doors. He lives for some time at Constantinople in great misery; and is driven, among other expedients, to the trade of quack-doctor.

"One evening, as we were returning from the Blacquerness, an old woman threw herself in our way, and taking hold of my master's garment, dragged him almost by main force after her into a mean-looking habitation just by, where lay on a couch, apparently at the last gasp, a man of foreign features. 'I have brought a physician,' said the female to the patient, who, perhaps, may relieve you.' 'Why will you'-answered he faintly- still persist to feed idle hopes! I have lived an outcast: suffer me at least to die in peace; nor disturb my last moments by vain illusions. My soul pants to rejoin the supreme Spirit; arrest not its flight: it would only be delaying my eternal bliss!'

"As the stranger spoke these words--which struck even Yacoob sufficiently to make him suspend his professional grimace-the last beams of the setting sun darted across the casement of the window upon his pale, yet swarthy features. Thus visited, he seemed for a moment to revive. 'I have always,' said he, considered my fate as connected with the great luminary that rules the creation. I have always paid it due worship, and firmly believed I could not breathe my last while its rays shone upon me. Carry me therefore out, that I may take my last farewell of the heavenly ruler of my earthly destinies !'

"We all rushed forward to obey the mandate: but the stairs being too narrow, the woman only opened the window, and placed the dying man before it, so as to enjoy the full view of the glorious orb, just in the act of dropping beneath the horizon. He remained a few moments in silent adoration; and mechanically we all joined him in fixing our eyes on the object of his worship. It set in all its splendour; and when its golden disk had entirely disappeared, we looked round at the Parsee. He too had sunk into everlasting rest."-(I. 103, 104.)

From the dispensation of Chalk and Water, he is then ushered into a Turkish jail, the description of which, and of the plague with which it is visited, are very finely written; and we strongly recommend them to the attention of our readers.

"Every day a capital fertile in crimes pours new offenders into this dread receptacle; and its high walls and deep recesses resound every instant with imprecations and curses, uttered in all the various idioms of the Othoman empire. Deep moans and dismal yells leave not its frightful echoes a moment's repose. From morning till night, and from night till morning, the ear is stunned with the clang of chains, which the galley-slaves wear while confined in their cells, and which they still drag about when toiling at their tasks Linked together two and two for life, should they sink under their sufferings, they still continue unsevered after death; and the man doomed to live on, drags after him the corpse of his dead companion. In no direction can the eye escape the spectacle of atrocious punishments and of indescribable agonies. Here, perhaps, you see a wretch whose stiffened limbs refuse their office, stop suddenly short in the midst of his labour, and, as if already impassable, defy the stripes that lay open his flesh, and wait in total immobility the last merciful blow that is to end his misery; while there, you view his companion foaming with rage and madness, turn against his own person his desperate hands, tear his clotted hair, rend his bleeding bosom, and strike his skull, until it burst against the wall of his dungeon. '-(I. 110, 111.)

A few survived.

"I was among these scanty relics. I who, indifferent to life, had never stooped to avoid the shafts of death, even when they flew thickest around me, had more than once laid my finger on the livid wound they inflicted, had probed it as it festered, I yet remained unhurt: for sometimes the plague is a magnanimous enemy, and, while it seldom spares the pusillanimous victim, whose blood running cold ere it is tainted, lacks the energy necessary to repel the infection when at hand, it will pass him by who dares its utmost fury, and advances undaunted to meet its raised dart."—(I. 121.)

In this miserable receptacle of guilty and unhappy beings, Anastasius forms and cements the strongest friendship with a young Greek, of the name of Anagnosti. On leaving the prison, he vows to make every exertion for the liberation of his friend-vows that are forgotten as soon as he is clear from the prison walls. After being nearly perished with hunger, and after being saved by the charity of an hospital, he gets into an intrigue with a rich Jewess, is detected-pursued-and, to save his life, turns Mussulman. This exploit performed, he suddenly meets his friend Anagnosti-treats him with disdain— and, in a quarrel which ensues between them, stabs him to the heart.

"Life,' says the dying Anagnosti, 'has long been bitterness: death is a welcome guest : I rejoin those that love me, and in a better place. Already, methinks, watching my flight, they stretch out their arms from heaven to their dying Anagnosti. Thou,-if there be in thy breast one spark of pity left for him thou once namedst thy brother; for him to whom a holy tie, a sacred vow. Ah! suffer not the starving hounds in the street. little hallowed earth thrown over my wretched corpse.' These words were his last. (I. 209.).

See a

The description of the murderer's remorse is among the finest passages in the work.

"From an obscure aisle in the church I beheld the solemn service; saw on the field of death the pale stiff corpse lowered into its narrow cell, and hoping to exhaust sorrow's bitter cup, at night, when all mankind hushed its griefs, went back to my friend's final restingplace, lay down upon his silent grave, and watered with my tears the fresh-raised hollow mound.

In vain! Nor my tears nor my sorrows could avail. No offerings nor penance could purchase me repose. Wherever I went, the beginning of our friendship and its issue still alike rose in view; the fatal spot of blood still danced before my steps, and the reeking dagger hovered before my aching eyes. In the silent darkness of the night I saw the pale phantom of my friend stalk round my watchful couch, covered with gore and dust and even during the unavailing riots of the day, I still beheld the spectre rise over the festive board, glare on me with piteous look, and hand me whatever I attempted to reach. But whatever it presented seemed blasted by its touch. To my wine it gave the taste of blood, and to my bread the rank flavour of death!"-(I. 212, 213.)

We question whether there is in the English language a finer description than this. We request our readers to look at the very beautiful and affecting picture of remorse, pp. 214, 215, vol. i.

Equally good, but in another way, is the description of the Opium Coffeehouse.

"In this tchartchee might be seen any day a numerous collection of those whom private sorrows have driven to a public exhibition of insanity. There each reeling idiot might take his neighbour by the hand, and say, Brother, and what aileth thee, to seek so dire à cure?' There did I with the rest of its familiars now take my habitual station in my solitary niche, like an insensible motionless idol, sitting with sightless eyeballs staring on vacuity.

'One day, as I lay in less entire absence than usual under the purple vines of the porch, admiring the gold-tipped domes of the majestic Sulimanye, the appearance of an old inan with a snow-white beard, reclining on the couch beside me, caught my attention. Half plunged in stupor, he every now and then burst out into a wild laugh, occasioned by the grotesque phantasms which the ample dose of madjoon he had just swallowed was sending up to his brain. I sat contemplating him with mixed curiosity and dismay, when, as if for a moment roused from his torpor, he took me by the hand, and fixing on my countenance his dim vacant eyes, said in an impressive tone, Young man, thy days are yet few; take the advice of one who, alas! has counted many. Lose no time; hie thee hence, nor cast behind one lingering look: but if thou hast not the strength, why tarry even here? Thy journey is but half achieved. At once go on to that large mansion before thee. It is thy ultimate destination; and by thus beginning where thou must end at last, thou mayest at least save both thy time and thy money.'"-(I. 215, 216.)

Lingering in the streets of Constantinople, Anastasius hears that his mother is dead, and proceeds to claim that heritage which, by the Turkish law in favour of proselytes, had devolved upon him.

"How often,' he exclaims (after seeing his father in the extremity of old age)—how often does it happen in life, that the most blissful moments of our return to a long-left home are those only that just precede the instant of our arrival: those during which the imagination still is allowed to paint in its own unblended colours the promised sweets of our reception ! How often, after this glowing picture of the phantasy, does the reality which follows appear cold and dreary. How often do even those who grieved to see us depart, grieve more to see us return! and how often do we ourselves encounter nothing but sorrow, on again beholding the once happy, joyous promoters of our own hilarity, now mournful, disappointed, and themselves needing what consolation we may bring !'"-(I. 239, 240.)

During his visit to Chios, he traces and describes the dying misery of Helena, whom he had deserted, and then debauches her friend Agnes. From thence he sails to Rhodes, the remnants of which produce a great deal of eloquence and admirable description-(pp. 275, 276, vol. i.) From Rhodes he sails to Egypt; and chap. 16 contains a short and very well written history of the origin and progress of the Mameluke government. The flight of Mourad, and the pursuit of this chief in the streets of Cairo,* would be considered as very fine passages in the best histories of antiquity.

Our limits

* P. 325. Vol. I.

prevent us from quoting them. Anastasius then becomes a Mameluke; marries his master's daughter; and is made a Kiashef. In the numerous skirmishes into which he falls in his new military life, it falls to his lot to shoot, from an ambush, Assad, his inveterate enemy.

"Assad, though weltering in his blood, was still alive; but already the angel of death flapped his dark wings over the traitor's brow. Hearing footsteps advance, he made an effort to raise his head, probably in hopes of approaching succour; but beholding, but recognising only me, he felt that no hopes remained, and gave a groan of despair. Life was flowing out so fast, that I had only to stand still-my arms folded within each other-and with a steadfast eye to watch its departure. One instant I saw my vanquished foe, agitated by a convulsive tremor, open his eyes and dart at me a glance of impotent rage; but soon he averted them again, then gnashed his teeth, clenched his fist, and expired."—(II. 92.)

We quote this, and such passages as these, to show the great power of description which Mr. Hope possesses. The vindictive man standing with his arms folded, and watching the blood flowing from the wound of his enemy, is very new and very striking.

Áfter the death of his wife, he collects his property, quits Egypt, and visits Mekkah, and acquires the title and prerogatives of an Hadjee. After this he returns to the Turkish capital, renews his acquaintance with Spiridion, the friend of his youth, who in vain labours to reclaim him, and whom he at last drives away, disgusted with the vices and passions of Anastasius. We then find our Oriental profligate fighting as a Turkish captain in Egypt, against his old friends the Mamelukes; and afterwards employed in Wallachia, under his old friend, Mavroyeni, against the Russians and Austrians. In this part of the work, we strongly recommend to our readers to look at the Mussulmans in a pastrycook's shop during the Rhamadam, vol. ii. p. 164; the village of beggars, vol. ii. p. 266; the death of the Hungarian officer, vol. ii. p. 327; and the last days of Mavroyeni, vol. ii. p. 356;—not forgetting the walk over a field of battle, vol. ii. p. 252. The character of Mavroyeni is extremely well kept up through the whole of the book; and his decline and death are drawn in a very spirited and masterly manner. The Spiridion part of the novel we are not so much struck with; we entirely approve of Spiridion, and ought to take more interest in him; but we cannot disguise the melancholy truth that he is occasionally a little long and tiresome. The next characters assumed by Anastasius are, a Smyrna debauchee, a robber of the desert, and a Wahabee. After serving some time with these sectaries, he returns to Smyrna,—finds his child missing, whom he had left there,-traces the little boy to Egypt,-recovers him,-then loses him by sickness;—and wearied of life, retires to end his days in a cottage in Carinthia. For striking passages in this part of the novel, we refer our readers to the description of the burial-places near Constantinople, vol iii. pp. 11-13. The account of Djezzar Pacha's retirement to his harem during the revolt,-equal to anything in Tacitus; and above all, to the landing of Anastasius with his sick child, and the death of the infant. It is impossible not to see that this last picture is faithfully drawn from a sad and cruel reality. The account of the Wahabees is very interesting, vol. iii. p. 128; and nothing is more so than the story of Euphrosyne. Anastasius had gained the affections of Euphrosyne, and ruined her reputation; he then wishes to cast her off, and to remove her from his house.

"Ah no!' now cried Euphrosyne, convulsively clasping my knees: 'be not so barbarous ! Shut not your own door against her, against whom you have barred every once friendly door. Do not deny her whom you have dishonoured the only asylum she has left. If I cannot be your wife, let me be your slave, your drudge. No service, however mean, shall I recoil from when you command. At least before you I shall not have to blush. In your eyes I shall not be what I must seem in those of others; I shall not from you incur the contempt which I must expect from my former companions: and my diligence to execute the lowest offices you