He is the son of a barber of Ispahan, and is successively one of a band of Turcomans, a menial servant, a pupil of the physician royal of Persia, an attendant on the chief executioner, a religious devotee, and a seller of tobacco-pipes in Constantinople. Having by stratagem espoused a rich Turkish widow, he becomes an official to the Shah; and on his further distinguishing himself for his knowledge of the Europeans, he is appointed secretary to the mission of Mirzah Firouz, and accompanies the Persian ambassador to the court of England. In the course of his multiplied adventures, misfortunes, and escapes, the volatile unprincipled Hajji mixes with all classes, and is much in Tehran, Koordistan, Georgia, Bagdad, Constantinople, &c. The work soon became popular. The novelty of the style,' says Sir Walter Scott, which was at once perceived to be genuine oriental by such internal evidence as establishes the value of real old Chinathe gay and glowing descriptions of Eastern state and pageantry-the character of the poetry occasionally introduced-secured a merited welcome for the Persian picaroon. As a picture of oriental manners, the work had, indeed, a severe trial to sustain by a comparison with the then recent romance of Anastasius. But the public found appetite for both; and indeed they differ as comedy and tragedy, the deep passion and gloomy interest of Mr Hope's work being of a kind entirely different from the light and lively turn of our friend Hajji's adventures. The latter, with his morals sitting easy about him, a rogue indeed, but not a malicious one, with as much wit and cunning as enable him to dupe others, and as much vanity as to afford them perpetual means of retaliation; a sparrow-hawk, who, while he floats through the air in quest of the smaller game, is himself perpetually exposed to be pounced upon by some stronger bird of prey, interests and amuses us, while neither deserving nor expecting serious regard or esteem; and like Will Vizard of the hill, "the knave is our very good friend." Mr Morier, however, in the episode of Yusuf, the Armenian, and the account of the death of Zeenab, has successfully entered into the arena of pathetic and romantic description. The oriental scenes are the most valuable and original portions of "Hajji Baba," and possess the attraction of novelty to ordinary readers, yet the account of the constant embarrassment and surprise of the Persians at English manners and customs is highly amusing. The ceremonial of the dinner-table, that seemed to them "absolutely bristling with instruments of offence," blades of all sizes and descriptions, sufficient to have ornamented the girdles of the Shah's household, could not but puzzle those who had been accustomed simply to take everything up in their fingers. The mail-coach, the variety of our furniture and accommodation, and other domestic observances, were equally astonishing; but, above all, the want of ceremonial among our statesmen and public officers surprised the embassy. The following burst of oriental wonder and extravagance succeeds to an account of a visit paid them by the chairman and deputy-chairman of the East India Company, who came in a hackney-coach, and, after the interview, walked away upon their own legs.

mitted to rise, and around whose majestic mountains, some clad in eternal snows, others in eternal verdure, the stars and the moon are allowed to gambol and carouse! What is it so fallen, so degraded, as to be swayed by two obscure mortals, living in regions that know not the warmth of the sun? Two swine-eating infidels, shaven, impure, walkers on foot, and who, by way of state, travel in dirty coaches filled with straw! This seemed to us a greater miracle in government than even that of Beg Ian, the plaiter of whips, who governed the Turcomans and the countries of Samarcand and Bokhara, leading a life more like a beggar than a potentate."'

'Zohrab' is a historical novel, of the time of Aga Mohammed Shah, a famous Persian prince, described by Sir John Malcolm as having taught the Russians to beat the French by making a desert before the line of the invader's march, and thus leaving the enemy master of only so much ground as his cannon could command. This celebrated Shah is the real hero of the tale, though the honour is nominally awarded to Zohrab, an independent Mazanderini chief, who falls in love with the gentle and beautiful Amima, niece of the Shah. The style of the work is light, pleasant, and animated, and it is full of Persian life. Ayesha, the Maid of Kars,' is inferior to its predecessors, though certain parts (as the description of the freebooter, Corah Bey, and the ruins of Anni, the Spectre City, the attack on the Russian posts, the voyage to Constantinople, &c.) are in the author's happiest and most graphic manner. In this work Mr Morier introduces a novelty-he makes an English traveller, Lord Osmond, fall in love with a Turkish maiden, and while the Englishman is bearing off the Maid of Kars to Constantinople, Corah Bey intercepts them, and gets the lover sent off to the galleys. He is released through the intercession of the English ambassador, and carries his Eastern bride to England. Ayesha, the heroine, turns out to be the daughter of Sir Edward Wortley! There are improbabilities in this story which cannot be reconciled, and the mixture of European costume and characters among the scenery and society of the East, destroys that oriental charm which is so entire and so fascinating in Zohrab.' 'The Mirza' is a series of Eastern stories, connected by an outline of fiction like Moore's Lalla Rookh. In concluding this work, Mr Morier says, 'I may venture to assert that the East, as we have known it in oriental tales, is now fast on the change-"C'est le commencement de la fin." Perhaps we have gleaned the last of the beards, and obtained an expiring glimpse of the heavy caoûk and the ample shalwar ere they are exchanged for the hat and the spruce pantaloon. How wonderful is it-how full of serious contemplation is the fact, that the whole fabric of Mohammedanism should have been assailed, almost suddenly as well as simultaneously, by events which nothing human could have foreseen. Barbary, Egypt, Syria, the banks of the Euphrates and Tigris, the Red Sea, Constantinople, Asia Minor, Persia, and Affghanistan, all more or less have felt the influence of European or anti-Mohammedan agencies. Perhaps the present generation may not see a new structure erected, but true it is they have seen its foundations laid.'

"When they were well off, we all sat mute, only occasionally saying, Allah! Allah! there is but one Allah!' so wonderfully astonished were we. What! India? that great, that magnificent empire! -that scene of Persian conquest and Persian glory! -the land of elephants and precious stones, the seat of shawls and kincobs!—that paradise sung by poets, celebrated by historians more ancient than Irân itself!-at whose boundaries the sun is per-league in the sixteenth century.

In 1838 appeared The Banished; a Swabian Historical Tale, edited by Mr Morier. This publication caused some disappointment, as the name of the author of Hajji Baba' excited expectations which The Banished' did not realise. The work is a translation from the German, a tale of the Swabian

JAMES BAILIE FRASER.

Quickly springing on my feet, and grasping my spear and scimitar, which lay under my head, I looked around for the cause of alarm. Nor did it long remain doubtful; for, at the distance of scarce two hundred yards, I saw a single horseman advancing. To tighten my girdle round my loins, to string my bow, and prepare two or three arrows for use, was but the work of a few moments; before these preparations, however, were completed, the stranger was close at hand. Fitting an arrow to my bow, I placed myself upon guard, and examined him narrowly as he approached. He was a man of goodly stature and powerful frame; his countenance, hard, strongly marked, and furnished with a thick black beard, bore testimony of exposure to many a blast, but it still preserved a prepossessing expression of good humour and benevo lence. His turban, which was formed of a cashmere shawl, sorely tached and torn, and twisted here and there with small steel chains, according to the fashion of the time, was wound around a red cloth cap that rose in four peaks high above the head. His oemah, or riding coat, of crimson cloth much stained and faded, opening at the bosom, showed the links of a coat of mail which he wore below; a yellow shawl formed his girdle; his huge shulwars, or riding trousers, of thick fawn-coloured Kerman woollen stuff, fell in folds over the large red leather boots in which his legs were cased; by his side hung a crooked scimitar in a black leather scabbard, and from the holsters of his saddle peeped out the butt-ends of a pair of pistols-weapons of which I then knew not the use, any more than of the matchlock which was slung at his back. He was mounted on a powerful but jaded horse, and appeared to have already travelled far.

MR JAMES BAILIE FRASER has, like Mr Morier, described the life and manners of the Persians by fictitious as well as true narratives. In 1828 he published The Kuzzilbash, a Tale of Khorasan, three volumes, to which he afterwards added a continuation under the name of The Persian Adventurer, the title of his first work not being generally understood: it was often taken, he says, for a cookery book! The term Kuzzilbash, which is Turkish, signifies Red-head, and was an appellation originally given by Shah Ismael I. to seven tribes bound to defend their king. These tribes wore a red cap as a distinguishing mark, which afterwards became the military head-dress of the Persian troops; hence the word Kuzzilbash is used to express a Persian soldier; and often, particularly among the Toorkomans and Oozbeks, is applied as a national designation to the people in general. Mr Fraser's hero relates his own adventures, which begin almost from his birth; for he is carried off while a child by a band of Toorkoman robbers, who plunder his father's lands and village, situated in Khorasan, on the borders of the great desert which stretches from the banks of the Caspian Sea to those of the river Oxus. The infant bravery of Ismael, the Kuzzilbash, interests Omer Khan, head of a tribe or camp of the plunderers, and he spares the child, and keeps him to attend on his own son Selim. In the camp of his master is a beautiful girl, daughter of a Persian captive; and with this young beauty, lovely as a child of the Peris,' Ismael forms an attachment that When this striking figure had approached within increases with their years. These early scenes are finely described; and the misfortunes of the fair thirty yards, I called out in the Turkish language, Shireen are related with much pathos. The conse-commonly used in the country, Whoever thou art, come no nearer on thy peril, or I shall salute thee quences of Ismael's passion force him to flee. He with this arrow from my bow!' Why, boy,' returned assumes the dress of the Kuzzilbash, and crossing the desert, joins the army of the victorious Nadir the stranger in a deep manly voice, and speaking in Shah, and assists in recovering the holy city of the same tongue, thou art a bold lad, truly! but set Nay,' reMushed, the capital of Khorasan. His bravery is thy heart at rest, I mean thee no harm.' rewarded with honours and dignities; and after joined I, I am on foot, and alone. I know thee not, nor thy intentions. Either retire at once, or show thy various scenes of love and war, the Kuzzilbash is sincerity by setting thyself on equal terms with me: united to his Shireen. Scenes of active life are dismount from thy steed, and then I fear thee not, painted by the author with the same truth, accu- whatever be thy designs. Beware!' And so saying, I racy, and picturesque effect which he displays in drew my arrow to the head, and pointed it towards landscapes or single figures. In war, especially, he is at home; and gives the attack, the retreat, the him. By the head of my father! cried the stranger, 'thou art an absolute youth! but I like thee well; rally, the bloody and desperate close combat, the thy heart is stout, and thy demand is just; the sheep flight, pursuit, and massacre, with all the current of trusts not the wolf when it meets him in the plain, a heady fight, as one who must have witnessed nor do we acknowledge every stranger in the desert such terrors.' for a friend. See,' continued he, dismounting actively, yet with a weight that made the turf ring again-See, I yield my advantage; as for thy arrows, boy, I fear them not. With that he slung a small shield, which he bore at his back, before him, as if to cover his face, in case of treachery on my part, and leaving his horse where it stood, he advanced to me.

A brief but characteristic scene a meeting of two warriors in the desert-is strikingly described, though the reader is probably haunted with an idea that European thoughts and expressions mingle with the author's narrative:

By the time I reached the banks of this stream the sun had set, and it was necessary to seek some retreat where I might pass the night and refresh myself and my horse without fear of discovery. Ascending the river bed, therefore, with this intention, I soon found a recess where I could repose myself, surrounded by green pasture, in which my horse might feed; but as it would have been dangerous to let him go at large all night, I employed myself for a while in cutting the longest and thickest of the grass which grew on the banks of the stream for his night's repast, permitting him to pasture at will until dark; and securing him then close to the spot I meant to occupy, after a moderate meal, I commended myself to Allah, and lay down to rest.

The loud neighing of my horse awoke me with a start, as the first light of dawn broke in the East.

.

Taught from my youth to suspect and to guard against treachery, I still kept a wary eye on the motions of the stranger. But there was something in his open though rugged countenance and manly bearing that claimed and won my confidence. Slowly I lowered my hand, and relaxed the still drawn string of my bow, as he strode up to me with a firm composed step.

Youth,' said he, had my intentions been hostile, it is not thy arrows or thy bow, no, nor thy sword and spear, that could have stood thee much in stead. I am too old a soldier, and too well defended against such weapons, to fear them from so young an arm. But I am neither enemy nor traitor to attack thee unawares. I have travelled far during the past night, and mean to refresh myself awhile in this spot before

I proceed on my journey; thou meanest not,' added he with a smile, to deny me the boon which Allah extends to all his creatures? What! still suspicious? Come, then, I will increase thy advantage, and try to win thy confidence.' With that he unbuckled his sword, and threw it, with his matchlock, upon the turf a little way from him. See me now unarmed; wilt thou yet trust me? Who could have doubted longer? I threw down my bow and arrows: Pardon,' cried I, my tardy confidence; but he that has escaped with difficulty from many perils, fears even their shadow: here,' continued I, are bread and salt, eat thou of them; thou art then my guest, and that sacred tie secures the faith of both.' The stranger, with another smile, took the offered food.

·

The following passage, describing the Kuzzilbash's return to his native village, affects us both by the view which it gives of the desolations caused in half barbarous countries by war and rapine, and the beautiful strain of sentiment which the author puts into the mouth of his hero :

We continued for some time longer, riding over a track once fertile and well-cultivated, but now returned to its original desolation. The wild pomegranate, the thorn, and the thistle, grew high in the fields, and overran the walls that formerly enclosed them. At length we reached an open space, occupied by the ruins of a large walled village, among which a square building, with walls of greater height, and towers at each corner, rose particularly conspicuous.

As we approached this place I felt my heart stirred within me, and my whole frame agitated with a secret and indescribable emotion; visions of past events seemed hovering dimly in my memory, but my sensations were too indistinct and too confused to be intelligible to myself. At last a vague idea shot through my brain, and thrilled like a fiery arrow in my heart; with burning cheeks and eager eyes I looked towards my companion, and saw his own bent keenly upon

me.

'Knowest thou this spot, young man?' said he, after a pause if thy memory does not serve thee, cannot thy heart tell thee what walls are these?' gasped for breath, but could not speak. Yes, Ismael,' continued he, these are the ruined walls of thy father's house; there passed the first days of thy childhood; within that broken tower thy eyes first saw the light But its courts are now strewed with the unburied dust of thy kindred, and the foxes and wolves of the desert rear their young among its roofless chambers. These are the acts of that tribe to which thou hast so long been in bondage-such is the debt of blood which cries out for thy vengeance!'

I checked my horse to gaze on the scene of my infant years, and my companion seemed willing to indulge me. Is it indeed true, as some sages have taught, that man's good angel hovers over the place of his birth, and dwells with peculiar fondness on the innocent days of his childhood? and that in after years of sorrow and of crime she pours the recollection of those pure and peaceful days like balm over the heart, to soften and improve it by their influence? How could it be, without some agency like this, that, gazing thus unexpectedly on the desolate home of my fathers, the violent passions, the bustle, and the misery of later years, vanished from my mind like a dream; and the scenes and feelings of my childhood came fresh as yesterday to my remembrance? I heard the joyous clamour of my little brothers and sisters; our games, our quarrels, and our reconciliations, were once more present to me; the grave smile of my father, the kind but eternal gabble of my good old nurse; and, above all, the mild sweet voice of my beloved mother, as she adjusted our little disputes, or soothed our childish sorrows-all rushed upon my mind, and for

Theodore : & Hook

composer; and at the early age of sixteen (after an imperfect course of education at Harrow school), he became a sort of partner in his father's business of music and song. In 1805 he composed a comic opera, The Soldier's Return, the overture and music, as well as the dialogues and songs, entirely by himself. The opera was highly successful, and young Theodore was ready next year with another afterpiece, Catch Him Who Can, which exhibited the talents of Liston and Mathews in a popular and effective light, and had a great run of success. Several musical operas were then produced in rapid succession by Hook, as The Invisible Girl, Music Mad, Darkness Visible, Trial by Jury, The Fortress, Tekeli, Exchange no Robbery, and Killing no Murder. Some of these still keep possession of the stage, and evince wonderful knowledge of dramatic art, musical skill, and literary powers in so young an author. They were followed (1808) by a novel which has been described as a mere farce in a narrative shape. The remarkable conversational talents of Theodore Hook, and his popularity as a writer for the stage, led him much into society. Flushed with success, full of the gaiety and impetuosity of youth, and conscious of his power to please and even fascinate in company, he surrendered himself up to the enjoyment of the passing hour, and became noted for his boisterous buffooneries,' his wild sallies of wit and drollery, and his practical hoa.res.

Amongst his various talents was one which, though

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vation of nature appears to be Mr Grattan's principal merit. His style is often diffuse and careless; and he does not seem to have laboured successfully in constructing his stories. His pictures of ordinary life in the French provinces, as he wandered among the highways and byways of that country with a cheerful obscrvant spirit, noting the peculiarities of the people, are his happiest and most original efforts.

bear and man, and scarcely distinguishable, by the colour of his dress, from the brown flags along which he sauntered.

Two novels of the same class with those of Mr Lister were written by the present MARQUIS OF NORMANBY; namely, Matilda, published in 1825, and Yes and No, a Tale of the Day, 1827. They were well received by the public, being in taste, correctness of delineation, and general good sense, superior to the ordinary run of fashionable novels.

LADY CAROLINE LAMB-LADY DACRE COUNTESS OF
MORLEY-LADY CHARLOTTE BURY.

MR T. H. LISTER, a gentleman of rank and aristocratic connexions, was author of three novels, descriptive of the manners of the higher classes; namely, Granby, 1826; Herbert Lacy, 1827; and Arlington, 1832. These works are pleasingly written, and may be considered as affording correct pictures of domestic society, but they possess no features of novelty or originality to preserve them for another generation. A strain of graceful reflection, in the style of the essays in the Mirror and Lounger, is mingled with the tale, and shows the author to have been a man of refined and cultivated taste and feeling. In 1838 Mr Lister published a Memoir of the Life and Administration of the Earl of Clarendon, in three volumes, a work of considerable talent and research, in preparing which the author had access to documents and papers unknown to his predecessors. Mr Lister died in June 1842, at which time he held the government appointment of Registrar-general of births, marriages, and deaths. The following brief description in Granby' may be compared with Mr Wordsworth's noble sonnet com-line Lamb is painfully interesting. She was united, posed upon Westminster Bridge.

[London at Sunrise.]

Granby followed them with his eyes; and now, too full of happiness to be accessible to any feelings of jealousy or repining, after a short reverie of the purest satisfaction, he left the ball, and sallied out into the fresh cool air of a summer morning-suddenly passing from the red glare of lamplight to the clear sober brightness of returning day. He walked cheerfully onward, refreshed and exhilarated by the air of morning, and interested with the scene around him. It was broad daylight, and he viewed the town under an aspect in which it is alike presented to the late retiring votary of pleasure, and to the early rising sons of business. He stopped on the pavement of Oxford Street to contemplate the effect. The whole extent of that long vista, unclouded by the mid-day smoke, was distinctly visible to his eye at once. The houses shrunk to half their span, while the few visible spires of the adjacent churches seemed to rise less distant than before, gaily tipped with early sunshine, and much diminished in apparent size, but heightened in distinctness and in beauty. Had it not been for the cool gray tint which slightly mingled with every object, the brightness was almost that of noon. But the life, the bustle, the busy din, the flowing tide of human existence, were all wanting to complete the similitude. All was hushed and silent; and this mighty receptacle of human beings, which a few short hours would wake into active energy and motion, seemed like a city of the dead.

There was little to break this solemn illusion. Around were the monuments of human exertion, but the hands which formed them were no longer there. Few, if any, were the symptoms of life. No sounds were heard but the heavy creaking of a solitary wagon, the twittering of an occasional sparrow, the monotonous tone of the drowsy watchman, and the distant rattle of the retiring carriage, fading on the ear till it melted into silence: and the eye that searched for living objects fell on nothing but the grim great-coated guardian of the night, muffled up into an appearance of doubtful character between

LADY CAROLINE LAMB (1785-1828) was authoress of three works of fiction, which, from extrinsic circumstances, were highly popular in their day. The first, Glenarvon, was published in 1816, and the hero was understood to body forth' the character and sentiments of Lord Byron! It was a representation of the dangers attending a life of fashion. The second, Graham Hamilton, depicted the difficulties and dangers inseparable, even in the most amiable minds, from weakness and irresolution of character. The third, Ada Reis (1823), is a wild Eastern tale, the hero being introduced as the Don Juan of his day, a Georgian by birth, who, like Othello, is 'sold to slavery,' but rises to honours and distinctions. In the end Ada is condemned, for various misdeeds, to eternal punishment! The history of Lady Caro

before the age of twenty, to the Honourable William Lamb (now Lord Melbourne), and was long the delight of the fashionable circles, from the singularity as well as the grace of her manners, her literary accomplishments, and personal attractions. On meeting with Lord Byron, she contracted an unfortunate attachment for the noble poet, which continued three years, and was the theme of much remark. The poet is said to have trifled with her feelings, and a rupture took place. For many years Lady Caroline led a life of comparative seclusion, principally at Brocket Hall. This was interrupted by a singular and somewhat romantic occurrence. Riding with Mr Lamb, she met, just by the park-gates, the hearse which was conveying the remains of Lord Byron to Newstead Abbey. She was taken home insensible: an illness of length and severity succeeded. Some of her medical attendants imputed her fits, certainly of great incoherence and long continuance, to partial insanity. At this supposition she was invariably and bitterly indignant. Whatever be the cause, it is certain from that time her conduct and habits materially changed; and about three years before her death a separation took place between her and Mr Lamb, who continued, however, frequently to visit, and, to the day of her death, to correspond with her. It is just to both parties to add, that Lady Caroline constantly spoke of her husband in the highest and most affectionate terms of admiration and respect.'* A romantic susceptibility of temperament and character seems to have been the bane of this unfortunate lady. Her fate illustrates the wisdom of Thomson's advice

Then keep each passion down, however dear,

Trust me, the tender are the most severe.

The Recollections of a Chaperon, 1833, by LADY DACRE, are a series of tales written with taste, feeling, and passion. This lady is, we believe, also authoress of Trevelyan, 1833, a novel which was considered at the time of its publication as the

* Annual Obituary for 1829.

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