profane, and not very clever. But the most pregnant proof of the deep sense of religion" with which the mind of "Eothen" is imbued, is certainly supplied by the perilous voyage he took to the island of Cyprus, for the sole purpose of making a religious pilgrimage to the site of the temple of Venus at Paphos! His account of his motives for carrying out this very dashing and original idea, we give in his own words.

"My intended journey was to the site of the Paphian temple. I take no antiquarian interest in ruins, and care little about them, unless they are either striking in themselves, or else serve to mark some spot on which my fancy loves to dwell. I knew that the ruins of Paphos were scarcely, if at all discernible, but there was a will, and a longing, more imperious than mere curiosity, that drove me thither.

"For this just then was my Pagan soul's desire-that (not forfeiting my Christian's inheritance for the life to come,) it were yet given me to live through this world-to live a favoured mortal under the old Olympian dispensation to speak out my resolves to the listening Jove, and hear him answer with approving thunder-to be blessed with divine counsels from the lips of Pallas Athenie-to believe-aye, only to believe-to believe for one rapturous moment that in the gloomy depths of the grove, by the mountain side, there were some leafy pathway that crisped beneath the glowing sandal of Aphrodetie-Aphrodetie, not coldly disdainful of even a mortal's love! And this vain, heathenish longing of mine was father to the thought of visiting the scene of the ancient worship.

The isle is beautiful: from the edge of the rich, flowery fields on which I trod, to the midway sides of the snowy Olympus, the ground could only here and there show an abrupt crag, or a high, straggling ridge, that up-shouldered itself from out of the wilderness of myrtles, and of the thousand brightleaved shrubs that twined their arms together in lovesome tangles. The air that came to my lips was warm, and fragrant as the ambrosial breath of the goddess, infecting me-not, (of course,) with a faith in the old religion of the isle, but with a sense, and apprehension of its mystic power-a power that was still to be obeyed-obeyed by me, for why otherwise did I toil on with sorry horses to where, for HER, the hundred altars glowed with Arabian incense, and breathed with the fragrance of garlands ever fresh?'"' -(pp. 103-105.)

We leave it to our readers to make their own comments, and draw their own conclusions from this quotation.

In "Eothen," as a book, we repeat it, there is nothing remarkable. It is not more profane than the "Fragments of Creation," which have just issued from the press of Mr. Pickering. It scarcely sets decency at defiance more grossly than Miss Ann Jewsbury, who, in her novel of Zoe (Chapman and Hall), professes herself the disciple of Mary Wolstoncraft, and boldly advocates the rights of her sex to the enjoyment of as many paramours as they can possibly procure. This book has also appeared within the current year. Moreover, in point of talent and graphic power, both of these publications are at the least equal to "Eothen.'

But that such a book should have commanded an elaborate eulogy from the "Quarterly," and that the Reviewer should even

wind up the eight-and-twenty pages of praise with a devout aspiration of gratitude to God for its appearance-at this our astonishment is absolutely boundless!

Of the scholarship of "Eothen" he gives us no opportunity of judging, beyond the title he assumes, which appears to us at once pedantic and misapplied. He sedulously inculcates throughout the book that he is of Eton; we certainly should have expected in one from thence somewhat more of familiarity with Greek than is betrayed by this title. We are also surprised that he should quote as his authority for it the English translation of Schneider's Lexicon. We should have anticipated that any Etonian would have known that the reputation of Schneider among the Greek lexicographers is about upon a par with that of Moses and Son among the tailors. That he has been a neglected idle scholar at some public school, we do not doubt for a moment; but all young gentlemen of fashion are of Eton now-a-days: and we certainly have met with "Eton eaglets," who, upon examination, have turned out to be merely Rugby ravens or Winchester geese. And this circumstance naturally predisposes us to a little hesitation, when we meet with a very swaggering obtrusive profession of Eton, like that of Eothen's. The point, however, is perfectly unimportant, we have not the slightest doubt that he is the élève of one of our great public grammar schools. Now we remember to have noticed, a few months since, on the occasion of the production of a new drama at one of the theatres, that the fautores temporis acti of the public press were incandescent with rage at one of the characters whom the dramatist called an Eton boy. It was pronounced a foul calumnious libel upon the flower of the young nobility and gentry of England. At the same time the utmost powers of the writers were put forth in vindication of the religion, the learning, and the courtesy of the alumni of Eton, who were made the subjects of unmeasured eulogy. Now a book like "Eothen," written by a professed Etonian, and evidently addressed to his compeers and schoolfellows, is so perfect a test of this controverted point, that we have been induced to look at the drama in question, the printed title of which is Quid pro quo. Having done so we can only say that in those peculiarities of youth, which are apt to blight the anxious father's fondest hopes, and writhe the loving mother's heart, and send the grey hairs of both with sorrow to the grave, the Lord Bellamont of the play is a mere chicken to "Eothen!" On the question of public schools we do not now enter. We have only further to remark, in conclusion, it is an ill sign of the times when our gentlemen-travellers write such books as "Eothen," and our arbiters of literature praise them.

The other work whose title stands at the head of this article contrasts so favorably with its rival, that we could almost eulogize it. Yet its author has apparently fallen into company with the writer of "Eothen," has been imposed upon by his swagger, and, being probably a younger man, both praises and imitates him. He alludes, in his preface, to the "brilliance" of the author of "Eothen,” and he begins his second chapter with "By the bright goddess who sprang from ocean's foam!" Thus do evil communications corrupt good manners.

Yet does Mr. Warburton shew signs of both higher talent and better principles than his predecessor. His descriptions, both of the past and the present, are good; and his feelings are evidently on the side of the truth. He writes better English, and judges more like an Englishman, than the affected roué whom he has stooped to compliment. Immediately following his "By the bright goddess,"-which is borrowed;-comes this passage, which is evidently his own,—

"On Sunday divine service was performed by a young missionary clergyman, to a grave and decorous audience. It was a striking scene, that little congregation of exiles, observing the ritual of their church in the midst of that stormy sea. The red ensign was laid upon a small table, and formed an altar, not unappropriate to the occasion. Without, the wind was howling, and the waters weltered, and all nature seemed in commotion; but within, the peace of heaven was being promised, and seemed to shed its calm over the storm-tost listeners to its voice. I regretted to observe that none of the crew, except the officers, and that none of the servants of the ship, formed part of the congregation. Surely the service which begins by addressing prince and peasant as brethren should not form part of the exclusive privileges of first-class passengers."-(pp. 9, 10.)

We have said that Mr. Warburton has a graphic pencil. No sooner does he behold the Nile, than he gives forth, with ease and power, this rapid sketch of the latest scene of interest which that river has beheld.

"Tis an old story now, that battle of the Nile; but, as the traveller paces by these silent and deserted shores, that have twice seen England's flag' triumphant over wave and war,' he lives again in the stirring days, when the scenery before him was the arena where France and England contended for the empire of the East. Let us rest from blazing sun and weary travel, in the cool shadow of this palm-tree. Our camels are kneeling round us, and our Arabs light their little fires in silence. They remember well the scenes we are recalling, though many a Briton has forgotten them; and the names of Nelson and of Abercrombie are already sounding faint through the long vista of departed times. We overlook the scene of both their battles, and envy not the Spartan his Thermopylæ, or the Athenian his Salamis. What Greece was to the Persian despot, England was to Napoleon; nation after nation shrank from staking its existence at issue for a mere principle, and England alone was at war with the congregated world, in defence of that world's freedom. Yet not quite alone: she had one faithful ally in the cause of liberty and Christianity, and that ally was-the Turk!

"The bay is wide, but dangerous from shoals; the line of deep blue water,

and the old castle of Aboukir, map out the position of the French fleet on the 1st of August, '98. Having landed Buonaparte and his army, Brueys lay moored in the form of a crescent, close along the shore. His vastly superior force, and the strength of his position (protected towards the northward by dangerous shoals, and towards the westward by the castle and batteries), made him consider that position impregnable. He wrote, on the strength of this conviction, to Paris, to say that Nelson purposely avoided him. Was he undeceived when Hood, in the Zealous, making signal that the enemy was in sight, a cheer of anticipated triumph burst from every ship in the British fleet-that fleet which had swept the seas with bursting sails for six long weeks in search of its formidable foe, and now pressed to the battle as eagerly as if nothing but a rich and easy prize awaited them?

"Nelson had long been sailing in battle order, and he now only lay-to in the offing till the rear-ward ships should come up. The soundings of that dangerous bay were unknown to him, but he knew that where there was room for a Frenchman to lie at anchor, there must be room for an English ship to lie alongside of him, and the closer the better. As his proud and fearless fleet came on, he hailed Hood, to ask his opinion as to whether he thought it would be advisable to commence the attack that night; and receiving the answer that he longed for, the signal for close battle' flew from his mast-head.

"The delay thus caused to the Zealous gave Foley the lead, who showed the example of leading inside the enemy's line, and anchored by the stern alongside the second ship, thus leaving to Hood the first. The latter exclaimed to my informant- Thank God, he has generously left to his old friend still to lead the van.' Slowly and majestically, as the evening fell, the remainder of the fleet came on beneath a cloud of sail, receiving the fire of the castle and the batteries in portentous silence, only broken by the crash of spars and the boatswain's whistle, as each ship furled her sails calmly, as a sea-bird might fold its wings, and glided tranquilly onward till she found her destined foe. Then her anchor dropped astern, and her fire burst from her bloody decks with a vehemence that showed how sternly it had been repressed till then.

"The leading ships passed between the enemy and the shore; but, when the admiral came up, he led the remainder of the fleet along the seaward side, thus doubling on the Frenchman's line, and placing it in a defile of fire. The sun went down soon after Nelson anchored; and his rearward ships were only guided through the darkness and the dangers of that formidable bay by the Frenchman's fire flashing fierce welcome as each enemy arrived, and hovered along the line, coolly scrutinizing where he could draw most of that fire on himself. The Bellerophon, with gallant recklessness fastened on the gigantic Orient, and was soon crushed and scorched into a wreck by the terrible artillery of batteries more than double the number of her own. But before she drifted helplessly to leeward, she had done her work: the French admiral's ship was on fire, and, through the roar of battle, a whisper went that for a moment paralysed every eager heart and hand. During that dread pause, the fight was suspended-the very wounded ceased to groan-yet the burning ship continued to fire broadsides from her flaming decks, her gallant crew alone unawed by their approaching fate, and shouting their own brave requiem. At length, with the concentrated roar of a thousand battles, the explosion came; and the column of flame that shot upward into the very sky for a moment rendered visible the whole surrounding scene, from the red flags aloft to the reddened decks below-the wide shore, with all its swarthy crowds, and the far-off glittering sea, with the torn and dismantled fleets. Then darkness and silence came again, only broken by the shower of blazing fragments in which that brave ship fell upon the waters.

"Till that moment, Nelson was ignorant how the battle went. He knew that every man was doing his duty, but he knew not how successfully; he had

been wounded in the forehead, and found his way unnoticed to the deck in the suspense of the coming explosion. Its light was a fitting lamp for eye like his to read by. He saw his own proud flag still floating everywhere; and at the same moment his crew recognized their wounded chief. The wild cheer with which they welcomed him was drowned in the renewed roar of the artillery, and the fight continued until near the dawn.

"Morning rose upon an altered scene. The sun had set upon as proud a fleet as ever sailed from the gay shores of France: torn and blackened hulls now only marked the position they had then occupied; and where their admiral's ship had been, the blank sea sparkled in the sunshine. Two ships of the line and two frigates escaped, to be captured soon afterwards; but within the Bay the tricolour was flying on board the Tonnant alone. As the Theseus approached to attack her, attempting to capitulate, she hoisted a flag of truce. "Your battle-flag or none!' was the stern reply as her enemy rounded-to, and the matches glimmered over her line of guns. Slowly and reluctantly, like an expiring hope, that pale flag fluttered down from her lofty spars, and the next that floated there was the banner of Old England.

And now the battle was over-India was saved upon the shores of Egypt -the career of Buonaparte was checked, and the navy of France was annihilated, though restored seven years after, to perish utterly at Trafalgar, a fitting hecatomb for obsequies like those of Nelson, whose life seemed to terminate as his mission was then and thus accomplished."-(pp. 45-50.)

Of the visible decay of the Mahometan power, Mr. Warburton thus speaks in the language which is universal:

"The Moor was, as he described himself, a thunderbolt of war, but the cloud that bore it must move on, or be dissolved. When the Moslem reached France on the south, and Hungary on the east, he encountered that stern northern race to whom the conquest of the world seems allotted. Baffled and thrown back on Barbary and the Bosphorus, the tide of Islam, that must ever either flow or ebb, had turned. From that hour, it began to shrink, and is now rapidly subsiding into the narrow channel whence it overflowed. "Would that we could find a pure and uniform faith following upon its retiring tide, as the harvest pursues the receding Nile! As yet there appears little probability of such a result; but, come what may, it is consolatory to believe that the opened eyes, and expanded hearts of men will never more submit to the Moslem's creed, in whose path has followed, like its shadow, oppression, insecurity, poverty, and intolerance.

"It is not, however, by conversion that Islamism is on the decline. 'Moslem once, Moslem ever,' is a proverb among the Greeks. His very being is identified with his faith; it is interwoven with every action of his life; it is the source of all his pride, hope, and comfort. Amongst us, too generally, our religion 'is of our life a thing apart:' with the Moslem it seems inseparable.

"Inquire of the historian, the traveller, or even of the missionary, what number of conversions have taken place among that people on whose soul, from their very infancy, the faith of the prophet and the scorn of the Christian seems stamped indelibly, and they will answer-None. It is only then with a failing population that this war-faith seems to fail-ubi solitudinem pacem. Then comes the Greek, or the Roman Catholic, or the Jew, who multiply apace; and the same belief in destiny that once carried the Moslem over the world irresistibly, now bids him submit to extinction or emigration." -(pp. 137, 138.)

Of the Copts or Jacobites, and of the mission now in operation among them, Mr. Warburton says,