AN ANGLO-PERSIAN ROMANCE.* Way have we not heard more of

this very pleasant and clever book ? Well-known writers are not always as scrupulous as they ought to be in lending their names to the productions of other people, but there is certainly nothing in this to discredit the name of Fredrika Bremer. The scenery, indeed, both physical and moral, is about as strongly contrasted with that of the Swedish novelist as it is pos- sible to conceive. Instead of the picturesque narrow fiords of Sweden, and the virtues which contracted space and the niggard but varying influences of the Northern climate bring out of Northmen, we have the vast plains, the large scale of life, the tropical but uniform passions, the fixed ideas, the rigid outlines of life, in Persia. The contrast could scarcely be greater ; and yet, being drawn as it is by a Swedish pen, and with that minute fidelity and simplicity of taste of which Miss Bremees novels give us the most perfect model, there is nothing at all incongruous in the connexion of Miss Bremees name with the book. On the contrary, the superficial con- trast brings out only the more strongly the real similarity of the faculty employed. We have called the book an Anglo-Persian Ro- mance though it is written by a Swede, because it is apparently intended for an English public, and the two European characters which form, as it were, the nucleus and artistic background of the story are not only intended as delineations of an English missionary and his wife, but are very graceful pictures of English character. Still the literary power displayed is very closely allied with Miss Bremees own, though wanting in that peculiar flavour of ne4f, childlike humour which has probably much in it that is distinctively Swedish and feminine, and certainly also much that belongs individually and exclusively to Fredrika Bremer. There is the same perfect artless- ness in the tone of the drawing, the same placid pleasure in a cha- racteristic picture or group, however little exciting,—the same happy skill in moralizing without being tedious, and in mingling sentiment with observation without being sentimental. There is a great charm in the application of this playful truth fulnesse of thought and temper to the monotony of Eastern scenes and charac- ters. Indeed, there is something so essentially rigid, so statuesque, about the East, that the attempt to embody it in what Europeans mean by story or romance: is like the strange attempt which our great sculptor Gibson has made to render statues more life-like—as if that were the object of a statue—by colouring the surface. Eastern romances are, as a rule, nothing but an immovable group of coloured statues ;—the intrigue which, in an English story, plays beneath the surface, and varies the combinations of the characters, being merely personified, in the Eastern, in some genius or soul of intrigue. The consequence is a terrible and overpowering weariness in Oriental pictures; there is no room for play of character, for freedom of action, for alternate hopes and fears ; the whole is a kind of invariable tableau vivant, with the blow that is going to descend hovering in the air before it falls, and the neck that is to be severed bowed from the first moment to the axe. Or if it is not so, the attempt to suspend the hopes and fears of the spectator is made, as in the "Arabian Nights," by a machinery at once so trivial, unnatural, and ponderous, that we feel the tale is fitted only for children and not for men,—that it is an intellectual toy rather than a constituent of literature. The present volumes get their charm from the skill with which they sur- mount this difficulty. We find neither the intolerable monotony of a mere picture of Eastern life, nor the intolerably complex ma- chinery for breaking that monotony which the genuine Eastern tale attempts. The plot of the story is scarcely to be called a plot ; it is a very slight texture of adventures, in which no attempt is made at all to import any growth or change into the changeless types of Eastern character. But variety and spring are given to the tale by the humorous contrast between Eastern and Western charac- ter,—the stiff missionary and his lively wife being interwoven at every point with the statuesque Orientals. The choice of characters for this purpose is very happy. Mr. Leonard, the missionary, is just stately and stiff enough in his moral attitudes to present some affinity with the Mahometans and the other Eastern religions, while the con- stant activity of his reflections upon the life before him is a remarkable contrast to their absolute passiveness and indifference. On the other hand, Mrs. Leonard's sparkling and lively nature is a contrast in every way to the monotones of thought, passion, apathy, or purpose of the people among whom she is placed. The most perfect Oriental sketch in the book is not that of the Gueber Nourchid, who is rather a "stock" figure, but Abdullah the Tartar, or captain of the little English caravan, who is painted with a force and humour that we have seldom seen equalled in any study of Oriental character. He is of course a Mussulman, and has all the exterior apathy, honesty, and sang-froid which tradition ascribes to the raoe. And herein lies the difficulty of the picture. For it is very difficult for any foreigner, however keen-sighted, to get beneath the

* lee in the Land of the Firemorshippers. By Charles de 11********* Edited by Freer*. Bremer. Two vols. Newby. generic characteristics of so stiff and immovable a type of character • down to anything personal or individual. In the East, what we mean by individuality of eiaracter is scarcely supposedto exist at all, though. 'of course all degrees of virtue and vice are found as in any other. country. But there is so mach less of spontaneousness, so much lees _ of play allowed to originality of any kind, so much less of life on the surface, that the little shades of thought and feeling, the various nuances by which in Europe we indicate essential differences in the attitude and tastes of individual minds, are scarcely to be dis- covered at all. The individualities of the Eastern character exist, of course, more or less ;—but only in the root underground, not in.the visible part of the character, which is almost entirely eaten up by the exactions of social form and custom. And though room is left to perceive what are a man's ruling passions by what he does, there is none of that revelation of his whole nature which results in Europe from hearing what he says, and the peculiar inflexions with which he says it. In spite of this obstaele, however, and it is great„ the author of this book, by continual touches, has succeeded in making Abdullah an individual character to us. No single scene that we can extract does so ; and perhaps if it did, it would be a proof of failure, for only very gradually can individual traits ooze through the habitual rigidity of the Mussulman's demeanour. But at length, and in some fashion or other, the result is effected, and Abdullah wins his way to that place in the imagination that we reserve for personalities which have in some way or other made us feel their clear independence of the author's mind,—their distinct reality and life. Nothing, as we have said, that we can extract can adequately reconvey this impression to our readers ; they must read the whole book to attain it. But perhaps the following passage, in which his irritation iit an abuse of power on the part of the Armenian priesthood, injurious to his friends, breaks through the crust of his usual reserve, will give some inadequate impression of it : "Abdullah set off towards his own house like a man who has half lost his senses, but who has still presence of mind enough to put a good face on the matter,. in order that passers-by may not suspect the dismay which fills his heart. "When he had reached his own room and stood before the sofa where he was in the habit of extending himself whenever he came home, he seized his pipe, but instead of filling it he dashed it down on the ground, broke it into a thousand pieces, and threw the last one, which remained in his hand in the face of his old wife, who just then came in to tell him that his dinner was ready.

"'Amami! Amaun !' screamed out the old woman, quite frightened. My Aga, my vizier, my Abdullah, what then has happened? I never saw you so vexed before.'

"'Leave me alone, and get away. You women are good for nothing. Matiomet was right—a woman is less than a cow—she is less than an ass—she is nothing at all—she is only a woman.' "The poor old lady left the room with many gestures of dismay, but without uttering a word.

"Abdullah sat down, and remained buried in the most sombre rage, which had quite transported him out of his usual impassibility.

"To think that they are my friends, muttered he, 'and that I can do no- thing for them. To think that I, a Mussulman—I, a true believer—cannot protect them against a dog of an Armenian, who persecutes them unjustly. Allah! Allah r

are we then in Turkey, or are we in "

The Armenian girl, Ferouza, and her father's whole household ha Ispalian, are also drawn with great literary skill and insight. Amongst the charms of this book, not the least are the idyllic Eastern tableaux with which it abounds—pictures impressing us the more from the vast and monotonous spaces of the Eastern scenery, which form the theatre of action. What, for example, can offer a more graceful and vivid picture to the imagination than the scenes by the fountain of Oubab, from which we must take a rather long specimen ? Hassan, a wild Kurd, has violently carried off the Armenian girl, Ferouza, from Ispahan, and wearied and torn with the hurried journey, the poor girl is resting under the fountain, watched by her captor ; at this moment her lover, Nourchid, approaches from the opposite direc- tion: "Nourchid raised his eyes, and perceived at a little distance the spot of which his companion spoke. It was a tuft of high trees planted in a circle, on a sort of raised platform of several feet, supported on four flights of marble steps. The ' centre of this esplanade was occupied by a spacious marble basin, into which flowed the water of a fountain of tasteful architecture, and on the front of which were inscribed different mottoes taken from the Koran, as well as the name of the charitable man who had erected this ex vote, in gratitude to Allah for having saved him from some great danger, during which he had made a vow to build it.

"The two Guebers soon reached the foot of the esplanade, but just as they were going to ascend the steps they perceived the form of a female lying on the ground, and an armed Curd watching over her.

"As soon as the novice could understand what it was Ile saw, he stopped, struck with fear. Nourchid continued to ascend the steps, when the Curd, who. had risen, made an authoritative sign to him with his baud to approach nearer.

" ' What do you want with me ?' said Nourchid, in a bold voice.

"Advance, both of you,' answered the Curd, 'I have need of you to help me to carry this women to our tents down yonder.' "On hearing these words the novice began to run as fast as his legs could carry him. The Curd shouted to him to stop, and seeing that instead ot obeying, the other continued his flight, he drew out his pistols and advanced to the other side of the esplanade, behind which the runaway must pass. As soon as he reached the opposite corner, where he could see the novice pass without obstruction, he fired, and seeing he had missed him, seized his other pistol and fired again, happily for the novice with no better mixers& " During this time Nourchid, feeling his anger rising, seized his hatchet, and was about to rush on the Curd, when the woman on the ground uttered a cry of surprise, hastily raised her veil, and made a sign to attract his attention.

" Nourchid I Nourehid exclaimed she, save me ; do you not recognize me. Tell him you are my brother, the son of Stetick, the Armenian of Ispahan.' "Nourchid stood still like one petrified, and the Curd now coming back swearing against the novice, who fled with such swiftness that be had been obliged to give up all thoughts of catching him, stopped before Nourchid and gazed on hint. Then seeming to be satisfied with the embarrassed look, which the emotion the poor youth telt on seeing the young girl, gave to him, and which the Curd doubt- less ascribed to the fear his own presence inspired, he said to the Gueber:

"'Sit down there and rest yourself. You will then help me to carry this woman to our tents, you see that her feet bleed so she can walk no more. Oh,

they are delicate things, not Ile our Curdiah women, who can walk whole days over stones and briars withont wincing.'

1" I am hungry, and thirsty too, said Nourchid, in order to gain time and compose his mind, which this unexpected meeting had quite bewildered; 'I will eat and drink, and then I will aid you.' . . . .

"'Hey! well ! Gueber,' at last exclaimed Hassan out of patience, 'how many hours do you require to eat that lump of stale black bread ? you Ghiaours have your teeth as soft as your hearts, apparently.' "Nourchid sprang up angrily, but the girl seemed to have understood what was passing in his mind, for in spite of her stiff and wounded feet, she rose as quickly as she could, and placing herself before him, said, " I am not so very heavy., you need not make so much ado about carrying me on your back, Gueber; besides charity is ordered you by your religion, as well as to us by ours.' "At these words Nourchid bent down and lifted up the young girl, as if the had been a child. With this proceeding Hassan evidently felt unbounded satis- faction, which he expressed by a loud laugh: be walked first and Nourchid fol- lowed him. They descended the steps of the esplanade, and took the same beaten pathway which Nourchid had followed with the Gueber but a short time before.

"The girl arranged herself on Nourchid's back, as easily as if she had been all her life accustomed to this mode of travelling. Her arms were passed round the neck of the Gueber, her head laid with the most charming confidence on his shoulder; and she seemed as happy and confiding, as if she had entirely for- gotten her past sufferings, and even the danger that perhaps still awaited her. . . . .

"Bat Nourchid felt a new life circulating in his veins, and listened with un- told joy to Ferouza, who, bending down her head to his cheek, whispered to him:

"'Nourchid, I love you with my whole heart! I bless the Curd who has thus brought me to your arms! Oh, my destiny is a happy one! I have been wishing for you so long. Do you remember when we were both children, one day, that the Persian women were beating me because my mother had dressed me in a white caftan; you saw them, you threatened them, and threw stones at them with so much boldness, that they were forced to run away, and I was saved by you. I too ran away and went to weep beside my father ; but your image has never left me, Nourchid, since then. I have loved you, but you soon forgot me, ungrateful, indifferent that you are: but you will love me now, will you not? Why do you not tell me so? Nourchid, Nourchid, do you really love me?'

" ' Yes,' said Nourchid, with my whole soul I love you!'

"And his limbs bent under him-' he tottered like a man seized with giddiness. " ' Why do you loiter so?' cried Hassan ; 'come along, Gueber, you drag be- hind and turn to the right and left like an ass grazing, instead of advancing. Do you find your burden too heavy? These Ghiaours in spite of their broad shoulders are as lazy and slow as camels. Come on, and give me the woman ; you shall see how I will carry her.'

"'No, no!' exclaimed Nourchid, with a forced laugh. I only stopped because she said her feet were hurting her, poor girl!' " Come along, then,' said Hassan; if I were not afraid of being laughed at for having condescended to lift a woman, I Would soon show you how I could carry her. They have surnamed me Hassan the Kiafir By the devil, if they were to call me now Hassan the banish (porter), I would rather shoot her at once with my pistol, that daughter of a Gliiaour "These words of the Curd struck terror into the inmost soul of the Gueber, and made him quicken his pace better than the most forcible arguments could have done.

" Ferouza, too, trembled an instant on hearing his threats, but her thoughts were too much engrossed with all her imagination pictured to her of unknown joys of love, and she soon went back with delight to those capricious reveries, in which a woman indulges when her whole soul is filled with a happiness long dreamt of, which brings a thousand bright thoughts fluttering around her." The great fountain in the desert, the savage Kurd carrying his prize back to his tents, the passionate Armenian girl hanging on the back of her lover, and confessing her love in whispers, as he carries her at the bidding of the robber to the Kurd encampment, is one of those beautifully imagined pictures which we rarely get from any but a truly poetic mind. We may leave the book with the assurance that this is by no means a solitary specimen of the results of this idyllic faculty, in which the Chevalier de H********* obviously excels. By the side of so many boring Oriental books, this stands out—with air, light, and colour—a true literary success.