THE invasion of the Algerine territory by the French, is one of the most remarkable evidences that nations are not to be taught either common justice or common sense by suffering. We there see France, after five-and-twenty years of national misery, taking the first opportunity to rob and shed the blood of her neighbours. She had no more cause of war against the Algerines than against the Antediluvians; but it occurred to her imbecile Government that she wanted "glory," and to her insane people that glory was to be found in cutting the throats of Turks and Moors, unfortunate enough to live in a territory where she expected to find land cheap, dollars at the sword's point, and triumph for nothing.

Providence, it is true, often lets fools and villains take their way; but perhaps there never was an instance, not excepting Napoleon's own, where the punishment of the original culprits followed, with such distinct, complete, and immediate vengeance on the crime.

Within a twelvemonth, the Government which had formed this atrocious project was utterly extinguished; Charles the Tenth and his dynasty driven from their throne, and exiled from the land for life;—his Ministry, the Polignacs and their associates, thrown into a long and severe imprisonment, a fate singular among all the changes of European cabinets, and after narrowly escaping the scaffold, also exiled for life; Marmont, the chief military councillor of the King, forced to fly from France, and never daring to return; Bourmont, the commander of the invasion, never venturing to set his foot on the French soil since, and still a fugitive through the world; the invading army, of 30,000 strong, some of the finest troops of France, long since destroyed in Africa by the climate and the warfare of the Arabs, scarcely a man of them having returned.—And after the sacrifice of probably twice the number of lives in a disputed possession of

ALGIERS! wild Algiers !

There are sounds of affright Coming thick on thy gales, Sounds of battle and flight ;The spurrings of horsemen, With tidings of woe;

nine years, they are now fighting within cannon-shot of Algiers!

The war has begun in earnest. While Abd-el-Kader lives, France will probably have to carry on a continued war, more or less open. If he shall fall, the spirit of other chieftains will be formed while the animosity survives ; and it will survive, grounded as it is in the nature of things, in the native repulsion between French and Mahometan manners, in the habitual hatred of the native for the invader, and in the strong religious antipathies which have already enabled the African leader to proclaim his assault on the French as the "Holy War."

Even the fullest possession of the Algerine territory could never be of real value to France: it has no harbours, and can therefore never be a station for any thing beyond a privateer or a pirate. In the event of an European war, it must be abandoned, or France must consent to lock up 50,000 troops there, with the certainty that famine, the Arabs, and perhaps an English expedition, will perform in Algiers the second part of the Egyptian campaign. But the great points of criminality subsist, even if the policy were however successful ; and those are, that the invasion was made absolutely without any cause but a determination to plunder, and that the conquest has been retained, in direct and unquestionable defiance of the most solemn, public, and repeated declarations, that no conquest whatever was intended, and that, as in the instance of Lord Exmouth's expedition, the moment that satisfaction was obtained, the whole armament was to be withdrawn.

It argues a deplorable state of moral feeling, to find that no man in France has the honesty of heart to protest against this iniquity; that the legislature can find no warning voice, that the journals are fierce in their wrath against any idea of abandoning Algiers, and that all France madly seems to regard the national crime as a national glory.

The signal-guns pealing

The march of the foe;
And the desert horn's howl,
Like the wolf in his prowl;
For, roused from their lair,
The Berbers are there.

'Tis the blue depth of midnight;

The moon is above,
Shedding silver in showers
On mosque and on grove;
And the sense is opprest
With the sweetness of night.
'Tis an hour to be blest,
All fragrance and light.
But the sparkling of steel,
And the cannon's deep peal,
And the quick-volleying gun,
Tell that blood is begun.

The Frenchmen are rushing
To gate and to wall;
And the Moor is awake
In his gold-tissued hall.
He sharpens the dagger
And loads the carbine,
And looks to the hills

For the morning to shine.
And on rampart and roof
Crowds are standing aloof;
And their gestures, though dumb,
Tell- the Emir" is come!

On dash the dark riders,

The sons of the south,
From plain and from mountain,
Age, manhood, and youth!
Their steeds are like wind,

And their bodies like fire,
That wounds cannot tame,
That toil cannot tire.

On they burst like a flood,
Till the desert drinks blood,
Thick as night-falling dew-
Allah hu! Allah hu!

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Ay, follow the Arab

Through mountain and vale,
He's the eagle, and safe
As its wing on the gale.
Ay, scorch through the day,
And freeze through the night,
He's the leopard-one bound,
And he's gone from your sight.
But death's in his tramp
As he sweeps round your camp;
One charge and one roar,
And you sleep in your gore!

But the plague-spot has fallen
On each and on all;

Where art thou, Old Bourbon?
Europe scoff'd at thy fall.
Where thy fierce "Thirty thousand,"
Napoleon's old braves?

Like thee, they are corpses-
Algiers gave them graves.

Where the victor Bourmont?
He has follow'd thy throne;
On his brow the blood-stain,
To wander, like Cain.

Yet the plague shall not smite
And then die with the dead;
The madness shall cling,

The grave shall be fed.
Too cursed to abandon,

Too weak to retain,

The legions of France

Still shall slay and be slain.

ABD-EL-KADER, the star

That shall blast them with war

Thou, the land of their biers,

Algiers! wild Algiers!



THE empire of the Ottomans is the most extraordinary instance in history of an empire raised by the sword, governed by the perpetual effusion of blood, despising all civilisation, corrupted by the grossest excesses of private life, disordered in every function of government, constantly exposed to the greatest military powers of Europe, yet advancing from conquest to conquest for three centuries without a check, (from 1299 to 1566,) and retaining its vast possessions unimpaired for three centuries more.

The first approach of the Turks to Europe was at the close of the thirteenth century, when Othman, the son of a Turcoman chieftain in the service of Aladin, Sultan of Iconium, on the memorable 27th of July 1299, made a descent on the rich territory of Nicomedia. The Asiatic dominions of the Greek Emperors were lost in a struggle of two centuries, when Mohammed the Second assaulted Constantinople, on the 29th of May 1453. The body of the last emperor was found buried under a heap of slain, and Constantinople became the capital of a new faith, a new people, and a new sovereignty. His immediate successors wasted the blood, but exercised the valour of their troops, in expeditions to Armenia, the Caucasus, and Persia. But the nobler prize lay to the west. All solid sovereignty belongs to the hardy frames. and the regular opulence of Europe. Soliman the First, named the Magnificent, and if a conqueror can deserve the name, deserving it by the vastness of his designs and the splendour of his successes, threw himself upon Hungary. Combining the unusual tactique of an army and fleet, in itself an evidence of the superiority of his genius to that of his time, he at once overran the dominions of the Hunga. rian king, and assaulted Rhodes, held by the famous Knights of St John of Jerusalem, and regarded as the bulwark of Christendom. By the reluctant aid of the Venetians, Rhodes was stormed, after a desperate siege. Soliman marched to the conquest of Austria at the head of 200,000 menan army which no European potentate, in the rudeness and distractions of the

On its

age, could hope to oppose. way, it trampled down the army of Hungary, which had the madness to meet it; and marching over the bodies of 20,000 men, with their monarch, on the field, converted the kingdom into a Turkish province, and invested Vienna. The strength of the ramparts and the approach of winter alone saved the Austrian capital from following the fate of the Hungarian. But while all Christendom trembled at the sight of the horse-tails, Soliman died-living and dying, the greatest conqueror since Charlemagne.

The se

But with him the empire had reach- . ed its fated height. Thenceforth it was to descend. The seraglio has been the ruin of Turkey. cresy of its bloody transactions—its habitual separation of the sovereign from the people-its desperate dissoluteness-and the sullen ignorance, brute vengeance, and helpless effeminacy, which must be nurtured within such walls, extinguished all the rude virtues of the barbarian. Soliman, a hero and à legislator, always exposing his life in the field, or holding in his own hand the helm of his vast empire, reigned almost half a century. The reigns of his successors have been proverbial for their brevity. The janizaries became the true disposers of the throne. From the time of Mustapha the First-whom they strangled for his effeminacy, and Achmet, whom they placed on the throne and then strangled for his usurpation-the janizaries were the recognised makers and executioners of the sultans.

The first decisive recoil of the Ottoman power was in 1683, when Sobieski, at the head of the Polish army, forced the Vizier Kara Mustafa to raise the siege of Vienna, on the 12th of September. But a power more formidable than even Austria now began to threaten the Porte on the feeblest part of its frontier. Peter the Great, breaking the treaty of Carlowitz, invaded Moldavia in 1711. But, though forced to make an ignominious convention for his escape, the Russian never forgot the hope of conquest, and has since never abandoned the opportunity.

The nineteenth century commenced

in in aggravation of those horrors which had become characteristic of the Turkish throne. Selim the Sultan dethroned and strangled; Mustapha the Usurper dethroned and strangled; Bairactar,the famous Vizier, in the attempt to avenge the death of Selim, blown up by his own hand, and thousands of his adherents slaughtered by the janizaries; the accession of Mahmoud, the late Sultan, signalized by the total massacre of the janizaries in Constantinople, and the extinction of their order through. out the empire;-all less resembling the transactions of an established government, than the last desperate convulsions of a suicidal empire. Yet some extraordinary influence seems, for the last century, to have saved her from hourly ruin. Her time has clearly not come yet; and political prophecy has been once more put to shame. Turkey, mutilated of the two horns of her crescent, Greece and Egypt, still retains the solid centre of her possessions;

and when all human probability looked for her immediate dissolution, by the advance of Russia on one side and Egypt on the other, she has found a sudden protection in the tardily awakened vigilance of England, Austria, and France.

But the day of Turkish independence is at an end. She may live by the protection of the great states, but without it she cannot live. She is now a throne under tutelage; and remarkable as have been the instances of European recovery from national misfortune, there is nothing in the doctrines of Islamism, or the habits of the Asiatic, to administer that energy by which alone nations can stand on their feet again, after having been once flung on the ground. The grave of her despotism has been dug, but neither Russian nor Egyptian must be suffered to lay the body of the last of the Sultans there.

There is a tradition, that on the night of the capture of Constantinople, the conqueror saw in his sleep, like the Babylonish king, a vision, unfolding the fates of his dynasty.

SULTAUN, Sultaun! *

Thou art lord of the world! The last Constantine

At thy footstool is hurl'd. Now trembles the West,

The East kneels before theeJoy, joy to the breast

Of the mother that bore thee!
Earth's tale shall be told,
Ere thy banner's green fold
Is dust, or thy name
Is no longer a flame!

Hark, hark to the shouts

Of the hordes as they lie

Round the feast, on the ramparts
That blaze to the sky.
Where the battlements reek
With the gore of the storm,
And the spoils of the Greek
With his heart's blood are warm:
And his new-wedded bride,
By the Turcoman's side,
As his corpse, pale and cold,
Sits in fetters of gold.

High hour in the palace!
There sits at the board,
By his chieftains surrounded,
The King of the Sword.
And shouting, they quaff
The infidel wine,
And loudly they laugh
At the hypocrite's whine—
Let women and boys
Shrink from earth and its joys,
Was the grape only given
For houris and heaven?

Now the banquet is ended;
The cannon's last roar
Has welcomed the night

On the Bosphorus' shore.
Now the sweet dew of slumber
Has fallen on each eye,

And, like gems without number, The stars fill the sky;

And no echo is heard

Save the night chanting bird;
And the tissues are drawn
Round thy chamber, Sultaun.

*The Turkish pronunciation of the word.

There is pomp in that chamber

That dazzles the eye;
The gold and the amber,
The loom's Indian dye.
The wall sheeted with gems,
That its keen lustre flings,
Where the mighty lamp streams
On the king of earth's kings.

Yet the pale watching slave,
Who hears thy lips rave,
And hears that heart-groan,
Would shrink from thy throne !

Sultaun, Sultaun !

Why thus writhe in thy sleep?
Why thus grasp at thy dagger?
Why shudder and weep?
There are drops on thy brow,
Thick-falling like rain;
The wringings of woe

From the heart and the brain.
And thy cheek's now blood-red,
Now pale as the dead-

Art thou corpse, art thou man,
Sultaun, Sultaun?

There are visions unsleeping
Before that closed eye,

There are thousand shapes sweeping
From earth and from sky;
Sons of splendour and heaven,
On pinions of flame;

Sons of guilt unforgiven,

Whom chains cannot tame!
The Sultaun feels a grasp
Like a serpent's strong clasp ;
And from earth he upsprings,
In a whirlwind of wings!
Now he sweeps through the clouds

Till the sounds of earth die;
Through fire and through floods,
Till the stars seem to fly.
Then he shoots down again,—
He is standing alone
On a measureless plain :
And around him are strown

Wrecks of time-moulder'd bones
Crush'd under their thrones,
And the viper's dark swarms,
Twining jewels and arms.

Then, deep as the thunder-peal,
Echo'd a voice:

"Wilt thou see what shall come?

Man of fate, take thy choice. Who the future will know,

Shall see clouds on his dawn." "Come weal, or come woe," High spoke the Sultaun.

Then the plain seem'd to reel
With a clashing of steel;
And upburst a roar,
Like the sea on the shore.

"Is this the roused desert

Before the simoom?
"Those clouds are thy Moslems,

The armies of doom."
Then the Danube was blood
And Buda was flame,
And Hungary's lion
Lay fetter'd and tame.
Then fell proud Belgrade;
Nor the torrent was stay'd,
Till, Vienna, it roll'd
Round thy turrets of gold!

"Ho, princes of Christendom,
Shrink at the sound;
Ho, cling to thine altar,

Old King, triple crown'd!
Ay, look from thy Vatican!
All is despair;

Thy Saints have forgot thee;
No Charlemagne is there!"
But a haze deep and dun
Swept over the sun;
And the pageant was fled-
All was still as the dead.

Then the plain was a sea

Of magnificent blue;
And in pomp o'er its waters
The crescent flag flew.
There the haughty Venetian
Came, sullen and pale,
And on wall and on rampart
The gun pour'd its hail;

Where thy warriors, St John,
Stood like lions, alone,
Till the trench was a grave
For the last of the brave.
Then all pass'd away!

Fleet and rampart were gone;
He heard the last shout,
The trumpet's last tone.
But o'er the wild heath

Fell the rich eastern night,
The rose gave her breath,
The moon gave her light.
'Twas the Bosphorus' stream
That reflected her gleam,
And the turrets that shone
In that light were his own.
"Sultaun, Sultaun!

Now look on thy shame!" In a silken Kiosk

Lay a vice-decay'd frame; And before his faint gaze,

To voice and to string, Danced his soft Odalisques, Like birds on the wing.

There was mirth mix'd with madness, Strange revel, strange sadness : The bowstring and bowl,

The sense and the soul.

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