be Inspector-General of the Imperial Ottoman Navy.  Although his name was necessarily erased from the list of the Royal Navy when he definitely threw in his lot with the Sultan on the breaking out of the Turko-Russian war, all English admirers of pluck and daring were glad to learn at a comparatively recent period that the Honourable Augustus Charles Hobart Hampden had been reinstated by Royal command in his rank in the British Navy.

’It was the good fortune of the distinguished maritime commander just deceased, to win golden opinions from all sorts of peoples, and his name and prowess will be as cordially remembered in his native land, and in the Southern States of America, as on the shores of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn.

’A thorough Englishman at heart, he was none the less a fervent philo-Turk in politics and convictions, and latterly devoted his talents and his life to the defence of the integrity of the Ottoman Empire.  As ready with his pen as with his sword, he was a clear, trenchant, vigorous writer, and could talk on paper as fluently and as cogently about ironclads and torpedoes as about the wrongs of the natives of Lazistan, the necessity of upholding the integrity of the Turkish Empire, and of circumventing the dark and crooked wiles of Russian diplomacy.  Altogether Augustus Charles Hobart was a remarkable man—­bluff, bold, dashing, and somewhat dogged.  There was in his composition something of the mediaeval “condottiere,” and a good deal more of that Dugald Dalgetty whom Scott drew.  Gustavus Adolphus would have made much of Hobart; the great Czarina, Catherine II., would have appointed him Commander-in-Chief of her fleet, and covered him with honours, even as she did her Scotch Admiral Gleig, and that other yet more famous sea-dog, king of corsairs, Paul Jones.  It would be unjust to sneer at Hobart as a mercenary.  His was no more a hired sword than were the blades of Schomberg and Berwick, of Maurice de Saxe and Eugene of Savoy.  When there was fighting to be done Hobart liked to be in it—­that is all.  Of the fearless, dashing, adventurous Englishman, ready to go anywhere and do anything, Hobart was a brilliantly representative type.  Originally endowed with a most vigorous physique, his constitution became sapped at last by long years of hardship and fatigue incident to the vicissitudes of a daring, adventurous career.  He left Constantinople on leave of absence some months ago to recruit his shattered health, and spent several weeks at the Riviera.  But it would seem that he experienced little relief from the delicious climate of the South of France, and it was on his homeward journey to Constantinople that this brave and upright British worthy breathed his last.  The immediate cause of his death was, it is stated, an affection of the heart, a term covering a vast extent of unexplored ground.  It would be nearer the truth to say that the frame of Augustus Charles Hobart was literally worn out by travel and exposure and hard work of every kind which had been his lot, with but brief intervals of repose, ever since the day, in the year 1836, when as a boy of thirteen he joined the Navy as a midshipman.’