The Ansayrii (or Assassins;) with Travels in the Further East. By the Hon. Frederic Walpole, R.N., Author of Four Years in the Pacific. London: Bentley, 1851.

Hail to the bright East, with all its mysteries, its mighty past, its pregnant future, its inexhaustible sources of airiest amusement and most solemn interest! We welcome with pleasure the original and truly Oriental book before us. It harmonises rather with the poetic than the historic character of Eastern lands; but in its wild and dreamy narrative there are to be found vivid and faithful pictures, such as those that lighted up the charmed reveries of DeQuincey. For the present we will lay aside the critic's task: we will postpone all such considerations, and invite the reader to accompany us in a rapid tour over the varied regions which Mr Walpole has recalled to our memory and imagination. Let us turn for a little from the "world that is too much with us," and, ranging away from chilly mists and gloomy skies, sun our fancy in the lands where Paradise was planted.

Egypt and Palestine appear familiar to us all; they are of common interest to the whole Christian world—classic lands to every old villager who can read his Bible, as well as to the profound scholar. In them, sacred and profane history are so intimately blended that the latter assumes almost the authenticity of the former. Herodotus and his followers have actually a people still in the flesh (if flesh the mummy may be called) to refer to: subterranean Egypt is still inhabited by the undecayed bodies of the very men who associated with the Israelites, and forms that were beautiful and loved three thousand years ago. Imperishable as their old inhabitants, their temples and their monuments still stand above them, and will there remain unparalleled, until their long-buried architects shall rise again.

Passing on to Palestine, we find, memories and associations still stronger and more striking; for here nature is invested with the sentiment that in Egypt is awakened by art. Palestine belongs not to time only, but to eternity; with which, by types and illustrations, its earthly history is so beautifully blended and aggrandised. Its literature is inspired truth, its annals are prophecies fulfilled, and the very face of the land itself vindicates the beauty it once wore, through all the sorrow and desolation that have fallen on it since. Owing to the metaphorical style of Oriental composition, every object in nature was used to illustrate or impress by its analogy; and hence not only the holy mountains, the sacred rivers, and the battle plains have memories for us, but the very "hyssop on the wall," the blasted fig-tree, the cedar, the "high rock in the thirsty land;" every vale, and hill, and lake, and city, is consecrated by some association with the men who spoke the words of God—with the time that witnessed His presence in the flesh.

The remorseless Jews were swept from the Promised Land, as their ancestor was from Eden, for the irreparable sin; and the sword of the Roman waved over the ruined walls of Jerusalem, forbidding all return. The Saracen and the Crusader succeeding, add another element of interest—an English association—to long-tried and suffering Judea. The Crusaders were rather a warlike emigration than invasion; they were the angry overflow of discontented Europe, which sought to vent its spleen and dogmas upon the Infidel. Their ebbing tide bore back to us the arts and sciences and chivalry of Arabia; and thus Palestine became the channel for all our best temporal acquirements, as it had long since furnished us with our eternal hope.

All this, and more—much more—invests Syria with undying and exhaustless interest to the student and the traveller; but we will not linger on such impressions now. We have a lighter task to fulfil, though we are about to visit the land of Nimrod, of Abraham's nativity, and of the empire of Semiramis. The pleasant company in which we travel will speed us on; and, in the old troubadour fashion, lay and legend will beguile the way. But before we enter fairly on our pilgrimage to "Ur of the Chaldees" and the tomb of Nineveh, we shall pause to make some practical observations on the route which, in its present aspect, may be new to some of our readers.

Egypt may soon be reached in ten days.[10] This is almost incredible; still more so, when we add that it may be accomplished without fatigue, hardship, or self-denial. The traveller even now embarks at Southampton in one of the Oriental Company's magnificent steamers, and finds himself landed at Alexandria in fifteen days, having visited Gibraltar and Malta, besides having travelled three thousand miles in as much comfort as he would have enjoyed at Brighton, with far more advantage to his health and spirits, and but trifling additional expense. For our own parts, we believe that, before long, sea voyages, instead of sea shores, will be resorted to, not only by the invalid, but by the epicurean and the idler. The floating hotels of our ocean steamers afford as comfortable quarters as any of their more stationary rivals, with the additional advantage of presenting a change of air and of scenery every morning that the "lodger" rises.

The autumn—the later the better—is the best period for visiting Egypt. October is, on the whole, the best month for beginning the ascent of the Nile. We will suppose the traveller landed at Alexandria: he achieves the lions of that suddenly-created city (except Aboukir Bay) in a few hours, and is ready to start for Cairo in the mail steamer, with the India-bound passengers who accompanied him from England. The country in which he now finds himself, by so sudden a transition, is full of apparent paradoxes; amongst others, he may be surprised to find that the canal on which he travels to Atfeh winds considerably, though no engineering obstacles whatever oppose themselves to a straight course. The reason of this sinuosity was thus explained to us by Mehemet Ali himself:—"You ask why my canal is not straight: Ya, Wallah! it is owing to a bit of bigotry. The dog who made it was a true Believer, and something more. He said to himself, 'Ya, Seedee, thou art about to make what Giaours call a canal, and Giaours in their impiety make such things straight. Now, a canal is made after the fashion of a river—(Allah pardon us for imitating his works!)—and all rivers wind: Allah forbid that my canal should be better than His river; it shall wind too.'"

And so it does.

Landed at Cairo, the traveller of the present day will find a steamer once a fortnight ready to take him up to the first cataract and back again, as fast as Young Rapid, or any other son of a tailor, could desire. But even the rational tourist will be tempted to send on his Kandjiah, (the old-fashioned Nile boat,) well found and provisioned, a fortnight or three weeks before him, and overtake her in the steamer. The Kandjiah voyage up stream is often wearisome, downward never—as in the descent you are borne softly along at from three to six miles an hour, even when you sleep. From the first cataract to the second is only about two hundred miles, and occupies about three weeks; but to those who can find pleasure in what is most wild and dreamy and unearthly in scenery and art, the desert view from Mount Abousir, the temples of Guerf, Hassan, and Ipsamboul, are worth all the rest of the Nile voyage, except Thebes and exquisite PhilÆ.[11] Returned to Alexandria, as we will suppose, in March, the traveller will be quite early enough for Syria, whose winter (considering the tented life he is compelled to lead) is not to be despised. A steamer transports him to Beyrout in thirty hours; and there our true travel begins.[12] 11 A: The mere physical pleasure of the upper voyage has been thus described—"No words can convey an idea of the beauty and delightfulness of tropical weather, at least while any breeze from the north is blowing. There is a pleasure in the very act of breathing—a voluptuous consciousness that existence is a blessed thing: the pulse beats high, but calmly; the eye feels expanded; the chest heaves pleasureably, as if air was a delicious draught to thirsty lungs; and the mind takes its colouring and character from sensation. No thought of melancholy ever darkens over us—no painful sense of isolation or of loneliness, as day after day we pass on through silent deserts, upon the silent and solemn river. One seems, as it were, removed into another state of existence; and all the strifes and struggles of that from which we have emerged seem to fade, softened into indistinctness. This is what Homer and Alfred Tennyson knew that the lotus-eaters felt when they tasted of the mysterious tree of this country, and became weary of their wanderings:—

If the day, with all the tyranny of its sunshine and its innumerable insects, be enjoyable in the tropics, the night is still more so. The stars shine out with diamond brilliancy, and appear as large as if seen through a telescope. Their changing colours, the wake of light they cast upon the water, the distinctness of the milky way, and the splendour, above all, of the evening star, give one the impression of being under a different firmament from that to which we have been accustomed; then the cool delicious airs, with all the strange and stilly sounds they bear from the desert and the forest; the delicate scents they scatter, and the languid breathings with which they make our large white sails appear to pant, as they heave and languish softly over the water."—(The Crescent and the Cross, vol. i. p. 210.)]

Thus, (omitting the somewhat important episode of Egypt,) we find ourselves transported, in little more than a fortnight, from the murky fogs and leafless trees of England, to the delicious temperature and tropical verdure that surrounds the most beautiful town of the Levant. As every improvement in steam-navigation lessens its distance from Christendom, Beyrout increases and expands. Nor must we omit an honest tribute to the iron but even-handed justice of Ibrahim Pasha, which first rendered it safely accessible to Europeans. Before his conquest of Syria, the Frank was wont to skulk anxiously through the town, exposed to insult and unpunished violence: without the walls, the robber enjoyed as much impunity as the bigot did within; and, between both, Beyrout became, or continued to be, a miserable village. Its environs were wild wastes, where the gipsy alone ventured to pitch his tent, and the wild dog prowled. Now, pleasant gardens and picturesque kiosks, or summer-houses, replace the wilderness; the town expands, grows clean, doubles its population, and welcomes a crowd of shipping to its port. A more delightful residence, as a refuge from winter, can scarcely be conceived. An infinite variety of excursions may be made from hence; and every time the traveller mounts his horse, whether he be historically, picturesquely, controversially, botanically, or geologically given, he may return to his flat-roofed home with some valuable acquisition to his note-book. The views are everywhere magnificent, and the warm breezes from the bluest of oceans are tempered by the snowy neighbourhood of the loveliest of mountains.

Five roads of leading interest (besides many a cheering byway among the hills) branch out from the walls of Beyrout. Damascus is about eighteen hours off; Jerusalem six days; Djouni, the romantic residence and burial-place of Lady Hester Stanhope, ten hours; Baalbec, the flower of all Eastern ruins, eighteen hours, and Latakia, whither we are bound, five days. These distances may be accomplished in less time; they are here given at the calculation of a walking pace, as the roads, or rather paths, are for the most part steep and difficult; and the baggage-horses, at all events, can seldom advance more rapidly. One word more of dry detail, and we shall put ourselves en route for the mountains of the Ansayrii and the further East. Notwithstanding the advance of civilisation at Beyrout, where a European consulocracy has established a more than European equality of privileges between Turks and Christians, the interior of the country is daily becoming more dangerous to travel in. Eight years ago, when the stern rule of Ibrahim Pasha had still left its beneficent traces, the writer of this article wandered over the length and breadth of the land, attended by a single servant and a muleteer. Since our Government, for inscrutable reasons, has restored Syria to the embroilment of its native factions, all security for the traveller, and indeed for the native, has ceased. To reach Jerusalem, or even Damascus, in safety, a considerable escort is now necessary; though the Vale of Baalbec may still be reached in less warlike fashion from Latakia or Tripoli, if the traveller is endowed with liberality, courage, and courtesy—the leading virtues of his profession.

Before we proceed on our travels, let us introduce our guide. Mr Walpole is a young naval officer, and there is in most of his narrative a dashing impetuous style, which savours of his profession. In this there is a certain charm, imparting as it does an air of frank and fearless confidence in his reader's quick perception and favourable construction. There is in his writings what we would also hope is professional—a chivalrous feeling and generous sentiment, that is never obscured by a sordid thought or unworthy imputation. As he sees clearly, of course he also sees faults in men, and minds, and manners; but such discoveries are made in a tone of regret rather than of triumph; or thrown off in a strain of good-humoured satire that could not offend even its objects. His descriptive powers are graphic, and often very vivid; his humour is very original, being generally tinged with melancholy, in such sort as that of a philanthropic Jacques might be: finally, he does not fear to display a profound and manly reverence for holy things and sacred places. On the other hand, to set against all these high merits, we must confess that many faults afford some drawback to his book. It is often incoherent, and deficient in arrangement. The first volume is rather the groundwork than the accomplishment of what an author with Mr Walpole's powers and material should have effected. Most of these faults, however, may find their excuse in the circumstances under which they were composed. They smack of the tent, the boat, and the bivouac, as old wine does of the borachio. Whatever they may be, this work is one that will be widely read; and wherever it is read with appreciation, it will direct the interest not only to its subject, but its author: his individuality, unostentatiously and unconsciously, is impressed on every page; and his genius, however erratic, is unquestionable.

The cockpit, and even the gun-room of a man-of-war, are little favourable to intellectual effort, or the habit or the love of learning which it can alone accomplish. We can therefore make greater allowances for errors in composition, and concede greater credit for the attainments in languages and general knowledge which our young author has achieved. This is perhaps still more striking in a work written by Mr Walpole three years ago, entitled Four Years in the Pacific, which, though written in a midshipman's berth, abounds in passages of beauty, and in his peculiar and original humour. Having said so much in his praise and dispraise, and only premising, in addition, that he speaks Arabic and Turkish, so as to interpret for himself the quaint unusual thoughts of the people among whom he lives, we enter upon a survey of what he saw.

We have unwillingly passed over the whole of our author's outward voyage, which is graphically, and almost dramatically, described. We shall only refer to one or two passages respecting the Levant. The following sentence may dispel some fanciful visions of the sunny climate of Stamboul:—

"Snow, 'thick and deep' enveloped the city; cupola, dome, and cypress were burdened with icicles; above, was an angry winter sky with a keenly piercing wind.... English fires and English coals were the best things we saw—we were actually blockaded by the weather.... At length we embarked: the crew were shovelling the deep snow-drift off the deck, so we rushed below into a cabin whose bulkheads were beautifully varnished, sofas perfect, skylights closed, the whole atmosphere tobacco. We were off, gliding past the Seraglio Point, which was swathed in snow, and looking like a man in summer clothes caught in a wintry storm.... Masses animate and inanimate encumbered the deck; the former for the most part consisting of the Sultan's subjects; among the latter our baggage, which was thrown into the general heap, and kicked about until it found quiet in the hold.... The numbers thus congregated were principally pilgrims, on their way to Jerusalem and to the Jordan; though others, on more worldly journey bent, were mingled with the rest. Each family had taken a spot on the deck, and there, piled over with coverings, and surrounded with their goods, they remained during the voyage: one side of the after-deck was alone kept clear for the first-class passengers, and even this was often invaded by others, who wisely remarked that we had cabins below.

"Each family forms a scene in itself; and an epitome of life in the East is found by a glance around. Four merchants, on their return from a trading tour, have bivouacked between the skylights; and they sing and are sick; call kief[13] and smoke, with true Moslem indifference. On the starboard quarter, our notions of Eastern domesticity are sadly put out, for there a Moslem husband is mercilessly bullied by a shrill-voiced Houri. It is curious to observe her perseverance in covering her face, even during the agonies of sea-sickness. Their black servant has taken us into the number of licensed ones, and her veil now hangs over her neck like a loosened neck-cloth.

"On the other side, a Greek family in three generations lies along the deck, fortified by a stout man-servant across their legs, whose attentions to the girls during his own heart-rending ailments is very pretty. The huge grandmother was set on fire and smouldered away most stoically, until her foot began to burn, when, while others put her out, she sank blubbering to sleep again. The pretty granddaughters find the long prostration more irksome; but send their flashing eyes about with careless movement, and so the mass goes on. Here one appears to be offering up nazam, but nearer inspection shows that his shoe is only receiving the offering to the heaving waves....

"Our steamer had passed sad hours of toil, and pitched and tossed us all out of temper before we entered the calm waters to leeward of Rhodes, and at last, passing the low points covered with detached houses and windmills, we shot round in front of the harbour. Our view of the intervening coast had been too vague to form a judgment upon it; but here and there a peak towered up above the mists, all else being veiled by the cloudy sky.... No place it has ever been my fortune to visit, more, by its appearance, justifies its character than Rhodes. Around the harbour's shore, one continued line of high castellated wall, unbroken save by flanking towers or frowning portals; from the wave on either side, dovetailed to the rock, rise the knightly buildings; and as the eye reaches round, no dissonant work mars the effect, save that one lofty palm rears its tropic head—but it adds to, rather than lessens, the effect. Above the walls, a mosque with its domed roof or minaret appears; and the fragile building speaks, how truly! in its contrast to the massive walls and ponderous works of former rulers, that the battle is not always to the strong."

In speaking of the sister island-fortress, Malta, our author remarks (in a former page) the immediate contrast presented by these luxurious arsenals:—

"The Eastern reclines on the cushioned divan, the embodiment of repose; the softest carpets, the freshest flowers, surround him—soft women attend the slightest motion of his eye—all breathes of indolence, abandonment, and ease; yet his girdle bristles with arms—his gates are locked and guarded. So at Malta, the bower is a bastion, the saloon a casemate, the serenade the call of martial music, the draperies war-flags, the ornaments shot in ready proximity."

Proceeding to Tarsus, we pass on to Alexandretta, "a wretched collection of hovels. The harbour is splendid; the ruins of the old, the skeleton of the new town, standing on the beach. Behind it, in every direction, stretches a fetid and swampy plain, which only requires drainage to be rendered fertile and wholesome." This is the seaport of Aleppo, on the road to which lies the town of Beilau, and the village of Mortawan, where Pagan rites, especially those of Venus, are still said to be maintained. But again we reimbark—

"Again the vessel cuts the wave. The mountains become a feeble bleached outline, save Cassius on the north, who frowns on his unrecorded fame. Yes, noble hill! though not so high as Strabo tells, though not lofty and imposing; though dark thy path now—unnoticed, solitary. There blazed up the last effort of the flame of pagan civilisation: there Julian the Great—whatever other title men may bestow upon him—offered his solemn sacrifice to Jupiter the Avenger, previous to his last campaign, when the eagles were to wave over Mesopotamia.

"The Sabbath dawned fresh, unclouded, and beautiful, as we anchored in the pretty little port of Latakia, the ancient Laodicea. The town of Latakia, built by Seleucus Nicator, in honour of his mother, is comprehended in the Pashalic of Saida, or Beyrout. It stands on a spur of the Ansayrii Mountains. About half a mile inland, the spur falls into the sea, and forms Cape Zairet; the town stands on its southern slope, and is joined, by gardens and a port, to the sea. The port is small and well sheltered; but time, Turks, and ruins, are filling it up. The buildings on the shore, having their backs to the sea, present the appearance of a fortification. On a reef of rock that shelters the harbour stands a pile of building of different eras. It seems to be castle, mosque, and church. Along the beach lie hundreds of shafts of columns, and many are built into the walls, of whose remains you catch a glimpse on the southern side."

Here we must pause, though our traveller proceeds to Beyrout, of which he gives a charming account, which our limits forbid us to quote. We reserve our space for more novel scenes, and must pass over a chapter on Damascus, which is rich in legends and graphic pictures. Thence, en route to Homs, by the way of the desert, eastward of the Anti-Lebanon, we have a sketch that is too characteristic of Eastern travel to pass over:—

"North, south and east, dead plain; west, a low range of hills, and beyond, the fair Anti-Lebanon in all its snowy beauty. Desert all around us, but no dreary waste. Here and there were loose stones and rocks; the rest a carpet of green, fresh, dewy grass, filled with every hue of wild-flowers—the poppy in its gorgeous red, the hyacinth, the simple daisy and others, thick as they could struggle up, all freshened with a breeze heavy with the scents of thyme. The lark sent forth its thrill of joy in welcome to the coming day; before us the pennon of the spearmen gleamed as they wound along the plain. We passed the site of an Arab encampment strewn with fire-blackened stones, bones, and well picked carcasses. Storks and painted quails sauntered slowly away at our approach, or perched and looked as if they questioned our right to pass. At eight o'clock halted at a khan called Hasiah also. The population consisting of robust, wild-looking fellows; and very pretty women poured out to sell hard-boiled eggs, leban, bread, and milk: they were all Mussulmans....

"We were soon disturbed by a multitude of sick, which recalled to one's mind how in this land, of old, the same style of faces, probably in the same costumes, crowded to Him who healed. The lame, carried by the healthy; feeble mothers with sickly babes; hale men showing wounds long self-healed; others with or without complaints."

Arrived at Homs, we have—

"Fish for dinner, from the Lake of Kades, whose blue waters we saw in the distance to-day. The Lebanon opens behind that lake, and you may pass to the sea, on the plain, without a hill. This plain, but rarely visited, is among the most interesting portions of Syria, containing numerous convents, castles, and ruins, and its people are still but little known. Maszyad, the principal seat of the sect called Ismayly: the Ansayrii also, and Koords, besides Turks, Christians, and gipsys, may be found among its varied population. The ancient castle of El Hoshn, supposed, by the lions over its gates, to have been built by the Count of Thoulouse, is well worth a visit. The Orontes, taking its rise in a rock, from whence it gushes just west of the Tel of Khroumee,—(true bearing from Homs from south 60° 32' east,)—flows through the Lake of Kades, and passes about 2° to the west of Homs: it is called Nahr El Aazzy, or "the rebel river," some say because of its running north, while all the other rivers run south; more probably, however, on account of its rapidity and strength of current. It is an historical stream; on its banks were altars, and the country it waters is almost unmatched for beauty—

'Oh, sacred stream! whose dust
Is the fragments of the altars of idolatry.'"

It was at Homs—the ancient Emessa—that Zenobia was brought as a captive into the presence of Aurelian.

"Why did she not there fall? why add the remaining lustreless years to her else glorious life? why, in the words of Gibbon, sink insensibly into the Roman matron? Zenobia fat, dowdy, and contented—profanation! Zimmerman, however, invests the close of her career with graceful philosophy: at Tivoli, in happy tranquillity, she fed the greatness of her soul with the noble images of Homer, and the exalted precepts of Plato; supported the adversity of her fortunes with fortitude and resignation, and learnt that the anxieties attendant on ambition are happily exchanged for the enjoyments of ease and the comforts of philosophy."

From Homs we reach Aleppo in four days.

"It was a spring morning, and a gentle keenness, wafted from snow-clad mountains, rendered the climate delightful. The town lay beneath me, and each terrace, court, serai, and leewan lay open to my view. I saw Aleppo was built in a hollow, from which ran plains north and west, surrounded by mountains. To the north, Djebel Ma Hash and his range, untouched by the soft smiles of the young spring, lay deep in the snow; the flat connected grass-grown roofs and well-watered sparkling courts, with their carefully-tended trees, relieving the glare of the houses, while all around the town lay belted in its garden. The scene was pretty and pleasing; here and there the forests of tomb-stones, the perfect minaret, the Eastern dome swelling up from the mob of flat roofs,—these formed a sight that told I was in the East, in the cradle of mankind—the home of history."...

"And here, though sorely pressed for time, we must stop for a picnic, which E—— and myself were told it would be right to give. We provided carpets, nargillehs, horse-loads of sundries, cushions, a cargo of lettuces; and thus equipped, we sallied out, a very numerous party. The first thing to select was a garden, a point on which our own choice, and not the owner's will, seemed alone to be consulted. Let not the reader fancy an Eastern garden is what a warm Western fancy would paint it—wild with luxuriant but weedless verdure, heavy with the scent of roses and jessamine, thrilling with the songs of the bulbul and the nightingale, where fair women with plaited tresses touch the soulful lute in graceful attitudes. No; it is a piece of ground enclosed by high walls, varying in size. A wretched gate, invariably badly made, probably ruined, admits you to the interior. Some enclose a house with two or three rooms—windowless, white-washed places. Before this is a reservoir of dirty, stagnant water, turned up from a neighbouring well by an apparatus as rude as it is ungainly and laborious: this is used to irrigate the ground, which therefore is alternately mud and dust. Fruit trees or mulberries are planted in rows, and the ground beneath, being ploughed up, is productive of vegetables or corn. One or two trees, for ornament, may be planted in the first row, but nothing more; and weeds, uncut, undestroyed, spring up in every direction. Such, without exaggeration, is the Bistan zareff quiess!—the Lovely Garden.

"We selected one that belonged to the Mollah. Oh, true believer! in thy pot we boiled a ham; on thy divan we ate the forbidden beast; thy gardener, for base reward, assisting to cook—who knows, but also to eat the same? We chose a spot shaded by a noble walnut tree, and spread carpets and cushions. Fire was lighted, nargillehs bubbled, and kief began."

On the 2d of May we start for the Euphrates, and follow for some time nearly the route recommended by Colonel Chesney for the great Indian railway to Bussora, on the Persian Gulph. The distance is little more than 800 miles—scarcely thirty steam-winged hours—the level surpassingly uniform. Truly those who desire to find either solitude, or what our author calls kief, in the East, must repair thither quickly, for the iron of the engineer has already entered into its soul. Already the blue and white rivers of the Nile are more easily attainable than were the Tiber and the Po to our grandfathers. Beyrout and Latakia will soon be fashionable watering-places; Baalbec as well known as Melrose Abbey; and the excavated ruins of Nimroud will come under the range of "return tickets." The grim Arab will look out from any quiet spot that the all-searching Cockney may have spared him; and he will gaze with wonder on the awful processions of the "devil-goaded" tourists, as they rush with magic speed across his wilderness—only to retrace their steps. The Turk, at the utmost bounds of the Othman Empire, will marvel at this new freak of kismet (destiny;) with a sigh he will abandon his beloved bockra (the "to-morrow" in which he loves to live;) and commending himself to Islam, or resignation in its most trying form, he will "jump in" like the mere Giaours, and be hurled along with the rest across the desert behind the Afreet stoker.

But at present the wilderness knows nothing of all this, and we have before us the scenery of other days as Abram beheld it. We now cross the Chalus River, and enter upon a series of vast plains, varied by mysterious tels or mounds, rising up from the level surface like bubbles on a pool. On, or among these, the ever restless Turkomans pitch their tents, and welcome the traveller kindly to their wandering homes. On the third day from Aleppo we reach Aintab, on the river Sadschur, "which, fresh and young, danced brightly on, as if eager to join the Euphrates and see the wide world beyond."

"At Aintab, among other visitors was Doctor Smith, an American missionary. He was a well-bred, sensible man, a clever linguist, and, from all I ever heard, an earnest and zealous servant of his heavenly Master. His mission already shows results which must indeed be a source of peace to his heart, and proves that some are allowed even in this world to reap the fruits of their toil for the Lord. In that very town, whence a few years ago he was insulted and abused, a faithful flock now join in humble prayers to God; and surely they pray for him, the instrument of their salvation. I was much pleased at the plain unexaggerating way in which he told the history of his mission.... The good work has progressed, and he now has from one hundred and fifty to three hundred pupils in his school, many the children of non-converted parents. And in this year's enrolment—great glory to our ambassador at Constantinople!—the Protestants are enrolled as a separate religious community: the males are two hundred and odd here.

"All sects recognised by the Porte are enrolled separately, as their taxes, &c., are apportioned by their own heads (chiefs.)"

Many of the Armenians here have been converted to the Church of England, and this has proved to be a most advantageous change for their women.

"They are now emancipated from the bondage they have so long been held in—I do not mean personal bondage, for perhaps there is less of it in the East than in the West—but their whole moral position has undergone a vast change. The man is now first taught that the woman is his best friend; his firmest, truest companion; his equal in the social scale, as God made her—a help meet for him, not a mere piece of household furniture. The woman is also taught to reverence the man as her head; thus imparting that beautiful lesson, 'He for God only, she for God through him.' She is also taught perhaps a harder lesson, a more painful task—to relinquish all her costly ornaments, when such may be more usefully employed in trade and traffic; to consider necessaries more beautiful than costly clothes or embroidered suits. Gradually she is allowed to unite with the man in prayers, which is permitted by no other sect in the East, women always having a portion of the church set apart for them, and the Moslems praying at different times. May it please Him who gives and dispenses all things, to prosper this and all other good and holy works!... On leaving Aintab, we passed over the hills that environ the town, and entered a pretty valley, through which the Sadschur river accompanies us. Here, at a small village called Naringa, we chose a pretty spot under some trees, and pitched our tents. The horses browsed at our door, the stream jumped by before us as we took our evening's repose. And repose it is to sit thus at the close of a day of travel, to enjoy the view of the lovely regions given man to dwell in; to see the various changes time, circumstances, and religion have wrought in the family of Adam, or, as the Arabs say, in the Beni Adam. It was a lovely evening; and as I reclined apart from my more gregarious fellow-travellers, I felt

'That the night was filled with music,
And the cares that infested the day
Had folded their tents, like the Arab,
And as silently stolen away.'"

From Naringa our route lies eastward over low undulated hills, still marked by frequent tels, generally surmounted by a village. "Are these mounds natural, or does man still fondly cling to the ruined home of his fathers?" Crossing the river Kirsan, we arrive at Nezeeb, lying among vineyards and plantations of figs, pistachios, and olives, interspersed with fields of wheat. At this village the Sultan's forces, 70,000 strong, were defeated by Ibrahim Pasha with 45,000 men—a bootless victory, soon neutralised by a few lines from our "Foreign Office." On the 6th day after leaving Aleppo, we find ourselves on the Euphrates, the Mourad Shai, or "Water of desire."[14]

"In all its majesty, it glides beneath our gaze. It is needless to tell the history of this river, renowned in the earliest traditions. Watering the Paradise of earth, it has been mingled with the fables of heaven; the Lord gave it in his covenants unto Abram; Moses, inspired, preached it in his sermon to the people. In its waters are bound the four angels, and, at the emptying of the sixth vial, its waters will dry up, that the 'way of the kings of the East may be prepared.' In every age it has formed a prominent feature in the diorama of history, flashing with sunshine, or sluggish and turbid with blood; and here, on its bank, its name unchanged, all now is solitude and quiet.

"Descending amidst wide burial-grounds, where here and there a kubbÉ sheltered some clay more revered than the rest, we reached its shores, and patiently took up our quarters beneath the shade of a tree, till a boat should arrive to carry us over. The redoubt, Fort William, as it was called, of the Euphrates expedition still remains. In ancient times four shallows existed where there were bridges over the Euphrates: the northernmost at Samosata, now unused; Rum Kalaat, further south, being the route frequented; Bir, the khan and eastern bank of which is called Zeugma, or the Bridge, to this day; and the fourth at Thapsacus, the modern Thapsaish, where Cyrus, Alexander, and Crassus passed into Mesopotamia. The Arabs now generally pass here, or else by fords known only to themselves. Julian crossed at a place called Menbidjy, which was probably abreast of Hierapolis.

"But what avails to recount individual cases?—the whole land is history. Near us is Racca, once the favourite residence of Aaron the Just. Here he delighted to spend his leisure—

'Entranced with that place and time,
So worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.'"

We cross the Euphrates to the town of Bir, and proceed still eastward, along a flat desert, strewn with a small-bladed scanty grass, aromatic flowers, and wormwood. "One small gleam, like a polished shield or a dark sward, is all we see of the mighty river that flows around us. Every hour of the day changes the aspect of the desert: now it is wild and gloomy, as scudding clouds pass over the sun; now smiling with maiden sweetness, as the sun shines out again." Often we pass by the tented homes of the desert tribes, with their flocks and herds tended by busy maidens, now screaming wildly after their restless charge—now singing songs as wild, but sweeter far. Then comes sunset with its massed clouds of purple, blue, and gold; the air is full of bleatings as the flocks all tamely follow their shepherds home. On the tenth day after leaving Aleppo, we descend into a plain covered with some dusty olive-trees: we come to a hill with a low wall, and a castle on its summit. "And this is the Ur of the Chaldees, the Edessa of the Romans, the Orfa of the Arabs. Here God spake to Abram." From this city, very fruitful in legends, we reach Haran in six hours; travelling over a plain strewn with tels and encampments of the Koords.

"Perhaps by this very route Abraham of old and those with him travelled; nor is it extravagance to say, the family we now meet may exhibit the exact appearance that the patriarchs did four thousand years ago—the tents and pots piled on the camels; the young children in one saddle-bag balancing the kids in the other; the matron astride on the ass; the maid following modestly behind; the boys now here, now there; the patriarch himself on his useful mare, following and directing the march. As we pass, he lays his hand on his heart, and says, 'Peace be with you; where are you going?—Depart in peace.'"

Haran appears to be, without doubt, the ancient city of Nahor, where Laban lived, and where Jacob served for Leah and Rachel. Here, too, is Rebekah's well, and here our traveller beheld the very counterpart of the scene that Eleazar saw when he sought a bride for his master's son. By this time our author had so far identified himself with the desert tribes, their language, their interests, their enjoyment of the desert life, and their love of horses, that he seems to feel, and almost to speak, in the Arab style. We have never seen that interesting people so happily described and so vividly illustrated. If we had not so much before us still to investigate, we would gladly dwell upon the desert journey from Haran to Tel Bagdad, and on the raft voyage thence down the Tigris to Mosul. One graphic sketch of an Arab sheik must serve for many: his characteristic speech contains volumes of his people's history.

"The young sheik was not, probably, more than seventeen or eighteen years of age; handsome, but with that peculiarly girlish effeminate appearance I have before mentioned as so frequently found among the younger aristocracy of the desert, and so strangely belied by their character and deeds. He now held my horse, and, apologising for his father's temporary absence, welcomed us. The tent was large and well made. We remained here smoking and drinking coffee till the sheik Dahhal arrived. He was fully dressed in silk—a fine figure of a man with light clear eyes. Wounds, received long ago, have incapacitated him from the free use of his hands, but report says he can still grasp the rich dagger at his girdle with a fatal strength when passion urges him. Though every feeling was subdued, there showed through all his mildness the baffled tiger, whose vengeance would be fearful—he resembled a netted animal, vainly with all its cunning seeking to break the meshes that encompassed him on all sides.

"He received us with a hospitality that seemed natural; his words were more sonorous, grand, and flowing than those of any Arab I had before seen. They reminded me of the pleasure I had felt in South America in listening to the language of a true Spaniard, heard amidst the harsh gutturals of a provincial jargon; strings of highflown compliments, uttered with an open, noble mien, that, while it must please those to whom it is used, seems but a worthy condescension in him.

'He was a man of war and woes;
Yet on his lineaments ye cannot trace,
While gentleness her milder radiance throws
Along that aged venerable face,
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.'

"If report speaks true, never did there breathe a truer son of Hagar than Sheik Dahhal. During his whole life his hand has been against every man, and every man's against him. Gaining his social position with his dagger, he openly endeavoured to enlarge it by every exercise of force or fraud. The whole frontier of Mardin, Nisibis, Mosul, Bagdad, &c., are his deadly enemies, made so by his acts. It must be sad in declining years to see the wreck of a youth thus spent; already the punishment and repayment are hard at hand.

"Successful violence brings temporary rewards—power, rule, dominion; but for this he has bartered honour, fame, youth, conscience: every stake, every ruse, has been used, and he gains but defeat, disgrace, and contempt. It must be hard, very hard, for the proud man to live on thus. I pitied him, and could feel for him as he fondled his young son, a lovely little naked savage, who lay crouching at his side. He had two or three other children, all strikingly handsome....

"We were ultimately obliged to refuse his escort. 'It is well,' said he, 'whether you go or stay, all Dahhal has, all his enemies have left him, is yours.' We asked him if he saw any change in the Arab since he remembered: he looked quietly round at his tents, at his camels now crowded round them, the flocks lowing to their homes; his dress, his arms, and then said, 'No: since the time of the Prophets—since time was, we are unchanged; perhaps poorer, perhaps less hospitable in consequence; but otherwise unchanged.' He made a very just remark afterwards: 'Our habits are the only ones adapted to the country we live in; they cannot change unless we change our country: no other life can be lived here.'"

Our travellers, sending their horses and servants along the banks of the Tigris, themselves embarked on board a raft composed of inflated skins; and their voyage, after many incidents, terminated in the following scene:—

"At last the pious true-believing eye of the boatman detected the minarets of Mosul over the low land on the right. On our left was a large temporary village, built of dried grass, roughly and coarsely framed; low peaked mountains ahead broke the steel line of the sky. No sooner did our boatman detect the minarets, than he continued his prayers, confiding the oars to one of the servants. Poor fellow! it was sad work; for the raft, as if in revenge for the way he had pulled her about, kept pertinaciously turning, and as it bore his Mecca—turned front to the north, east, or west—he had to stop his pious invocations, that otherwise would have been wafted to some useless bourne; and then, as in the swing she turned him to the black stone, he had to hurry on, like sportsmen anxious for some passing game. Often he rose, but seemed not satisfied, and again he knelt, and bowing prayed his Caaba-directing prayers. This man had not prayed before during the voyage.

"At last, over the land appeared a mud fort hardly distinguishable from the hill; before it a white-washed dome, a few straggling buildings—it was Mosul. Presently an angle is turned, and the broken ruinous wall of an Eastern town lies before us."

Mosul is only sixteen days' journey from Aleppo. Although now invested with a lasting interest by its connection with Mr Layard's magnificent discoveries, it is one of the least attractive cities of the East. Its neighbourhood, with the grand exception of buried Nineveh, and some curious naphtha springs, is equally devoid of interest. The huge mound called Koyunjik, "coverer of cities," lies on the opposite side of the Tigris, about two miles from the river. Tel Nimroud, where the first successful excavations were made, is about eighteen miles lower down. It will be remembered that Mr Rich, a merchant of Bagdad, first directed attention to these subterranean treasures nearly twenty years ago: M. Botta, more recently, made some energetic attempts to discover them; but it remained for our gallant countryman, Mr Layard, to render his name illustrious by unveiling the mysteries of ages, and restoring to light the wonders of the ancient capital of the Assyrians. His renown, and still more his success itself, must be its own reward; but we fear that in all other respects the nation is still deeply in his debt. The capricious liberalities of our Government with respect to art are very singular; the financial dispositions of the British Museum are still more difficult to explain. The former does not hesitate to bestow £2500 on transporting a pillar from the sea-shore of Egypt to London, while it only places at Mr Layard's disposal £3000 for the excavation of Nineveh and its surrounding suburbs, eighteen miles in extent—together with the support and pay of a numerous staff of artists and others during eighteen months. On the other hand, the trustees of the British Museum, knowing themselves already to be deeply in Mr Layard's debt, refuse to further his great efforts, except by the paltry (and refused) pittance of £12 a-month; and, at the same time, they furnish Colonel Rawlinson with the sum of £2000 to proceed with excavations at Koyunjik, (three hundred miles from his residence,) and at Susa, which is one-third of the distance. In the approaching session of Parliament, we hope that Mr Layard's services to England and to art will be more generously appreciated than they have hitherto been; and that, at all events, we shall not be left to labour under the disgrace of pecuniary debt to that enterprising gentleman.

We have now reached our traveller's goal, and must make brief work of his returning tour, in order to spare some columns to the consideration of the Ansayrii, the most important matter in the work.

After a residence of some weeks at Mosul, and at the several neighbouring excavations, Mr Walpole accompanied Mr Layard in a tour through the fastnesses of Koordistan: and here we must find space for one or two glimpses at those unknown regions, and the life that awaits the traveller there.

Before we begin to ascend the hill country, we look back:

"On either side, the mountain falls away with jut and crag almost perpendicularly to the plain; at the foot, hills rise above hills in irregular and petulant ranges, like a stormy sea when the wind is gone, and nothing save its memory remains, lashing the waves with restless motion. Westward lies the vast plain, its surface broken by the mounds of imperial cities long passed away.

"One moment the eye rests on the Tigris as it glides its vast volume by; then, out upon the plain, the desert broken by the range of Singar, again on to distance where earth and air mingle imperceptibly together. To the south, over a varied land, is Mosul, the white glare of its mosque glistening in the sun; to the south and east, a sea of hills, wave after wave, low and irregular. The Zab, forcing its way, takes a tortuous course to its companion; farther on, they join their waters, and run together to the vast worlds of the south. Beyond are Arbela and the Obeid. Kara Chout and its crags shut out the view, passing many a spot graven on the pages of the younger world.

"What a blank in history is there around those vast cities, now brought to light! A few vague traditions, a few names whose fabulous actions throw discredit on their existence, are all that research has discovered. Even the nations following after these we know but dimly—tradition, garlanded by poetry, our only guide.

'Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom passed away;
He in the balance weighed,
Is light and worthless clay.
The shroud his robe of state;
His canopy the stone;
The Mede is at his gate,
The Persian on his throne.'

"Fancy conjures up to the south a small and compact body of Greeks: around them, at a distance, like vultures round a struggling carcase, hover bands of cavalry. Now, as a gap opens, they rush on; now, as the ranks close up, they melt away, shooting arrows as they fly, vengeful in their cowardice—it is the retreat of Xenophon and his gallant band. They encamp at Nimroud—as in his yesterday, so in our to-day, a mound smothering its own renown.

"Northward again comes a mighty band: with careful haste they cross the rivers, and with confident step traverse the plain south. On the south-east plain, a legion of nations, golden, glittering, yet timorous, await their approach. Alexander, the hero, scatters dismay: assured of conquest ere he met the foe, he esteems the pursuit the only difficulty. On the one side, Asia musters her nations—Indians, Syrians, Albanians, and Bactrians—the hardiest population of her empire. Elephants and war-chariots are of no avail: the result was fore-written, and Darius foremost flies along the plain.

"Faint, afar, we can see in the north-west Lucullus; and the arms of Rome float over the walls of Nisibis, (B.C. 68.) We may almost see the glorious array of Julian; hear him subduing his mortal pain; hear him pronounce, with well-modulated tones, one of the finest orations the world can record. We may see the timid Jovian skulking in his purple from the field he dared not defend in his armour. But again rise up the legions and the Labarum: Heraclius throws aside his lethargy; the earth drinks deep of gore, and Khosroo[15] is vanquished under our eyes.

"The white and the black banners now gleam upon the field; the crescent flaunts on either side. One God, one faith—they fight for nought. Hell for the coward, paradise for the brave. Abou Moslem and Merwan. The earth, on the spot which had last drunk the red life-blood of Greek and Persian, now slakes its fill. Merwan flies with wondrous steps, but the avenger follows fast. He first loses his army on the Tigris; himself dies on the banks of the Nile: there perished the rule of the Ommiades.

"The hordes of Timour now approach: their war-song ought to be the chorus of the spirits of destiny in Manfred—

'Our hands contain the hearts of men,
Our footsteps are their graves;
We only give to take again
The spirits of our slaves.'

"What a different aspect must this plain have presented when those sun-burnt mysterious mounds were living, teeming, sinning cities; irrigated, cultivated, protected, safe; fruitful and productive! And these were barbarous times; and now, in this our day, peace-congresses, civilisation, one vast federal union, liberty, equality;—a few villages fortified as castles, a population flying without a hope of even a death-spot in peace—fearful alike of robbers and rulers, robbed alike by protectors and enemies, planting the harvest they may not reap; a government seizing what the roving Arabs choose to leave; law known but as oppression; authority a license to plunder; government a resident extortioner.

"Too long have we lingered on the scene. Again the plain is naked, bare, and lifeless; the sun hovers on the horizon—he gilds the desert, licks the river; the desert breaks his glorious disc. Slowly, like the light troops covering a retreat, he collects his rays; with fondness lights up each hill; warms with his smile, lighting with unnumbered tints each peak and crag of hold desert-throned Singar. Reluctantly he hovers for a moment on the horizon's verge, large, fearful, red; then

'The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out;
At one stride comes the dark.'

"Near the convent is a dripping well; a rough path leads us to it, and its entrance is shaded by a gigantic tree. The water is very cold and sweet; the moisture shed a coolness around, that made an exquisite retreat. Near it is a cave which in days of persecution sheltered securely many of the poor fugitive Christians. The destruction of most of the convents about these mountains and on this plain is imputed to Tamerlane; but in our own time Sheik Mattie was attacked by the Koords; its fathers were slain, beaten, and dispersed; and the dust of long ages of bishops scattered to the winds. They still show in the church the tombs of Mar Halveus and Abou Faraf, which they say escaped the observation of the destroyer. The inscription of one we were able to decipher; but another resisted even the efforts of the scholar then resident at the convent. We in vain tried many learned men, but the inscription defies all investigation.

'Chaldea's seers are good,
But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood,
Untold and mystic still.'

"We now made straight for Sheik Mattie, whose green gorge we could discover high up the face of the mountain. The plain was a succession of low hills all brown with the summer; here and there a Koord village with its cultivated fields, cucumbers, and cool melons. The villages west of the river are nearly all Christian, but on to-day's ride we passed two Koordish ones. At one we halted, and regaled ourselves and horses on the fruit they pressed on us.

"The old sheik came out, followed by two men with felts; these were spread in the cool, and we made kief. He begged the loan of Zea, (my Albanian greyhound,) whom he praised beyond measure for his extreme beauty, to kill hares. To hear him talk, his complaints of game, of fields, hares destroyed, &c., I could have believed myself once more in England, but that he closed each sentence with "It is God's will; His will be done," and such like holy words. His long, wide, graceful robes also brought one back to the East, to poetry and to romance."

And here we find less happy accidents in a traveller's life, which must not pass unremembered.

"At first, one of the greatest privations I experienced in Eastern travel, and one that half did away with the pleasure derived from it, was the want of privacy; and one can fully understand (as probably centuries have produced but little change in their habits) the expression in the Bible, of our Saviour retiring apart to pray; for, in the East, privacy is a word unknown. Families live in one room; men, women, sons, daughters, sons' wives, &c., and may be said never to be alone. This at first annoyed me, but habit is second nature. As soon as the traveller arrives he has visits; all the world crowd to see him; the thousand nameless things one likes to do after a tedious hot journey must be done in public. Before you are up they are there; meals, all, there they are; and there is nothing for it but to proceed just as if the privacy was complete....

"Friday, 12th—I rose as well as usual: on one side of the tent lay the Doctor, dead beat; under one flap which constitutes a separate room, Abdallah perfectly insensible: the cook lay behind on a heap of horse-cloths, equally stricken. I sat down to write in the air: finding the flies annoyed me, I read, fell asleep, and remember nothing save a great sensation of pain and weariness for two days. It seemed as if a noise awoke me; it was early morning, and Mr Layard stood before me. Poor fellow! he had learned how to treat the fever by bitter, almost fatal, personal experience; and now he dosed us and starved us, till all but Abdallah were out of danger, at all events.

"It is curious how soon people of warm climates,—or, in fact, I may say,—all uneducated people, succumb to sickness. Hardy fellows, apparently as strong as iron: when attacked they lie down, wrap a coat or cloak around them, and resign themselves to suffer. It would seem that the mind is alone able to rise superior to disease: their minds, uncultivated, by disuse weak, or in perfect alliance with the body, cease to exist when its companion falls. In intellectual man the mind is the last to succumb: long after the poor weak body has yielded, the mind holds out like a well-garrisoned citadel: it refuses all surrender, and, though the town is taken, fights bravely till the last."

And now one glimpse at Koordistan and the beautiful and mysterious Lake Van, which lies hidden in its deepest recesses.

"We now journeyed on through strange regions, where Frank had never wandered. We saw the Koords as they are best seen, free in their own magnificent mountains;—not "the ass," as the Turk calls him, "of the plains." Mahomet Pasha, son of the little standard-bearer, and Pasha of Mosul was requested to provide for its defence by the consuls, and to attempt by better rule the civilisation of the Arabs. He replied:—

'Erkekler Densige
Allar genisig
Kurytar Donsig
Devekler Yoolarsig.'

"'What can I do with people whose men have no religion, whose women are without drawers, their horses without bits, and their camels without halters?'

"Thus we wandered over many miles, plains spreading between their fat mountains, splendid in their grandeur; now amidst pleasant valleys anon over giant passes—

——'Dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;
Where rocks were rudely heaped and rent,
As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything unreconciled.'

"My health after this gradually got worse: repeated attacks of fever, brought on probably by my own carelessness, weakened me so much that I could scarcely keep up with the party. Riding was an agony, and, by the carelessness of my servant, my horses were ruined. One evening an Abyssinian, one of my attendants, went so far as to present a pistol at my head. My poor dear dog, too, was lost, which perhaps afflicted me more than most ills which could happen to myself. At last we passed over a ridge, and Lake Van lay before us. We had, perhaps, been the first Europeans who had performed the journey. The last and only other of which we have any record was poor Professor Schultz, who was murdered by order of Khan Mahmoud for the baggage he unfortunately displayed. The Khan received him kindly, entertained him with hospitality, and despatched him on his road with a guard who had their instructions to murder him on the way. He was an accurate and capable traveller, a native of Hesse, and travelling for the French government.

"The morning of the 3d of August saw us passing up a most lovely valley, the Vale of Sweet Waters. We had encamped in it the night before. Leaving its pretty verdure, we mounted a long range of sun-burnt hills covered with sun-dried grass and immortelles, whose immortality must have been sorely tried on that sun-exposed place. Achieving a pass, we gained our view of Van. The scene was worthy of Stanfield in his best mood. Before us, on the north-east, brown, quaintly-shaped hills, variegated with many tints, filled the view of the far horizon. From this a plain led to the lake; around it were noble mountains, snow and cloud clad—their beauty enhanced by the supervening water. Saphan Dagh, with a wreath of mist and cap of spotless snow, seen across the sea was imposing—I might say, perfect.

"The plain on the eastern coast spread out broad and fair: here verdant meadows, there masses of fruit-laden trees; while between the mass wandered the mountain streams, hastening on to their homes in the fair bosom of the lake. Van itself swept round its castle, which stands on a curious rock that rises abruptly from the plain; but the lake, indeed, was the queen of the view—blue as the far depth of ocean, yet unlike the ocean—so soft, so sweet, so calm was its surface. On its near coast, bounded by silver sands, soft and brilliant; while its far west formed the foot of Nimrod Dagh, on whose lofty crest are said to be a lake and a castle....

"The waters of the lake have lately been analysed, so the curious substance found floating on its surface, and used as soap, will be accounted for: it is sold in the bazaars. At present there are but three small boats or launches on the lake, and even these can hardly find trade enough to remunerate them. Their principal occupation is carrying passengers to the towns on the coast."

Mr Layard remained at Lake Van in order to copy some inscriptions; but Mr Walpole was induced to penetrate northward as far as Patnos, where no European had yet been seen. Here his enterprise was rewarded by the view of some magnificent scenery, and the more important discovery of some cuneiform, and many ancient Armenian inscriptions. These were forwarded by our traveller to Mr Layard, and will doubtless appear in his forthcoming work.[16] But we must now leave Koordistan, recommending the perusal of Mr Walpole's chapter on the Christians of Lake Van, and their beautiful and mysterious inland sea, to all who love to picture to themselves strange lands and wild adventure. We return by way of Erzeroum, Trebizond, the shores of the Black Sea, and Sansoun, to Constantinople; thence to Latakia; and here we find ourselves within view of the mountains of the mysterious Ansayrii and Ismaylis.

In the title of this work is revived a subject of very ancient interest. The Ansayrii, or Nassairi, or Assassins, are a singularly surviving relic of the followers of the Old Man of the Mountain, so celebrated in the history of the Crusades.[17] Historians have fallen into a great mistake in supposing this Order to have been a hereditary dynasty, or to have embraced a nation. Originally it was simply an Order, like that of the Templars. Like them the members wore white garments set off with crimson, typifying innocence and blood. The policy of both was to obtain possession of strong places, and by terror to keep the surrounding nations in subjection. The Assassins succeeded in this object so far as to dictate their will to several Sultans, many Viziers, and innumerable minor authorities. When the Sultan of the Seljuks sent an ambassador to the Old Man of the Mountain, demanding his submission, the following well-known circumstance took place:—"The chief said to one of his followers, 'Stab thyself!' To another he said, 'Throw thyself from the battlements!' Before he had ceased to speak his disciples had obeyed him, and lay dead, not only willing but eager martyrs to their faith. The chief then turning to the envoy, said, 'Take what thou hast seen for thine answer. I am obeyed by seventy thousand such men as these.'" The founder of this terrible sect was Hassan Ben Sahab. He was a "Dai," or master-missionary, from the Secret Lodge established at Cairo, (about 1004 A.D.), in order to sap and overthrow the Caliphat of Abbas, and establish that of the Fatimites. Hassan gave promise of greatness in his youth, became a favourite of the Melekshah, was banished from court by the intrigues of a rival, and took refuge at Ispahan. Here he became initiated in the voluptuous and atheistical doctrines of the Ismailis, and was sent to Egypt, to the Caliph Mostansur, as a preacher and promulgator of that atrocious creed. He was banished from the Egyptian court also, and cast ashore in Syria. After a variety of adventures in the course of his travels from Aleppo through Persia, he at length obtained possession of the fortress of AlamÅt,[18] near Khaswin. Here he remained for the remainder of his life, never leaving the castle, and only twice moving from his own apartment to the terrace during a period of thirty-eight years. Here he perfected, in mystery and deep seclusion, his diabolical doctrines, and soon sent "Dais," or missionaries, of his own into all lands. The secret society of which he was the head contained several grades, embracing the initiated, the aspirant, and the devoted—mere executioners or tools of higher intelligences.[19] The grand-master was called Sidna (Sidney) "our lord;" and more commonly Sheik el Djebel, the Sheik or Old Man of the Mountain, because the Order always possessed themselves of the castles in mountainous regions in Irak, Kuhistan, and Syria. The Old Man, robed in white, resided always in the mountain fort of AlamÅt. There he maintained himself against all the power of the Sultan, until at length the daggers of his Fedavie, or devoted followers, freed him from his most active enemies, and appalled the others into quiescence. AlamÅt was now called "the abode of Fortune," and all the neighbouring strongholds submitted to the Ancient of the Mountain. The Assassins were proscribed in all civilised communities, and the dagger and the sword found constant work on their own professors. The Assassins, however, like the Indian Thugs, depraved all societies, in all sorts of disguises. At one time the courtiers of a Caliph being solemnly invoked, with a promise of pardon and impunity, five chamberlains stepped forward, and each showed the dagger, which only waited an order from the Old Man to plunge into the heart of any human being it could reach. By such agency Hassan kept entire empires in a state of revolution and carnage. From his remote fortress he made his influence felt and feared to the extreme confines of Khorassan and Syria. And thence, too, he propagated the still more infernal engines of his authority, his catechisms of atheism and licentiousness—"Nothing is true; all things are permitted to the initiated." Such was the foundation of his creed.

This villain died tranquilly in his bed, having survived to the age of ninety. His spiritual and temporal power was continued with various vicissitudes through a long succession of impostors, the dagger still maintaining its mysterious and inevitable agency. The list of the best, and some of the most powerful, of Oriental potentates who perished by it, swells, as the history of the Order proceeds, to an incredible extent. During all this time the fundamental maxim of the creed, which separates the secret doctrines of the initiated from the public tenets of the people, was preserved. These last were (and now are, according to Mr Walpole) held to the strictest injunctions of Mahometanism. The East did not detect the motive power of the Assassins' chief: they only saw the poniard strike those who had offended the envoy of the invisible Imam, who was soon to arrive in power and glory, and to assert his dominion over earth. In the Crusades, the hand of the Assassins is traced in the fate of Raymond of Tripoli—perhaps in that of the Marquis of Montferrat—and in many meaner instances. At that period the numbers of people openly professing the creed is stated by William of Tyre at sixty thousand; and by James, Bishop of Alla, at forty thousand. At this day Mr Walpole estimates the number of the Ansayrii at forty thousand fighting men, including Ismaylis. These numbers are to be understood, however, in former times, as well as in the present, to comprise the whole sect, and not merely the executioners, who always formed a very small proportion, and are now probably extinct. The Old Man is no longer recognised, so far as can be ascertained, among the mountains, (where, as usual in other parts of Syria, the patriarchal form prevails;) and the strange creed that their ancestors held, together with a singular recklessness of life, alone remains to mark their descent. Concerning this creed we are referred by Mr Walpole to some discoveries which he intends to publish in a future volume. We must confess to considerable disappointment in the meagre information that is here afforded to us on the subject, especially after our expectations have been raised by such a preface as the following:—

"Alone, without means, without powers to buy or bribe, I have penetrated a secret, the enigma of ages—have dared alone to venture where none have been—where the government, with five hundred soldiers, could not follow; and, better than all, I have gained esteem among the race condemned as savages, and feared as robbers and ASSASSINS."

Nevertheless, our author has told us a good deal that is new and interesting about the Ansayrii, as will be seen from our extracts.

The Ismaylis, concerning whose woman-worship and peculiar habits such strange stories have been whispered, live among the southern mountains of the Ansayrii. They amount only to five thousand souls, and appear to be a different tribe, (probably Arab,) grafted upon them, and gradually, by superior vigour, possessing themselves of the strongest places in the mountains. These people hold a creed quite distinct from the Ansayrii, among whom they dwell; and the extraordinary prayer, or address used by them seems fully to bear out the long-questioned assertion of their aphrodisial worship.

Marco Polo[20] was the first to furnish some curious accounts of the Ansayrii, and of the discipline and catechism of the Fedavie: we hope that Mr Walpole, in his promised volume, will add to the many vindications which that brave old traveller has received from time to time. But at the sack of AlamÅt, in 1257, all the Assassins' books (except the Koran) were burned as impious; and all that now remains of their doctrines must be traditional. We have dwelt thus long on the Ansayrii in order to display the interest that belongs to that secluded and mysterious people, and the importance of any novel intelligence respecting them. Before we proceed to illustrate their country from Mr Walpole's volumes, we must find space for some account of the manner in which the initiation of the Assassins is said to have been performed. The two great strongholds of the Order were the castle of AlamÅt in Irak, and that of Massiat near Latakia in the Lebanon. These fortresses, stern and impregnable in themselves, are said to have been surrounded with exquisite gardens, enclosed from all vulgar gaze by walls of immense height. These gardens were filled with the most delicate flowers and delicious fruits. Streams flowed, and fountains sparkled brightly, through the grateful gloom of luxuriant foliage. Bowers of roses, and porcelain-paved kiosks, and carpets from the richest looms of Persia, invited to repose the senses heavy with luxury. Circassian girls, bright as the houris of Paradise, served the happy guests with golden goblets of Schiraz wine, and glances yet more intoxicating. The music of harps, and women's sweetest voices, sent fascination through the ear as well as eyes. Everything breathed rapture and sensuality, intensified by seclusion and deep calm. The youth, where energy and courage seemed to qualify him for the office of fedavie, was invited to the table of the grand-master, (at Irak,) or the grand-prior, (at Massiat.) He was there intoxicated with the maddening, yet delightful hashishe. In his insensible state he was transported to the garden, which, he was told, was Paradise, and which he was too ready to take for the scene of eternal delight, as he revelled in all the pleasure that Eastern voluptuousness could devise. He was there lulled into sleep once more, and then transported back to the grand-master's side. As he awoke, numbers of uninitiated youths were admitted to hear his account of the Paradise which the power of the Old Man had permitted him to taste. And thus tools were found and formed for the execution of the wildest projects. That glimpse of Paradise for ever haunted the inflamed imagination of the novices, and any death appeared welcome that could restore them to such joys.

Such is the theory of this singular people, as maintained by Von Hammer, which it remains for future discoveries—now that Mr Walpole has opened the way for them—to vindicate or refute. There are also some remnants of the Persian tribes of this people, an account of which, by Mr Badger, we are informed, is soon to appear: the Syrians scarcely know of their existence. The Syrian Ansayrii amount, as we have said, including Ismaylis, to about forty thousand souls: they have always preserved their seclusion inviolate; setting at nought the various tyrannies that have harassed the neighbouring states, denying the authority of the Sultan, and blaspheming the Prophet, while they outwardly conform to his rites. They occupy the northernmost range of the Lebanon, from Tortosa and Latakia, as far as Adana.

Notwithstanding Von Hammer's elaborate and ingenious theory, many (amongst whom is our author) have seemed disposed to treat the whole story of the Assassins, and the Old Man of the Mountain himself, as myths. It was, they say, the sort of romance that the Crusaders would have lent a ready ear to, and that their troubadours would have made the most of. They deny the existence of the powerful hill fortresses surrounded by the intoxicating gardens; they point to the renowned Syrian castle of El Massiat, whose ruins occupy a space of only one hundred yards square, and in whose vaulted stables there is an inscription purporting that the castle was "the work of Roostan the Mameluke."

Mr Walpole, however, does not enter into any controversy respecting this strange people. Of the little that he has confided in his present two volumes to the public, the following extracts must be taken as an instalment:—

"The Ansayrii nation—for such it is—being capable of mustering forty thousand warriors able to bear arms, is divided into two classes—sheiks and people; the sheiks again into two—Sheiks or Chiefs of Religion, Sheik el Maalem, and the temporal Sheiks, or Sheiks of Government; these being generally called Sheik el Zullom, or Sheiks of Oppression. These latter, though some of them are of good families, are not so generally: having gained favour with government, they have received the appointment. Others there are, however, whose families have held it for many generations—such as Shemseen Sultan, Sheik Succor, &c. The sheiks of religion are held as almost infallible, and the people pay them the greatest respect. With regard to the succession, there seems to be no fixed rule: the elder brother has, however, rule over the rest; but then I have seen the son the head of the family while the father was living.

"The sheik of religion enjoys great privileges: as a boy he is taught to read and write; he is marked from his fellows from very earliest childhood, by a white handkerchief round his head. Early as his sense will admit, he is initiated into the principles of his faith: in this he is schooled and perfected. Early he is taught that death, martyrdom, is a glorious reward; and that, sooner than divulge one word of his creed, he is to suffer the case in which his soul is enshrined to be mangled or tortured in any way. Frequent instances have been known where they have defied the Turks, who have threatened them with death if they would not divulge, saying, 'Try me; cut my heart out, and see if anything is within there.' During his manhood he is strictly to conform to his faith: this forbids him not only eating certain things at any time, but eating at all with any but chiefs of religion; or eating anything purchased with unclean money;—and the higher sheiks carry this to such an extent that they will only eat of the produce of their own grounds; they will not even touch water, except such as they deem pure and clean. Then the sheik must exercise the most unbounded hospitality; and, after death, the people will build him a tomb, (a square place, with a dome on the top,) and he will be revered as a saint.

"The lower classes are initiated into the principles of their religion, but not into its more mystical or higher parts: they are taught to obey their chiefs without question, without hesitation, and to give to them abundantly at feasts and religious ceremonies: above all, even the uninitiated is to die a thousand deaths sooner than betray his faith.

"In their houses, which, as I have before said, are poor, dirty, and wretched, they place two small windows over the door. This is in order that, if a birth and death occur at the same moment, the coming and the parting spirit may not meet. In rooms dedicated to hospitality several square holes are left, so that each spirit may come or depart without meeting another.

"Like the Mahometans, they practise the rite of circumcision, performing it at various ages, according to the precocity of the child. The ceremony is celebrated, as among the Turks, with feasting and music. This, they say, is not a necessary rite, but a custom derived from ancient times, and they should be Christians if they did not do it. This is the same among the Mahometans, who are not enjoined by their prophet to do so, but received the rite from of old.[21]

"When a candidate is pronounced ready for initiation, his tarboosh is removed, and a white cloth wrapped round his head. He is then conducted into the presence of the sheiks of religion. The chief proceeds to deliver a lecture, cautioning him against ever divulging their great and solemn secret. 'If you are under the sword, the rope, or the torture, die, and smile—you are blessed.' He then kisses the earth three times before the chief, who continues telling him the articles of their faith. On rising, he teaches him a sign, and delivers three words to him. This completes the first lesson.

"At death, the body is washed with warm soap and water, wrapped in white cloths, and laid in the tomb. Each person takes a handful of earth, which is placed on the body; then upright stones, one at the feet, one at the head, one in the middle, are placed. The one in the middle is necessary. They have the blood-feud—the Huck el Dum. In war, blood is not reckoned; but if one man kills another of a different tribe, all the tribe of the slayer pay an equal sum to the tribe of the slain—generally one thousand six hundred piastres, (L.15.)

"In marriage, a certain price is agreed on. One portion goes to the father, another to supply dress and things necessary for the maiden. This will vary much, according to the wealth of the bridegroom and the beauty or rank of the bride. It is generally from two hundred to seven hundred or a thousand piastres (L.1, 15s. 6d. to L.9, 10s.) Sometimes a mare, a cow, or a donkey, merely, is given for her. The bridegroom has then to solicit the consent of the hirce, or owner of the bride's village, who will generally extort five hundred piastres, or more, before he will give a permission of marriage.

"The price being settled, and security given for its payment, the friends of the bridegroom mount on the top of the house armed with sticks. The girl's friends pass her in hastily to avoid their blows. The bridegroom enters, and beats her with a stick or back of a sword, so that she cries: these cries must be heard without. All then retire, and the marriage is concluded.

"They are allowed four wives. The marriage ceremony is simple, and divorce not permitted. If one of these four wives die, they are permitted to take another. Generally, they have little affection for their wives—treating them rather as useful cattle than as rational creatures. They never teach women the smallest portion of their faith. They are jealously excluded from all religious ceremonies; and, in fact, are utterly denied creed, prayers, or soul. Many here have told me that the women themselves believe in this; and do not, as one would fancy, murmur at such an exclusive belief.

"The Ansayrii are honest in their dealings, and none can accuse them of repudiation or denying a sum they owe.... They regard Mahomet el Hamyd as the prophet of God, and thus use the Mussulman confession—'La illa ill Allah, Mahomet el Hamyd, Resoul e nebbi Allah;' but they omit all this when before Mahometans, saying merely, 'There is no God but God, and Mahomet is the prophet of God.' Otherwise, they say, 'There is no God but Ali, and Mahomet el Hamyd, the Beloved, is the prophet of God.'

"I do not intend here to enter into their belief more fully; but it is a most confused medley—a unity, a trinity, a deity. 'These are five; these five are three; these three are two; these two, these three, these five—one.'

"They believe in the transmigration of souls. Those who in this life do well, are hospitable, and follow their faith, become stars; the souls of others return to the earth, and become Ansayrii again, until, purified, they fly to rest. The souls of bad men become Jews, Christians, and Turks; while the souls of those who believe not, become pigs and other beasts. One eve, sitting with a dear old man, a high sheik—his boys were round him—I said, 'Speak: where are the sons of your youth? these are the children of your old age.'—'My son,' he said, looking up, 'is there: nightly he smiles on me, and invites me to come.'

"They pray five times a day, saying several prayers each time, turning this way or that, having no keblah. If a Christian or Turk sees them at their devotions, the prayers are of no avail. At their feasts, they pray in a room closed and guarded from the sight or ingress of the uninitiated.

"This will give a general outline of the faith and customs of the Ansayrii. My intercourse with them was on the most friendly footing, and daily a little was added to my stock of information. Let me, however, warn the traveller against entering into argument with them, or avowing, through the dragoman, any knowledge of their creed. They are as ready and prompt to avenge as they are generous and hospitable to protect. To destroy one who deceives them on this point is an imperative duty; and I firmly believe they would do it though you took shelter on the divan of the Sultan. For myself, the risk is passed: I have gone through the ordeal, and owe my life several times to perfect accident."

To this long extract we shall only add, that a good deal of additional light is indirectly thrown upon this singular people throughout the whole of the third volume of Mr Walpole's work. It is the best written, as well as the most important, of the series; it abounds in humour, anecdote, originality, and in no small degree of curious research.

And now, it only remains for us to bid our entertaining fellow-traveller heartily farewell. Although, especially in the first volume, we have felt disposed to quarrel with his style occasionally, we have found his good-humour, his thoughtful sentiment, and his reckless wit, at last irresistible. His very imperfections often prove his fidelity, and his apparent contradictions his innate truthfulness. We commend to him a little more study of the art of composition, and a good deal more care; but we shall consider ourselves fortunate when we meet with another author of as many faults, if they are atoned for by as many merits.

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