Chapter XIV (3)

"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.

[13] _Kief_: a word difficult to translate, but expressing
perfect abandonment to repose; a _dolce far niente_ which only
Orientals can thoroughly achieve.

"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]

[14] The Moslems being water-drinkers, are as curious about their
streams as _bons vivans_ are about their cellars. One of the Caliphs
sent to weigh all the waters in his wide kingdom, and found that of
the Euphrates was the lightest.

"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.

[15] He was subsequently murdered, A. D. 62.

"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.

[16] We must here notice the generosity with which Mr Walpole
forbears to enlarge upon any subject in which he might anticipate
the works of other travellers. For this reason he passes lightly
over this interesting tour in the mountains of Koordistan, and
only (to our regret) alludes _en passant_ to a tribe of _pastoral_
Jews, whom he and Mr Layard met on these mountains, following the
spring (as the snows receding left fresh herbage for their flocks)
up the mountains. When we consider how rarely pastoral Jews are met
with, and that this was the very land wherein the lost ten tribes
disappeared, and, moreover, that the elders of these people spoke
the Chaldean tongue, we are much disappointed to hear no more of
them.

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 Alamūt,[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 Alamūt. 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. Alamūt 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.

[17] The mystery relating to this community is so great that the
laborious Müller, in his twenty-four books, has not attempted to
penetrate it. And Gibbon, notwithstanding his acknowledged pleasure
in painting scenes of blood, has treated the Order of Assassins
very superficially. Marco Polo is, as usual, the most entertaining
of authorities, as far as he goes; but it remained for Joseph Von
Hammer to explore the faint vestiges of their strange story with
vast and patient research. He has thrown together the results of his
labours in a small volume, of great interest.

[18] The Vulture's Nest.

[19] Dais, Refik, and Fedavie.