"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.

[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.

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 Alamūt, 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 Alamūt

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.

[20] _De Regionibus Orient._, lib. i. c. 28.

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]

[21] We do not yet know if any ceremony exists at the naming of

the child.

"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.

THE CHAMPIONS OF THE RAIL.

_A History of the English Railway: its Social Relations and

Revelations._ By JOHN FRANCIS. 2 vols. London.

A good many years ago, a late correspondent and writer in this

Magazine, Dr M'Nish of Glasgow, published a work entitled _The

Anatomy of Drunkenness_. The book was an excellent one: most perfect

in its portraiture of the different phenomena which accompany and

succeed a debauch; and in the hands of a regular tee-totaller, it

was undeniably worth some reams of vapid sermons. The preacher,

who never, we are bound to believe, had experienced the vinous or

spirituous excitement in his own person, was enabled from it to hold

forth, with all the unction of reality, to his terrified audience,

upon the awful effects of intemperance. Old ladies, who rarely in

their lives had transgressed beyond a second glass of weak negus

at some belated party, when whist or commerce had been suggested

to while away the weary hours, listened to the warnings of the

gifted apostle of temperance, and hied them home in the tremendous

conviction that they had only escaped, by the merest miracle, the

horrors of _delirium tremens_. Dyspeptic gentlemen were rendered

wretched, as they reflected that, for years past, they had been

accustomed to wash down their evening Finnan haddock, or moderate

board of oysters, with a pint of Younger's prime ale, or, mayhap, a

screeching tumbler. The enormity of their offence became visible to

their eyes, and they incontinently conceived amendment.

But we doubt very much whether the _Anatomy_ would have been

pleasant reading to a gentleman who overnight had imbibed "not

wisely but too well." How could he bear to be told, not only of the

sensations of the previous evening, minutely traced through the

gradations of each consecutive decanter, but of the state of thirst

and unnatural discomfort to which he was presently a victim? Would

it relieve his headach to assure him that, after swallowing three

bottles of claret, most men are apt to be out of sorts? Could he,

the sufferer, derive any assuagement of his pains by knowing--if he

did not know it already--that unlimited brandy and water, however

agreeable during consumption, was clearly prejudicial to the nerves?

Sermons may come too soon. The sufferer ought to be allowed at least

a day or two to recover, before his offence is laid before him in

all its huge deformity. Give him time to be ashamed of himself.

A man's own conscience is his best accuser; and, unless the vice

be absolutely inherent, or totally beyond the hope of remedy, his

own misery will be more likely to effect a cure than any amount of

philosophical dissertations upon its nature.

These thoughts have been irresistibly suggested to us by a perusal

of the two ponderous tomes of Mr Francis, entitled, _A History of

the English Railway: its Social Relations and Revelations_. A more

unfortunate kind of apocalypse could hardly have been hazarded at

the present time. Most people are tolerably well aware, without

the aid of Mr Francis, of the changes in social relations which

have been worked by the British railway; and as for revelations, a

good many would give a trifle to have these entirely suppressed.

We have not yet arrived at the time when the history of the "'45"

of this century can be calmly or dispassionately written. Too many

of us, still remanent here, have burned our fingers, and too many

of our kith and kin have been sent to exile, in consequence of

that notable enterprise. Since the standard was last unfurled in

the vale of Glenmutchkin, a considerable number of the population

have been bitten by the sod, if they did not literally bite it.

That system of turning over turfs, by the aid of silver spades and

mahogany wheelbarrows, was more fatal to the peace of families than

the accumulation of any number of Celtic bagpipers whatever. It

was a grand interment of capital. Who has forgotten the misery of

those times, when letters of railway calls arrived punctually once

a quarter? Two pound ten per share might be a moderate instalment;

but if you were the unfortunate holder of a hundred shares, you had

better have been boarded with a vampire. Repudiation, though a clear

Christian duty to yourself and your family, was utterly impossible.

It mattered not that the majority of the original committeemen and

directors had bolted; you, the subscriber, were tied to the stake.

The work was begun, the contracts opened, and money must be had

at all hazards and sacrifices. You found yourself in the pitiable

situation of an involuntary philanthropist. Threescore hulking

Irish navvies were daily fed, liquored, and lodged at your expense.

Your dwindling resources were torn from you, to make the fortunes

of engineers and contractors. So long as you had a penny, or a

convertible equivalent, you were forced to surrender it. Your case

was precisely similar to that of the Jew incarcerated in the vaults

beneath the royal treasury of King John. One by one all your teeth

were drawn. If you managed to survive the extraction of the last

grinder, and to behold the opening of the line, your position was

not one whit improved. Dividend of course there was none. That awful

and mysterious item of charge, "working expenses," engulfed nearly

the whole revenue. What was over went to pay interest on preference

debentures. That gallant body of men, the directors, laid before

you, with the utmost candour, a state of the affairs of the company;

from which it appeared that they had exceeded their borrowing

powers by perhaps a brace of millions, and had raised the money by

interposing their own individual security. These obligations you

were, of course, expected to redeem; and an appeal was made to your

finer feelings, urging you to consent to a further issue of stock!

It is no great consolation to the men who have suffered more woes

from the railways, than fell to the lot of the much-enduring Ulysses

from the relentless anger of the deities, to know that they have

rendered perfect a vast chain of internal communication throughout

the country. We doubt whether the Israelites, who built them, took

any especial pride in surveying the pile of the pyramids. The

gentleman in embarrassed circumstances, who is pondering over the

memory of his perished capital, is not likely to feel his heart

expand with enthusiasm at the thought that through his agency, and

that of his fellows, thousands of bagmen are daily being whirled

along the rails with the velocity of lightning. He may even be

pardoned if, in the sadness and despondency of his soul, he should

seriously ask himself what, after all, is the use of this confounded

hurry? Is a man's life prolonged because he can get along at the

rate of forty or fifty miles an hour? Is existence to be measured

by locomotion? In that case Chifney, who passed the best part of

his life in the saddle, ought to have been considered as a rival

to Methuselah, and a stoker on the Great Western lives in one week

far longer than the venerable Parr! Is enjoyment multiplied? That,

too, will admit of a serious doubt. In a railway carriage you have

no fair view of the fresh aspect of nature: you dash through the

landscape--supposing that there is one--before its leading features

are impressed upon your mind. There is no time for details, or even

for reflection. You must accommodate your thought to your pace,

otherwise you are left behind, and see nothing whatever for at least

a couple of stations. But for the most part your way lies between

embankments and cuttings, representing either sections of whinstone,

or bare banks of turf, dotted over with brown patches, where the

engine has effected arson. Even furze will not willingly flourish

in such an uncomfortable locality. Then you roar through tunnels,

the passage of which makes your flesh creep--for you cannot divest

yourself of a horrid idea that you may possibly be encountered in

the centre of the darkness by an opposing engine, and be pounded

into paste by the shock of that terrific tilt; or that a keystone of

the arch may give way, and the whole train be buried in the centre

of the excavated mountain. Sensual gratification there is none.

If you do not condescend to the iniquity of carrying sandwiches

along with you--in which case your habiliments are certain to be

grievously defiled with buttered crumbs--you are driven by the

pangs of sheer hunger into the refreshment-room at some station,

and find yourself at the bar of an inferior gin-palace. Very bad

is the pork-pie, for which you are charged an exorbitant ransom.

Call ye this sherry, my masters? If it be so, commend us for the

future to Bucellas. The oranges look well outside, but the moment

you have penetrated the rind, you find that they have been boiled

and are fozy. Do not indulge in the vain hope that you may venture

on a glass of anything hot. Hot enough you will find it with a

vengeance; for, the instant that you receive the rummer, the bell

is sure to ring, and you must either scald your throat by gulping

down two mouthfuls of mahogany-water raised to a temperature which

would melt solder, or consign the prepaid potion to the leisure

of the attendant Hebe. Smoking is strictly prohibited. Even if

you are alone in a carriage, you cannot indulge in that luxury

without rendering yourself liable to a fine; and, if your appetite

should overcome your prudence, and you should venture to set the

law at defiance, before you have inhaled two whiffs, a railway

guard appears as if by magic at the window--for those fellows have

the scent of the vulture, and can race along the foot-boards as

nimbly as a cat along a gutter--and you are ordered to abandon your

Havanna. Under such circumstances, literature is a poor resource.

You read the _Times_ twice over, advertisements and all, and then

sink into a feverish slumber, from which you are awakened by a

demand from a ruffian in blue livery, with a glazed leather belt

across his shoulder, for the exhibition of your ticket. Talk of

the inconvenience of passports abroad! The Continental system is

paradisaical compared with ours. At length, after fingering your

watch with an insane desire to accelerate its movement, you run into

the ribs of something, which resembles the skeleton of a whale--the

train stops--and you know that your journey is at an end. You select

your luggage, after having undergone the scrutiny of a member of the

police force, who evidently thinks that he has seen you before under

circumstances of considerable peculiarity, ensconce yourself in a

cab, and drive off, being favoured at the gate of the station by a

shower of diminutive pamphlets, purporting to be poetical tributes

to the merits of Messrs Moses and Hyams. You have done the distance

in twelve hours, but pleasure you have had none.

Mr Francis, who is gifted with no more imagination than an ordinary

tortoise, though he asserts the superiority of the hare, begins his

book with an exceedingly stupid dissertation upon the difficulties

of ancient travel. Broken bridges, impassable quagmires, and

ferocious highwaymen constitute leading features in his picture;

and, as you read him, you marvel, between your fits of yawning, what

manner of men our ancestors must have been to brave so many dangers.

Sheer drivel all of it! The old roads were uncommonly good, and the

bridges kept in splendid repair from the time they were built by

the Romans. Who ever heard of a quagmire on a turnpike? As for a

casual encounter with Turpin, Duval, or any other of the minions of

the moon, we are decidedly of opinion that such incidents must have

added much to the excitement of the journey. A stout fellow, well

mounted, usually carried about him both pops and a cutlass, and, if

he was cool and collected, might very easily square accounts with

the most ardent clerk of St Nicholas. Does Mr Francis really suppose

that the author of _Jack Sheppard_ likes railway travelling? Not

he. Dearer to his soul is a prancing prad upon Hounslow Heath than

all the engines that ever whistled along a line. Mount him upon

Black Bess, arm him with a brace of barkers, and in the twinkling

of an eye there would be daylight through the carcase of the Golden

Farmer. Is adventure nothing? Had the road no joys? Are we to

consider the whole universe worthless, except those black dots which

in the maps represent cities? Was nature made in vain, in order that

men might hasten from town to town, at the tail of a shrieking

engine, regardless of all the glorious scenery which intervenes?

To our taste, the old mode of travelling--nay, the oldest--was

infinitely superior to the present sickening system. You rose by

times in the morning; took a substantial breakfast of beef and

ale--none of your miserable slops--and mounted your horse between

your saddle-bags, in time to hear the lark carolling on his earliest

flight to heaven. Your way ran through dingle and thicket, along the

banks of rivers, skirting magnificent parks, rich in the possession

of primeval oaks, under which the deer lay tranquilly and still.

You entered a village, stopped at the door of the public-house,

and cooled your brow in the foam of the wholesome home-brewed. You

dined at mid-day, in some town where the execrable inventions of

Arkwright and Watt were unknown; where you encountered only honest,

healthy, rosy-cheeked Christians, who went regularly once a-week to

church, and identified the devil with the first dissenter--instead

of meeting gangs of hollow-eyed lean mechanics, talking radicalism,

and discussing the fundamental points of the Charter. You moved

through merry England as a man ought to do, who is both content

with his own lot and can enjoy the happiness of others. As you saw

the sun rising, so you saw him set. The clouds reddened in the

west--you heard the sweet carol of the thrush from the coppice, and

lingered to catch the melody. The shades of evening grew deeper.

The glow-worms lit their tiny lanterns on the bank, the owl flitted

past with noiseless wing, the village candles began to appear in the

distance; and as you dismounted at the door of your humble inn, and

surrendered your weary beast to the hands of the careful hostler,

you felt that you were the richer by a day spent in the fresh air

and gladsome sunshine, and made happy by all the sounds and sights

which are dear to the heart of man.

But this was solitary travelling, and might not suit every one.

Well--if you were a little fellow, deficient in pluck, and sorely

afraid of robbers, you might have company for the asking. At every

large inn on the road there were at least a dozen travellers who,

for the sake of security, agreed to journey in company. Was that no

fun? Have you anything like it in your modern railways? Just compare

your own experiences of a rocket-flight along the Great Western with

Chaucer's delineation of his Canterbury pilgrimage, and you will

see what you have lost. Nice sort of tales you would elicit either

from that beetle-browed Bradford Free-Trader, evidently a dealer in

devil's-dust, who is your _vis-à-vis_ in the railway carriage; or

from that singular specimen of a nun who is ogling you deliberately

on the left! Can you associate the story of Palamon and Arcite--can

you connect anything which is noble, lofty, inspiriting, humane, or

gentle, with a journey made in an express train? If not, so much

the worse for the present times. Doubtless you may hear something

about Thompson or Bright, but we may be excused if we prefer the

mention of the earlier heroes. Also, you may pick up information

touching the price of calicoes, or the value of stocks, or the

amount of exports of cotton twist--and we wish you much good of all

that you get. But, O dear, is that travelling? Would you like to go

from London to Ispahan in such company? How long do you think you

could stand it? And yet this is the improved system of locomotion

for which we are told to be thankful, and in honour of which such

weariful volumes as those of Mr Francis are written.

"But, mercy on us!" we hear Mr Francis or some of his backers

exclaim--"is it nothing that commercial gentlemen can now make four

trips a-day between Manchester and Liverpool, and do a stroke of

business on each occasion?" We reply, that it would be better for

the said commercial gentlemen, both here and hereafter, if they

would content themselves with a more moderate pursuit of Mammon.

Happiness in this life does not depend upon the amount of sales

effected. The assistant in the London grocer's shop, who daily

ties up a thousand packages of tea and sugar, is not greatly to be

envied beyond his brother in the country, who twists the twine

around fifty. We have an intense respect for work while kept within

wholesome limits; but we cannot regard the man whose sole pursuit

is grubbing after gold as otherwise than an ignominious slave. The

railways are in one sense excellent things. You can get from point

to point, if necessity requires it, much sooner than before, at less

cost, and perhaps with less inconvenience. But there the advantage

ends. There is no pleasure in them; and, compared with former

methods of locomotion, they are decidedly less healthy and less

instructive. We decry them not. We only wish to stop the babbling

of the blockheads who would have us to believe that, until the

steam-engine was invented, this earth was an unendurable waste, a

wilderness of barbarians, and an unfit residence for civilised and

enlightened man. Would the genius either of Shakspeare or Newton

have been greater had they known of the rails? Would the splendour

of the reign of Elizabeth have been heightened had Stephenson then

existed?

The admiration of Mr Francis for the railway system is so intense

as to be purely ludicrous. He considers every man connected with

its development--whether as engineer, contractor, or director--as a

positive public hero; and this work of his seems intended as a kind

of Iliad, to chronicle their several achievements. Since we last

met, Mr Francis has been hard at work upon his style. Formerly he

went along, pleasantly enough, without any great effort: now he is

not satisfied unless he can eclipse Mr Macaulay. He has read the

_History of England_ to some purpose. Fascinated by the brilliancy

of the sketches which the accomplished historian has drawn of the

statesmen of the age of William of Orange, Mr Francis thinks he

will not do justice to his subject unless he adopts a similar mode

of handling. Unfortunately he has no statesmen to celebrate. But

he can do quite as well. There are surveyors and contractors by

the score, whose portraits in his eyes are just as interesting.

Accordingly, we have a repetition of the old scene in the play. A

voice without is heard calling, "Francis!" To which summons Francis

incontinently replieth, "Anon, anon, sir!" and then--"Enter Poins,

Peto, Gadshill, and the rest." No loftier apparition ever comes

upon the stage; but we are warned that, in surveying these, we look

upon individuals destined in all coming time to occupy a lofty

niche in British history. Thus, to quote at random from the index,

we have the following entries--"Richard Creed ... his services and

character." "Who may this Mr Richard Creed be?" says the unconscious

reader; "we never heard of him before!" "Fool!" quoth Francis, "he

was THE SECRETARY OF THE LONDON AND BIRMINGHAM LINE! 'On his honesty

and integrity,' said Mr Glyn on one occasion emphatically, 'I pin my

faith, and you may pin yours also!'" And he adds, referring to an

occasion which must have been exceedingly gratifying to the feelings

of the recipient--"The testimonial to this gentleman, in 1844, was

worthy the munificence of the givers. It is not often that a cheque

for two thousand one hundred guineas accompanies an expression of

opinion, or that the rich man's praise fructifies into a service of

plate." As we contemplate our unadorned sideboard, we acknowledge

the truth of this remark; still, we hesitate to exalt Mr Creed

to the rank of a hero. Then we light on "Undertakings of Thomas

Brassey.... Anecdote concerning him." Mr Brassey is a contractor,

eminent no doubt; but so, in his own age, must have been the Roman

gentleman who undertook the construction of the Cloaca Maxima,

though his name has unfortunately perished. Then appears "Henry

Booth.... His services." We trust they were properly acknowledged.

Then, "Personal sketches of Mr Locke and Mr Chaplin." We are greatly

edified by the _silhouettes_. "Personal sketch of Samuel Morton

Peto." We shall try, if possible, not to forget him. Much as Mr

Francis has done to perpetuate the memory of these great men, it

is plain that his powers have been cramped with the space of two

thick octavo volumes. In order to make his Iliad perfect, we ought

to have had a catalogue of the chiefs of the navvies. But we must

rest satisfied with the acute remark of Herder, that "the burden

of the song is infinite, but the powers of the human voice are

finite." Mr Francis has done what he can. Creed and Brassey--Brunel

and Locke--Chaplin, Peto, and Vignolles, live within his inspired

volumes; and we beg to congratulate them on account of that assured

immortalisation. They are the salt of the earth. The compilers

of traffic-tables have disappeared--the old standing witnesses

before committees of the House of Commons are dumb--the young

engineering gentlemen, who could do anything they pleased in the

way of levelling mountains, are amusing themselves in California or

elsewhere--even the mighty counsel, the holders of a hundred briefs,

for which, for the most part, they rendered but indifferent service,

are unsung. But the others live. In the British Valhalla they are

assured of an adequate niche, thanks to Mr Francis, who, as Captain

Dangerfield says, is ready to stake his reputation that they are the

only men worthy of record in such an enlightened age as our own.

No--we are wrong. The man of all others to be deeply venerated is

"George Carr Glyn, Esq., Chairman of the London and North-Western

Railway," to whom these volumes are respectfully dedicated. Of Mr

Glyn's career as a statesman we know absolutely nothing. We are

not even aware to what section of politicians he belongs, so utter

is our ignorance of his fame. As we read the pages of Francis, and

encountered the continual eulogiums heaped upon this gentleman, we

felt remarkably uncomfortable. We could not divest ourselves of the

notion that we had been asleep for some quarter of a century, and

had therefore missed the opportunity of witnessing the appearance

of a new and most brilliant star in the political horizon. About

Mr Glyn, Francis has no manner of doubt. He is not only the most

sagacious, but the most clever personage extant, for every purpose

which can smooth railway difficulties. He is the Ulysses of his

line, and can rap Thersites on the sconce, if that cynical fiend

should insist upon an awkward question. We really and unaffectedly

ask pardon of Mr Glyn, if we mistake him through his eulogist. We

have no other means of knowing him; and therefore he must settle the

correctness of the following sketch with Mr Francis, who appears

as the voluntary artist. If the drawing is to the mind of Mr Glyn,

and if it meets his ideas of ethics, we have nothing in the world

to say against it, having no interest whatever in the line over

which he presides. Hear Francis: "The proper place to see Mr Glyn

is as chairman in that noble room, where, with an earnest multitude

around him, with the representative of every class and caste before

him--with Jew and Gentile ready to carp at and criticise his

statements--he yet moves them at his pleasure, and leads them at

his will. And perhaps the ascendency of one man over many is seldom

_more agreeably seen_ than when, standing before a huge expectant

audience, he enlivens the platitudes of one with some light

epigrammatic touch, answers another with a clear tabular statement,

_or replies to a third with some fallacy so like a fact_ that the

recipient sits contentedly down, about as wise as he was before."

This is, to say the least of it, an equivocal sort of panegyric. We

all know what is implied by the term "fallacies" in railway matters,

and some of us have suffered in consequence. According to our view,

this interchange of fallacies between directors and shareholders is

a custom by no means laudable, or to be held in especial repute. In

pure matters of business, the less frequently fallacies are resorted

to, the better. They are apt, in the long run, to find their way

into the balance-sheet--until, as we have seen in some notorious

instances, the assumed fact of a clear balance, to be applied by way

of dividend, turns out also to be a fallacy. In the case before us,

we are willing to believe that Mr Francis is altogether mistaken,

and that the statements of Mr Glyn, made in his official capacity,

which appeared to the blundering reporter to be fallacies, were in

reality stern truths. But what sort of estimate must we form of Mr

Francis' moral perception, when we find him selecting such a trait

as the subject of especial commendation? He has, however, like

most other great men, large sympathies. He does battle in behalf of

Mr Hudson with considerable energy; though, after all, taking his

conclusions as legitimate, his defence simply resolves itself into

this--that Mr Hudson's conduct was not more blamable than that of

others. So be it. We never joined in the wholesale censure directed

against the quondam railway monarch, because we knew that the whole

tone of the morals of society had been poisoned by the villanous

system engendered by railway speculation; and because we saw that

many of his accusers, if their own conduct had been sifted, might

have been arraigned equally with him at the bar of public opinion.

Therefore we have no desire to interfere with the operations of Mr

Francis, when he appears with his pot of whitewash. Nay, we wish

that the implement were more roomy than it is, and the contents

of less questionable purity--for assuredly he has a large surface

of wall to cover, if he sets himself seriously to the task of

obliterating the traces of past iniquity.

The reader, however, must not suppose that Mr Francis sees nothing

to condemn, or that he has not at command thunderbolts of wrath to

launch at the heads of offenders. According to him, the most painful

feature of the railway system was the rapacity of the owners of the

soil in driving hard bargains for their land. As this is a charge

which has often been made by men more competent to form an opinion

upon any subject than the gentleman whose work we are now reviewing,

we shall condescend to notice it. Let us premise however, that, in

this matter, the howl is distinctly traceable to the harpies who

inveigled the public to join their nefarious schemes, and to advance

their capital on the assurance of enormous dividends.

After referring to the negotiations made with landowners by the

promoters of the London and Birmingham line, Mr Francis comments as

follows:--

"These things are written with pain, for they display a low

tone of moral feeling in that class which, by virtue of

inheritance, of birth, and blood, should possess a high and

chivalrous sense of honour. The writer is far from wishing to

blame those who honestly opposed the rail. The conscientious

feeling which prompts a man, even in an unwise action, if

mistaken, is at least respectable. There is much to palliate the

honest opposition of the landowner. Scenes and spots which are

replete with associations of great men and great deeds cannot be

pecuniarily paid for. Sites which bear memories more selfish,

yet not less real, have no market value. Homes in which boyhood,

manhood, and age have been passed, carry recollections which

are almost hallowed. Such places cannot be bought and sold; nor

are the various prejudices which cling to the country to be

overlooked. If the nobleman disliked the destruction of his fine

old English park, the yeoman deplored the desecration of his

homestead. The one bore its splendid remembrances, the other its

affectionate recollections. If the peer hallowed the former for

the sake of its royal visits, the farmer cherished the latter

for the sake of those who had tilled the land before him. There

are fancy spots in this our beautiful England which it would

pain the most indifferent to destroy; what then must be the

feelings of those who have lived, and only wish to die there?

"It is the trafficker in sympathies, it is the dealer in haunts

and homes, at whom the finger of scorn should be pointed. It

is the trader in touching recollections, only to be soothed

by gold, that should be denounced. It is the peer who made

the historic memories of his mansion a plea for replenishing

an impoverished estate; it is the farmer who made the sacred

associations of home an excuse for receiving treble its value;

it is the country gentleman who made his opposition the lever

by which he procured the money from the proprietors' pockets,

who should be shamed. And a double portion of ignominy must rest

upon these, when it is remembered that the money thus immorally

obtained is a constant tax on the pleasures of the artisan, on

the work of the manufacturer, and on the wages of the railway

official."

Mr Francis, it is evident, is fighting hard for his service of

plate; but we doubt much whether he will get it. He evidently

considers the foregoing passage as a specimen of splendid writing.

He is mistaken. It is nothing better than unadulterated drivel.

Let us try to extricate, if we can, his argument from this heap of

verbiage.

He admits that associations ought to be respected, but he denies

that they ought to have been paid for. What does he mean by this? By

whom were the said associations to be respected? By the projectors

of the railway companies? Hardly: for those very sympathising

gentlemen were precisely the persons who insisted upon running their

rails right through park and cottage, and who would have prostrated

without remorse the Temple of Jerusalem or the Coliseum, had either

edifice stood in their way. What, then, was the value of that

respect? Precisely the worth of the tear which stood in the eye of

the tender-hearted surveyor. What was the operation of that respect?

Not to spare, but if possible to destroy.

In a word, Mr Francis maintains that the railway companies ought to

have had their own way in everything, and to have got possession of

the land at the lowest conceivable prices. He thinks that, because

gentlemen whose property was threatened with invasion, whose privacy

it was purposed to destroy, and whose homes were to be rendered

untenantable, demanded a high price from the joint-stock trading

companies, as an equivalent for the surrender of such privileges,

they manifested a "low tone of moral feeling." In fact, so far as

we can gather from his language, he puts no value whatever, in

a pecuniary sense, upon the associations which he admits to be

entitled to respect; and hardly any, if any, upon the score of

amenity. He is anything but an Evelyn. An oak, in his eyes, is

merely a piece of standing timber to be measured, valued, and paid

for according to the current price in the dockyards. The land--no

matter of what kind--is to be estimated according to the amount

of its yearly return, and handed over without farther question

to the enterprising company which demands it. Perhaps Mr Francis

may remember a certain passage in sacred history, narrating the

particulars of a proposed transfer of ground--the parties being

King Ahab on the one hand, and Naboth the Jezreelite on the other?

If not, we recommend it to his attention, assuring him that he will

find it to contain a very important lesson touching the rights of

property. His present argument, if it is worth anything, would go

far to vindicate Ahab. He wanted the other man's vineyard because it

lay contiguous to his house, and he offered to give him in exchange

a better vineyard for it, or an equivalent in money. According to

the view maintained by Mr Francis, Naboth was not justified in

refusing the offer.

But let us look into this matter a little more closely. On the one

hand there is the owner of a property which has been transmitted

through a long line of ancestors, and which is now to be intersected

and cut up by a projected line of railway. On the other hand there

is the company, which cannot progress a step until they have

possession of the land. Now let us see what is the nature, and what

are the objects of this company. It will not do for Mr Francis

or any one else to babble about public advantages, arising from

more direct communication between cities or towns of importance.

Public advantage may be taken for granted as a result, but upon

pure considerations of public advantage no railway whatever

was undertaken. It is the commercial speculation of a private

company. No man ever took a share in any railway from motives of

disinterested philanthropy. He took them because he expected to make

a profit by them, to hold them as a safe investment, or finally to

sell them for a larger sum than he paid. A condition, and the main

one, of the existence of the railway is the possession of the land,

and at this point proprietors and speculators join issue. The former

do not want the railway. Their wish is to preserve their property

undissevered, and to be spared from the spectacle of engines roaring

by at all hours of the day and night close to the bottom of the

lawn. They very naturally think it a monstrous hardship that the

rights of private property should be invaded by private individuals,

even though acting upon an incorporated semblance, who are simply

seeking their own profit; and they argue that, if the railway was

required for public purposes, the government was the proper party

to have undertaken its construction. But as, under the existing

law, they are liable to be dragged, session after session, into

a ruinous expense to oppose the demands of the capitalists, they

wisely determine to make the best arrangement they can, and at all

events to secure a full remuneration for the sacrifice. So the

Squire, finding that the law is so conceived and modified that any

one individual who is possessed of landed property may be compelled

to surrender it at the demand of a hundred leagued capitalists,

makes a virtue of necessity, and demands a sum corresponding in

some degree to the extent of the extorted sacrifice: whereupon the

promoters of the railway instantly raise such a howl that you would

think somebody was trying to rob _them_, or to take _their_ property

by force--the case being notoriously the reverse.