—Thalaba stood mute,And passively receiv’dThe mingled joy which flowed in every sense.Where’er his eye could reach,Fair structures, rainbow hued, arose;And rich pavilions through the opening woodsGleam’d from their waving curtains sunny gold;And winding through the verdant valeWent stream of liquid light,And fluted cypresses rear’d upTheir living obelisks;And broad-leaved plane-trees, in long colonnades,O’erarched delightful walks,Where round their trunks the thousand tendrill’d vineWound up, and hung the trees with greener wreaths,And clusters not their own.Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyesReturn for rest? beside him teems the earthWith tulips like the ruddy evening streak’d.And here the lily hangs her head of snow;And here amid her sable cupShines the red eye spot, like one brightest star,The solitary twinkle of the night;And here the rose expandsHer paradise of leaves.Then on his ear what soundsOf harmony arose!Far music and the distance-mellow’d songFrom bowers of merriment;The waterfall remote:The murmuring of the leafy groves,The single nightingale.* * * * *And oh what odors the voluptuous valeScatters from jasmine bowers,From yon rose wilderness,From cluster’d henna, and from orange groves.* * * * *Full of the bliss, yet still awakeTo wonder, on went Thalaba:On every side the song of mirth,The music of festivity,Invite the passing youth.Wearied at length with hunger and with heat,He enters in a banquet room;Where round a fountain’s brinkOn silken carpets sat the festive train.Instant, through all his frameDelightful coolness spread;The playing fount refresh’dThe agitated air;The very light came cool through silvering panesOf pearly shell, like the pale moonbeam tinged.
—Thalaba stood mute,And passively receiv’dThe mingled joy which flowed in every sense.Where’er his eye could reach,Fair structures, rainbow hued, arose;And rich pavilions through the opening woodsGleam’d from their waving curtains sunny gold;And winding through the verdant valeWent stream of liquid light,And fluted cypresses rear’d upTheir living obelisks;And broad-leaved plane-trees, in long colonnades,O’erarched delightful walks,Where round their trunks the thousand tendrill’d vineWound up, and hung the trees with greener wreaths,And clusters not their own.Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyesReturn for rest? beside him teems the earthWith tulips like the ruddy evening streak’d.And here the lily hangs her head of snow;And here amid her sable cupShines the red eye spot, like one brightest star,The solitary twinkle of the night;And here the rose expandsHer paradise of leaves.Then on his ear what soundsOf harmony arose!Far music and the distance-mellow’d songFrom bowers of merriment;The waterfall remote:The murmuring of the leafy groves,The single nightingale.* * * * *And oh what odors the voluptuous valeScatters from jasmine bowers,From yon rose wilderness,From cluster’d henna, and from orange groves.* * * * *Full of the bliss, yet still awakeTo wonder, on went Thalaba:On every side the song of mirth,The music of festivity,Invite the passing youth.Wearied at length with hunger and with heat,He enters in a banquet room;Where round a fountain’s brinkOn silken carpets sat the festive train.Instant, through all his frameDelightful coolness spread;The playing fount refresh’dThe agitated air;The very light came cool through silvering panesOf pearly shell, like the pale moonbeam tinged.
—Thalaba stood mute,And passively receiv’dThe mingled joy which flowed in every sense.Where’er his eye could reach,Fair structures, rainbow hued, arose;And rich pavilions through the opening woodsGleam’d from their waving curtains sunny gold;And winding through the verdant valeWent stream of liquid light,And fluted cypresses rear’d upTheir living obelisks;And broad-leaved plane-trees, in long colonnades,O’erarched delightful walks,Where round their trunks the thousand tendrill’d vineWound up, and hung the trees with greener wreaths,And clusters not their own.Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyesReturn for rest? beside him teems the earthWith tulips like the ruddy evening streak’d.And here the lily hangs her head of snow;And here amid her sable cupShines the red eye spot, like one brightest star,The solitary twinkle of the night;And here the rose expandsHer paradise of leaves.Then on his ear what soundsOf harmony arose!Far music and the distance-mellow’d songFrom bowers of merriment;The waterfall remote:The murmuring of the leafy groves,The single nightingale.
—Thalaba stood mute,
And passively receiv’d
The mingled joy which flowed in every sense.
Where’er his eye could reach,
Fair structures, rainbow hued, arose;
And rich pavilions through the opening woods
Gleam’d from their waving curtains sunny gold;
And winding through the verdant vale
Went stream of liquid light,
And fluted cypresses rear’d up
Their living obelisks;
And broad-leaved plane-trees, in long colonnades,
O’erarched delightful walks,
Where round their trunks the thousand tendrill’d vine
Wound up, and hung the trees with greener wreaths,
And clusters not their own.
Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyes
Return for rest? beside him teems the earth
With tulips like the ruddy evening streak’d.
And here the lily hangs her head of snow;
And here amid her sable cup
Shines the red eye spot, like one brightest star,
The solitary twinkle of the night;
And here the rose expands
Her paradise of leaves.
Then on his ear what sounds
Of harmony arose!
Far music and the distance-mellow’d song
From bowers of merriment;
The waterfall remote:
The murmuring of the leafy groves,
The single nightingale.
* * * * *
* * * * *
And oh what odors the voluptuous valeScatters from jasmine bowers,From yon rose wilderness,From cluster’d henna, and from orange groves.
And oh what odors the voluptuous vale
Scatters from jasmine bowers,
From yon rose wilderness,
From cluster’d henna, and from orange groves.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Full of the bliss, yet still awakeTo wonder, on went Thalaba:On every side the song of mirth,The music of festivity,Invite the passing youth.Wearied at length with hunger and with heat,He enters in a banquet room;Where round a fountain’s brinkOn silken carpets sat the festive train.Instant, through all his frameDelightful coolness spread;The playing fount refresh’dThe agitated air;The very light came cool through silvering panesOf pearly shell, like the pale moonbeam tinged.
Full of the bliss, yet still awake
To wonder, on went Thalaba:
On every side the song of mirth,
The music of festivity,
Invite the passing youth.
Wearied at length with hunger and with heat,
He enters in a banquet room;
Where round a fountain’s brink
On silken carpets sat the festive train.
Instant, through all his frame
Delightful coolness spread;
The playing fount refresh’d
The agitated air;
The very light came cool through silvering panes
Of pearly shell, like the pale moonbeam tinged.
“I think I must stop here,” said Thompson, “though the entire book seems but the poet’s amplification of the tale of Mandeville.”
“The more I think on the subject, the more certain I feel that the Assassins of the eleventh century are the origin, if not of your tradition, at least of the tales of Purchas and Mandeville,” said Herbert.
“I know too little of their history, to agree with you or not; surely, theirs was a purely political association,” answered Lathom.
“Their original and avowed object was the placing a caliph of the race of Ismael on the throne of Bagdad; but their sacred doctrines are supposed to have embraced a wider sphere, and are known to have been converted into the means of private revenge by the adept, whoafterwards became known as the ‘old man of the mountain.’”
“Where did the old man reign?” asked Thompson.
“On the mountain of Alamoot, in the north of Persia. The Vulture’s Rest, as its name imported, was not unlike the hill of Cotonolapes, or the Castle of the Magician of the Gesta. There Hassan ben Sabah gathered round him an independent society of seven degrees, with himself as their head, by the title of Sheikh of the Mountain.”
“What was the date of that event?”
“Within a few years of the close of the eleventh century,” replied Herbert. “His seven degrees commenced with the three grand priors, under him, the practical rulers of the society. Then came thedais, or initiated ministers; and fourthly, therefeeks, or companions. Below these were thefedavees, or devoted, who were followed by thelaseeks, the aspirants, the novices of European orders. The profane, the common people, formed the last of the seven orders of the Assassins.”
“The mysteries, I suppose, were not revealed to any below the third class?” remarked Lathom.
“No, thedaiswere alone acquainted with these; what they were, besides implicit obedience to their chief, and the principle of interpreting the Koran allegorically, it is impossible to discover. By the rest of the society, the text of the Koran was to be observed in its strict letter. Thefedaveeswere, however, the support of the society. They were composed, too often, of youths stolen from their parents, and educated in such a system as recognized the sheikh as omnipotent, and impressed on them the moral and religious duty of obeying his commands.”
“From this order, then, the common idea of the Assassins arose?” said Lathom.
“Undoubtedly,” rejoined Herbert. “They were led to look to his mandates as direct from heaven, and as impossibleto be evaded. They were clothed in white, with red bonnets and girdles, and armed with sharp daggers; but when a secret and dangerous mission was imposed, the disguises of thefedaveeswere appropriated to the task enjoined.”
“Is any thing known of their initiatory ceremonies?”
“But little; Marco Polo, indeed, gives us a curious account of the garden of Alamoot bearing a very strong likeness to that of Aloaddin, whither thefedaveewas borne under the influence of opiates, before being sent on any important mission; and where, on awakening, he found himself surrounded with every earthly pleasure. This, he was persuaded, is but a foretaste of the joys of paradise, which were to be the reward of his faithful performance of the mission. And thus buoyed up, thefedaveesconfronted danger in every form, and executed the commands of their chief in despite of countless difficulties.”
“Their name, I suppose, is but the corruption of that of their leader, Hassan,” remarked Thompson.
“Here doctors disagree,” replied Herbert; “some are content with this origin; whilst others, explaining the visions in the garden of Alamoot as the effects of an intoxicating herb, derive the name of the society from hashish, the opiate of hemp-leaves, supposed to have been so freely used by the sheikh in deluding his victims.”
“How long did this strange society exist?” asked Lathom.
“After a time they divided into two branches; the eastern one remaining at Alamoot, whilst the western spread into Syria. Both branches became too powerful and dangerous to be endured. After repeated attempts, the eastern branch was destroyed by the Monguls, about a century and a half after its foundation; whilst the western branch lasted only fourteen years longer, andfell about 1270, under the power of the Mamluke sultans of Egypt.”
“It was far easier to root out their strongholds than their principles,” remarked Lathom.
“It was so found by their conquerors: the mountains of Syria, especially, gave shelter to many of the society, and the tenets of the order are still believed to linger among a branch of the Koords. But come, we are wandering from our tales, and if we do not leave off our remarks Lathom will close the evening without another specimen of the old story-teller.”
“We have not yet heard the moral of the magician’s garden,” said Thompson.
“The application is plain,” replied Lathom: “the magician is the world; the luxuries and beauties of his garden are the world’s rewards and riches; worldly people think that they have grasped its gifts; anon, they open their hands, and find them empty.”
“But a short application, though over true,” remarked Herbert.
“I have rather condensed the old monk, and perhaps wrongly, as the latter part of his moral reminds me strongly of a passage in Gay’s fables. ‘The conjurer,’ says the old monk, ‘puts down a dish, but places nothing in it. Then he begins to prate and mock the spectators with fair words and long speeches. Soon he inquires of them: What is in the dish? they look, and it is full of pennies. These he distributes among the bystanders; with thanks they receive his gifts, and eagerly close their hands on them; anon, they open their hands, and lo, there is nothing.’”
“You allude,” said Herbert, “to Gay’s lines, where he describes his conjurer performing his tricks.
“‘Trick after trick deludes the train,He shakes his bag, and shows all fair,His fingers spread, and nothing there,Then bids it rain with showers of gold;And now his ivory eggs are told.’”
“‘Trick after trick deludes the train,He shakes his bag, and shows all fair,His fingers spread, and nothing there,Then bids it rain with showers of gold;And now his ivory eggs are told.’”
“‘Trick after trick deludes the train,He shakes his bag, and shows all fair,His fingers spread, and nothing there,Then bids it rain with showers of gold;And now his ivory eggs are told.’”
“‘Trick after trick deludes the train,
He shakes his bag, and shows all fair,
His fingers spread, and nothing there,
Then bids it rain with showers of gold;
And now his ivory eggs are told.’”
“Hardly so much,” replied Lathom, “as the four lines where he says ofFORTUNE:
“‘A purse she to the thief exposed;At once his ready fingers closed.He opes his fist, his treasure’s fled,He sees a halter in its stead.’
“‘A purse she to the thief exposed;At once his ready fingers closed.He opes his fist, his treasure’s fled,He sees a halter in its stead.’
“‘A purse she to the thief exposed;At once his ready fingers closed.He opes his fist, his treasure’s fled,He sees a halter in its stead.’
“‘A purse she to the thief exposed;
At once his ready fingers closed.
He opes his fist, his treasure’s fled,
He sees a halter in its stead.’
And now,” continued Lathom, “now for the original of Guy, Earl of Warwick.”
“The original of a romance, that was a celebrated piece in the time of Chaucer, and usually sung to the harp at Christmas dinners and bridals, is indeed a curiosity,” remarked Herbert.
“But how comes Sir Guy in the Latin stories?” said Thompson; “does not Bishop Percy say it was of English growth?”
“I cannot resolve the difficulty,” answered Lathom; “we must admit that it was in French before the end of the thirteenth century; when it came into its Latin dress, must depend on that most difficult of all points, the date and authorship of my volume of stories. But come from where he will, you have here the story of the Champion of Warwick.”