are opened to you. Are you a man of imagination — a poet? taste
this, and the boundaries of possibility disappear; the fields of
infinite space open to you, you advance free in heart, free in
mind, into the boundless realms of unfettered revery. Are you
ambitious, and do you seek after the greatnesses of the earth?
taste this, and in an hour you will be a king, not a king of a
petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe like France, Spain,
or England, but king of the world, king of the universe, king of
creation; without bowing at the feet of Satan, you will be king and
master of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not tempting what I
offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is only to do
thus? look!" At these words he uncovered the small cup which
contained the substance so lauded, took a teaspoonful of the magic
sweetmeat, raised it to his lips, and swallowed it slowly with his
eyes half shut and his head bent backwards. Franz did not disturb
him whilst he absorbed his favorite sweetmeat, but when he had
finished, he inquired, — "What, then, is this precious stuff?"
"Did you ever hear," he replied, "of the Old Man of the
Mountain, who attempted to assassinate Philip Augustus?"
"Of course I have."
"Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung
by the mountain whence he derived his picturesque name. In this
valley were magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in
these gardens isolated pavilions. Into these pavilions he admitted
the elect, and there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain
herb, which transported them to Paradise, in the midst of
ever-blooming shrubs, ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins.
What these happy persons took for reality was but a dream; but it
was a dream so soft, so voluptuous, so enthralling, that they sold
themselves body and soul to him who gave it to them, and obedient
to his orders as to those of a deity, struck down the designated
victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing that the deathvictim, died in torture without a murmur, believing that the death
they underwent was but a quick transition to that life of delights
of which the holy herb, now before you had given them a slight
foretaste."
"Then," cried Franz, "it is hashish! I know that — by name at
least."
"That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; it is hashish — the
purest and most unadulterated hashish of Alexandria, — the hashish
of Abou-Gor, the celebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom
there should be built a palace, inscribed with these words, `A
grateful world to the dealer in happiness.'"
"Do you know," said Franz, "I have a very great inclination to
judge for myself of the truth or exaggeration of your
eulogies."
"Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin — judge, but do not confine
yourself to one trial. Like everything else, we must habituate the
senses to a fresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous.
There is a struggle in nature against this divine substance, — in
nature which is not made for joy and clings to pain. Nature subdued
must yield in the combat, the dream must succeed to reality, and
then the dream reigns supreme, then the dream becomes life, and
life becomes the dream. But what changes occur! It is only by
comparing the pains of actual being with the joys of the assumed
existence, that you would desire to live no longer, but to dream
thus forever. When you return to this mundane sphere from your
visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan spring for a
Lapland winter — to quit paradise for earth — heaven for hell!
Taste the hashish, guest of mine — taste the hashish."
Franz's only reply was to take a teaspoonful of the marvellous
preparation, about as much in quantity as his host had eaten, and
lift it to his mouth. "Diable!" he said, after having swallowed the
divine preserve. "I do not know if the result will be as agreeable
as you describe, but the thing does not appear to me as palatable
as you say."
"Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimityas you say."
"Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimity
of the substances it flavors. Tell me, the first time you tasted
oysters, tea, porter, truffles, and sundry other dainties which you
now adore, did you like them? Could you comprehend how the Romans
stuffed their pheasants with assafoetida, and the Chinese eat
swallows' nests? Eh? no! Well, it is the same with hashish; only
eat for a week, and nothing in the world will seem to you to equal
the delicacy of its flavor, which now appears to you flat and
distasteful. Let us now go into the adjoining chamber, which is
your apartment, and Ali will bring us coffee and pipes." They both
arose, and while he who called himself Sinbad — and whom we have
occasionally named so, that we might, like his guest, have some
title by which to distinguish him — gave some orders to the
servant, Franz entered still another apartment. It was simply yet
richly furnished. It was round, and a large divan completely
encircled it. Divan, walls, ceiling, floor, were all covered with
magnificent skins as soft and downy as the richest carpets; there
were heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas, striped tiger-skins from
Bengal; panther-skins from the Cape, spotted beautifully, like
those that appeared to Dante; bear-skins from Siberia, fox-skins
from Norway, and so on; and all these skins were strewn in
profusion one on the other, so that it seemed like walking over the
most mossy turf, or reclining on the most luxurious bed. Both laid
themselves down on the divan; chibouques with jasmine tubes and
amber mouthpieces were within reach, and all prepared so that there
was no need to smoke the same pipe twice. Each of them took one,
which Ali lighted and then retired to prepare the coffee. There was
a moment's silence, during which Sinbad gave himself up to thoughts
that seemed to occupy him incessantly, even in the midst of his
conversation; and Franz abandoned himself to that mute revery, into
which we always sink when smoking excellent tobacco, which seems to