At these words he uncovered the small cup which contained the sub
stance so lauded, took a tea-spoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it
to his lips, and swallowed it slowly, with his eyes half shut and his
head bent backward. Franz did not disturb him whilst he absorbed his
favorite bonne louche, but when he 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 Phillippe Auguste?"
"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 val ley were magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens were 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. But 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 those of a deity, struck down the marked victim, 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-Gror, 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 reality must succeed to the dream, 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 the mundane sphere from your visionary world, you would seem to leave a
