as Goethe remarked, is "Art because it is
not Nature." Fancy, _la folle du logis_, is "that kind and gentle
portress who holds the gate of Hope wide open, in opposition to Reason,
the surly and scrupulous guard." As Palmerin of England says, and says
well:--"For that the report of noble deeds doth urge the courageous mind
to equal those who bear most commendation of their approved valiancy;
this is the fair fruit of Imagination and of ancient histories." And
last, but not least, the faculty of Fancy takes count of the cravings of
man's nature for the marvelous, the impossible, and of his higher
aspirations for the Ideal, the Perfect; she realizes the wild dreams and
visions of his generous youth, and portrays for him a portion of that
"other and better world," with whose expectation he would console his
age.

The imaginative varnish of 'The Nights' serves admirably as a foil to
the absolute realism of the picture in general. We enjoy being carried
away from trivial and commonplace characters, scenes, and incidents;
from the matter-of-fact surroundings of a workaday world, a life of
eating and drinking, sleeping and waking, fighting and loving, into a
society and a _mise-en-scene_ which we suspect can exist and which we
know do not. Every man, at some turn or term of his life, has longed for
supernatural powers and a glimpse of Wonderland. Here he is in the midst
of it. Here he sees mighty spirits summoned to work the human mite's
will, however whimsical; who can transport him in an eye-twinkling
whithersoever he wishes; who can ruin cities and build palaces of gold
and silver, gems and jacinths; who can serve up delicate viands and
delicious drinks in priceless chargers and impossible cups, and bring
the choicest fruits from farthest Orient: here he finds magas and
magicians who can make kings of his friends, slay armies of his foes,
and bring any number of beloveds to his arms.

And from this outraging probability and outstripping possibility arises
not a little of that strange fascination exercised for nearly two
centuries upon the life and literature of Europe by 'The Nights,' even
in their mutilated and garbled form. The reader surrenders himself to
the spell, feeling almost inclined to inquire, "And why may it not be
true?" His brain is dazed and dazzled by the splendors which flash
before it, by the sudden procession of Jinns and Jinniyahs, demons and
fairies, some hideous, others preternaturally beautiful; by go