dreams. And he little did taste of the blessings of "sore labour's
bath, balm of hurt minds." Ay, when he was not racked and harrowed by
nightmares, he was either disturbed by the angels of his visions or
the succubi of his dreams. And so, he determines to go to Syria for a
night's sleep, at least, of the innocent and just. His cousin Najma is
there, and that is enough. Once he sees her, the huris are no more.

Now Shakib, who is more faithful in his narration than we first
thought--who speaks of Khalid as he is, extenuating nothing--gives us
access to a letter which he received from the Bronx a month before
their departure from New York. In these Letters of Khalid, which our
Scribe happily preserved, we feel somewhat relieved of the dogmatism,
fantastic, mystical, severe, which we often meet with in the K. L.
MS. In his Letters, our Syrian peddler and seer is a plain blunt man
unbosoming himself to his friend. Read this, for instance.

"My loving Brother:

"It is raining so hard to-night that I must sleep, or in fact
keep, within doors. Would you believe it, I am no more
accustomed to the luxuries of a soft spring-bed, and I can not
even sleep on the floor, where I have moved my mattress. I am
sore, broken in mind and spirit. Even the hemlock grove and the
melancholy stillness of the river, are beginning to annoy me.
Oh, I am tired of everything here, tired even of the cocktails,
tired of the push-cart, tired of earning as much as five dollars
a day. Next Sunday is inauguration day for my stationary fruit
stand; but I don't think it's going to stand there long enough
to deserve to be baptized with champagne. If you come up,
therefore, we'll have a couple of steins at the Hermitage and
call it square.--O, I would square myself with the doctors by
thrusting a poker down my windpipe: I might be able to breathe
better then. I pause to curse my fate.--Curse it, Juhannam-born,
curse it!--

"I can not sleep, nor on the spring-bed, nor on the floor. It is
two hours past midnight now, and I shall try to while away the
time by scrawling this to you. My brother, I can not long
support this sort of life, being no more fit for rough,
ignominious labor. 'But why,' you will ask, 'did you undertake
it?' Yes, why? Strictly speaking, I made a mistake. But it's a
noble mistake, believe me--a mistake which everybody in my
condition ought to make, if but once in their life-time. Is it