me might be anticipated from previous
things, such as the clause in the Preface to Wieland's just noticed
book, that the author had "gone to Weimar, where perhaps he is still,"
an observation which, from the context, seems not to be so much an
attempt at _persiflage_ as a pure piece of lazy _naivete_. The volume,
however, contains a great deal of information such as it is; some
sketches, ingeniously draped or Bowdlerised, of the "naughty" tales
excluded from the collection itself, and a few amusing stories.[245]

As, however, has been said, there was to be still another joint to this
crocodile, and the four last volumes, xxxviii. to xli. (_not_, as is
wrongly said by some, xxxvii. to xl.), contain a somewhat rash
continuation of the _Arabian Nights_ themselves, with which Cazotte[246]
appears to have had a good deal to do, though an actual Arab monk of
the name of Chavis is said to have been mainly concerned. They are not
bad reading; but even less of fairy tales than Gueulette's
orientalities.

* * * * *

Not much apology is needed, it may be hoped, for the space given to this
curious kind; the bulk of its production, the length of its popularity,
and the intrinsic merit of some few of its better examples vindicate its
position here. But a confession should take the place of the unnecessary
excuse already partly made. The artificial fairy tale of the more
regular kind was not, by the law of its being, prevented almost
unavoidably from doing service to the novel at large, as the Eastern
story was; but, as a matter of fact, it did little except what will be
mentioned in the next paragraph. That it helped to exemplify afresh what
had been shown over and over again for centuries, the singular
recreative faculty of the nation and the language, was about all. But
another national characteristic, the as yet incurable set of the French
mind towards types--which, if the second volume of this work ever
appears, will, it is hoped, be shown to have spared the later
novel--seized on these tales. They are "as like as my fingers to my
fingers," and they are not very pretty fingers as a rule. Incidentally
they served as frameworks to some of the worst verse in the world, nor,
for the most part, did they even encourage very good prose. You may get
some good out of them; but unless you like hunting, and are not vexed by
frequent failures to "draw," the _Cabinet des Fees_ is best left to
exploration at s