Indeed, the play is always the thing; the frivolous is
the most essential, if only as a disguise.--For look you, are we not
too prosperous to consider seriously your ponderous preachment? And
when you bring it to us in book form, do you expect us to take it into
our homes and take you into our hearts to boot?--Which argument is
convincing even to the man in the barn.

But the Author of the Khedivial Library Manuscript can make his
Genius dance the dance of the seven veils, if you but knew. It is
to be regretted, however, that he has not mastered the most subtle
of arts, the art of writing about one's self. He seldom brushes
his wings against the dust or lingers among the humble flowers close
to the dust: he does not follow the masters in their entertaining
trivialities and fatuities. We remember that even Gibbon interrupts
the turgid flow of his spirit to tell us in his Autobiography that he
really could, and often did, enjoy a game of cards in the evening. And
Rousseau, in a suppurative passion, whispers to us in his Confessions
that he even kissed the linen of Madame de Warens' bed when he was
alone in her room. And Spencer devotes whole pages in his dull and
ponderous history of himself to narrate the all-important narration
of his constant indisposition,--to assure us that his ill health more
than once threatened the mighty task he had in hand. These, to be
sure, are most important revelations. But Khalid here misses his cue.
Inspiration does not seem to come to him in firefly-fashion.

He would have done well, indeed, had he studied the method of the
professional writers of Memoirs, especially those of France. For might
he not then have discoursed delectably on The Romance of my Stick Pin,
The Tragedy of my Sombrero, The Scandal of my Red Flannel, The
Conquest of my Silk Socks, The Adventures of my Tuxedo, and such like?
But Khalid is modest only in the things that pertain to the outward
self. He wrote of other Romances and other Tragedies. And when his
Genius is not dancing the dance of the seven veils, she is either
flirting with the monks of the Lebanon hills or setting fire to
something in New York. But this is not altogether satisfactory to the
present Editor, who, unlike the Author of the Khedivial Library MS.,
must keep the reader in mind. 'Tis very well to endeavour to unfold a
few of the mysteries of one's palingenesis, but why conceal from us
his origin? For is it not important, is it not the fashion at