least,
that one writing his own history should first expatiate on the humble
origin of his ancestors and the distant obscure source of his genius?
And having done this, should he not then tell us how he behaved in his
boyhood; whether or not he made anklets of his mother's dough for his
little sister; whether he did not kindle the fire with his father's
Koran; whether he did not walk under the rainbow and try to reach the
end of it on the hill-top; and whether he did not write verse when he
was but five years of age. About these essentialities Khalid is
silent. We only know from him that he is a descendant of the brave
sea-daring Phoenicians--a title which might be claimed with justice
even by the aborigines of Yucatan--and that he was born in the city of
Baalbek, in the shadow of the great Heliopolis, a little way from the
mountain-road to the Cedars of Lebanon. All else in this direction is
obscure.

And the K. L. MS. which we kept under our pillow for thirteen days
and nights, was beginning to worry us. After all, might it not be
a literary hoax, we thought, and might not this Khalid be a myth. And
yet, he does not seem to have sought any material or worldly good
from the writing of his Book. Why, then, should he resort to
deception? Still, we doubted. And one evening we were detained by
the sandomancer, or sand-diviner, who was sitting cross-legged on the
sidewalk in front of the mosque. "I know your mind," said he,
before we had made up our mind to consult him. And mumbling his
"abracadabra" over the sand spread on a cloth before him, he took up
his bamboo-stick and wrote therein--Khalid! This was amazing. "And I
know more," said he. But after scouring the heaven, he shook his head
regretfully and wrote in the sand the name of one of the hasheesh-dens
of Cairo. "Go thither; and come to see me again to-morrow evening."
Saying which, he folded his sand-book of magic, pocketed his fee,
and walked away.

In that hasheesh-den,--the reekiest, dingiest of the row in the Red
Quarter,--where the etiolated intellectualities of Cairo flock after
midnight, the name of Khalid evokes much resounding wit, and sarcasm,
and laughter.

"You mean the new Muhdi," said one, offering us his chobok of
hasheesh; "smoke to his health and prosperity. Ha, ha, ha."

And the chorus of laughter, which is part and parcel of a hasheesh
jag, was tremendous. Every one thereupon had something to say on the
subject. The contagion could not be c