And we must not forget to mention that, besides the divine voice of Nature and native soil, he long since has heard and still hears the still sweet voice of one who might be dearer to him than all.
For Khalid, after his return from Bohemia, continued to curse the houris in his 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 houris 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 tonight 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