The true genius
of the East breathes in Meredith's pages, and the _Arabian Nights_, at
all events in the crude literality of Sir Richard Burton, pale before
them like a mirage. The variety of scenes and images, the untiring
evolution of plot, the kaleidoscopic shifting of harmonious colours,
all these seem of the very essence of Arabia, and to coil directly
from some bottle of a genie. Ah! what a bottle! As we whirl along in
the vast and glowing bacchanal, we cry, like Sganarelle:
_Qu'ils sont doux--
Bouteille jolie--
Qu'ils sont doux
Vos petits glou-glous;
Ah! Bouteille, ma mie;
Pourquoi vous videz-vous?_
Ah! why indeed? For _The Shaving of Shagpat_ is one of those very rare
modern books of which it is certain that they are too short, and even
our excitement at the Mastery of the Event is tamed by a sense that
the show is closing, and that Shibli Bagarag has been too promptly
successful in smiting through the Identical. But perhaps of all gifts
there is none more rare than this of clearing the board and leaving
the reader still hungry.
Who shall say, in dealing with such a book, what passage in it is best
or worst? Either the fancy, carried away utterly captive, follows the
poet whither he will, or the whole conception is a failure.
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