utter some of the finest passages in the book. It is in the first part that Cervantes puts into his mouth an eloquent oration on the comparative merit of arts and letters. "Don Quixote," the narrator observes, "pursued his discourse so rationally that his auditors could scarcely think him insane. On the contrary, most of them, being gentlemen to whom the exercise of arms appertains, they listened to him with particular pleasure.' Still more: "The auditors were concerned that a man who possessed so good an understanding should, on a particular point, be so egregiously in the want of it." Surely the instances of madness in a single direction are not so infrequent as to place such madness out from the use of fiction. Were they even less frequent than they are, the character of Don Quixote would still be conceivable, and consistent with romance. Let it be considered, too, that the insanity of Don Quixote was not only partial, but very transient. It came upon him late in life; it lasted but a few weeks; it closed in the lucidness of an exhausted and dying man. The character is true to itself when judged, as it ought to be, poetically; for, after the first chapters, Cervantes raised it into poetry. It is true that in the second part Don Quixote is more frequently wise and eloquent than in the first; because, in the second part, he is oftener in society that could elicit wisdom and call out eloquence. Taking the whole result, the character has in both parts the continuity and oneness which constitute artistic identity.

Appreciated in his entireness, the knight is a glorious inhabitant of the imagination world. He appears every where in fine relations to humanity. In his worst

mistakes he is lovable; and there is much more in him of what is admirable than of what is laughable. He is kind in his home, and in his neighborhood he is respected. With men he is frank and brave; with women he is refined and more than courteous. Of high bearing and of jealous dignity, he does not shun the humble; and, though no abuser of the rich, if a side is to be taken, he takes it with the poor. Filled with thoughts which, though out of season and out of place, are yet as sublime as they are benevolent, he lives always in sight of good intentions; he is delighted in the joy of all around him; it gives him pleasure to promote and to increase it; he designs to exalt his friends; he designs to bless the world; and if, while walking in this trance of generous visions, he comes into rude collision with stern actuality, if in this collision he gets wounded and bruised, - he does not complain or whine, but is as cheerful as he is patient. He is innocent of heart; pure in his thoughts; in principles, of invincible integrity; in actions, of stainless honesty and honor; in speech, of virgin delicacy and of gracious elegance. Don Quixote really never falls in our respect. He is never degraded by his mischances. He is always elevated, and elevated in spite of the most ridiculous situations. He does not for a moment forget his personal dignity; for in his most infatuated actions there is a spirit of grandeur. Look, for example, at the nobleness of his ideas on his supposed vocation. "Knight errantry," he contends, "is equal to poetry, and something beyond it. It is a science, also, which comprehends all or most of the other sciences. The knight must be learned in the law,

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experienced in distributive and commutative justice, to assign each man his own. He must be conversant with divinity, to explain clearly and distinctly the Christian faith which he professes. He must be skilled in medicine, that he may know diseases and how to cure them. He must be an astronomer, that he may be able always to ascertain time and place by looking at the stars. He must be adorned with all the theological and cardinal virtues; he must have faith in God; he must be constant in love; he must be chaste in his thoughts, modest in his words, liberal in good works, valiant in exploits, patient in toils, charitable to the needy; and steadfastly he must adhere to truth, even at the expense of life." "The poor knight," he again observes, can only manifest his rank by his virtues. He must be well bred, courteous, kind, and obliging; not proud, not arrogant, no murmurer; above all, he must be charitable." "Since, my Sancho," he exclaims, in another place, "we seek a Christian reward, let our works be conformable to the religion we profess. In slaying giants, we must destroy pride and arrogance; we must vanquish envy by generosity; wrath, by a serene and humble spirit; gluttony and sloth, by temperance and vigilance; licentiousness, by chastity; and indolence, by traversing the world in search of every honorable opportunity of renown." Cervantes has, in spirit, made his hero according to the standard which his hero here applies to knighthood. Richly endowed in moral qualities, he is not less richly endowed intellectually. He is a man of culture. He is also a man of genius-of genius with all its intensities and sympathies. His faculties are not balanced,

but they are uncommon; and, when not disturbed by his disorder, they exhibit every sort of mental power. His memory is quick and retentive; his imagination strong, brilliant, and graceful; his intellect active and acute. His genius has an eloquence that does it justice in perfect speech - speech that answers to every play of emotion and to every mood of thought; that is, grave for deliberate wisdom, musical for poetic fancy, simple for easy talk, gathering force as needed from gentleness to vehemence; it rises as the sentiment rises, from familiar aphorism to lofty declamation. Thus it singularly happens, that, while Cervantes was scourging fictitious errants out of the world, he was presenting an ideal of the truest knighthood that has ever been in it; indeed, that must always be in it, until manly principles and disinterested affections cease to have existence. Such knighthood must last and live while minds of high design and hearts of wise embrace last and live. No weapon of ridicule can harm it; the sharpest arrows of the most burning wit are shivered and quenched against its panoply of virtue.

One of the most striking characteristics of the Cervantic manner is the way in which dignity is so often in union with oddity, tenderness with burlesque, and the pathetic with the droll. The sacking of Don Quixote's library is an instance. This is one of the finest scenes in the book. Grave and broad, ludicrous and yet wise, it is eminently Cervantic. The grouping of the characters is excellent. They admirably contrast with and relieve each other. There is the sedate but cheerful curate, evidently learned in the lore

of his profession, yet showing by his knowledge and his likings that he has walked in the enchanted gardens of romance, and that occasionally he lingers in them still. Like Dr. Johnson, he cannot let any sort of book pass through his hands without a perusal of its title and a peep into its contents. He seems to love a book because it is a book; and it is in sorrow more than anger that he gives the worst and the most absurd over to the secular arm of the housekeeper and the niece. The shrewd, observant, intelligent, goodnatured barber answers well to the place he holds - almost beside, scarcely below, this mild and affectionate priest. There he works busily, as the intermediate official between the judge and the executioners; sometimes suggesting a remark, sometimes venturing on an opinion, but always submitting to the decision of his superior. The housekeeper is prepared to carry into effect every sentence of condemnation with an alacrity that would satisfy the most zealous advocate of capital punishment. Nor is the niece on her side slow to aid. "There is no reason," said the niece, "why any of them should be spared; for they have all been mischief makers so let them all be thrown out of the window into the court yard, and, having made a pile of them, set fire to it." The priest falls upon volumes of poetry. These he is inclined to spare; for he thinks they can do no harm. "O, sir," said the niece, " pray order them to be burned with the rest; for, should my uncle be cured of this distemper of chivalry, he may possibly, by reading such books, take it into his head to turn shepherd and wander through the fields playing on a pipe: what is still worse, he may turn