pted to think that the great humourist was not
looked upon as a humourist at all in his own country.

The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have communicated
itself to his critics, making them see things that are not in the book
and run full tilt at phantoms that have no existence save in their own
imaginations. Like a good many critics now-a-days, they forget that
screams are not criticism, and that it is only vulgar tastes that are
influenced by strings of superlatives, three-piled hyperboles, and
pompous epithets. But what strikes one as particularly strange is that
while they deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe all manner of
imaginary ideas and qualities to Cervantes, they show no perception of
the quality that ninety-nine out of a hundred of his readers would rate
highest in him, and hold to be the one that raises him above all rivalry.

To speak of "Don Quixote" as if it were merely a humorous book would be a
manifest misdescription. Cervantes at times makes it a kind of
commonplace book for occasional essays and criticisms, or for the
observations and reflections and gathered wisdom of a long and stirring
life. It is a mine of shrewd observation on mankind and human nature.
Among modern novels there may be, here and there, more elaborate studies
of character, but there is no book richer in individualised character.
What Coleridge said of Shakespeare in minimis is true of Cervantes; he
never, even for the most temporary purpose, puts forward a lay figure.
There is life and individuality in all his characters, however little
they may have to do, or however short a time they may be before the
reader. Samson Carrasco, the curate, Teresa Panza, Altisidora, even the
two students met on the road to the cave of Montesinos, all live and move
and have their being; and it is characteristic of the broad humanity of
Cervantes that there is not a hateful one among them all. Even poor
Maritornes, with her deplorable morals, has a kind heart of her own and
"some faint and distant resemblance to a Christian about her;" and as for
Sancho, though on dissection we fail to find a lovable trait in him,
unless it be a sort of dog-like affection for his master, who is there
that in his heart does not love him?

But it is, after all, the humour of "Don Quixote" that distinguishes it
from all other books of the romance kind. It is this that makes it, as
one of the most judicial-minded of modern critics calls it, "th