acter as to preclude the possibility
of followers. Every one is familiar with it as a story, and the mishaps
of the gentle, noble-minded, kind-hearted old Don, as well as the
delusions, simplicity, and selfishness of the devoted squire, will never
lose their power to amuse. It may be extravagant, but it is not a
burlesque. The strong character painting, the ideas, situations, and
language, clothed in such simplicity that at times it becomes almost
solemn, give it a grandeur that no other book, considered as a romance,
possesses. The old anecdote of the king observing a student walking by
the river side and bursting into involuntary fits of laughter over a
book, exclaiming, "The man is either mad or reading 'Don Quixote,'" is
well preserved. One peculiar feature of the book is that, even now, for
some places, it would be a useful guide, many of the habits and customs
of Spain three hundred years ago being still the same. What a volume of
wit and wisdom is contained in the proverbs and aphorisms. One might
quote from it indefinitely had he not told us that "without discretion
there is no wit." His own motive in writing it we find in the last
paragraph of the book, namely, "My sole object has been to expose to the
contempt they deserved the extravagant and silly tricks of chivalry,
which this my true and genuine 'Don Quixote' has nearly accomplished,
their worldly credit being now actually tottering, and will doubtless
soon sink, never to rise again."

Now, all languages have it. There are eight translations into English
alone; but it is always impossible for the translator to render its true
spirit or to give it full justice. With all its vivacity and drollery,
its delicate satire and keen ridicule, it has a mournful tinge of
melancholy running through, and here and there peeping out, only to have
been gathered from such experience as his. He wrote with neither
bitterness nor a diseased imagination, always realizing what is due to
himself and with a full appreciation of and desire for fame. Many scenes
of real suffering appear under a dramatic guise, and here and there
creep out bits of personal history. His nature was chivalrous in the
highest degree. His sorrows were greater than his joys. Born for the
library, he prefers the camp, and abandons literature to fight the
Turks. Does he not make the Don say, "Let none presume to tell me the
pen is preferable to the sword." Again he says: "Allowing that the end
of war is pea