f an improvisation. The episodes suggest themselves to the
author's fancy as he proceeds; a fact which gives them the same
unexpectedness and sometimes the same incompleteness which the events
of a journey naturally have. It is in the genius of this kind of
narrative to be a sort of imaginary diary, without a general dramatic
structure. The interest depends on the characters and the incidents
alone; on the fertility of the author's invention, on the ingenuity of
the turns he gives to the story, and on the incidental scenes and
figures he describes.

When we have once accepted this manner of writing fiction--which might
be called that of the novelist before the days of the novel--we can
only admire the execution of 'Don Quixote' as masterly in its kind. We
find here an abundance of fancy that is never at a loss for some
probable and interesting incident; we find a graphic power that makes
living and unforgettable many a minor character, even if slightly
sketched; we find the charm of the country rendered by little touches
without any formal descriptions; and we find a humorous and minute
reproduction of the manners of the time. All this is rendered in a
flowing and easy style, abounding in both characterization and parody
of diverse types of speech and composition; and the whole is still but
the background for the figures of Don Quixote and Sancho, and for
their pleasant discourse, the quality and savor of which is maintained
to the end. These excellences unite to make the book one of the most
permanently delightful in the world, as well as one of the most
diverting. Seldom has laughter been so well justified as that which
the reading of 'Don Quixote' continually provokes; seldom has it found
its causes in such genuine fancy, such profound and real contrast, and
such victorious good-humor.

We sometimes wish, perhaps, that our heroes were spared some of their
bruises, and that we were not asked to delight so much in promiscuous
beatings and floggings. But we must remember that these three hundred
years have made the European race much more sensitive to physical
suffering. Our ancestors took that doubtful pleasure in the idea of
corporal writhings which we still take in the description of the
tortures of the spirit. The idea of both evils is naturally
distasteful to a refined mind; but we admit more willingly the kind
which habit has accustomed us to regard as inevitable, and which
personal experience very probably has