the first great master, "Cervantes' serious air," which sits naturally on Swift alone, perhaps, of later humourists, is essential to this kind of humour, and here again Cervantes has suffered at the hands of his interpreters. Nothing, unless indeed the coarse buffoonery of Phillips, could be more out of place in an attempt to represent Cervantes, than a flippant, would-be facetious style, like that of Motteux's version for example, or the sprightly, jaunty air, French translators sometimes adopt. It is the grave matter-of-factness of the narrative, and the apparent unconsciousness of the author that he is saying anything ludicrous, anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar flavour to the humour of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact opposite of the humour of Sterne and the self-conscious humourists. Even when Uncle Toby is at his best, you are always aware of "the man Sterne" behind him, watching you over his shoulder to see what effect he is producing. Cervantes always leaves you alone with Don Quixote and Sancho. He and Swift and the great humourists always keep themselves out of sight, or, more properly speaking, never think about themselves at all, unlike our latter-day school of humourists, who seem to have revived the old horse-collar method, and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque assumption of ignorance, imbecility, or bad taste.It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humour in any other language is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a natural gravity and a sonorous stateliness about Spanish, be it ever so colloquial, that make an absurdity doubly absurd, and give plausibility to the most preposterous statement. This is what makes Sancho Panza's drollery the despair of the conscientious translator. Sancho's curt com-ments can never fall flat, but they lose half their flavour when transferred from their native Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners have failed to do justice to the humour of Cervantes, they are no worse than his own countrymen. Indeed, were it not for the Spanish peasant's relish of "Don Quixote," one might be tempted to think that the great humourist was not looked upon as a humourist at all in his own country.
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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, "the best novel in the world beyond all comparison." It is its varied humour, ranging from broad farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare's or Moliere's that has naturalised it in every country where there are readers, and made it a classic in every language that has a literature.
SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES URGANDA THE UNKNOWN
To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha
If to be welcomed by the good,
O Book! thou make thy steady aim, No empty chatterer will dare
To question or dispute thy claim. But if perchance thou hast a mind To win of idiots approbation,
Lost labour will be thy reward, Though they'll pretend appreciation. They say a goodly shade he finds
Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree; And such a one thy kindly star
In Bejar bath provided thee:
A royal tree whose spreading boughs
A show of princely fruit display; A tree that bears a noble Duke, The Alexander of his day.
Of a Manchegan gentleman
Thy purpose is to tell the story, Relating how he lost his wits
O'er idle tales of love and glory, Of "ladies, arms, and cavaliers:" A new Orlando Furioso-Innamorato, rather--who
Won Dulcinea del Toboso.
Put no vain emblems on thy shield;
All figures--that is bragging play.
A modest dedication make,
And give no scoffer room to say,
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"What! Alvaro de Luna here? Or is it Hannibal again?
Or does King Francis at Madrid
Once more of destiny complain?"
Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee
Deep erudition to bestow,
Or black Latino's gift of tongues, No Latin let thy pages show.
Ape not philosophy or wit,
Lest one who cannot comprehend, Make a wry face at thee and ask,
"Why offer flowers to me, my friend?"
Be not a meddler; no affair
Of thine the life thy neighbours lead: Be prudent; oft the random jest
Recoils upon the jester's head. Thy constant labour let it be
To earn thyself an honest name, For fooleries preserved in print Are perpetuity of shame.
A further counsel bear in mind:
If that thy roof be made of glass, It shows small wit to pick up stones To pelt the people as they pass.
Win the attention of the wise,
And give the thinker food for thought; Whoso indites frivolities,
Will but by simpletons be sought.
AMADIS OF GAUL
To Don Quixote of la Mancha
SONNET
Thou that didst
