Quixotism

When Falstaff boasted that he was not only witty himself but the cause

of wit in other men, he thought of himself more highly than he ought to

have thought. The very fact that he was witty prevented him from the

highest efficiency in stimulating others in that direction. The

atmospheric currents of merriment move irresistibly toward a vacuum.

Create a character altogether destitute of humor and the most sluggish

intelligence is stirred in the effort to fill the void.

When we seek one who is the cause of wit in other men we pass by the

jovial Falstaff and come to the preternaturally serious Don Quixote.

Here we have not the chance outcropping of "the lighter vein," but the

mother lode which the humorist finds inexhaustible. Don Quixote, with a

lofty gravity which never for an instant relaxes, sets forth upon his

mission. His is a soul impenetrable to mirth; but as he rides he

enlivens the whole country-side. Everywhere merry eyes are watching him;

boisterous laughter comes from the stables of village inns; from castle

windows high-born ladies smile upon him; the peasants in the fields

stand gaping and holding their sides; the countenances of the priests

relax, and even the robbers salute the knight with mock courtesy. The

dullest La Manchan is refreshed, and feels that he belongs to a choice

coterie of wits.

Cervantes tells us that he intended only a burlesque on the books of

chivalry which were in vogue in his day. Had he done no more than he

intended, he would have amused his own generation and then have been

forgotten. It would be too much to ask that we should read the endless

tales about Amadis and Orlando, only that we might appreciate his clever

parody of them. A satire lasts no longer than its object. It must shoot

folly as it flies. To keep on shooting at a folly after it is dead is

unsportsmanlike.

But though we have not read the old books of chivalry, we have all come

in contact with Quixotism. I say we have all come in contact with it;

but let no selfish, conventional persons be afraid lest they catch it.

They are immune. They may do many foolish things, but they cannot

possibly be quixotic. Quixotism is a malady possible only to generous

minds.

Listen to Don Quixote as he makes his plea before the duke and duchess.

"I have redressed grievances, righted the injured, chastised the

insolent, vanquished giants. My intentions have all been directed toward

virtuous ends and to do good to all mankind. Now judge, most excellent

duke and duchess, whether a person who makes it his study to practice

all this deserves to be called a fool."

Our first instinct is to answer confidently, "Of course not! Such a

character as you describe is what we call a hero or a saint." But the

person whose moral enthusiasm has been tempered with a knowledge of the

queer combinations of goodness and folly of which human nature is

capable is more wary, and answers, "That depends."

In the case of Don Quixote it depends very much on the kind of world he

lives in. If it should happen that in this world there are giants

standing truculently at their castle doors, and forlorn maidens at every

cross-roads waiting to be rescued, we will grant him the laurels that

are due to the hero. But if La Mancha should not furnish these materials

for his prowess,--then we must take a different view of the case.

The poor gentleman is mad, that is what the curate and the barber say;

but when we listen to his conversation we are in doubt. If the curate

could discourse half so eloquently he would have been a bishop long

before this. The most that can be said is that he has some notions which

are not in accordance with the facts, and that he acts accordingly; but

if that were a proof of madness there would not be enough sane persons

in the world to make strait-jackets for the rest. His chief peculiarity

is that he takes himself with a seriousness that is absolute. All of us

have thoughts which would not bear the test of strict examination. There

are vagrant fancies and random impulses which, fortunately for our

reputations, come to nothing. We are just on the verge of doing

something absurd when we recognize the character of our proposed

action; and our neighbors lose a pleasure. We comfort ourselves by the

reflection that their loss is our gain. Don Quixote has no such

inhibition; he carries out his own ideas to their logical conclusion.

The hero of Cervantes had muddled his wits by the reading of romances.

Almost any kind of printed matter may have the same effect if one is not

able to distinguish between what he has read and what he has actually

experienced. One may read treatises on political economy until he

mistakes the "economic man" who acts only according to the rules of

enlightened self-interest for a creature of flesh and blood. One may

read so many articles on the Rights of Women that he mistakes a

hard-working American citizen who spends his summer in a down-town

office, in order that his wife and daughter may go to Europe, for that

odious monster the Tyrant Man. It is possible to read the Society

columns of the daily newspapers till the reader does not know good

society when he sees it. An estimable teacher in the public schools may

devote herself so assiduously to pedagogical literature that she

mistakes her school-room for a psychological laboratory, with results

that are sufficiently tragical. There are excellent divines so learned

in the history of the early church that they believe that

semi-pelagianism is still the paramount issue. There were few men whose

minds were, in general, better balanced than Mr. Gladstone's, yet what a

fine example of Quixotism was that suggested by Queen Victoria's remark:

"Mr. Gladstone always addresses me as if I were a public meeting." To

address a woman as if she were a public meeting is the mistake of one

who had devoted himself too much to political speeches.

A thoroughly healthy mind can endure a good deal of reading and a

considerable amount of speculation with impunity. It does not take the

ideas thus derived too seriously. It is continually making allowances,

and every once in a while there is a general clearance. It is like a gun

which expels the old cartridge as the new shot is fired. When the

delicate mechanism for the expulsion of exploded opinions gets out of

order the mind becomes the victim of "fixed ideas." The best idea

becomes dangerous when it gets stuck. When the fixed ideas are of a

noble and disinterested character we have a situation which excites at

once the admiration of the moralist and the apprehension of the

alienist. Perhaps this border-land between spiritual reality and

intellectual hallucination belongs neither to the moralist nor to the

alienist, but to the wise humorist. He laughs, but there is no

bitterness or scorn in his laughter. It is mellow and human-hearted.

The world is full of people who have a faculty which enables them to

believe whatever they wish. Thought is not, for them, a process which

may go on indefinitely, a work in which they are collaborating with the

universe. They do it all by themselves. It is the definite transaction

of making up their minds. When the mind is made up it closes with a

snap. After that, for an unwelcome idea to force an entrance would be a

well-nigh impossible feat of intellectual burglary.

We sometimes speak of stubborn facts. Nonsense! A fact is a mere babe

when compared with a stubborn theory. Let the theory, however

extravagant in its origin, choose its own ground, and intrench itself in

the mind of a well-meaning lady or gentleman of an argumentative turn,

and I'll warrant you it can hold its own against a whole regiment of

facts.

Did you ever attend a meeting of the society for the--perhaps I had

better not mention the name of the society, lest I tread on your

favorite Quixotism. Suffice it to say that it has a noble purpose. It

aims at nothing less than the complete transformation of human society,

by the use of means which, to say the least, seem quite inadequate.

After the minutes of the last meeting have been read, and the objects of

the society have been once more stated with much detail, there is an

opportunity for discussion from the floor.

"Perhaps there is some one who may give some new suggestions, or who may

desire to ask a question."

You have observed what happens to the unfortunate questioner. What a

sorry exhibition he makes of himself! No sooner does he open his mouth

than every one recognizes his intellectual feebleness. He seems unable

to grasp the simplest ideas. He stumbles at the first premise, and lies

sprawling at the very threshold of the argument. "If what I have taken

for granted be true," says the chairman, "do not all the fine things I

have been telling you about follow necessarily?"

"But," murmurs the questioner, "the things you take for granted are just

what trouble me. They don't correspond to my experience."

"Poor, feeble-minded questioner!" cry the members of the society, "to

think that he is not even able to take things for granted! And then to

set up his experience against our constitution and by-laws!"

We sometimes speak of an inconsequent, harum-scarum person, who is

always going off after new ideas, as quixotic. But true Quixotism is

grave, self-contained, conservative. Within its own sphere it is

accurate and circumstantial. There is no absurdity in its mental

processes; all that is concealed in its assumptions. Granted the reality

of the scheme of knight-errantry, and Don Quixote becomes a solid,

dependable man who will conscientiously carry it out. There is no danger

of his going off into vagaries. He has a mind that will keep the

roadway.

He is a sound critic, intolerant of minor incongruities. When the

puppet-player tells about the bells ringing in the mosques of the

Moorish town, the knight is quick to correct him. "There you are out,

boy; the Moors have no bells; they only use kettledrums. Your ringing

of bells in Sansuena is a mere absurdity." Such absurdities were not

amusing; they were offensive to his serious taste.

The quixotic mind loves greatly the appearance of strict logic. It is

satisfied if one statement is consistent with another statement; whether

either is consistent with the facts of the case is a curious matter

which it does not care to investigate. So much does it love Logic that

it welcomes even that black sheep of the logical family, the Fallacy;

and indeed the impudent fellow, with all his irresponsible ways, does

bear a family resemblance which is very deceiving. Above all is there

delight in that alluring mental exercise known as the argument in a

circle. It is an intellectual merry-go-round. A hobby-horse on rockers

is sport for tame intelligences, but a hobby that can be made to go

round is exciting. You may see grave divines and astute metaphysicians

and even earnest sociologists rejoicing in the swift sequence of their

own ideas, as conclusion follows premise and premise conclusion, in

endless gyration. How the daring riders clutch the bridles and

exultingly watch the flying manes of their steeds! They have the sense

of getting somewhere, and at the same time the comfortable assurance

that that somewhere is the very place from which they started.

"Didn't we tell you so!" they cry. "Here we are again. Our arguments

must be true, for we can't get away from them."

Your ordinary investigator is a disappointing fellow. His opinions are

always at the mercy of circumstances over which he has no control. He

cuts his coat according to his cloth, and sometimes when his material

runs short his intellectual garments are more scanty than decency

allows. Sometimes after a weary journey into the Unknown he will return

with scarcely an opinion to his back. Not so with the quixotist. His

opinions not being dependent on evidence, he does not measure different

degrees of probability. Half a reason is as good as a whole one, for the

result in any case is perfect assurance. All things conspire, in most

miraculous fashion, to confirm him in his views. That other men think

differently he admits, he even welcomes their skepticism as a foil to

his faith. His imperturbable tolerance is like that of some knight who,

conscious of his coat of mail, good-humoredly exposes himself to the

assaults of the rabble. It amuses them, and does him no harm.

When Don Quixote had examined Mambrino's enchanted helmet, his candor

compelled him to listen to Sancho's assertion that it was only a

barber's basin. He was not disposed to controvert the evidence of the

senses, but he had a sufficient explanation ready. "This enchanted

helmet, by some strange accident, must have fallen into the possession

of one who, ignorant of its true value as a helmet, and seeing it to be

of the purest gold, hath inconsiderately melted down the one half for

lucre's sake, and of the other half made this, which, as thou sayest,

doth indeed look like a barber's basin; but to me, who know what it

really is, its transformation is of no importance, for I will have it so

repaired in the first town where there is a smith that it shall not be

surpassed or even equaled. In the mean time I will wear it as I can, for

something is better than nothing, and it will be sufficient to defend me

from stones."

Where have you heard that line of argument, so satisfying to one who has

already made up his mind? Yesterday, it runs, we had several excellent

reasons for the opinion which we hold. Since then, owing to

investigations which we imprudently entered into before we knew where we

were coming out, all our reasons have been overthrown. This, however,

makes not the slightest difference. It rather strengthens our general

position, as it is no longer dependent on any particular evidence for

its support.

We prate of the teaching of Experience. But did you ever know Experience

to teach anything to a person whose ideas had set up an independent

government of their own? The stern old dame has been much overrated as

an instructor. Her pedagogical method is very primitive. Her instruction

is administered by a series of hard whacks which the pupil is expected

to interpret for himself. That something is wrong is evident; but what

is it? It is only now and then that some bright pupil says, "That means

that I made a mistake." As for persons of a quixotic disposition, the

most adverse experience only confirms their pre-conceptions. At most the

wisdom gained is prudential. After Don Quixote had made his first

unfortunate trial of his pasteboard visor, "to secure it against like

accidents in future he made it anew, and fenced it with thin plates of

iron so skillfully that he had reason to be satisfied with his work, and

so, without further experiment, resolved that it should pass for a good

and sufficient helmet."

One is tempted to linger over that moment when Quixote ceased to

experiment and began to dogmatize. What was the reason of his sudden

dread of destructive criticism? Was he quite sincere? Did he really

believe that his helmet was now cutlass proof?

For myself, I have no doubts of his knightly honor and of his

transparent candor. He certainly believed that he believed; though under

the circumstances he felt that it was better to take no further risks.

In his admirable discourse with Don Fernando on the comparative merits

of arms and literature, he describes the effects of the invention of

gunpowder.

"When I reflect on this I am almost tempted to say that in my heart I

repent of having adopted the profession of knight-errantry in so

detestable an age as we live in. For though no peril can make me fear,

still it gives me some uneasiness to think that powder and lead may rob

me of the opportunity of making myself famous and renowned throughout

the world by the might of my arm and the edge of my sword."

There is here a bit of uneasiness, such as comes to any earnest person

who perceives that the times are out of joint. Still the doubt does not

go very deep. In an age of artillery knight-errantry is doubtless more

difficult, but it does not seem impossible.

It is the same feeling that must come now and then to a gallant

twentieth-century Jacobite who meets with his fellow conspirators in an

American city, to lament the untimely taking off of the blessed martyr

King Charles, and to plot for the return of the House of Stuart. The

circumstances under which they meet are not congenial. The path of

loyalty is not what it once was. A number of things have happened since

1649; still they may be treated as negligible quantities. It is a fine

thing to sing about the king coming to his own again.

"But what if there isn't any king to speak of?"

"Well, at any rate, the principle is the same."

I occasionally read a periodical devoted to the elevation of mankind by

means of a combination of deep breathing and concentrated thought. The

object is one in which I have long been interested. The means used are

simple. The treatment consists in lying on one's back for fifteen

minutes every morning with arms outstretched. Then one must begin to

exhale self and inhale power. The directions are given with such

exactness that no one with reasonably good lungs can go astray. The

treatment is varied according to the need. One may in this way breathe

in, not only health and love, but, what may seem to some more important,

wealth.

The treatment for chronic impecuniosity is particularly interesting. The

patient, as he lies on his back and breathes deeply, repeats, "I am

Wealth." This sets the currents of financial success moving in his

direction.

One might suppose that a theory of finance so different from that of the

ordinary workaday world would be surrounded by an air of weirdness or

strangeness. Not at all. Everything is most matter of fact. The Editor

is evidently a sensible person when it comes to practical details, and,

on occasion, gives admirable advice.

A correspondent writes: "I have tried your treatment for six months, and

I am obliged to say that I am harder up than ever before. What do you

advise?"

It is one of those obstinate cases which are met with now and then, and

which test the real character of the practitioner. The matter is treated

with admirable frankness, and yet with a wholesome optimism. The patient

is reminded that six months is a short time, and one must not expect too

quick results. A slow, sure progress is better, and the effects are more

lasting. This is not the first case that has been slow in yielding to

treatment. Still it may be better to make a slight change. The formula,

"I am Wealth," may be too abstract, though it usually has worked well. A

more concrete thought might possibly be more effective. Why not try,

remembering, of course, to continue the same breathings, "I am Andrew

Carnegie?"

Then the practitioner adds a bit of advice which was certainly worth the

moderate fee charged: "When the exercises are over, ask yourself what

Andrew would do next. Andrew would hustle."

A slight acquaintance with the pseudo sciences which are in vogue at the

present day reveals a world to which only the genius of Cervantes could

do justice. We see Absurdity clothed, and in its right mind. It is

formally correct, punctiliously exact, completely serious, and withal

high-minded. Until it comes in contact with the actual world we do not

realize that it is absurd.

Religion and medicine have always furnished tempting fields for persons

of the quixotic temper. Perhaps it is because their professed objects

are so high, and perhaps also because their achievements fall so far

below what we have been led to expect. Neither spiritual nor mental

health is so robust as to satisfy us with the usual efforts in their

behalf. Sin and sickness are continual challenges. Some one ought to

abolish them. An eager hearing is given to any one who claims to be able

to do so. The temptation is great for those who do not perceive the

difference between words and things to answer the demands.

It is not necessary to go for examples either to fanatics or quacks. Not

to take too modern an instance, there was Bishop Berkeley! He was a

true philosopher, an earnest Christian, and withal a man of sense, and

yet he was the author of "Siris, a Chain of Philosophical Reflections

and Inquiries concerning the Virtues of Tar Water, and divers other

Subjects connected together, and arising One from Another." It is one of

those works which are the cause of wit in other men. It is so learned,

so exhaustive, so pious, and the author takes it with such utter

seriousness!

Tar is the good bishop's Dulcinea. All his powers are enlisted in the

work of proclaiming the matchless virtues of this mistress of his

imagination, who is "black but comely." Our minds are prepared by a

lyric outburst:--

"Hail, vulgar Juice of never-fading Pine!

Cheap as thou art! thy virtues are divine,

To show them and explain (such is thy store),

There needs much modern and much ancient Lore."

For this great work the author is well equipped. Plato, Aristotle,

Pliny, and the rest of the ancients appear as vanquished knights

compelled to do honor to my Lady Tar.

Other specifics are allowed to have their virtues, but they grow pale

before this paragon. Common soap has its admirers; they are treated

magnanimously, but compelled to surrender at last. "Soap is allowed to

be cleansing, attenuating, opening, resolving, sweetening; it is

pectoral, vulnerary, diuretic, and hath other good qualities; which are

also found in tar water.... Tar water therefore is a soap, and as such

hath all the medicinal qualities of soaps." To those who put their faith

in vinegar a like argument is made. It is shown that tar water is not

only a superior kind of soap, but also a sublimated sort of vinegar; in

fact, it appears to be all things to all men.

To those who incline to the philosophy of the ancient fire-worshipers a

special argument is made. "I had a long Time entertained an Opinion

agreeable to the Sentiments of many ancient Philosophers, that Fire may

be regarded as the Animal Spirit of this visible World. And it seemed to

me that the attracting and secreting of this Fire in the various Pores,

Tubes, and Ducts of Vegetables, did impart their specifick Virtues to

each kind, that this same Light, or Fire, was the immediate Cause of

Sense and Motion, and consequently of Life and Health to animals; that

on Account of this Solar Light or Fire, Phoebus was in the ancient

Mythology reputed the God of Medicine. Which Light as it is leisurely

introduced, and fixed in the viscid juice of old Firs and Pines, so

setting it free in Part, that is, the changing its viscid for a volatile

Vehicle, which may mix with Water, and convey it throughout the Habit

copiously and inoffensively, would be of infinite Use in Physic." It

appears therefore that tar water is not only a kind of soap, but also a

kind of fire.

Yet is not Quixote himself more careful to avoid all appearance of

extravagance? The author shrinks from imposing conclusions on another.

After an elaborate argument which moves irresistibly to one conclusion,

he stops short. "This regards the Possibility of a Panacea in general;

as for Tar Water in particular, I do not say it is a Panacea, I only

suspect it to be so." Yet he must be a churlish reader who could go with

him so far and then refuse to take the next step. Nor can a right-minded

person be indifferent to the moral argument in favor of "Tar Water,

Temperance, and Early Hours." If tar water is to be known by the company

it keeps, it is to be commended.

There is a great advantage in taking our example from another age than

ours. Our enjoyment of the bishop's Quixotism does not cast discredit on

any similar hobby of our own day. "However," as the author of Siris

remarked, "it is hoped they will not condemn one Man's Tar Water for

another Man's Pill or Drop, any more than they would hang one Man for

another's having stole a Horse."

Indeed, of all quixotic notions the most extreme is that of those who

think that Quixotism can be overcome by any direct attack. It is a state

of mind which must be accepted as we accept any other curious fact. As

well tilt against a cloud as attempt to overcome it by argument. It is a

part of the myth-making faculty of the human mind. A myth is a quixotic

notion which takes possession of multitudes rather than of a single

person. Everybody accepts it; nobody knows why. You can nail a lie, but

you cannot nail a myth,--there is nothing to nail it to. It is of no use

to deny it, for that only gives it a greater vogue.

I have great sympathy for all mythical characters. It is possible that

Hercules may have been an amiable Greek gentleman of sedentary habits.

Some one may have started the story of his labors as a joke. In the next

town it was taken seriously, and the tale set forth on its travels.

After it once had been generally accepted, what could Hercules do? What

good would it have been for him to say, "There's not a word of truth in

what everybody is saying about me. I am as averse to a hard day's work

as any gentleman of my social standing in the community. They are

turning me into a sun-myth, and mixing up my private affairs with the

signs of the zodiac! I won't stand it!"

Bless me! he would have to stand it! His words would but add fuel to the

flame of admiration. What a hero he is; so strong and so modest! He has

already forgotten those feats of strength! It is ever so with greatness.

To Hercules it was all mere child's play. All the more need that we keep

the stories alive in order to hand them down to our children. Perhaps we

had better touch them up a bit so that they may be more interesting to

the little dears. And so would begin a new cycle of myths.

After Socrates had once gained the reputation for superlative wisdom,

do you think it did any good for him to go about proclaiming that he

knew nothing? He was suspected of having some ulterior design. Nobody

would believe him except Xanthippe.

When after hearing strange noises in the night Don Quixote sallies forth

only to discover that the sounds come from fulling hammers instead of

from giants, he rebukes the ill-timed merriment of his squire. "Come

hither, merry sir! Suppose these mill hammers had really been some

perilous adventure, have I not given proof of the courage requisite to

undertake and achieve it? Am I, being a knight, to distinguish between

sounds, and to know which are and which are not those of a fulling mill,

more especially as I have never seen any fulling mills in my life?"

If the mill hammers could only be transformed into giants, how easy the

path of reform! for it would satisfy the primitive instinct to go out

and kill something. I have heard a temperance orator denounce the Demon

Drink so roundly that every one in the audience was ready to destroy the

monster on sight. The solution of the liquor problem, however, was

quite a different matter. The young patriot who conceives of the money

power under the terrifying image of an octopus resolves at once to give

it battle. When elected to the legislature he meets many smooth-spoken

gentlemen whose schemes are so plausible that he readily assents to

them,--but not an octopus does he see. Yet I believe that were he to see

an octopus he would slay it.

Perhaps there is no better test of a person's nature than his attitude

toward Quixotism. The man of coarse, unfriendly humor sees in it nothing

but a broad farce. He greets the misadventures of Don Quixote with a

loud guffaw. What a fool he was not to know the difference between an

ordinary inn and a castle!

There are persons of a sensitive and refined disposition to whom it is

all a tragedy, exquisitely painful to contemplate. Alas, poor gentleman,

with all his lofty ideals, to be so buffeted by a world unworthy of him!

But this refinement of sentiment comes perilously near to

sentimentalism. Cervantes had the more wholesome attitude. He

appreciated the valor of Don Quixote. It was genuine, though the

knight, owing to circumstances beyond his own control, had been

compelled to make his visor out of pasteboard. He had heroism of soul;

but what of it! There was plenty more where it came from. A man who had

fought at Lepanto, and endured years of Algerine captivity, was not

inclined to treat manly virtue as if it were a rare and delicate fabric

that must be preserved in a glass case. It was amply able to take care

of itself. He knew that he couldn't laugh genuine chivalry away, even if

he tried. It could stand not only hard knocks from its foes, but any

amount of raillery from its friends.

The bewildered soldier who mistakes a harmless camp follower for the

enemy must expect to endure the gibes of his comrades; yet no one doubts

that he would have acquitted himself nobly if the enemy had appeared.

The rough humor of the camp is a part of its wholesome discipline.

Quixotism is a combination of goodness and folly. To enjoy it one must

be able to appreciate them both at the same time. It is a pleasure

possible only to one who is capable of having mixed feelings.

When we consider the faculty which many good people have of believing

things that are not so, and ignoring the plainest facts and laws of

nature, we are sometimes alarmed over the future of society. If any of

the Quixotisms which are now in vogue should get themselves established,

what then?

Fortunately there is small need of anxiety. When the landsman first

ventures on the waves he observes with alarm the keeling over of the

boat under the breeze, for he expects the tendency to be followed to its

logical conclusion. Fortunately for the equilibrium of society,

tendencies which are viewed with alarm are seldom carried to their

logical conclusion. They are met by other tendencies before the danger

point is reached, and the balance is restored.

The factor which is overlooked by those who fear the ascendency of any

quixotic notion is the existence of the average man. This individual is

not a striking personality, but he holds the balance of power. Before

any extravagant idea can establish itself it must convert the average

man. He is very susceptible, and takes a suggestion so readily that it

seems to prophesy the complete overthrow of the existing order of

things. But was ever a conversion absolute? The best theologians say no.

A great deal of the old Adam is always left over. When the average man

takes up with a quixotic notion, only so much of it is practically

wrought out as he is able to comprehend. The old Adam of common sense

continually asserts itself. The natural corrective of Quixotism is

Sancho-Panzaism. The solemn knight, with his head full of visionary

plans, is followed by a squire who is as faithful as his nature will

permit. Sancho has no theories, and makes no demands on the world. He

leaves that sort of thing to his master. He has the fatalism which

belongs to ignorant good nature, and the tolerance which is found in

easy-going persons who have neither ideals nor nerves. He has no

illusions, though he has all the credulity of ignorance.

He belongs to the established order of things, and can conceive no

other. When knight-errantry is proposed to him, he reduces that also to

the established order. He takes it up as an honest livelihood, and rides

forth in search of forlorn maidens with the same contented jog with

which he formerly went to the village mill. When it is explained that

faithful squires become governors of islands he approves of the idea,

and begins to cherish a reasonable ambition. Knight-errantry is brought

within the sphere of practical politics. Sancho has no stomach for

adventures. When his master warns him against attacking knights, until

such time as he has himself reached their estate, he answers:--

"Never fear, I'll be sure to obey your worship in that, I'll warrant

you; for I ever loved peace and quietness, and never cared to thrust

myself into frays and quarrels."

When Sancho becomes governor of his snug, land-locked island, there is

not a trace of Quixotism in his executive policy. The laws of Chivalry

have no recognition in his administration; and everything is carried on

with most admirable common sense.

It is an experience which is quite familiar to the readers of history.

"All who knew Sancho," moralizes the author, "wondered to hear him talk

so sensibly, and began to think that offices and places of trust inspire

some men with understanding, as they stupefy and confound others."

Mother wit has a great way of evading the consequences of theoretical

absurdities. Natural law takes care of itself, and preserves the

balance. So long as Don Quixote can get no other follower than Sancho

Panza, we need not be alarmed. There is no call for a society for the

Preservation of Windmills.

After all, there is an ambiguity about Quixotism. They laugh best who

laugh last; and we are not sure that satire has the last word. Was Don

Quixote as completely mistaken as he seemed? He mistook La Mancha for a

land of romance, and wandered through it as if it were an enchanted

country.

The Commentator explains to us that in this lay the jest, for no part of

Spain was so vulgarly commonplace. Its villages were destitute of charm,

and its landscape of beauty. La Mancha was a name for all that was

unromantic.

"I cannot make it appear so," says the Gentle Reader, who has come under

the spell of Cervantes. "Don Quixote seems to be wandering through the

most romantic country in the world. I can see

'The long, straight line of the highway,

The distant town that seems so near,

* * * * *

White crosses in the mountain pass,

Mules gay with tassels, the loud din

Of muleteers, the tethered ass

That crops the dusty wayside grass,

And cavaliers with spurs of brass

Alighting at the inn;

White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat,

* * * * *

White sunshine flooding square and street,

Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet

The river-beds are dry with heat,--

All was a dream to me.'

"Through this enchanted country it is pleasant to wander about in

irresponsible fashion, climbing mountains, loitering in secluded

valleys, where shepherds and shepherdesses still make love in Arcadian

fashion, meeting with monks, merchants, muleteers, and fine gentlemen,

and coming in the evening to some castle where one is lulled to sleep by

the splash of fountains and the tinkle of guitars; and if it should turn

out that the castle is only an inn,--why, to lodge in an inn of La

Mancha would be a romantic experience!"

The Spain of the sixteenth century is to us as truly a land of romance

as any over which a knight-errant roamed. It seems just suited for

heroic adventure.

Some day our quixotic characters may appear to the future reader thus

magically conformed to the world they live in, or rather, the world may

be transformed by their ideals.

"They do seem strange to us," the Gentle Reader of that day will say,

"but then we must remember that they lived in the romantic dawn of the

twentieth century."