a great many discoveries in it; things I had not dreamt
of were there, and must always have been there, and
other things wore a new face, and made a new effect
upon me. I had my doubts, my reserves, where once
I had given it my whole heart without question, and
yet in what formed the greatness of the book it seemed
to me greater than ever. I believe that its free
and simple design, where event follows event without
the fettering control of intrigue, but where all grows
naturally out of character and conditions, is the
supreme form of fiction; and I cannot help thinking
that if we ever have a great American novel it must
be built upon some such large and noble lines.
As for the central figure, Don Quixote himself, in
his dignity and generosity, his unselfish ideals,
and his fearless devotion to them, he is always heroic
and beautiful; and I was glad to find in my latest
look at his history that I had truly conceived of him
at first, and had felt the sublimity of his nature.
I did not want to laugh at him so much, and I could
not laugh at all any more at some of the things done
to him. Once they seemed funny, but now only cruel,
and even stupid, so that it was strange to realize
his qualities and indignities as both flowing from
the same mind. But in my mature experience, which
threw a broader light on the fable, I was happy to
keep my old love of an author who had been almost
personally, dear to me.
IV
IRVING
I have told how Cervantes made his race precious to
me, and I am sure that it must have been he who fitted
me to understand and enjoy the American author who
now stayed me on Spanish ground and kept me happy in
Spanish air, though I cannot trace the tie in time
and circumstance between Irving and Cervantes.
The most I can make sure of is that I read the ‘Conquest
of Granada’ after I read Don Quixote, and that
I loved the historian so much because I had loved
the novelist much more. Of course I did not perceive
then that Irving’s charm came largely from Cervantes
and the other Spanish humorists yet unknown to me,
and that he had formed himself upon them almost as
much as upon Goldsmith, but I dare say that this fact
had insensibly a great deal to do with my liking.
Afterwards I came to see it, and at the same time
to see what was Irving’s own in Irving; to feel
his native, if somewhat attenuated humor, and his
original, if somewhat too studied grace. But as
yet there was no critical question with me. I
gave my heart simply and passionately to the author
who made the scenes of that most pathetic history live
in my sympathy, and companioned me with the stately
and gracious actors in them.