vulgar, I do not mean only the common rabble; for whoever is ignorant, be he lord or prince, is to be listed in the number of the vulgar. But whoever shall apply himself to the muses with those qualifications, which, as I said, are essential to the character of a good poet, his name shall be famous, and valued in all the polished nations of the world. And as to what you say, sir, that your son does not much esteem our modern poetry; in my opinion, he is somewhat to blame; and my reason is this; Homer never wrote in Latin, because he was a Grecian; nor did Virgil write in Greek, because Latin was the language of his country. In short, all your ancient poets wrote in their mother tongue, and did not seek other languages to express their lofty thoughts. And thus, it would be well that custom should extend to every nation; there being no reason that a German poet should be despised, because he writes in his own tongue; or a Castilian or Biscayner, because they write in theirs. But I suppose, your son does not mislike modern poetry, but such modern poets as have no tincture of any other language or science, that may adorn, awaken, and assist their natural impulse. Though even in this too there may be error. For it is believed, and not without reason, that a poet is naturally a poet from his mother's womb, and that with the talent which heaven has infused into him, without the help of study or art, he may produce these compositions that verify that saying, Est Deus in nobis, &c. Not but that a natural poet, that improves himself by art, shall be much more accomplished, and have the advantage of him that has no title to poetry but by

his knowledge in the art; because art cannot go beyond nature, but only adds to its perfection. From which it appears, that the most perfect poet is he whom nature and art combine to qualify. Let then your son proceed and follow the guidance of his stars, for being so good a student as I understand he is, and already got up the first step of the sciences, the knowledge of the learned tongues, he will easily ascend to the pinnacle of learning, which is no less an honor and an ornament to a gentleman, than a mitre is to a bishop, or the long robe is to a civilian. Should your son write satires to lessen the reputation of any person, you would do well to take him to task, and tear his defamatory rhymes; but if he studies to write such discourse in verse, to ridicule and explode vice in general, as Horace so elegantly did, then encourage him; for a poet's pen is allowed to inveigh against envy and envious men, and so against other vices, provided it aim not at particular persons. But there are poets so abandoned to the itch of scurrility, that rather than lose a villanous jest, they will venture being banished to the islands of Pontius.* If a poet is modest in his manners, he will be so in his verses. The pen is the tongue of the mind; the thoughts that are formed in the one, and those that are traced by the other, will bear a near resemblance. And when kings and princes see the wonderful art of poetry shine in prudent, virtuous, and solid subjects, they honor, esteem, and enrich them, and even crown them with leaves of that tree, which is never offended by the thunderbolt, as

* As Ovid was.

a token that nothing shall offend those whose brows are honored and adorned with such crowns."

The gentleman, hearing Don Quixote express himself in this manner, was struck with so much admiration, that he began to lose the bad opinion he had conceived of his understanding. As for Sancho, who did not much relish this fine talk, he took an opportunity to slink aside in the middle of it, and went to get a little milk of some shepherds that were hard by keeping their sheep. Now when the gentleman was going to renew his discourse, mightily pleased with these judicious observations, Don Quixote lifting up his eyes, perceived a wagon on the road, set round with little flags, that appeared to be the king's colors; and believing it to be some new adventure, he called out to Sancho to bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing him call aloud, left the shepherds, and, clapping his heels vigorously to Dapple's sides, came trotting up to his master, to whom there happened a most terrifying and desperate adventure.

CHAPTER XVII.

WHERE YOU WILL FIND SET FORTH THE HIGHEST AND UTMOST PROOF THAT GREAT DON QUIXOTE EVER GAVE, OR COULD GIVE, OF HIS INCREDIBLE COURAGE; WITH THE SUCCESSFUL ISSUE OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS.

THE history relates, that Sancho was chaffering with the shepherds for some curds, when Don Quixote called to him; and finding that his master was

in haste, he did not know what to do with them, nor what to bring them in; yet loath to lose his purchase (for he had already paid for them) he bethought himself at last of clapping them into the helmet, where having them safe, he went to know his master's pleasure. As soon as he came up to him, "Give me that helmet, friend," said the knight, "for if I understand any thing of adventures, I descry one yonder that obliges me to arm."

The gentleman in green, hearing this, looked about to see what was the matter, but could perceive nothing but a wagon, which made towards them; and by the little flags about it, he judged it to be one of the king's carriages, and so he told Don Quixote. But his head was too much possessed with notions of adventures to give any credit to what the gentleman said; "Sir," answered he, "forewarned, forearmed; a man loses nothing by standing on his guard. I know, by experience, that I have enemies visible and invisible, and I cannot tell when nor where, nor in what shape they may attack me." At the same time he snatched the helmet out of Sancho's hands, before he could discharge it of the curds, and clapped it on his head, without examining the contents. Now the curds being squeezed between his bare crown and the iron, the whey began to run all about his face and beard; which so surprised him, that, calling to Sancho in great disorder, "What's this," cried he, "Sancho! What's the matter with me? Sure my skull is growing soft, or my brains are melting, or else I sweat from head to foot! But if I do, I am sure it is not for fear. This certainly must be a very dreadful

adventure that is approaching. Give me something to wipe me if thou can'st, for I am almost blinded with the torrent of sweat."

Sancho did not dare to say a word, but giving him a cloth, blessed his stars that his master had not found him out. Don Quixote dried himself, and taking off the helmet to see what it should be that felt so cold on his head, perceiving some white stuff, and putting it to his nose, soon found what it was. "Now, by the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso," cried he, "thou hast put curds in my helmet, vile traitor, and unmannerly squire!" "Nay," replied Sancho cunningly, and keeping his countenance, "if they be curds, good your worship, give them me hither, and I will eat them: But hold, now I think on it, the devil eat them for me; for he himself must have put them there. What! I offer to do so beastly a trick! Do you think I have no more manners? As sure as I am alive, sir, I have got my enchanters too, that owe me a grudge, and plague me as a limb of your worship; and I warrant have put that nasty stuff there on purpose to set you against me, and make you fall foul on my bones. But I hope they have missed their aim this time, i'troth! My master is a wise man, and must needs know that I had neither curds nor milk, nor any thing of that kind; and if I had met with curds, I should sooner have put them in my belly than his helmet." "Well," said Don Quixote, "there may

be something in that."

The gentleman had observed these passages, and stood amazed, but especially at what immediately followed; for the knight-errant having put on the