"What!" said Ferret, "you set up for a modern Don Quixote? The scheme
is rather too stale and extravagant. What was a humorous romance and
well-timed satire in Spain near two hundred years ago, will make but a
sorry jest, and appear equally insipid and absurd when really acted from
affectation, at this time of day, in a country like England."

The knight, eyeing this censor with a look of disdain, replied, in a
solemn, lofty tone: "He that from affectation imitates the extravagancies
recorded of Don Quixote, is an impostor equally wicked and contemptible.
He that counterfeits madness, unless he dissembles, like the elder
Brutus, for some virtuous purpose, not only debases his own soul, but
acts as a traitor to Heaven, by denying the divinity that is within him.
I am neither an affected imitator of Don Quixote, nor, as I trust in
Heaven, visited by that spirit of lunacy so admirably displayed in the
fictitious character exhibited by the inimitable Cervantes. I have not
yet encountered a windmill for a giant, nor mistaken this public-house
for a magnificent castle; neither do I believe this gentleman to be the
constable; nor that worthy practitioner to be Master Elizabat, the
surgeon recorded in Amadis de Gaul; nor you to be the enchanter Alquife,
nor any other sage of history or romance; I see and distinguish objects
as they are discerned and described by other men. I reason without
prejudice, can endure contradiction, and, as the company perceives, even
bear impertinent censure without passion or resentment. I quarrel with
none but the foes of virtue and decorum, against whom I have declared
perpetual war, and them I will everywhere attack as the natural enemies
of mankind."

"But that war," said the cynic, "may soon be brought to a conclusion, and
your adventures close in Bridewell, provided you meet with some