fancy and our heart in the immortal Romance of Cervantes (for, how
profoundly melancholy is it to be compelled by one gallant folly to laugh
at all that is gentle, and brave, and wise, and generous!) nothing grates
on us more than when--last scene of all, the poor Knight lies dead--his
exploits for ever over--for ever dumb his eloquent discourses: than when,
I say, we are told that, despite of his grief, even little Sancho did not
eat or drink the less:--these touches open to us the real world, it is
true; but it is not the best part of it. What a pensive thing is true
humour! Certain it was, that when Walter, full of contending emotions at
all he had witnessed,--harassed, tortured, yet also elevated, by his
feelings, stopped opposite the cottage door, and saw there the Corporal
sitting comfortably in the porch,--his vile modicum Sabini before him--
his pipe in his mouth, and a complacent expression of satisfaction
diffusing itself over features which shrewdness and selfishness had
marked for their own;--certain it was, that, at this sight Walter
experienced a more displeasing revulsion of feeling--a more entire
conviction of sadness--a more consummate disgust of this weary world and
the motley masquers that walk thereon, than all the tragic scenes he had
just witnessed had excited within him.

"And well, Sir," said the Corporal, slowly rising, "how did it go off?--
Wasn't the villain bash'd to the dust?--You've nabbed him safe, I hope?"

"Silence," said Walter, sternly, "prepare for our departure. The chaise
will be here forthwith; we return to Yorkshire this day. Ask me no more
now."

"A--well--baugh!" said the Corporal.

There was a long silence. Walter walked to and fro the road before the