In a village of La Mancha, in Spain, there once lived one of those gentlemen who usually keep a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound for coursing. A dish of boiled meat, consist-ing of somewhat more beef than mutton, the fragments served up cold on most nights, lentils on Fridays, bread and pull-it on Saturdays, with a small pigeon by way of addition on Sundays,consumed three fouiths of his income. The rest was laid out in a surtout of fine black cloth, a pair of velvet breeches for holidays, with slippers of the same; and on week-days he prided himself on the very best of his own homespun doth.

His family consisted of a housekeeper, somewhat above forty, a niece not quite twenty, and a lad for the field and the market, who both saddled the horse and handled the pruning-hook. The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years. He was of a robust constitution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage; a very early riser, and a keen sportsman.

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