“Dime; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre un caballo rucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza un yelmo de oro?” “Lo que veo y columbro,” respondio Sancho, “no es sino un hombre sobre un as no pardo como el mio, que trae sobre la cabeza una cosa que relumbra.” “Pues ese es el yelmo de Mambrino,” dijo Don Quijote.
“Seest thou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a dapple-gray steed, and weareth a golden helmet?” “What I see,” answered Sancho, “is nothing but a man on a gray ass like my own, who carries something shiny on his head.” “Just so,” answered Don Quixote: “and that resplendent object is the helmet of Mambrino.”
“Sir Humphry Davy?” said Mr. Brooke, over the soup, in his easy smiling way, taking up Sir James Chettam’s remark that he was studying Davy’s Agricultural Chemistry . “Well, now, Sir Humphry Davy; I dined with him years ago at Cartwright’s, and Wordsworth was there too—the poet Wordsworth, you know. Now there was something singular. I was at Cambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him—and I dined with him twenty years afterwards at Cartwright’s. There’s an oddity in things, now. But Davy was there: he was a poet too. Or, as I may say, Wordsworth was poet one, and Davy was poet two. That was true in every sense, you know.”
Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. In the beginning of dinner, the party being small and the room still, these motes from the mass of a magistrate’s mind fell too noticeably. She wondered how a man like Mr. Casaubon would support such triviality. His manners, she thought, were