----And the story too--if you please: for though I have all along been hastening towards this part of it, with so much earnest desire, as well knowing it to be the choicest morsel of what I had to offer to the world, yet now that I am got to it, any one is welcome to take my pen, and go on with the story for me that will --I see the difficulties of the descriptions I'm going to give--and feel my want of powers.
It is one comfort at least to me, that I lost some fourscore ounces of blood this week in a most uncritical fever which attacked me at the beginning of this chapter; so that I have still some hopes remaining, it may be more in the serous or globular parts of the blood, than in the subtile _aura_ of the brain----be it which it will--an Invocation can do no hurt----and I leave the affair entirely to the _invoked_, to inspire or to inject me according as he sees good.
THE INVOCATION
Gentle Spirit of sweetest humour, who erst did sit upon the easy pen of my beloved CERVANTES; Thou who glided'st daily through his lattice, and turned'st the twilight of his prison into noonday brightness by thy presence----tinged'st his little urn of water with heaven-sent nectar, and all the time he wrote of _Sancho_ and his master, didst cast thy mystic mantle o'er his wither'd stump,[9.1] and wide extended it to all the evils of his life------
----Turn in hither, I beseech thee! ----behold these breeches! ----they are all I have in the world----that piteous rent was given them at _Lyons_------
My shirts! see what a deadly schism has happen'd amongst 'em--for the laps are in _Lombardy_, and the rest of 'em here --I never had but six, and a cunning gypsey of a laundress at _Milan_ cut me off the _fore_-laps of five --To do her justice, she did it with some consideration--for I was returning out of _Italy_.

- And the story too if you please: for though I have all along been hastening earnestly towards this part of it, knowing it to be the choicest morsel I had to offer to the world, yet now that I am got to it, anyone who wishes is welcome to take my pen, and go on with the story. I foresee the difficulties of description - and feel my want of powers.
It is one comfort at least to me, that I lost some fourscore ounces of blood this week in a fever which attacked me at the beginning of this chapter; so that I hope it may be more in the globular parts of the blood, rather than in the subtle aura of the brain - whichever it is, an Invocation can do no hurt.
THE INVOCATION
Gentle Spirit of sweetest humour, who formerly did sit upon the easy pen of my beloved Cervantes; thou who glided'st daily through his window, and turned the twilight of his prison into noonday brightness by thy presence - tinged his little urn of water with heaven-sent nectar, and all the time he wrote of Sancho and his master, didst cast thy mystic mantle o'er the evils of his life-
- Turn hither, I beseech thee! behold these breeches! - they are all I have in the world - that piteous rent was given them at Lyons-
My shirts! see what a deadly schism has happened amongst 'em - for the tails are in Lombardy, and the rest of 'em here - I only had six, and a cunning gypsy of a laundress at Milan cut off the tails of five.
