This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project
to make the world's books discoverable online.
It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.
Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the
publisher to a library and finally to you.
Usage guidelines
Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:
+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.
+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.
+ Maintain attribution The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.
+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.
About Google Book Search
Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web
at|http : //books . google . com/
F#
r
4
>• • #
liiinr
%..
i V \
/ »
•=».
i»»v'
J.
r
t '•»■
'% a
'^
i
'i
i;
DON QUIXO. TE
DE LA MANCHA.
TRANSLATED
FROM THE SPANISH
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.
LONDON:
HENRY G. BOHN, i & 5, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1853.
-&)
^F/d-i
10
VLIBRAF;»
R. CLkr, rRIMTSR, BHBAD STRiúST HILL.
CONTENTS.
Thb Prtftice 6f the Editor
> Memoin of Cenrantes • •
pagel
. 12
PART I.
t Preface
25
CHAPTBR I.
I Which treat» of the condition and punuits of
i| the fiunouB Don Q,aixote de la Mancha 29
I I CHAPTXR IL
I Which treats of the first sally that Don Quixote
made from his native abode • . • • 92
CHAPTER III.
In which is described the diverting ceremonj
of knighting Don Quixote . « • . • 35
CHAPTKR IV.
Of what befel our knight after he had sallied
out from the inn . . . • « . 88
CHAPTBR V.
Wherein is continued the narration of our
knight^ misfortune 4 41
CHAPTBR VI.
Of the grand and diverting scrutiny made by
the Priest and the Barber in the library of
our ingenious gentleman 44
CHAFTBR VII.
Of the second sally of our good knight Don
Quixote de la Mancha • 47
CHAPTBR vui.
Of the valorous Don Quixote^s success in the
dreadful and never-before- imagined adven-
ture of the wind-mills; with other events
worthy to be recorded 50
CHAPTBR IB.
Wherein is terminated the stupendous battle
between the gallant Biscainer and the valiant
Manchegan . « 54
CHAPTBR X.
Of the pleasant discourse which passed be-
tween Don Quixote and Sancho Pansa, his
esquire .»••.••••-• 57
CHAPTBR XI.
Of what befel Don Quixote with the goat-
herds 4 59
CHAPTBR XII.
What a certain goatherd related to those who
were with Don Quixote .62
CHAPTKR XIIU
The eonelnsion of the story of the shepherdess
Marcela-; with other incidents ... 65
CHAPTBR xir.
Which contains the despairing verses of the
deoeased shepherd; with other unexpected
events 70
CHAPTBR XV.
Wbei^in is related the unfortunate adventure
which befel Don Quixote, in meeting with
certain unmerciful Yanguenans • • « 73
CHAPTBR XVI.
Of what happened to Don Quísote hi the inn,
which he imagined to be a castle • « • 77
CHAPTBR XVII.
Wherein are continued the innumerable dis>
asters that befel the brave Don Quixote and
his good squire Sancho Pansa in the inn,
which he unhappily took for a castle . Rl
^=
:;f1)
CONTENTS.
CHAPTBR XVllI.
I
The discourse which Sancho Panza held with
his master Don Quixote ; with other adven-
tures worth relating ^ . 85
CHAPTBR SIX.
Of the sage discourse that passed between
Sancho and his mafter, and the succeeding
adventure of the dead bodj; with other
famous occurrences 90
CHAPTfiR XX»
Of the unparalleled adventure achieved bj the
renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, with
less hazard than ever any was achieved by
the most famous knight in the world . 94
CHAPTBR XXL
Which treats of the grand adventure and rich
prize of Mambrino*s helmet ; with other
things which befel our invincible knight 101
CHAPTER XXn.
How Don Quixote set at liberty several unfor-
tunate persons who, much against their will,
were being conveyed "where they did not
wish to go 107
CHAPTBR XXIII.
Of what befel the renowned Don Quixote in
the Sierra 'Morena, being one t)f the most
extraordinary adventures related in this
faithful history - . . 112
CflArTBR XXIV. ,
A continuation of the adventure in the Sierra
Morena 118
CHAPTER XXV.
Which treats of the strange things that befel
the valiant knight of La Mancha in the
Sierra Morena ; and how he imitated the
penance. of Beltenebros 122
CHAPTER XXVX.
A. continuation of the refinements practised
by Don Quixote, as a lover, in the Sierra
Morena . ... . • «130
CHAPTBR XXVIX.
How the Priest and the Barber proceeded in
their project; with other things worthy of
being related in this history • • . • ] 34
CHAPTBR XXVIII*
Which treats of the new and agreeable adven-
ture that befel the Priest and the Barber in
the Sierra Morena 140
CHAPTER .^xis.
Which treats of the beautiful Dorothea's dis-
cretion ; with other rery ingenious and
Antertaining particulars 145
CHAPTER XXX.
Which treats of the ingenious method pursued
to withdraw our enamoured knight from the
rigorous penance which he had imposed on
himself 150
CHAPTER XXXI. -
Of the relishing conversation which passed
between Don Quixote and his squire Sancho
Panza : with other incidents . • • .155
CHAPTBR XXXII.
Which treats of what befel Don Quixote and
his company at the inn 15il
CHAPTBR XXXIII.
The novel of the Curious Impertinent . .162
CHAPTER XXXIV.
In which is continued the novel of the Curious
Impertinent •.....••• 1G9
CHAPTER XXXV.
The dreadful battle which Don Quixote fought
with the wine-bags, and the conclusion of the
noyel of th^ Curious Impertinent . .177
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Which treats of other uncommon incidents that
happened at the inn 181
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Wherein is continued the history of the famoup
Infanta Micomicona ; with other pleasant
adventures 184
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The continuation of Don Quixote's curious
oration upon arms and letters . . . . 189 i
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Wherein the. captive relates his life and ad-
ventures 190
CHAPTER XL.
In which is continued the history of the
captive • . . • . lt'4
CHAPTER XL!.
Wherein the captive continues his story . 199
CHAPTER XLII.
Which treats of other occurrences at the inn ;
and of many other things worthy to be
known 203
CHAPTER XLIII.
Which treats of the agreeable history of the
young muleteer ; with other strange accidents
that happened in the inn 211
=.©
CONTENTS.
|> CHAPTER XLIV.
j A oontmuation of the extraordinary adventures
I that happened in the inn 215
CHAPTSR XLV.
In which the dispute concerning Mambrino's
helmet and the pannel is decided ; with other
adventures that reallj and truly happened 218
CHAPTER XLVI.
The notable adventure of the troopers of the
holy brotherhood; with an account of the
singular ferocity of our good knight Bon
Quixote « . « . 222
CUAPTXR XLVU.
Of the strange and wonderful manner in which
pon Quixote de la Mancha was enchanted ;
with other remarkable occurrences . . 226
CHAPTKR XLYin.
In which the canon continues his discourse on
books of chivalry, with other subjects worthy
of his.genius 230
CHAPTER XLIX.
Of the ingenious conference between Sancho
Pansa and his master Don Quixote . . 233
CHAPTER L.
Of the ingenious contest between Don Quixote
and the canon, with other incidents • • 236
• . CHAPTER LI.
The goatherd's narrative • .
239
CHAPTER LIU
Of the quarrel between Don Quixote and the
goatherd, with the rare adventure of the dis-
ciplinants, which he happily accomplished
with the sweat of his brow 242
PART II.
Dedication • • .
Preface to the Reader
249
250
Of what passed between the Priest, the Barber,
and Don Quixote, concerning his indisposi-
tion 253
CHAPTER II.
Which treats of the notable quarrel between
Sancho Panza and Don Quixote's Niece
and Housekeeper; with other pleasant oc-
currences 258
CHAPTER III.
Of the pleasant conversation which passed be-
tween Don Quixote, Sancho Pansa, and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco 260
CHAPTER IV.
Wherein Sancho Pansa answers the bachelor
Samson Carrasco's doubts and questions;
with other incidents worthy of bei^g known
and recited . . • ' 264
CHAPTER y.
Of the discreet and pleasant conversation which
passed between Sancho Panza and his wife
Teresa 267
CHAPTER VI.
Of what passed between Don Quixote, his
Niece, and Housekeeper, which is one of
the most important chapters in the whole
history 270
CHAPTER VII.
Of what passed between Don Quixote and his
Squire; with other remarkable occurrences 273
CHAPTER VIII.
Wherein is related what befel Don Quixote as
he was going to visit his lady Dulcinea del
Toboso 276
CHAPTER IX.
Which relates what will be found therein . 279
CHAPTER X
Wherein is related the stratagem practised by
Sancho of enchanting the lady Dulcinea;
with other events no less ludicrous than
true 281
CHAPTER XI«
Of the strange adventure which befel the valor-
ous Don Quixote with the cart, or wain, of
the cortes of Death 285
CONTENTS.
CHAPTBR XII.
Of the Btrange adventure which befel the valor,
ous Don Quixote with the brave knight of
the Mirrors 289
CHAPTBR ZIII.
Wherein is continued the adventure of the
knight of the Wood, with the wise and witty
dialogue between the two Squires . . 29*2
CHAPTBR XIV.
In which is continued the adventure of the
knight of the Wood 294
CirAPTBR XV.
Giving an account of the Knight of the Mirrors
and his Squire 300
CHAPTER XVI.
Of what befbl Don Quixote with a worthy
gentleman of La Mancha ib.
CHAPTER XVII.
Wherein is set forth the extreme and highest
point at which the unheard of courage of
Don Quixote ever did, or could, arrive ; with
the successful issue of the adventure of the
lions 305
CHAPTER XVIII.
Of what befel Don Quixote in the castle, or
house, of the knight of the Green Biding-
coat ; with other extraordinary matters 310
CHAPTER XIX.
Wherein is related the adventure of the ena-
moured Shepherd ; with other truly pleasant
incidents 314
• CHAPTSm XX.
Giving an account of the marriage of Camacho
the rich ; and, also, the adventure of Basilius
the poor 317
CHAPTER XXI.
In which is continued the history of Camacho's
wedding; with other delightful incidents 321
CHAPTER XXII.
Wherein is related the grand adventure of the
cave of Montesinos, situated in the heart of
La Mancha, which the valorous Don Quixote
happily accomplished 324
CHAPTER XXIII.
Of the wonderful things which the accomplished
Don Quixote dc la Mancha declared he had
seen in the cave of Montesinos, from the
extraordinary nature of which this adventure
18 held to bé-apocryphal 328 I
cHArrxH xxiv.
In which are recounted a thmiaand trifling mat-
ter», equally impertinent and necessary to the
right understanding of tiiis grand history 333
CHAPTBR XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Wherein is contained the pleasant adventure of
the Puppet-player; with sundry other matters,
all, in truth, sufficiently good . . . . 34 1
CHAPTER XXVII.
Wherein is related who master Peter and his
Ape were; with Don Quixote's -ill-succcHs
in the braying adventure, which terminated
neither as he wished nor intended . .345
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Concerning things, which Benengeli says, he
who reads of them will know if he reads witi)
attention 348
CHAPTER XXIX.
Of the famous adventure of the £nchante<i
Bark 350
CHAPTER XXX.
Of what befel Don Quixote with a fair hun-
tress 354
CHAPTER XXXI.
Which treats of many and great things • 356
CHAPTER XXXII.
Of the answer Don Quixote gave to bis reprover ;
with other important and pleasing events 360
CHAPTBR XXXIII.
Of the relishing conversation whicn passed be-
tween the duchess, her damsels, and Sancho
Panza : — worthy to be read and noted .367
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Giving an account of the method preecribed
for disenchanting the peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso; which is one of the most famous
adventures of this J[}ook 370
CHAPTER XXXV.
VVherein is continued the account of the method
prescribed to Don Quixote for disenchanting
Dulcinea with other wonderful events . 371
Wherein is begun the braying adventure, and
the diverting one of the Puppet-show, witV 'j
the memorable divinations of the Wonderful ¡
Ape 33C '
'PJ
CONTENTS.
vil
CUAPTXR ZXZVI.
Wliereín ii recorded the wonderful and incon-
oeirable adventure of the Afflicted Duenna,
or the Countefls of Trifaldi; and likewise
Sancho Panza's Letter to his wife, Teresa
Panza 377
CHAPTER ZUXVll.
in which is continued the fiunous adventure of
the Afflicted Duenna 880
CHAPTER ZXXVIII.
Which contains the account given b/ the Af-
flicted Duenna of her misfortunes
CHAPTXR XXXIX.
. 3bi
Wlierein Trifaldi continues her stupendous and
memorable hiatoiy 384
CHAPTXR XL.
Which treats of matters relating and appertain-
ing to thia adventure, and to this memorable
History 385
CHAPTER XLI.
Of the arrival of Clavileno, with the conclusion
of this prolix adventure 388
CHAPTER XLII.
Containing the instructions which Don Quixote
, gave to Sancho Panza before he went to
his government; with other well- digested
matters 393
CHAPTER XLIII.
Of the second instructions Don Quixote gave
Sancho Panza 396
■I
CHAPTER XLIV.
How Sancho Panza was conducted to his govern-
ment, and of the strange adventure which
befel Don Quixote in the castle . . . 399
CHAPTER XLV.
How the great Sancho Panza took possession
of his island, and the manner in which he
began to govern 403
CHAPTER XLVI.
Of the dreadful bell- ringing, and cattish con-
stemation into which Don Quixote was thrown
in the course of the enamoured Altisidora's
amour 407
CHAPTER XLVII.
Giving a farther account of Sancho's behaviour
in his government 409
CHAPTER XLViXI.
Of what befel Don Quixote with Donna Ro-
driguez, the duchess's duenna ; together with
other accidents worthy to be written and held
in eternal remembrance 413
CHAPTER XLIX.
Of what befel Sancho Panza in going the round
of his island 418
CHAPTER L.
Which declares who the enchanters and exe-
cutioners were that whipped the duenna, and
pinched and scratched Don Quixote; and
also the success of the page who carried San-
cho's letter to his wife, Teresa Panza . 423
CHAPTER LZ.
Of the progress of Sancho Panza^s government;
with other entertaining matters . . . 427
CHAPTER LIU
In which is recorded the adventure of the second
afflicted matron, otherwise called Donna
Rodriguez 431
CHAPTER LIU.
Of the toilsome end and conclusion of Sancho
Panzada government .,...<. 435
CHAPTER LIV.
Which treats of matters relating to this par*
ticular history, and to no other . . . 438
CHAPTER LV.
Of what befel Sancho on his way, and other
matters, than which nothing can be better 442
CHAPTER LVI.
Of the prodigious and unparalleled battle be-
tween Don Quixote de la Mancha and the
lacquey Tosilos, in defence of the duenna
Donna Rodriguezes daughter .... 446
CHAPTER LVn.
Which relates how Don Quixote took his leave
of the duke, and of what befel him with
the witty and wanton Altisidora, one of the
duchesses damsels 448
CHAPTER LVIII.
Shewing how adventures crowded so fast upon
Don Quixote that they trod upon each other's
heels 450
CHAPTER LIX.
Wherein is related an extraordinary accident
which befel Don Quixote, and which may
pass for an adventure 456
CONTENTS.
CHAPTZR I.S.
Of what befel Don Quixote on
Barcelona - .
his
way to
« 460
CHAPTKR L.XI.
Of what befel Don Quixote at his entrance
into Barcelona ; with other events more true
than ingenious 168
CHAPTER LXII.
Which treats of the adventure of the Enchanted
Head ; with other trifling matters that must
not be omitted 468
CHAPTBR LXriI.
Of Sancho Panza's misfortune on board the
gallies; and the extraordinary adventure of
the beautiful Moor 474
CHAPTER LXIV.
Treating of the adventure which gave Don
Quixote more vexation than any which had
hitherto befiillen him 478
CHAPTER LXV.
In which an account is given who the knight of
the White Moon was ; and of the deliver-
ance of Don Gregorio ; with other events 480
CHAPTER LXVI.
Treating of matters which he who reads will
see, and he who listens to them, when read,
will hear 482
CHAPTER LXYU.
Of the resolution which Don Quixote took to
turn shepherd, and lead a pastoral life, till
the promised term should be expired ; with
other incidents truly diverting and good 485
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Of the bristley adventure which befel Don
Quixote 487
CHAPTER X.XIX.
CHAPTER LXX.
CHAPTER LXXI.
Of the newest and strangest adventure that
e' cr bofcl Don Quixote in the whole course
of this great history 490
Which follows the sixty -ninth, and treats of
matters indispensable to the perspicuity of >
this history 492 I
Of what befel Don Quixote and his squire
Sancho on the way to their village . . 4uG
CHAPTER LXXII.
How Don Quixote and Sancho airived at their
village 499
CHAPTER LXXIII.
Of the omens which Don Quixote met with at
the entrance into his village; with other
matters which adorn and illustrate this great
history 501
CHAPTER LXXIV.
How Don Quixote fell sick, made his will, and
died 504
=1-'
aubmtuas of 5BDtt 4^nij:útt.
PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.
Many years Lave now elapsed since any
new translation, or a materially corrected
Edition, of the Don Quixote has appeared ;
although, from the state of general opinion
on the respective merits of those already in
the hands of the Puhlic, either the one or
the other might long ago have heen expected.
It is presumed therefore that endeavour-
ing to perform what has been much desired
requires no apology : such undertakings
\rould not be attempted but with a view to
improvement, and success will be their best,
and indeed their only, vindication. Trans-
lations cannot, from their nature, be perma-
nent, but will necessarily be liable, if not to
frequent, to occasional, renovation; and who-
ever may flatter themselves that they have
produced a work of that kind which will
satisiy the present generation, and continue
the favourite of future times, do not recollect
the difference between an original and its
translated copy.
An original work of literature, if it de-
serve to live, ought to be permitted to pass
through its mortal course unaltered, preser-
ving the identical form in which it was left
by its aathor. To this privilege it has an
unquestionable right, founded on its own
merits, and the fabr intentions which gave
it birth and caused its first publication : all
that successive editors are bound by theur
duty to perform is to preserve the purity
ot' the text^ and, where that is injured, to
endeavour, with all possible care, to re-
store ii to its original form. But when
these productions are translated into other
languages, the new forms they assume are
not subjected to the same laws ; such imita-
tions, having nothing of the nature of tran-
scribed copies, may be changed at pleasure,
and multiplied as far as language can supply
new terms and arrangements to express the
same ideas ; and while translators proceed
with integrity, and execute a difficult task
with reasonable success, the original author
can have no just ground of complaint. In
the fabrication of copies, where it is impos-
sible to be literal, and resemblance can only
be more or less perfect, the talents of the
translator, and the genius of the language
he employs, will be perpetual sources of
deviation. The same variety will also be
produced by the changes that occur in the
state of national literature ; when talent
and taste are high in the existing scale of
intellectual cultivation, these reflections of
genius will rise in value ; and, when low,
they will feel the depressing cause, and sink
to the common level.
A witty rhymester formerly asserted, on a
particular occasion, — not very gravely, per-
haps,— that if a certain illustrious bard of
antiquity could then, like himself, be a
witness of the miserable translating, and no
less doleful warbling, of his divine verses, he
must inevitably run distracted with rage and
vexation. With submission, however, to
this facetious authority, it is not modem
©=
PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.
translators who could thus provoke an ancient
author to madness, but careless or ignorant
transcribers and editors ; while leaning over
his cloud, he could look down and be as-
sured that his own genuine lines were safe,
the unsuccessful endeavours of his humble
imitators in other languages, instead of
moving his wTath, would excite his pity or
his merriment.
Other causes, besides those which have
been mentioned, contribute to encrcasc the
number of translations. Since they have
received no permanent form, they will natu-
rally be accommodated to the changes which
time produces in all languages that arc
spoken. The edition that makes its appear-
ance, and is approved, at the beginning of a
centur}', though still read, will be fgund to
have lost much of its popularity at the
conclusion. Should it be thought desirable
at this time to publish a translation of the
Poems of Ariosto and Tasso, it would never
be a question whether the first English ver-
sions of those works, however successful,
should be adopted, or one in the language
of the present day — unless they were in-
tended only for the gratification of literary
antiquaries, who appear to imagine that an
old author could think only in antiquated
plirnseologj' ; and, conscípicntly, that no
modem mode of expressing ideas can afford
just imitations of the productions of men
who lived two or three centuries ago.
The unceasing fluctuation of taste is ano-
ther cause of the multiplication of trans-
lated works. There will always be a pre-
vailing style or fashion of writing, — not so
evanescent as the modes of dress, but equally
capricious. An ingenious autlior, who has
acquired high reputation, seems to open a
new vein, which is pursued by his numerous
imitators until it iseither gradually exhausted,
or exchanged for another, more new, if not
more x-aluable. The favourite of tlic day
never Mis to give a popularity to the style
and manner in which his inventions are
clothed, insomuch that, while it lasts, it must
needs adorn every thing ; and publishers find
tlieir account in yielding to thb prevailing
wish, knowing, an old autlior, dressed up by
a modish workman, often converts a neglected
and stale article into a lucrative novelty.
Thus, while the original work passes on
from age to age, undisturbed, except by
careless transcribers and printers, its trans-
lations are ever changing, as the causes which
produce them operate witli more or less
ILCtivity. However happily former transla-
tions may have been executed, it is evident
that new ones will successively appear, and,
being continued tlirough all tlie innovations
of living language, they may in time survive
their originals, and be the only memorials of
their existence. The successive changes they
undergo, altliough no real improvement be
made, have an advantageous efiect, inas-
much as tliey serve to keep attention still
directed to excellent and useful books, which,
but for the allurements of novelty, might
fall into neglect : for tlius our old dramatic
pieces, by their occasional revival in the
theatre, are preserved from oblivion, and
honoured with a perpetuity of fame in the
plaudits of successive generatio.is.
It is worthy of remark that translated
works have, in their constant revivification,
a singular advantage over those whicli gave
them existence. The text of an original
must remain unaltered ; to assail its purity is
an inmioral act, deprecated by every voice ;
but those genuine productions of genius, like
tliehr authors, ai-e liable to grow old, and ut
some period must become obsolete, and thence
gradually sink into the mass of literature
which no longer speaks the language of the
living, there to remain for the entertainment
of the few, or be restored to a new life, and
a more durable, if less honourable, mode of
existence, by tlie translator. Chaucer, one
of the most excellent and entci*tainiug of our
poets, is actually arrived at that state when
he is read only by a small nuniber, and per-
haps by none witli the relish and complete
understanding of a contemporary. At the
same time his works are not yet so obscure
as to be fair subject of translation into a
modem fomi ; tlierefore, till that period
arrives, he must continue immured in his
monkish cell| in a kind of limbo or purgatory
at home only to his black-letter iriencLs
and there wait his hour of resuscitation.
Had it been the practice of the ancients
to translate the writings of distinguished
authors from one langnage into another in
DON QUIXOTE.
the mass of useful knowledge, or curious
information by such means diffused among
mankind, much might have been saved from
the devastating hand of time, and the world,
perhaps, might have been wiser than it is at
the present moment. Much has been writ-
ten concerning the wisdom and learning of
the Egjrptians, and other nations of remote
antiquity, but of which little is now known :
but, had the Greeks translated their works
(as they knew their language — even that of
the priests were not concealed from the
learned), the state of information respecting
those nations would not have been, as it now
is, almost a blank. We should at least have
bad a portion of the matter and sense of
many a valuable book which we now know
not even by name.
No work of a similar kind has been more
generally read and admired in every part of
Europe, and by all classes of society, than
the Don Quixote of Cervantes ; yet of these,
only a comparatively small part being able
to read it in its native language, the pleasure
thus so extensively diffused is through the
medium of translation. Happily the Spa-
nish language admits of an easy transmis-
aoB into other forms of speech ; and, still
more happily for the fame of the author, his
book is not a satire upon partial or inciden-
tal absurdities : for Quixotism is a disease
entailed upon our nature ; and, though books
of chivalry no longer retain their influence,
man will never cease to be the dupe of fic-
tions, m one form or another, addressed to
his imagination.
The wit and humour, also, of Cervantes,
are derived from elements that exist alike
in every human being ; and his characters,
though strictiy Spanish, are such as will
every where he formed by similar circum-
stances. An artificial system may change
the exterior of man, and his mind may be
charged with falsehood, but his passions and
affections cannot be extinguished ; and these
will preserve the uniformity of his character,
and make him, as he really is, the same
bemg m every part of the world. Teresa
Panza is a Spanish peasant, yet who has not
recognised many such Teresas in the villages
of his own country, be it wherever it may 7
l' Doubtleas her counter-part may be found
é =
in the heart of China, where nature is
perverted to the utmost extent.
Thus, in consequence of the favourable
construction of the language, added to the
universal currency of the matter, a chief
difficulty in translation is, in this instance,
greatiy diminished ; that which remains is
formidable : for, in conveying ideas from one
language to another, humour is certainly
exposed to more than ordinary peril by the
transfer. The first dress that ideas receive
is almost invariably the best : for the mind
in which happy conceptions are first em-
bodied, by the same impulse that produced
them, clothes them in terms most appropriate
and impreanve. Thoughts and their verbal
expression are almost coeval, and both co-
operate in the act of invention. In transla-
tion, therefore, which has not the advantage
of tiiat creative stimulus, it will be in vain
to expect even a congenial mind, with the
strongest perception of the author's spirit
and meaning, to give a new dress to his
thoughts that shall have equal grace and
fitness.
The comic spirit has so diversified the
character of humour that, tiiough. in all its
shades of variety, there is a common resem-
blance among writers of that class, two are
not to be found that are exactly alike ; it
is therefore nothing extraordinary that the
translators of such works should produce
copies so unlike each other : seeing that the
sense of humour, as diffused among men,
differs so much firom itself.
On tiie domains of comedy all appear to
claim an equal right. There is no man who
is not convinced that heaven has liberally
endowed him with that exquisite faculty
which enables him to perceive all the varie-
ties, all the obliquities of wit, and who would
not resent the insinuation that he could not
feel tiie point of a jest as quickly and as
sensibly as another. That he is on a level
with aH other men in respect to genius, or
the creative faculty, he may have doubts,
and therefore will not insist, because the
required facts may not be ready to support
hid pretensions ; but in the aouteness of his
comic feelings, as well as the sensibilities of
taste, where he cannot detect his own defi-
ciencies, he will not yield to the proudest. 11
e=
PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.
He is modest if be reasons, but confident
wben be pronounces on the accuracy o( bis
feelings. But to prove tbe reality of tbis
self-delusion, we bave only to remark witb
wbat variety of expression tbe inequality of
tbis internal sense is displayed. Wben prin-
ciples are discussed, critics scarcely debate,
and even men of genius concur ; all is bar-
mony wbile eacb man witbbolds bis illustra-
tion, but tbe moment tbese are produced tbe
lurking dissonance becomes apparent.
Tbe opinions of all men appear to be in
perfect unison in describing tbe peculiar cast
of bumour, and also tbe language of tbe
Quixote, insomucb tbat, from Üiis entire a-
greement, it would be expected tbat in tbeir
more prominent features, at least, a strong
family resemblance would be observed in its
several translations ; but tbe fact isotberwise.
Cervantes bas fared like all otber exem-
plars ; tbe distinct and intelligible aspect of
nature berself cannot ensure tbe concurring
testimony of all wbo endeavour to imitate or
describe ber. Eacb copyist, besides bis par-
ticular taste, bas a manner peculiar to bim-
self, wbicb be can neitber alter nor conceal ;
if it bafipen to bave any affinity to tbat of
bis original, it will be apparent in tbe fide-
lity of bis imitation ; and, if not, bis labour
will not give it tbe desired resemblance.
No talent can supply tbe want of tbis neces-
sary agreement. Dr. Jobnson expressed tbe
bigbest admiration of tbe Quixote, and bis
literary and critical powers are above all
praise : but wbat would bave been an En-
glisb copy of tbe Quixote by tbe band of
tbat great man 7 In trutb, its most success-
ful imitations in our own language are ac-
knowledged to bave been by tbose wbo were
unknown to tbe literary world. Tbe trans-
lations of Sbelton and Jervis are now pre-
ferred by tbe majority of readers to tbose
of Motteux and Smollett ; tbe task did not
devolve upon tbem in tbe ibrm of a profes-
sional commission : tbey became translators
from a strong relisb for the original ; and
having previously acquired none of that
manner which is derived either firom eccentri-
city of taste, or habits of literary practice,
their copies escaped tbat particular defect.
Sbelton, who was the first that introduced
Don Quixote to the English reader, attempted
Ü)-
nothing beyond a simple version, and ap-
peared to be more solicitous to render tlie
thoughts and expressions of bis author
correctly than to display bis own talent in
writing ; accordingly be approached much
nearer to the original than some who after-
wards undertook the same task, and who,
having superior talents, attempted more ;
particularly Motteux, whose translation is
loose and spirited, and sparkles with wordy
wit, which, it is possible, many of bis ad-
mirers might think an improvement upon
his model.
Motteux appears to bave been too anxious
to naturalise his version by an idiomatic
phraseology, which, being associated with
ideas purely English, produced a mixture
that is often unnatural and ofiiensive ; for,
whatever of general nature the Quixote may
possess, it is, both in tbe incidents and per-
sons, deeply tinctured with the manners of
a country tbat is manifestly not English.
Probability, therefore, requires tbat tbe
English reader should not be transported
from Spain to bis own country, by a phrase-
ology associated witb every thing around
him, and witb nothing that is exotic.
Idioms that truly correspond so seldom
occur in different languages that, if not em-
ployed witb discretion and taste, tbey will
inevitably produce an incongruity of charac-
ter, of which tbe pages of Motteux bave
numerous examples. He travelled over tbem
in a playful mood, and seized every oppor-
tunity to be comic ; and, though not unfí%-
quently witb success, it was seldom witb tbat
just sense of character, and delicacy of bu-
mour, which so eminently distinguish tbose
of Cervantes.
Jervis, wbo followed Motteux, perceived
bis faults, and endeavoured to give a more
faithful copy. He felt the merits of Sbelton,
and borrowed largely from bis work ; and,
wbile he gave it a more modem attire, and
corrected many errors, he bad the art, or
good taste, to retain much of tbat simplicity
which is its chief excellence. Nevertheless,
the state of public taste at tbe time wben
Jervis's Quixote first appeared was not fa-
vourable to so modest a performance ; and
therefore it probably was not much read.
Whatever might have been its reception,
=e>
^
DON QUIXOTE.
there appeared not long ailterwards to be
sufficient reason for a new translation ; and
a writer was selected for that purpose who
had fineqnently amused the public with the
lively and vigorous productions of his own
invention: — a pezfect Quizóte was antici-
pated from the author of Peregrine Pickle.
SmoUett was an animated writer, of con-
siderable powen and much broad humour;
bnt it had not the faintest resemblance to
tiiat of Cervantes. Its general character
was of a coarse theatrical cast ; tiie provo-
cative of loud laughter, not the stimulant of
acute and delicate feeling. He had trans-
lated Gil Bias with tolerable success, be-
cause, though a work of superior ingenuity
and strength to his own, it was of a conge-
nial quality. Le Sage was an excellent
literary artizan, and manufactured comedy
according to the approved maxims of his art ;
he bad learnt from the examples of other
practitioners the ingredients of a ludicrous
atuation, and could combine them so as to
produce a comic effect; but Cervantes re-
ceived the elements of humour from nature,
and, applying them with intuitive felicity,
his scenes were not the result of mechanical
contrivance, but of feeling, and were there-
fore infinitely more relishing.
The translation of Smollett, according ex-
actly witli the public taste of his time, which
had been moulded and prepared both by his
own writings and those of Fielding, was
much admired, and by the length of its reign
may be said to have enjoyed its full propor-
tion of favour. Af^ the season of its
popularity had passed away, and when the
name of its author could no longer give it
currency, the Public began to compare it
with other translations, and to listen to the
opinions of those who were conversant with
the original ; and, being thus reduced to a
state of impartiality, it was gradually dis-
covered that the earlier translations evinced
a more correct feeling for the peculiar
excellences of the Quixote ; and successive
editions of the neglected Jervis have testified
the prevalence and truth of that opinion.
It has been thought indeed that an English
Quixote should not even stop here, but,
being the history of a species of knight-
errant, should have the dress of an ancient
romance ; — ^an opinion which must have
arisen £nom not having sufficiently attended
either to the drift of the work or the manner
in which it has been treated. However
denominated, it is not in fact the history of
a knight-errant of any species, but of a
lunatic, who is supposed to have assumed
that character, and in whose adventured no-
thing supernatural or extraordinary occurs,
except what appears to be such to his own
distempered imagination. The authorthought
it necessary that his hero should be a modern,
the contemporary of his readers, and all the
incidents which he introduced such as might
have happened at the time ; and, conse-
quently, that his narrative should be in a
language that was recent in its phraseology,
and common to every otlier modem work :
preserving, however, that serious and solemn
air ivhich the grave irony of his satire
required.
It may be true that those absurd fictions,
which It was the professed object of Cervantes
to discredit, would be improved by a lan-
guage not in common use, nor generally
applied to reasonable purposes ; as the most
likely to give something of plausibility to
the description of improbable and impossible
events; but in the Quixote, where every
thing is natural and probable, this kind
of aid is not required ; on the contrary, it
would considerably diminish the interest of
the story, by giving that an air of fiction
which was intended to have the contrary
effect.
This important distinction the Author was
at great pains to keep perpetually before his
Reader. He frequently takes occasion to
assert his veracity, and to congratulate
himself on the scrupulous fidelity of his
narrative ; the very soul of the work, as far
as it relates to the tales of chivalry, is to
expose their falsehood and folly, by com-
paring them with &cts that display the
actual state of things in nature, and by
shewing how a real human being would pro-
bably be circumstanced who should absurdly
profess to imitate the practices and adopt
the manners and sentiments of the heroes
of romantic story. But every consideration
required that such a tale should be told
exactly as the Author would describe any
■y
=^©
PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.
©=
other train of real and recent ciicomstances
of the same whimsical cast; and if this
mode of treatment was judicious in the ori-
ginal, it was surely no less proper in the
translation.
Had Cervantes been our contemporary,
and jost produced his admirable book^ his
style would donbtless be what we now see
it — that of his own time ; and were it now,
for the first time, to appear in an English
dress, what would be said of the translator
who should go back two centuries in order
to disguise it in the costume of Elizabeth ?
Nor does the accident of its haying been
published two hundred years ago afford any
argument for our contmuing to employ in a
translation the language of that period.
It is the spirit of the narrative and the
more delicate marking of character in which
the several translations are more or less de-
fective— not in the simple meaning of the
text : for in that respect, though not entirely
free from inconsiderable errors, their general
coincidence affords a strong evidence of their
veracity. Whatever may have been the
pretence for undertaking each new version,
this has been the chief object, as well as the
chief difficulty.
When the language of Shelton became
too antiquated for general readers, Motteux
(not to mention some intermediate adven-
turers unworthy of notice) was the first who
undertook its revival ; but, in giving it new
life, he indeed made it a new creature.
Jervis, perceiving Motteuz's fiulure, endea-
voured to restore what he had lost ; but,
though he corrected the vulgar flippancy of
the latter, and produced a copy which had
more of the handling of Cervantes, it was in
many parts— perhaps generally — tedious and
inanimate : — faults which, no doubt, gave
rise to the subsequent edition of Smollett.
This then is the desideratum, and after that
fidelity in the matter, which is indispensible,
the imitation of Quixote that shall approach
the nearest to the Author's peculiar manner
will unquestionably be the most successful.
Concerning the present Edition, it is
proper to acknowledge that, with a constant
reference to the Spanish original, a free use
has been made of the several preceding
versions, wherever, in any of these, it was
thought the sense was either more closely
rendered or happily expressed, insomuch
that, although it may not, on that account,
be strictly called a new version of the
Quixote, too much has been either altered
or re'toritteny throughout the whole, fairly
to leave it in the name of any of its former
translators. On the result of these efforts
the Public must decide. Whatever hopes
may be entertained, the preceding observa-
tions wiU shew that the Author regards all
productions of this kind as destined neither
to long Ufe nor long favour, and therefore
will be satisfied if it fare no worse than its
predecessors. To those who may be disap-
pointed the former translations are still
open ; and, fortunately, however they may
differ from each other, they are not without
sufficient resemblance to the common exem-
plar, to secure and deserve great praise;
possibly the variety they possess may have
the advantage of supplying the requisite
diversity of media through which the
humour of Quixote is best conveyed to
different minds. There is indeed something
so exquisite in the quality of the work, or
so felicitous in its native language, that,
however translated, — whatever tiie form
of speech into which it has been transfused,
it has always been a popular fiivourite,
and read with interest and delight.
It has been often said that repntation is
in the hands of a professed enemy
than an injudicious friend ; and certainly
it would not be more ridiculous to compare
Cervantes with Julius Ccesar than to rank
him with Homer, as some have done, and
to attribute to his novel the same profound
skill in the general construction, and elabo-
rate contrivance in the details, as in the Iliad ;
to proclaim him a genius of the same mag-
nificent order, and to impute to him the high
purpose of improving and reforming bis
countrymen, while he artfully appeared only
to seek their amusement.
There is no censure equally mischievous
with this kind of commendation ; nor any
folly more absolute than comparing things
of a dissimilar nature, and that resemble each
other in nothing but in being both excellent ;
which may be said of the first warrior of his
■O
DON QUIXOTE.
tune, and the most distinguished orator;
neither is it evident from experience that the
purpose is always traceable in itsefiects.
If a conjecture might be indulged on the
ongin of this literary jewel, the first and
chief motive of the Author was probably to
produce an entertaining book, that might
yield him a &ir return of reputation and
profit, but more especially the latter ; and
an attack upon the popular tales of knight-
errantry appeared to afford him a favourable
opportunity to display both his talent for
humour and critical skill. Satire, of an
ironical cast, he conceived would be his most
efficacious weapon; and a crack-brained
philosopher, gentleman, and scholar, pro-
mised to supply him with all that might be
ueoeseary in ihe prosecution of his design.
A hero of that description, he would instant-
ly foresee, mast enable him at once to in-
dulge his peculiar vein for pleasantry, and
afibrd an extensive range of observation on
ahnost every subject. Accordingly there are
few on which he has not touched in the
course of his rambling story. While he
followed the natural bent of his genius he
was always successful, but in his moments
of pradence, when he consulted what he
thought the public taste, and threw in his
episodes to delight the many, he seldom was
fortunate. Though his digressions were
good in themselves, they suspended a narra-
tive which had taken possession of the reader,
and were, moreover, devoid of that spirit
which has since been distinguished by his
name. After the publication of the first Part,
however, he discovered his mistake, and,
perceiving that the public had a strong sense
of the merit of what was peculiarly his own,
in the concluding portion of his tale he
avoided the book-making artifice so dero-
gatory to his native powers.
The repeated declarations made by Cer-
vantes that he had no other object than to
discredit the suly books of knight-errantry,
at that time in such fieivour, seem to be in-
tended chiefly to quiet eitiier his political
rulers, or those whom he calls '' the watch-
ful guardians of our &ith,'' who might easily
have imagined mischief to be meant, in
whatever they did not clearly understand.
Cervantes was nevertheless a good subject
and a good Catholic, and in no part of his
book are the symptoms of a contrary spirit
discoverable ; but that he had other objects,
besides the one he mentions, is sufficiently
manifest : objects in which he took quite as
much interest as in the one acknowledged.
In &ct nothing can be more clear than that
his purpose was unconfined and discursive ;
he was conscious of having it in his power
to instruct his countrymen in many things
that might be useful. He had an excellent
taste ; he had much knowledge of human
learning, and yet more of human nature.
These powers and materials the happy con-
ception of his plan enabled him to employ to
a good purpose; and though his critical
hero rode a hobby of his own, on which he
made a ridiculous figure, whenever he chose
to dismount, which was frequentiy, he al-
ways conducted himself with propriety and
grace.
Whatever the author might say against
the stories of knights-errant, it must be re-
marked, too, that he was by no means an
enemy to all the productions of that descrip-
tion, and that he carried his hostility only
against such as had neither sense nor inge-
nuity. Indeed, from the conversation be-
tween the canon of Toledo and the cii^te,
near the conclusion of the first Part, it
seems probable that he had meditated, and
actually made some progress in, a work of
the same kind himself, in the conviction, as
he there intimates, that it was possible to
write a book on the subject of chivalry
which men of sense might not be ashamed
to read. At a time when the world delighted
in fiction, it was not probable that a man of
his genius and fancy had escaped the common
taint : he could bear the marveüoiut, but
not the monstrous, and it was against this
he directed the point of his satire.
Nevertheless, profiting by the opportunity
that offered, he sent out his champion of
chivalry not merely to overthrow the follies
of that species of literature, but to encounter
and subdue any other kind of absurdity that
he might to chance to meet ; and to dis-
seminate trutii on a variety of topics. A
knight-errant, sallying forth in quest of
adventures among real human beings, unac-
customed to such reformers, he knew, could
-<Ly
8
PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.
not fail to produce entertainment even in the
simple narrative : especially when spiced with
such ingredients of wit and humour as he
could command ; and in making his half-
crazed hero the apostle of wisdom, — the
oracle of good sense and good taste, — ^besides
being in itself both new and whimsical, he
also would perceive many advantages, inas-
much as the lessons of such a teacher would
be the more impressive if they appeared to
be correct, and, if not, who could seriously
cavil at the errors of a lunatic?
But, whether the attack on the extrava-
gances of romance was principal or second-
ary in the Author's plan, it was attended
with more benefit to the world than he had
reckoned upon. While he only aimed to
reform the excesses of those fanciful histories,
he was compelled to have recourse to means
that tended powerfttUy to the destruction of
bad taste through all its ramifications. He
reprobated, in a manner which all approved,
certain works of literature with which all
had been pleased, — and what were the
grounds of his condemnation ? — because they
were fake and improbable. Thus the extras
ordinary success and popularity of his satire
contributed much to the general progress of
intellectual improvement, which at that time
had commenced in Europe, and to the intro-
duction of what was certainly a novelty then
in liie literary world — a relish for nature
and truth.
That Cervantes did not escape either the
lash of criticism or the tongue of slander,
ought to excite no astonishment ; they were
simply the natural efiects of a production of
that kind which no degree of excellence^ nor
purity of intention, could have prevented.
The calumnies of the maligpiant perish with
their autliors, and are therefore unworthy
of refutation. To his critical adversaries it
must be conceded that slight inaccuracies
occur in many parts of his work. Cervantes
had a dear perception of his main purpose,
and the spirit of his leading characters,
which he never lost sight of, and trusted
that, with this strong feeling, he should be
able to give sufficient consistency to tlie
texture of his narrative, and with that he
was satisfied. He certainly commenced his
labour without having carefully determined
on his mode of proceeding ; and, although
new ideas concerning the mechanism of his
tale arose from time to time as he advanced,
he neglected to look back in order to adjust
the several Parts to each other. Indeed the
whole—at least the whole of the first Part-
seems to have been composed with rapidity,
and delivered to the printer without revision.
The prominent features of the composition,
however, being correct, this looseness of
execution, producing no distortion, gives it
the grace of a spontaneous effusion, which,
if itself be entitled to no praise, should pro-
tect it from the serious reproof of those who
are susceptible of the charms of unrestrained
genius.
But to reproach the Author of a work of
so much talent and originality, so much wit
and wisdom, and of such moral purity, with
the trivial inaccuracies of a hasty execution,
almost such as the printer might, without a
breach of his duty, have corrected, surely
argues an insensibility to his transcendant
merit, and retorts the censure full upon the
critic ; yet such cavillers he found among
his contemporaries and countrymen. His
reply to these attacks, though evidentiy not
serious, appears, nevertheless, intended to
palliate the defects imputed to his book;
and, not choosmg to acknowledge the trutli,
he left it uncertain whether they were real
oversights or strokes of more concealed
satire. But he might have met the objec-
tions iairly ; and, when taunted with having
sometimes described the wart upon Don
Quixote's nose to be on the right, and some-
times on the left, side of that feature ; or with
having in one place declared that Sancho's
breeches were secured by a single brass point
in the front, and in another, that a leathern
thong performed that office behind — when
charged with these or similar enormities, he
might have said (if it were pardonable to
supply words to Cervantes,) " Have I in-
deed done so ? — by the beard of my grand-
mother ! I had no such intention. It is true
I make but light of these things, and there-
fore may often, I fear, have grievously
offended many nice observers : for which I
humbly crave their pardon, and yours also ;
but as I would be correct in all things, even
to a point, I entreat you to take the remedy
DON QUIXOTE.
9
into your own bands^ and on the margin of
my book, correct wherever you may find
occasioQ. Take especial care of the wart ;
and if the curate appear sometimes in a
beardy and at othere with none, in God's
name, let him be shaven whereyer he is
bearded, or supply him with a beard where-
erer you find him shorn: for either will
satisfy me ; let Sancho's breeches be sup-*
plied either with a button or a thong, as
shall best suit your taste; but, above all
things, let the squire be compelled to trudge
on foot, from the moment when his Dapple
V8S purloined by that rogue Gines de Pa&-
samonte, until his fortunate recovery ; and
thos the work being made, in your eyes,
more complete, return heaven thanks that it
had been so easily accomplished ; and more-
over be grateful, as I am, that matters of
greater moment had not caused 3'our dis-
quiet."
The enemies of our Author appear to have
been confined to that class of critics — to be
found in every country, whose organs are
exactly adapted to the comprehension of
little things. Capable only of the enjoy-
ment of small pleasures, they ñx only upon
diminutive &ults, which they discover with
a facility proportioned to their contracted
vision. The approbation of such critics is
disgrace; their censure, if it implies any
thing, praise. In literature, as in the other
elegant arts, the absence of error is not
essential to extraordinary excellence ; as in
men of a superior order of intellect, we even
look for defects as a necessary consequence
of their pre-eminence, which are therefore
not weighed against their high deserts; so
the productions of genius that rise far above
the ordinary level of merit, appear to sufier
DO deterioration from blemishes that would
not be endured in things of an inferior cast :
things which have no other claim to our
toleration than their faultless insipidity.
The works of Shakspeare are not more idol-
ized in his native country than is the Quixote
of Cervantes in Spain ; and, like the former,
its popularity is not less, at the present
moment, than ivhcn it was first produced.
Perhaps, indeed, having acquired the dig-
nity of an ancient, thereby uniting a degree
of reverence to admiration, the work of
Cervantes stands higher now in the estima-
tion of his countrymen than at any former
period.
With this high sense of its merits it is no
wonder that numerous editions of the origi-
nal have been published in Spain; but,
though from its first appearance it was read
with avidity, having had the good fortune,
or peculiar merit, to be generally understood,
it was long before it attracted the notice of
commentators. As time rolled on, however,
and the period of Cervantes receded into
that obscurity which called for the light of
learning, annotations accumulated, till, like
other works of classical celebrity, become
venerable firom age, it now appears in ex-
panded bulk, equipped with a full suit o£
learned accompaniments, and with all the
pageantry that editorial ingenuity has in-
vented for the honour of departed genius.
Gorgeously attired in paraphernalia of
this kind, an edition issued irom the Royal
Academy of Madrid, in 1788; and if the
light difiiised by that elaborate publication
was not equal to its promise, it was at least
a magnificent testimony of national respect
to the Author, and therefore honourable
both to him and his country. But if tliat
production of the Spanish Academy hap-
pened to be more brilliant than luminous,
the same cannot be said of the edition of
M. Pellicer, Librarian to the King, pub-
lished in 1808. From the zeal and indefa-
tigable industry of that learned gentleman
the Spanish text has received many improve-
ments, which therefore is probably now in
a better state than when it was first printed.
To him we are also indebted for several ad-
ditions to the life of our Author which are
not unimportant, and have besides the merit
of authenticity. In his numerous annota-
tions he has displayed much erudition in
tracing the sources whence the Author drew
his supplies ; in pointing out the passages in
the old romances alluded to in the Quixote ;
in detailing at large the historical facts which
are there mentioned ; and in collecting bio-
graphical and critical information concerning
the several authors whose writings Cervantes
'&
IC
PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.
had either directly or indirectly noticed in
his book. These exertions have produced a
great assemblage of miscellaneous matter, of
which, however, a very large proportion is
either but slighüy connected with the sub-
ject of the work, or interesting chiefly to
the Spanish reader.
To tiiis most careful, and, it may be pre-
sumed, &ithfu]^ republication of the original,
the present English edition of Don Quixote
refers, in whatever relates to the text The
concise account of the life of Cervantes,
which is here given, has been extracted en-
tirely from the more prolix and extended
memoir, on that subject, published in the
same edition of M. Pellicer. Though short,
it contains all that is certainly known con-
cerning our Author, and also such circum-
stances of his life as have been generally
thought wortiiy of credit, although not rest-
ing on the most satisfactory authority, which
indeed is the case with too much of what has
been hitherto related of that great man.
Reports of unknown origin, casual hints
dropt by Cervantes himself, have been
moulded into facts by his zealous biogra-
phers : anxious to give something like form
and substance to the corporeal existence of
a man whose intellectual fame was likely to
live out the full period of human glory. It
will be seen, therefore, that some of the
particulars formerly admitted as worthy of a
place among the acknowledged events of his
life have been relinquished^ as either impro-
bable or not suffidentiy authenticated : for,
in cases where truth is the desideratum, un-
certainty and ignorance are equally objec-
tionable; and it matters little, if correct
information be denied, whether we are be-
guiled by conjecture, or deceived by positive
falsehood.
From the voluminous mass of annotations
published by M. Pellicer, all such notes
have been selected as appeared to throw
light upon the text, as well as several others
which, though not equally useful as illustra-
tions, will, perhaps, be thought curious from
the novelty or value of the information they
contain. Few critical observations have
been admitted ; and, generally, all such as,
in the former editions, have served to shew
where it was supposed the Author imitated
or referred to the old legends, have been re-
jected. The Author's sole purpose in these
allusions was to give his story sufficient re-
semblance to the originals, to support the
character of his burlesque knight-errant.
But as his object, as before observed, was
less to ridicule those fictitious tales them-
selves, simply as being untrue, than to re-
prove the fiedse taste which could be amused
with fabrications so devoid of probability
and common sense, it appears quite unneces-
sary to be at any pains to prove, by cited
passages, the accuracy of an imitation^ from
which, however successful, no pleasure could
be derived. The adventures of our '^Hidalgo''
would lose none of their interest were the
chronicles of Don Belianis, Palmerin of En-
gland, and the rest of their associates alto-
gether lost in oblivion. In iact, except by
name, those heroes and their exploits are
now utterly unknown to many who read,
with as much relish as ever they were read,
the chivalries of Don Quixote. Cervantes
has himself shewn the legitimacy of his
satire, as far as regards the histories of
knights-errant; and convinced his readers
that the objects of his reprehension were
chiefly remarkable for stupidity or extrava-
gance ; and that, if some, by their superior
ingenuity, might claim an exemption from
the curate's purgation, the far greater
number were a disgrace to literature.
Of the historical facts, of his own prece-
ding times, which the Author has contrived
to interweave into his story, it may also be
observed that, with few exceptions, all such
as are of importance to the tale, being snffi-
cientiy described in the text, require neither
proof nor explanation ; and elaborate stric-
tures on such as are of no moment only en-
cumber the work, and harass the reader.
There is no production, especially of a dis-
cursive kind, like the Quixote, to which a
whole library may not be appended, if what-
ever can suggest a remark must have its
particular series of animadversions.
In omitting illustrations which, from their
having been sanctioned by the best editors,
might be considered as established accom-
paniments of the work, some explanation
may be necessary. It will probably be ob-
served that the map or chart, containing a
@=
'U
DON QUIXOTE.
11
p&it of Spain, on which it has been nsual to
trace the supposed path of our fictitious
hero, is not here introduced. This geogra-
phical documenta which first appeared in
the edition of the Spanish Academy, was
supplied, no doubt, in compliance with the
common practice, so usefiil, and indeed so
necessary, in the published accounts of real
traTellers ; but in the narrative of a journey
where the whole is a fabrication, to publish
maps or views of actaally existing places or
countries, merely because they happened to
be there mentioned, is not only unnecessary,
bat injurious, as it produces an ofiensive
mixture of truth and fiüsehood. The Au-
thor himself mig'ht have had recourse to such
an expedient for the purposes of humour ;
he might have heig^htened the feigned au-
thenticity of his story by an affectation of
veracity ; but, if neglected by him, his future
publisher was surely not authorised to supply
the deficiency — ^unless it should appear that
the work was unintelligible without it, or
that it was in some way improved by such
an addition — which, however, is not the
fiust ; on the contrary, the only effect pro-
duced by it is to shew that the Author,
knowing it to be unnecessary, paid very
little attention to the geographical correct-
ness of his tale ; and consequently those who
are anxious to find every part of the fiction
square with the pretended fects must either
be offended with his carelessness or surprised
at his ignorance.
From these considerations, as well as the
respect which is due to the Author, who, in
composing his book, could have had no ex-
pectation of its being exposed to such trials,
the map has been omitted ; and also from a
conviction that the route of our romantic
adventurer will be much more advantage-
ously traced in the imagination of the reader.
~C:')
MEMOIRS
OF
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.
IhflGUBL DB CbBV ANTES SaATEDRA YTBB
bom in tbe year 1547, aDcL^ although the
exact day of his nativity is unknown, docu-
ments have recently been found which prove
his baptism to have taken place that year on
tlie 0th of October, in the city of Alcalá de
llenares, in the province of Castile : a dis-
covery which may be said to have decided
those long controverted questions respecting
the age and birth-place of thfit great man.
Of the circumstances of his early life no
traces have yet been discovered ; that he re-
ceived a liberal education may be inferred
from his works, and also from the testimony
of the learned philologist, Juan Lopez de
Hoyos, professor of languages and the belles
lettres at the University of Madrid, who ex-
pressly calls him his " beloved pupil," in an
account published by him of the death and
funeral obsequies of the Queen Isabella de
Valois. In the same publication he likewise
introduces an elegy, and other verses, written
by this favourite scholar, whence it may be
concluded that, at the time of the queen's
death, in 1568, Cervantes resided at Madrid.
That he was at Home in the year 1570 in
the situation of chamberlain to the Cardinal
Aquaviva, we have the authority of Cer-
vantes himself, and his removal thither may
be thus accounted for. It is well known
that Julio Aquaviva was sent to Spain on a
mission from Pope Pius the Fifth to Philip
the Second, and that on his return he was
raised to the dignity of cardinal ; possibly
therefore it was during this embassy and his
residence in the capital of Spain that he met
with Cervantes, and prevailed upon him to
join his suite and accompany him to Italy.
In the service of the cardinal, however,
he did not continue long, for early in the
following year a league was formed betweeu
the Holy See, Spain, and the Republic of
Venice, against Selim, Emperor of the Turks :
a circumstance that proved too powerful a
temptation for Cervantes to resist, who at
that penod of his life had doubtless the
warmth of imagination and romantic gal*
lantry of a crusader. Accordingly he quitted
his peaceful occupations for the pursuit of
military glory, and followed the fortunes of
Marco Antonio Colonna, who commanded
the forces of the Ecclesiastical State.
The early feats in arms of our adventurer
are not recorded, therefore of what he did,
or what he attempted, nothing is known ex-
cept that he was one of the heroes in the
celebrated naval engagement which took
place in the Gulph of Lepanto, where he
received the maim in his left hand to which
he alludes in several of his works, and exults
in its being obtained on so memorable an oc-
casion. Happily his wound was not so severe
as to incapacitate him for further service ;
since it is evident from the very minute and
accurate account he gives in the narrative of
the Captive, introduced in Don Quixote, that
he was engaged in the campaign of the fol-
lowing year, 1572, on the coast of the Morea ;
and also, as he declares in his Dedication to
The Galatea, that he continued for two oi
^^
=^
CERVANTES.
13
three saccesdve years to fight under the
victorious bannere of the Pope's general, as
well as afterwards iu the Neapolitan army.
Hitherto he seems to have proceeded in
the coiuse of life he had chosen without im-
pediment ; but suddenly his career of glory
was interrupted by one of those incidents
which too frequently occur in that part of
the world. In the course of the year 1675,
while on his passage irom Naples to Spain
on board a galley called the Sun, he un-
fortunately, by the capture of that vessel,
fell into the hands of the Moors, and was
carried by them to Algiers, where he was
exposed to all the miseries of slavery. A
detailed account of his wretched situation
daring the period of his captivity, and the
repeated attempts he made to effect his escape,
is given by Fr. Diego de Haedo, in his
" Topografía de Argel."
In that state of complicated suffering Cer-
vantes remained five years and a half, during
which time he had been subject to two mas-
ters; the first was Dali Mami, sumamed
the Lame, a Greek renegado, implacable in
hb hatred to Christians, and of a most brutal
disposition ; the other was Hassan Aga, a
Venetian by birth, and a renegado of the
celebrated Ochali, by whose influence and
authority he was made the sovereign of Al-
giers. Thb Hassan was rapacious, inhuman,
and violent to excess — a scourge both to
Christians and Moors ; and therefore Haedo
was no doubt perfectly justified in asserting
that none of the victims of Algerine slavery
were more grievously burthened than our
amiable and excellent Spaniard.
Cervantes being among the number of
those who were expected to be ransomed,
yv^s confined in a kind of prison, called by
the Moors a bath, where the wretched in-
mates were fettered and exposed to hunger
and nakedness ; and to these privations hard
labour was frequently added, that they might
become more importunate for their ransom.
Among the many fruitless attempts he made
to escape during the long period of his con-
finement, it is related that, on one occasion
in 1577, he was on the point of accomplish-
ing his object, but failed through the treachery
of a slave. He had concealed himself, with
fourteen other captives, within a cave in a
garden belonging to the Alcayda Hassan,
situated near the sea shore ; which hiding-
place they made choice of in consequence of
their having entered into a treaty with a
native of Majorca, named Viana, who had
just been ransomed, and was returning to his
own country. This man pledged himself to
obtain a frigate from the viceroy of Majorca,
and return with it to the African shore,
whence, having found means to convey them
on board, he should transport them to Spain.
The project was known only to the gardener
and a slave who supplied them with food
and other necessarits.
Conformable to his promise, Viana pro-
cured a firigate and returned with it to Al*
giers on the 28th of September at midnight ;
but| on the point of landing, he was un-
fortunately observed by some of the inha-
bitants, who raised an alarm, which com-
pelled him to retreat and abandon the enter-
prise. In the mean time the captives remained
in their place of concealment, suffering from
the dampness of the cave and from their want
of air and light, all anxiously waiting the
arrival of their deliverers ; instead of which,
Viana had retired, and, to aggravate their
misfortune, they were betrayed by the above-
mentioned slave, who had been made ac-
qudnted with their secret. They were im-
mediately seized by the troops of Hassan Aga,
**by whose command," — as Padre Haedo
says, '^ especial care was taken to bind Miguel
de Cervantes, who was the projector of tlie
enterprise, and therefore regarded as the most
culpable." They were all sent to the Bath,
excepting Cervantes, whom Hassan detained
some time in his palace, endeavouring by
artful interrogations, as well as violent
menaces, to induce him to implicate another
person as accessory to the plot ; but Cervantes
persisted in taking the whole responsibility
on himself. From avaricious motives the
tyrant was particularly anxious to find among
his accomplices P. F. Jorge Oliver, — one of
the Fathers of the Redemption, then at Al-
giers, that he might have a plea for extorting
larger sums from him by way of composi-
tion.
Cervantes was now purchased by the king
for ñye hundred crowns, for he declared
"thvLt he could not think his captives,
=@)
14
MEMOIRS OF
his vessels, nor even his city, in security,
onless that wounded Spaniard was stricüy
guarded."
On the tyranny and barbarity of this
second master, Cervantes enlarges in the
Captive's story in Don Quixote ; though it
appears that he was himself treated by him
with less rigour than might have been expected
from the king's known opinion of his dan-
gerous character, and his frequent endeavooiB
to escape. His deliverance was, however,
at length effected in the regular way of ran-
som. On the twenty-ninth of May, 1580,
Fr. Juan Gil on the part of Castile, and Fr.
Antonio de la Bella for Andalusia, arrived
at Algiers to redeem the captives of those
provinces ; for which purpose they were sup-
plied by pious contributions, and by such
sums as the captives themselves, or their
kindred, were able to collect. The mother
of Cervantes, now a widow, contributed two
hundred and sixty ducats, and his sister,
Donna Andrea de Cervantes, fifty more.
This lady was the wife of Sancti Ambrosio,
a Florentine, and resided with her mother at
Madrid, at the time when this money was
placed in the hands of Father Gil. They
described the captive, whom it was their de-
sire to redeem, to be a native of Alcalá,
thirty-three years of age, disabled in his left
hand, and slave to Ali Mami : — not knowing,
as it would appear, that he had been pur-
chased by the king.
Hassan Aga demanded five hundred
crowns of gold for his prisoner, and threat-
ened, in case of refusal, to send him to Con-
stantinople, which would exclude all hope
of his redemption. The deficiency in his
ransom-money was therefore supplied by
Father Gil from the benefactions in his
possession, and Cervantes finally obtained
his release on the 19th of September, 1580.
The details of this transaction are still extant
in the original documents of the redemption
of that year, preserved in the Convent of
the Holy Trinity ; and Cervantes has shewn
that he was not ungrateful for the signal
benefit he had received, by the high eulogium
he bestowed on that Order in his novel of
'^ La Española Inglesa."
Cervantes was restored to his native coun-
try early in. the year 1581, and fixed his
Ú^
residence at Madrid. But he now found
himself so low in fortune that he was com-
pelled to have recourse to his literary talents.
He wrote plays, which he disposed of to
the theatrical managers, and was among tbe
first of those who contributed to raise tlie
drama from the rude state in which it was
left by its founders, Lope de Rueda, Juan
Correa, Navarro, and Herrera, to the respect-
able rank which it had acquired when Lope
de Vega and others commenced their career.
In the year 1584, he published La Galatea,
a pastoral novel, which, notwithstanding
those defects pointed out by himself^ certainly
possesses considerable merit both in verse and
prose : displaying great ingenuity of inven-
tion, delicacy of feeling, and correctness of
style. Many of the characters introduced
into this pastoral were those of living per-
sons ; and it is generally supposed that, under
the name of the shepherd Elicio, he cele-
brated his own passion for Donna Catalina,
to whom he was married on the 12t2i of De-
cember in the same year. This lady was
the daughter of Fernando de Salazar y
Yoxmediano and Catalina and de Palacios.
The legal instrument of her marriage con-
tract has lately been found in the public
registry of Esquivias. It contains an in-
ventory of lands, household furniture and
utensils, and live stock, promised in dowry
by her mother: consequently her father
could not then have been living. The list
presents a curious detail of articles, begin-
ning with several vineyards, amounting in
the whole to twelve acres, and then descend-
ing to a considerable number of items, con-
sisting of beds, chairs, brooms, brushes,
poultry, with sundry sacks of flour. The
dowry was respectable in those times, when
a sack of wheat was valued at eight reals.
By the same record, the amount of Cer-
vantes's property at this period is ascer-
tained ; the settlement he made upon his
wife is there stated to be one hundred ducats :
— ^being the tenth part of his whole posses-
sions, which must therefore have amounted
to a thousand ducats, either acquired by
himself or inherited fiY>m his fiither : for his
mother was then married to a second hus-
band— N. Sotomayor. This sum at the
present period would be equivalent to thirty
m
a-
CERVANTES.
15
or forty thousand reals, or about £450
sterling.
It is also manifest by this document that
Cervantes was now established at Esquivias,
and employed himself, like other neighbour-
ing landholders, in the care of his estate.
He neyertheless contrived to sweeten the
toils or the cares of husbandry with litera-
ture, and wrote dramatic pieces, which he
endeavoured to turn to his profit. A play
in the time of Lope de Vega commonly pro-
daced eighty reals, and, according to his own
account, Cervantes wrote between twenty
and thirty in number. From different pub-
lications of his, it appears probable that he
remained at Esquivias till about the year
1588, when he fixed his resideifbe at Seville.
In the prefiice to bis Plays, he says, " I
now found other avocations; I laid aside
my pen and took leave of the drama.''
Possibly he might have been induced to go
to Seville, from having relations established
there ; for Rodrigo de Silva speaks of the
illustrious family of the Cervantes and
Saavedras of that city. Cervantes himself,
in his *^ Canto de Caliope," extols Gonzalo
de Cervantes de Saavedra, as a distinguished
soldier and poet ; and another of the same
name and family, likewise a native of Se-
ville, is mentioned as a well known author,
by Don Nicolas Antonio, in his Bibl. Hisp.
Nov. Whatever might have been the oc-
cupations of Cervantes while he continued
at Seville, it is manifest, by circumstances
which will hereafter be mentioned, that he
found employment there, as a mercantile
agent. He resided so long in that city
that it gave rise to the opinion, which pre-
vailed even during his life, of its being the
place of his birth.
Though our Author found other employ-
ment during his residence at Seville, that
induced him to lay aside his pen, it did not
prevent him from taking it up occasionally,
for, in the year 1595, a poetical prize was
awarded to him by the Convent of St.
Domingo at Saragossa, being one of seven
offered by them that year, on their festival
of the canonization of St. Jacinthus. Upon
this occasion, competition was not confined
to their ovni city^ but was solicited from
different towns in Spain, and Cervantes sent
his verses from Seville, as appeared by the
poetical sentence delivered by the judge,
which was highly complimentary to him.
Another poetical document, now in the
Royal library, proves that Cervantes was
still at Seville in 1596 ; it was suggested by
the pompous but tardy military preparations
made in that city against the attack upon
Cadiz by the English under the command
of the Earl of Essex, who disembarked his
troops, sacked the city, and, after remaining
there twenty-four days, had set sail again
for England, when the Duke of Medina, at
the head of his army^ made a nourishing
entrance to defend it.
The last intimation of our Author's resi-
dence at Seville was in 1598. Daring that
year Philip II. of Spain died, and the funeral
rites to his memory were solemnised there
with extraordinary magnificence. They
were however for a long time suspended, in
consequence of a vehement dispute which
arose between the court and the Holy
Inquisition, on account of the Regent having
ordered his seat to be covered with black
cloth. This circumstance has furnished
Cervantes with a subject for a sonnet^ to
which he alludes himself, with some com-
placency in his Viage del Parnaso. It has
been reprinted in the " Parnaso Español,
tom. ix."
The six following years of our Autiior's
life are left in obscurity^ and can be sup-
plied only by conjecture. In 1605 he ap-
pears again to us, residing at Valladolid,
but whether he went to that city immedi-
ately from Seville, or had in the intermediate
time visited other parts, is not known ; from
evidence, however, which will be hereafter
mentioned, it would appear that, in 1605,
he had been resident one year at Valladolid ;
and it is possible that he left Seville for that
place. Yet Cervantes has shewn such an
intimate knowledge of the general features
of La Mancha, and so much information
respecting its topography, the manners,
customs, and dress of its inhabitants, tiiat
it is probable he had passed some time in that
district, and his residence there may have
been during the interval which had not been
accounted for. There is a tradition of some
authority, yet current, which seems to
=©
1)
MEMOIRS OF
corroborate this opinion. It is said that in
Consuegra, the chief city of the Priorate of
St. John, the magistrate who superintends
the collecting of the tithes due to the Grand
Prior of that Order^ and who is authorised
to appoint commissioners to enforce payment
firora those who are tardy in the discharge of
their arrears, sent Miguel de Cervantes with
an execution ag^nst some of the inhabitants
of Argamasilla de Alba ; upon which they
combined against him, and not only con-
trived, as was fí^uently done^ to have his
powers contested by their magistracy, but
had him throlvn into prison. There are
many vouchers for this oral tradition, among
others, Don Manuel Rodado, curate of
Totanes, in the diocese of Toledo, and a
native of Argamasilla. - If this be admitted,
the above-mentioned void in the life of Cer-
vantes is supplied, and at the same time we
discover the accident to which we owe the
history of Don Quixote, whom he makes a
Manchcgan ; and in the return for the in-
hospitality he experienced from its inhabi-
tants, thus immortalizes their province.
Whether this account be true or not, it is
generally believed that his Don Quixote
was actually written in a prison : an opinion
chiefly founded on the authority of that
passage in the preface where he says " What
could be expected from a mind, sterile and
uncultivated like mine, but a dry, meagre,
fantastical thing, full of strange conceits, and
that might be well engendered in a prison
— the dreadful abode of care, where nothing
is heard but sounds of wretchedness ?"
It is extraordinary that in such a situa-
tion, a work of so much taste, humour, and
invention, could have been produced ; for
though he was not the first who wrote under
such circumstances, — Boethius, Jeronymo
Magius, Grotius, Pellison, Buchanan, and
many others, having employed themselves in
the same manner, during their imprisonment,
yet he alone has shewn so happy a temper-
ament of mind as to be able to compose
within the walls of a prison a work of ex-
quisite relish and humour.
The First Part of the History of Don
Quixote was published in 1604, and in the
Preface the Author alludes not only to his
retracted absence from Madrid, but the long
interval during which he had laid aside his
pen for other occupations. ** How !" he says,
** shall I not be confounded with the taunts
of that old law-maker, the vulgar, when^
after so long a silence, I now, forsooth, come
out, at this time of day, with a legend as
dry as a rush," &c. It was, doubtless,
therefore, the first work he had produced
since his plays.
The Don Quixote was received by the
Public with universal approbation, or rather,
as the Duchess of the story truly says, " h
was ushered into the world with the general
applause of nations." Don Vincente de Bios,
on the authority of a very questionable re-
port, has affirmed in his life of Cervantes,
that the Duke de Bexar, to whom this work
was dedicated, conceiving it to be merely a
chivalrous tale, at first declined the honour
proposed to him, lest it should disgrace his
name, but, that having read one chapter, he
acknowledged its merits^ and readily admitted
the dedication.
By the same biographer, it is likewise said
that the first reception of this work from tlie
Public was unfavourable; for that people
in general, being incapable of perceiving the
delicate irony which prevails through it,
were disappointed that it contained nothing
of the marvellous ; that Cervantes, therefore,
finding it was read by those who could not
understand it, and neglected by those to
whom it would be intelligible, published the
** Busca-pié," as a sort of key to the Quix-
ote, which was said to be a concealed, though
pointed, satire on several well known persons
of distinction, among whom were Charles V.
and the Duke of Lerma. Waving all ani-
madversions on the credulity of some, and
the integrity of others, a few observations
will suffice to refute these assertions.
In the first place, Don Alonso Lopez de
Zunega, Duke de Bexar, was extolled in his
time, not only as the Mecsenas of the age,
but as a man of literary talents himself. It
is likewise probable that he entertained, in
common with the nobles of the court of
Philip II., a partiality for books of chivalry,
and as Cervantes had already acquired con-
siderable reputation by his Galatea, it can
hardly be supposed that he would have re-
jected the ofiered Dedication, even had he
=@
r(f=^)
CERVANTES.
17
believed it to be only a tale of chivalry. As
for its receptioii with the Public, it is cer-
tain that the taste of the uncultivated was
gratified in this work by tiie marvellous,
seasoned with pleasantry, and that much of
the satire might be generally understood,
particularly at a period when the romances
of chivalry were so extensively read and
known ; (Jervantes himself says, " Children
thumb it, boys read it, men understand it,
and the old commend it.'' It seems therefore
to have been very unnecessary to assist either
the popularity or comprehension of his book
by the publication of the Busca-pié.
No stronger proof can be adduced of the
iavourable reception of a book than the
number of its editions. Three, if not four,
were published of the Don Quixote, during
the same year, 1605, when it first appeared :
the first in Madrid by Juan de la Cuesta ;
the second in Valencia by Pedro Patricio
Mey ; the third in Lisbon by Jorge Rodri-
guez ; another also is mentioned by Bowles
as having been published at Madrid. Lastly,
it may be observed that the Busca-pié is
anonymous, and there is not the least autho-
rity for ascribing it to the pen of Cervantes.
Besides the arguments that have been ad-
duced against the necessity of such a pub-
lication, it is utterly improbable, from the
character and avowed sentiments of Cer-
i^ntes, that he would thus have attacked
the character of any individual, much less
that of the Emperor, of whom he always
spoke with veneration, or of the Duke of
Lerma, on whom he pronounces the highest
encomiums in his Persiles, although it is
possible, from his not dedicating the Second
Part of the Quixote to him, that he had
afterwards some reason to be dissatisfied with
that nobleman; — indeed ho expressly dis-
claims all individual satire or personal allu-
sions. The Busca-pié then is surely not
written by Cervantes, but by some writer
who has amused himself in endeavouring to
detect malicious satire in a work totally
devoid of it.
An anecdote mentioned by Balthazar Por-
TeLo, in his Life of Philip III., proves the
estimation in which the Quixote was held
by all ranks of people. One day as Philip
was standing out in a balcony of his palace
at Madrid, he observed a student reading on
the banks of the river Manzanares, who
seemed to be repeatedly interrupted in his
occupation by the excess of his delight,
striking his forehead and exhibiting other
tokens of the extraordinai^y amusement which
his book afibrded him. <' Either that stu-
dent is mad," said the king, '< or he is read-
ing Don Quixote." Upon enquiry it proved
that Philip was right in his conjecture, for
it was actually that popular book which the
student was reading.
Although it would hence appear that talent
was appreciated, it was nevertheless left un-
rewarded; for this testimony of the king's
respect for the work was accompanied by
no mark of royal favour or liberality towards
the Author. Genius indeed was universally
neglected by that Court, and Padre Mariana,
with his usual frankness, observes that, '* In
Castile, literature was in a Avretched state,
meeting neither with respect nor encourage-
ment^the lucrative arts alone were held in
any estimation."
This neglect of literature was, however,
not confined to the Court of Spain : England
was equally neglectful of the inimitable author
of Hudibras. The life of Butler, indeed,
bears a strong analogy to that of Cervantes,
of whose work, this witty satirist, in his
burlesque poem, has evidently availed him-
self; for as the intellects of one hero are
disordered by the follies of chivalry, so are
those of the other by the extravagances of
fanaticism ; the knight Hudibras has also
his esquire — but a hypocritical knave, very
difierent in character from the simple rustic,
Sancho Panza.
It is also probable that the memoirs of
Martinus Scriblerus, another English satiie
on the abuse of literature and scientific
pedantry, was suggested by the Quixote.
Cervantes did not escape the attacks of
envy, which the success of this work ex-
cited ; and many chose to be ofiended at the
freedom of his criticisms. The writers, as
well as the numerous readers, of tales of
chivalry considered themselves as ridiculed
by it ; the various poets and dramatic writers
whose works had been noticed unfavourably
by him were displeased, and his remarks on
Iiope de Vega, in particular, whose popu-
r.(^
o
18
MEMOIRS OF
larity was almost without ezample, excited
great indignation among his friends and ad-
mirers. Their zeal indeed was often mani-
fested by their warm and even intemperate
defence of his reputation against the occa-
sional attacks of his contemporaries, and to
this cause may be attributed many of the
invectives thrown out against the Quixote.
In the year 1605, Philip IV. was bom,
and about the same time the English admiral,
Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham, went
to Spain to ratify the peace agreed upon in
the preceding year with James I. In cele-
bration of these joyful events, a magnificent
festival ^'as held at Yalladolid for the space
of fifteen days, of which an excellent de-
scription was published at the time. This
narrative, there is great reason to believe^
was written by Cervantes himself, from the
mention that is made of it in a manuscript
satirical poem in the Royal Library, ascribed
to Don Louis de Gongora ; it is quoted by
Don Juan Yañez and extolled by Vincente
Espinel, and is probably one among those
productions of our Author "which," he
says in his Preface to the Novels, " wander
about, without the name of their master."
In the month of June, in the same year, an
accidental circumstance occurred at Yallado-
lid, which is interesting inasmuch as it brings
before the public a full detail of the domestic
establishment and avocations of Cervantes at
that time. A gentleman named Don Gaspar
de Ezpeleta, a knight of St. James, returning
home at about ten o'clock, one night, from a
visit to his friend the Marquis de Falces, was
encountered near the wooden bridge, over the
river Esqueva, by a man who endeavoured to
impede his progress ; they were
both armed, and an afiiray en-
sued, in which Gaspar was
mortally wounded. Feeling
his situation, he staggered to
the door of a neighbouring
house, and called for assist-
ance ; it happened that part
of this house was then inha-
bited by Cervantes. Don Stephen, son of
the widow Donna Louisa de Montoya, ano-
ther of its inmates, alarmed by the cries
of the wounded man, hastened down stairs,
and seeing Don Gktspar at the entrance door,
with his sword unsheathed, and himself
streaming with blood, he called out to his
neighbour Miguel de Cervantes, who came
and assisted him in conveying the wounded
man into his mother's apartment. The sur-
geon, who was then summoned, pronounced
his wounds to be mortal. His friend, the
Marquis de Falces, with the officers of jus-
tice, soon arrived, who, after the wounded
man had received the sacrament, entered
into a judicial investigation of the afikir.
In the deposition he made before his death,
which took place within two days, he stated
what has already been mentioned ; he ac-
quitted his unknown adversary of the impu-
tation of having taken any dishonourable
advantage of him, and confessed that he
was the first to draw his sword.
The declaration made on this occasion by
Cervantes, is as follows: "In the city of
Yalladolid, on the 27th of May, 1606, an
affidavit was made by Miguel de Cervantes,
who is above fifty years of age, and resides
in one of the new houses near the Rastro.
Witness deposed that he knew by sight a
knight of the order of St. James, called Don
Gaspar de Ezpeleta; that as witness was
lying in his bed, about eleven o'clock at
night, he heard loud cries in the street, that
he was called upon by Don Stephen to assist
him in carrying a man, who was the
wounded person in question ; that a barber
arrived, in a short time after, and dressed
the wound, which was above the groin ;
that Don Gaspar, on being questioned who
had given him the wound, refused to make
any reply : this is the truth upon oath, and
is signed by*
Notwithstanding the strictest investiga-
tion, they could find no clue to discover tlie
perpetrators of the homicide, but fi^m the
** This signature is a fac- simile of that written br
Cerrantes, and copied from the original document.
fi¿)=
CERVANTES.
19
I ñhiatíoii in Tvhich the afiray had iaken
I place, it wa« supposed that it must haye been
L on account of some woman, and that the
'i aggressor had come out of one of the new
; houses. This suspicion was confirmed by
' ! an&Tourable reports respecting the character
of some ladies who inhabited the house in
I' which he took refuge, and which he had
' occasionaUy frequented; it was therefore
■ determined by the magistrates that a general
I scrutiny should be made of all its inhabi-
1: tants.
*, This house consisted of five sets of cham-
{{ hers besides a tayem. The principal floor
: to the right was occupied by Donna Louisa,
I widow of Stephen de Garibay y Samalloa,
above forty years of age; her son, Don
I Stephen de Garibay, a clergyman, and her
'' daughter Donna Louisa.
■ The same floor on the left hand was oc-
cupied by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,
fifty-seven years of age ; his wife, Donna
Catalina de Salazar y Yozmediano ; Donna
I Isabel de Saavedra, natural daughter of
I Cervantes, twenty years of age, unmarried ;
Donna Andrea de Cervantes, widow, his
sister, above fifty years of age; her un-
married daughter, aged twenty-eight years ;
Donna Magdalena de Sotomayor, half-sister
I to Cervantes, who was devoted to a religious
i life : these and a female servant, Maria de
Cevallos, formed the household of Cervantes.
; On the second floor to the right, lived
! Donna Juana Gay tan, aged thirty-five, and
widow of the elegant poet Pedro Laynez ;
her unmarried niece, twenty years of age ;
\ Donna Maria de Argomado, a widow, and
¡ her unmarried sister. Donna Louisa de Ayala,
1' s^ed twenty-two ; Rodrigo Montero, who
held some situation under the Duke of
Lerma, and his wife Donna Geronima, aged
twenty-three. The same floor to the left
was occupied by Donna Mariana Ramirez,
\ a widow, her mother, and some young chil-
dren. On the third story resided the widow
of the Doctor Espinosa, above forty years
of age, devoted to a religious life.
One of the first witnesses examined was
I the woman servant of Cervantes, and her
j report was ñivourable to the family. The
I next who was examined was the widow on
|, the third story; she accused Donna Mariana
Ramirez of maintaining an intercourse of a
suspicious nature with Don Diego de Mi-
randa. She stated likewise that some persons
frequented the apartments of Cervantes, who
had not escaped the animadversions of his
neighbours, particularly Don Hernando de
Toledo, Señor de Cigales, and a Portuguese,
named Simon Méndez. Moreover, that the
ladies, on the second story to the right, ad-
mitted gentlemen to visit them at all hours,
among others the Duke de Pastrana, the
Count de Concentayna, and the Señor de
Cigales. Another Witness aflirmed that the
deceased yisited these ladies.
In consequence of these examinations, a
warrant was issued for the apprehension of
Miguel de Cervantes, his daughter, his
sister, and his niece ; Donna Maria de Ar-
gomado and her sister. Donna Juana Gay-
tan, and her niece, besides Donna Mariana
Ramirez, Don Diego de Miranda, and the
Portuguese. From the various depositions
of these persons, only such passages will be
extracted as have any connection with
Cervantes.
Donna Constance de O^^ndo, the niece of
Cervantes, was questioned. *'Whom did
Simon Méndez visit in those chambers?
Did he usually go during the day or the
night?'' She replied that Simon Méndez
had occasionally visited her uncle, Miguel
de Cervantes, on the subject of business.
Witness was again asked whether Don Her-
nando visited by day or night, and to whom
his visits were paid ? To which she replied
that, during the year she had inhabited that
city, the said Don Hernando had held one
interview with her uncle at night, on some
aflairs which he transacted for him at Seville
and Valladolid.
Donna Andrea de Cervantes, on being
asked what persons had entered her abode
for some days and nights previous to the
accident, said, in reply, that several persons
had yisited her brother, M. de Cervantes,
as a writer and man of business, oras a
fi'iend, on account of his abilities. Witness,
on being asked whether Simon Méndez fre-
quented the house on account of her niece
Donna Isabel, said that he had sometimes
called upon her brother about certain bonds,
which, by his desire, he had negociated for
-@
20
MEMOIRS OF
him at Toledo, on account of rents received,
and that he never visited them on any other
occasion. The deposition of his daughter
Isabel was of the same import : she only
said, in addition, that her fatíier had become
acquainted with Don Hernando when at
Seville.
Donna Juana Gaytan being questioned
as to what she knew of the deceased, Don
Graspar de Ezpeleta, said that she knew him
fourteen years since, when, at Madrid, he
had visited her husband, the paymaster;
that he had called upon her about three
months ago, to condole with her on her
husband's decease. And, being asked what
other persons visited her and Donna Maria,
she said that the Duke de Patrafia, and the
Count de Concentayna, with his attendants,
had been to them twice or three times on
account of two volumes of the works of her
deceased husband, which she had inscribed
to the Duke, who had called to acknowledge
the compliment.
The result of this scrutiny was that Cer-
vantes and the other inmates of the house
were released on bail, but confined to their
chambers. Simon Méndez remained in
prison, and Don Diego de Miranda was or-
dered to quit the city within fifteen days.
The former were at length released by a
memorial soliciting their freedom, presented
by Donna Andrea de Cervantes, in which,
moreover, she prays, on behalf of Miguel de
Cervantes, that he may be relieved of the
charge of Don Caspar's apparel, which was
rotting fix>m the blood that covered them.
This criminal process remains among the
records of the Court prison, and, from the
evidence thus brought forth, it appears that
Cervantes at that period acted as a mercan-
tile agent at Valladolid and Seville.
The Court being again transferred from
Valladolid to Madrid, Cervantes followed it,
and again fixed his residence in that city,
where he passed the remainder of his life.
From the complaints that still appeared in
his writings, it is evident that, notwithstand-
ing his claims both on account of his military
services and literary labours, his circum-
stances were still depressed. In 1610, when
Pedro de Castres, Count de Lemos, was
appointed viceroy of Naples^ he had enter-
(lD^
tained hopes of procuring some public situa-
tion under him, as the Count was considered
a patron of literature, and was himself not
without literary pretensions ; and he had in-
vited to his Court the two poets, Lupercius
and Bartolomeo Argensola, the former of
whom he made his secretary. In that de-
partment there were many situations of which
they had the appointment, and for these the}'^
selected poets whose talents might administer
to the viceroy's amusement Cervantes, cal-
culating on the friendship that had subsisted
between them, solicited the interest of these
gentlemen with the viceroy, and obtained
great promises, none of which were fulfilled.
Of this neglect Cervantes took occasion to
complain in his Viage del Parnaso, but at
the same time he displays the candour of his
mind by extolling their poetical talents.
Disappointed in his hopes from the Court,
Cervantes determined to live in domestic
retirement, and return, as he says in his
Preface to the Plays, to his former life of
leisure: employing himself in composing
new works, and in correcting others. Among
these were his Novels, a work which has
gained him the appellation of the Boccacio
of Spain : his tales are, however, more de-
cent and moral than those of that celebrated
Italian. Cervantes was the first Spanish
author who composed this kind of moral
tale, and his "Curious Impertinent," in-
serted in the Quixote, was probably a first
essay. A French translation of this talc
was published by Oudin, in Paris, in 1608.
Though deservedly much admired, the in-
troduction of it in the Quixote has been cen-
sured, as having no connection with the main
subject of the work ; and the Author, in his
Second Part, indirectly acknowledges the
justice of that criticism. An anonymous
article appeared in a public journal, at Ma-
drid, 1787, which asserted that tliis tale was
not the invention of Cervantes, but stolen by
him from another author; which calumny
was, however, clearly refuted by the learned
compiler of " the Poetry of Castile previous
to the fifteenth century."
The novels published by Cervantes, in
1613, were probably written at various times.
Rinconete and Cortadillo, and the Jealous ¡
Estremaduran, appeared in some miscellane-
=@
CERVANTES.
21
1. 4ms works in 1506, without the name of
' Cerrantes ; a circumstance which may have
i giren rise to doubts as to the original author,
I though none can now be entertained.
¡I In April, 1614, a continuation of Don
I Quixote was announced, as written by '' the
I licentiate Alonzo Fernandez de Ayellenda,
native of Tordesillas :" which, however, was
a fictitious name, nor was that of the real
author ever discovered, though the peculiari-
ties of his style and language declare him to
be a native of Arragon. This author is not
only reprehensible for have presumed to con-
tinue the work of a living author, who had,
the year before, in his preface to the Novels,
expressly announced the speedy re-appear-
ance of his knight, but he grossly attacks
Cervantes in his preface, calling him '^a
maimed soldier, as old in years as boyish
in spirit, envious, discontented, a delinquent
who had suffered the disgrace of imprison-
ment," and more, in the same coarse and
vulgar style. The spurious second part of Don
Quixote appeared the year before that which
was published by Cervantes, who, however,
lost nothing by the anticipation and rivalship
of an inel^ant and indecent writer.
A new edition of Avellenada's Quixote
was printed in 1732, with an approbation by
Don Francisco Domingo, and a critique pre-
uxed to it, in which the preference was given
to this work over that of Cervantes, especi-
ally in the delineation of Sancho's charac-
ter ; but Don Juan de Yriarte, who was at
the time acquainted with every circumstance
relative to it, declares that the editor, the
approver, and the author of the critique,
were all one person, and that this individual
was Don Bias Nasarre. The Quixote was
translated into French by Le Sage in 1704,
— an elegant, but very unfjúthful, version,
omitting much, and adding sundry tales and
episodes of his own.
The year after the publication of his
Novels, Cervantes brought out his Viage del
Parnaso, a poem in eight chapters, inter-
spened with small pieces of prose. The idea,
as well as titie, of this work was borrowed
from tiie Italian poet, Csesar Caporali ; the
subject is poetical criticism, which enabled
Cervantes, while he introduced eulogies on
other eminent writers, to advert to his own
neglected claims. In the fourth chapter, the
Author presents to Apollo a detail of his
literary pretensions, with a list of his works
already published, as well as those in pre-
paration, and intimates his poverty, by mak-
ing Apollo remark that, in spite of his age
and talents, he was standing amidst other
poets, while they were all accommodated
with seats according to their various merits ;
upon which, the God recommends him at
least to double his cloak and sit down upon
it, when he frankly avows that he has no
cloak, adding, that Mercury called him the
"Adam of Poets."
Such indeed is the usual fate of those who
cultivate poetry and the belles-lettres. —
Dependant on an uncertain and inadequate
recompense, or abstracted by their favourite
pursuits from the requisite attention to the
common afiairs of life, they have neither the
means of acquiring wealth, nor the power
to retain that which they inherit. The in-
conveniences, arising from this abstraction
and improvidence belonging to the literary
character, should be obviated by men of ex-
alted station. Interest and justice equally
demand it: interest — which points to the
patronage of genius as the surest road to
immortality; and justice — which requires
that he who has successfully devoted his days
to the instruction and delight of mankind
should not be deprived of that honourable
independence which the same talents, ex-
erted in a more lucrative profession, would
undoubtedly have secured.
It must however be acknowledged that,
poor as Cervantes represents himself to be,
he enjoyed, besides his wife's property at
Esquivias, a pension from the Count de
Lemos, whose liberality he acknowledges
in his preface to the Second Part of Don
Quixote. It is asserted by Alonzo de Saias
Barbadillo, that he was likewise allowed a
pension from the Archbishop of Toledo, Don
Bernardo de Sandoval; and this seems to
be confirmed by the manner in which Cer-
vantes speaks of that prelate in the same
preface. He also expresses gratitude to other
friends, particularly Pedro de Morales, who
was probably the distinguished actor and
dramatist mentioned by Angustin Roxas
and Lope de Vega.
=^(§)
22
MEMOIRS OF
During the tame year, Cervantes also pub-
lished bis plays and interludes, which had
been written some years before, with the
hope of having them brought out upon the
stage : as many of his early dramatic pro-
ductions had successfully undergone the test
of public representation. In this, however,
he was disappointed, and he therefore deter-
mined to have them printed. Unable to
de&ay the expense of publication himself,
he offered them for sale to Juan Villaroel, a
bookseller, who, after some hesitation, con-
cluded the purchase ; — but not lili he had
mortified the poet (according to his own
confession) by alleging, as the reason of his
reluctance, that it had been observed, by a
certain dramatic author, that ** much might
be expected from his prose, but nothing from
his poetry." It was not one writer alone
who entertained that opinion ; Don Fran-
cisco Manuel de Mello pronounced Cer\-antes
to be as barren in verse as he was fertile
in prose. Indeed Cervantes himself in his
Parnaso, Canto I. p. 2, modestly expresses
some doubts of his poetical powers; he,
nevertheless, defends himself with spirit
against the severe sentence pronounced by
his dramatic censor above-mentioned.
In 1749 the plays of Cervantes were re-
printed by Don Bias Nasarre, librarian to
his Majesty, with a learned preface annexed ;
in which he attempts to prove that they were
WTitteji by the author to ridicule the dramatic
productions of his own time, as he had written
the Quixote to ridicule tales of chivalry :
thus accounting for tlie irregularities which
are observable in these plays. The editor
also ascribes the general decline of the drama
in Spain to the works of Lope de Vega and
Calderón; which attack on the heroes of
the Spanish theatre vras answered with con-
siderable acrimony by Don Tomas Zavaleta,
an advocate of Madrid.
In the dedication to the Count de Lemos,
prefixed to the Plays, the Author says,
^' Don Quixote de la Mancha has already
his spurs on, in order to attend upon your
Excellency, though I fear he will arrive in
a querulous mood, having missed his way,
and been ill-treated at Saragossa." In fact,
the following month of the same year, the
genuine Second Part of Don Quixote was
published, with a dedication to the Count
de Lemos, in which he pleasantly extols his
own work, and in a whimsical manner ad-
verts to his poverty and infirmities, while he
expresses the utmost gratitude to his patron.
The licentiate Márquez Torres, who was
the censor of this work, in his printed ap-
probation, confirms the celebrity of Cervantes,
as will appear by the following extract : '^ I
afiirm that on the twenty-fifth of February,
in the present year, 1615, while my Lord
Cardinal, the illustrious Don Bernardo de
Sandoval y Roxas, Archbishop of Toledo,
was on a visit to the ambassador of France,
who had come to Spain to negotiate the
treaties of marriage between the princes of
both nations, many French gentlemen in his
suite, lovers of the belles-lettres, accosted me
and other chaplains of my Lord Cardinal,
making enquiries concerning works of litera-
ture ; upon which I took occasion to men-
tion this Second Part of Don Quixote, then
under my examination. They no sooner
heard the name of Cervantes than they be-
gan to expatiate on his merits and on the
estimation in which his works were held in
France and in the neighbouring kingdoms.
The First Part of Don Quixote, the Novels,
and the Galatea, they said were universally
known. So great were their encomiums that
I offered to introduce them to the Author
himself, and they assented with expressions
of unbounded acknowledgments to me for
the proposal, first enquiring the most minute
details concerning him. I was obliged to
confess to them that, though a veteran soldier
and a man of birth, he was in a state of
poverty. ' Why is not such a man enriched
from the public treasury V cried one of them ;
when another gentleman shrewdly observed,
*If poverty obliges him to write, heaven
forbid that he should be in afi3uence, since
by his works he enriches the whole world.' "
In the month of October of the same year,
1616, Cervantes first complains of that dis-
order which terminated &tally ; it was a
dropsy, the gradual progress of which enabled
him to be the historian not only of his dis-
order but of the latest moments of his exis-
tence; even on this fiital subject, he still
preserved so much cheerfulness and vivacity
that death seemed disarmed of its terrors.
:©
CERVANTES.
23
This state of mind is manifested in his Pre&ce
to the Peniles, in which he mentions his
encounter with a student, as he was riding
from Esquivias to Madrid, who accosted him
by the appellation of " the meny writer,"
and '' the delight of the Muses,'^ and to
whom he describes, in his usual lively strain,
the symptoms of that mortal malady under
which he was then labouring, and which ho
prophesied would in a few days terminate
his earthly career.
On the 1 8th of April, 1616, he received
the extreme unction ; his dedication to Count
Lemos of the PersUes and Sigismunda was
written on the following day, and was
dictated in the same tone of gaiety. He be-
gins by quoting some old verses anouncing
the ^proach of death, adding that he wishes
they had not been so apropos to his case :
" Bat yesterday," he says, " I received the
extreme unction, to day I write this."
He died on the 2dd of the same month,
1616, in the sixty-ninth year of bis age. It
is a remarkable coincidence that it was on
the same day and year that Shakspeare died.
It appears by the funeral register belon^g
to the parish of St. Sebastian that he was
interred in the convent of the Trinitarians.
He was a brother of the venerable Third
Order of Saint Francis : — an Order, at that
time, professed by men of rank, as well as of
distinguished talents, among the latter of
whom was Lope deVega. The wife and
sister of Cervantes were also of this Order,
and had belonged to it seven years previous
to his death ; but by the register of names
it does not appear tiiat he was admitted un-
til the second of the same month on which
he died. The most trifling circumstances re-
lative to such a man can scarcely be thought
uninteresting, and therefore it is worthy of
remark that, in the same register, the house
in which Cervantes resided, at the time of
bis death, is described to be in the Street de
Leon, and that which is now the Royal
Asylum.
There is an obvious similarity in the life
of oar Author and that of Camoens, the
Portogoese bard. Camoens was a gentleman,
a soldier, and a poet, as well as Cervantes ;
like him too, oppressed by indigence, yet
endowed with the same gay and lively
imagination. Camoens, who had travelled
over a great part of the iiforld, had also
been a suflerer in war, having lost an eye in
his military service ; he had experienced, too,
the inconveniences of a prison, and, in that
situation, wrote several poems. Camoens
lived on alms which a slave who had follow-
ed him from India solicited during the night.
Cervantes, though not equally destitute, was
compelled to accept the bounty of his friends
and benefactors. Camoens received from
Sebastian, King of Portugal, a pension, but
of so trifling an amount that it did not pre-
vent him from dying in a hospital. Cer-
vantes received from the Archbishop of
Toledo and the Count de Lemos just enough
to keep him out of that situation. This
analogy may be traced even in their persons ;
Camoens is described to have been of mid-
dle stature, and to have had an aquiline
nose, animated eyes, ñiir complexion, and
red hair : a portrait very similar to that
which Cervantes gives of himself in his pre-
face to the Plays, namely ''a stature be-
tween the two extremes, good complexion,
chestnut-coloured hair, red beard and mus-
tachios, lively eyes and hooked nose." Even
in the circumstance of his writing to the
last moment of his life, the resemblance is
still maintained, for Camoens composed some
verses just before his death ; and, like his
prototype, he was consigned to a humble
and obscure grave in a convent; nor did
any record mark the spot where his body
wasdesposited, until, long afterwards, an in-
scription on marble at once did honour to
the poet and to Gonzalo Coutiño, by whom
it was set up. In this particular, the illus-
trious Spaniard has not been equally fortun-
ate ; the grave of Cervantes as yet remains
unhonoured and unknown, waiting some
patriotic and beneficent hand to redeem it
firom obscurity, which, by raising a monu-
ment worthy of his memory, shall connect
the fame of its founder with that of the
Author of the incomparable Don Quixote
DE LA Mancha.
-— (l.j
•24
AÜTHOR^S PREFACE.
Reader^ thou wilt believe me, I trust,
without an oath, when I tell thee it was my
earnest desire that this offspring of my brain
should be as beautiful^ ingenious, and
sprightly as it is possible to imagine ; but
alas ! I have not b^«n able to control that
order in nature's works whereby all things
produce their like, and therefore what could
be expected from a mind sterile and uncul-
tivated like mine, but a dry, meagre, fan-
tastical thing, full of strange conceits ; and
that might well be engendered in a prison
— the dreadful abode of care, where nothing
is heard but sounds of wretchedness ? Lei-
sure, an agreeable residence, pleasant fields,
serene skies, murmuring streams, and tran-
quillity of mind — ^by these the most barren
muse may become fruitful, and produce that
which will delight and astonish the world.
Some parents are so hoodwinked by their
excessive fondness that they see not the im-
perfections of their children, and mistake
tlieir folly and impertinence for sprightliness
and wit ; but I, who, though seemingly the
parent, am, in truth, only the step-father of
Don Quixote, will not yield to this prevail-
ing infirmity ; nor will I — as others would
do — beseech thee, kind Reader, almost with
tears in my eyes, to pardon or conceal the
faults thou mayest discover in this brat of
mine. Besides, thou art neither its kinsman
nor friend ; thou art in possession of thine
own soul, and of a will as free and absolute
as the best ; and art moreover in thine own
house, being as much the lord and master of
it as is the monarch of his revenue : know-
ing also the common saying — ' Under my
cloak a ñg for the king ;' wherefore I say,
thou art absolved and liberated from every
restraint or obligation, and mayest freely
avow thy opinion on my performance,
without fear of reproach for the evil, or hope
of reward for the good thou shalt say of it.
Fain, indeed, would I have g^ven it to thee
naked as it was bom, without the decora-
tion of a preface, or that numerous train of
sonnets, epigrams, and other eulogies, now
commonly placed at the beginning of every
book ; for I confess that, although mine cost
me some labour in composing, I found no
part of it so difficult as this same Preface
which thou art now reading ; yes, many a
time have I taken up my pen, and as often
laid it down again — not knowing what to
write.
Happening one day, when in this per-
plexity, to be sitting with the paper before
me, pen behind my ear, my elbow on the
table, and my cheek resting on my hand,
deeply pondering on what I should say, a
lively and intelligent Mend unexpectedly
entered ; and, seeing me in that posture, he
enquired what made me so thoughtful. I
told him I was musing on a preface for Don
Quixote, and frankly confessed I had been
so teased and harassed by it that I felt dis-
posed to give up the attempt, and trouble
myself no further either with the preface or
the book, but rather leave the achievements
of that noble knight unpublished. '^ For
shall I not be confounded,'' said I, ''with
taunts of that old law-maker, the Vulgar,
when, after so long a silence, I now, for-
sooth, come out, at this time a day, with a
legend as dry as a rush, destitute of inven-
tion, in a wretched style, poor in conception,
void of learning, and without either quota-
tions on the margin, or annotations at the
end : while all other books, whether fabu- I
lous or profane, are so stuffed with sentences
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
25
from Aristotle, Plato, and the whole tribe of
philosophers, that the world is amazed at
the extensive reading, deep learning, and
extraordinary eloquence of their authors?
Tmly, when these wise-acres qaote the Holy
Scriptures, yon would take them for so
many St Thomases, or other doctors of the
church ! And so observant are they of the
rules of decorum that in one line they will
cite you the ravings of a lover, and in the
next some pious homily — to the delight of
every reader. In all these matters my book
wiU be wholly deficient ; for, heaven knows,
I have nothing either to quote or make notes
upon ; nor do I know what authors I have
followed, and therefore cannot display their
names, as usual, in alphabetical succession,
banning with Aristotle, and ending with
Xenophon, or with Zoilus or Zeuxis — the
one a painter, the other a slanderous critic.
It will also be ungraced by conmiendatory
sonnets, from the pens of dukes, marquises,
earls, bishops, ladies of quality, or other
illustrious poets : though, were I to request
them of two or three humbler friends^ I
know they would supply me with such as
many of higher name amongst us could not
equal. In short, my dear friend," continued
I, ''it is plain tluit sigfior Don Quixote
must lie buried amongst the musty records of
La Mancha till heaven shall send some abler
hand to fit him out in a manner suitable to
his high deserts : since I find it impossible to
perform that duty myself, not only from a
want of competent talents, but because I am
naturally too lazy in hunting after authors
to enable me to say what I can say as well
without them. These are the considerations
that made me so thoughtful when you en-
tered ; and you must allow that it was not
without sufficient cause."
On hearing this tale of distress, my friend
struck his forehead with the palm of his
handy and, bursting into a loiid laugh, said,
" I now see I have been in an error ever
since I have known you ; I always took
you for a discreet and sensible man, but now
it appears you are as far from being so as
heaven is from earth. What ! is it possible
that things of such little moment should
have power to embarrass and confound a
genius like yours, formed to overcome and
trample under foot the greatest obstacles ? —
By my faith! this is not incapacity^ but
sheer idleness; and if you would be con-
vinced that what I say is true, attend to me,
and in the twinkling of an eye you shall
see me put those difficulties to the rout
which you say prevent your introducing to
the world the history of the renowned
Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all
knight-errantry."
" Say on," replied I, " and tell me how
you propose to fill up the vacuum which my
fear has created, or how brighten up the
gloom that surrounds me." '' Nothing so
easy," said he; "your first difficulty re-
specting the want of sonnets, epigrams, or
panegyrics by high and titled authors may
at once be removed, simply by taking the
trouble to compose them yourself, and then
baptising them by whatever name you
please : fathering them upon Préster John
of the Indies, or the Emperor Trapisonda,
who, to my certain knowledge, were famous
poets ; but suppose they were not so, and
that sundry pedants and praters, doubting
that fact, should slander you — heed them
not : for, should they even convict you of
falsehood, they cannot deprive you of the
hand that wrote it.
" Now, as to your marginal citations of
those authors and books whence you col-
lected the various sentences and sayings in-
terspersed through your history, it is but
scattering here and there over your pages
some scraps of Latin which you know by
heart, or that will cost you but little trouble
to find: — for example, when treating of
liberty or slavery,
* Non bene pro toto libertas, venditur «no/
then on the margin you clap me down the
name of Horace, or whoever said it. If
your subject be the power of death, then
opportunely comes,
' Pallida Mor«t aequo pulsat pede paupemm tabernas
' Regnmqne turres.'
If friendship, or loving our enemies, — as
God enjoins, forthwith you look into the
Holy Scriptures, and without any very
curious search you will be able to take the
identical words of the sacred text :
' Ego autcm dico Tobis, diligite inimicos reatros.'
='^
26
AUTHOH'S PREFACE.
If you should be speaking of evil thoughts,
recollect the Evangelist :
* De corde exeunt cogitationes malse.'
On tlie inconstancy of friends, Cato will
give you his distich :
' Donre eris felix, multos namerabia amicos,
Témpora si fuerinfc nubila, solus eris.'
By the assistance of these, or such like dríb-
lela of learning, you will at least gain the
credit of being a scholar— a character which
in these times leads to both honour and
profit.
" As for annotations at the end of your
book, you may safely manage it in thb man-
ner: if you should have occasion to speak
of a giant, let it be Goliath, for there you
will have, at a small expense, a noble anno-
tation, which will run thus:— * The giant
Golias, or Goliath, was a Philistine whom
the shepherd David slew in the valley of
TerebinthuSy by means of a great stone
which he cast from a sling' — as recorded in
the Book of Kings, where you will find
both chapter and verse. And, in order to
prove yourself skilled in human literature
and cosmography, take an opportunity to
mention the river Tagus, on which an ad-
mirable note will present itself, to this
effect: — *The river Tagus was so named
by a king of Spain ; its source is in such a
place ; and, after kissing the walls of the
celebrated city of Lisbon, is swallowed up
in the ocean. Its sands are reported to be
of gold' — and so on. If you would treat
of robbers, I will furnish you with the
history of Cacus, for I have it at my fingers'
ends; and, if of courtezans, there is the
Bishop of Mondofiedo, who will accommo-
date you with a Lamia, a Lais, and a Flora,
which annotation cannot fail to do you in-
finite credit. If you have to speak of cruel
females, Ovid will supply you with Medea;
if enchanters and witches be your theme,
Homer has a Calypso, and Virgil a Circe ;
if valiant commanders, Julius Caesar and
his Commentaries are at your service, and
Plutarch will give you a thousand Alexan-
ders. If love should chance to engage your
pen, with the two ounces which you possess
of the Tuscan tongue, yon may apply to
Leon Hebrao, who will provide you abun-
(i)=
dantly ; or in case you dislike to visit foreign
parts, you have here, at home, Fonseca, on
* the Love of God,' which contains all that
you, or the most inquisitive, can possibly
desire on that subject. In short, do you
only contrive to introduce these names or
allusions, and leave both quotations and an-
notations to me ; for I will engage to fill up
your margins, and add four whole sheets
to the end of your book.
" We now come to the list of quoted
authors — another of your grievances, which
also admits of an easy remedy, for you have
only to look out for some book containing
such an alphabetical list, from A down to
Z, and transfer it bodily to your own ; and
should the artifice be apparent, from the
little need you had of their help, it matters
not : some, perhaps, may be silly enough to
believe that in your plain and simple tale
you really had made use of every one of
them;— at all events, such a display of
learned names will give your book an air of
importance at the first sight, and nobody
will take the trouble to examine whether
you have followed them or not, since nothing
would be gained by the labour.
"Yet after all, sir," continued my friend,
" if I am not greatly mistaken, none of
these things are necessary to your book,
which is a satire on the extravagant tales
of chivalry: a subject never considered
by Aristotle, overlooked by St. Basil, and
utterly unknown to Cicero. The minute
accuracies of true history, the ccdculations
of astrology, the measurements of geometry,
and the subtilties of logic, have nothing to
do with it; neither does it interfere with
ecclesiastical concerns, mingling divine and
human things — from which every good
Christian should abstain: — to nature only
do you refer; she is your sole guide and
example, and the more closely you attend to
her suggestions, the more perfect must be
your book. Books of chivalry are your
game, and your chief purpose is to destroy
their credit with the world ; you, therefore,
need not go begging for sentences firom
philosophers, precepts from holy writ, fables
from poets, harangues from orators, nor
miracles from saints, but simply endeavour
to express your meaning in a clear and in-
-^
DON QUIXOTE.
27
telligible maimer ; and in well-chosen, sig-
nificant, and decorous terms, give a har-
monious and pleasing turn to your periods,
so that the perusal of your history may
dispel the gloom of the melancholy, add to
the cheerfulness of the gay, and, while it
affords amusement even to the simple, it
shall be approved by the grave, the judi-
cious, and the wise. In fine, you have only
to keep steadily in view the downfal and
demolition of that mischievous pile of ab-
surdity which, though despised by some, is
admired by the many ; and, if successful,
believe me, you will have performed a
service of no mean importance."
I listened to my friend's discourse in
profound silence, and so strongly was I im-
pressed by his observations that I acknow-
ledged their truth, and immediately con-
verted them to my use in composing this
Pre£eu:e, wherein, gentle Reader, thou wilt
perceive the judgment of my friend, my oim
good fortune in meeting with so able a
counsellor in the crisis of my distress, and
at the Htme time thou wilt confess thy own
satis&ction, in thus receiving, in so simple
and artless a manner, the History of tha
famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, who, ÍQ
the opinion of all the inhabitants of the
Campo de Montiel, was the chastest lover
and most valiant knight that had appeared
in those parts for many years. I will
not enlarge on the benefit I confer in
presenting to thee so distinguished and
honourable personage, but I do expect some
acknowledgements for having introduced to
thy acquaintance his faithful attendant, the
famous Sancho Panza, in whom are com-
bined all the squirely endowments that are
to be found scattered over the pages of
knight-errantry. And now may God give
thee health — not forgetting me. Farewell.
-^^^-^-(e)
29
ADVENTURES OF DOIí QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF THE CONDITION
AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS DON
QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.
In a Tillage of la Mancha,* the name of
which I have no desire to recollect, there
lived, not long ago, one of those gentlemen
who iisnally keep a lance upon a rack, an
old buckler, a lean horse, and a coursing
greyhound. Soup, composed of somewhat
more beef than mutton, salmagundy at night,
lentils on FridayB,t and a pigeon, byway of
addition, on Sundays, consumed three-fourths
of his income ; the remainder of it supplied
him with a doak of fine cloth, velvet
breeches, with slippers of the same for holi-
days, and a suit of the best home-spun, in
which he adorned himself on week days.
His establishment consisted of a house-
keeper above forty, a niece not quite twenty,
and a lad who served him both in the field
and at home, who could saddle the horse or
handle the pruning hook. The age of our
gentleman bordered upon fifty years; he
was of a strong constitution, spare-bodied,
of a meagre visage, a very early riser, and
* A nnall territory, partly in the kingdom of Amgon,
nd partly in Castile.
t It may be remarked that the Saturday's fiure of Don
Qaixote, which is giren in the original, is not mentioned
hoe. When a phrase or expression can neither be
translated literally nor supplied by one of a similar kind,
the omiasion, in many cases, like the present, will be a
slifl^ter injury to the text than the substitution of one
wliich has dther no meaning, or not the true one.
** Dneloa y Quebrantos" (in English, pains and breakings)
is the mstie and ludicrous name of a certain frugal dish
common among the Spanish peasantry, but which, in
England, is perfectly unknown. Jerris, not attempting
a trsBslatioo, has called it an Omelet, Shelton termed
it *' CoUopa and ^gs," which was not improved by the
Omelet ; and though the *' Gripes and grumblings" of
Snu^ett has more of the ludicrous cast of the original,
it «as a coinage of his own, which describes neither that
nor my other known dish ; and, therefore, as the accu-
racy of the historian may be thought sufficiently mani-
a lover of the chace. Some pretend to say
that he had the surname of Quizada, t or
Quesada, for on this point his historians
differ : but, firom very plausible conjectures,
we may conclude that his name was Quixana.
This is, however, of little importance to our
history: let it suffice that, in relating it,
we swerve not a jot from the truth.
Be it known, then, that the above-men-
tioned gentleman, in his leisure moments,
which composed the greater part of the year,
applied himself with so much ardour and
relish to the perusal of books of chivalry
that he almost wholly neglected the exercise
of the chace, and even the regulation of
his domestic affairs ; indeed, so extravagant
was his zeal in this pursuit that he sold
many acres of arable land to purchase books
of knight-errantry : collecting as many as
he could possibly obtain. Among these,
there were none he admired so much as
those written by the &mous Feliciano de
Silva, whose brilliant prose and intricate
style were, in his opinion, infinitely precious ;
especially those amorous speeches and
challenges in which they so abound ; such
as : "the reason of the unreasonable treat-
fested by his other details in this place, it is presumed
the text will not suffer by so trifling an omission.
Pellicer gives the following explanation of this dish.
It was customary, in some parts of La Mancha, for the
shepherds to carry home to their masters the cattle that
died or met with any accident in the course of the week,
the flesh of which was separated from the bones and
salted. From the broken bones and the extremities,
soup was made, at a period when it was unlawful, through-
out Castile, to cat, on Saturday, any other parts of the
animal ; a restriction which was annulled by Benedict XIV.
This repast was called " Duelos y Quebrantos," in
allusion to the regret experienced by the owner, from
the damage of his flock, and to the breaking of the
bones. In the same manner, it is still usual to call a
poor and scanty meal " doing penance," or " stripes and
galleys.*' The metaphorical phrase of "The grace of
God** was likewise, in La Mancha, applied to eggs and
bacon fried in honey.
X The word Quixadas, in Spanish, signifies Jawe.
^
30
ADVENTURES OF
ment of my reason so enfeebles my reason
tbat with reason I complain of your beauty."
And again : *^ the high heavens that, with
your divinity, divinely fortify you with the
stars, rendering you meritorious of the
merit merited by your greatness." These
and similar rhapsodies distracted the poor
gentleman ; for he laboured to comprehend
and unravel their meaning, which was more
than Aristotle himself could do, were he to
rise from the dead expressly for that pur-
pose. He was not quite satisfied as to the
wounds which Don Belianis gave and re-
ceived ; for he could not help thinking that,
however skilful the professors who healed
them, his face and whole body must inñdlibly
have been covered with seams and scan.
Nevertheless, he commended his author for
concluding his book with the promise of
that interminable adventure; and he often
felt an inclination to seize the pen himself
and conclude it, literally as it is there pro-
mised : this he would doubtless have done,
and with success, had he not been diverted
from it by meditations of greater moment,
on which his mind was incessantly employed.
He often debated with the curate of the
village, a man of learning, and a graduate
of Siguenza, which of the two was the best
knight, Palmerin of England, or Amadis de
Gaul ; but master Nicholas, barber of the
same place, declared that none ever equalled
the knight of the sun ; if, indeed, any one
could be compared to him, it was Don
Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul, for he
had a genius suited to every thing : he was
no effeminate knight, no whimperer, like bis
brother ; and in point of courage, he was by
no means his inferior. In short, he became
so infatuated with this kind of study that
he passed whole days and nights over these
books : and thus, with little sleeping and
much reading, his brains were dried up and
his intellects deranged. His imagination
was full of all that he had read ; of en-
chantments, contests, battles, challenges,
wounds, blandishments, amours, tortures,
and impossible absurdities; and so firmly
was he persuaded of the truth of the whole
tissue of visionary fiction that, in his mind,
no history in the world was more authentic.
The Cid Ruy Diaz, he asserted, was a very
good knight, but not to be compared with
the knight of the flaming sword, who, with
a single back-stroke, cleft asunder two fierce
and monstrous giants. He was better pleased
with Bernardo del Carpió, because, at Ron-
cesvalles, he slew Roland the enchanted, by
availing himself of the stratagem employed
by Hercules upon Anteus, whom he squeezed
to death within his arms. He spoke very
fiivourably of the giant Morganti, for, i
although of that monstrous brood who are
always proud and insolent, he alone was
courteous and well-bred. Above all, he
admired Rinaldo de Montalvan, particularly
when he saw him sallying forth from his
castle to plunder all he encountered; and
when, moreover, he seized upon that image
of Mahomet which, according to history,
was of massive gold. But he would have
given his house-keeper, and even his niece
into the bargain, for a fair opportunity of
kicking the traitor Galalon.
In fine, his judgment being completely
obscured, he was seized with one of the
strangest frmcies that ever entered the bead
of a madman ; this was a persuasion that
it behoved him, as well for the advancement
of his glory as the service of his country, to
become a knight-errant, and traverse the
world, armed and mounted, in quest of ad-
ventures, and to practise all that had been
performed by the knights-errant, of whom
he had read ; redressing every species of
grievance, and exposing himself to dangers
which, being surmounted, might secure to
him eternal glory and renown. The poor
gentleman imagined himself at least crowned
Emperor of Trapisonda, by the valour of
his arm : and thus indulging in these agree-
able meditations, and borne away by the
extraordinary pleasure he found in them, he
hastened to put his designs into execution.
The first thing he did was to scour up
some rusty armour, which belonged to his
great-grandfather, and had lain many years
neglected in a comer. These he cleaned
and adjusted as well as he could, but he found
one grand defect; the helmet was incom-
plete ; having only the morrión : this defi-
ciency, however, he ingeniously supplied, by
making a kind of vizor of pasteboard, which, |
being fixed to the morrión, gave the appear- ¡
DON QUIXOTE.
31
anee of an entire helmet True it is that,
in order to prove its strength, he drew his
sword and gave it two strokes, the firBt of
Trhich instantly demolished the labour of a
week ; but not altogether approving of the
facility with which it was destroyed, and in
order to secure himself against a similar
misfortune, he made another vizor, which,
having fenced in the inside with small bars
of iron, he felt assured of its strength, and,
without making any more experiments, held
it to be a most excellent helmet.
In the next place, he visited his steed ;
and although this animal had more blemishes*
- than the horse of Gonela, which " tantum
1 pellia et ossa fuit," yet, in his eyes, neither
. the Bucephalus of Alexander, nor the Cid's
I Babieca, could be compared with him. Four
days was he deliberating upon what name
he should give him ; for, as he said to him-
: self, it would be very improper that a horse
eo excellent, appertaining to a knight so
famous, should be without an appropriate
name : he therefore endeavoured to find one
that should express what he had been before
' he belonged to a knight-errant, and also
what he now was : nothing could, indeed,
be more reasonable than that, when the
master changed his state, the horse should
likewise change his name and assume one,
pompous and high-sounding, as became the
new order he now professed. So afixT hav-
ing devised, altered, lengthened, curtailed,
rejected, and again framed in his imagina-
tion a variety of names, he finally determined
I upon Rozinante,t a name, in his opinion,
lofty, sonorous, and full of meaning ; im-
porting that he had been only a Rozin, a
: drudge-horse, before his present condition,
and that now he was before all the JRozins
in the world.
Having given his horse a name so much
I to his satisfaction, he resolved to ñx upon
I one for himself. This consideration employed
' him eight more days, when at length he
I determined to call himself Bon Quixote;
whence some of the historians of this most
I
I *" Tente mas qiurto* que nn real," i* here omitted,
I Maf ft Terbal eqaÍToque, which it !« impofmible to
;, tranaUte. Quarto aigniflet a certain difeaae in the heel
i' or a hone» alio the name of a coin containing abont
' ci.ht real*— thoB the Author says ** he had more qttartos
true history have concluded that his name
was certainly Quixada, and not Quesada, as
others would have it. Then recollecting
fhat the valorous Amadis, not content with
the simple appellation of Amadis, added
thereto the name of his kingdom, and native
country, in order to render it famous, styling
himself Amadis de Gaul ; so he, like a good
knight, also added the name of his province,
and called himself Don Quixote de la Man-
cha ; whereby, in his opmion, he fully pro-
claimed his lineage and country, which, at the
same time, he honoured, by taking its name.
His armour being now furbished, his
helmet made perfect, his horse and himself
provided with names, he found nothing want-
ing but a lady to be in love with : for a
knight-errant without the tender passion
was a tree witliout leaves and fruit— a body
without a soul. If, said he, for my sins, or
rather, tlirough my good fortune, I encoun-
ter some giant — an ordinary occurrence to
knights-errant— and overthrow him at the
first onset, or cleave him in twain, or, in
short, vanquish him and force him to sur-
render, must I not have some lady, to whom
I may send him, as a present ? that when he
enters into the presence of my charming
mistress, he may throw himself upon his
knees before her, and in a submissive, hum-
ble voice, say : " Madam, in me you behold
the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island
Malendrania, who, being vanquished in single
combat by the never-enough-to-be-praised
Don Quixote de la Mancha, am by him
commanded to present myself before you, to
be disposed of according to the will and
pleasure of your highness." How happy
was our good knight after this harangue !
How much more so when he found a mis-
tress! It is said that, in a neighbouring
village, a good-looking peasant girl resided,
of whom he had formerly been enamoured,
although it does not appear that she ever
knew or cared about it ; and this was tlie
lady whom he chose to nominate mistress
of his heart. He then sought a name for
(meaning that blemiih) than there are quarto» in a real.'*
tProm RoMiHt a common drndge horse, and antef he-
fore ; as Alexander't hone was called Baeephalas, trom
his boll-head ; and the knight of the san*i Comerio, ft-om
a horn in his forehead. Jertris,
ADVENTURES OF
her, which, without entirely departing from '
her own, should incline and approach to- ,
wards that of a princess, or great lady, and
determined upon Dulcinea del Tohoso (for
she was a native of that village), a name, he
thought, harmonious, uncommon, and ex-
pressive— ^like all the others which he had
adopted.
CHAPTER II.
WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY
THAT DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HIS
NATIVE ABODE.
These arrangements heing made, lie would
no longer defer the execution of his project,
which he hastened from a consideration of
what the world suifered by his delay : so
many were the grievances he intended to
redress, the wrongs to rectify, errors to
amend, abuses to reform, and debts to dis-
charge ! Therefore, without communicating
his intentions to any individual, and wholly
unobserved, one morning before day, being
one of the most sultry in the month of July,
he armed himself cap-a-pie, mounted Rozi-
nante, placed the helmet on his head, braced
on his target,* took his lance, and, through
tJie private gate of his back yard, issued forth
into the open plain, in a transport of joy to
think he had met with no obstacles to the
commencement of his honourable enterprize.
But scarcely had he found himself on the
plain when he was assailed by a recollection
so terrible as almost to make him abandon
tbc undertaking : for it just then occurred to
him, that he was not yet a knight ; there-
fore, in conformity to the laws of chivalry,
he neither could nor ought to enter the lists
against any of that order ; and, even if he
had been actually dubbed, he should, as a
new knight, have worn white armour, with-
out any device on his shield, until he had
gained one by force of arms. These con-
siderations made him irresolute whether to
* The target or bnckler w«« «Inog about the neck by a
thnng. J.
i A ridicule on the like affected descriptions, so com-
mon in romances ; such as that in' the History of Don
Polindo, son to the King of Numidia, ch. 1 " In that
season when the beauteous Latona most swelleth her
bending horns, and her gilded ball bestoweth brightness
proceed ; but, phrenzy prevailing over rea-
son, he determined to get himself made a
knight by the first one he should meet, like
many others, of whom he had read. As to
white armour, he resolved, when he had an
opportunity, to scour his own, so that it should
be whiter than ermine. Having now com-
posed his mind, he proceeded, taking what-
ever road his horse pleased ; for therein, he
believed, consisted the true spbrit of adventure .
Our new adventurer, thus pursuing his
way, conversed within himself, saying :
" Who doubts but that in future times, when
the true history of my famous achievements
is brought to light, the sage who records
them will, in this manner, describe my first
sally ! * Scarcely had ruddy Phoebus f ex-
tended over the face of this wide and spacious
earth the golden filaments of his beautiful
hair, and scarcely had the little painted birds,
with their forked tongues, hailed, in soft and
mellifiuous harmony, the approach of theros}*^
harbinger of mom, who, leaving the soft
couch of her jealous consort, had just dis-
closed herself to mortals through the gates
and balconies of the Manchegan horizon,
when the renowned knight, Don Quixote de
la Mancha, quitting the slothful do^i-n,
mounted Rozinante, his famous steed, and
proceeded over the ancient memorable plain
of Montiel (which was indeed the truth).'
O happy aera, happy age," he continued,
" when my glorious deeds shall be revealed
to the world I deeds worthy of being en-
graven on brass, sculptured in marble, and
recorded by the pencil ! And thou, O sage
enchanter, whosoever thou may est be,
destined to chronicle this extraordinary his-
tory ! forget not, I beseech thee, my good
Rozinante, the inseparable companion of all
my toils I" Then again, as if really enam-
oured, he exclaimed, " O Dulcinea, my prin-
cess ! sovereign of this captive heart ! greatly
do you wrong me by a cruel adherence to
your decree, forbidding me to appear in the
presence of your beauty ! Deign, O lady,
on the darkest night ; and when Apollo, father to the
unfortunate Phaeton, making the circle of the heavens,
and resting in Gemini, warmeth human nature and
beantifieth the flowery meads, adorning the open fields
and shady groves with odoriferous purple flowers, wliose
diversity rcndereth their sight more charming to man-
kind, &c." J.
^tiírHTí^ú
TWTTisr.CT 1
p. 33.
DON QUIXOTE.
33
to think on this enslaved heart, which, for
love of you, endures so many pangs !"
In thb wild strain he continued, imitating
the style of his books as nearly as he could,
and proceeding slowly on, while the sun
arose with such intense heat that it was
enough to dissolve his brams, if any had been
lefl. He travelled almost the whole of that
day without encountering any thing worthy
of recital, which caused him much vexation,
for he was impatjent for an opportunity to
prove the valour of his powerful arm.
Some authors say his first adventure was
that of the straits of Lapice ; others affirm
it to have been that of the wind-mills ; but,
from what I have been able to ascertain of
this matter, and have found written in the
annals of La Mancha, the feet is that he
travelled all that day, and as night approach-
ed, both he and his horse were wearied and
dying of hunger ; and in this state, as he
looked around him, in hopes of discovering
some castle, or shepherd's cot, where he
might repose and find refireshment, he de-
scried, not far from the road, an inn, which
to him was a star conducting him to the
portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption.
He made all the haste he could, and reached
it at night-fall. There chanced to stand at
the door two young women, ladies of plea-
sure (as they are called), on their journey to
Seville, in the company of some carriers •
who rested there that night Now as every
thing that our adventurer saw and conceived
was, by his imagination, moulded to what
be had read, so, in his eyes, the inn appeared
to be a castle, with its four turrets, and
pinnacles of shining silver, together with its
draw-bridge, deep moat, and all the appur-
tenances with which such castles are usually
described. When he had advanced within a
short distance of it, he checked Rozinante,
expecting some dwarf would mount the bat-
tlements, to announce, by sound of trumpet,
the arrival of a knight-errant at the castle ;
bat finding them tardy, and Rozinante im-
patient for the stable, he approached the inn-
door, and there saw the two strolling girls,
who to him appeared to be beautiful damsels
* Camera were formerly, as thej are now, engaged
tn coDdtirtiog this pestilential traffic from one po-
pulóos city to another. These women were said to
or lovely dames, enjoying themselves before
the gate of their castle.
It happened that just at this time a swine-
herd collecting his hogs (I make no apology,
for so they are called), from an adjoining
stubble field, blew the horn which assembles
them together, and instantly Don Quixote
was satisfied, for he imagined it was a dwarf
who had given the signal of his arrival.
With extraordinary satisfaction, therefore,
he went up to the inn ; upon which the ladies,
being startled at the sight of a man armed
in that manner, with lance and buckler,
were retreating into the house; but Don
Quixote, perceiving their alarm, raised his
pasteboard vizor, thereby partly discovering
his meagre dusty visage, and, with gentle
demeanour and placid* voice, thus addressed
them : " Fly not, ladies, nor fear any dis-
courtesy, for it would be wholly inconsistent
with the order of knighthood which I profess
to ofier insult to any person, much less to
virgins of that exalted rank which your
appearance indicates." The girls stared at
him, and were endeavouring to find out his
face, which was almost concealed by the
sorry vizor ; but hearing themselves called
virgins, a thing so much out of the way of
their profession, they could not forbear laugh-
ing, and to such a degree that Don Quixote
was displeased, and said to them : '' Modesty
well becomes beauty, and excessive laughter,
proceeding from a slight cause, is folly ; but
I say not this to humble or distress you, for
my part is no other than to do you service."
This language, so unintelligible to the ladies,
added to the uncouth figure of our knight,
increased their laughter; consequently he
grew more indignant, and would have pro-
ceeded further, but for the timely appearance
of the inn-keeper, a very corpulent, and
tlierefore a very pacific, man, who, upon
seeing so ludicrous an object, armed, and
with accoutrements so ill-sorted as were the
bridle, lance, buckler, and corslet, felt dis-
posed to join the damsels in demonstrations
of mhrth ; but, in truth, apprehending some
danger from a form thus strongly fortified,
he resolved to behave with civility, and there-
be going to Seville, which was then the emporium or
seat of that commerce, as Cadiz is at the present time.
Pellicer,
=©
=í^
34
ADVENTURES OF
fore Mdd, " If, Sir Knight, you are seeking
for a lodging, you will here find, excepting
a bed (for there are none in this inn) every
thing in abundance." Don Quixote, per-
ceiving the humility of the governor of the
fortress, for such to him appeared the inn-
keeper, answered: "Forme, Sigñor Castel-
lano, anything will suffice : since arms are
my ornaments, war&re my repose." The
host thought he called him Castellano, be-
cause he took him for a sound Castílian, *
whereas he was an Andalusian, of the coast
of St. Lucar, as great a thief as Cacus, and
not less mischievous than a collegian or a
page : and he replied, " If so, your wor-
ship's beds must be hard rocks, and your
sleep continual watching ; and, that being
the case, you may dismount with a certainty
of finding here sufficient cause for keeping
awake the whole year, much more a single
night." So saying, he laid hold of Don
Quixote's stirrup, who alighted with much
difficulty and pain, for he had fasted the
whole of the day. He then desired the host
to take especial care of his steed, for it was
the finest creature that ever fed ; the inn-
keeper examined him, but thought him not
so good by half as his master had represented
him. Having led the horse to the stable,
he returned to receive the orders of his
guest, whom the damsels, being now recon-
ciled to him, were disarming; they had taken
off* the back and breast pktes, but endea-
voured in vain to disengage the gorget, or
take off the counterfeit beaver, which he had
fiistened with green ribbons, in such a man-
ner that they could not be untied, and he
would upon no account allow them to be cut ;
therefore he remained all that night with his
nelmet on, making the strangest and most
ridiculous figure imaginable.
While these light girls, whom he still con-
ceived to be persons of quality and ladies of
the castle, were disarming him, he said to
them, with infinite grace, " Never before was
Knight so honoured by ladies as Don Quix-
ote, after his departure firom his native vil-
lage ! damsels attended upon him ; princesses
took charge of his steed !t O Rozdnante, —
* S«io de Caotílla*' ia » tenn applied in Oersumy to
Asbaiper. P.
for that, ladies, is the name of my horse,
and Don Quixote de la Mancha my own ;
although it was not my intention to have
discovered myself, until deeds, performed in
your service, should have proclaimed me ;
but impelled to make so just an application
of that ancient romance of Lanzarote, to my
present situation, I have thus prematurely
disclosed my name : yet the time shall come
when your ladyships may command, and I
obey ; when the valour^ of my arm shall
make manifest the desire I have to serve
you." The girls, unaccustomed to such rhe-
torical flourishes, made no reply, but asked
him whether he would please to eat any
thing. " I shall willingly take some food,"
answered Don Quixote, " for I apprehend
it would be of much service to me." That
day happened to be Friday, and there was
nothing in the house but some fish, of that
kind which in Castile is called Abadexo,
in Andalusia, Bacallao, in some parts Cura-
dillo, and in others Truchuela.| They asked
if his worship would like some truchuela,
for they had no other fish to offer him. ^Hf
there be many troutlings," replied Don
Quixote, ^' they will supply the place of one
trout ; for it is the same to me whether I
receive eight single rials or one piece of
eight Moreover, these tronüings may be
preferable, as veal is better than beef, and |
kid superior to goat ; be that as it may, let ',
it come immediately, for the toil and weight
of arms cannot be sustained by the body •
unless the interior be supplied with aliments."
For the benefit of the cool air, they placed
the table at the door of the inn, and the
landlord produced some of his ill-soaked,
and worse cooked, bacallao, with bread as
foul and black as the Knight's armour : but
it was a spectacle highly risible to see him
eat ; for his hands being engaged in holding
his helmet on, and raising the beaver, he
could not feed himself, therefore one of the
ladies performed this office for him ; but to
drink would have been utteriy impossible
had not the inn-keeper bored a reed, and,
placing one end into his mouth, at the other
poured in t&e wine ; and all this he patiently
t In Imltatioo of an old ballad, mentioned in Book II
cli. 6. J, t Tbe fiili caUed poor John, or Hide fronts. J
DON QUIXOTE.
35
endured rather than cut the lacings of his
helmet.
In the mean time there came to the inn a
80w-gelder, who, as soon as he arrived, blew
his pipe of reeds four or ñye times, which
finally convinced Don Quixote that he was
now in some £unous castle, where he was
regaled with music ; that the poor jack was
trout, tiie bread of the purest white, the
strolling wenches ladles of distinction, and
the inn -keeper governor of the castie;
consequentiy he remained satisfied with his
enterprize and first sally, though it troubled
him to reflect that he was not yet a knight,
being peiiBuaded that he could not lawfully
engage in any adventure until he had been
invested with the order of knighthood.
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH IS DESCRIBED THE DIVERT-
ING CEREMONY OF KNIGHTING DON
QUIXOTE.
Tormented by this idea, he abmptiy
finished his scanty meal, called the inn-
keeper, and, shutting himself up with him
in the stable, he fell on his knees before him,
and said, ''Never will I arise from this
place, valorous knight, until your courtesy
shall vouchsafe to grant a boon which it is
my intention to request : a boon that will
redound to your glory and to the benefit of
all mankind." The inn-keeper, seeing his
guest at his feet, and hearing such language,
stood confounded, and stared at him, without
knowing what to do or say ; he entreated
him to rise, but in vain, until he had pro-
mised to grant the boon he requested. '' I
expected no less, sigñor, from your great
magnificence ;" replied Don Quixote, "know,
therefore, that the boon I have demanded,
and which your liberality has conceded, is
that, on the morrow, you will confer upon
me the honour of knighthood. This night
I will watch my arms* in the chapel of
your castle, in order tiiat, in tfie morning.
* On the eve of a holiday, the Romanists perform cer-
tata cereiDonies of deTotion, &c., and wake over the
my earnest desire may be fulfilled, and I
may with propriety traverse the four quar-
ters of the world, in quest of adventures,
for the relief of the distressed ; conformable
to the duties of chivalry and of knights-
errant, who, like myself, are devoted to such
pursuits."
The host, who, as we have said, was a
shrewd fellow, and had already entertained
some doubts respecting the wits of his guest,
was now confirmed in his suspicions ; and,
to make sport for the night, determined to
follow his humour. He told him therefore
that his desire was very reasonable, and that
such pursuits were natural and suitable to
knights so illustrious as he appeared to be,
and as his gallant demeanour fully testified ;
that he had himself in tiie days of his youth
followed that honourable profession, and
travelled over various parts of the world in
search of adventures ; &iling not to visit
the suburbs of Malaga,t the isles of Riaran,
the compass of Seville, the market place
of S^ovia, the olive field of Valencia, the
rondilla of Grenada, the coast of St. Lucar,
the fountam of Cordova, the taverns of
Toledo, and divers other parts, where he had
exercised the agility of his heels and the
dexterity of his hands ; committing sundry
wrongs, soliciting widows, seducing damsels,
cheating youths ; in short, making himself
known to most of the tribunals in Spain ;
and that finally he had retired to this castie,
where he lived upon his own revenue and
that of others; entertaining therein all
knights-errant of every quality and degree,
solely for tiie great affection he bore them,
and that they might share tiieir fortune with
him, in return for his good will. He further
told him that in his castie there was no
chapel wherein he could watch his armour,
for it had been pulled down, in order to be
rebuilt ; but that, in cases of necessity, he
knew it might be done wherever he pleased :
therefore he might watch it that night in a
court of the castie, and the following morn-
ing, if it pleased God, the requisite ceremo-
nies should be performed, and he should be
dubbed so efiectually that the world would
body of the deceased. Hence onrcoontry wakes, &c. J.
t Names of certain infamóos places in Spain. J.
(^
S6
ADVENTURES OF
not be able to produce a more perfect knight.
He then enquired if he had any money about
him ? Don Quixote told him he had none :
haying never read in ±eir histories that
knights -errant provided themselves with
money. The inn-keeper assured him he was
mistaken, for, admitting that it was not men-
tioned in their history, the authors deeming
it unnecessary to specify things so obviously
requisite as money and clean shirts, yet was
it not, therefore, to be inferred that they had
none ; but, on the contrary, he might con-
sider it as an established fact that all the
knights-errant, of whose histories so many
volumes are filled, carried their purses well
provided against accidents ; that they were
also supplied with shirts, and a small casket
full of ointments, to heal the wounds they
might receive; for, in plains and deserts,
where they fought and were wounded, no aid
was near, unless they had some sage enchan-
ter for their friend, who could give them
immediate assistance, by conveying in a
cloud through the air some damsel or dwarf,
with a vial of water, possessed of such virtue
that, upon tasting a single drop of it, they
should instantly become as sound as if they
had received no injury. But when the
knights of former times were without such
a friend, they always took care that their
esquires should be provided with money, and
such necessary articles as lint and salves : and
when they had no esquires, which very rarely
happened, they carried these things them-
selves, upon the crupper of their horse, in
wallets so small as to be scarcely visible,
that they might seem to be something of
more importance : for, except in such cases,
the custom of carrying wallets was not
tolerated among knights-errant. He there-
fore advised, though, as his godson (which
he was soon to be), he might command him,
never henceforth to travel without money
and the aforesaid provisions ; and he would
find them serviceable when he least expected
it. Don Quixote promised to follow his
advice with punctuality ; and an order was
now given for performing the watch of the
armour, in a large yard adjoining the inn.
Don Quixote, having collected it together,
placed it on a cistern which was close to a
well ; then, bracing on his target and grasp-
ing his lance, ^vith graceful demeanour, he
paced to and firo, before the pile, beginning
his parade as soon as it was dark.
The inn-keeper informed all who were in
the inn of the firenzy of his guest, the
watching of his armour, and of the intend-
ed knighting. They were surprised at so
singular a kind of madness, and went out to
observe him at a distance. They perceived
him sometimes quietly pacing along, and
sometimes leaning upon his lance with his
eyes fixed upon his armour, for a consider-
able time. It was now night, but the moon
shone with a splendour which might vie
even with that whence it was borrowed;
so that every motion of our new knight
might be distinctly seen.
At this time, it happened that one of the
carriers wanted to give his mules some
water; for which purpose it was necessary
to remove Don Quixote's armour from the
cistern, who, seeing him advance, exclaimed
with a loud voice, "O thou, whosoever
thou art, rash knight ! who approachest the
armour of tiie most valiant adventurer that
ever girded sword, beware of what thou
dost, and touch it not, unless thou wouldst
yield thy life as the forfeit of thy temerity."
The carrier heeded not this admonition
(though better would it have been for him
if he had) but, seizing hold of the straps, he
threw the armour some distance from him,
which Don Quixote perceiving, he raised
his eyes to heaven, and addressing his
thoughts, apparently, to his lady Dulcinea,
said : '' Assist me, O lady, to avenge this
first insult ofiered to your vassal's breast ;
nor let your favour and protection fail me
in this my first perilous encounter !" Having
uttered these and similar ejaculations, he let
slip his target, and, raising his lance with
both hands, he gave the carrier such a stroke
upon the head that he fell to the ground in
so grievous a plight that, had the stroke
been repeated, there would have been no
need of a surgeon. This done, he re-placed
his armour, and continued his parade with
the same tranquillity as before.
Soon after another carrier, not knowing
what had passed, for the first yet lay stunned,
came out with the same intention of water-
ing his mules ; and, as he approached to take
<%
4*'
p. 37.
c.a;u>'j1 liO.Nv. * y-^i*.
-••^^^riTl a^i ■
« .^. Ak^ J^^
DON QUIXOTE.
37
away the armour from the cistern, Don
Qoizotey without saying a word or imploring
any protection, again let slip his target,
raised his lance, and, with no leas eifect than
before, smote the head of the second carrier.
The noise brought out all the people in the
inn, and the landlord among the rest ; upon
which Don Quixote braced on his target,
and, laying his hand upon his sword, said :
" 0 lady of beauty i strength and vigour
of my enfeebled heart ! Now is the time for
thee to turn thy illustrious eyes upon this
thy captive knight, whom so mighty an en-
counter awaits \" This address had, he con-
ceived, animated him with so much courage
that, were all the carriers in the world to
have assailed him, he would not have re-
treated one step.
The comrades of the wounded, upon dis-
covering the situation of their friends, began
at a distance to discharge a shower of stones
upon Don Quixote, who sheltered himself
83 well as he could with his target, without
daring to quit the cistern, because he would
not abandon his armour. The inn-keeper
called aloud to them, begging they would
desist, for he had already told them he was
insane, and thal^ as a madman, he would be
acquitted, though he were to kill them all.
Don Quixote, in a voice still louder, called
them infamous traitors, and the lord of the
castle a cowardly base - bom knight, for
allowing knights-errant to be treated in that
manner ; declaring that, had he received the
order of knighthood, he would have made him
sensible of bis perfidy. " But as for you, ye
vile and worthless rabble, I utterly despise ye !
Advance ! Come on, molest me as fiur as ye
are able, for quickly shall ye receive the re-
ward of your folly and msolence !" This he
uttered with so much spirit and intrepidity
that Üie assailants were struck with terror ;
which, in addition to the landlord's persua-
sions, made them cease their attack ; he then
permitted the wounded to be carried off, and«
with the same gravity and composure, re-
sumed the watch of his armour.
The host, not relishing these pranks of
his guest, determined to put an end to them,
before any further mischief ensued, by im-
mediately investing him with the luckless
order of chivalry ; approaching him, there-
fore, he disclaimed any concurrence, on his
part, in the insolent conduct of those low
people, who were, he observed, well chastised
for their presumption. He repeated to him
that there was no chapel in the castle, nor
was it by any means necessary for what
remained to be done ; that the stroke of
knighting consisted in blows on the neck
and shoulders, according to the ceremonial
of the order, which might be effectually per-
formed in the middle of a field ; that the
duty of watching his armour he had now
completely fulfilled, for he had watched
more than four hours, though only two were
required. All this Don Quixote believed,
and said that he was there ready to obey
him, requesting him, at the same time, to
perform the deed as soon as possible ; be-
cause, should he be assaulted again when he
found himself knighted, he was resolved not
to leave one person alive in the castle, ex-
cepting those whom, out of respect to him,
and at his particular request, he might be
induced to spare.
The constable, thus warned and alarmed,
immediately brought forth a book in which
he kept his account of the straw and oats he
furnished to the carriers, and, attended by
a boy, who carried an end of candle, and
the two damsels before-mentioned, went to-
wards Don Quixote, whom he commanded
to kneel down ; he then began reading in
his manual, as if it were some devout prayer,
in the course of which he raised his hand
and gave him a good blow on the neck, and,
after that, a handsome stroke over the
shoulders, with his own sword, still mutter-
ing between his teeth, as if in prayer. This
being done, he conmianded one of the ladies
to gird on his sword, an ofiice she performed
with much alacrity, as well as discretion,
no small portion of which was necessary to
avoid bursting with laughter at every part
of the ceremony ; but indeed the prowess
they had seen displayed by the new knight
kept their mirth within bounds. At girding
on the sword, the good lady said : " God
grant you may be a fortunate knight, and
successful in battle." Don Quixote enquired
her name, that he might thenceforward know
to whom he was indebted for the favour re-
ceived, as it was his intention to bestow
-(tJ
as
ADVENTURES OF
upon her some share of the honour he sfaoold
aoqnire by the valoiir of hk arm« She re-
plied, with moch humility, that her name
was Tolosa, and that she was the danghter
of a cobler at Toledo, who lived at the stalls
of Sanchobienaya; and that, wherever she
was, she woold serve and honour him as her
lord. Don Quixote, in reply, requested her,
for his sake, to do him the &your henceforth
to add to her name the title of Don, and
call herself Donna Tolosa, which she pro-
mised to do. The other girl now buckled
on his spur, and with her he held nearly
the some conference as with the lady of
the sword ; having enquired her name, she
told him it was Molinera, and that she was
daughter to an honest miller of Antiquera ;
he then requested her likewise to assume
the Don, and style herself Donna Moli-
nera,* renewing his proffers of service and
thanks.
These never -till -then -seen ceremonies
being thus speedily performed, Don Quixote
was impatient to find himself on horseback,
in quest of adventures : he therefore instantly
saddled Rozinante, mounted him, and, em-
bracing his host, made his acknowledgments
for the favour he had conferred, by knight-
ing him, in terms so extraordinary that it
would be in vain to attempt to repeat them.
The host, in order to get rid of him the
sooner, replied with no less flourish, but
more brevity; and, without making any
demand for his lodging, wished him a good
journey.
CHAPTER IV.
OF WHAT BEVEL OUR KNIGHT AFTEa
BB HAD SALLIED OUT FROM THE INN.
It was about break of day when Don
Quixote issued forth from the inn, so satis-
* Cerrantes here ridicule* the abuse of the title of Don.
P. Gusrdiola, oontemporaiy with our Author, says
(Tratado de Noblesa, p. IIO) that this abuse began in
the time of Henry IV., and still prevailed under the
reign of Ferdinand V. and Isabella. He adds that the
Jews more particularly affected the Don, and that in his
time it was assumed by the lower orders, and even by
common prostitutes ; especially in Andalusia. Nor has
this abuse disappeared in our own times. In the latter
fied, so gay, so blithe, to see himself
knighted, that the joy thereof almost burst
his horse's girths. Bot recollecting the
advice of his host concerning the necessary
provisions for his undertaking, especially
the articles of money and dean shirts, be
resolved to return home, and furnish himself
accordingly, and also provide himself ^-ith
a Squire : purposing to take into his service
a certain country fellow of the neighbour-
hood, who was poor, and had children, yet
was very fit for the squirely office of
chivalry. With this determination he turned
Rozinante towards his village, and the steed,
as if aware of his master's intention, began
to put on with so much alacrity that be
hardly seemed to set his feet to the ground.
He had not, however, gone far, when, on
his right hand, from a thicket hard by, he
fiincied he heard feeble cries, as from some
person complaining. And scarcely had be
heard it when he said, " I thank heaven for
the favour it does me, by ofiering me so
early an opportunity of complying with the
duty of my profession, and of reaping the
fruit of my honourable desires. These axe,
doubtless, the cries of some distressed per-
son, who stands in need of my protection
and assistance." Then, turning the reins,
he guided Rozinante towards the place
whence he thought the cries proceeded, and
he had entered but a few paces into tbe
wood when he saw a mare tied to an oak,
and a lad to another, naked from the waist
upwards, about fifteen years of age, who
was tbe person that cried out; and not
without cause, for a lusty country fellow
was laying on him very severely with a belt,
and accompanied every lash with a^ repri-
mand and a word of advice ; for, said be,
"The tongue slow and the eyes quick."
The boy answered, " I will do so no more,
dear sir ; by the passion of God, 1 will never
do so again ; and I promise for the future to
take more care of the flock."
psrt of the novel of Vigilio Cordato, there is the follow-
ing pass^re : " Those two female shopkeepers, who arc
now weighing out tripe and fruit in the port, a few dsya
since were discharging invectiyes, as well as their weights,
at each other, and clawing for honours, while they
clawed each other's faces; 'Howl' said one of them,
* Dar'st thou put thyself on a level with me, Donns
Theodosia ? I, who am well known in If alaga, and s
publican's daughter !' " PetUcer.
(!>)=
DON QUIXOTE.
Don Quixote^ obeerving what passed, now
called out in an angry tone, '^ Discourteous
knight, it ill becomes thee to deal thus with
one who is not able to defend himself. Get
upon thy horse, and take thy lance (for he
bad also a lance leaning against the oak, to
which the mare was fastened,) and I will
make thee sensible of thy dastardly conduct."
The countryman, seeing such a figure
coming towards him, armed from head to
foot, and brandishing his lance at his iace,
gave himself up for a dead man, and there-
fore humbly answered: ^'Sigaor cavalier,
this lad I am chastising is a servant of mine,
whom I employ to tend a flock of sheep
which I have hereabouts, but he is so care-
less that I lose one every day ; and, because
I correct him for his negligence, or roguery,
be says I do it out of covetousness, and for
an excuse not to pay him his wages ; but,
before God, and on my conscience, he lies."
" Dar'st thou say so, in my presence, vile
rustic?" said Don Quixote. ^' By the sun
that shines upon us, I have a good mindio
run thee through with this lance ! Pay him
immediately, without further reply ; if not,
by the God that rules us, I will dispatch
and annihilate thee in a moment ! Unbind
him instantly!" The countryman hung
down his head, and, without reply, untied
his boy. Don Quixote then asJced the lad
how much his master owed him; and he
answered, nine months' wages, at seven reals
a month. Don Quixote, on calculation,
found that it amounted to sixty-three reals,
and desired the countryman instantly to dis-
burse them, unless he meant to pay it with
his life. The fellow, in a fright, answered
that, on the word of a dying man, and upon
the oath he had taken (though by the way
he had taken no oath), it was not so much ;
for he must deduct the price of three pair of
shoes he had given him on account, and a
real for two blood-lettings when he was
sick. " All this is very right," said Don
Quixote ; '* but set the shoes and the blood-
lettings against the stripes thou hast given
him unjustly ; for, if he tore the leather of
thy shoes, thou hast torn his skin ; and if
the barber-surgeon drew blood from him
when he was sick, thou hast drawn blood
from him when he is well; so that upon
these accounts he owes thee nothing."
"The mischief is, sig or cavalier," quoth
the countryman, ''that I have no money
about me ; but let Andres go home with me,
and I will pay him all, real by real." " I
go with him !" said the lad ; " the devil a
bit ! No, sir, I will do no such thing ; for,
when he has me alone, he will flay me like
any saint Bartholomew." " He will not do
so," replied Don Quixote ; " to keep him in
awe, it is sufficient that I lay my commands
upon him ; and, on condition he swears to
me, by the order of knighthood, which he
has received, I shall let hhn go free, and
will be bound for the payment." "Good
sir, think of what you say," quoth the boy;
" for my master is no knight, nor ever re-
ceived any order of knighthood ; he is John
Aldudo, the rich, of the neighbourhood of
Quintanar." "That is little to the pur-
pose," answered Quixote ; " there may be
knights of the family of the Aldudos :
more especially as every man is the son of
his own works." "That's true," quoth
Andres ; " but what works is my master the
son of, who refuses me the wages of my
sweat and labour?" " I do not refuse thee,
friend Andres," replied the countryman;
" have the kindness to go with me ; and I
swear, by all the orders of knighthood that
are in the world, I will pay thee, every real
down, and perfiimed* into the bargain."
" For the perfuming, I thank thee," said
Don Quixote; "give him the reals, and I
shall be satisfied : and see that thou failest
not ; or else, by the same oath, I swear to
return and chastise thee; nor shalt thou
escape me, though thou wert to conceal
thyself closer than a lizard. And, if thou
would'st be informed who it is thus com-
mands, that thou may'st feel the more
strictly bound to perform thy promise, know
that I am the valorous Don Quixote de la
Mancha, the redressor of wrongs and abuses ;
so farewell, and do not forget what thou hast
promised and sworn, on pain of the penalty
I have denounced." So saying, he clapped
spurs to Rozinante, and was soon ñur off.
The countryman eagerly followed him
with his eyes ; and, when he saw him quite
* A Sptniih phrase for paying or returning anyUíiag
with adTantSKe. J.
@=
40
ADVENTURES OF
out of the wood, he tamed to his lad
Andres, and said : " Come hither, child, I
wish now to pay what I owe thee, as that
redressor of wrongs commanded." '' So you
shall, I swear,'' quoth Andres; "and you
will do well to obey the orders of that honest
gentleman (whom God grant to live a thou-
sand years !) who is so brave a man, and so
just a judge, that, egad, if you do not pay
me, he will come back and do what he has
threatened." " And I swear so too," quoth
the countryman : '^ and to shew how much
I love thee, I am resolved to augment the
debt, that I may add to the payment."
Then, taking him by the arm, he again tied
him to the tree, where he gave him so many
stripes that he left him for dead. " Now,"
said he, "master Andres, call upon that
redressor of wrongs ', thou wilt find he will
not easily redress this ; though I believe I
have not quite done with thee yet : for I
have a good mind to flay thee alive, as thou
said'st just now." At length, however, he
untied him, and gave him leave to go in
quest of his judge, to execute the threatened
sentence. Andres went away in dudgeon,
swearing he would find out the valorous
Don Quixote de la Mancha, and tell him
all that had passed, and that he should pay
for it sevenfold. Nevertheless he departed
in tears, leaving his master laughing at
him.
Thus did the valorous Don Quixote redress
this wrong ; and, elated at so fortunate and
glorious a beginning to his knight-errantry,
he went on toward his village, entirely satis-
fied with himself, and saying in a low voice :
" Well mayest thou deem thyself happy
above all women living on the earth, O
Dulcinea del Toboso, beauteous above the
most beautiful ! since it has been thy lot to
have subject and obedient to thy whole will
and pleasure so valiant and renowned a
knight, as is and ever shall be, Don Quixote
de la Mancha ! who, as all the world
knows, received but yesterday the order of
knighthood, and to day has redressed tlie
greatest injury and grievance that injustice
could invent, and cruelty commit ! to-day
hath he wrested the scourge out of the hand
of that pitiless enemy, by whom a tender
stripling was so undeservedly lashed !"
iS)=
He now came to a road which brancked
out in four different directions ; when imme-
diately those cross - ways presented them-
selves to his imagination where knights-
errant usually stop to consider which of the
roads they shall take. Here then, following
their example, he paused awhile, and, after
mature consideration, let go the reins : sub-
mitting his o^vn will to that of his horse,
who, following his first motion, took the
direct road towards his stable. Having pro-
ceeded about two miles, Don Quixote disco
vered a company of people, who, as it after-
wards appeared, were merchants of Toledo,
going to buy silks in Murcia. There were
six of them in number ; they carried um-
brellas, and were attended by four servants
on horseback, and three muleteers on foot.
Scarcely had Don Quixote espied them
when he imagined it must be some new ad-
venture : and, to imitate as nearly as possible
what he had read in his books, as he fancied
this to be cut out on purpose for him to
achieve, with a graceful deportment and
intrepid air, he settled himself firmly in his
stirrups, grasped his lance, covered his breast
with his target, and, posting himself in the
midst of the highway, awaited the approach
of those whom he already judged to be
knights-errant : and when they were come
so near as to be seen and heard, he raised kiá
voice, and, with an arrogant tone, cried
out : " Let the whole world stand, if the
whole world does not confess that there is
not in the whole world a damsel more beau-
tiful than the empress of la Mancha, the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso !" The mer-
chants stopped at the sound of these words,
and also to behold the strange figure of him
who pronounced them ; and, both by the one
and the other, they perceived the madness
of the speaker ; but they were disposed tc
stay and see what this confession meant
which he required; and therefore one of
them, who was somewhat of a wag, but
withal very discreet, said to him : " Sigñor
cavalier, we do not know who this good lady
you mention may be : let us but see her,
and, if she be really so beautiful as you inti-
mate, we will, with all our hearts, and with-
out any constraint, make the confession that
you demand of us." " Should I shew her
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
41
to you," replied Don Quixote, " where
would be the merit in confessing a truth so
manifest? It is essential that, without seeing
her, you believe, confess, affirm, swear, and
maintain it ; and, if not, I challenge you all
to battle, proud and monstrous as you are :
and, whether you come on one by one (as
the laws of chivalry require), or all together,
as is the custom and wicked practice of those
of your stamp, here I wait for you, confiding
in the justice of my cause.'' " Sigñor
cavalier," replied the merchant, *' I beseech
your worship, in the name of all the princes
here present, that we may not lay a burden
upon our consciences, by confessing a thing
we never saw nor heard, and, especially,
being so much to the prejudice of the em-
presses and queens of Alcarria and Estrema-
dnra, that your worship would be pleased to
shew ua some picture of this lady, though
no bigger than a barley-corn, for we shall
guess at the clue by the thread ; and there-
with we shall rest satisfied and safe, and
your worship contented and pleased. Nay,
I verily believe we are already so far inclined
to your side that, although her picture
should represent her squinting with one eye,
and distilling vermilion and brimstone from
the other, notwithstanding all this, to oblige
you, we will say whatever you please in her
favour." ''There distils not, base scoun-
drels," answered Don Quixote, burning with
rage, " there distils not firom her what you
say, but rather ambergris and civet among
cotton ; neither doth she squint nor is she
hunch-backed, but as strait as a spindle of
Guadarrama:* but you shall pay for the
horrid blasphemy you have uttered against
so transcendent a beauty !" So saying, with
his lance couched, he ran at him who had
spoken with so much fury and rage that, if
good fortune had not so ordered that Rozin-
aate stumbled and fell in the midst of his
career, it had gone hard with the rash mer-
chant. Rozinante fell, and his master lay
rolling about the field for some time, endea-
vouring to rise, but in vain : so encumbered
, was he with his lance, target, spurs and
hebnet, added to the weight of his anti-
quated armour. And while he was thus
* A >auU town nine leagnet from Mudrid, litaared at
,. the foM of « mountain, the rocks of which are so per-
struggling to get up, he continued calling
out : " Fly not, ye dastardly rabble ; stay,
ye race of slaves; for it is through my
horse's fault, and not my own, that I lie
here extended." A muleteer of the com-
pany, not over good-natured, hearing the
arrogant language of the poor iallen gentle-
man, could not bear it without returning
him an answer on his ribs ; and coming to
him, he took the lance, which having broken
to pieces, he applied one of the splinters
with so much agility upon Don Quixote
that, in spite of his armour, he was threshed
like wheat. His masters called out, desir-
ing him to forbear ! but the lad was provoked,
and would not quit the game, until he had
quite spent the remainder of his choler : and,
seizing the other pieces of the lance, he com-
pletely demolished them igpon the unfor-
tunate knight ; who, notwithstanding the
tempest of blows that rained upon him,
never shut his mouth, incessantly threatening
heaven and earth, and those who to him
appeared to be assassins. At length the
fellow was tired, and the merchants de-
parted, sufficiently furnished with matter
of discourse concerning the poor belaboured
knight, who, when he found himself alone,
again endeavoured to rise ; but, if he could
not do it when sound and well, how should
he in so bruised and battered a condition ?
Yet he was consoled in looking upon this as
a misfortune peculiar to knights-errant ; and
imputing the whole blame to his horse:
although to raise himself up was impossible,
his whole body was so horribly bruised.
CHAPTER V.
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NARRATION
OF OUR knight's MISFORTUNE.
Don Quixote, finding that he was really
not able to stir, had recourse to his usual
remedy, which was to recollect some incident
in his books ; and his frenzy instantly sug-
gested to him that of Yaldovinos and the
marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him
wounded on the mountain : a story familiar
pendicalar that they are called " the Spindles." Near
it stands the Esciirial. J.
42
ADVENTURES OF
to children, not unknown to yoath, com-
mended and even credited by old men : yet
no more true than the miracles of Mahomet.
Now this seemed to him exactly suited to
his case, therefore, with signs of great bodily
pain, he began to roll himself on the ground,
and to repeat, in a faint voice, what they
afHrm was said by the wounded knight of
the wood :
'* Where art thoa, mittreu of my heart,
TJnconacioas of thy lover's imart ?
Ah me! thoa know'st not my distress;
Or thou art false and pitiless."
In this manner he went on with the
romance, until he came to those verses where
it is said ; '' O noble marquis of Mantua,
my uncle and lord by blood !"— just at that
instant it so happened that a peasant of bis
own village, a near neighbour, who had
been carrying a load of wheat to the mill,
passed by ; and, seeing a man lying stretched
on the earth, he came up, and asked him,
who he was, and what was the cause of his
doleful lamentations ? Don Quixote firmly
believing him to be the marquis of Mantua
his uncle, returned him no answer, but pro-
ceeded with the romance, giving an account
of his misfortune, and of the amours of the
emperor's son with his spouse, just as it is
there recounted. The peasant was astonished
at his extravagant discourse ; and, taking
off his vizor, now battered all to pieces, he
wiped the dust from his face ; upon which
he recognized him, and exclaimed, "Ah,
sigñor Quixada!'' (for so he was called
before he had lost his senses, and was trans-
formed from a sober gentleman to a knight-
errant.) " How came your worship in this
condition V* But still he answered out of
his romance to whatever question he was
asked.
The good man, seeing this, contrived to
take off the back and breast-piece of his
armour, to examine if he had any wound :
but he saw no blood, nor sign of any hurt.
He then endeavoured to raise him from the
ground, and with no little trouble placed
him upon his ass, as being the beast of easier
carriage. He gathered together all the arms,
not excepting the broken pieces of the lance,
and tied them upon Rozinante ; then taking
him by the bridle, and his ass by the halter,
he went on towards his village, full of con-
cern at the wild language of Don Quixote.
No less thoughtful was the knight, who was
so cruelly b^ten and bruised that he could
scarcely keep himself upon the ass, and ever
and anon he sent forth groans that seemed
to pierce the skies, insomuch that the peasant
was again forced to enquire what ailed him.
And surely the devil alone could have fur-
nished his memory with stories so applicable
to what had be&llen him ; for at that instant,
forgetting Valdovinos, he recollected the
Moor Abindarraez, at the time when the
governor of Antequera, Roderigo of Nar-
vaez, had taken him prisoner, and conveyed
him to his castle ; so that when the peasant
asked again how he was, and what be felt,
he answered him in the very same terms
that were used by the prisoner Abindarraez
to Roderigo of Narvaez, as he had read in
the Diana of George of Montemayor, apply-
ing it so aptly to his own case that the
peasant went on cursing himself to the devil,
to hear such a monstrous heap of nonsense,
which convinced him that his neighbour had
run mad, and he therefore made what haste
he could to reach the village, and thereby
escape the plague of Don Quixote's long
speeches } who, still continuing, said : " Be
it known to your worship, Signor Don
Roderigo de Narvaez, that this beauteous
Xarifa, whom I mentioned, is now the fair
Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done,
do, and will do, the most famous exploits of
chivalry, that have been, are, or shall be,
seen in the world." To this the peasant
answered : " Look you. Sir, as I am a sin-
ner, I am not Don Roderigo de Narvaez, nor
the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso
your neighbour: neither is your worship
Valdovinos, nor Abindarraez, but the wor-
thy gentleman Sigfior Quixada." '' I know
who I am," answered Don Quixote ; ** and
I know, too, that I am not only capable of
being those I have mentioned, but all the
twelve peers of France, yea, and the nine
worthies, since my exploits will far exceed
all that they have, jointly or separately,
achieved."
With this and dmilar conversation, they
reached the village about sun-set : but the
peasant waited until the night was a little
5f=
DON QUIXOTE.
advanced^ that the poor battered gentleman
might not be seen so scnrvily mounted.
When he thought it the proper time, he
entered the village, and arrived at Don
Quixote's house, which he found all in con-
fusion. The priest and the barber of the
place, who were Don Quixote's particular
friends, happened to be there : and the house-
keeper was saying to them aloud : '* What
do you think, Sigfior Licentiate Pero Perez,"
(for that was the priesf s name) " of my
master's misfortune ? for neither he, nor his
horse, nor the target, nor the lance, nor the
armour, have been seen these six days past.
Woe is me ! I am verily persuaded, and it
j is as certainly true as I was bom to die, that
these cursed books of knight-errantry, which
he is so often reading, have turned his brain :
and, now I think of it, I have often heard
him say, talking to himself, that he would
turn knight-errant, and go about the world
in quest of adventures. The devil and Bar-
abbas take all such books, that have spoiled
the finest understanding in all la Mancha."
The niece joined with her, adding, " And
yon must know, master Nicholas," (for that
was the barber's name) '* that it has often
happened that my honoured uncle has con-
tinned poring on these wicked books of mis-
adventures two whole days and nights ; then,
throwing the book out of his hand, he would
draw his sword and strike against the walls ;
and when he was heartily tired, would say,
be had killed four giants, as tall as so many
steeples, and that the sweat, which his labour
occasioned, was the blood of the wounds he
had received in the fight ; then, after drink-
ing off a large pitcher of cold water, he
would be as quiet as ever, telling us that
Í the wate^ was a most precious liquor, brought
< him by the sage Esquife,* a great enchanter,
and his firiend. But I take the blame of all
thb to myself, for not informing you, gen-
tlemen, of my dear uncle's extravagancies,
that they might have been cured before they
i had gone so &r, by burning all those cursed
books, which as justly deserve to be com-
mitted to the fiames as if they were hereti-
cal." *' I say the same," quoth the priest ;
"and, in ftdth, to-morrow shall not pass
* Alqaife, the safe who wrote the chronideB of Amadis
dcGaol.
0^
without holding a public inquisition upon
them, and condemning them to the fire, that
they may not occasion others to act as I
fear my good friend has done."
All this was overheard by Don Quixote
and the peasant ; and, as it confirmed the
latter in the belief of his neighbour's in-
firmity, he began to cry aloud Open the
doors, gentlemen, to Sigfior Valdovinos and
the Marquis of Mantua, who comes danger-
ously wounded, and to Sigfi or Abindarraez the
Moor, whom the valorous Roderigo de Nar-
vaez, governor of Antequera, brings as his
prisoner." Hearing this they all came out ;
and, immediately recognising their friend,
they ran to embrace him, although he had
not yet alighted firom the ass, for indeed it
was not in his power. '^ Forbear, all of
you," he cried, '^ for I am sorely wounded
through my hone's friult : carry me to my
bed ; and, if it be possible, send for the sage
Urganda, to search and heal my wounds."
"Look ye," said the housekeeper imme-
diately, '^ if my heart did not tell me truly
on which leg my master halted. Get up
stairs in God's name ; for, without the help
of that same Urganda, we shall find a way
to cure you ourselves. Cursed, say I again,
and a hundred times cursed, be those books
of knight-errantry, that have brought your
worship to this pass!" They carried him
directly to his chamber, where, on searching
for his wounds, they could discover none.
He then told them " he was only bruised by
a great fall he got with his horse Rozinante,
as he was fighting with ten of the most pro-
digious and audacious giants on the face of
the earth." "Ho, ho!" says the priest,
" what, there are giants too in the dance !t
by my faith, I shall set fire to them all be-
fore to-morrow night." They asked Don
Quixote a thousand questions, to which he
would return no answer ; he only desired
that they would give him some food, and
allow him to sleep, that being what he most
required. Having done this, the priest en-
quired particularly of the countryman in
what condition Don Quixote had been found.
The countryman gave him an account of
the whole, with the extravagancies he had
t This alindes to a passage in Amadis de Gaol, B. XII.
ch. 82. /.
=(S)
44
ADVENTURES OF
uttered, both at the tíme of finding him^
and during their journey home ; which made
the Licentiate impatient to carry into exe-
cution what he had determined to do the
following day, when, for that purpose, call-
upon his friend master Nicholas the barber,
they proceeded together to Don Quixote's
house.
♦
CHAPTER VI.
OF THE GRAND AND DIVRRTING SCRU-
TINY MADE BY THE PRIEST AND THE
BARBER, IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR
INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN.
Whilst Don Quixote continued sleeping,
the priest asked the niece for the keys of
the chamber, which contained the books,
tliose authors of the mischief; and she de-
livered them with a very good will. They
entered, attended by the housekeeper, and
found above a hundred large volumes well
bound, besides a great number of smaller
size. No sooner did the housekeeper see
them than she ran out of the room in great
haste, and immediately returned with a pot
of holy water, and a bunch of hyssop,
saying : " Sig¿or Licentiate, take this, and
sprinkle the room, lest some enchanter, of
the many these books abound with, should
enchant us, as a punishment for our inten-
tion to banish them out of the world." The
priest smiled at the housekeeper's simplicity,
and ordered the barber to reach him the
books, one by one, that they might see what
they treated of; as they might perhaps find
some that deserved not to be chastised by
fire. ''No," said the niece, ''there is no
reason why any of them should be spared,
for they have all been mischief-makers : so
let them all be thrown out of the window
into the court-yard ; and, having made a
pile of them, set fire to it ; or else make a
bonfire of them in the back-yard, where the
smoke will ofiend nobody." The house-
keeper said the same ; so eagerly did they
both thirst for the death of those innocents.
But the priest would not consent to it with-
out first reading the titles at least.
The first that Master Nicholas put into
*The author of the Jardín de Flores, la Antonio
de Torquemada. Thb book abound* with ialc« of
his handsy was Amadb de Graul in four parts ;
and the priest said, " There seems to be some
mystery in this ; for I have heard say that
this was the first book of chivalry printed
in Spain, and that all the rest had their
foundation and rise from it ; I think, there-
fore, as head of so pernicious a sect, we
ought to condemn him to the fire without
mercy." " Not so, sir," said the barber ;
" for I have heard also that it is the best
of all the books of thb kind ; and there-
fore, as being unequalled in its way, it ought
to be spared." " You are right," said the
priest, *' and for that reason its life is granted
for the present. Let us see that otiier next
to him." " It is," said the barber, " the
Adventures of Esplandian, the legitimate
son of Amadis de Gaul." " Verily," said
the priest, " the goodness of the father shall
avail the son nothing ; take him, mistress
house-keeper ; open that casement, and
throw him into the yard, and let him make
a beginning to the pile for the intended bon-
fire." The housekeeper did so with much
satisfaction, and good Esplandian was sent
flying into the yard, there to wait with
patience for the fire with which he was
threatened. "Proceed," said the priest.
" The next, said the barber, " is Amadis of
Greece : yea, and all tliese on this side, I
believe, are of the lineage of Amadis."
" Then into the yard with tliem all !" quoth
the priest ; "for rather than not bum queen
Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinal
with his eclogues, and the devilish perplexi-
ties of the author, I would burn the father
who begot me, were I to meet him in the
shape of a knight-errant." '• Of the same
opinion am I," said the barber ; " And I
too," added the niece. " Well then," said
the housekeeper, " away with them all into
the yard." They handed them to her ; and,
as they were numerous, to save herself the
trouble of the stairs, she threw them all out
of the window.
" What tun of an author is that?" said
the priest. " This," answered the barber,
" is Don Olivante de Laura." " The author
of that book," said the priest, " was the
same who composed the Garden of Flowers ;*
phantonu, Tiaions, bobgoblina, enchanten, and
witches. P.
=a
DON QUIXOTE.
45
and in good truth I know not which of the
two books is the truest, or rather the least
lying ; I can only say that this goes to the
yard for its arrogance and absurdity."
"This that follows is Florismarte of Hyr-
cania,"* said the barber. "What ! is
sigñor Florismarte there?" replied the priest ;
" now, by my faith, he shall soon make his
appearance in the yard, notwithstanding his
strange birth and chimerical adventures ;
for the harshness and dryness of his style
will admit of no excuse. To the yard with
him, and this other, mistress housekeeper."
" With all my heart, dear sir," answered
she ; and with much joy executed what she
was commanded. "Here is the knight
Platir," said the barber. "That," said
the priest, " is an ancient book, and I find
nothing in him deserving pardon : without
more words, let him be sent after the rest ;"
which was accordingly done. They opened
another book, and found it intítled the Knight
of the Cross. " So religious a title," quoth
the priest, " might, one would think, atone
for the ignorance of the author ; but it is a
a common saying, < the devil lurks behind
the cross :' so to the fire with him." The
barber, taking down another bool^, said,
" This is the mirrour of Chivalry." " Oh ! I
know his worship very well," quoth the
priest. " Here comes signor Eeynaldos de
Montalvan, with his friends and companions,
greater thieves than Cacus ; and the Twelve
Peers, with the faithful historiographer
Turpin. However, I am only for condemn-
ing them to perpetual banishment, because
they contain some things of the famous
Mateo Boyardo ; from whom the Christian
poet Ludovico Ariosto spun his web : and,
even to him, if I find him here uttering any
other language than his own, I will shew
no respect ; but, if he speaks in his own
tongue, I will put him upon my head."
" I have him in Italian," said the barber,
" but I do not understand him." " Neither
is it any great matter whether you under-
stand him or not," answered the priest;
" and we would willingly have excused the
good captainf from bringing him into Spain
• PnUiahed bj Mekhoi de Ortega, Knight of Ubeda,
oader the title of Flnt part of the Hiatorj of Prince
Pedzmarte of Hyreania. ValladoUd, 1556, fol. P,
and making him a Castilian ; for he has de-
prived him of a great deal of his^ native
value ; which, indeed, is the misfortune of
all those who undertake the translation of
poetry into other languages ; for, with all
their care and skill, they can never bring
them on a level with the original produc-
tion. In short, I sentence this, and all
other books, that shall be found treating of
French matters, to be thrown aside, and
deposited in some dry vault, until we can
deliberate more maturely what is to be done
with them ; excepting, however, Bernardo
del Carpió, and another, called Roncesvalles,
which, if they fall into my hands, shall pass
into those of the housekeeper, and thence
into the fire, without any remission." The
barber confirmed the sentence, and accounted
it well and rightiy determined, knowing
that the priest was so good a christian, and
so much a fnend to truth, that he would not
utter a falsehood for all the world.
Then, opening another book, he saw it
was Palmerin de Oliva, and next to that
another, caUed Palmerin of England; on
espying which, the Licentiate said, "Let
this Oliva be torn to pieces, and so efiectnally
burnt tiiat not so much as the ashes may
remain; but let Palmerin of England be
preserved, and kept, as a unique production ;
and such another case be made for it as
that which Alexander found among the
spoils of Darius, and appropriated to pre-
serve the works of the poet Homer. This
book, neighbour, is estimable upon two
accounts ; the one, that it is very good of
itself; and the other, because there is a tra-
dition that it was written by an ingenious
king of Portugal. All the adventures of
the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent, and
contrived with much art; the dialogue
courdy and clear; and all the characters
preserved with great judgment and pro-
priety. Therefore, master Nicholas, saving
your better judgment, let this, and Amadis
de Gaul, be exempted from the ñre, and let
all the rest perish without any farther en-
quiry." "Not so, firiend," replied the
barber ; " for this which I have here is the
t This translator ia Don Gerónimo Ximenez de Urrea,
a native of Epila, and no lei> distingulihed in arma than
in literature. P*
(^-
€)
46
ADVENTURES OF
renowned Don Belianis." The priest re-
plied, ''This, and the second, third, and
fourth parts, want a little rhubarb to purge
away their excess of bile : besides, we must
remove all that relates to the castle of Fame,
and other absurdities of greater conse-
quence ; for which, let sentence of transpor-
tation be passed upon them, and, according
as they shew signs of amendment, they
shall be treated with mercy or justice. In
the mean time, neighbour, give them room
in your house ; but let them not be read/'
" With all my heart," quoth the barber ;
and, without tiring himself any farther in
turning over books of chivalry, he bid the
housekeeper take all the great ones and
throw them into the yard. This was not
spoken to the stupid or deaf, but to one who
had a greater mind to be burning them
than weaving the finest and largest web ;
and, therefore, laying hold of seven or eight
at once, she tost them out at the window.
But, in taking so many together, one feU
at the barber's feet, who had a mind to see
what it was, and found it to be the History
of the renowned knight Tirante the White.
'' God save me !" quoth Hhe priest, with a
loud voice, "is Tirante the White there?
Give him to me, neighbour ; for in him I
shall have a treasure of delight, and a mine
of entertainment. Here we have Don
Kirieleisón of Montalvan, a valorous knight,
and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, with
the knight Fonseca, and the combat which
the valiant Tirante fought with the bull-dog,
and the witticisms of the damsel Plazer-
demivida, also the amours and artifices of
the widow Reposada ; and madam the Em-
press in love with her squire Hypolito.
Verily, neighbour, in its way, it is the best
book in the world : here the knights eat,
and sleep, and die in their beds, and make
their wills before their deaths ; with several
things which are not to be found in any
other books of this kind. Notwithstanding
this, I tell you, the author deserved, for
writing so many foolish things seriously, to
be sent to the galleys for the whole of his
life : carry it home, and read it, and you
* A celebrated poet of Valencia, wlio wrote five books
of the "Diana Enamorada," in continuation of the
seren, by George de Montemayor. P,
t A wretdied poet ; his work was neverthelesa reprinted
will find all I say of him to be true." " I
will do BO," answered the barber: "bat
what shall we do with these small volumes
that remain? "Those," said the priest,
"are, probably, not books of chivalry, but
of poetry." Then opening one, he found
it was the Diana of George de Monte-
mayor, and, concluding that all the others
were of the same kind, he said, "These do
not deserve to be burnt like the rest; for
they cannot do the mischief that those ol
chivalry have done; they are works of
genius and &ncy, and do injury to none."
" O sir," said the niece, " pray order them to
be burnt with the rest ; for should my uncle
be cured of this distemper of chivalry, he
may possibly, by reading such books, take
it into his head to turn shepherd, and wan-
der through the woods and fields, singing
and playing on a pipe ; and, what would be
still worse, turn poet, which, they say, is
an incurable and contagious disease." " The
damsel says true," quoth the priest, " and
it will not be amiss to remove this stumbling-
block out of our Mend's way. And, since
we begin with the Diana of Montemayor,
my opinion is that it should not be burnt,
but thftt all that part should be expunged
which treats of the sage Felicia, and of the
enchanted fountain, and also most of the
longer poems; leaving him, in God's name,
the prose, and also the honour of being the
first in that kind of writing." "The next
that appears," said the barber, "is the
Diana, called the second, by Sabnantino ;
and another, of the same name, whose
author is Gil Polo." • " The Salmantinian,"
answered the priest, " may accompany and
increase the number of the condemned — to
the yard with him : but let that of Gil Polo
be preserved, as if it were written by Apollo
himself. Proceed, firiend, and let us dis-
patch; for it grows late."
" This," said the barber, opening another,
" is the Ten Books of the Fortune of Love,
composed by Antonio de lo Frasso,-)- a Sar-
dinian poet." *' By the holy orders I have
received!" said the priest, "since Apollo
was Apollo, the muses muses, and the poets
in London, by Pedro de Pineda, who was nüaled perhaps
by this equivocal panegyric of Cerrantes, like the Mar-
quis d'Argens, who says that it is one of the best books
in Spain.
=(p)
DON QUIXOTE.
47
poetSy 80 humorous and so wbimsical a book
as this was never written ; it is the best,
and most extraordinary of the kind, that
ever appeared in the world; and he who
has not read it may be assured that he has
never read any thing of taste : give it me
here, neighbour, for I am better pleased at
finding it than if I had been presented with
a cassock of Florence satin." He laid it
aside, with great satis&ction, and the barber
proceeded, saying: ''These which follow
are the Shepherd of Iberia, the Nymphs of
Enares, and the Cure of Jealousy." " Then
you have only to deliver them np to the
secular arm of the housekeeper," said the
priest, '' and ask me not why, for in that
oase we should never have done." '' The
next is the Shepherd of Filida." ''He is
no shepherd," said the priest, " but an in-
genious courtier ; let him be preserved, and
hid up as a precious jewel." " This bulky
volume here," said the barber, is intiüed
" The Treasure of divers Poems."* " Had
they been fewer," replied the priest, "they
would have been more esteemed : it is
necessary that this book should be weeded
and cleared of some low things interspersed
amongst its sublimities : let it be preserved,
both because the author is my friend, and
out of respect to other more heroic and
exalted productions of his pen." " This,"
pursued the barber, "is El Cancionero of
Lopez Maldonado." " The author of that
book," replied the priest, "is also a great
friend of mine : his verses, when sung by
himself, excite much admiration; indeed
such is the sweetness of his voice in singing
them that they are perfectly enchanting.
He is a little too prolix in his eclogues ; but
there can never be too much of what is really
good : let it be preserved with the select.
"But what book is that next to it?"
"The Galatea of Michael de Cervantes,"
said the barber. " That Cervantes has been
an intimate friend of mine these many
years, and I know that he is more versed in
misfortunes than in poetry. There is a good
vein of invention in his book, which pro-
poses something, though nothing is con-
* Bj Don Pedra PkdiOa. P.
t A poem in tirelve caaloa, by Lonii Barahona de
eluded : we must wait for the second part,
which he has promised; perhaps, on his
amendment, he may obtain that entire par-
don which is now denied him ; in the mean
time, neighbour, keep him a recluse in your
chamber." " With all my heart," answered
the barber : " now here come three together :
the Araucana of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the
Austriada of Juan Rufo, a magistrate of
Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christoval
de Virves, a poet of Valencia." " These
three books," said the priest, "are the best
that are written in heroic verse in the Cas-
tilian tongue, and may stand in competition
with the most renowned works of Italy.
Let them be preserved as the best produc-
tions of the Spanish muse." llie priest
grew tired of looking over so many books,
and, therefore, without examination, pro-
posed that all the rest should be burnt ; but
the barber, having already opened one called
the Tears of Angelica,t " I should have
shed tears myself," said the priest, on hear-
ing the name, " had I ordered that book to
be burnt ; for its author was one of the most
celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but of
the whole world; his translations from
Ovid are admirable."
CHAPTER VIL
OP THB SBGOND SALLT OP OUR GOOD
KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE DB LA MANCHA.
Whilb they were thus employed, Don
Quixote began to call out aloud, saying:
" Here, here, valorous knights ! Here you
must exert the force of your powerful arms :
for the courtiers begin to get the advantage
in the tournament." All rushing out at once
to the place whence this noisy exclamation
proceeded, the scrutiny was suddenly inter-
rupted ; and therefore it is believed that to
the fire, unseen, and unheard, went the
Carolea, and Leon of Spain, with the Acts
of the Emperor, composed by Don Louis de
Soto, native of Lucerna, a loldier, a poet,and a physician.
This person is called Lanso,b7 Cerrantes in his Gal<itea.P
í0=
©
48
ADVENTURES OF
Avila,* which, without doubt, must have
been amongst those that were left: and
perhaps, had the priest seen them, they
might not have undergone so rigorous a sen-
tence. On entering Don Quixote's chamber,
they found him already out of bed, and con-
tinuing his outcries and ravings, with his
drawn sword, laying furiously about him,
back-stroke and fore-stroke, and as broad
awake as if he had never been asleep. They
closed in with him, and by main force con-
veyed him again to his bed, where, after he
was a little composed, he said, turning him-
self to the priest, " Certainly, my lord arch-
bishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace to us,
who call ourselves the twelve peers, to let
the knights-courtiers carry off the palm,
without more opposition, after we, the ad-
venturers, had gained the prize on the three
preceding days." "Say no more, good
sir," said the priest ; " it may be God's wül
to change our fortune, and what is lost
to-day may be won to-morrow ; mind your
health for the present ; for I think you must
needs be extremely fatigued, if not sorely
wounded." "AVounded I am not,*' said
Don Quixote ; " but bruised and battered,
most certainly: for that bastard, Don
Roldan, has pounded me with the trunk of
an oak, and all out of mere envy, because
he sees I am the sole rival of his prowess.
But let me never more be called Rinaldo of
Montauban, if, as soon as I c&n rifce from
this bed, he pay not dearly for it, in spite of
all his enchantments. In the mean time
give me some food : for that is what I am
now most in need of, and leave to me the
care of avenging myself." They com-
plied with his request, and gave him some-
thing to eat ; he tlien fell fast asleep again :
leaving them in astonishment at his madness.
The same night the housekeeper set fire
to, and burnt, all the books that were in the
yard, and in the house. Some must have
perished that deserved to be treasured up in
perpetual archives : but their destiny, or the
indolence of the scrutineer, forbade it ; and
in them was fulfilled the saying that " the
* This name ia either an error of the press, or an
oversight in the Author ; for those books could not be
ascribed to Louis de Avila, who wrote "The War of
Germany, or Passage of the Elbe;" a faithful and ele-
just sometimes suffer for the unjust." One
of the remedies which the priest and the
barber prescribed at that time, for their
friend's malady, was to wall up the chamber
which had contained his books, hoping that,
when the cause was removed, the effect
might cease ; and that they should pretend
that an enchanter had canied room and all
away. This was speedily executed ; and,
two days after, when Don Quixote left his
bed, the first thing that occurred to him was
to visit his books; and, not finding the
room, he went up and down looking for
it ; when, coming to the former situation of
the door, he felt with his hands, and stared
about on all sides without speaking a word
for some time ; at length he asked the house-
keeper where the chamber was in which he
kept his books. She, who was already well
tutored what to answer, said to him : " What
room, or what nothing, does your worship
look for? there is neither room, nor books,
in this house; for the devil himself has
carried all away." " It was not the devil,"
said the niece, " but an enchanter, who came
one night upon a cloud, after the day of
your departure, and, alighting from a serpent
on which he rode, entered the room ; what
he did there, I know not, but, after some
little time, out he came, fiying through the
roof, and left the house full of smoke ; and
when we went to see what he had been
doing, we saw neither books nor room ; only
we very well remember, both I and mistress
housekeeper here, that when the wicked old
thief went away, he said with a loud voice,
that, from a secret enmity he bore to the
owner of those books and of the room, he
had done a mischief in this house which
would soon be manifest : he told us also,
that he was called the sage Munniaton."
" Freston he meant to say," quoth Don
Quixote. "I know not," answered the
housekeeper,^' whether his name be Freston,
or Friton ; all I know is, that it ended in
ton." " It doth so," replied Don Quixote.
" He is a sage enchanter, a great enemy of
mine, and bears me malice, because by his
gant production, and one of the best historical works in
the Castilian language. It is very probable, from many
circumstances, that the name of Don Louis Z^Mita
should be substituted. P.
y^
DON QUIXOTE.
4J)
skill and learning he knows, that, in process
of time, I shall engage in single combat
with a knight whom he favours, and shall
iranquish him, in spite of his protection. On
this account he endeavours, as much as he
can, to molest me : but let him know, from
me, that he cannot withstand or avoid what
is decreed by heaven." " Who doubts of
that?" said the niece; ''but, dear uncle,
what have you to do with these broils?
Would not it be better to stay quietly at
home, and not ramble about the world seek-
ing for better bread than wheaten ; without
considering that many go out for wool and
return shorn ?" " O niece," answered Don
Quixote, " how little dost thou know of the
matter ! Before they shall shear me, I will
pluck and tear off the beards of all those
who dare think of touching the tip of a
angle hair of mine." Neither of them would
make any further reply ; for they saw his
choler begin to rise. Fifteen days he re-
mained at home, very tranquil, discovering
no symptom of an inclin&tion to repeat
his late frolics; during which time much
pleasant conversation passed between him
and his two neighbours, the priest and the
barber : he always aiRrming that the world
stood in need of nothing so much as knights-
errant, and the revival of chivalry. The
priest sometimes contradicted him, and at
other times acquiesced : for, had he not been
thus cautious, there would have been no
means left to bring him to reason.
In the mean time Don Quixote tampered
with a labourer, a neighbour of his, and an
honest man (if such an epithet may be given
to one that is poor), but shallow-brained ;
in short he said so much, used so many
arguments, and made so many promises,
that the poor fellow resolved to sally out
with him, and serve him in the capacity of
a Squire. Among other things, Don Quixote
told him that he ought to be very glad to
accompany him, for such an adventure
might some time or other occur that by one
stroke an island might be won, where he
might leave him Governor. With this and
other promises, Sancho Panza (for that was
the labourer's name) left his wife and
children, and engaged himself as squire to
his neighbour. Don Quixote now set about
raising money; and, by selling one thing,
pawning another, and losing by all, he col-
lected a tolerable sum. He fitted himself
likewise with a buckler, which he borrowed
of a friend, and, patching up his broken
helmet in the best manner he could, he
acquainted his squire Sancho of the day and
hour he intended to set out, that he might
provide himself with what he thought would
be most needful. Above all, he charged him
not to forget a wallet ; which Sancho assured
him he would not neglect ; he said also that
he thought of taking an ass with him, as he
had a very good one, and he was not used to
travel much on foot. With regard to the ass,
Don Quixote paused a littie : endeavouring
to recollect whether any knight-errant had
ever carried a squire mounted on ass-back ;
but no instance of the kind occurred to his
memory. However, he consented that he
should take his ass, resolving to accom-
modate him more honourably, the earliest
opportunity, by dismounting, the first dis-
courteous knight he should meet. He
provided himself also with shirts, and other
things, conformably to the advice given
him by the inn-keeper.
All this being accomplished, Don Quixote
and Sancho Panza, without taking leave,
the one of his wife and children, or the other
of his housekeeper and niece, one night
sallied out of the village, unperceived ; and
they travelled so hard that by break of
day they believed themselves secure, even
if search were made after them. Sancho
Panza proceeded upon his ass, like a patri-
arch, with his wallet and leathern bottie,
and with a vehement desire to find himself
Governor of the island which his master had
promised him. Don Quixote happened to
take the same route as on his first expedi-
tion, over the plain of Montiel, which he
passed with less inconvenience than before ;
for it was early in the morning, and the
rays of the sun, darting on them horizon-
tally, did not annoy them. Sancho Pan^a
now said to his master : " I beseech your
worship, good sir knight-errant, not to
forget your promise concerning that same
island ; for I shall know how to govern it,
be it ever so large." To which Don Quixote
answered : ** Thou must know, friend Sancho
<?)-
50
ADVENTURES OF
Panza, that it was a custom much in use
among the kniglits-ezrant of old to make
their Squires Goyemors of the islands or
kingdoms they conqaered ; and I am deter-
mined that 80 laudable a custom shall not
be lost through my neglect; on the con-
trary, I resolye to out^o them in it: for
they, sometimes, and perhaps most times,
waited till their squires were grown old;
and when they were worn out in their ser-
yice, and had endured many bad days and
worse nights, they conferred on them some
tide, such as count, or at least marquis, of
some yalley or proyince, of more or less
account : but if you liye, and I liye, before
six days haye passed, I may probably win
such a kingdom as may haye others depend-
ing on it, jast fit for thee to be crowned king
of one of them. And do not think this any
extraordinary matter; for things iall out to
knights by such unforeseen and unexpected
ways that I may easily giye thee moro than
I promise." " So then," answered Sancho
Panza, " if I wero a king, by some of those
miracles your worship mentions, Joan Guti-
errez, my duck, would come to be a Queen,
and my children Infantas !" " Who doubts
it ?" answered Don Quixote. " I doubt it,"
replied Sancho Panza; ''for I am yerily
persuaded that, if God were to rain down
kingdoms upon the earth, none of them
would sit well upon the head of Mary
Gutierrez ; for you must know, sir, she is not
worth two farthings for a queen. The title
of Countess would sit better upon her, with
the help of God, and good friends." " Re-
commend her to God, Sancho," answered
Don Quixote, *' and he will do what is best
for her: but do thou haye a care not to
debase thy mind so low as to content thy-
self with being less than a Vice-roy." ** Sir,
1 will not," ansn^'ered Sancho ; " especially
haying so great a man for my master as
your worship, who will know how to giye
me whateyer is most fitting for me, and
what I am best able to bear."
CHAPTER VIII.
OP THE yALOROUS DON QUIXOTB'S SUC-
OESS IN TRB DREADFUL AND NEySR-
vs3)=
BBFOBX-IMA6INBD ADySNTURE OF THE
WIND -mills; with other ByENTS
WORTHT TO BE RECORDED.
As they were thus discoursing, they came
in sight of thirty or forty wind-mills, which
are in that plain; and, as soon as Don
Quixote espied them, he said to his squire :
*' Fortune disposes our afiairs better than
we ourselyes could haye desred : look yon-
der, friend Sancho Panza, where thou mayest
discoyer somewhat more than thirty mons-
trous giants, whom I intend to encounter
and slay; and with their spoils we will
begin to enrich ourselyes : for it is lawful
war, and doing Grod good senrice to remoye
so wicked a generation from off the face of
the earth." " What giants ?" said Sancho
Panza. *' Those thou seest yonder," an-
swered his master, '^ with their long arms ;
for some are wont to haye them almost
of the length of two lei^es." " Look,
sir," answered Sancho, '^ those, which appear
yonder, are not giants, but wind-mills ; and
what seem to be arms are the saüs, which,
whirled about by the wind, make the mill-
stone go." " It is yery eyident," answered
Don Quixote, '^ that thou art not yersed in
the business of adyentures : they are giants :
and, if thou art afraid, get thee aside and
pray, whilst I engage with them in ñerce
and unequal combat" So saying, he clapped
spurs to his steed, notwithstanding the cries
his squire sent after him, assuring him that
they were certainly wind -mills, and not
giants. But he was so fully possessed that
they were giants that he neither heard the
outcries of his squire Sancho, nor yet dis-
cerned what they were, though he was yery
near them, but went on crying out aloud :
** Fly not, ye cowards and yile caitifis ; for
it is a single knight who assaults you." The
wind now rising a little, the great sails began
to moye : upon which Don Quixote called
out : " Although ye should moye more arms
than the giant Briareus, ye shall pay for
it."
Then recommending himself deyoutly to
his lady Dulcinea, beseeching her to succour
him in the. present danger, being well
coyered with his buckler, and setting his
lance in the rest, he rushed on as fitst as
Rozinante could gallop, and attacked the
DON QUIXOTE.
51
first mOl before him; when, running his
lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about
with 50 much violence that it broke the
lance to shivers, dragging horse and rider
after it, and tumbling them over and oyer
on the plain, in very evil plight Sancho
Pan2a hastened to his assistance, as fast as
the ass could carry him ; and when he came
up to his master, he found him unable to
stir, 80 violent was the blow which he and
Rosnante had received in their fall. '^ God
save me !'' quoth Sancho, *' did not I warn
you to have a care of what you did, for
that they were nothing but wind-mills?
And nobody could mistake them, but one
that had the like in his head/' " Peace,
friend Sancho,'' answered Don Quixote:
" for matters of war are, of all others, most
subject to continual change. Now I verily
believe, and it is most certainly the ñict,
that the sage Freston, who stole away my
chamber and books, has metamorphosed
these giants into wind-mills, on purpose to
deprive me of the glory of vanquishing
them, so great is the enmity he bears me !
But his wicked arts will finally avail but
little against the goodness of my sword."
'^ God grant it !" answered Sancho Panza ;
then helping him to rise, he mounted him
again upon his steed, which was almost
digointed.
Conversing npon the late adventure, they
followed the road that led to the pass of
Lapice ; because there, Don Quixote said,
th^ could not &il to meet with many and
various adventures, as it was much fre-
quented. He was, however, concerned at
the loss of his lance ; and, speaking of it to
his squire, he said : '' I remember to have
read that a certain Spanish knight, called
Di^^ Perez de Vargas, having broken his
sword in fight, tore off a huge branch or
limb from an oak, and performed such
wonders with it that day, and dashed out
the brains of so many Moors, that he was
iumamed Machuca;* and, from that day
forward, he and his descendants bore the
names of Vargas and Machuca. I now
speak of this, because from the first oak we
meet, I mean to tear a limb, at least as good
* Ftoni machacsr, to bniiic or bYcak*
as that ; with which I purpose and resolve
to perform such feats that thou shalt deem
thyself most fortunate in having been thought
worthy to behold them, and to be an eye-
witness of things which will scarcely be
credited." «God's will be done!" quoth
Sancho ; '^ I believe all just as you say, sir.
But, pray set yourself more upright in your
saddle : for you seem to me to ride sideling,
owing, perhaps, to bruises received by your
fall." '^ It is certainly so," said Don Quix-
ote ; ^' and, if I do not complain of pain, it
is because knights-errant are not allowed
to complain of any wound whatever, even
though their entrails should issue from it."
« If so, I have nothing more to say ;" quoth
Sancho ; " but God knows I should be glad
to hear your worship complain when any
thing ails you. As for myself, I must
complain of the least pain I feel, unless
this business of not complaining extend also
to the squires of knights-errant." Don
Quixote could not forbear smiling at the
simplicity of his squire, and told him he
might complain whenever and, as much as
he pleased, either with or without cause,
having never yet read any thing to the
contrary in the laws of chivalry.
Sancho put him in mind that it was time
to dine. His master answered that at pre-
sent he had no need of food, but that he
might eat whenever he thought proper.
With this license, Sancho adjusted himself
as well as he could upon his beast; and,
taking out the contents of his wallet, he
jo^ed on behind his master, very leisurely,
eating, and ever and anon raising the bottle
to his mouth, with so much relish that the
best fed victualler of Malaga might have
envied him. And whilst he went on in this
manner, repeating his draughts, he thought
no more of the promises his master had
made him ; nor did he think it any toil, but
rather a recreation, to go in quest of adven-
tures, however perilous they might be. In
fine, they passed that night under the shel-
ter of some trees ; and from one of them
the knight tore a withered branch, to serve
him in some sort as a lance, afler fixing
upon it the iron head of the one that had
been broken. All that night Don Quixote
slept not, but ruminated on his lady
(^
62
ADVENTURES OF
Dulcinea; conformably to the practice of
knights-errant, who, as their histories told
him, were wont to pass many successive
nights in woods and deserts, without closing
their eyes, indulging the sweet remembrance
of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho spend
the night; for, hisstomach*being full, and not
of succory water, he made but one sleep of
it ; and, had not his master roused him, nei-
ther the beams of the sun, that darted full in
his &ce, nor the melody of the birds, which,
in great numbers, cheerñilly saluted the ap-
proach of the new day, could haye awaked
him. At his uprising he applied again to
his bottle, and found it much lighter than
the evening before ; which grieved him to
the heart, for he did not think they were in
the way soon to remedy that defect. Don
Quixote would not yet break his fast ; re-
solving, as we have said, still to subsist upon
savoury remembrances.
They now turned again into the road they
had entered upon the day before, leading to
the pass of Lapice, which they discovered
about three in the afternoon. ^^ Here,
fnend Sancho," said Don Quixote upon see-
ing it, " we may plunge our arms up to the
elbows in what are termed adventures. But
attend to this caution, that, even shouldst
thou see me in the greatest peril in the world,
thou must not lay hand to thy sword to
defend me, unless thou perceivest that my
assailants are vulgar and low people; in
that case thou mayest assist me : but should
they be knights, it is in no wise agreeable
to the laws of chivalry that thou should'st
interfere, until thou art thyself dubbed a
knight." " Your worship," answered Sancho,
" shall be obeyed most punctually therein,
and the rather as I am naturally very peace-
able, and an enemy to thrusting myself into
brawls and squabbles ; but, for all that, as to
what regards the defence of my own person,
I shall make no great account of those same
laws, since both divine and human law
allows every man to defend himself against
whoever would wrong him." " That I grant,"
answered Don Quixote ; " but with respect
to giving me aid against knights, thou must
refrain and keep within bounds thy natural
impetuosity." " I say, I will do so," an-
swered Sancho ; " and I will observe this
precept as religiously as the Lord's - day."
As they were thus discoursing, there ap-
peared on the road two monks of the order
of St. Benedict, mounted upon dromedaries ;
for the mules whereon they rode were not
much less. They wore travelling masks,
and carried umbrellas. Behind them came
a coach, accompanied by four or five men
on horseback, and two muleteers on foot.
Within the coach, as it afterwards appeared,
was a Biscaine lady on her way to join her
husband at Seville, who was there waiting
to embark for India, where he was appointed
to a very honourable post. The monks were
not in her company, but were only travelling
the same road. Scarcely had Don Quixote
espied them, when he said to his squire :
" Either I am deceived, or this will prove
the most ÜEimous adventure that ever hap-
pened ; for those black figures that appear
yonder must undoubtedly be enchanters, who
are carrying off, in that coach, some princess,
whom they have stolen ; which wrong I am
bound to use my utmost endeavours to
redress." " This may prove a worse busi-
ness than the wind - mills," said Sancho :
** pray, sir, take notice that those are
Benedictine monks, and the coach must be-
long to some travellers. Hearken to my
advice, sur; have a care what you do, and
let not the devu deceive you." " I have al-
ready told thee, Sancho," answered Don
Quixote, " that thou knowest little concern-
ing adventures : what I say is true, as thou
^vilt presently see." So saying, he advanced
forward, and planted himself in the midst of
the high-way, by which the monks were to
pass ; and when they were so near that he
supposed they could hear what he said, he
cried out, with a loud voice : " Diabolical
and monstrous race! Either instantly re-
lease the high-bom princesses whom ye are
carrying away perforce in that coach, or
prepare for instant death, as the just chastise-
ment of your wicked deeds." The monks
stopped their mules, and stood amazed, as
mach at the figure of Don Quixote, as at
his expressions ; to which they answered :
" Signer cavalier, we are neither diabolical
nor monstrous, but monks of the Benedictine
order, travelling on our own business, and
entirely ignorant whether any princesses arc
=@
DON QUIXOTE.
63
carried away in that coach, by force, or
not" '* No fair speeches to me: for I
know ye, treacherous scoundrels !" said
Don Quixote : and, without waiting for a
reply, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and,
with bis lance couched, ran at the foremost
monk, with such fury and resolution that, if
he had not slid down from his mule, he
would certainly have been thrown to the
ground, and wounded too, if not killed out-
right. The second monk, on observing how
his comrade was treated, clapped spurs to
the sides of his good mule, and began to
scour along the plain, lighter than the wind
itself.
Sancho Panza, seeing the monk on the
ground, leaped nimbly £rom his ass, and
running up to him, began to disrobe him.
While he was thus employed, the two
lacqueys came up and asked him why he was
stripping their master. Sancho told them
that they were his lawful perquisites, being
the spoils of the battle, which his lord Don
Quixote had just won. The lacqueys, who
did not understand the jest, nor what was
meant by spoils or battles, seeing that Don
Quixote was at a distance, speaking with
those in the coach, fell upon Sancho, threw
him down, and, besides leaving him not a
hair in his beard, gave him a hearty kicking,
and left him stretched on the ground, de-
prived of sense and motion. Without losing
a moment, the monk now got upon his mule
again, trembling, terrified, and paleas death ;
and was no sooner mounted than he spurred
after his companion, who stood at some dis-
tance, to observe the issue of this strange
encounter: but, being unwilling to wait,
they pursued their way, crossing themselves
oftener than if the devil had been at their
heels. In the mean time Don Quixote, as it
hath been already mentioned, addressing the
lady in the coach, '' Your beauteous lady-
ship may now," said he, " dispose of your
person as pleaseth you best ; for the pride of
your ravishers lies humbled in the dust,
overthrown by my invincible arm ; and, that
* ** To eanr the cmt to the water" it a nying applied
to one vho ia victorious in any contest ; and it is taken
from a fcame, in tvhich two caU are tied together by the
tail, then carried near a pit or well (having the water
between them), and the eat which first polls flie other
you may be at no trouble to learn the name
of your deliverer, know that I am called
Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant
and adventurer, and captive to the peerless
and beauteous Dulcinea del Toboso; and, in
requital of the benefit you have received at
my hands, all I desire is that you would
return to Toboso, and, in my name, present
yourselves before that lady, and tell her
what I have done to obtain your liberty.''
All that Don Quixote said was over-heard
by a certain squire, who accompanied tlie
coach, a JBiscainer, who, finding he would
not let it proceed, but talked of their im-
mediately returning to Toboso, flew at Don
Quixote, and, taking hold of his lance,
addressed him, in bad Castilian and worse
Biscaine, after this manner: "Cavalier,
begone! and the devil go with thee! I
swear, by the God that made me, if thou
dost not quit the coach, thou forfeitest thy
life, as I am a Biscainer." Don Quixote
understood him very well, and with great
calmness answered : " If thou wert a gentle-
man, as thou art not, I would before now
have chastised thy folly and presumption,
thou pitiful slave." " I no gentleman !"
said the Biscainer ; " I swear by the great
God, thou lyest, as I am a christian; if
thou wilt throw away thy lance, and draw
thy sword, thou shalt see how soon the cat
will get into the water :♦ Biscainer by land,
gentleman by sea, gentleman for the devil,
and thou lyest ! Now what hast thou to
say V* " Thou shalt see that presently, as
said Agrages," answered Don Quixote;
then, throwing down his lance, he drew his
sword, grasped his buckler, and set upon
the Biscainer, with a resolution to take his
life. The Biscainer, seeing him come on
in that manner, would fain have alighted,
knowing that his mule, a wretched hackney,
was not to be trusted, but he had only time
to draw his sword. Fortunately for him he
was so near the coach as to be able to snatch
from it a cushion, that served him for a
shield ; whereupon, they immediately fell
in is declared conqneror. This game, with some varia-
tion, was played by the Greeks and Romans, from
whom it was transmitted to Spain, according to Rodrigo
Caro, in his *' Diaa Geniales o Lúdicros, Dialogo V.
♦ 1." P.
:(S^
'<?'
64
ADVENTURES OF
to, as if they had been mortal enemies.
The rest of the company would have made
peace between them, but it was impossible ;
for the Biscainer swore, in his jargon, that,
if they would not let him finish the combat,
he would murder his mistress, or whoever
attempted to prevent him. The lady of
the coach, amazed and affrighted at what
she saw, ordered the coachman to remove a
little out of the way, and sat at a distance,
beholding the rigorous conflict ; in the pro-
gress of which, the Biscainer gave Don
Quixote so mighty a stroke on one of his
shoulders, and above his buckler, that, had
it not been for his armour, he had deft him
down to the girdle. Don Quixote, feeling
the weight of that unmeasurable blow,
cried out aloud, saying : " O lady of my
soul! Dulcinea, flower of all beauty!
Succour this thy knight, who, to satisfy thy
great goodness, exposes himself to this
perilous extremity !" This invocation, the
drawing his sword, the covering himself well
with his buckler, and rushing with fury on
the Biscainer, was the work of an instant-
resolving to venture all on the fortune of a
single blow. The Biscainer, perceiving his
determination, resolved to do the same, and
therefore waited for him, covering himself
well with his cushion ; but he was unable
to turn his mule either to the right, or the
left, for, being already jaded, and unaccus-
tomed to such sport, the creature would not
move a step.
Don Quixote, as we before said, now ad-
vanced against the wary Biscainer, with his
upliflted sword, fully determined to cleave
him asunder; and the Biscainer awaited
him, with his sword also raised, and guarded
by his cushion. All the by-standers were
in fearful suspense as to the event of those
prodigious blows with which they threatened
each other ; and the lady of the coach and
her attendants were making a thousand
vows, and promises of offeriogs, to all the
images and places of devotion in Spain, that
God might deliver them and their squire
from this great peril. But the misfortune
is that the author of the history, at that
very crisis, leaves the combat unfinished,
pleading, in excuse, that he could find no
more written of the exploits of Don Quixote
than what he has already related. It is
true, indeed, that the second ftidertaker of
this work could not believe that so curious
a history should have been consigned to
oblivion ; or that the wits of La Mancha
should have so little curiosity as not to
preserve in their archives, or cabinets,
some memorials of this famous knight ; and,
under that persuasion, he did not despair of
finding the cionclusion of this delectable
history; which, through the fiivour of
heaven, actually came to pass, and in the
manner that shall be faithfully recounted
in the following chapter.
CHAPTER IX.
WHERSIN IS TERMINATED THE STUPEN-
DOUS BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT
BISCAINER AND THE VALIANT MAX-
CHEGAN.
In the preceding part of this history, we
left the valiant Biscainer and the reno\Micd
Don Quixote, with their naked swords
raised on high, ready to discharge two such
furious and cleaving strokes, as must, if
they had lighted full, at least have divided
the combatants from head to heel, and split
them asunder like a pomegranate: but at
that critical moment this relishing history
stopped short, and was left imperfect, with-
out having any notice from the author of
where the remainder might be found. This
grieved me extremely; and the pleasure
afforded by the little I had read gave place
to mortification, when I considered the un-
certainty there was of ever finding the
much that appeared to me yet wanting of
this delightful story. It seemed impossible,
and contrary to all praise-worthy custom,
that so accomplished a knight should have
no sage to record his unparalleled exploits ;
for none of those knights - errant who
travelled in quest of adventures were ever
without them; each having one or two
sages, made as it were on purpose, not only
to record their actions, but to describe their
most minute and trifling thoughts, however .
secret. Surely, then, a knight of such
worth could not be so unfortunate as to
want* that with which Platir, and othenj •
'2)-
^^
DON QUIXOTE.
65
like him, abounded. Hence J could not be
iodoced to believe that so gallant a history
had been left maimed and imperfect ; and I
blamed the malignity of time — that de-
vourer and consumer of all things — for
having either concealed or destroyed it. On
the other handy recollecting that some of his
books were of so recenta date as the ^' Cure
of Jealousy/' and the ** Nymphs and Shep-
herds of Henares,'' I thought his story also
might be modem ; and, if not yet written,
Blight still be remembered by the people of
his village, and those of the neighbouring
places. This idea impressed me deeply, and
made me anxious to be truly informed of
the whole Me and wonderful actions of our
renowned Spaniard, Don Quixote de la
Mancha, the light and mirror of Manche-
gan chivalry ! The first who, in our age,
and in these calamitous times, took upon
him the toil and exercise of arms-errant, to
redress wrongs, succour widows, and relieve
those damsels who, with whip and palirey,
and with all their virginity about them,
rambled up and down from mountain to
mountain, and from valley to valley : for
damsels there were, in days of yore, who
(unless overpowered by some miscreant, or
lewd clown, with hatchet and steel cap, or
some prodigious giant), at the expiration of
fourscore years, and without ever sleeping
during all that time beneath a roof, went to
the grave virgins as spotless as the mothers
that bore them. Now, I say, upon these,
and many other accounts, our gallant Don
Quixote is worthy of immortal memory and
praise. Nor ought some share to be denied
eren to me, for the labour and pains I have
taken to discover the end of this delectable
history ; though, I am very sensible that, if
heaven and fortune had not befriended me,
the world would have still been without
that diversion and pleasure which, for
nearly two hours, an attentive reader of it
cannot fail to enjoy* Now the manner of
finding it was this.
Aa I was walking one day on the ex-
change of Toledo, a boy offered for sale
some bundles of old papers to a mercer ;
and as I am fond of reading, though it be
only tattered papers, thrown about the
streets, led b} this natural inclinéttion, 1
took a parcel of those the boy was selling,
and perceived them to be written in Arabic.
But not understanding it myself, although
I knew the letters, I immediately looked
about for some Moorish rabbi who could
read them to me ; nor was it difficult to find
such an interpreter ; for, had I sought one
to explain some more ancient and better
language, I should have found him there.
In fine, my good fortune presented one to
me, to whom I communicated my desire,
and, putting the book into his hands, he
opened it towards the middle, and, having
read a little, began to laugh. I asked him
what he smiled at, and he said that ^' it was
at something which he found written on the
margin, by way of annotation." I desired
him to say what it was ; and, still laughing,
he told me that ''there was written on
the margin as follows: This Dulcinea del
Toboso, so often mentioned in this history,
was said to have been the best hand at salt-
ing pork of any woman in all La Mancha."
When I heard the name of Dulcinea del
Toboso, I stood amazed and confounded;
for it immediately occurred to me that those
bundles of paper might contain the history
of Don Quixote.
With this idea, I pressed him to read the
beginning ; which he did, and, rendering
extempore the Arabic into Castilian, said
that it began thus : ** The history of Don
Quixote de la Mancha, written by Cid
Hamete Ben Engeli, Arabian historiogra-
pher." Much discretion was necessary to
dissemble the joy I felt at hearing the title
of the book ; and, snatching the other part
out of the mercer's hands, I bought the
whole bundle of papers of the boy for half
a real ; who, if he had been cunning, and
had perceived how eager I was to have them,
might well have promised himself, and really
carried off, more than six reals, by the
bargain. I retired immediately with the
Morisco, through the cloister of the great
church, and requested him to translate for
me those papers, which treated of Don
Quixote, into the Castilian tongue, without
omitting or adding any thing : offering him
in payment whatever he should demand.
He was satisfied with fifty pounds of raisins,
and two bushels of wheat, and promised to
^©
56
ADVENTURES OF
translate them faithfully and expeditiously.
Bat in order to facilitate the busmess, and
also to make rare of so yaluable a prize, I
took him home to my own house, where, in
little more ¿ban six weeks, he translated the
whole, exactly as will be found in the fol-
lowing pages.
In the first sheet was ponrtrayed, in a
most lively manner, Don Quixote's combat
with the Biscainer^ in the attitude already
described ; their swords raised, the one
covered with his buckler, the other with his
cushion, and the Biscainer's mule so correctly
to the life, that you might discover it to
be a hackney-jade at the distance of a bow-
shot. The Biscainer had a label at his feet,
on which were written, ^' Don Sancho de
Azpetia ;*' which, without doubt, must have
been his name : and at the feet of Rozinante
was another, on which was written '^ Don
Quixote." Rozinante vras admirably deli-
neated ; so long and lank, so lean and feeble,
with so sharp a back-bone, and so like one
in a galloping consumption, that you might
see plainly with what judgment and propriety
the name of Rozinante had been given him.
Close by him, stood Sancho Panza, holding
his ass by the halter; at whose feet was
another scroll, whereon was written, '' San-
cho Zancas :'' and not without reason, if he
was really, as the painting represented him,
paunch-bellied, short of stature, and spindle-
shanked; which, doubtless, gave him the
names of Panza and Zancas; for the his-
tory calls him by each of these surnames.
There were some other more minute particu-
lars observable; but they are all of little
importance, and contribute nothing to the
faithful narration of the history ; though
none are to be despised, if true. But, if
any objection be alleged against the truth of
tliis history, it can only be that the author
was an Arabian, those of that nation being
not a little addicted to lying : though, as
they are so much our enemies, it may be
conjectured that he rather fell short of, than
exceeded the bounds of, truth. And, in fact,
so he seems to have done: for when he
might, and ought to, have launched out in
the praises of so excellent a knight, it
appears as if he had been careful to pass
them over in silence ; an evil act and worse
design ; for historians ought to be precise,
faithful, and unprejudiced ; and neither in-
terest nor fear, hatred nor affection, should
make them swerve from the way of trutli,
whose mother is history, the rival of time,
the depository of great actions, witness of
the past, example to the present, and monitor
to the future. In this hbtory you will cer-
tainly find the most entertaining things
imaginable ; and, if wanting in any thing,
it must, without question, be owing to iti
infidel author, and not to any defect in the
subject. In short, the second part, accord-
ing to the translation, began in this manner :
The trenchant blades of the two valorous
and enraged combatants, being brandished
aloft, seemed to stand threatening heaven,
and earth, and the deep abyss ; such was
the courage and gallantry of their deport-
ment. The first who discharged his blow
was the choleric Biscainer ; which fell with
such force and fury that, if the edge of his
sword had not turned aslant by the >\ay,
that single blow had been enough to have
put an end to this cruel conflict, and to all
the adventures of our knight. But good
fortune, preserving him for greater things,
so turned his adversary's sword that, though
it alighted on the left shoulder, it did him
no other hurt than to disarm that side,
carrying off by the way a great part of his
helmet, with half an ear ; all which with
hideous ruin fell to the ground, leaving him
in a piteous plight.
Good God ! who is he that can worthily
describe the rage that entered into the breast
of our Manchegan, at seeing himself thus
treated ! Let it suffice that it was such that,
raising himself afresh in his stirrups, and
grasping his sword faster in both hands, he
discharged it with such fury upon the Bis-
cainer, directly over the cushion, and upon
his head, which was unprotected, that, as if
a mountain had fallen upon him, the blood
began to gush out at his nostrils, hb mouth,
and his ears ; and he seemed as if he was
just falling from his mule, which doubtless
he must have done, had he not laid fast hold ¡
of her neck : but, notwithstanding that, he
lost his stirrups, and then let go his hold ;
while the mule, finghtened at the terrible
stroke, began to run about the field, and at
C^
í.rtKS.aTHJN'' e t^'JN.Oí
p 57.
=í^
DON QUIXOTE.
67
two or three plunges, laid her master flat
on the ground. Don Quixote stood looking
on with great calmness, and, seeing him ftdl,
he leaped from his horse, with much agility
ran up to him, and, clapping the point of
his sword to his eyes, hid him yield, or he
would cut off his head. The Biscainer was
so stunned that he could not answer a word ;
and it would have gone hard with him (so
blinded with rage was Don Quixote) had not
the ladies in the coach, who, till now, had
been witnessing the comhatin great dismay,
approached him, and earnestly entreated
that he would do them the great kindness
and favour to spare the life of their squire.
Bon Quixote answered, with much solemnity
and gravity : '' Assuredly, fair ladies, I am
most willing to grant you your request, hut
it must he upon a certain condition and
compact; which is, that this knight shall
promise to repair to the town of Tohoso, and
present himself, firony me, before the peerless
Donna Dulcinea, that she may dispose of
him according to her pleasure.'' The terri-
fied and disconsolate lady, without consider-
ing what Don Quixote required, or enquiring
^vho Dulcinea was, promised him that her
squire should perform whatever he com-
manded. ^'Then, on the faith of this
promise," said Don Quixote, " I will do
him no further hurt ; though he has well
deserved it at my hands."
CHAPTER X.
OF THB PLEASANT DISCOURSE WHICH
PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND
SANCHO PANZA, HIS ESQITIRE.
Before this time, Sancho Panza had got
upon bis legs, somewhat roughly handled
by the servants of the monks, and stood an
attentive spectator during the combat of his
master, Don Quixote ; beseeching God, in
his heart, that he would be pleased to give
him the victory, and that he might thereby
vñü some island, of which he might make him
Governor, according to his promise. Now,
seeing the conflict at an end, and that his
master was ready to mount again upon Rozi-
nante, he came up to hold his stirrup ; but,
before be had mounted, fell upon his knees
before him, then, taking hold of his hand,
and kissing it, said to him, " Be pleased, my
lord Don Quixote, to bestow upon me the
government of that island which you have
won in this dreadful battle ; for, be it ever
so big, I feel in myself ability sufficient to
govern it, as well as the best that ever
governed island in the world." To which
Don Quixote answered, " Consider, brother
Sancho, that this adventure, and others of
this nature, are not adventures of islands,
but of cross-ways, in which nothing is to be
gained but a broken head, or the loss of an
ear. Have patience; for adventures will
offer, whereby I may not only make thee
a governor, but something yet greater."
Sancho returned him abundance of thanks,
and, kissing his hand agam, and the skirt
of his armour, he helped him to get upon
Rozinante : tlien, mounting his ass, he fol-
lowed his master, who, going off at a round
pace, without taking his leave, or speaking
to those in the coach, immediately entered
into an adjoining wood.
Sancho followed him as fast as his beast
could trot ; but Rozinante made such speed
that, seeing himself left behind, he was
forced to call aloud to his master to stay for
him. Don Quixote did so, checking Rozi-
nante by the bridle, until his weary squire
overtook him ; who, as soon as he came near,
said to him, " Methinks, sir, it would not be
amiss to retire to some church ; for, consider-
ing in what condition you have left your
adversary, I should not wonder if they give
notice of the fact to the holy brotherhood,
who may seize us ; and in faith, if they do,
before we get out of their clutches we may
chance to sweat for it." " Peace," quoth
Don Quixote ; "for where hast thou ever
seen or read of a knight^errant having been
brought before a court of justice, however
numerous the homicides he may have com-
mitted ?" " I know nothing of your Ome-
cils," answered Sancho ,• " nor in my life
ever cared about them : only this I know,
that the holy brotherhood have something to
say to those who fight in the fields ; and, as
to the other matter, I shall have nothing to
do with it." " Set thy heart at rest, friend,"
answered Don Quixote ; " for I would de-
liver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans,
68
ADVENTURES OF
=11
i;'
much more out of those of the holy brother-
hood. Bat tell me, on thy life, hast thoa
ever seen a more valorous knight than I
upon the vihole iace of the earth ? Hast
thou read in history of any one who has,
or ever had, more spirit in attacking, more
breath in holding out, more dexterity in
wounding, or more address in overthrow-
ing V* " The truth is," answered Sancho,
'' that I never read any history at all ; for
I can neither read nor write : but what I
dare affirm is that I never served a bolder
master than your worship, in all the days of
my life ; and pray God we may not be called
to an account for this boldness, where I just
now said. What I beg of your worship is
that you would let your wound be dressed,
for a great deal of blood comes from that
ear : and I have some lint, and a little white
ointment, here in my wallet.'^ '' All this
would have been needless," answered Don
Quixote, " had I recollected to make a vial
of the balsam of Fierabrás ; for, with one
single drop of that, we might have saved
both time and medicine." '' What vial, and
what balsam is that?" said Sancho Panza.
" It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote,
^^the receipt of which I hold in memory;
and he who possesses it need not fear death,
nor apprehend that any wound will be fatal :
therefore, when I shall have made it, and
given it to thy care, all thou wilt have to
do, when thou seest me in some battle cleft
asunder (as it frequently happens), is, to
take up fair and sofUy that part of my body
which shall fall to the ground, and, with the
greatest nicety, before the blood is con-
gealed, place it upon the other half that
shall remain in the saddle, taking especial
care to make them tally exactly. Then shalt
thou give me two draughts only of the
balsam aforesaid, and instantly thou wilt
see me become sounder than an apple."
** If this be so," said Sancho, ^* I renounce
from henceforward the government of the
promised island; and only desire, in pay-
ment of my many and good services, that
your worship will give me the receipt of
this extraordinary liquor ; for I dare say it
will any where fetch more than two reals
an ounce ; and I want no more to pass this
life with credit and comfort. But I should
be glad to know whether the making of it '•
will cost much?" ''For less than liiree !;
reals thou mayest make nine pints," an- ;;
swered Don Quixote. " Sinner that I amT' i
exclaimed Sancho ; " why does your worship •
delay making it?" "Peace, friend," an- i
swered Don Quixote: "for I intend to !
teach thee greater secrets, and to do thee ■
greater kindnesses: but, at present, let us \
set about the cure ; for my ear pains me }
more than I could wish." i
Sancho took some lint and ointment out |
of his wallet : but, when Don Quixote pi-r- '
ceived that his helmet was broken, he was I
ready to run stark mad; and, laying his ;<
hand on his sword, and raising his eye» U |'
heaven, he said : " I swear, by the Creator ><
of all tilings, and by all that is contained in '|
the four holy evangelists, to lead the life |i
that the great marquis of Mantua led, when \
he vowed to revenge the death of his nephew ;
Valdovinos ; which was, not to eat bread on >!
a table-cloth, nor solace himself with hb |>
wife, and other things, which, though I do '^
not now remember, I consider as here ec-
pressed, until I have taken entire vengeance |
on him who hath done me this outrage !*'
Sancho, hearing this, said to him, " Pray ¡
consider, sigñor Don Quixote, that, if the
knight has performed what was enjoined
upon him, namely, to go and present himself
before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will
then have done his duty, and deserves no
new punishment, unless he commit a new
crime." " Thou hast spoken and remarked
very justly," answered Don Quixote ; ** and
I annul the oath, so ftur as concerns the
taking a fresh revenge ; but I make it, and
confirm it anew, as to leading the life I have
mentioned, until I shaU take, by force, from
some knight, another helmet, equally good.
And think not, Sancho, that I am making
a smoke of straw : for I well know whose
example I shall follow ; since precisely the
same thing happened with regard to Mam-
brino's helmet, which cost Sacripante so
dear." " I wish your worship would send
such oaths to the devil," said Sancho ; " for
they are very hurtful to the health, and pre-
judicial to the conscience. Besides, pray
tell me, if perchance for many days we
should not light on a man armed with «
DON QUIXOTE.
69
helmet, what must we do then? Must the
oath be kept, in spite of so many difficulties
and inconveniences, such as sleeping in your
clothes, and not sleeping in any inhabited
pkce, and a thousand other penances, con-
tained in the oath of that mad old fellow
the marquis of Mantua, which your worship
would now revive ? Consider, that none of
these roads are frequented by armed men,
but carriers and carters ; who, so far from
wearing helmets, perhaps never so much as
heard of them in all their lives.'' '^ Thou
art mistaken in this," said Bon Quixote ;
'' for before we shall have passed two hours
in these cross -ways, we shall have seen
more armed men than came to the siege of
Albraea to cany off Angelica the &ir."
'«Well, then, be it so,'' quoth Sancho;
''and God grant us good success, and that
we may speedily get this island, which costs
me so dear ; no matter, then, how soon I
die." " I have already told thee, Sancho, to
give thyself no concern upon that account;
for, if an island cannot be had, there is the
kingdom of Denmark, or that of Sofaradisa,
which will fit thee like a ring to the finger.
Besides, as they are upon Terra Firma, thou
shouldest prefer them. But let us leave this
to its own time, and see if thou hast any
thing for us to eat in thy wallet ; we will
then go in quest of some castle, where we
may lodge this night, and make the balsam
that I told thee of; for I vow to God my
ear pains me exceedingly." '' I have here an
onkm, and a piece of cheese ; and I know
not how many crusts of bread," said Sancho ;
" but they are not eatables fit for so valiant
a knight as your woiship." '* How httle
dost thou understand of this matter !" an-
swered Don Quixote. '' I tell thee, Sancho,
' that it is honourable in knights-errant not
to eat once in a month ; and, if they do
, taste food, it must be what first offers : and
diis thou wouldest have known hadst thou
read as many histories as I have done ; for,
though I have perused many, I never yet
found in them any account of knights-errant
taking food, unless it were by chance, and
at certain sumptuous banquets prepared ex-
pressly for them ; the rest of their days they
lived, as it were, upon smelling. And though
it is to be presumed they could not subsist
without eating and satisfying all other natural
wants — as, in hcty they were men — yet,
since they passed most part of their lives
in wandering through forests and deserts,
and without a cook, their usual diet must
have consisted of rustic viands, such as those
which thou hast now offered me. There-^
fore, friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee
which gives me pleasure : nor endeavour to
make a new world, or to throw knight-
errantry off its hinges." ''Pardon me,
sbr," said Sancho; "for, as I can neither
read nor write, as I told you before, I am
entirely unacquainted with the rules of the
knightly profession ; but, henceforward, I
will furnish my wallet with all sorts of dried
fimits for your worship, who are a knight ;
and for myself, who am none, I will supply
it mth poultry, and other things of more
substance." " I do not say, Sancho," re-
plied Don Quixote, " that knights-errant are
obliged to eat nothing but Üie dried fruit
thou hast mentioned, but that such was their
ordinary sustenance, together with certain
herbs they found in the fields, which were
to them well known, as they are also to
me." " It is a good thing to know these
same herbs," answered Sancho ; " for I am
inclined to think we shall one day have
occasion to make use of that knowledge."
He now brought out what provisions he
had, and they ate together in a very peace-
able and firiendly manner. But, bemg de-
sirous to seek out some place wherein to
rest that night, they soon finished their poor
and dry meal, and then made what haste
they could to reach some village before
night; but both the sun and their hopes
fidled them near the huts of some goatherds.
They determined, therefore, to take up their
lodging with them ; but, if Sancho was
grieved that they could not reach a village,
his master was as much rejoiced to lie in the
open air, conceiving that, every time this
befel him, he was performing an act which
confirmed his title to chivalry.
CHAPTER XL
OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE WITH
THE GOATHERDS.
He was kindly received by the goatherds ;
=^
60
ADVENTURES OF
and Sancho, having accommodated Rozi-
nante and his ass in the best manner he was
able, porsaed the odoor emitted by certain
pieces of goat's flesh that were boiling in a
kettle on a fire ; and, though he would
^villingly, at that instant, have tried whether
they were ready to be transferred firom the
kettle to the stomach, he forbore doing so,
as the goatherds themselves took them off
the fire, and, spreading some sheep-skins on
the ground, very speedily eerved up their
rural mess, and, with much cordiality, in-
vited them both to partake of it. Six of
them, that belonged to the fold, seated them-
selves round the skins, having first, with
rustic compliments, requested Don Quixote
to seat himself upon a trough with the
bottom upwards, placed on purpose for him.
Don Quixote eat down, and Sancho re-
mained standing to serve the cup, which
was made of horn. His master, seeing him
standing, said to him, ''That thou mayest
see, Sancho, the intrinsic worth of knight-
errantry, and how speedily those who exer-
cise any ministry whatsoever belonging to
it may attain honour and estimation in the
world, it is my will that thou be seated here
by my side, in company with these good
people, and become one and the same thing
with me, who am thy master and natural
lord ; that thou eat from off my plate, and
drink of the same cup from which I drink :
for the same may be said of knight-errantry,
which is said of love, that it makes all
things equal." " I give you a great many
thanks, sir,'' said Sancho ; " but let me tell
your worship that, provided I have victuals
enough, I can eat as well, or better, stand-
ing, and alone, than if I were seated close
by an emperor. And, farther, to tell you
the truth, what I eat in a comer, without
compliments or ceremonies, though it were
nothing but bread and an onion, relishes
better than turkeys at other men's tables,
where I am forced to chew leisurely, drink
little, wipe my mouth often, neither sneeze
nor cough ^vhen I have a mind, nor do other
things which may be done when alone and
at liberty. So that, good sir, let these
honours which your worship is pleased to
confer upon me, as a servant, and adherent
oi knight-errantry (being squire to your
(«^
worship), be exchanged for something of
more use and profit to me : for, though I
place them to account, as received in full,
I renounce them firom this time forward to
the end of the world." " Notwithstanding
this," said Don Quixote, ** thou shalt sit
down ; for whosoever humbleth himself
God doth exalt ;" and, pulling him by the
arm, he forced him to sit down next him.
The goatherds did not understand this
jaigon of squires and knights-errant, and
therefore only ate, held their peace, and
stared at their guests, who, with much satis-
fiiction and appetite, swallowed down pieces
as large as their fists. The service of flesh
being finished, they spread upon the skins a
great quantity of acorns, together with half
a cheese, harder than if it had been made
of mortar. The horn, in the meantime,
stood not idle ; for it went round so often,
now fiiU, now empty, like the bucket of a
well, that they presently emptied one of the
two wine-bags that hung in view. After
Don Quixote had satisfied his hunger, he
took up a handful of acorns, and, looking
on them attentively, gave utterance to
expressions like these«
" Happy times, and happy ages, were
those which the ancients termed the golden
age ! not because gold, so prized in this our
iron age, was to be obtained, in that fortu-
nate period, without toil ; but because they
who then lived were ignorant of those two
words, Mine and Thine. In that blessed
age, all things were in common to provide
their ordinary sustenance ; no other labour
was necessary than to raise their hands and
take it irom the sturdy oaks, which stood
liberally inviting them to taste their sweet
and relishing fruit. The limpid fountains
and running streams offered them, in mag-
nificent abundance, their delicious and
transparent waters. In the clefts of rocks,
and in hollow trees, the industrious and
provident bees formed their commonwealths,
offering to every hand, without interest,
the fertile produce of their most delicious
toil. The stately cork-trees, impelled by
their own courtesy alone, divested them-
selves of their light and expanded bark,
with which men began to cover their houses,
supported by rough poles, only as a defence
=n
DON QUIXOTE.
CI
against the inclemency of the heavens. All
then was peace^ all amity, all concord.
The heavy coulter of the crooked plough
had not yet dared to force open, and search
into, the tender bowels of our first mother,
who, unconstrained, offered, from every part
of her fertile and spacious bosom, whatever
might feed, sustain, and delight those, her
children, by whom she was then possessed.
Then did the simple and beauteous young
shepherdesses trip from dale to dale, and from
hill to hill, their tresses sometimes plaited,
sometimes loosely flowing, with no more
clothing than was necessary, modestly, to
cover what modesty has always required to
be concealed: nor were their ornaments like
those now in fiishion, to which a value is
given by the Tyrian purple and the silk
so-many- ways martyred ; but adorned with
green dock -leaves and ivy interwoven,
perhaps, they appeared as splendidly and
elegantly decked as our Court ladies, with
all those rare and foreign inventions which
idle curiosity hath taught them. Then were
the amorous conceptions of the soul clothed
in simple and sincere expressions, in the
same way and manner they were conceived,
without seeking artificial phrases to enhance
their value. Nor had fraud, deceit, and
malice, intermixed with truth and plain-
dealing. Justice maintained her proper
1)onnds, undisturbed and unassailed by
favour and interest, which now so much
depreciate, molest, and persecute her. Law
was not yet left to the interpretation of the
judge; for then there was neither cause
nor judge. Maidens and modesty, as I said
before, went about alone, without fear of
danger from the unbridled freedom and lewd
designs of others ; and, if they were un-
done, it was entirely owing to their own
natural inclination and will. But now, in
these detestable ages of ours, no damsel is
secure, though she were hidden and enclosed
in another labyrinth like that of Crete ; for
even there, through some cranny, or through
the air, by the zeal of cursed importunity,
the amorous pestilence finds entrance, and
they are there wrecked in spite of all seclu-
sion. Therefore, as times became worse,
and wickedness increased, to defend maidens,
to protect widows, and to relieve orphans
and persons distressed, the order of knight-
errantry was instituted. Of this order am
I, brother goatherds, whom I thank for the
good cheer and kind reception ye have given
me and my squire ; for though, by the law
of nature, every one living is bound to
favour knights-errant, yet as ye have re-
ceived and regaled me without being aware
of this obligation, it is but reasonable that
I should return you my warmest acknow-
ledgments."
Our knight made this long harangue
(which might well have been spared),
because the acorns they had put before him
reminded him of the golden age, and led
him to make that unprofitable discourse to
the goatherds; who, in astonishment, lis-
tened to him, without saying a word.
Sancho also was silent, devouring the acorns,
and making frequent visits to the second
wine-bag, which was hanging upon a cork-
tree, in order to keep the wine cool.
Don Quixote spent more time in talking
than in eating ; and, supper being over, one
of the goatherds said, ^* That your worship,
sigfior knight-errant, may the more truly
say that we entertain you with a ready
good-will, one of our comrades, who will
soon be here, shall sing for your pleasure
and amusement. He is a very intelligent
lad, and deeply enamoured ; above all, he
can read and write, and play upon the
rebeck as well as heart can desire." The
goatherd had scarcely said this when the
sound of the rebeck reached their ears, and,
presently after, came the musician, who was
a youth of an agreeable mien, about two-
and-twenty years of age. His comrades
asked him if he had supped ; and he having
answered in the affirmative, one of them
said, *' If so, Antonio, you may let us have
the pleasure of hearing you sing a little,
that this gentleman, our guest, may see,
that even here, among woods and mountains,
there are some who are skilled in music.
We have told him of your great abilities,
and wish you to shew them, and prove the
truth of what we have said ; and, therefore,
I entreat you to sit down, and sing the
ballad of your love, which your uncle, the
curate, composed for you, and which was so
well liked in our village." " With all my
=©
(?>=
ADVENTURES OF
=©
hearty'' replied the youth; and, without
further intreaty, he sat down upon the trunk
of an old oak, and, after tuning his rebeck,
he began to sing in a most agreeable
manner, as follows :
ANTONIO.
Yes, lorelj nymph, thou art my prise ;
I bout the conqaett of thy heart,
Though nor the tongue, nor speaking eyes,
Have yet revealed the latent smart.
Thy wit and sense assure my fate.
In them my love's success I see ¡
Nor can he be unfortunate
Who dares avow his flame for thee.
Yet sometimes hast thou frowned, alas !
And giyen my hopes a eruel shock ;
Then did thy soul seem formed of brass.
Thy snowy bosom of the rock.
But in the midst of thy disdain.
Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays,
Hope from behind, to ease my pain.
The border of her robe displays.
Ah ! lovely maid ! in equal scale
Weigh wdil thy shepherd's truth and love,
Which ne'er, but with his breath, can fail,
Which neither frowns nor smiles can move.
If love, aa shepherds wont to say,
Be gentleness and courtesy.
So courteous is Olalia,
My passion will rewarded be.
And if obsequious duty paid.
The grateful heart can never move,
Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade
A due return, and claim thy love.
For, to seem pleasing in thy sight,
I dress myself with studious care.
And, in my best apparel dight.
My Sunday clothes on Monday wear.
And shepherds say I*m not to blame ;
For cleanly dress and spruce attire
Preserve alive love's wanton flame,
And gently fan the dying Are.
To please my fair, in masy ring
I join the dance, and sportive play.
And oft beneath thy window sing,
When first the cock procUúms the day.
With rapture on each charm I dwell.
And daily spread thy beauty's fame ;
And still my tongue thy praise shall tell.
Though envy swell, or malice blame.
Teresa of the Beirocal,
When once I praised yon, said in spite.
Your mistress you an angel call.
But a mere ape is your delight.
Thanks to the bugle's artful glaze,
And all the graces counterfeit ;
Thanks to the false and cnrled hair.
Which wary love himself might cheat.
I swore 'twas false ; and said she ly'd ;
At that her anger fiercely rose :
I box'd the clown that took her ride.
And how I boz'd my laixeet knows.
(^
1 eo«ut thee not, Olalia,
To gratify a loose desire ;
My love is chaste, without alloy
Of wanton wish, or Inatfnl fire.
Tlie church hath silken cords, that tie
Consenting hearts in mutual banda :
If thou, my fair, its yoke wilt tiy.
Thy «wain its ready captive stands.
If not, by all the saints I swesr.
On these bleak mountains atill to dwell.
Nor ever quit my toilsome care.
But for the cloister and the cell.
Here ended the goatherd's song, and Don
Quixote requested him to sing something else,
but Sancho Panza was of another mind,
being more disposed to sleep than to bear
ballads ; he therefore said to his master : '' Sir,
you had better consider where you are to
rest to-night; for the labour which these
honest men imdergo all day will not suffer
them to pass the nights in singing." <'I
understand thee, Sancho," answered Don
Quixote ; '^ for it is very evident that visits to
the wine-bag require to be paid rather with
sleep than music." '^ It relished well with
us all, blessed be God," answered Sancho.
" I do not deny it," replied Don Quixote ;
« lay thyself down where thou wilt, but it
is more becoming those of my profession to
watch than to sleep. However, it would
not be amiss, Sancho, if thou wouldst dress
this ear again ; for it pains me more than it
ought." Sancho did as he was desired ; and
one of the goatherds, seeing the wound, bade
him not be concerned about it, for he would
apply such a remedy as should quickly heal
it : then taking some rosemary-leaves, which
abounded in that place, he chewed them, and
mixed with them a little salt, and, laying
them to the ear, bound them on very iast,
assuring him that no other salve would be
necessary, which indeed proved to be true.
CHAPTER XII.
WHAT A CERTAIN OOATHBBD RELATED
TO THOSE WHO WERE WITH DON
QUIXOTE.
At this time, arrived another young lad,
laden with provisions from the viUage:
" Comiadesy" said he, ^' do you know what
is passing in the viUage ?" << How should
=á)
=^
DON QUIXOTE,
03
we know ?" answered one of them. " Know
then/' eontmued the youth, ^' that the
iamous shepherd, and scholar, Chrysostom,
died this morning ; and it is rumoured that
it was for love of that devilish girl Marcela,
daughter of William the rich ; she, who
rambles about these woods and fields in the
dress of a shepherdess.'^ <' For Marcela !
say yon?" quoth one. "For her, I say,"
answered the goatherd : " and the best of it
is he has ordered in his will that they should
bury him in the fields, like a Moor, at the
foot of the rocky by the cork-tree fountain,
which, according to report, and, as they
say, he himself declared was the very place
where he first saw her. He ordered also
other things so extravagant that the clergy
say they must not be performed ; nor is it
, fit that they should, for they seem to be
heathenish. But his great friend, Ambrosio
the studenty who accompanied him, dressed
also like a shepherd, declares that the whole
of what Chrysostom enjoined shall be exe-
cuted ; and upon this the village is all in an
uproar : but, by what I can learn, they will
at last do what Ambrosio and all his friends
require ; and to-morrow they come to inter
him, with great solemnity, in the place I
mentioned : and, in my opinion, it will be a
sight well worth seeing; at least, I shall
not £bu11 to go, although I were certain of
not returning, to-morrow, to the village."
" We will do. the same," answered the
goatherds, ''and let us cast lots who shall
stay behind, to look after all the goats."
i "Yon say well, Pedro," quoth another:
" bat it will be needless to make use of this
expedient, for I will remain for you all ; and
do not attribute this to self-denial, or want
of curiosity in me, but to the thorn which
struck into my foot the other day, and hin-
ders me fit)m walking. ^' We thank you,
nevertheless," answered Pedro.
Don Quixote requested Pedro to give him
some account of the deceased man and the
shepherdess. To which Pedro answered,
" dmt all he knew was that the deceased
was a wealthy gentleman, and inhabitant of
a village situated among these mountains,
who had studied many years at Salamanca;
at the end of which time he returned home,
with the character of a very learned and
well-read person : particularly, it was said,
he understood the science of the stars, and
what the sun and moon are doing in the
sky ; for he told us punctually the elipse of
the sun and moon." " Friend," quoth Don
Quixote, ''the obscuration of those two
luminaries is called an eclipse, and not a
elipse." But Pedro, not regarding niceties,
went on with his story, saying, " He also
foretold when the year would be plentiful,
or starel." " Steril, you would say, friend,"
quoth Don Quixote. "Steril or starel,"
answered Pedro, " comes all to the same
thing. And, as I was saying, his father and
friends, who gave credit to his words, became
very rich thereby; for they followed his
advice in every thing. This year he would
say. Sow barley, and not wheat ; In this, you
may sow vetches, and not barley ; the next
year. There will be plenty of oil ; the three
following. There will not be a drop." " This
science they call Astrology," said Don
Quixote. " I know not how it is called,"
replied Pedro, " but I know that he knew
all this, and more too. In short, not many
months after he came from Salamanca, on a
certain day he appeared dressed like a shep-
herd, with his crook and sheep-skin jacket,
having thrown aside his scholar's gown ;
and with him an intimate friend of his, called
Ambrosio, who had been his fellow-student,
and who now put on likewise the apparel
of a shepherd. I forgot to tell you how the
deceased Chrysostom was a great man at
making verses ; insomuch that he made the
carols ibr Christmas-eve, and the religious
plays for Corpus Christi, which the boys of
our village represented; and every body
said they were most excellent. Wlien the
people of the village saw the two scholars
so suddenly habited like shepherds, they
were amazed, and could not guess at the
cause that induced them to make that strange
alteration in their dress. About this time
the father of Chrysostom died, and he in-
herited a large estate, in lands and goods,
fiocks, herds, and money, of all which the
youth remained dissolute master; and indeed
he deserved it all, for he was a very good
companion, a charitable man, and a friend
to those that were good, and had a face like
any blessing. Afterwards it came to be
Í5)=
=^
t>4
ADVENTURES OF
known that he changed his habit for no
other purpose bat that he might wander
about these desert places after that shep-
herdess Marcela, with whom, as our lad told
you, he was in love. And I will now tell
you (for it is fit you should know) who this
young slut is ', for perhaps, and, even without
a perhaps, you may never have heard the
like in all the days of your life, though
you were as old as Sama." ^' Sarah, you
mean," replied Don Quixote, not being able
to endure the goatherd^s mistaking words.
" Sama will do," answered Pedro ; " and,
sir, if you must at every turn be correcting
my words, we shall not have done this
twelvemonth." " Pardon me, friend," said
Don Quixote, "and go on with your story j
for I will intermpt you no more."
" I say then, dear sir of my soul," quoth
the goadierd, " that, in our village, there
was a farmer still richer than the father of
Chrysostom, called William ; on whom God
bestowed, besides great wealth, a daughter,
whose mother, the most respected woman of
all our countr)»^, died in giving her birth — I
think I see her now, with that goodly pre-
sence, looking as if she had the sun on one
side of her, and the moon on the other : and
above all, she was a notable house- wife, and
a friend to the poor; for which I believe
her soul is at this very moment witl\ God in
the other world. Her husband William died
for grief at the death of so good a wife,
leaving his daughter Marcela^ young and
rich, under the care of an uncle, a priest,
and the curate of our village. The girl
grew up with so much beauty that it put
us in mind of her mother, who had a great
share, yet it was thought that the daughter
would surpass her ; and so it fell out ; for
when she came to be fourteen or fifteen years
of age, nobody beheld her without blessing
God for making her so handsome, and most
men were in love with, and distracted for,
her. Her uncle kept her both carefully and
close ; nevertheless, the fame of her extra-
ordinary beauty so spread itself that, partly
for her person, partly for her great riches, her
uncle was applied to, solicited, and impor-
tuned, not only by those of our own village,
but by many others, and those of the better
lort too, for several leagues round, to dis-
pose of her in marriage. But he, who, to
do him justice, is a good christian, though he
was desirous of disposing of her as soon as
she was marriageable, yet would not do it
without her consent. Not that he had an
eye to any advantage he might make of the
girl's estate by deferring her marriage ; and,
in good truth, this has been told, in praise of
the good priest, in more companies than one
in our village. For I would have you to
know, sir-errant, that, in these little places,
every thing is talked of, and every thing
censured. And, take my word for it, that a
clergyman, especially in country towns, must
be over and above good, who makes all his
parishioners speak well of him."
" That is trae," said Don Quixote ; " but
proceed, for the story is excellent ; and you,
honest Pedro, tell it with a good grace."
" May the grace of the Lord never fiiil me !
which is most to the purpose. And you must
farther know," quoth Pedro, " that, though
the uncle made these proposals known to bis
niece, and acquainted her with the qualities
of each one in particular, of the many that
sought her hand, advising her also to marry,
and choose to her liking, her only answer
was that she was not so disposed at present,
and that, l)eing so young, she did not feel
herself able to bear the burden of matrimony.
Her uncle, satisfied with these seemingly
just excuses, ceased to importune her, and
waited till she was growil a little older,
when she would know how to choose a
companion to her taste. For, said he — and
he said well — parents ought not to settle
their children against their will. But, be-
hold! when we least thought of it, on a
certain day the coy Marcela appears a shep-
herdess, and, without the consent of her
uncle, and against the intreaties of all the
neighbours, would needs go into the fields,
with the other country-lasses, and tend her
own flock. And now that she appeared in
public, and her beauty was exposed to all
beholders, it is impossible to tell you how
many wealthy youths, gentlemen, and
farmers, have taken the shepherd's dress,
and wander about these plains, making their
suit to ' her. One of whom, as you have
already been told, was the deceased, and
he, it is said, rather adored than loved her
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
65
Bet think not that, although Marcela has
given herself up to this free and unconfined
way of life, and with so little, or rather no,
reserve, she has given the least colour of
suspicion to the prejudice of her modesty and
diácretioa : no ; rather so great and strict is
the watch she keeps over her honour that
of all those who serve and solicit her no one
has boasted, or can boast with truth, that
she has given him the least hope of obtain-
ing his desire. For, though she does not fly
or shun the company and conversation of
the shepherds, but treats them in a courteous
and friendly manner, yet, when any one of
them ventures to discover his intention,
though it be as just and holy as that of
marriage, she casts him from her as out of a
stone-bow. And by this sort of behaviour
she does more mischief in this country than
if she carried the plague about with her ;
for her aflability and beauty win the hearts
of those who converse with her, and incline
them to serve and love her ; but her disdain
and frank dealing drive them to despair;
and so they know not what to say to her,
and can only exclaim against her, calling
her cruel and ungrateful, with such other
titles as plainly denote her character ; and,
were you to abide here, sir, awhile, you
would hear these mountains and valleys re-
sound with the complaints of those rejected
wretches that yet follow her. There is a
place not far hence, where about two dozen
of tall beeches grow, and not one of them
is without the name of Marcela written and
engraved on its smooth bark; over some
of them is carved a crown, as if the lover
would more clearly express that Marcela
deserves and wears the crown of all human
beauty. Here sighs one shepherd; there
complains another : here are heard amorous
sonnets, there despairing ditties. One will
pass all the hours of the night seated at the
foot of some rock or tree, where, without
having closed his weeping eyes, wrapped up
and lost in thought, the sun £nds him in the
morning; whilst another, giving no truce
to his sighs, lies stretched on the burning
sand, in tlie midst of the most sultry noon-
day heat of summer, sending up his com-
plaints to all-pitying heaven. In the mean
time, the beautiful Marcela, free and uncon-
cerned, triumphs over them all. We who
know her wait with impatience to see how
all this will end, and who is to be the happy
man that shall subdue so intractable a dis-
position, and enjoy so incomparable a beauty.
As all that I have related is certain truth, I
can more readily believe what our companion
told us concerning the cause of Chrysostom's
death ; and therefore I advise you, sir, not
to fail being to-morrow at his funeral, which
will be very well worth seeing : for Chrysos-
tom has a great many friends ; and it is not
half a league hence to the place of interment
appointed by himself."
''I will certainly be there," said Don
Quixote, " and I thank you for the pleasure
you have given me by the recital of so en-
tertaining a story." "O," replied the
goatherd, ^' I do not yet know half the
adventures of Marcela's lovers; but, to-
morrow, perhaps, we shall meet by the way
with some shepherd, who may tell us more :
at present it will not be amiss for you to go
and sleep under some roof, for the cold dew
of the night may do harm to your wound,
though the salve I have put to it is such
that you need not fear any trouble from it."
Sancho Panza, who, for his part, had wished
this long-winded tale of the goatherd at the
devil, pressed his master to lay himself
down to sleep in Pedro's hut. He did so,
and passed the rest of the night thinking
of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the
lovers of Marcela. Sancho took up his
lodging between Hozinante and his ass,
where he slept, not like a discarded lover,
but like a man who had been grievously
kicked.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CONCLUSION OF THB STORY OF THE
SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER
INCIDENTS.
Scarcely had the day begun to discover
itself through the balconies of the east,
when five of the six goatherds got up and
went to awake Don Quixote, whom they
asked whether he continued in his resolution
of going to see the fiimous interment of
Chrysostom, for, if so, they would bear him
=^
ADVENTURES OF
company. Don Quixote^ who desired
noüung moTBy arose, and ordered Sancho
to saddle and pannel immediately ; which
he did with great expedition ; and with the
same dispatch they all sat out on their
journey.
They had not gone a quarter of a leagoe
when, upon crossing a path-way, they saw
six shepherds advancing towards them, clad
in jackets of black sheep-^kin, with gar*
lands of cypress and bitter rosemary on
their heads: each of them having in his
hand a thick hoUy-club. There came ako
with them two gentlemen on hoxaefaack,
well equipped for travelling, who were at-
tended by three lacqueys on loot When
the two parties met, they courteously
saluted each other, and finding, upon
enquiry, that all were proceeding to the
place of burial, they continued their
journey together.
One of the horsemen, addressmg his
companion, said, '* I think, sigfior Vivaldo,
we shall not repent having staid to see this
famous interment; for, without doubt, it
will be an extraordinary sight, according to
the strange accounts these shepherds hava
given us of the deceased shepherd, and
murdering shepherdess." ** I think so too,"
answered Yivaldo ; '^and,soiarfromregret'
ting the delay of one day, I would stay
four to see it." Don Quixote asked them
what they had beard of Marcehi and Chry-
sostom? The traveller said they had met
those shepherds early in the morning, and
that, observing then: mournful apparel, they
had enquired the cause, and were informed
of it by one of them, who told them of the
beauty and singularity of a certain shep-
herdess, called Marcela, and the loves of
many that wooed her; with the death of
Chrysostom, to whose burial they were
going. In fine, he related all that Pedro
had told Don Quixote.
This discourse ceased, and another began,
by Yivaldo asking Don Quixote what might
be the reason that induced him to go armed,
in that manner, through a country so peace-
able? To which Don Quixote answered:
^ The profession I follow will not allow or
suffer me to go in any other manner.
Revels, banquets, and repose, were invented
for efieminate courtiers; but toil, dis-
quietude, and arms alone were designed for
thoee whom the world calls knights-errant,
of which number I, though unworthy, am
the least" As soon as they heard this,
they all perceived his derangement, but, in
order to discover the nature of his madness,
Yivaldo asked him what he meant by
knights-errant? ^* Have you not read, sir,"
answered Don Quixote, '^the annals and
histories of England, wherein are recorded
the famous exploits of king Arthur, whom,
in our Castilian tongue, we perpetually call
king Artus? of whom there exists an
ancient tradition, universally received over
the whole kingdom of Great Britmn, that
he did not die, but that, by magic art, he
was transformed into a raven ; and that, in
process of time, he shall reign again, and
recover his kingdom and sceptre ; for which
reason it cannot be proved that, from that
time to this, any Englishman hath killed a
raven. Now, in this good king's time, was
instituted that renowned order of chivalry,
entitled the knights of the round-table;
and the amoun related- of Sir Lancelot of
the Lake with the queen Ginebra passed
exactly as they are recorded ; that honour-
able duenna Quintaniona being their media-
trix and confidante : whence originated that
well known ballad, so much admired here
in Spain, ' Never was knight by ladies so
well served as was Sir Lancelot when he
came from Britain :' with the rest of that
sweet and charming account of his amours
and exploits. Now, firom that time, the
order of chivalry has been extending and
spreading itself through many and divers
parts of the worid: and among those of
the profession distinguished and renowned
for heroic deeds was the valiant Amadis de
Gaul, with all his sons and grandsons, to
the fifth generation ; the valorous Felixmarte
of Hircania ; and the never-enough-to-be-
praised Tirante the White: nay, even
almost in our own times, we have seen,
heard, and conversed with, the invincible
and valorous knight Don Belianis of Greece.
This, gentlemen, it is to be a knight-errant,
and the order of chivahry h what I have
described. To this order, as I said before,
I, though a sinner, have devoted myself;
DON QUIXOTE.
67
and the same which those knights profefls
do I profesB also : therefore am I travelling
throDgh these solitudes and deserts in qaest
of adyentures, with a determined resolution
to oppose my arm and my person to the
moat perilous that fortune may present, in
aid of the weak and the oppressed.^'
By this discourse the travellers were Mly
convinced of the disordered state of Don
Quixote's mind ; and the species of insanity
with which they perceived him to be
affected struck them with the same surprise
that all felt upon first discovering it
Vlvaldoy who was a man of discernment^
and withal of a gay disposition, to euliven
the remainder of their journey to the funeral
mountain, resolved to give him an opportu-
nity of pursuing his extravagant discourse.
He, therefore, said to him, " In my opinion^
sir knight^nrant, you have engaged in one
of the most austere professions upon earth ;
more rigid even than that of the Carthusian
monks.'' '^ That order of monks may be
as rigid,'' answered our Don Quixote ; "but
that it is equally necessary to the world I
im much inclined to doubt ; for, to say the
truth, the soldier who executes his captain's
orders does no less than the captain himself,
who gives him the orders. I would say
that the religious order, in peace and tran-
quillity, implore heaven for the good of the
world; but we soldiers and knights really
execute what they pray for, defending it
with the strength of our arms and the edge
of our swords ; not under covert, but in
open field; exposed to the intolerable beams
of the summer's sun, and the chilling frosts
of winter. Thus we are God's ministers
opon earth, and the arms by which he exe-
cutes his justice. And, as the afiairs of war,
and those appertaining to it, cannot be put
in execution without toil, pain, and labour,
90 they who profess it must, unquestionably,
endure more than those who, in peace and
repose, are employed in praying to heaven
to assist them, and who can do but littie for
themselves. I mean not to say, nor do I
entertun such a thought, that the state of
the knightncrrant is as good as that of the
religious recluse : I would only infer, from
what I suffer, that it is, doubtiess, more
laborious, more bastinadoed, more hungry
and thirsty, more wretched, more ragged,
and more lousy : for there is no doubt but
that the knights-errant of old suffered much
in the course of their lives; if some of
them were raised to empires by the valour
of their arm, in good truth, they paid
dearly for it in blood and sweat : and, after
all, had they been without the assistance of
enchanters and sages, their hopes would
have been frustrated, and their wishes
unattained."
" I am of the same opinion," replied the
traveller: "but one thing, among many
others which appear to me to be censurable
in knights-errant, is that, when they are pre-
pared to engage in some great and perilous
adventure, to the manifest hazard of their
lives, at the moment of attack, they never
think of commending themselves to God, as
every christian is bound to do at such a crisis,
but rather commend themselves to their mis-
tresses, and that with as much fervour and
devotion as if they were really their God :
a thing which, to me, savours of paganism."
"Sigfior," answered Don Quixote, "this
can by no means be otherwise; and the
knight-errant who should act in any other
manner would digress much from his duty :
for it is a received maxim and custom in
chivalry that the knight-errant, who, on
the point of engaging in some great feat of
arms, has his lady before him, must turn his
eyes fondly and amorously towards her, as
if imploring her fovour and protection, in
the hazardous enterprize that awaits him ;
and, even if nobody hear him, he must pro-
nounce some words between his teeth, by
which he commends himself to her with his
whole heart : and of this we have innumer-
able examples in history. Nor is it thence
to be inferred that they neglect commending
themselves to God : for there is time and
opportunity enough to do it in the course of
the action." "Notwithstanding all that,"
replied the traveller, " I have one scruple
still remaining ; for I have often read that,
words arising between two knights-errant,
and choler beginning to kindle in them both,
they turn their horses round, and, taking a
large compass about the field, immediately
encounter at full speed ; and, m the midst
of their career, commend themselves to their
08
ADVENTURES OF
mistresses : -what commonly happens in the
encounter is that one of them tumbles back
over his horse's crupper, pierced through
and through by his adversary's lance ; and,
if the other had not laid hold of his horse's
mane, he must have &llen to the ground ;
now I cannot imagine what leisure the de-
ceased had to commend himiself to God, in
the course of so expeditious a work. Better
had it been if the words he spent in com-
mending Iiimself to his lady, in the midst of
the career, had been employed as the duties
of a christian require; particularly, as I
imagine that all knights-errant have not
ladies to commend themselves to ; because
they are not all in love," " That cannot
be," answered Don Quixote : " I say, there
cannot be a knight-errant without a mis-
tress ; for it is as essential and as natural
for them to be enamoured as for the sky to
have stars : and, most certainly, no history
exists in which a knight-errant is to be found
without an amour : for, from the very cir-
cumstance of his being without, he would
not be acknowledged as a legitimate knight,
but a bastard who had entered the fortress
of chivalry, not by the gate, but over the
pales, like a thief and a robber." " Never-
theless," said the traveller, '^ if I am not
mistaken, I remember having read that
Don Galaor, brother to the valorous Amadis
de Graul, never had a particular mistress, to
whom he might commend himself: notwith-
standing which, he was no less esteemed,
and was a very valiant and famous knight."
To which our Don Quixote answered :
'^ Signer, one swallow makes not a summer.
Moreover, I know that Don Galaor was in
secret very deeply enamoured ; besides the
general love that he entertained towards
all whom he thought handsome: a pro-
pensity natural to him, and which he was
unable to control. But, in short, it is well
ascertained that there was one whom he had
made mistress of his devotion, and to whom
he often commended himself, but very
secretly ; for upon this quality of secrecy
he especially valued himself.^'
" If it is essential that every knight-errant
be a lover," said the traveller, " it may well
be presumed that you are yourself one, be-
ing of the profession ; and^ if yon do not
pique yourself upon the same secrecy as Don
Galaor^ I earnestly intreat you, in the name
of all this good company, and in my own,
to tell us the name, country, quality, and
beauty of your mistress, who cannot but
account herself happy that all the world
should know that she is loved and served
by so worthy a knight" Here Don
Quixote breathed a deep sigh, and said :
'* I cannot positively affirm whether that
sweet enemy of mine is pleased, or not, that
the world should know I am her servant : I
can only say, in answer to what you so very
courteously enquire of me, that her name is
Dulcinea ; her country Toboso, a town of
La Mancha ; her quality at least that of a
princess, since she is my queen and sovereign
lady ; her beauty more than human, since
in her all the impossible and chimerical
attributes of beauty, which the poets ascribe
to their mistresses, are realized : for her hair
is gold, her forehead tiie Elysian fields, her
eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks
roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her
neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands,
ivory, her whiteness snow ; and the parts,
which modesty veils from human sight I
apprehend to be such as the most exalted
imagination alone may conceive, but find no
parallel." ** We would fam know," replied
Vivaldo, "her lineage, race, and family."
To which Don Quixote answered : " She is
not of the ancient Roman Curtii, Caii, or
the Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas
or Ursinis; nor of the Moneadas and
Requesenes of Catalonia ; neither is she of
the Rebellas and Villanovas of Valentía:
the Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas,
Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes, and Gurreas
of Arragon ; the Cerdas, Manriques,
Mendozas, and Guzmans of Castile ; the
Alencastros, Pallas and Meneses of Portu-
gal : but she is of those of Toboso de la
Mancha; a lineage, though modern, yet
such as may give a noble beginning to the
most illustrious families of future ages : and
in this let no one contradict me, unless it be
on the conditions that Zerbino fixed under
the arms of Orlando, where it said :
* Thftt Knight alone these arms shall move
Who dares Orlando's prowess prore.' "
" Althoagrh mine be of the Cachopines of
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
69
Laredo," replied the traveller, " I dare not
compare it with that of Toboso de la Man-
cha ; tiiougb, to say the truth, no such ap-
pellation hath, till now, ever reached my
ears." ''Is it possible you should never
have heard of it !" exclaimed Don Quixote.
All the party had listened with great atten-
tion to this dialogue ; and even the goat-
herds and shepherds perceived the excessive
distraction of our knight. Sancho Panza
alone believed all that his master said to be
true, knowing who he was, and having been
acquainted with him from childhood: but
he had some doubts as to that part which
concerned the fair Dulcinea del Toboso;
never having heard of such a name, or such
a princess, although he lived so near Toboso.
Thus conversing, they proceeded on, when
they discerned, through a cleft between two
high mountains, about twenty shepherds
coming down, all clad in jerkins of black
wool, and crowned with garlands, some of
which, as appeared after^vards, were yew,
and some of cypress. Six of them carried
a bier, covered with various flowers and
boughs. Upon which one of tlie goatherds
said : '' Those who come yonder are bearing
the corpse of Chrysostom ; and at the foot
of yonder mountain is the place wliere he
desired to be interred." They made linste
therefore to reach them; which they did
just as the bier was set down on tlie ground ;
and four of them, with sharp pickaxes,
were making the grave by the side of a
hard rock. After mutual salutations, Don
Quixote and his company went to take a
view of the bier ; upon which they saw a
dead body, strewed with flowers, in the
dre» of a shephenl, apparently about thirty
jears of age; and, though dead, it was
evidentithat his countenance had been beau-
tiful, and his figure elegant. Several books
and a great number of papers, some open
and some folded, lay round him on the bier.
All that were present, spectators, as well as
those who were opening the grave, kept a
marvellous silence, until one of those who
had borne the deceased said to another:
"Observe carefully, Ambrosio, whether
this be the place which Chrysostom men-
tioned, since you wish to be so exact in ex-
ecuting his will." " It is here," answered
Ambrosio ; **' for in tliis very place my un-
happy friend often told me of his woe.
Here it was, he told me, that he first beheld
that mortal enemy of the human race;
here it was that he declared to her his no
less honourable than ardent passion ; here
it was that Marcela finally undeceived and
treated him with such disdain that she put
an end to the tragedy of his miserable life ;
and here, in memory of so many misfor-
tunes, he desired to be deposited in tlie
bowels of eternal oblivion."
Then, addressing himself to Don Quixote
and the travellers, he thus continued : " This
body, sirs, which you are regarding witíi
compassionate eyes, was the receptacle of a
soul upon which heaven had bestowed an
infinite portion of its treasures : this is the
body of Chrysostom, who was a man of
rare genius, matchless courtesy, and un-
bounded kindness; he was a phoenix in
friendsliip, magnificent without ostentation,
grave without arrogance, cheerful witiiout
meanness ; in short, the first in all that was
good, and second to none in all that was
unfortunate. He loved, and was abhorred :
he adored, and was scorned : he courted a
savage ; he solicited a statue ; he pursued
the wind ; he called aloud to the desert ; he
was the slave of ingratitude, whose recom-
pense was to leave him, in the middle of his
career of life, a prey to death, inflicted by
a certain shepherdess, whom he endeavoured
to render immortal in the memories of men ;
as these papers you are looking at would
suflicientiy demonstrate, had he not ordered
me to commit tiiem to the flames, at the
same time that his body was deposited in
the eartli." "You would then be more
rigorous and cruel to them," said Vivaldo,
" than their master himself; for it is neither
just nor wise to fulfil the will of him who
commands what is utterly unreasonable.
Augustus Cttsar deemed it wrong to consent
to the execution of what the divine Man-
tuan commanded in his will; therefore,
sigfior Ambrosio, although you commit your
friend's body to the earth, do not commit
his writings also to oblivion ; and if he has
ordained, like a man aggrieved, do not you
fulfil like one without discretion ; but rather
preserve these papers, in order that tiie
70
ADVENTURES OF
cruelty of Marcela may be still remembered,
and serve for an example to those who shall
live in times to come, that they may avoid
falling down the like precipices ; for I am
acquainted, as well as my companions here,
with the story of this your enamoured and
despairing friend; we know also your
friendship, and the occasion of his death,
and what he ordered on his death-bed:
from which lamentable history we may con-
clude how great has been the cruelty of
Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the
sincerity of your friendship ; and also learn
the end of those who run headlong in the
path that delirious passion presents to thehr
view. Last night we heard of Chrysos-
tom's death, and that he was to be interred
In this place: led, therefore, by curiosity
and compassion, we turned out of our way,
and determined to behold with our eyes
what had interested us so much in the
recital : and in return for our pity, and our
desire to give aid, had it been possible, we
beseech you, O wise Ambrosio, at least I
request it on my own behalf, that you will
not bum the papers, but allow me to take
some of them." Then, without waiting for
the shepherd's reply, he stretched out his
hand and took some of those that were
nearest to him : upon which Ambrosio said :
''Out of civility, signer, I will consent to
your keeping those you have taken ; but if
you expect that I shall forbear burning those
that remain, you are deceived." Vivaldo,
desirous of seeing what the papers contained,
immediately opened one of them, and found
that it was entitled, ''The song of Despair."
Ambrosio, hearing it, said : " This is the last
thing which the unhappy man wrote ; and
that all present may conceive, sigñor, to what
a state of misery he ^'as reduced, read it
aloud ; for you will have time enough while
they are digging the grave." '* That I will
do with all my heart," said Vivaldo : and,
as all the by-standers had the same desb^,
they assembled round him, and he read, in
an audible voice, as follows.
CHAPTER XIV.
WHICH CONTAINS THB DESPAIRING
YBBSES OF THE DECEASED SHEP-
HERD, WITH OTHER UNEXPECTED
EVENTS.
CHRYSOSTOM*S SONG.
I.
SiHCi, end nudd, yoa foroe me to proeUim
From clime to clime the triumphi of your ■com,
Let hell itself inspire my tortar'd breast
With moaniAü narobers, and uitime my voioe ;
Whilst the sad pieces of my broken heart
Mix with the dolefiil accents of my tongue,
At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits.
Hear then, and listen with attentive ear,
Not to harmonious sounds, but echoing groans,
Fetched from the bottom of my lab'ring breast.
To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart.
II.
Hm lion's roar, the howl of midnight wolves.
The scaly serpent's hiss, the raven's croak.
The burst of fighting winds that vex the main.
The widow'd owl and tortle's plaintive moan.
With aU the din of heirs infernal crew.
From my griev'd soul forth issue in one sound.
Leaving my senses all confused and lost.
For ah 1 no common language can express
The cruel pains that torture my sad heart.
III.
Tet let not Echo bear the mournful sounds
To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands.
Or Betis, crown'd wiih dives, pours hii flood.
But here, 'midst rocks and precipices deep.
Or to obscure and silent vales remov'd,
On shores by human footsteps never trod.
Where the gay sun ne'er lilts his radiant orb.
Or with th' invenom'd race of savage beasts
That range the howling wilderness for food.
Will I proclaim the story of my woes ;
Poor privilege of grief I whilst echoes hoarse
Catch the sad tale, and aproad it round the world.
DIsddn gives death ; suspicions, true or false,
O'ertum the impatient mind ; with surer stroke
Fell jealousy destroys ; the pangs of absence
No lover can support ; nor firmest hope
Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect ;
Yet I, strange fate 1 though jealous, though disdain'd,
Absent, and sore of cold neglect, still live.
And 'midst the various torments I endure.
No ray of hope e'er darted on my soul t
Nor would I hope ; rather in deep despair
Wül I sit down, and, brooding o'er my grieft,
Vow everlasting absence from her ugh.
v.
Can hope and fear at once the soul possess,
Or hope subsist with surer cause of fear 7
Shall I, to shut out frightful jealousy.
Close my sad eyes, when ev'ry pang I fee!
Presents the hideous phantom to my view ?
Whal wretch so credulous but must embrace
Distrust with open arms, when he beholds
Disdain avow'd, suspicions realis'd.
And troth itself converted to a lie 7
O cruel tyrant of the realm of love,
Fierce jealousy, arm with a sword this hand.
Or thou, disdain, a twisted cord bestow.
VI.
Let me not blame my fate, but dying think
The man most blest who loves, the soul most firee
That love has most enthrall'd. Still to my thoughta
Let Csncy paint the tyrant of my heart
=(>:)
@=
DON QUIXOTE.
71
llwuteoni ID mind m Hue, rad in mysalf
Still let me find the aoaree of her disdain ;
Coatent to •iiflier, since imperial lore
Bj krfcn' woes maintafna his soreieigB state.
With this pacwiasion, and the fatal noose,
I hasten to the doran her soom demands.
And, dying, offar up my breathless oorse,
Unemm'd with garlands, to the whistling winds
O thou, whose unrelenting rigour's force
Vint drove me to despair, and now to death.
When the sad tak of my untimely fall
Shall rcadi thy ear, though it deserve a ugh,
Vol not the heav'n of those bright eyes in grief,
Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the worid
M lengtb my de«th has triumphed o'er thy scorn ;
But dress thy fiice in smilea, and celebrate,
With lani^iter and each cizrnmstance of joy.
The festival of my disastrous end.
Ah! need I bid thee smile ? too well I know
My death's thy utmost glory and thy pride.
CooM, all ye phantoms of Úie dark abym ;
Being, Taataina, thy nnextiagulsh'd thint,
And, Suyphus, thy still returning stone;
Cooie, Tityos, with tiie vulture at thy heart.
And thou, Ixion, bring thy giddy whed ;
Nor let the toiling sisters stay behind.
Poor your united griefii into this breast.
And in low murmurs ring sad obsequies
(If a despairing wretdi such jrites may claim)
O'er my cold limbs, deny'd a winding-sheet.
And let the triple potter of the shades,
Tlie sister ftaries, and diimmras dire.
With notes of woe the mournful chorus j<nn.
Soeh funeral pomp alone befita the wretdi
By beauty sent untimely to the grave.
And thou, my aong, «ad diild of my despidr,
Complain no more ; but, since my wretched fiite
Improves her hapjáer lot, who gave thee birth,
Be all thy sonows buried in my tomb.
Clirysostom's song was mach approved by
those who heard it: but he who read it
said it did not seem to agree with the account
he had heard of the resenre and goodness of
Mareela ; ibr Chrysostom compLúns in it of
jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the
prejudice of her credit and good name. Am-
brouo, being wdl acquainted with the most
hidden thoughts of his -firiend, said in reply :
"To satisfy yon, sigñor, on this point, I
must inform you that, when my unhappy
friend wrote this song, he was absent from
Mareela, frt>m whom he had voluntarily
banished himself, to try whether absence
would have upon him its ordinary effect:
and, as an absent lover is disturbed by every
shadow, so was Chrysostom tormented with
causeless jealousy and suspicions ; thus the
truth of all, which &me reports of Mareela^s
• It should have been Serrius Tullus, who was father
of Tullía, not Tarquin. (Tit LIv. Lib. 1. c. 46.) lliis
goodness, remains nnimpeached; and, ex-
cepting that she is cruel, somewhat arrogant,
and very disdainful, envy itself neither
ought, nor can, charge her with any de-
fect" ** You are right," answered Vivaldo;
who, as he was going to read another of the
papers he had saved from the fire, was inter-
rupted by a wonderful vision (for such it
seemed) that suddenly presented itself to
their sight : for, on the top of the rock under
which they were digging the grave, appeared
the shepherdess Marcela herself so beautiful
that her beauty even surpassed die fame of
it Those who had never seen her until liiat
time beheld her with silence and admiration ;
and those who had been aecustomed to the
sight of her were now surprised at her ap-
pearance. But as soon as Ambrosio had espied
her, he said, wilh indignation, ' ' Comest thou,
0 fierce basilisk of these mountains, to see
whether the wounds of this wretch, whom
thy cruelty has deprived of life, will bleed
afresh at thy appearance? or comest thou
to triumph in the cruel exploits of thy in-
human disposition, which from that emi-
nence thou beholdest, as the mereiless Nero
gazed on the flames of burning Rome? or
msolendy to trample on this unhappy corse,
as did the impious daughter on that of her
father Tarquin ?* Tell us quickly for what
thou comest, or what thou wouldst have :
for, since I know that Chrysostom, while
living, never disobeyed thee, I will take
care that all those who called themselves his
friends shall obey thee, although he is now
no more."
*^ I come not, O Ambrosio, for any of those
purposes you have mentioned," answered
Maioek ; " but to vindicate myself, and to
declare how unreasonable those are who
blame me for their own sufferings, or for the
death of Chrysostom: and therefore I in-
treat yon all to hear me with attention ; for
1 need not spend much time, nor use many
words, to convince persons of sense. Heaven,
as you say, made me handsome, and to such
a degree that my beauty impeb you invo-
luntarily to love me ; and, in return for this
passion, you pretend that I am bound to
love you. I know, by the understanding
mistake is probably owing to carelessness in the author,
rather than in the printer. P.
'U
72
ADVENTURES OF
which God has given ine, tiiat whatever is
beautiful is amiable : but I cannot conceive
that the object beloved for its beauty is
obliged to return love for love. Besides, it
may happen that the lover is a deformed
and ugly person ; and, being on that account
an object of disgust, it would seem incon-
sistent to say I love you for your beauty ;
you must love me although I am ngly. But
supposing beauty to be equal, it does not
follow that inclinations should be mutual :
for aU beauty does not inspire love. Some
please the sight, without captivating the
affections. If all beauties were to enamour
and captivate, the hearts of mankind would
be in a continual state of perplexity and
confusion, without knowing where to fix :
for beautiful objects being infinite, the sen-
timents they inspire must also be infinite.
And I have heard say true love cannot be
divided, and must be voluntary and uncon-
strained. If so, why would you have me
yield my heart by compulsion, urged only
because you say you love me? For pray
tell me, if heaven, instead of giving me
beauty, had made me unsightly, would it
have been just in me to have complained
that you did not love me? Besides, yon
must consider that the beauty I possess is not
my own choice ; but, such as it is, heaven
bestowed it fireely, unsolicited by me : and,
as the viper does not deserve blame for her
sting, though she kills with it, because it is
given her by nature, as little do I deserve
reprehension for being handsome ; for beauty,
in a modest woman, is like fire, or a sharp
sword at a distance : neither doth the one
bum, nor the other wound, those that come
not too near them. Honour and virtue are
ornaments of the soul, without which the
body, though it be really beautiful, ought
not to be thought so. Now, if modesty be
one of the virtues which most adorns and
beautifies both body and mind, why should
she who is loved for being beautiful part
with it to gratify the desires of him who,
merely for his own pleasure, endeavours to
destroy it? I was bom free, and, that I
might live free, I chose the solitude of these
fields. The trees on these mountains are my
companions ; the clear waters of these brooks
are my mirrors : to the trees and the waters
I devote my meditations and my beauty.
I am fire at a distance, and a sword afar
off. Those whom my person has enamoured,
my words have undeceived; and, if love be
nourished by hopes, as I gave none to
Chrysostom, nor gratified those of any one
else, surely it may be said that his own ob-
stinacy, rather than my cmelty, destroyed
him. If it be objected to me that his inten-
tions were honourable, and that therefore I
ought to have complied with them, I answer
that when, in this very place where his grave
is now digging, he made known to me his
favourable sentiments, I told him that it
was my resolution to live in perpetual soli-
tude, and that the earth alone should enjoy
the fruit of my seólusion, and the spoils of
my beauty : and if he, notwitlistanding all
this frankness, would obstinately persevere
against hope, and sail against the wind, is
it surprising that he should be overwhelmed
in the gulph of his own folly ? If I had held
him in suspense, I had been false : if I had
complied with him, I had acted contrary to
my better purposes and resolution. He per-
sisted, although undeceived; he despaired,
without being hated . Consider now whether
it be reasonable to lay the blame of his suf-
ferings upon me. Let him who is deceived
complain ; let him to whom faith is broken
despair ; let him whom I shall encourage
presume ; and let him vaunt whom I shall
admit: but let me not be called crael or
murderous by those whom I neither promise,
deceive, encourage, nor admit. Heaven has
not yet ordained that I should love by des-
tiny ; and from loving by choice I desire to
be excused. Let every one of those who
solicit me profit by this general declaration ;
and be it understood henceforward that, if
any one dies for me, he dies not througli
jealousy or disdain ; for she who loves none
can make none jealous, and sincerity ought
not to pass for disdain. Let him who calls
me savage and a basilisk shun me as a mis-
chievous and evil thing ; let him who calls
me ungratefiil not serve me; him who thinks
me cmel not follow me: for this savage,
this basilisk, this ungrateful, this crael thin^r,
will never either seek, serve, or follow tliem.
If Chrpostom's impatience and presump-
tuous passion killed him, why should my
=(^
DON QUIXOTE.
73
I
I
modest conduct and reserve be blamed ? If I
preseire my purity unspotted among these
trees, why should he desire me to lose it
among men ? I possess, as you all know,
wealth of my own, and do not covet more.
My condition is free, and I am not inclined
to subject myself to restraint I neither love
nor hate any body. I neither deceive this
man, nor lay snares for that. I neither
cajole one, nor divert myself with another.
The modest conversation of the shepherdesses
of these villi^es, and the care of my goats,
are my entertainment. My desires are
bounded within these mountains, and, if my
thoughts extend beyond them, it is to con-
template the beauty of heaven — steps by
which the soul ascends to its original abode."
Here she ceased, and, without waiting for
a reply, retired into the most inaccessible
part of the neighbouring mountain, leaving
all who were present equally surprised at
her beauty and good sense.
Some of those whom her bright eyes had
wounded, heedless of her express declara-
tion, seemed inclined to follow her ; which
Don Quixote perceiving, and thinking it a
proper occasion to employ his chivalry in
the relief of distressed damsels, he laid his
hand on the hilt of his sword, and, in a loud
voice, said, "Let no person, whatever be
his rank and condition, presume to follow
the beautiful Marcela, on pain of incurring
my furious indignation. She has demon-
strated, by clear and satisfactory arguments,
how littie she deserves censure on account
of Chrysostom's death, and how averse she
is to encourage any of her lovers ; for which
reason, instead of being followed and perse-
cuted, she ought to be honoured and esteemed
by all good men in the world, for being the
only woman in it whose intentions are so
virtuous." Now, whether it was owing to the
menaces of Don Quixote, or to the request
of Ambrosio that they would finish the last
offices due to his friend, none of the shep-
herds departed until, the grave being made
and the papers burnt, the body of Chrysos-
tom was interred, not without many tears
from the spectators. They closed the sepul-
chre with a large fragment of a rock, until
a tomb -stone was finished, which Am-
brosio said it was his intention to provide.
and to inscribe upon it the following
epitaph :
The body of a wretched twain,
KiU'd by a cruel maid's disdain,
In this cold bed neglected lies.
He lived, fond, hapless youth ! to prore
Th' inhuman tyranny of lore.
Exerted in Marcela's eyes.
Then they strewed abundance of flowers
and boughs on the grave, and, after ex-
pressions of condolence to his friend Am-
brosio, they took their leave of him. Vivaldo
and his companion did the same ; and Don
Quixote bade adieu to his hosts and the
travellers, who intreated him to accompany
them to Seville, being a place so favourable
for adventures that, in every street and
turning, they were to be met with in greater
abundance than in any other place. Don
Quixote thanked them for their information
and courtesy, but said that neither his incli-
nation nor duty would admit of his going to
Seville until he had cleared all those moun-
tains of the robbers and assassins with which
they were said to be infested. The travellers,
hearing his good resolutions, would not im-
portune him farther, but, taking leave of
him, pursued their journey, during which
the history of Marcela and Chrysostom, as
well as the phrenzy of Don Quixote, supplied
them with subjects of conversation. The
knight, on his part, resolved to go in quest
of the shepherdess Marcela, to make her
an ofier of his services ; but things took a
different course, as will be related in the
progress of this true history.
CHAPTER XV.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE UNFORTU-
NATE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFEL DON
QUIXOTE, IN MEETING WITH CERTAIN
UNMERCIFUL YANGUESIANS.*
The sage Cid Haraet Benengeli relates
that, when Don Quixote had taken leave of
his hosts, and of all those who were present
at Chrysostom's funeral, he and his squire
entered the same wood into which they had
seen the shepherdess Marcela enter. And
having ranged through it for above two
hours in search of her without success, they
* Carriers of (taliria. /.
74
ADVENTURES OF
stopped in a meadow full of firesh gmsB, near
which ran a pleasant and refiresliing brook ;
insomuch that it invited and compelled them
to pass there the sultry hours of mid-day,
which now became very oppressive. Don
Quixote and Sancho alighted, and, leaving
the ass and Rozinante at large^ to feed upon
the abundant grass, they ransacked the
wallet, and, without any ceremony, in
friendly and social wise, master and man
shared what it contained. Sancho had taken
no care to fetter Rosnante, being well
assured his disposition was so correct that
all the mares of the pastures of Cordova
would not provoke him to any indecorum.
But fortune, or the devil, who is not always
asleep, so ordered it that there were grazing,
in the same valley, a number of Galidan
mares, belonging to certain Yanguesian
carriers, whose custom it is to pass the noon,
with their drove, in places where there is
grass and water; and that, where Don
Quixote then reposed, suited their purpose.
Now it so happened that Rozinante con-
ceived a vnsh to pay his respects to the
females, and, having them in the wind, he
changed his natural and sober pace into a
brisk trot, and, without asking his master's
leave, departed to indulge his inclination.
But they being, as it seemed, more disposed
to feed than any thing else, received him
with their heels and their teeth, in such a
manner that, in a little time, his girthsbroke,
and he lost his saddle. But what must have
affected him more sensibly was that the
carriers, having witnessed his intrusion, set
upon him with their pack-staves, and so
belaboured him that they laid him along
on the ground in wretched plight.
By this time the knight and squire, having
seen the drubbing of Rozinante, came up in
great haste ; and Don Quixote said, " By
what I see, firiend Sancho, these are no
knights, but low people of a scoundrel race.
I tell thee this, because thou art on that
account justified in assisting me to take
ample revenge for the outrage they have
done to Rozinante before our eyes." ** What
the devil of revenge can we take,'' answered
Sancho, ** since they ave above twenty, and
we no more than two, and perhaps but one
«ind a half V «< I am equal to a hundred !"
replied Don Quixote ; and, widiout sayiug
more, he laid his hand on his sword, and
flew at the Yanguesians; and Sanoho did
the same, incited by the example of his
master. At the first blow, Don Quixote
gave one of them a terrible wound on the '
shoulder, through a leathern doublet The |
Yanguesians, seeing themselves assaulted in
this manner by two men only, seized their ;
staves, and, surrounding them, began to |
dispense their blows with great vehemence i
and animosity ; and true it is that at the
second blow they brought Sancho to the
ground. The same &te befel Don Quixote
— his courage and dexterity availing him
nothing ; and, as late would have it, he fell
just at Rozinante's feet, who had not yet
been able to rise. Whence we may learn
how unmercifully peck-staves will bruise,
when put into rustic and wrathful hands.
The Yanguesians, perceiving the mischief
they had done, loaded their beasts with all
speed, and pursued their journey, leaving
the two adventurers in evil plight.
The first who came to his senses was
Sancho Panza, who, finding himself close to
his master, with a feeble and plaintive voice
cried, " Sigfior Don Quixote ! ah, sigñor
Don Quixote 1" '<What wouldest thou,
brother Sancho ?" answered the knight, in
the same feeble and lamentable tone. *' I
could wish, if it were possible," said Sancho
Panza, '^ your worship would give me two
draughts of that drink of Feo Blass, if you
have it here at hand. Perhaps it may do
as well for broken bones as it does for
wounds." << Unhappy I, that we have it
not!" answered Don Quixote. ''But I
swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith
of a knight-errant, that, before two days
pass (if fortune decrees not otherwise), I will
have it in my possession, or my bands shall
fail me much." *^ But in how many days,"
said the squire, " does your worship think
we shall recover the use of our feet ?" " For
my part," answered the battered knight,
Don Quixote, *^ I cannot ascertain the pre-
cise term : but I alone am to blame, for
having laid hand on my sword against men
who were not knights like myself; and
therefore, I believe, the god of batties has
permitted this chastisement to &11 upon me
é=
@:
=©
DON QUIXOTE.
75
as a jmnishment for having transgressed the
laws of chivahry. On this account, brother
Sancho, it is requisite that thou shouldst be
forewarned of what I shall now tell thee ;
for it highly concerns the welfare of us both :
and it is this ; that, when we are insulted
by low people of this kind, do not stay till
I take up my sword against them^ for I will
by no means do it ; but do thou draw thy
sword^ and chastise them to thy satisfaction.
If any knights shall come up to their assist-
ance, I shall then know how to defend thee,
and offend them with all my might: for
thou hast already had a thousand proofi how
far the valour of this strong arm of mine
extends :" — so arrogant was the poor gentle-
man become by his victory over the valiant
Biscainer!
But Sancho Panza did not so entirely ap-
prove his master's instructions as to forbear
saying, in reply : " Sir, I am a peaceable,
tame, quiet man, and can forgive any injury
whatsoever ; for I have a wife and children
to maintain and bring up : so that give me
leave to tell your worship, by way of hint,
since it is not for me to command, that I
will upon no account draw my sword, either
against peasant or against knight ; and that,
from ÚÚB time forward, in the presence of
God, I forgive all injuries any one has done,
or shall do, me, or that any person is now
doing, or may hereafter do, me, whether he
be high or low, rich or poor, gentle or
simple, without excepting any state or con-
didon whatever." Upon which his master
said ; '' I wish I had breath to talk a little
at my ease, and that the pain I feel in this
rib would cease long enough for me to con-
vince thee, Panza, of thy error. Hark ye,
aamer, should the gale of fortune, now so
adverse^ change in our favour, filling the
sails of our desires, so that we may securely,
and without opposition, make the port of
some one of those islands which I have pro-
mised thee, what would become of thee, if,
when I had gained it, and made thee lord
thereof thou shouldst render all ineffectual
by not being a knight, nor desiring to be
one, and by having neither valour nor
resolution to revenge the injuries done thee,
or to de£end thy dominions ? For thou must
know that, in kingdoms and provinces
newly conquered, the minds of the natives
are at no time so quiet, nor so much in the
interest of their new master, but there is
still ground to fear that they will endeavour
to effect a change of things, and once more,
as they call it, try their fortune : therefore
the new possessor ought to have understand-
ing to know how to conduct himself, and
courage to act offensively and defensively,
on every occasion.'' ''In this that hath
now befcdlen us," answered Sancho, '* I wish
I had been furnished with that understand-
ing and valour your worship speaks of; but
I swear, on the faith of a poor man, I am at
this time more fit for plaisters than discour-
ses. Try, sir, whether you are able to rise,
and we will help up Rozinante, though he
does not deserve it, for he was the principal
cause of all this mauling. I never believed
the like of Rozinante, whom I took to be
chaste and as peaceable as myself. But it
is a true saying, that ' mudi time b necessary
to know people thoroughly ;' and that ' we
are sure of nothing in this life.' Who could
have thought that, after such swingeing
slashes as you gave that luckless adventurer,
there should come post, as it were, in pursuit
of 70U, this vast tempest of cudgel-strokes,
which has discharged itself upon our
shoulders?" ''Thine, Sancho," replied Don
Quixote, " should, one would think, be used
to such storms ; but mine, that were brought
up between muslins and cambrics, must, of
course, be more sensible to the pain of this
unfortunate encounter. And were it not that
I imagine — ^why do I say imagine 7 did I
not know for certain, that all these incon-
veniences are inseparably annexed to the
profession of arms, I woiüd suffer myself to
die here, out of pure vexation." " Since
these mishaps," sud the squire, " are the
natural fruits and harvest of chivalry, pray
tell me whether they come often, or whether
they have their set times in which they
happen ; for, to my thinking, two such har-
vests would disable us from ever reaping a
third, if God of his infinite mercy does not
succour us."
" Learn, friend Sancho," answered Don
Quixote, " that the lives of knights-errant
are subject to a thousand perils and disasters :
but at the same time they are no less near
^6
ADVENTURES OF
becoming kings and emperors; as experience
hath shewn us in many and divers knights,
with whose histories I am perfectly ac-
quainted. I could tell thee now, if this pain
would allow me, of some, who, by the
strength of their arm alone, have mounted
to the exalted ranks I have mentioned ; yet
these very men were, before and after, in-
volved in sundry calamities and misfortunes.
The valorous Amadis de Gaul, for instance,
saw himself in the power of his mortal
enemy, Archelaus the enchanter, of whom
it is positively affirmed that, when he had
him prisoner, he tied him to a pillar in his
court-yard, and gave him above two hundred
lashes with his horse's bridle. There is
moreover a private author, of no small
credit, who tells us that the * knight of the
sun, being caught by a trap-door, which
sunk under his feet, in a certain castle,
found himself at the bottom of a deep dun-
geon under ground, bound hand and foot :
where they administered to him one of those
things they call a clyster, of snow-water and
sandy that almost dispatched him : and had
he not been succoured in that great distress
by a certain sage, his particular friend, it
would have gone hard with the poor knight.'
So that I may well submit to suffer among
so many worthy persons who endured much
greater af&onts than those we have now ex»
perienced : for I would have thee know,
Sancho, that wounds, given with instruments
that are accidentally in tlie hand, are no af-
front: thus it is expressly written in the law
of combat that, if a shoe - maker strikes a
person with the last he has in his hand,
though it be really of wood, it will not
therefore be said tliat the person thus
beaten with it was cudgelled. I say this,
that thou mayest not think, though we are
bruised in this scuffle, we are disgraced :
for the arms those men carried, and with
which they assailed us, were no other than
their staves; and none of them, as I re-
member, had either tuck, sword, or
dagger." **They gave me no lebure,'*
answered Sancho, " to observe so narrowly;
for scarcely had I laid hand on my weapon,
than my shoulders were crossed with their
saplins, in such a manner that they de-
prived my eyes of sight, and my feet of
strength, laying me where I now lie, and
where I am not so much concerned about
whether the business of the threshing be an
affront or not as I am at the pain of the
blows, which will leave as deep an im-
pression on my memory as on my
shoulders." " Notwithstanding this, I tell
thee, brother Panza," said Don Quixote,
" that there is no remembrance which time
does not obliterate, nor pain which death
does not terminate." " But what greater
misfortune can there be," replied Panza,
''than that which waits for time to cure
and for death to end ? If this mischance of
ours were of that sort which might be
cured with a couple of plaisters, it would
not be altogether so bad : but, for aught I
see, all the plaisters of a hospital will not
be sufficient to set us to rights again."
''Have done with this, and gather
strength out of weakness, Sancho," said
Don Quixote; "for so I purpose to do:
and let us see how Rozinante does ; for it
seems to me that not the least part of our
misfortune has fallen to the share of this
poor animal." " That is not at all strange,"
answered Sancho, "since he also belongs
to a knight-errant ; but what I wonder at
is that my ass should come off scot-free,
where we have paid so dear." " Fortune
always leaves some door open in misfortune,
to admit a remedy," said Don Quixote ;
'* this I say, because thy beast may now
supply the want of Rozinante, by carrying^
me hence to some castle, where I may be
cured of my wounds. Nor do I account it
dishonourable to be so mounted ; for I re-
member to have read that tlie good old
Silenus, governor and tutor of the merry
god of laughter, when he made his entry
into the city of the hundred gates, was
mounted, much to his satisfaction, on a
most beautiful ass." " It is likely he rode
as your worship says," answered Sancho :
**but there is a main difference between
riding and lying athwart, like a sack of
rubbish." " The wounds received in battle,*'
said Don Quixote, "rather give honour
than take it away ; therefore, friend Punza,
answer me no more, but, as I said before,
raise me up as well as thou canst, and place
me as it may best please thee upon thy ass.
DON QUIXOTE.
77
that we may get hence before night over-
takes ns in this uninhabited place." '^ Yet
I have heard your worship say," quoth
Panza, <' that it is usual for knights-errant
to sleep on heaths and deserts most part of
the year, and therein think themselves very
fortunate." " That is," said Don Quixote,
" when they cannot do otherwise, or are in
love : and so true is this that there have
been knights who, unknown to their mis-
tresses, have exposed themselves, for two
years together, upon rocks, to the sun and
the shade, and to the inclemencies of
heaven. One of these was Amadis, when,
calling himself Beltenebros, he took up his
lodging on the Poor Rock — whether for
eight years or eight months I know not, for
I am not perfect in his history ; it is suffi-
cient that there he was, doing penance, for
I know not what displeasure manifested
towards him by the lady Oriana. But let
us leave this, Sancho, and hasten before
such another misfortune happens to thy
beast as hath befallen Rozinante." '« That
would be the devil indeed," quoth Sancho ;
and, sending forth thirty alases, and sixty
sighsy and a hundred and twenty curses on
those who had brought him into that situa-
tion, he endeavoured to raise himself, but
stopped half way, bent like a Turkish bow,
being wholly unable to stand upright : not-
withstanding this, he managed to saddle his
ass, who had also taken advantage of that
day's excessive liberty, to go a little astray.
He then heaved up Rozinante, who, had
he a tongue wherewithal to complain, most
certainly would not have been outdone
either by Sancho or his master. Sancho, at
length, settled Don Quixote upon the ass,
to whose tail he then tied Rozinante, and,
taking hold of the halter of Dapple, he led
diem, now fester now slower, towards the
place where he thought the high road might
lie ; and had scarcely gone a short league,
when fortune, that was conducting his
affairs from good to better, discovered to
him the road, where he also espied an inn ;
which, to his sorrow, and Don Quixote's
joy, must needs be a castle. Sancho posi-
tively maintained it was an inn, and his
master that it was a castle ; and the dispute
lasted so long that they arrived there be-
fore it was determined ; and Sancho,
without &rther expostulation, entered it,
with his string of cattle.
CHAPTER XVI.
OP WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE,
IN THE INN, WHICH HE IMAGINED
TO DE A CASTLE.
The inn-keeper, seeing Don Quixote laid
across the ass, enquired, of Sancho, what
ailed him? Sancho answered him that it
was nothing but a fall from a rock, by
which his ribs were somewhat bruised.
The inn-keeper had a wife of a disposition
uncommon among those of the like occu-
pation; for she was naturally charitable,
and felt for the misfortunes of her neigh-
bours: so that she immediately prepared
to relieve Don Quixote, and made her
daughter, a very comely young maiden,
assist in the cure of her guest. There was
also a servant in the inn, an Asturian
wench, broad-&ced, flat-headed, with a
little nose, one eye squinting, and the other
not much better. It is true, the elegance
of her form made amends for other defects.
She was not seven hands high; and her
shoulders, which burdened her a little too
much, made her look down to the ground
more than she would willingly have done.
This agreeable lass now assisted the damsel
to prepare for Don Quixote a very sorry
bed in a garret, which gave evident tokens
of having formerly served many years as
a hay-loft. In this room lodged also a
carrier, whose bed was at a little distance
from that of our knight; and though it
was composed of pannels, and other trap-
pings of his mules, it had much the advan-
tage over that of Don Quixote, which
consisted of four not very smooth boards,
upon two unequal tressels, and a mattress
no thicker than a quilt, and full of knobs,
which from their hardness might have been
taken for pebbles^ had not the wool appeared
through some ñtu^tures ; with two sheets
like the leather of an old target, and a rug,
the threads of which you might count if
you chose, without losing one of the
number.
e'^^=^
ADVENTURES OF
In this wretched bed was Don Quixote
laid ; after which, the hostess and her
daughter plaistered him from head to foot ;
Maritornes (for so the Asturian wench was
called) at the same time holding the light.
And, as the hostess was thus employed,
perceiving Don Quixote to be mauled in
every part, she said that his bruises seemed
the effect of hard drubbing, rather than of
a fall. '^ Not a drubbing,^' said Sancho ;
''but the knobs and sharp points of the
rock, every one of which has left its mark :
and now I think of it," added he, '' pray,
contrive to spare a morsel of that tow, as
somebody may find it useful — indeed, 1
suspect that my sides would be glad of a
little of it" " What, you have had a fall
too, have you?" said the hostess. '' No,"
rpplied Sancho, '' not a fall, but a fright, on
seeing my master tumble, which so affected
my whole body that I feel as if I had re-
ceived a thousand blows myself." " That
may very well be," said the damsel ; " for
I have often dreamed that I was falling
down from some high tower, and could
never come to the ground; and, when I
awoke, I have found myself as much
bruised and battered as if I had realiy
fallen." ''But here is the point, mis-
tress," answered Sancho Panza, "that I,
without dreaming at all, and more awake
than I am now, find myself with almost as
many bruises as my master Don Quixote."
" What do you say is the name of this
gentleman?" quoth the Asturian. "Don
Quixote de la Mancha," answered Sancho
Panza : '' he is a knight-errant, and one of
the best and most valiant that has been seen
for this long time in the world." " What
is a knight -errant?" said the wench.
" Are you such a novice as not to know
that?" answered Sancho Panza. "You
must know, then, that a knight-errant is a
thing^ that, in two words, is cudgelled and
made an emperor; to-day he is the most
unfortunate wretch in the world; and to-
morrow will have two or three crowns of
kingdoms to give to his squire." "How
comes it then to pass that you, being
squire to this worthy gentleman," said the
hostess, " have not yet, as it seems, got so
much as an earldom ?" " It is early days
Q=
yet," answered Sancho ; " for it is but a
month since we set out in quest of adven*
tures, and hitherto we have met with none
that deserve the name. And sometimes we
look for one thing, and find another. But
the truth is, if my master Don Quixote
recovers of this wound or fall, and I am
not disabled thereby, I would not truck my
hopes for the best title in Spain." i
To all this conversation Don Quixote bad
listened very attentively ; and now, raisbg i
himself upin the bed as well as he could,
and taking the hand of his hostess, he &aid
to her : " Believe me, beauteous lady, you
may esteem yourself fortunate in having
entertained me in this your castle, being
such a person that, if I say little of myself,
it is because, as the proverb declares, self-
praise depreciates : but my squire will in-
form you who I am. I only say that I shall
retain the service you have done me eternally
engraven on my memory, and be grateful to
you as long as my life shall endure. And,
had it pleased the high heavens that love
had not held me so enthralled and subject
to his hiwsy and to the eyes of that beautiful
ingrate whose name I silently pronounce,
those of this lovely virgin had become
enslavers of my liberty."
The hostess, her daughter, and the
good Maritornes, stood confounded at Uiis
harangue of our knight-errant, which they
understood just as much as if he had spoken
Greek, although they guessed that it all
tended to compliments and offers of service ;
and not being accustomed to such kind of
language^ they gazed at him with surprise,
and thought him another sort of man than
those now in fiishion ; and, after thanking
him, in their inn-like phrase, for his offers,
they left him. The Asturian Maritomed
doctored Sancho, who stood in no leas need
of plaisters than his master. The carrier
and she, it appeared, had agreed to pass
that night together ; and she had given him
her word that, when the guests were all
quiet and her master and mistress asleep,
she would repair to him. And it is said of
this honest wench that she never made the
like promise, but she performed it, eyen
though she had made it on a mountain,
without any witness ; for she valued herself
DON QUIXOTE.
79
apon her gentility, and thought it no dis-
grace to be employed in service at an inn ;
«noe misfortones and unhappy accidents, as
she affirmed, had brought her to that state.
Don Quixote's hard, scanty, beggarly,
oazy, bed stood first in the middle of the
cock-loft; and dose by it Sancho had
placed his own, which consisted only of a
rush-mat, and a rug that seemed to be rather
of beaten hemp than of wool. Next to the
squire's stood that of the carrier : made up,
as hath been said, of pannels, and the whole
fumitoie of two of his best mules: for be
possessed twelve in number, sleek, fat, and
stately : being one of the richest carriers of
Arevalo, according to the author of this his-
tory, who makes particular mention of this
carrier ; for he knew him well ; nay, some
go 90 &r as to say he was related to him.
Besides^ Cid Hamet Benengeli was a very
minate and very accurate historian in all
things : and this is very evident from the
circumstances already related, which, though
apparently mean and trivial, he would not
pass over unnoticed. This may serve as an
example to those grave historians who
relate facts so very briefly and succinctly
that we have scarcely a taste of them:
omitting, either through neglect, malice,
or ignorance, things the most pithy
and substantial A thousand blessings
upon the author of Tablante, of Ricamente,
and on him who wrote the exploits of the
Count de Tomillas ! With what punctuality
do they describe every thing !
I say, then, that, after the earner had
Tisited his mules, and given them their
second course, he laid himself down upon
his pannels, in expectation of his most
punctual Maritornes. Sancho was already
plaistered, and in bed ; and, though he
endeavoured to sleep, the pain of his ribs
would not allow him ; and Don Quixote,
from the same cause, kept his eyes wide
open as those of a hare. The whole inn
was in profound silence, and contained no
other light than what proceeded from a
lamp, which hung in the middle of the
entry. This marvellous stillness, and the
thoughts of our knight, which incessantiy
recurred to those adventures, so common
m the annals of chivalry, brought to his
imagination one of the strangest whims
that can well be conceived : for he imagined
that he was now in some famous castle,
and that the daughter of its lord, captivated
by his fine appearance, had become en-
amoured of him, and had promised to steal
that night privately to him, and pass some
time with him. Then, taking all this
chimera, formed by himself, for reality, he
began to feel some alarm, reflecting on the
dangerous trial to which his fidelity was on
the point of being exposed ; but resolved
in his heart not to conmiit disloyalty against
his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, though queen
Ginebra herself, with the lady Quintaniana,
should present themselves before him.
Whilst his thoughts were occupied by
these extravangances, the hour — an un-
lucky one to him — arrived when the gentie
iVsturian, mindful of her promise, entered
the room, bare-footed, in her smock, with
her hair tucked up under a fustian coif, and,
with silent and cautious step, advanced
towards the couch of her beloved. But
scarcely had she passed the threshold of the
door when Don Quixote heard her, and,
sitting up in his bed, in spite of plaisters
and the pain of his ribs, stretched out his
arms to receive his beauteous damsel, who,
crouching, and holding her breath, as she
went vrith hands extended, feeling for her
lover, encountered the arms of Don Quixote,
who caught fast hold of her by tbe wrist,
and, drawing her towards him (she not
daring to speak a word), made her sit down
on the bed. On touching her smock, though
it was of canvas, it seemed to him to be
of the finest and softest lawn; the glass
beads that encircled her wrists, to his fancy,
were precious oriental pearls; her hairs,
not unlike those of a horse's mane, he took
for threads of the brightest gold of Arabia,
whose splendour obscures that of the sun
itself; and though her breath, doubtiess,
smelt powerfully of the last night's stale
salt-fish, he fancied himself inhaling a
delicious and aromatic odour. In short, his
imagination painted her to him in the very
form and manner of some princess described
in his books, who comes, thus adorned, to
visit the wounded knight, with whom she
is in love; and so great was the pocvr
fep=
Q=-
80
ADVENTURES OF
genticman's infatuation that neither the
touch, nor the breath, nor other things the
good wench had about her, could undeceive
him, although enough to make any one,
but a carrier, vomit. So far from this, he
imagined that he held the goddess of
beauty in his arms ; and, clasping her fast,
in a low and amorous voice, he said to her :
'^ O ! that I were in a state, beautiful and
exalted lady, to return so vast a favour as
this you confer upon me, by your charming
presence ! but fortune, never weary of per-
secuting the good, is pleased to lay me on
this bed, so bruised and disabled that, how
much soever I may be inclined to convince
you of my devotion, it is impossible ; to
which is added another still greater impos-
sibility— the plighted faith I have sworn
to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso: sole
mistress of my most recondite thoughts!
Had not these obstacles intervened, I should
not have been so insensible a knight as to
let slip the happy opportunity with which
your great goodness has favoured me."
Maritornes was in the utmost vexation
at being thus confined by Don Quixote ;
and, not hearing or attending to what he
said, she struggled, without speaking a
word, to release herself. The good carrier,
whom evil thoughts had kept awake,
having heard his fair one, from the first
moment she entered the door, listened at-
tentively to all that Don Quixote said;
and, suspecting that the Asturian nymph
had played false with him, he advanced
towards Don Quixote's bed, and stood still,
in order to discover the tendency of his
discourse, which, however, he could not
understand ; but, seeing that the wench
struggled to get from him, and that Don
Quixote laboured to hold her, and also, not
liking the jest, he lifted up hb arm, and
discharged so terrible a blow on the lanthom
jaws of the enamoured knight that his
mouth was bathed in blood ; and, not con-
tent with this, he mounted upon his ribs,
and paced them somewhat above a trot,
from one end to the other. The bed, which
was crazy, and its foundations none of the
strongest, being unable to bear the addi-
tional weight of the carrier, came down to
the ground with such a crash that the
inn-keeper awoke, and, having called aloud*
to Maritornes, without receiving an answer,
he immediately conjectured it was some
affair in which she was concerned. With
this suspicion he arose, and, lighting a
candle, went to the place where he had
heard the bustie. The wench, seeing her
master coming, and knowiug his furious
disposition, retreated in terror to Sancho
Panza's bed, who was now asleep; and
there rolled herself into a ball. The inn-
keeper entered, calling out : " "Where are
you, strumpet ? for tíiese are some of your
doings." Sancho was now disturbed, and
feeling such a mass upon him, fancied he
had got the night-mare, and began to lay
about him on every side : and not a few of
his blows reached Maritornes, who, pro-
voked by the smart, cast aside all decorum,
and made Sancho such a return in kind
that she efiectuaUy roused him from sleep,
in spite of his drowsiness. The squire,
finding himself thus treated, and without
knowing by whom, raised himself up as
well as he could, and grappled with
Maritornes; and there began between
them the most obstinate and delightful
skirmish in the world. The carrier, perceiv-
ing, by the light of the host's candle, how
it &red with his mistress, quitted Don
Quixote, and ran to her assistance. The
landlord followed him, but with a different
intention ; for it was to chastise the wench,
concluding that she was the Sole occasion of
all this harmony. And so, as the proverb
says, the cat to the rat, the rat to the rope,
and the rope to the post : the carrier be-
laboured Sancho, Sancho the wench, the
wench Sancho, and the inn-keeper the
wench ; all redoubling tiieir blows, without
intermission : and tiie best of it was, the
landlord's candle went out; when, being
left in the dark, they indiscriminately
thrashed each other, and with so little
mercy that every blow left its mark.
It happened that there lodged that night
in tiie inn an officer belonging to the holy
brotherhood of Toledo ; who, hearing the
strange noise of the scufHe, seized his wand
and tin-box which held his commission, and
entered the room in the dark, calling oat,
'' Forbear, in the name of justice ; forbear.
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
81
in the name of the holy brotherhood."* And
the first he encountered vrss the battered
Don Quixote, who laid senseless on his de-
molished bed, stretched upon his back ; and,
laying hold of his beard as he was groping
about, he cried out repeatedly, " I charge
you to aid and assist me ;'' but, finding that
the person whom he held was motionless, he
concluded that he was dead, and that the
people in the room were his murderers.
Upon which he raised his Yoioe still louder,
crying, "Shut the inn-door, and let none
escape ; for here is a man murdered I" These
words startled them all, and the conflict in-
stantly ceased. The landlord withdrew to his
chamber, the carrier to his pannels, and the
wench to her straw : the unfortunate Don
Quixote and Sancho alone were incapable of
moving. The officer now let go the beard of
Don Quixote, and, in order to search after
and secure the delinquents, he went out for a
light, but could find none ; for the inn-keeper
had purposely extinguished the lamp, when
he retired to his chamber ; and therefore he
was obliged to have recourse to the chimney,
where, after much time and trouble, he
lighted another lamp.
CHAPTER XVII.
WHBRBIN ARB CONTINUED THE INNU-
MERABLE DISASTERS THAT BE7EL THE
BRAVE DON QUIXOTB AND HIS GOOD
SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA, IN THE INN,
WHICH HE UNHAPPILY TOOK FOR A
{ CASTLE.
, Bt this time Don Quixote had come to
i' himself, and, in the same dolorous tone
It which, the day before, he had called to his
'; squire when he lay extended in the valley
of pack-staves, he now again called to him,
' saying, " Sancho, fnend, art thou asleep ?
art thou asleep, fnend Sancho V* " How
should I sleep? woe is me!" answered
* This focietj was eitablished in Toledo, Tklaycrs,
■ad Ciudad Real, and was composed of noblemen and
frntlemen ; it was also a necessary condition that they
should be wealthy, and possess hives in the mountains
cf Toledo. The object of the institution was the seizure
of hi^waymen and other depredators, anciently called
Goljbte» (dolphins), who infested the high roads and
mountains, stealing cattle and other property. They
enjoyed many privileges, having the power not only of
Mixing and prosecuting criminals, but of condemning
Sancho, full of trouble and vexation ; '' for
I think all the devils in hell have been with
me to-night." ** Well mayst thou believe
so," answered Don Quixote ; " for either I
know nothing, or this castle is enchanted.
Listen to me, Sancho, — but what I am now
going to disclose thou must swear to keep
secret until afler my death." **Yes, I
swear," answered Sancho. " I requhre this,"
said Don Quixote ; '' because I would not
injure the reputation of any one." *^ I tell
you I do swear," replied Sancho ; " and
will keep it secret until your worship's
death, and God grant I may discover it to*
morrow." " Have I done thee so much evil,
Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " that
thou shouldst wish for my decease so very
soon?" "It is not for that," answered
Sancho ; " but I am an enemy to holding
things long, and would not have them rot
in my keeping." " Be it for what it will,"
said Don Quixote, " I confide in thy love
and courtesy, and therefore I inform thee
that this night a most extraordinary adven-
ture has befallen me ; and, to tell it briefly,
thou must know that, a little while since, I
was visited by the daughter of the lord of
this castle, who is the most accomplished
and beautiful damsel to be found over a
great part of the habitable earth. How
could I describe the graces of her person,
the sprightliness of her wit, and the many
other hidden charms which, from the respect
I owe to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I
shall pass over undescribed ! All that I am
permitted to say is that heaven, jealous of
the great happiness that fortune had put in
my possession, or, what is more probable,
this castle being enchanted, just as we were
engaged in most sweet and amorous con-
versation, an invisible hand, affixed to the
arm of some monstrous giant, gave me so
violent a blow that my mouth was bathed
in blood, and afterwards so bruised me that
them to death by bow-shot ; and the sentence, according
to Francisco de Medina (Grandesas de España, p. 196) was
executed at FeroalbiUo, near Ciudad Real. Charles V.
ordained that they should be put to death, before they
were pierced by arrows. The council, or cabinet, con-
sisted of a chief trooper, who, besides his lieutenants,
held under his command commissary troopers, who were
dispersed through cities, villages, and inns. Sebastian
Munster published, in 1550, an accurate description of this
Brotherhood or Tribunal, in his Cosmografia, f. 60. P.
r^=
83
ADVENTURES OF
I am DOW in a worse state than that wherein
the fury of the carriers left us yesterday,
owing to the indiscretion of Rozinante.
Whence I conjecture that the treasure of
this damsel's beauty is guarded by some
enchanted Moor, and therefore not to be
approached by me." " Nor by me neither,"
answered Sancho; '^for more than four
hundred Moors have buffeted me in such a
manner that the basting of the pack-staves
was tarts and cheesecakes to it But tell
me pray, sir, call you this an excellent and
rare adventure, which has left us in such a
pickle ? Not that it was quite so bad with
your worship, who had in your arms that
incomparable beauty which you speak of.
As for me, what had I but the heaviest
blows that, I hope, I shall ever feel in all
my life ? Woe is me, and the mother that
bore me! for I am no knight-errant, nor
ever mean to be one ; yet, of all our mis-
haps, the greater part still fidls to my share."
'^ What, hast thou likewise been beaten ?"
said Don Quixote. " Have not I told you
so ? Evil beial my lineage !" quoth Sancho.
« Console thyself, friend," said Don Quixote;
^' for I will now make that precious balsam,
which will cure us in the twinkling of an
eye." At this moment the officer, having
lighted his lamp, entered to examine the
person whom he conceived to have been
murdered ; and Sancho, seeing him enter in
his shirt, with a night-cap on his head, a
lamp in his hand, and a countenance far
from well favoured, asked his master if it
was the enchanted Moor coming to finish
the correction he had bestowed upon them."
^' It cannot be the Moor," answered Don
Quixote ; ''for the enchanted suffer not
themselves to be visible." '' If they do not
choose to be seen, they will be felt," said
Sancho : " witness my shoulders." <' Mine
might speak too," answered Don Quixote.
<' But this is not sufficient evidence to
convince us that he whom we see is the
enchanted Moor."
The officer, finding them communing in
so calm a manner, stood in astonishment :
although it is true that Don Quixote still
lay flat on his back, unable to stir, fix)m
bruises and plaisters. The officer approached
him, and said, '' Well, my good fellow, how
are you ?" " I would speak more respect-
fully," answered Don Quixote, " were I
in your. place. Is it the fbshion of this
country, blockhead ! thus to address knights-
errant?" The officer, not disposed to bear
this language from one of so scurvy an
aspect, lifted up his lamp, and dashed it,
with all its contents, at the head of Don
Quixote, and then made his retreat in the
dark. << Surely," quoth Sancho Paoza,
'^ this must be the enchanted Moor; and he
reserves the treasure for others, and for us
only fisty-cu£& and lamp-shots."* "Itis even
so," answered Don Quixote : " and it is to
no purpose to regard these afiairs of enchant-
ments, or to be out of humour or angry with
them ; for, being invisible, and mere phan-
toms, all endeavours to seek revenge would
be fruitless. Rise, Sancho, if thou canst, and
call the governor of this fortress, and pro-
cure me some oil, wine, salt, and rosemary,
to make the healing balsam ; for in truth I
want it much at this time, as the wound
this phantom has given me bleeds very fast."
Sancho got up with aching bones, and,
as he was proceeding in the dark towards
the landlord's chamber, he met the officer,
who was watching the movements of his
enemy, and said to him, '' Sir, whoever you
are, do us tlie fevour and kindness to help
us to a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine ;
for they are wanted to cure one of the best
knight-errants in the world, who lies there,
sorely wounded by the hands of the en-
chanted Moor who is in this inn." The officer,
hearing this, took him for a maniac; and,
as the day now began to dawn, he opened
the inn-door, and, calling the host, told him
what Sancho wanted. The inn-keeper fur-
nished him with what he desired, and Sanqho
carried them to Don Quixote, who lay with
his hands on his head, complaining of the
pain caused by the lamp, which, however,
had done him no other hurt than raising a
couple of tolerably large tumours : what he
took for blood being only sweat, occasioned
by the pelting of the storm which had just
blown over. In fine, he took Bis simples,
and made a compound of them, mixing them
together, and boiling them some time, until
* Id th« original, CanMag09, a new-coined word. J.
DON QUIXOTE.
83
he thought the mixture had arrived at the
exact point. He then asked for a yial to
hold it ; bat, as there was no such thing in
the inn, he resolved to put it in a cruse, or
tin oil-flaak, of which the host made him a
present This being done, he pronounced
over the cruse above fourscore pater-nosters,
and as many ave-marias, salves and credos,
accompanying every word with a cross, by
way of benediction ; all which was performed
I in the presence of Sancho, the inn-keeper,
I I and the officer. As for the carrier, he had
gone soberly about the business of tending
his mules. Having completed the operation,
' Don Quixote resolved to make trial imme-
I diately of the virtue of that precious balsam ;
, and therefore drank about a pint and a half
I of what remained in the pot wherein it was
; boiled after the cruse was filled ; and scarcely
had he swallowed the potion when it was re-
I jected, and followed by so violent a retching
,' that nothing was left on his stomach. To
the pain and exertion of the vomit, a copious
, perspiration succeeding, he desired to be
I coTered up warm, and left alone. They did
Ij so, and he continued asleep above three
I honis, when be awoke and found himself
I greatly relieved in his body, and his battered
, and bruij«d members so much restored that
he considered himself as perfectly recovered,
and was thoroughly persuaded that he was
in possession of the true balsam of Fierabrás ;
and consequently, with such a remedy, he
might thenceforward encounter, without
fear, all dangers, battles, and conflicts,
however hazardous.
Sancho Panza, who likewise took his
Piaster's amendment for a miracle, desired
he would give him what remained in the pot,
whjch was no small quantity. This request
being granted, he took it in both hands, and,
with good &ith and better will, swallowed
down very little less than his master had
done. Now the case was that poor San-
¡ cho's stomach was not so delicate as that of
his master ; and, therefore, before he could
throw it up, he endured such pangs and
loathings, with such cold sweats and iaint-
ings, that he verily thought his last hour
was come : and finding himself so afflicted
Ukd tormented, he cursed the balsam, and
the thief that had given it him. Don Quix-
ote, seeing him in that condition, said : '^ I
believe, Sancho, that all this mischief hath
befallen thee because thou art not dubbed a
knight : for I am of opinion this liquor can
do good only to those who are of that order."
'* If your worship knew that," replied
Sancho, — *^ evil betide me and all my gene-
ration ! why did you suffer me to drink it?"
By this time the beverage commenced its
operation, and the poor squire began to dis-
charge through both channels, with so much
precipitation that the rush-mat upon which
he laid, and the blanket that covered him,
were never after fit for use. He sweated
and sweated again, with such faintings and
shlvering-fits, that not only himself, but all
present, thought he was expiring. This
hurricane lasted near two hours ; and left
him, not sound like his master, but so ex-
hausted and shattered that he was unable
to stand. Now Bon Quixote, feeling, as we
said before, quite renovated, was moved to
take his departure immediately in quest of
adventures, thinking that by every moment's
delay he was depriving the world of his aid
and protection ; and more especially as he
felt secure and confident in the virtues of
his balsam. Thus stimulated, he saddled
Rozinante with his own hands, and pannelled
the ass of his squire, whom he also helped
to dress, and afterwards to mount. He then
mounted himself, and, having observed a
pike in a comer of the inn-yard, he took pos-
session of it, to serve him for a lance. All
the people in the inn, above twenty in num-
ber, stood gazing at him ; and, among the
rest, the host's daughter, while he on his
part removed not his eyes &om her, and ever
and anon sent forth a sigh, which seemed
torn from the bottom of his bowels : all
believing it to proceed fix)m pain in his ribs,
at least those who the night before had seen
how he was plaistered.
Being now both mounted, and at the door
of the inn, he called to the host, and, in a
grave and solemn tone of voice, said to him :
" Many and great are the favours, signer
governor, which in this your castle I have
received, and I am bound to be grateful to
you all the days of my life. If I can make
you some compensation, by taking ven-
geance on any proud miscreant who hath
=Q
84
ADVENTURES OF
insulted you, know that the dnty of my
profession is no other than to strengthen the
weak, to revenge the injured, and to chas-
tise the perfidious. Consider, and, if your
memory recall any thing of this nature to
recommend to me, you need only declare it;
for I promise you, by the order of knight-
hood I have received, to procure you satis-
faction and amends to your heart's desire I"
The host answered with the same gravity :
" Sir - knight, I have no need of your
worship's avenging any wrong ibr me; I
know how to take the proper revenge, when
any injur}' is done me : all I desire of your
worship is to pay me for what you have had
in the inn, as well for the straw and barley
for your two beasts, as for your supper
and lodging." ^< What I is this an inn ?"
exclaimed Don Quixote. '' Aye, and a
very creditable one," answered the host.
'^ Hitherto then I have been in an error,"
answered Don Quixote; ^'for in truth I
took it for a castle ; but since it is indeed no
castle, but an inn, all that you have now to
do is to excuse the payment ; for I cannot
act contrary to the law of knights-errant,
of whom I certainly know (having hitherto
read nothing to the contrary) that they
never paid for lodging, or any diing else, in
the inns where they reposed ; because every
accommodation is legeJly and justly due to
them, in return for the insufferable hard-
ships they endure while in quest of adven-
tures, by night and by day, in winter and
in summer, on foot and on horseback, with
thirst and with hunger, with heat and with
cold ; subject to all the inclemencies of hea-
ven, and to all the inconveniences upon
earth." ^'I see little to my purpose in all
this," answered the host : '^pay me what is
my due, and let us have none of your stories
and knight-errantries ; all I want is to get
my own." " Thou art a blockhead, and a
pitiful inn-keeper," answered Don Quixote :
so clapping spurs to Rozinante, and brandish-
ing his lance, he sallied out of the inn,
without opposition, and, never turning to
* Tilia u an ancient joke. Snetonios mj« of Otho,
that, on hia nightly rounda thxougli the atreeta of Rome,
if he met any man in a atate of Intoiieation, a mantle
waa atietched out to receive him, and he waa toaaed in
the air— ^< diatento aago impoaitom in aublime jactare."
see whether his squire followed him, was
soon a good way off.
The host, seeing him go without paying,
ran to seize on Sancho Panza, who said that,
since his master would not pay, neither
would he pay ; for being squire to a knight-
errant, the same rule and reason held as
good for him as for his master. The inn-
keeper, irritated on hearing this, threatened,
if he did not pay him, he should repent his
obstinacy. Sancho swore by the order of
chivahry, which his master had received,
that he would not pay a single farthing,
though it should cost him his life ; for the
hiudable and ancient usage of knights-errant
should not be lost for him, nor should the
squires of future knights have cause to re-
proach him for not maintaining so just a
right.
Poor Sancho's ill-luck would have it
that, among the people in the inn, there
were four cloth-woiken of Segovia, three
needle-makers from the fountain of Cor-
dova, and two neighboun from the market-
place of Seville : all merry, good-humoured,
frolicksome fellows; who, instigated and
moved, as it appeared, by the self-same
spirit, came up to Sancho, and, having dis- i
mounted him, one of them produced a
blanket from the landlord's bed, into which
he was immediately thrown ; but, perceiving
that the ceiling was too low, they deter-
mined to execute their purposeón the yard,
which was bounded upwards only by the
sky. Thither Sancho was carried; and,
being placed in the middle of the blanket,
they began to toss him aloft, and divert
themselves with him, as with a dog at
Shrovetide.* The cries which the poor
blanketed squire sent forth were so many,
and so loud, that they reached his master's
ears; who, stopping to listen attentively,
believed that some new adventure was at
hand, untQ he plainly recognized the voice
of his squire: then turning the reins, he
galloped back to the inn-door, and finding
it closed, he rode round in search of some
Martial likewiae, eommuning with hia book, deairea it
not to truat to encomiuma, aince, in return for diem,
they might only make aport of it—" Ibia ab
miaaua in aatn aago." (Lib. 7* Epig* 4.) P,
p. 84.
S"
í«p
W
-J
=Q
DON QUIXOTE.
85
other entrance ; but had no sooner reached
the yard-wall, which was not very high,
when he perceived the wicked sport they
were making with his squire. He saw him
ascend and descend through the air with so
, i much grace and agility that, if his indigna-
tion would have suffered him, he certainly
would have laughed outright. He made an
effort to get from his horse upon the pales :
but was so maimed and bruised that he was
unable to alight ; and therefore, remaining
on horseback, he proceeded to vent his rage,
by uttering so many reproaches and invec-
tives against those who were tossing Sancho
that it is impossible to commit them to
writing. But they suspended neither their
laughter nor their labour ; nor did the flying
Sancho cease to pour forth lamentations,
mingled now with threats, now with in-
treaties ; yet all were of no avail, and they
desisted at last only from pure fatigue.
They then brought him his ass, and, wrap-
ping him in his cloak, mounted him thereon.
The compassionate Maritornes, seeing him
so exhausted, bethought of helping him to a
jug of water, and, that it might be the cooler,
she fetched it from tlie well. Sancho took
it, and, as he was lifting it to his mouth,
stopped on hearing the voice of his master,
who called to him aloud, saying : '^ Son
Sancho, drink not water; do not drink it,
son ; it will kill thee : behold here the most
holy balsam (shewing him the cruse of
liquor), two drope of which will infallibly
restore thee.'' At these words, Sancho,
turning his eyes askance, said in a still
louder voice : '' Perhaps you have forgot,
sir, that I am no knight, or you would have
me vomit up what remains of my guts, afler
last nighf s work. Keep your liquor, in the
devil's name, and let me alone." He then
instantly began to drink; but at the first
sip, finding it was water, he would proceed
no further, and besought Maritornes to bring
him some wine : which she did willingly,
and paid for it with her own money ; for it
is indeed said of her that, although in that
station, she had some faint traces of a
christian. When Sancho had ceased drink-
ing, he clapped heels to his ass ; and, the inn-
gate being thrown wide open, out he went,
satisfied that he had paid nothing, and had
carried his point, though at the expense of
his usual pledge, namely, his back. The
landlord, it is true, retained his wallets in
payment of what was due to him ; but San-
cho never missed them, in the hurry of his
departure. The inn -keeper would have
fastened the door well after him, as soon as
he saw him out ; but the blanketeers would
not let him, being persons of that sort that,
though Don Quixote had really been one of
the knights of the round table, they would
not have cared two farthings for him.
CHAPTER XVm.
THE DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO PANZA
HELD WITH HIS MASTER DON QUIX-
OTE; WITHOTHER ADVENTURES WORTH
RELATING.
Sancho came up to his master so fidnt and
dispirited that he was not able to urge his
ass forward. Don Quixote, perceiving him
in that condition, said : '^ Honest Sancho,
that castle, or inn, I am now convinced, is
enchanted ; for they who so cruelly sported
with thee, what could they be but phantoms
and inhabitants of another world ? And I
am confirmed in this, from having found
that, when I stood at the pales of the yard,
beholding the acts of your sad tragedy, I
could not possibly get over them, nor even
alight from Rozinante ; so that they must
certainly have held me enchanted: for I
swear to thee, by the fidtli of what I am,
that, if I could have got over, or alighted, I
would have avenged thee in such a manner
as would have made those poltroons and
assassins remember the jest as long as they
lived, even though I should have thereby
transgressed the laws of chivalry : for, as I
have often told thee, they do not allow a
knight to lay hand on his sword against any
one who is not so^ unless it be in defence ot
his own life and person, and in cases of
urgent and extreme necessity." " And I
too," quoth Sancho, "would have revenged
myself if I had been able, knight or no
knight, but I could not; though, in my
opinion, they who diverted themselves at my
expense were no hobgoblins, but men of
fJesh and bones, as we are; and each of
f?^=
86
ADVENTURES OF
them, as I beard xvhile they were tossing me,
had bis proper name : one was called Pedro
Martinez, another Tenorio Hernandez ; and
the landlord's name is John Palomeque the
kñ-handed : so that, sir, as to your not
being able to leap over the pales, nor to
alight from your horse, the fault lay, not in
enchantment, but in something else. And
what I gather clearly from all this is that
these adventures we are in quest of will in
the long run bring us into so many misad*
ventures that we shall not know which is
our right foot. So that, in my poor opi-
nion, the better and surer way would be to
return to our village, now that it is reaping-
time, and look after our business, nor go
rambling from Ceca to Mecca, and out of
the firying-pan into the fire."
** How little dost thou know, Sancho,"
answered Don Quixote, ^^ of what apper-
tains to chivalry ! Peace, and have pa-
tience, for the day will come when thine
eyes shall witness how honourable a thing it
is to follow this profession : for tell me what
greater satisfaction can the world afford, or
what pleasure can be compared with that of
winning a battle, and triumphing ov«r an
adversary ? Undoubtedly none.^' " It may
be so," answered Sancho, " though I do
not know it. I only know that, since we
have been knights- errant, or since you have
been one, sir (for I have no right to reckon
myself of that honourable number), we have
never won any battle, except that of the
Biscainer ; and even there your worship
came off with half an ear and half a helmet ;
and, from that day to this, we have had
nothing but drubbings upon drubbings, cuffs
upon cuffs, with my blanket-tossing into the
bargain, and that by persons enchanted, on
whom I cannot revenge myself, and thereby
know what that pleasure of overcoming an
enemy is which your worship talks of."
" That is what troubles n)e, and ought to
trouble thee also, Sancho," answered Don
Quixote ; " but henceforward I will endea-
vour to have ready at hand a sword made
with, such art that no kind of enchantment
can touch him that wears it ; and perhaps
fortune may put me in possession of that of
Amadis, when he called himself ' Knight of
the burning sword,' which was one of the
best weapons that ever was worn by knight :
for, beside the virtue aforesaid, it cut like a
razor ; and no armour, however strong or
enchanted, could withstand it." '' Such is
my luck," quoth Sancho, " that, though
this were so, and your worship should find
such a sword, it would be of service only
to those who are dubbed knights, like the
balsam : as for the poor squires, they may
sing sorrow." " Fear not, Sancho," said
Don Quixote ; " heaven will deal more
kindly by thee."
The knight and his sqnire went on con-
ferring thus together, when Don Quixote
perceived, in the road on which they were
travelling, a great and thick cloud of dust
coming towards them ; upon which he
turned to Sancho, and said, ^^This is the
day, O Sancho, that shall manifest the good
that fortune hath in store for me. This is
the day, I say, on which shall be proved,
as at all times, the valour of my arm ; and
on which I shall perform exploits that will
be recorded and written in the book of fame,
and there remain to all succeeding ages.
Seest thou that cloud of dust, Sancho?
It is raised by a prodigious army of divers
and innumerable nations, who are on the
march this way." " If so, there must be
two armies," said Sancho ; " for here, on
this side, arises just such another cloud of
dust." Don Quixote turned, and, seeing
that it really was so, he rejoiced exceedingly,
taking it for granted they were two armies
coming to engage in the midst of tliat
spacious plain : for at all hours and moments
his imagination was full of the battles,
enchantments, adventures, extravagancies,
amours, and challenges detailed in his
favourite books; and in every thought,
word, and action he reverted to them. Now
the cloud of dust he saw was raised by two
great flocks of sheep going the same road
from different parts, and, as the dust con-
cealed them until they came near, and Dod
Quixote affirmed so positively that they
were armies, Sancho began to believe it,
and said, " Sir, what then must we do ?"
" What," replied Don Quixote, "but favour
and assist the weaker side? Thou must
know, Sancho, that the army which marches
towards us in front is led aua commanded
=©
DON QUIXOTE.
87
by the great emperor Ali&nfaron, lord of
the great island of Taprobana : this other,
whieh marches behind us, is that of his
enemy, the king of the Garamantes, Penta-
polin of the naked arm — for he always enters
into battle with his right arm bare.'' " But
why do these two princes bear one another so
much ill-will?" demanded Sancho. " They
hate one another/' answered Bon Quixote,
'' because this Alifiinlaron is a furious pagan,
in love with the daughter of Pentapolin,
who is a most beautiful and superlatively
graceful lady, and also a christian ; but her
father will not give her in marriage to the
pagan king, unless he will first renounce
the religion of his false prophet Mahomet,
and turn christian." " By my beard," said
Sancho, '^ Pentapolin is in the right ; and
I am resolved to assist him to the utmost of
my power." "Therein thou wilt do thy
duty, Sancho," said Don Quixote : " for, in
Older to engage in such contests, it is not
necessary to be dubbed a knight." " I
easily comprehend that," answered Sancho.
" But where shall we dispose of tliis ass,
that we may be sure to find him when the
firay is over ? for I believe it was never yet
the fashion to go to battle upon a beast of
this kind." " Thon art in the right," said
Don Quixote ; " and thou mayest let him
take his chance, whether he be lost or not :
for we shall have such choice of horses afler
the victory that Rozinante himself will run
a risque of being exchanged. But listen with
attention whilst I give thee an account of
the principal knights in the two approach-
ing armies ; and, that thou mayest observe
them the better, let us retire to that rising
ground, whence both armies may be dis-
tinctly seen." They did so, and placed
^emselves, for that purpose, on a hillock,
from which the two flocks which Don
Quixote mistook for armies might easily
have been discerned, had not their view
been obstructed by the clouds of dust. Seeing
however, in his imagination, what did not
exist, he began, with a loud voice, to say :
"The knight thou seest yonder with tiie
gilded armour, who bears in his shield a
lion, crowned, conchant at a damsel's feet,
is the valorous -Laurcalco, lord of the silver
bridge. The other, with the armbur flow-
ered with gold, who bears three crowns
argent, in a field azure, is the formidable
Micocolembo, grand duke of Quiracia. The
third, with gigantic limbs, who marches on
his right, is the undaunted Brandabarbaran
of Boliche, lord of the three Arabias. He
is armed with a serpent's skin, and bears,
instead of a shield, a gate, which, fame says,
is one of those belonging to the temple which
Samson pulled down when with his death
he avenged himself upon his enemies. But
turn thine eyes on this other side, and there
thou wilt see, in the front of this other
army, the ever victorious and never van-
quished Timonel de Carcajona, prince of the
New Biscay, who comes clad in armour quar-
tered, azure, vert, argent, and or ; bearing,
in his shield, a cat, or, in a field, gules,
with a scroll inscribed MIAU; being the
beginning of his mistress's name,, who, it is
reported, is the peerless Miaulina, daughter
to Alphenniquen, duke of Algarve. That
other, who burdens and oppresses the back
of yon powerful steed, whose armour is as
white as snow, and his shield also white,
without any device, he is a new knight,
by birth a Fronchman, called Peter Papin,
lord of the baronies of Utrique. The other
.whom thou seest, with his armed heels,
pricking the flanks of that fleet pie-bald
courser, and his armour of pure azure, is the
mighty Duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo of
the wood, whose device is an asparagus-
bed, with this motto in Castilian, ' Rastrea
mi suerte,' ' Thus drags my fortune.' "
In this manner he went on naming sundry
knights of each squadron, as his fancy dic-
tated, and giving to each their arms, colours,
devices, and mottos, extempore ; and, without
pausing, he continued thus : — " that squad-
ron in the front is formed and composed
of people of diflerent nations. Here stand
those who drink the sweet waters of the
famous Xanthus ; the mountaineers, who
tread the Massilian fields; those who sift
the pure and fine gold-dust of Arabia Felix ;
those who dwell along the famous and
refreshing banks of the clear Thermodon ;
those who drain, by divers and sundry
ways, the golden veins of Pactolus; the
Numidians, unfaithful in their promises;
the Persians, famous for bows and arrows ;
©^
88
ADVENTURES OF
the Parthians and Medes, who fight flying ;
tlie Arabians, perpetually changing their
habitations ; the Scythians, as cruel as fiür ;
the broad-lipped Ethiopians ; and an infinity
of other nations, whose countenances I see
and know, although I cannot recollect their
names. In that other squadron come those
who drink the crystal streams of olive-
bearing Beds; those, who brighten and
polish their fiices with the liquor of the
ever-rich and golden Tagus; those, who
enjoy the beneficial waters of the divine
Genii ; those, who tread the Tartesian fields,
abounding in pasture ; those, who recreate
themselves in the Elysian meads of Xereza ;
the rich Manchegans, crowned with yellow
ears of com ; those clad in iron, the antique
remains of the Gothic race; those, who
bathe themselves in Pisuerga, famous for
the gentleness of its current; those, who
feed their flocks on the spacious pastures of
the winding Guadiana, celebrated for its
hidden source; those who shiver on the
cold brow of the woody Pyreneus, and
the snowy tops of lofty Appeninus; in
a word, all that Europe contains and
includes."
Good God ! how many provinces did he
name ! how many nations did he enume-
rate ! giving to each, with wonderful readi-
ness, its peculiar attributes ! Sancho Panza
stood confounded at his discourse, without
speaking a word ; and now and then he
turned his head about, to see whether he
could discover the knights and giants his
master named. But seeing none, he said :
" Sir, the devil a man, or giant, or knight,
of all you have named, can I see any where ;
perhaps all may be enchantment, like last
night's goblins." '^ How say est thou, San-
cho?" answered Don Quixote. "Hearest
thou not the neighing of the steeds, the sound
of the trumpets, and the rattling of the
drums?" " I hear nothing," answered San-
cho, "but the bleating of sheep and lambs:"
and so it was ; for now the two flocks were
come very near them. " Thy fears, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote, " prevent thee from hear-
ing or seeing aright ; for one effect of fear is
to disturb the senses and make things not to
appear what they really are : and, if thou
art so much afraid, retire and leave me alone ;
0=
for with my single arm I shall ensure victory
to that side which 1 &vour with my assist-
ance :" then, clapping spurs to Rozmante,
and setting his lance in his rest, he darted
down the hillock like lightning. Sancho
cried out to him : " Hold, sigñor Don
Quixote, come back ! as God shall save me,
they are Iambs and sheep you are going to
encounter ; pray come back ; woe to the
father that begot me ! what madness is this !
Look; there is neither giant nor knight,
nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered nor
entire, nor true azures nor be-devilled : sin-
ner that I am ! what are you doing ?" Not-
withstanding all this, Don Quixote turned
not again, but still went on, crying aloud :
" Ho ! knights, you that follow and fight
under the banner of the valiant emperor
Pentapolin of the naked arm, follow me all,
and you shall see with how much ease 1 re-
venge him on his enemy Alifanfaron of Ta-
probana." With these words he ruslied into
the midst of the squadron of sheep, and
began to attack them with his lance, as cou-
rageously and intrepidly as if in good earnest
he was engaging his mortal enemies. The
shepherds and herdsmen, who came with the
flocks, called out to him to desist : but, see-
ing it was to no purpose, they unbuckled
their slings, and began to salute his ears with
a shower of stones. Don Quixote cared not
for the stones, but, galloping about on all
sides, cried out : " Where art thou, proud
Alifanfaron? Present thyself before me:
I am a single knight, desirous to prove thy
valour hand to hand, and to punish thee
with the loss of life, for the wrong thou
dost to the valiant Pentapolin Garamanta."
At that instant a large stone struck him
with such violence on the side that it buried
a couple of ribs in his body ; insomuch that
he believed himself either slain or sorely
wounded : and therefore, remembering his
balsam, he pulled out the cruse, and ap-
plying it to his mouth, began to swallow
some of the liquor; but, before he could
take what he thought sufficient, another of
those almonds hit him full on the hand, and
dashed the cruse to pieces: carrying off
three or four of his teeth by the way, and
grievously bruising two of his fingers.
Such was the first blow, and such the
^^
DON QUIXOTE.
second, that the poor knight fell from his
horse to the ground. The shepherds ran to
him, and verily believed they had killed him :
whereupon in all haste they collected their
flock^ took up their dead, which were about
seven, and marched off without farther en-
quiry.
All this while Sancho stood upon the hil-
lock, beholding his master's extravagances ;
tearing his beard, and cursing the unfortu-
nate hoiu: and moment that ever he knew
Iiim. But, seeing him fallen to the ground,
and the shepherds gone off, he descended
from the hillock, and, running to him, found
him in a very ill plight, though not quite
bereaved of sense ,* and said to him : ^' Bid
I not beg you, sigñor Don Quixote, to come
back I for those you went to attack were a
flock of sheep, and not an army of men ? "
** How easily," replied Don Quixote, *' can
that thief of an enchanter, my enemy, trans-
form things or make them invisible ! Thou
must know, Sancho, that it is a very easy
matter for such men that give us what
semblance they please; and this malig-
nant prosecutor of mine, envious of the
glory that he saw I should acquire in this
battle, has transformed the hostile squadrons
into flocks of sheep. However, do one
thing, Sancho, for my sake, to undeceive
thyself^ and see the truth of what I tell thee :
mount thy ass, and follow them fair and
softly, and thou wilt find that, when they
are got a little farther off, they will return
to their first form, and, ceasing to be sheep,
will become men, proper and tall, as I des-
cribed them at first. But do not go now ;
for I want thy assistance ; come hither to
me, and see how many of my grinders are
deficient ; for it seems to me that I have not
one left in my head." Sancho came so close
to him that he almost thrust his eyes into
his mouth ; and it being precisely at the
time that the balsam began to work in Don
Quixote's stomach, the contents thereof were
at that instant discharged with as much vio-
lence as if shot out of a demi-culverin, di-
rectly upon the beard of the compassionate
squire. " Blessed Virgin ! " quoth Sancho,
*^ what has befallen me ? This poor sinner
must be mortally wounded, since he vomits
blood at the mouth." But, reflecting a little,
he found by the colour, savour, and smell,
that it was not blood, but the balsam which
he had seen him drink ; and so great was
the loathing he then felt that his stomach
turned, and he vomited up his very entrails
upon his master ; so that they were both in a
precious pickle. Sancho ran to his ass, to
take something out of his wallets to cleanse
himself, and cure his master ; but, not find-
ing them, he was very near running dis-
tracted. He cursed himself again, and
resolved in his mind to leave his master,
and return home, although he should lose
his wages for the time past, and his hopes
of the promised island.
Don Quixote now raised himself up, and
placing his left hand on his mouth, to pre-
vent the remainder of his teeth from falling
outy with the other he laid hold on Rozi-
nante's bridle, who had not stirred from his
master^s side, such was his fidelity! and went
towards his squire, who stood leaning with
his breast upon the ass, and his cheek re-
clining upon his hand, in the posture ot
a man overwhelmed with thought. Don
Quixote, seeing him thus, and to all appear-
ance so melancholy, said to him : " Know,
Sancho, that one man is no more than ano-
ther, only inasmuch as he does more than
another. All these storms that we have en-
countered are signs that the weather will soon
clear up, and things will go smoothly : for
it is impossible that either evil or good should
be durable ; and hence it follows that, the
evil having lasted long, the good cannot be
&r off. So do not afflict thyself for the mis-
chances that befal me, since thou hast no
share in them." '^ How! no share in them !"
answered Sancho : " peradventure he they
tossed in a blanket yesterday was not my
father's son ; and the wallets I have lost to-
day, with all my moveables, belong to some-
body else ?" " What ! are the wallets lost ?"
quoth Don Quixote. " Yes, they are," an-
swered Sancho. " Then wehave nothing to
eat to-day ?" replied Don Quixote. " It
would be so," answered Sancho, " if these
fields did not produce those herbs which
your worship says you know, and with
which unlucky knights-errant like your
worship are used to supply such wants."
'^Nevertheless," said Don Quixote, "at
90
ADVENTURES OF
this time I would rather have a slice of
bread and a couple of heads of salt pilchards
than all the herbs described by Dioscorides,
though commented upon by doctor Laguna*
himself. But, good Sancho, get upon thy
ass, and follow me ; for God, who provides
for all, will not desert us ; more especially,
being engaged, as we are, in his service :
since he neglects neither the gnats of the
air, the worms of the earth, nor the spawn
of the waters ; and so merciful is he that
he maketh his sun to shine upon the good
and the bad, and causeth rain to fall up-
on the just and unjust." "Your wor-
ship," eaid Sancho, " would make a better
preacher than a knight-entint," "San-
cho," said Don Quixote, " the knowledge of
knights - errant must be universal; there
have been knights-errant, in times past, who
would make sermons or harangues on the
king's high-way, as successfully as if they
had taken their degrees in the university of
Paris : whence it may be inferred tliat the
lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the
lance." "Well ! be it as your worship says,"
answered Sancho; " but let us be gone hence,
and endeavour to get a lodging to-night ;
and pray God it be where there are neither
blankets, nor blanket-heavers, nor hob-gob-
lins, nor enchanted Moors : for if there be,
the devil take both the flock and the fold."
" Pray to God, my son," said Don
Quixote, " and lead on whither thou wilt;
for this time I leave our lodging to thy
choice ; but reach hither thy hand and feci
how many grinders are wanting on the right
side of my upper jaw ; for there I feel the
pain.'' Sancho put his finger into his mouth,
and, feeling about, said : " how many teeth
had your worship on this side?" " Four,"
answered Don Quixote ; " besides the eye-
tooth, aU perfect and sound." "Think well
what you say, sir," answered Sancho. " I
say four, if not five," answered Don Quixote:
" for in my whole life I never had tooth nor
grinder drawn, nor have I lost one by rheum
nor decay." " Well then," said Sancho, '* on
til is lower side your worship has but two grind-
ers and a half ; and in the upper, neither
* Andres de Laguna, born at Segovia, and Physician
to Pope Julio III. He translated, from the Greek into
half nor whole : all is as smooth and even
as the palm of my hand." " Unfortunate
that I am !" said Don Quixote, hearing
these sad tidings from his squire : " I had
rather they tore off an arm, provided it
were not the sword-arm; for thou must
know, Sancho, that a mouth without grind-
ers is like a mill without a stone ; and that
a diamond is not so precious as a tooth.
But to all this we who profess the strict or-
der of chivalry are liable. Mount, friend
Sancho, and lead on ; for I will follow thee
at what pace thou wilt." Sancho did so, and .
proceeded in a direction in which he thought
it probable they might find a lodging, with-
out going out of the high road, which in
that part was much frequented. As they
slowly pursued their way, for the pain of
Don Quixote's jaws gave him no ease, nor
inclination to make haste, Sancho, wishing
to amuse and divert him, began to converse,
and said, among other things, what will be
found in the following chapter.
CHAPTER XIX.
OP THB SAOB DISCOURSE THAT PASSED
BETWEEN SANOHO AND HIS MASTER,
AND THB SUCCEEDING ADVENTURE OF
THB DEAD BODY ; WITH OTHER FA-
MOUS OCCURRENCES.
" It is my opinion, sir, that all the misfor-
tunes, which have befallen us of late, arc
doubüess in punishment of the sin committed
by your worship, against your own order of
knighthood, in neglecting to perform tbe
oath you took, not to eat bread on a table-
cloth, nor solace yourself with the queen,
with all the rest that you swore, until you
had taken away the helmet of Malandrino,
or how do you call the Moor, for I do not
well remember." " Sancho, thou art in the
right," said Don Quixote : "but, to confess
the truth, it had wholly escaped my me-
mory ; and, rely upon it, the affair of the
blanket happened to thee as a punishment
for not having reminded me sooner : but I
Spanish, the " Materia Medica ** of Dioseorides Ana-
sarbeus, with Annotations and lUnstrationa. P.
zJ¿í
(^=
DON QUIXOTE.
91
will make compensation ; for in the order
of chivalry there are ways of compounding
for every thing." " Why, did I swear any
thing V said Sancho. '' That thou hast not
sworn avails thee nothing," replied Don
|j Quixote : '' it is enough that I know thou
[! art not free from the guilt of an accessary ;
I and, at all events, it will not be amiss to
¡; provide ourselves a remedy." " If that be
'! the case," said Sancho, '^take care, sir, you
; do not forget this, too, as you did the oath :
; perhaps the goblins may again take a fancy
to divert themselves with me, and perhaps
with your worship, if they find you so ob-
stinate."
While they were thus discoursing, night
overtook them, and they were still in the
high road, without having found any place
of reception ; and the worst of it was they
were famished with hunger : for, with their
wallets, they had lost their whole larder of
provisions, and, to complete their misfortunes,
an adventure now befel them which appeared
indeed to be truly an adventure. The night
came on rather dark; notwithstanding
which they proceeded : as Sancho hoped
that, being on the king's highway, they
might very probably find an inn within a
league or two. Thus situated, the night
dark, the squire hungry, and the master
well disposed to eat, they saw, advancing
towards them, on the same road, a great
n amber of lights^ resembling so many moving
stars. Sancho stood aghast at the sight of
them, nor was Don Quixote unmoved. The
' one checked his ass, and the other his horse,
I and both stood looking before them with
eager attention. They perceived that the
lights were advancing towards them, and
that as they approached nearer they appear-
ed lai^ger. Sancho trembled like quicksilver
at the sight, and Don Quixote's hair bristled
upon his head : but, somewhat recovering
himself, he exclaimed : *' Sancho, this must
I be a most prodigious and most perilous ad--
venture, wherein it will be necessary for me
to exert my whole might and valour." ** Wo
I is me !" answered Sancho ; " should this
• prove to be an adventure of goblins, as to
i!
I * The originuil words is EncamUadús, úgnifying per-
I Roña who have aahirt over their clothet. It was usual for
len they attacked an enemy by night, to wear
me it seems to be, where shall I find ribs to
endure ?" " Whatsoever phantoms they may
be," said Don Quixote, " I will not suffer
them to touch a thread of thy garment: for,
if they sported with thee before, it was be-
cause I could not get over the wall : but
we are now upon even ground, where I can
brandish my sword at pleasure." '' But, if
they should enchant and benumb you, as
they did then," quoth Sancho, '^ what mat-
ters it whether we are in the open field, or
not?" "Notwithstanding that," replied
Don Quixote, " I beseech thee, Sancho, to
be of good courage; for experience shall
give thee sufficient proof of mine." " I will,
if it please God," answered Sancho ; and,
retiring a little on one side of the road, and
again endeavouring to discover what those
walking lights might be, they soon after
perceived a great many persons clothed in
white ; * this dreadful spectacle completely
annihilated the courage of Sancho, whose
teeth began to chatter, as if seized with a
quartan agne ; and his trembling and
chattering increased as more of it appeared
in view : for now they discovered about
twenty persons in white robes, fdl on horse-
back, with lighted torches in their hands ;
behind them came a litter covered with black,
which was followed by six persons in deep
mourning ; the mules on which they were
mounted being covered likewise with black,
down to their heels; for that they were
mules, and not horses, was evident by the
slowness of their pace. Those robed in
white were muttering to themselves in a low
and plaintive tone.
This strange vision, at such an hour, and
in a place so uninhabited, might well strike
terror into Sancho's heart, and even into
that of his master ; and so it woukl have
done had he been any other than Don
Quixote. As for Sancho, his whole stock
of courage was now exhausted. But it was
otherwise with his master, whose lively
imagination instantly suggested to him that
this must be truly a chivahrous adventure.
He conceived that the litter was a bier,
whereon was carried some knight sorely
shirts over their armour or clothes, to disttoguish their
own party; whence such nightly attacks were called
Encamisados. J.
92
ADVENTURES OF
wounded or slain, whose revenge was re-
served for him alone : he therefore, without
delay, couched his spear, seated himself firm
in his saddle, and, with grace and spirit, ad-
vanced into the middle of the road, by which
the procession must pass ; and, when they
were near, he raised his voice, and said :
'' Ho ! knights, whoever ye are, halt, and
give me an account to whom ye belong ;
whence ye come, whither ye are going, and
what it is ye carry upon that bier ; for, in
all appearance, either ye have done some
injury to others, or others to you ; and it is
expedient and necessary that I be informed
of it, either to chastise ye for the evil ye
have done, or to revenge ye of wrongs sus-
tained.'' " We are in haste," answered one
in the procession ; '^ the inn is a great way
off; and we cannot stay to give so long
account as you require :" then, spurring his
mule, he passed forward. Don Quixote,
highly resenting this answer, laid hold of his
bridle, and said : " Stand, and with more
civility give me the account I demand ;
otherwise I challenge ye all to battle/' The
mule was timid, and started so much, upon
his touching the bridle, that, rising on her
hind-legs, she threw her rider over the
crupper to the ground. A lacquey that
came on foot, seeing the man in white fall,
began to revile Don Quixote ; whose choler
being now raised, he couched his spear, and,
immediately attacking one of the mourners,
laid him on the ground grievously wounded ;
then turning about to the rest, it was worth
seeing with what agility he attacked and
defeated them ; and it seemed as if wings at
that instant had sprung on Rozinante — so
lightly and swiftly he moved ! All the white
robed people, being timorous and unarmed,
soon quitted the skirmish, and ran over the
plain with their lighted torches, looking
like so many masqueraders on a carnival
or a festival night. The mourners were so
wrapped up and muffled in their long robes,
that they could make no exertion : so that
Don Quixote, with entire safety to himself,
assailed them all, and, sorely against their
will, obliged them to quit the field : for they
thought him no man, but the devil from
bell broke loose upon them, to seize the
dead body they were conveying in the litter.
All this Sancho beheld with admiration at
his master's intrepidity, and said to himself:
'' This master of mine is certainly as valiant
and magnanimous as he pretends to be." A
burning torch laid on the ground, near the
first whom the mule had overthrown ; by
the light of which Don Quixote espied him,
and going up to him placed the point of his
spear to his throat, commanding him to sur-
render, on pain of death. To which the
ÜGillen man answered: ^* I am surrendered
enough already ; since I cannot stir, for one
of my legs is broken. I beseech you, sir, if
yon are a christian gentleman, do not kill
me: you would commit a great sacrilege;
for I am a licentiate, and have taken the
lesser orders." " Who the devil then," said
Don Quixote, '^ brought you hither, being
an ecclesiastic ?" " Who, sir ?" replied the
fallen man; " my evil fortune." "A worse
fate now threatens you," said Don Quixote,
" unless you reply satisfactorily to all my
first questions." " Your worship shall soon
be satisfied," answered the licentiate ; " and
therefore you must know, sir, that, though
I told you before that I was a licentiate, I
am in fact only a bachelor of arts, and my
name is Alonzo Lopez. I am a native of
Alcovendas, and came from the city of
Baeza, with eleven more ecclesiastics, the
same who fled with the torches ; we were
attending the rorpse in that litter to the city
of Segovia : it is that of a gentleman who
died in Baeza, where he was deposited tíU
now that, as I said before, we are carrying
his bones to their place of burial in Segovia,
where he was bom." " And who killed
him?" demanded Don Quixote. ''God,"
replied the bachelor, '' by means of a pes-
tilential fever." " Then," said Don Quix-
ote, '' our Lord hath saved me the labour of
revraging his death, in case he had been
slain by any other hand : but, since he fell
by the hand of heaven, there is nothing ex-
pected from us but patience and a silent
shrug : for just the same must I have done
had it been his pleasure to pronounce the
fatal sentence upon me. It is proper that
your reverence should know that I am a
knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by
name ; and that it is my ofiice and profes-
sion to go over the world, righting wrongs
=f^
DON QUIXOTE.
and redressiog grievances.'' '^ I do not
understand your way of righting wrongs/'
said the bachelor : '< for from right you have
set me wrongs having broken my leg, which
will never be right again whilst I live ; and
the grievance you have redressed for roe is
to leave me so aggrieved that I shall never
be otherwise ; and to me it was a most un-
lucky adventure^ to meet you who are seek-
ing adventures." *' All things/' answered
Don Quixote, " do not fall out the same
way : the mischief, master bachelor Alonzo
Lopezy was occasioned by your coming, as
you did, by night, arrayed in those sur-
plices, with lighted torches, chanting, and
clad in doleful weeds, so that you really re-
sembled something evil and of the other
world. I was therefore boand to perform
my duty, by attacking you ; which I cer-
tainly should have done although you had
really been, as I imagined, devils ñx)m hell."
*^ Since my fate ordained it so," said the
bachelor, " I beseech you, sigñor knight-
errant, who have done mc such arrant mis-
chief, to help me to get from under this
mule : for my leg is held fast between the
6tirrup and the «uldle." '* I might have
continued talking until to-morrow," said
Don Quixote: "why did you delay ac-
quainting me with yoar embarrassment?"
He then called out to Sancho Panza to
assist : but he did not choose to obey, being
employed in ransacking a sumpter-mule,
which those pioos men had brought with
them, well stored with eatables. Sancho
made a bag of his cloak, and having crammed
into it as much as it would hold, he loaded
his beast ; after which he attended to his
master's call, and helped to disengage the
bachelor from the oppression of his mule;
and, having mounted him and given him the
torch, Don Quixote bade him follow the
track of his companions, and beg their par-
don, in his name, for the injury which he
could not avoid doing them. Sancho like-
wise said : ''If perchance those gentlemen
would know who is the champion that routed
them, tell them it is the famoas Don Quix-
ote de la Mancha, otherwise called ^the
knight of the sorrowful figure.' "
The bachelor being gone, Don Quixote
asked Sancho what induced him to call him
© =
* the knight of the sorrowful figure,' at
that time more than at any other ? "I will
tell you," answered Sancho ; " it is because
I have been viewing you by the light of the
torch, which that unfortunate man carried ;
and, in truth^ your worship at present very
nearly makes the most woful figure I have
ever seen ; which must be owing, I suppose,
either to the fatigue of this combat, or the
want of your teeth." " It is owing to
neither," replied Don Quixote ; " but the
sage, who has the charge of writing the
history of my achievements, has deemed it
proper for me to assume an appellation, like
the knights of old: one of whom called
himself ' the knight of the burning sword ;'
another ' of the unicorn / this ' of the dam-
sels ;' that ^ of the phoenix ;' another ^ the
knight of the grifiin ;' and another ' the
knight of death ;' and by those names and
ensigns they were known over the whole
surface of the earth. And therefore I say
that the sage I just now mentioned has put
it into thy thoughts and into thy mouth to
call me ' the knight of the sorrowful figure,'
as I purpose to call myself irom this day
forward ; and that this name may fit me
the better, I determine, when an opportunity
offers, to have a most sorrowful figure
painted on my shield/' " You need not
spend time and money in getting this figure
made," said Sancho ; " your worship need
only shew your own, and, without any
other image or shield, they will immediately
call you ' him of the sorrowful figure /
and be assured I tell you the truth ; for I
promise you, sir (mind, I speak in jest),
that hunger and the loss of your grinders
makes you look so ruefully that, as I said
before, the sorrowful picture may very well
be spared."
Don Quixote smiled at Sancho's plea-
santry, nevertheless he resolved to call him-
self by that name, and to have his shield or
buckler painted accordingly ; and he said :
" I conceive, Sancho, that I am liable to
excommunication for having laid violent
hands on holy things, ' Juxta illud, Siquis
suadente diabolo,' &c. : although I know I
did not lay my hands, but my spear, upon
them : besides, I did not know that I was
engaging with priests, or things belonging
=a
04
ADVENTURES OF
to the church, which I reverence and adore,
like a good catholic and fidthfol christian as
I am, but with phantoms and spectres of the
other world. And, even were it otherwise,
I perfectly remember what befel the Cyd
Ray Diaz, when he broke the chair of that
king's ambassador in the presence of his
holiness the Pope, for which he was excom-
municated ; yet honest Roderigo de Vivar
passed that day for an honourable and
courageous knight."
The bachelor having departed, as hath
been said, Don Quixote wished to examine
whether the corpse in the hearse consisted
only of bones or not ; but Sancho would not
consent, saying, ^* Sir, your worship has
finished this perilous adventure at less ex-
pense than any I have seen ; and, though
these folks are conquered and defeated, they
may chance to reflect that they were beaten
by one man, and, being ashamed thereat,
may recover themselves, and return in quest
of us, and then we may have enough to do.
The ass is properly furnished ; the mountain
is near ; hunger presses, and we have nothing
to do but decently to march off; and, as the
saying is, ' To the grave with the dead, and
the living to the bread ;' and, driving on his
ass before him, he entreated his master to
follow ; who, thinking Sancho in the right,
followed without replying. They had not
gone far between two hills, when they found
themselves in a retired and spacious valley,
where they alighted. Sancho disburdened
his beast : and, extended on the green grass,
with hunger for sauce, they dispatched their
breakfast, dinner, afternoon's luncheon, and
supper, all at once : regaling their palates
with more than one cold mess, which the
ecclesiastics who attended the deceased (such
gentlemen seldom failing in a provident
attention to themselves) had brought with
them on the sumpter-mule. But there was
another misfortune, which Sancho accounted
the worst of all; namely, they had no
wine, nor even water, to drink ; and were
moreover parched with thirst: Sancho,
however, perceiving the meadow they were
in to be covered with green and fresh grass,
said what will be related in the following
chapter.
CHAPTER XX.
OF THE UNPARALLELED ADYENTUaS
ACHIEVED BY THE BEKOWNED DON
QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, WITH LESS
HAZARD THAN EVER ANY WAS
ACHIEVED BY THE HOST FAMOUS
KNIGHT IN THE WORLD.
«It is impossible, sir, but there must be
some fountain or brook near, to make these
herbs so fresh, and therefore, if we go a little
farther on, we may meet with something to
quench the terrible thirst that afBlcts us,
and which is more painful than hunger
itself." Don Quixote approved the counsel,
and, taking Rozinante by the bridle, and
Sancho his ass by the halter (after he had
placed upon him the relics of the supper),
they began to march forward through the
meadow, feeling their way ; for the night
was so dark they could see nothing. But
they had not gone two hundred paces when
a great noise of water reached their ears,
like that of some mighty cascade pouring
down from a vast and steep rock. The
sound rejoiced tliem exceedingly, and, stop-
ping to listen whence it came, they heard
on a sudden another dreadful noise, which
abated the pleasure occasioned by that of
the water ; especially in Sancho, who was
naturally faint-hearted. I say they heard
a dreadful din of irons and rattling chains,
accompanied with mighty strokes repeated
in regular time and measure; which, to-
gether with the furious noise of the water,
would have struck terror into any other
heart but that of Don Quixote. The night,
as we have before said, was dark ; and they
chanced to enter a grove of tall trees, whose
leaves, agitated by the breeze, caused a
kind of rustling noise, not loud, though
fearful : so that the solitude, the sitimtion,
the darkness, and the sound of rushing water,
with the agitated leaves, all concurred to
produce surprise and horror, especially when
they found that neither the blows ceased,
nor the wind slept, nor the morning ap-
proached: and in addition to all this was
their total ignorance of the place where they
were in. But Don Quixote, supported bj
his intrepid heart, leaped upon Rozinante,
II
Q--
={r)
DON QUIXOTE.
95
andy bracing on bis buckler, brandished his
spear, and said: ^'Friend Sancho, know
that, by the will of heaven, I was bom in
this age of iron, to reviye in it that of gold,
or, as it is usually termed, 'the golden
age/ I am he for whom dangers, great
exploits, and valorous achievements, are
reserved: I am he, I say again, who am
destined to revive the order of the round
table ; that of the twelve peers of France,
and the mne worthies; and to obliterate
the memory of the Platirs, the Tablantes,
Olivantes, and Tirantes, 'knights of the sun,'
and the Belianises, with the whole tribe of the
famous knights-errant of times past : per-
forming, in this age, such stupendous deeds
and fieats of arms as are sufficient to obscure
the brightest ever achieved by them. Trusty
and loyal squire, observe the darkness of
this night, its strange silence, the confused
sound of these trees, the fearful noise of
that water which we came hither in search
of, and which, one would think, precipitates
itself headlong from the high mountains
of the moon; that incessant striking and
clashing which wounds our ears : all these
together, and even each separately, are suf-
ficient to inííise terror, fear, and amazement
into the breast of Mars himself ; how much
more into that of one unaccustomed to
such adventures! Yet aU I have described
serves but to rouse and awaken my courage,
and my heart already bounds within my
breast with eager desire to encounter this
adventure, however difficult it may appear.
Therefore straiten Rozinante's girth, and
God be with thee. Stay for me here three
days, and no more : if I return not in that
time thou mayest go back to our village ;
and thence, to oblige me, repair to Toboso,
and inform my incomparable lady Dulcinea
that her inthralled knight died in attempting
things that might have made him worthy to
be styled hers."
When Sancho heard these words of his
master, he dissolved into tears, and said,
"Sir, I cannot think why your worship
should encounter this fearful adventure. It
is now night, and nobody sees us. We may
easily turn aside, and get out of danger,
though we should not drink these three
days; and, being unseen, we cannot be
taxed with cowardice. Besides I have heard
the curate of our village, whom your worship
knows very well, say in the pulpit that' he
who seeketh danger perisheth therein :' so
that it is not good to tempt God by under-
taking BO extravagant an exploit, whence
there is no escaping but by a miracle. Let
it suffice that heaven saved you irom being
tossed in a blanket, as I was, and brought
you off victorious, safe and sound, from
among so many enemies as accompanied the
dead man. And if all this be not sufficient
to soften your stony heart, let this assurance
move you, that, scarcely shall yonr worship
be departed hence, when I, for very fear,
shall give up my soul to whosoever shall be
pleased to take it. I left my country, and
forsook my wife and children, to follow and
serve your worship, believing I should be
the better, and not the worse, for it : but,
as covetousness bursts the bag, so hath it
rent my hopes; for when they were most
alive, and I was just expecting to obtain
that cursed and unlucky island which you
have so often promised me, I find myself, in
lieu tliereof, ready to be abandoned by your
worship in a place remote from every thing
human. For God's sake, dear sir, do not
be so cruel to me ; and if your worship will
not wholly give up this enterprise, at least
defer it until day-break, which, by what I
learned when a shepherd, cannot be above
three hours ; for the muzzle of the north-
bear * is at the top of the head, and makes
midnight in the line of the left arm."
" How canst thou, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, " see where this line is made, or
where this muzzle or top of the head may
be, since the night is so dark that not a star
appears in the whole sky 1" " True," said
Sancho ; " but fear has many eyes, and sees
things beneath the earth, much more above
the sky ; besides it is reasonable to suppose
that it does n6t want much of day-break."
"Want what it may," answered Don
Quixote, "it shall never be said of me,
now nor at any time, that tears or entreaties
could dissuade me from performing the duty
of a knight : therefore I pray thee, Sancho,
* Literal! J, "the mouth of the hunting horn, of
comet." So the " Ursa Minor" iñ called from a fancied
configuration of the itars of that conitellatioO' /.
=<5)
90
ADVENTURES OF
be álent; for God, who has inspired me
with coarage to attempt this nnparalleled
and fearful adventare, will not £ul to watch
over my safety, and comfort thee in thy
sadness. All thoa hast to do is to girt
Rozinante well, and remain here; for I
I i will qoickly return, alive or dead.''
i I Sancho, now seeing his master's final re-
; solution, and how little his tears, prayers,
and counsel availed, determined to have
recourse to stratagem, and compel him, if
possible, to wait until day ; therefore, while
he was straitening the horse's girths, softly,
and unperceived, with his halter he tied
Rozinante's hinder feet together, so that
when Pon Quixote would &in have de-
parted, the hone could move only by jumps.
Sancho, perceiving the success of his contri-
vance, said: ''Ah, sir! behold how heaven,
moved by my tears and prayers, has ordained
that Rozinante should be unable to stir;
and if you will obstinately persist to spur
him, you will but provoke fortune, and, as
they say, ' kick against the pricks.' " This
made Don Quixote quite desperate, and the
more he spurred his horse, the less he could
move him ; he therefore thought it best to
be quiet, and wait either until day appeared,
or until Rozinante could proceed; never
suspecting the artifice of Sancho, whom he
thus addressed : '' Since so it is, Sancho,
that Rozinante cannot move, I consent to
remain until the dawn smiles, although I
weep in the interval." " You need not
weep," answered Sancho ; '' for I will en-
tertain you until day by telling you stories,
if you had not rather alight and compose
yourself to sleep a little upon the green
grass, as knights-errant are wont to do, so
that you may be less weary when the day
and hour comes for engaging in that terrible
adventure you wait for." *' To whom dost
thou talk of alighting or sleeping?" said
Don Quixote : '' Am I one of those knights
who take repose in time of danger ? Sleep
thou, who wert bom to sleep, or do what
thou wilt : I shall act as becomes my pro-
fession." " Pray, good sir, be not angry,"
answered Sancho ; " I did not mean to of-
fend you :" and, coming close to him, he laid
hold of the saddle before and behind, and
thus stood embracing his master's left tliigh,
u =
without daring to stir finom him a finger's
breadth, so much was he aliaid of the blows
which still continued to sound in r^^ar
succession. Don Quixote bade him tell
some story for his entertainment, as he had
promised : Sancho replied that he would, if
his dread of the noise would permit him :
** I will endeavour," said he, " in spite of
it, to tell a story, which, if I can hit upon
it, and it slips not through my fingers, b the
best of all stories ; and I b^ your worship
to be attentive, for now I begin : —
" What hath been, hath been ; the good
that shall befal be for us all, and evil to him
that evil seeks. And pray, sir, take notice
that the beginning which the ancients gave
to thehr tales was not just what they pleased,
but rather some sentence of Cato Zonzorinus
the Roman, who says, ' And evil to him that
evil seeks ;' which fits the present purpose
like a ring to your finger, signifying that
your worship should be quiet, and not go
about searching after evil, but rather that
we turn aside into some other road ; for we
are under no obligation to continue in this,
where we are overtaken by so many fears."
" Proceed with thy tale, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, " and leave to my care the
road we are to follow." " I say then,"
continued Sancho, '' that, in a village of
Estremadura, there was a shepherd, I mean
a goatherd ; which shepherd, or goatherd,
as my story says, was called Lope Ruiz ;
and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a
shepherdess called Torralva; which shep-
herdess called Torralva was daughter to a
rich herdsman, and this rich herdsman"
" If this be thy manner of telling a story,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, *' repeating
every thing thou hast to say, ihou wilt not
have done these two days : tell it concisely,
and like a man of sense, or else say no
more." '' I tell it in the same manner that
they tell all stories in my country," an-
swered Sancho ; '^ and I cannot tell it other-
wise, nor ought your worship to require me
to make new customs." '^ Tell it as thou
wilt then," said Don Quixote ; " since it is
the will of fate that I must hear thee, go on."
" And so, sir," continued Sancho^ " as I
said before, this shepherd was in love with
the shepherdess Torralva, who was a jolly
=@
DON QUIXOTE.
97
strapping weucb, somewhat scornful, and
somewhat masculine: for she had certain
small whiskers; and methinks I see her
now." "What, didst thou know her?"
said Don Quixote. " I- did not know her,"
answered Sancho ; '^ but he, who told me
this story, said it was so certain and true
that I might, when I told it to another,
affirm and swear that I had seen it all.
And 80, in process of time, the devil, who
sleeps not, and troubles all things, brought
it about, that the love, which the shepherd
bore to the shepherdess, turned into mortal
hatred; and the cause, according to evil
tongues, was a certain quantity of little
jealousies she gave him, so as to exceed
all bounds: and so much did he hate her
thenceforward that, to shun the sight of
her, be chose to absent himself from that
countT}'^, and go where his eyes should never
more behold her. Torralva, who found her-
self disdained by Lope, then began to love
him better than ever she had loved him
before." " It is a disposition natural in
women," said Don Quixote, '^to slight
tliose who love them, and love those who
hate them : — go on, Sancho."
" It fell out," proceeded Sancho, " that
the shepherd put his design into execution ;
and, collecting together his goats, went over
the plains of Estremadura, in order to pass
over into the kingdom of Portugal. Upon
which, Torralva went after him, and fol-
lowed him at a distance, on foot and bare
legged, with a pilgrim's staff in her hand,
and a wallet about her neck, in which she
carried, as is reported, a piece of looking-
glass, the remains of a comb, and a kind of
small gallipot of paint for the face. But
whatever she carried (for I shall not now
set myself to vouch what it was) I only tell
you that, as they say, tlie shepherd came
with his flock to pass the river Guadiana,
which at that time was swollen, and had
almost overflown its banks ; and on the side
he came to there was neither boat nor any
body to ferry him or his flock over to the
other side ; which grieved him mightily :
for he saw that Torralva was at his heels,
and would give him much disturbance by
her intreaties and tears. He therefore looked
I about him until he espied a fisherman with
a boat near him, but so small that it could
hold only one person and one goat : how-
ever, he spoke to him, and agreed with him
to carry over himself and his three hundred
goats. The fisherman got into the boat, and
carried over a goat : he returned and carried
over another: he came back again, and
carried over another. Pray, sir, keep an
account of the goate that the fisherman is
carrying over; for if you lose count of a
single goat, the story ends, and it will be
impossible to tell a word more of it. I go
on then, and say that the landing-place on
the opposite side was covered with mud,
and slippery, and the fisherman was a great
while in coming and going. However, he
returned for another goat, and another, and
another." — " Suppose them all carried
over," said Don Quixote, " and do not be
going and coming in this manner ; or thou
wilt not have finished carrying them over in
a twelvemonth." " How many have passed
already ?" said Sancho. " How the devil
should I know," answered Don Quixote.
" See there now ! did I not tell thee to keep
an exact account ? Before God, there is an
end of the story; I can go no farther."
" How can this be?" answered Don Quixote.
" Is it so essential to the story to know tlie
exact number of goats that passed over that,
if one error be made, the story can proceed
no farther ?" " No, sir, by no means," an-
swered Sancho : " for when I desired your
worship to tell me how many goats had
passed, and you answered you did not know,
at that very instant all that I had to say
fled out of my memory ; and in faith it was
very edifying and satisfactory." " So then,"
said Don Quixote, " the story b at an end."
"As sure as my mother is ;" quoth Sancho.
"Verily," answered Don Quixote, "thou
hast told one of the rarest tales, fables, or
histories, imaginable ; and thy mode of re-
lating and concluding it is such as never
was, nor ever will be, equalled ; although I
expected no less from thy good sense : how-
ever, I do not wonder at it, for this incessant
din may have disturbed thy understanding,"
"All that may be," answered Sancho, "but,
as to my story, I know there 's no more to
be told ; for it ends just where the error be-
gins in the account of carrying over the
(^
=€^
m
ADVENTURES OF
(^
goats."* " Let it end where it will, in God's
oame/' said Don Quixote, "and let us see
whether Kozinante can stir himself." Again
he clapt spurs to him, and again the animal
jumped, and then stood stock still : so effec-
tually was he fettered.
Now, whether the cold of the morning,
which was fast approaching, or whether
some lenitive food on which he had sapped,
or whether the motion was purely natural
(which is indeed the most probable), it so hap-
pened that Sancho had a desire to do what
nobody could do for him. But so great was
the fear that had taken possession of his
heart that he durst not stir the breadth of
a nail-paring from his master : and to think
of leaving that business undone was also
impossible: and so what he did for quietness'
sake, in this extremity, was to let go his
right hand, which held the hinder part of
the saddle, with which, softly and without
any noise, he loosed the running point that
kept up his breeches : whereupon down they
fell, and hung about his legs like shackles :
then he lifted up his shirt as well as he could,
and exposed to the open air his hinder parts,
which were none of the smallest This be-
ing done, which he thought the best expe-
dient towards getting out of that terrible
anguish and distress, another and a greater
difficulty attended him, which was an ap-
prehension that he should not be able to
relieve himself in perfect silence. However,
he set his teeth close, and squeezed up his
shoulders, and held in his breath as much as
he possibly could. But all would not do :
notwithstanding these precautions, he was so
unlucky as to make a little noise, very dif-
ferent from that which caused him so much
alarm ; it was therefore immediately heard
* This tale was not the invention of Cemntn ; for,
though altered and improred by him, the idea is taken
from " the Cento Noyelle Antiche," which are given at
the end of the *" Cento Norelle Scelte/' published at
Venice in the year 1571. The Slst tale, translated from
the Italian, is as follows : — " Signor Azzolino kept a
story-teller for his amusement daring the long nights
of winter. This man happened one eyening, «hen
called upon for a story, to be unusually disposed for
sleep, and he began his narrative thus :— There was a
countryman who, being in possession of a hundred pieces
of gold, went to a fair to buy pigs ; and for each piece of
naoney he got two pigs. On his way home, finding the
river much swelled by the rains, he had recourse to a
poor flshermanU boat, which was so small that it would
only admit himself and a single pig. The river was
by Don Quixote. "What noise is that
Sancho ?" said he. " I know not, sir,'
replied Sancho, "perhaps it is some new
business ; for adventures and misadventures
never come alone." He tried his fortune a
second time, and succeeded so well that,
without the least noise, he found himsel/
relieved of a burthen that had given him so
much uneasiness. But, as Don Quixote had
the sense of smelling no less perfect than that
of hearing, and Sancho stood so close to him
that some of the vapours, ascending in a di-
rect line, could not fail to reach his nostrils,
which they had no sooner done than, taking
his nose between his finger and thumb, in a
kind of snuffling tone, he said ; " Methinks,
Sancho, thou art in great bodily fear." " I
am so," said Sancho ; " but why does your
worship perceive it more particularly now ?"
*' Because," answered Don Quixote, *^ thou
now smellest much stronger than usual, and
that not of ambergris." ** That is very
likely," said Sancho, " but it is your wor-
ship's fault, for carrying me about at these
unseasonable hours, and into such lonesome
places." " Betire three or four steps farther
off, friend," said Don Quixote, without tak-
ing his finger from his nostrils, " and hence-
forward be more careñil of thine own person,
and of what is due to mine. My familiarity
with thee has engendered this contempt."
"I will lay a wager," replied Sancho, " that
your worship thinks I have been doing
romething that I ought not" "The less
said on the subject, friend Sancho, the bet-
ter ;" answered Don Quixote.
Thus passed the night ; and when Sancho
perceived the dawn of morning, with much
caution he unbound Rozinante, and tied
up his breeches. Rozinante, being at li-
wide, the countryman went on, rowing himself over, and
at each turn passing a pig' ' — ' Pass on with your story! *
cried Signor Azzolino. *' Let the pigs get over first,*' re-
plied the other, " then I shall get on— but, as that may
not be for these twelve months, let us, in the meantime,
take a comfortable nap.**
Alonso Fernandez de Avellaneda pronounces the story,
as told by Cervantes, to be insipid and absurd, (Chap>
ter XXI. p. 151) and byway of competition, he tells a
story of a flock of geese which took not less than a couple
of years in passing one by one over a very narrow bridge ;
but his tale has neither humour nor spirit, and is told in
his ttsaal wretched style. Nevertheless he produces it,
as he declares himself, ** to shew the diiTerence between
the two."— He has indeed shewn how modi self-conceit
may blind some story-tellers. Pr
=J
Q=
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
99
berty, though naturally not over-mettle-
somCy seemed to feel himself alive, and
began to paw the ground ; but as for curvet-
ting (begging his pardon) he knew nothing
about it. Don Quixote, perceiving that
Rozinante began to be active, took it for a
good omen, and a signal that he should
forthwith attempt the tremendous adventure.
The dawn now making the surrounding ob-
jects visible, Don Quixote perceived he was
beneath some tall ehesnut-trees, which af-
forded a gloomy shade : but the cause of
that striking, which yet continued, he was
unable to discover : therefore, without far-
ther delay, he made Rozinante feel the spur,
and again taking leave of Sancho, com-
manded him to wait there three days at the
farthest, as he had said before, and that if
he returned not by that time, he might con-
clude that it was God's will that he should
end bis days in that perilous adventure. He
again also repeated tlie embassy and message
he was to carry to his lady Dulcinea ; and
as to what concerned the reward of his ser-
vice, he told him that he need be under no
concern, since, before his departure from his
village, he had made his will, wherein he
would find himself satisfied regarding his
wages, in proportion to the time he had
served ; but, if God should bring him off
safe and sound from the impending clanger,
he might reckon himself infallibly secure of
the promised island. Sancho wept afresh at
bearing again the moving expressions of his
good master, and resolved not to leave him
to the last moment and termination of this
affair. The author of this history concludes
from the tears, and this honourable resolu-
tion of Sancho Panza's, that he must have
been well bom, and at least an old christian.
His master was somewhat moved by it ; not
that he betrayed any weakness : on the con-
trary, dissembling as well as be could, he
adi-anced towards the place whence the
noise of the water and of the strokes seemed
to proceed. Sancho followed him on foot,
leading his ass— that constant companion of
his fortunes, good or bad. And having pro-
ceeded some distance among those shady
chesnut- trees, they came to a little green
meadow, bounded by some steep rocks,
down which a mighty torrent precipitated
itself. At the foot of these rocks were several
wretched huts, that seemed more like ruins
than habitable dwellings ; and it was from
them, they now discovered, that the fearful
din proceeded. Rozinante was startled at
the noise, but Don Quixote, after quieting
him, went slowly on towards the huts, re-
commending himself devoutly to his lady,
and beseeching her to favour him in so ter-
rific an enterprize ; and, by the way, he also
besought God not to forget him. Sancho
kept close to his side, stretching out his
neck, and looking between Rozinantc's legs,
to see if he could discover the cause of his
terrors. In this manner they advanced about
a hundred yards farther, when, on doubling
a point, the true and undoubted cause of that
horrible noise, which had held them all
night in such suspense, appeared plain and
exposed to view. It was (kind reader, tak^
it not in dudgeon) «ix fulling -hammers,
whose alternate strokes produced that hide-
ous sound. Don Quixote, on beholding
them, was struck dumb, and in the utmost
confusion. Sancho looked at him, and saw
he hung down his head upon his breast,
with manifest indications of being abashed.
Don Quixote looked also at Sancho, and
seeing his cheeks swollen, and his mouth
full of laughter, betraying evident signs of
being ready to explode, notwithstanding his
vexation, he could not forbear laughing him-
self at the sight of his squire, who, thus
encouraged by his master, broke forth in so
violent a manner that he was forced to ap-
ply both hands to his sides, to secure himself
from bursting. Four times he ceased, and
four times the fit returned, with tlie same
impetuosity as at first. Upon which, Don
Quixote now wished him at tlie devil, espe-
cially when he heard him say, ironically:
" Thou must know, friend Sancho, that I
was bom, by the will of heaven, in this our
age of iron, to revive in it the golden, or
that of gold. I am he, for whom are re-
served dangers, great exploits, and valorous
achievements !" And so he went on, repeat-
ing many of the expressions which Don
Quixote used, upon first hearing those dread-
ful sounds. Don Quixote, perceiving that
Sancho made a jest of him, was so enraged
that he lifted up his lance, and discharged
r^=^^
100
ADVENTURES OF
two such blows on him that, had he re-
ceived them on his head, instead of his
shoulders, the knight would have acquitted
himself of the payment of his wages, unless
it were to his heirs. Sancho, finding he paid
so dearly for his jokes, and fearing lest his
master should proceed farther, with much
humility, said : " Pray, sir, be pacified ; as
Heaven is my hope, I did but jest." '^ Though
thou mayest jest, I do not,'' answered Don
Quixote. " Come hither, merry sir ; what
thinkest thou ? Suppose these mill-hammers
had reaUy been some perilous adventure,
have I not given proof of the courage re-
quisite to undertake and achieve it ? Am I
obliged, being a knight as I am, to distin-
guish sounds, and know which arc, or are
not, those of a fulling-mill, more especially
if (which is indeed the truth) I had never
seen any fulling - mills in my life, as thou
hast — a pitiful rustic as thou art, who wert
bom and bred amongst them ? but let these
six follÍDg-hammers be transformed iQto six
giants, and let them beard me one by one,
or altogether, and if I do not set them all
on their heads, then make what jest thou
wilt of me." " It is enough, good shr," re-
plied Sancho ; ^^ I confess I have been a little
too jocose : but pray tell me, now that it is
peace between us, as God shall bring yoii
out of all the adventures that shall happen to
you, safe and sound, as he has brought you
out of this, was it not a thing to be laughed
at, and worth telling, what a fearful taking
we were in last night — I mean, that I was
in ? — for I know your worship is a stranger
to fear." " I do not deny," answered Don
Quixote, '* tliat what has befallen us may be
risible, but it is not proper to be repeated ;
for all persons have not the sense to see
things in their right point of view." "But,"
answered Sancho, ''your worship knew how
to point your lance aright when you pointed
it at my head, and hit me on the shoulders ;
thanks be to God and to my own agility in
slipping aside. But let that pass; it will
out in the bucking ; for I have heard say,
' he loves thee well who makes thee weep :'
and, besides, your people of condition, when
tliey have given a servant a hard word, pre-
sently give him some old hose, though what
is usually given after a beating I cannot
y=
tell, unless it be that your knights-errant,
after bastinados, bestow islands, or king-
doms on Terra Firma." " The die may so
run," quoth Don Quixote, " that all tliou
hast said may come to pass ; excuse what
is done, since thou art considerate ; for know
that first impulses are not under a man's
controul: and that thou mayest abstain
from talking too much with me, henceforth,
I apprise thee of one thing, that in all die
books of chivalry I ever read, numerous as
they are, I recollect no example of a squire
who conversed so much with his master as
thou dost with thine. And really I account it
a great fault both in thee and in myself: in
thee, because thou pay est me so little respect;
in me, that I do not make myself respected
more. There was Gandalin, squire to Ama-
dis de Gaul, earl of the firm island; of
whom we read that he always spoke to his
master cap in hand, his head inclined, and
body bent after the Turkish fashion. What
shall we say of Gasabel, squire to Don
Galaor, who was so silent that, to illustrate
the excellence of his marvellous taciturnity,
his name is mentioned but once in all that
great and faithful history? From what 1
have said, thou mayest infer, Sancho, that
there ought to be a difference between mas-
ter and man, between lord and lacquey, and
between knight and squire : so that, from
this day forward, we must be treated with
more l-espect; for howsoever thou mayest
excite my anger, ' it will go ill with the
pitcher.' The fiivours and benefits I pro-
mised thee will come in due time ; ^t "
they do not come, the wages, at least, thou
wilt not lose." *' Your worship says very
well," quoth Sancho : " but I would fain
know (if perchance the time of the favours
should not come, and it should be necessary
to have recourse to the article of the wages)
how much might the squire of a knight-
errant get in those times ? and whether they
agreed by the month, or by the day, h^^e
labourers ?" " I do not believe," answered
Don Quixote, " that those squires were re-
tained at stated wages, but they relied on
courtesy ; and if I have appointed thee any,
in the will I left sealed at home, it ^^ ^"
case of accidents ; for I know not yet bo^
chivalry may succeed in these calamitous
DON QUIXOTE.
101
tímes, and I would not have my soul stiifer
in the other world for trifles ; for I would
have thee know, Sancho, that there is no
state more perilous than that of adven-
turers." " It is so, in truth/' said Sancho,
''since the noise of the hammers of a fulling-
mill were sufficient to disturb and discom-
pose the heart of so valorous a knight as
ycrar worship. But you may depend upon
it that henceforward I shall not open my
lips to make merry with your worship's con-
cerns, but shall honour you as my master
and natural lord." "By so doing," replied
Don Quixote, " thy days shall be long in
the land ; for, next to our parents, we are
bound to respect our masters."
CHAPTER XXI.
WHICH TRBATS OF THE GRAND ADVEN-
TURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S
HELMET, WITH OTHER THINGS WHICH
BEFEL OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT.
I About this time it began to rain a little,
and Sancho proposed entering the fulling-
mill ; but Don Quixote had conceived such
an abhorrence of them for the late jest that
he would by no means go in : turning,
therefore, to the right hand, they struck
into another road, like that they bad
travelled upon the day before. Soon after,
Don Quixote discovered a man on horse-
back, who had on his head something which
glittered, as if it had been of gold ; and
scarcely had he seen it when, turning to
Sancho, he said, " I am of opinion, Sancho,
there is no proverb but what is true, because
they are all sentences drawn from experience
itself, the mother of all the sciences ; espe-
cially that which says, ' Where one door is
shut, another is opened.' I say this because,
if fortune last night shut the door against
whM we sought, deceiving us with the
fulling-mills, it now opens wide another,
for a better and more certain adventure, in
which, if I am deceived, the fault will be
mine, without imputing it to my ignorance
of fulling-mills, or to the darkness of night.
This I say because, if I mistake not, there
comes one towards us who carries on his
head Mambrino's helmet, concerning which
thou mayest remember I swore the oath."
" Take care, sir, what you say, and more
what you do," said Sancho ; " for I would
not wish for other fulling-mills, to ñm'sh
the milling and mashing our senses." ''The
devil take thee !" replied Don Quixote :
^'what has a helmet to do with fulling-
mills ?" " I know not," answered Sancho ;
" but, in faith, if I might talk as much as I
used to do, perhaps I could give such reasons
that your worship would see you are mis-
taken in what you say." " How can I be
mistaken in what I say, scrupulous traitor ?"
said Don Quixote. '' Tell me, seest thou
not yon knight coming towards us on a
dapple-grey steed, with a helmet of gold on
his head?" "What I see and perceive,"
answered Sancho, " is only a man on a grey
ass like mine, with something on his head
that glitters." "Why, that is Mambrino's
helmet," said Don Quixote; "retire, and
leave me alone to deal with him, and thou
shalt see how, in order to save time, I shall
conclude this adventure without speaking a
word, anti the helmet I have so much desired
remain my own." "I shall take care to
get out of the way," replied Sancho; "but
God grant, I say again, it may not prove
another fulling-mill adventure." " I have
already told thee, Sancho, not to mention
those fulling-mills, nor even think of them,"
said Don Quixote : " if thou dost — I say no
more, but I vow to mill thy soul for thee !"
Sancho held his peace, fearing lost his ^faster
should perform his vow, which had struck
him all of a heap.
Now the truth of the matter, concerning
the helmet, the steed, and the knight which
Don Quixote saw, was this. There were
two villages in that neighbourhood, one of
them so small that it had neither shop nor
barber, but the other adjoining to it had
both; therefore the barber of the larger
served also the less, wherein one customer
now wanted to be let blood, and another to
be shaved; to perfonn which, the barber
was now on his way, carrying with him his
brass bason ; and it so happened that, while
upon the road, it began to rain, and to save
his hat, which was a new one, he clapped
the bason on his head, which being lately
scoured, was seen glittering at the distance
r-i2)
©=
102
ADVENTURES OF
of half a league ; and he rode on a grey
036, as Sancho had affirmed. Thus Don
Quixote took the barber for a knight, his
ass for a dapple-grey steed, and his bason
for a golden helmet : for whatever he saw
was quickly adapted to his knightly extra-
vagances ; and when the poor knight drew
near, without staying to reason the case
with him, he advanced at Rozinante's best
speed, and couched his lance, intending to
run him through and through : but, when
close upon him, without checking the fury
of his career, he cried out, " Defend thyself^
caitiff ! or instantly surrender what is justly
my due." The barber, so unexpectedly
seeing this phantom advancing upon him,
had no other way to avoid the thrust of the
lance than to slip down from the ass : and
no sooner had he touched the ground than,
leaping up nimbler than a roe-buck, he
scampered over tlie plain with such speed
that the wind could not overtake him. The
bason he left on the ground ; with which
Don Quixote was satisfied, observing that
the pagan had acted discreetly, and in imi-
tation of the beaver, who, when closely
pressed by the hunters, tears off, with its
teeth, that which it knows, by instinct, to
be the object of pursuit. He ordered Sancho
to take up the helmet ; who, holding it in
his hand, said, ^^ Before God, the bason is
a special one, and is well worth a piece of
eight, if it is worth a farthing." He then
gave it to his master, who immediately
placed it upon his head, turning it round in
search of the vizor ; and, not finding it, he
said, '^ Doubtless the pagan for whom this
famous helmet was originally forged must
have had a prodigious head — the worst of it
is that one half is wanting." When Sancho
heard the bason called a helmet, he could
not forbear laughing ; which, however, he
instantly checked on recollecting his master's
late choler. ''What dost thou laugh at,
Sancho ?" said Don Quixote. ''I am laugh-
ing," answered he, ''to think what a huge
head the pagan had who owned that helmet,
which is for all the world just like a barber's
bason." " Knowest thou, Sancho, what I
conceive to be the case ? This famous piece,
this enchanted helmet, by some strange
accident must have fallen into the possession
of one who, ignorant of its true value as a
helmet, and seeing it to be of the pun-st
gold, hath inconsiderately melted down tlie
one half for lucre's sake, and of the other
half made this, which, as thou sayest, doth
indeed look like a barber's bason : but to
me, who know what it really is, its trans-
formation is of no importance, for I will
have it so repaired, in the first town where
there is a smith, that it shall not be sur-
passed, nor even equalled, by that which
the god of smiths himself made and forged
for the god of battles. In the mean time I
will wear it as I can ; for something is better
than nothing; and it will be sufficient to
defend me from stones." " It will so," said
Sancho, " if they do not throw them with
slings, as they did in the battle of the two
armies, when they crossed your worship's
chops, and broke the cruse of that most
blessed liquor which made me vomit op
my guts." " The loss of that balsam gives
me no concern," said Don Quixote ; ** for
thou knowest, Sancho, I have the receipt
by heart." " So have I too," answered
Sancho ; " but if ever I make or try it again
while I live, may I be fixed and rooted to
this place. Besides, I do not intend to put
myself in the way of requiring it; for I
mean to keep myself, with all my five
senses, from being wounded, or from wound-
ing any body. As to being tossed again in
a blanket, I say nothing ; for it is difficult
to prevent such mishaps, and if they do
come, there is nothing to be done but to
wink, hold one's breath, and submit to go
whither fortune and the blanket shall
please." "Thou art no good christian,
Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " since tliou
dost not forget an injury once done tlice :
but know it is inherent in generous and
noble minds to disregard trifles. What leg
of thine is lamed, or what rib or head
broken, that thou canst not forget that jest ?
for, properly considered, it was a mere jest
and pastime ; otherwise I should long ago
have returned thither, and done more mis-
chief in revenging thy quarrel than the
Greeks did for the rape of Helen ; who, had
she lived in these times, or my Dulcinea in
those, would never have been so famous for
beauty as she is !" and here he heaved a
DON QUIXOTE.
103
BÍghy and sent it to the clouds. ''Let it
pass then for a jest/' said Sancho, '' since it
is not likely to be revenged in earnest : but
I know of what kind the jests and the
earnests were ; and I know also they will
no more slip out of my memory than off
my shoulders. But, setting this aside, tell
me, sir, what shall we do with this dapple-
grey steed which looks so like a grey ass,
and wliicb that caitiff whom your worship
overthrew has ieh behind here, to shift for
itself; &>!, by his scouring off so hastily, he
does not think of ever returning for him ;
and, by my beard, the beast is a special
one." '' It is not my custom," said Don
Quixote, '^ to plunder those whom I over-
come, nor is it the usage of chivalry to take
from the vanquished their horses, and leave
tliem on foot, unless the victor hath lost his
own in the conflict; in such a case it is
law^ful to take that of the enemy, as fairly
won in battle. Therefore, Sancho, leave
this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt
have it to be ; for, when we are gone, his
owner will return for him." '' God knows
whether it were best for me to take him,"
replied Sancho, '' or at least to exchange
him for mine, which, methinks, is not so
good. Verily the laws of chivalry are very
strict if they do not even allow the swap-
ping of one ass for another ; but I would
&in know whether I might exchange fur-
niture, if I were so inclined." '^ I am not
very clear as to that point/' answered Don
Quixote; '^and, being a doubtful case,
until better information can be had, I think
thoa mayest make the exchange, if thou art
in extreme want of them." " So extreme,"
replied Sancho, *' that I could not want
them more if they were for my own proper
person." Thus authorised, he proceeded to
in exchange of caparisons, and made hid own
>east three parts in four the better for his new
furniture. This done, they breakfasted on
the remains of the plunder from the sumpter-
mule, and drank of the water belonging to
the fulling-mills, but without turning their
fiabccs towards them — such was the abhor-
rence in which they were held, because of
the effect they had produced. Being thus
refreshed and comforted, both in body and
mind, tliey mounted, and, without deter-
mining upon what road to follow, according
to the custom of knights-errant, tliey went
on as Rozinante's will directed, which was a
guide to his master and also to Dapple, who
always followed, in love and good fellow-
ship, wherever he led the way. They soon,
however, turned into the great road, which
they followed at a venture, without forming
any plan.
As they were thus sauntering on, Sancho
said to his master : " Sir, will your worship
be pleased to indulge me the liberty of a
word or two ; for, since you imposed on me
that harsh command of silence, sundry things
have been rotting in my breast, and I have
one just now at my tongue's end, that I
would not for any thing should miscarry."
" Speak then," said Don Quixote, " and be
brief in thy discourse ; for what is prolix
cannot be pleasing." *' I say then, sir,"
answered Sancho, " that for some days past
Í have been considering how little is gained
by wandering about in quest of those ad-
ventures your worship is seeking through
these deserts and cross ways, where, though
you should overcome and achieve the most
perilous, there is nobody to see or know
anything of them ; so that they must re-
main in perpetual oblivion, to the prejudice
of your worship's intention and their deserts.
And therefore I think it would be more
advisable for us, with submission to your
better judgment, to serve some emperor or
other great prince engaged in war, in whose
service your worship may display your
valour, great strength, and superior under-
standing: which being perceived by tlie
lord we serve, he must of course reward
each of us accord in ¡r to his merit; nor can
you there fail of meeting with somebody to
put your worship's exploits in writing, as a
perpetual memorial — I say nothing of my
own, because they must not exceed the
squirely limits; though, I dare say, i. It be
the custom in chivalry to pen the deeds of
squires, mine will not be forgotten."
" Thou saycst not amiss, Sancho," an-
swered Don Quixote : " but, previous to
this, it is necessary for a knight-errant to
wander about the world seeking adventures,
by way of probation ; where, by his achieve-
ments, he may acquire such fame and re-
rj)
104
ADVENTURES OF
@=
nown that, when he comes to the court of
some great monarch, he shall be already
known by his works ; and scarcely shall the
boys see him enter the gates of the city
when they all follow and surround him,
crying aloud, This is the ' knight of the
sun,' or of ' the serpent,' or of any other
device under which he may have achieved
great exploits. ' This is he,' they will say,
* who overthrew the huge giant Brocabruno
of mighty force in single combat ; he who
disenchanted the great Mameluke of Persia
from the long enchantment which held him
confined almost nine hundred years;' and
thus from mouth to mouth they shall go on
blazoning his deeds. At length, attracted
by the bustle made by the inhabitants, young
and old, the king of that country shall ap-
pear at the windows of his royal palace ;
and, as soon as he espies the knight, whom
he will recognise by his armour, or by the
device on his shield, he will of course say :
' Ho, there ! Go forth, my knights, all that
are at court, to receive the flower cTf chivalrj',
who is approaching.' At which command
they all shall go forth, and the king himselt^
descending half way down the great stair-
case, shall receive him with a close em-
brace, saluting and kissing him ; then,
taking him by the hand, he shall conduct
him to the apartment of the queen, where
the knight shall find her with the infanta
her daughter, who is so beautiful and ac-
complished a damsel that her equal cannot
easily be found in any part of the known
world ! It immediately follows that she
casts her eyes on the knight, and he his eyes
upon hers, each appearing to the other
something rather divine tlian human ; and,
without knowing how, or which way, they
remain entangled in the inextricable net of
love, and are in great perplexity of mind,
not knowing how to converse and discover
their amorous anguish to each other. He
will then, no doubt, be conducted to some
quarter of the palace richly furnished, where,
having taken ofi^ his armour, they will
clothe him in a rich scarlet mantle ; and, if
he looked well in armour, he must look still
better in ermine. Night being arrived, he
shall sup with the king, queen, and inianta,
when he shall never take his eyes ofi* the
princess, viewing her by stealth, and ehe
will do the same by him, with equal caution :
for, as I said before, she is a very discreet
damsel. The tables being removed, there
shall enter, unexpectedly, at the hall door,
a little ill-favoured dwarf, followed by a
beautiful matron between two giants, with
the proposal of a certain adventure, so con-
trived, by a most ancient sage, that he who
shall accomplish it shall be esteemed the best
knight in the world. The king shall imme-
diately command all who are present to
prove their skill, and none shall be able to
accomplish it but the stranger knight, to tlie
great advantage of his fame ; at which the
inianta will be highly delighted, and esteem
herself happy in having placed her thoughts
on so exalted an object ; fortunately it hap-
pens that this king, or prince, or whatever
he be, is carrying on a bloody war with
another monarch as powerful as himself;
and the stranger knight, after having been
a few days at court, requests his majesty's
permission to serve him in that war. The
king shall readily grant his request, and the
knight sliall most courteously kiss his royal
hands for the favour done him. On that
night he shall take leave of his lady the
inianta at the iron rails of a garden, ad-
joining to her apartment, through which
he has already conversed with her several
times, by the mediation of a female con-
fidante, in whom the infanta greatly trusted.
He sighs, she swoons ; the damsel runs for
cold water, and is very uneasy at the ap-
proach of the morning-light, and would by
no means they should be discovered, for the
sake of her lady's honour. The in&nta at
length comes to herself, and gives her snowy
hand to the knight tlirough tlie rails, who
kisses them a thousand and a thousand times
over, bedewing them with his tears. Thej'-
concert together how to communicate to
each other thehr good or ill fortune, and the
princess entreats him to be absent as short
a time as possible ; which he promises witli
many oaths : again he kisses her hands, and
they part with so much emotion that he is
nearly deprived of life. Thence he repairs
to his chamber, throws himself on his bed,
and cannot sleep for grief at the separation ;
he rises early in the morning, and goes to
=Q
DON QUIXOTE.
lOf)
take leave of the king, the queen, and the
infanta ; having taken his leave of the two
former, he is told that the princess is in-
disposed, and cannot admit of a visit } the
knight thinks it is for grief at his departure ;
his heart is pierced, and he is very near
giving manifest indications of his passion ;
the damsel confidante is present, and ob-
serves what passes ; she informs her lady,
who receives the account with team, and
tcUs her that her chief concern is that she
knows not the name or country of her knight,
and whether he be of royal descent or not :
the damsel assures her he is, since so much
courtesy, politeness, and valour, as her
knight is endowed with, cannot exist but in
a royal and exalted subject. The afflicted
princess is then comforted, and endeavours
to compose herself, that she may not give
her parents cause of suspicion ; and two days
after she again appears in public. The
knight is now gone to the war ; he fights,
and vanquishes, the king's enemy ; takes
many cities; wins several battles; returns
to court ; sees his lady at the usual place of
interview ; it is agreed he shall demand her
in marriage of her father, in recompense for
his services : the king does not consent to
give her to him, not knowing who he is.
Notwithstanding which, either by carrying
her off, or by some other means, the infanta
becomes his spouse, and her father afterwards
finds it to be a piece of the greatest good
fortune, having ascertained that the knight
tt son to a valorous king, of I know not
«hat kingdom, nor is it, perhaps, to be
found in the map. The father dies; the
infanta inherits; and, in two words, the
knight becomes a king. Then immediately
follows the rewarding of his squire, and all
those who assisted in his elevation to so
exalted a state. He marries his squire to
one of the infanta's maids of honour, who is
doubtless the very confidante of this amour,
and daughter to one of the chief dukes."
" This is what I would be at, and a clear
stage," quoth Sancho ; " this I stick to :
for every tittle of this must happen precisely
^ The Spaniftrdt of old paid a tribute of five bondred
soddot, or pieces of coin, to the Moon, until ther were
detÍTered from this imposition bj the gallantry of the
gentlemen, or people of rank : from which exploit a Cas-
to your worship, being called ' the knight of
the sorrowful figure.' " " Doubt it not,
Sancho," replied Don Quixote ; " for, by
those very means and those very steps which
I have recounted, knights-errant do rise,
and have risen, to be kings and emperors.
All that remains to be done is to look out
and find what king of the christians or of
the pagans is at war, and has a beautiful
daughter — but there is time enough to think
of this ; for, as I told thee, we must procure
renown elsewhere before we repair to court.
Besides, there is yet another difficulty ; for,
if a king were found who is at war and has
a handsome daughter, and I had acquired
incredible fame throughout the whole uni-
verse, I do not see bow it can be made
appear that I am of the lineage of kings, or
even second cousin to an emperor : for the
king will not give me his daughter to wife
until he is first very well assured that I am
such, however my renowned actions might
deserve it. Through this defect, therefore,
I am afraid I shall lose that which my arm
has richly deserved. It is true, indeed, I
am a gentleman of an ancient family, pos-
sessed of property and a title to the Revenge
of the five hundred Sueldos ;♦ and perhaps
the sage who writes my history may throw
such light upon my kindred and genealogy
that I may be found tlie fifth or sixth in
descent from a king. For thou must know,
Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages
in the world. Some there are who derive
their pedigree from princes and monarchs,
whom time has gradually reduced until they
have ended in a point, like a pyramid:
others have had a low origin, and have risen
by degrees, until they have become great
lords. So that the difference is that some
have been what now they are not, and others
are now what they were not before ; and
who knows but I may be one of the former,
and that, upon examination, my origin may
be found to have been great and glorious ;
with which the king, my future fiither-in-
law, ought to be satisfied ; and, if he should
not be satisfied, the infanta is to be so in
tilian of family used to express the nobility and worth of
his extraction, by saying he was " of the rerenge of the
sueldos. ' '—SmoUeti,
=f5)
106
ADVENTURES OF
love with me that, in spite of her father, she
is to receive me for her lord and hushand,
even though she knew me to he the son of a
water-carrier ; and, in case she should not,
then is the time to take her away by force,
and convey her whither I please ; there to
remain until time or death put a period to
the displeasure of her parents."
•' Here," said Sancho, " comes in properly
what some naughty people say, * Never stand
begging for that which you have the power
to take ;' though this other is nearer to the
purpose : ' A leap from a hedge is better
than the prayer of a bishop.' I say this,
because if my lord the king, your worship's
father-in-law, should not vouchsafe to yield
unto you my lady the infanta, there is no
more to be done, as your worship says, but
to steal and carry her off. But the mischief
is that, while peace is making, and before
you can enjoy the kingdom quietly, the
poor squire may go whistle for his reward ;
unless the go-between damsel, who is to be
his wife, goes off with tlie infanta, and he
share his misfortune with her, until it shall
please heaven to ordain otherwise : for I be-
lieve his master may immediately give her
to him for his lawful spouse." " On that
thou mayest rely ;" said Don Quixote.
" Since it is so," answered Sancho, " we
have only to commend ourselves to God, and
let things take their course." " God grant
it," answered Don Quixote, "as I desire
and thou needest, and let him be wretched
who thinks himself so." " Let him, in
God's name," said Sancho ; " for I am an
old christian, and that is enough to qualify
rae to be an earl." " Ay, and more than
enough," said Don Quixote : " and, even
if thou wert not so, it would be immaterial ;
for I, being a king, can easily bestow nobility
on thee, without either purchase or service
on thy part, and> in creating thee an earl,
thou art a gentJeman, of course ! And, say
what? they will, in good faith, they must
style thee * your lordship,' however un-
willingly." " Do you think," quoth Sancho,
" I should not know how to give authority to
the indignity ?" " Dignity, you should say,
and not indignity," said his master. " So
let be," answered Sancho Panza. " I say.
I should do well enough with it; for I
assure you I was once beadle of a company,
and the beadle's gown became me so well
that every body said I had a presence ñt to
be warden of the same company : what then
will it be when £ am arrayed in a duke's
robe, all shining with gold and pearls, like
a foreign count ? I am of opinion folks will
come a hundred leagues to see me." ** Thou
wilt make a goodly appearance indeed,"
said Don Quixote : " but it vnll be necessary
to trim thy beard a little oftener; for it is
so rough and matted that, if thou shavest
not every other day at least, what thou art
will be seen at the distance of a bow-shot."
" Why," said Sancho, " it is but taking a
barber into the house, and giving him a
salary : and, if there be occasion, I will
make him follow me like a gentleman of tlie
horse to a grandee." " How earnest thou
to know," demanded Don Quixote, " that
grandees have their gentlemen of the horse
to follow them?" "I will tell you," said
Sancho : " some years ago I was near the
court for a month, and I often saw a very
little gentleman riding about, who, they said,
was a very great lord ; and behind him I
noticed a man on horseback, turning about
as he turned, so that one would have thought
he had been his tail. I asked why that man
did not ride by the side of the other, but
kept always behind him ? They answered
me that it was his gentleman of the horse,
and that it was the custom for noblemen to
be followed by them ; and from that day to
this I have never forgotten it." " Thou art
in the right," said Don Quixote, " and in
the same manner thou mayest carry about
thy barber : for all customs do not arise to-
gether, nor were they invented at once : and
thou mayest be the first earl who carried
about his barber after him : and indeed it is
a higher trust to dress the beard than to
saddle a horse." " Leave the business of
the barber to me," said Sancho ; " and let
it be your worship's care to become a king,
and to make me an earl." " So it shall be,"
answered Don Quixote: and, raising his
eyes, he saw what will be told in the follow-
ing chapter.
Z.O
r=
=^
DON QiriXOTE.
107
CHAPTER XXII.
now DON QUIXOTE SET AT LIBERTY
8EYSRAL UNFORTUNATE PERSONS,
WHO, MUCH AGAINST THEIR WILL,
WERE BEING CONVEYED WHERE THEY
DID NOT WISH TO GO.
CiD Ha MET Ben Enoeli, the Arabian
and Manchegan author, relates, in this most
graye, lofty, accurate, delightful, and inge-
nious history, that, after the conversation
which passed between the famous Don
Quixote de la Mancha and Sancho Panza
h» squire, given at the end of the foregoing
chapter, Don Quixote raised his eyes, and
saw approaching, in the same road, about a
dozen men on foot, strung like beads, by the
necks, in a great iron chain, and all hand-
cuffed. There came also with them two men
on horseback, and two on foot ; those on
horseback were armed with firelocks, and
those on foot with pikes and swords. As
9oon as Sancho Panza saw them, he said :
''This is a chain of galley-slaves, persons
forced by the king to serve in the galleys."
"How! forced, do you say?'' quoth Don
Quixote : "is it possible the king should
force any body ?" " I said not so," answered
Sancho, " but that they were persons who,
for their crimes, are condemned by law to
the galleys, where they are forced to serve
the king." " In truth then," replied Don
Quixote, "these people are conveyed by
force, and not voluntarily ?" " So it is," said
Sancho. "Then," said his master, "here
the execution of my office takes place, which
is to defeat violence, and to succour and
relieve the wretched." "Consider, sir,"
qnoth Sancho, " that justice — ^which is the
king himself, does no violence to such per-
sons; he only punishes them for their
crimes."
By this time the chain of galley-slaves
had^ reached them, and Don Quixote, in
most courteous terms, desired the guard to
be pleased to inform him of the cause or
causes for which they conducted those per-
sons in that manner. One of the guards on
horseback answered that they were slaves
belonging to his majesty, and on their way
to the galleys ; which was all he had to say,
nor was there any thing more to know.
" Nevertheless," replied Don Quixote, " I
should be glad to be informed, by each of
them individually, of the cause of his mis-
fortune." To these he added such other
courteous expressions, entreating the infor-
mation he desired, that the other horseman
said : " Though we have here the record
and certificate of the sentence of each of
these wretches, this is no time to produce
and read them : draw near, sir, and make
your enquiry of themselves : they may in-
form you, if they please ; and no doubt they
will : for they are such as take a pleasure in
acting and relating rogusries." With this
leave, which Don Quixote would have taken,
had it not been given, he went up to them,
and demanded of the first for what offence
he marched in such evil plight ? He answered
that it was for being in love. " For that
alone ?" replied Don Quixote : " if people
are sent to the galleys for being in love, I
might long since have been rowing in them
myself." "It was not such love as your
worship imagines," said the galley-slave:
"mine was so strong an affection for a
basket of fine linen, wnich I embraced so
closely that, if justice had not taken it from
me by force, I should not have parted with
it by my own good -will even to this very
day. I was taken in the iact, so there was
no opportunity for the torture : the process
was short; they accommodated my shoulders
with a hundred lashes, and, as a further
kindness, have sent me for three years to the
Gurapas, and there is an end of it." " What
are the Gurapas?" quoth Don Qaixote.
" The Gurapas are galleys ;" answered the
convict, who was a young man about twenty
four years of age, born, as he said, at Pie-
drahita. Don Quixote put the same question
to the second, who returned no answer, he
was so melancholy and dejected : but the
first answered for him, and said : " Tliis
gentleman goes for being a canary-bird, I
mean, for being a musician and a singer."
" How so?" replied Don Quixote, " are raen
sent to the galleys for being musicians and
singers ?" " Yes, sir," replied the slave ;
" for there is nothing worse than to sing in
an agony." " Nay," said Don Quixote, "I
have heaixl say, * Who sings in grief, pro-
cures relief.' " "This is the very reverse,"
=^
108
ADVENTURES OF
said the slave; "for here, he who sings
once weeps all his life after." " I do not
understand that," said Don Quixote. One
of the guards said to him : '^ Sigñor cavalier,
to sing in an agony means, in the cant of
these rogues, to confess upon the rack. This
offender was put to the torture, and confessed
his crime, which was that of being a Qua-
trero, that is, a stealer of cattle ; and, be-
cause he confessed, he is sentenced for six
years to the galleys, besides two hundred
lashes he has idready received on the shoul-
ders. He is always pensive and sad, because
all the other rogues abuse, vilify, flout, and
despise him for confessing, and not having
nad the courage to say No : for, say they. No
does not contain more letters than Aye ; and
think it lucky, when it so happens that a
man's life or death depends upon his own
tongue, and not upon proo& and witnesses ;
and, for my part, I think they are in the right."
" And so I think," answered Don Quixote:
who, passing on to the third, interrogated
him as he had done the others. He an-
swered very readily, and with much indiffer-
ence ; '' I am also going to their ladyships the
Gurapas, for ñve years, merely for want of
ten ducats." " I will give twenty, with all
my heart," said Don Quixote, ''to redeem
you from this misery." "That," said the con-
vict, " is like having money at sea, where,
though dying for hunger, nothing can be
bought with it. I say this because, if I had
been possessed in time of those twenty ducats
you now offer me, I would have so greased
the clerk's pen and sharpened my advocate's
wit that I should have been this day upon
the market-place of Zocodover in Toledo;
and not upon this road, coupled and dragged
/ike a hound : but God is great ; patience
and — that is enough."
Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, who
«vas a man of venerable aspect, with awhile
beard reaching below his breast ; who, be-
ijig asked the cause of his coming, began to
weep, and answered nota word ; but the fifth
lent him a tongue, and said : " This honest
gentleman goes for four years to the galleys,
after having appeared in the usual procession.
• Such malefaeton m in England ase set in the pillory
in Spain are carried about in a particular habit, mounted
pompously apparelled and mounted."* ' That
is, I suppose," said Sancho, " put to public
shame." " Right," replied the slave ; "and
the offence for which he suffered this pun-
ishment was his having been a broker of
the ear, yea, and even of the whole body :
in fact, I mean to say that this gentleman
goes for pimping, and exercising the trade
of a conjurer." "Had it been merely
for pimping," said Don Quixote, " he had
deserved not to row, but to be commander
of the galleys : for the office of pimp is no
light concern, but an avocation requiring
discretion, and very necessary in a well re-
gulated commonwealth. None but such as
are well-bom ought to exercise it ; in truth
it should have its inspectors and comptrollers,
as there are of other offices, limited to a
certain appointed number, like exchange-
brokers ; by which means many evils would
be prevented, which now happen, because
this office is performed only by foolish and
ignorant persons ; such as silly waiting- wo- j
men, pages, and buffoons, without age or
experience, who, in tlie greatest exigency,
and when there is occasion for the utmost
address, suffer the morsel to freeze between .
the fingers and the mouth, and scarce know
which is their right hand. I could go on,
and assign the reasons why it would be ex-
pedient to make a proper choice in filling an
office of such importance to the state ; but
this is not the place for it : I may, one day
or other, lay this matter before those who
can provide a remedy. At present I only
say that the concern I felt at seeing those
gray hairs, and that venerable countenance,
in so much distress for pimping, is entirely
removed by his additional character of a
wizard : though I well know there are no
sorceries in the world which can affect and
force the will, as some foolish people ima-
gine ; for our will is free, and no herb nor
charm can compel it ; though some silly
women and crafty knaves are wont, by cer-
tain mixtures and poisons, to turn the brain,
under pretence that they have power to
excite love : but, as I said before, it is im-
possible to force the will." " Very true,"
on an ass, with their face to the tail ; the crier gtuor
before and proclaiming their crime.—/.
DON QUIXOTE.
109
Aid the good old mao, " and indeed, sir, as
to being a wizard, I am not guilty ; as for
being a pimp, J cannot deny it ; bat I never
thought there was any harm in it ; for all
my intention was that the world should di-
vert themselves, and live in peace and quiet
without quarrels or troubles. But, alas!
these good motives could not save me from
going whence I can have no hope of return-
ing, burthened as I am with years, and so
troubled with the strangury, which leaves
me not a moment's repose." Here he began
to weep, as before, and Sancho was so moved
with compassion that he drew from his bo-
som a real, and gave it him in charity.
Don Quixote went on, and demanded of
another what his offence was, who answered,
not with less, but much more, alacrity than
the former, '< I am going for making a little
too free with two she cousin-germans of
mine, and with two other cousin-germans
not mine : in short I carried the jest so far
with them all that the result of it was the
increasing of kindred so intricately that no
casuist can make it out. The whole was
proved upon me. I had neither friends nor
money ; my windpipe was in the utmost
danger^ I was sentenced to the galleys for
six years. I submit — it is the punishment
of my &ult. I am young ; life may last,
and time brings every thing about. If your
worship has any thing about you to relieve
us poor wretches, God will repay you in
heaven, and we will make it the business
of our prayers to beseech him that your
worship's life and health may be as long
and prosperous as your goodly presence
deserves." This convict was in tiie habit of
a student ; and one of the guards said he
was a great speaker and a very pretty
scholar.
Behind all these came a man about thirty
years of age, of a goodly aspect, only that
his eyes looked at each other. He was
bound somewhat differently from the rest,
for he had a chain to his leg, so long that
it was fastened round his middle, and two
collars about his neck, one of which was
&stened to the chain, and the other, called
a keep -friend, or friend's -foot, had two
straight irons, which came down from it
to his waisti at the ends of which were
fíxed two manacles, wherein his hands were
secured with a huge padlock; insomuch
that he could neither lift his hands to his
mouth, nor bend down his head to his
hands. Don Quixote asked why this man
was fettered so much more than the rest.
The guard answered, because he alone had
committed more crimes than all the rest
together: and that he was so bold and
desperate a villain that, although shackled
in that manner, they were not secure of
him, but were still a&aid he would make
his escape. '^ What kind of villanies has
he committed," said Don Quixote, ^'that
have deserved no greater punishment than
being sent to the galleys ?" " He goes for
ten years," said the guard, "which is a
kind of civil death. You need only be told
that this honest gentleman is the famous
Gines de Passamonte, alias Ginesillo de
Parapilla." " Fair and softly, sigñor com-
missary," interrupted the slave. " Let us
not now be spinning out names and sur-
names. Gines is my name, and not Gine-
sillo ; and Passamonte is the name of my
family, and not Parapilla, as you say. Let
every one turn himself round, and look at
home, and he will find enough to do."
" Speak with less insolence, sir thief-above-
measure," replied the commissary, " unless
you will oblige me to silence you to j'our
sorrow." "You may see," answered the
slave, " that man goeth as God pleaseth ;
but somebody may learn one day whether
my name is Gineúllo de Parapilla, or no."
"Are you not so called? lying rascal!"
said the guard. "Yes," answered Gines;
" but I will make them cease calling me
so, or I will flea them where I care not at
present to say. Signer cavalier," continued
he, " if you have any thing to give us, let us
have it now, and God be with you ; for you
tire us with enquiring so much af^er other
men's lives. If you would know mi^e, I
am Gines de Passamonte, whose life is
written by these very fingers." " He says
true," said the commissary; "for he himself
has written his own history as well as heart
could wish, and has left the book in prison
pawned for two hundred reals." " Ay, and
I intend to redeem it," said Gines, " if it
lay for two hundred ducats." " What! is
C2i=
no
ADVENTURES OF
it so good?" said Don Quixote. "So
good," answered Gines, " that woe be to
Lazarillo de Tonnes, and to all that have
written or shall write in that way. What
I can affirm is that it relates truths, and
truths so ingenious and entertaining that no
notions can equal them." "What is tlie
title of your book?" demanded Don Quixote.
" The Life of Gines de Passamonte," replied
Gines himself. " And is it finished ?" quoth
Don Quixote. " How can it be finished ?"
answered he, "since my life is not yet
finished? What is written relates every
thing from my cradle to the moment of
being sent this last time to the galleys."
"Then you have been there before?" said
Don Quixote. " Four years, the other
time," replied Gines, " to serve God and
the king ; and I know already the relish of
the biscuit and lash : nor does it grieve me
much to go to them again, since I shall
there have an opportunity of finishing my
book : for I have a great many things to
say, and in the galleys of Spain there is
leisure enough; though I shall not want
much for what I have to write, because I
have it by heart." " You seem to be an
ingenious fellow," said Don Quixote. "And
an unfortunate one," answered Gines; "but
misfortunes always persecute genius. "
" Persecute villany," said the commissary.
" I have already desired you, sigfior com-
missary," answered Passamonte, " to go on
fair and softly ; for your superiors did not
give you that staff to misuse us poor wretches
here, but to conduct us whither his majesty
commands. Now by the life of 1 say
no more; but the spots which were con-
tracted in tlie inn may perhaps one day
come out in the bucking ; and let every one
hold his tongue, live well, and speak better:
now let us march on, for wc have had
enough of tliis."
The commissary lifted up his staff to
strike Passamonte, in return for his threats ;
but Don Quixote interposed, and desired
he would not ill-treat him, since it was but
fair that he who had his hands so tied up
should have his tongue a little at liberty.
Then, turning about to the whole string, he
said : " From all you have told me, dearest
brethren ! I clearly gather that, although
it be only the punishment of your crimes^
you do not much relish what you are to
suffer, and that yon go to it with ill will
and much against your inclination ; and that,
probably, the pusillanimity of him who was
put to the torture, this man's want of money,
and the other's want of friends, and, in
short, the biassed sentence of the judge, may
have been the cause of your not meeting
with that justice to which you had a right.
Now this being the case, as I am strongly
persuaded it is, my mind prompts, and even
compels, me to manifest in you the purpose
for which heaven cast me into the world,
and ordained me to profess the order of
chivalry, which I do profess, and the vow I
thereby made to succour the needy, and
those oppressed by the powerful. Conscious,
however, that it is the part of prudence not
to do, by force, that which may be done by
fair means^ I will intreat these gentiemen,
your guard and the commissary, tiiat they
will be pleased to loose, and let you go in
peace, since there are people enough to
serve the king from better motives ; for it
seems to me a hard case to make slaves of
those whom God and nature made free.
Besides, gentiemen guards," added Don
Quixote, " these poor men have committed
no offence against you : let every one
answer for his sins in the other world :
there is a God in heaven who fails not to
chastise the wicked and to reward the good ;
neither doth it become honourable men to
be the executioners of others, when they
have no interest in the matter. I request
this of you in a calm and gentic manner,
that I may have cause to thank you for
your compliance ; but, if you do it not wil-
lingly, this lance and this sword, with tiie
vigour of my arm, shall compel you to it."
"This is pleasant fooling," answered the
commissary. "An admirable conceit he has
hit upon at last ! he would have us let the
king's prisoners go— as if we had authority
to set them free, or he to command us to do
it ! — Go on your way, sigfior, and adjust
that bason on your noddle, and do not go
feeling about for three legs in a cat." "You
are a cat, and a rat, and a rascal to boot !"
answered Don Quixote; and tiiereupon,
with a word and a blow, he attacked him
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
Ill
so suddenly that, before he could stand upon
his defence, he threw him to the ground,
much wounded with a thrust of the lance ;
and it happened luckily, for Don Quixote,
that this was one of the two who carried
firelocks. The rest of the guards were as-
tonished and confounded at the unexpected
encotinter; but, recovering themselves, those
on horseback drew their swords, and those
on foot took their javelins and advanced
upon Don Quixote, who waited for them
with much calmness ; and doubtless it had
gone ill with him if the galley-slaves had
not seized the opportunity now offered to
them of recovering their liberty, by breaking
the chain with which they were linked
together. The confusion was such that the
guards, now endeavouring to prevent the
slaves from getting loose, and now engaging
with Don Quixote, did nothing to any
purpose. Sancho, for his part, assisted in
releasing Gines de Passamonte, who was
the first that leaped free and unfettered
upon the plain ; and, attacking the fallen
commissary, he took away his sword and
his gun, which, by levelling first at one
and then at another, without discharging it,
he cleared the field of all the guard, who
fled no less from Passamonte's gun than
from the shower of stones which the slaves,
now at liberty, poured upon them.
Sancho was much grieved at what had
happened, from an apprehension that the
fugitives would give notice of the fact to the
holy brotherhood, who, upon ring of bell,
would sally out in quest of the delinquents.
These fears he communicated to his master,
and begged of him to be gone immediately,
and take shelter among the trees and rocks
of the neighbouring mountain. '^ It is well,''
said Don Quixote; ^^ but I know what is
first expedient to be done." Then, having
called all the slaves together, who were in
disorder, after stripping the commissary to
his bufi^, they gathered around him to know
his pleasure ; when he thus addressed them :
— " To be grateful for benefits received is
natural to persons well bom ; and one of
the sins which most offendeth God is in-
gratitude. This I say, gentlemen, because
you already know, by manifest experience,
the benefit you have received at my hands ;
in return for which it is my desire that,
bearing with you this chain, which I have
taken from your necks, you immediately go
to the city of Toboso, and there present
yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del To-
boso, and tell her that her knight of the
sorrowful figure sends you to present his
service to her; and recount to her every
circumstance of this memorable adventure
to the point of restoring you to your wished-
for liberty : this done, you may go wherever
good fortune may lead you.''
Gines de Passamonte answered for them
all, and said : " What your worship com-
mands us, noble sir, and our deliverer, is of
all impossibilities the most impossible to be
complied with: for we dare not be seen
together on the road, but must go separate,
each man by himself, and endeavour to hide
ourselves in the very bowels of the earth from
the holy brotherhood, who doubtless will be
out in quest of us. What your worship may
and ought to do is to change this service and
duty to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso into
a certain number of ave-maries and credos,
which we will say for your worship's suc-
cess ; and this is what we may do, by day or
by night, flying or reposing, in peace or in
war ; but to think that we will now return
to our chains, and put ourselves on our way
to Toboso, is to imagine it already night,
whereas it is not yet ten o'clock in the
morning ; and to expect this from us is to
expect pears from an elm-tree." " I vow
then," quoth Don Quixote, in a rage, ** Don
son of a whore, Don Ginesillo de Parapilla,
or whatever you call yourself, that you alone
shall go, wiüi your tail between your legs,
and the whole chain upon your back!"
Passamonte, who was not over-passive,
seeing himself thus treated, and being aware
that Don Quixote, from what he had just
done, was not in his right senses, gave a
signal to his comrades, upon which they all
retired a few paces, and then began to rain
such a shower of stones upon Don Quixote
that he could not contrive to cover himself
with his buckler ; and poor Rozinante cared
no more for the spur than if he had been
made of brass. Sancho got behind his ass,
and thereby sheltered himself from the hail-
storm that poured upon them both. Don
Q=
=©
112
ADVENTURES OF
Quixote could not screen himself sufficiently
to avoid I know not how many stones which
came against him with such force that they
brought him to the ground ; when the stu-
dent instantly fell upon him, and, taking the
bason from off bis head, gave him three or
four blows with it over the shoulders, and
then struck it as often against the ground,
whereby he almost broke it to pieces. They
stripped him of a jacket be wore over his
armour, and would have taken his trousers
too, if the greaves had not hindered them.
They took Sancho's cloak, leaving him
«tripped ; and, after dividing the spoils of the
battle, they made the best of their way off,
each taking a different course : more soli-
citous to escape the holy brotherhood than
to drag their chain to Toboso and present
themselves before the lady Dulcinea.
The ass and Rozinante, Sancho and Don
Quixote, remained by themselves: the ass
hanging his head and pensive, and now and
then shaking his ears, thinking that the
storm of stones was not yet over, but still
whizzing about his head ; Rozinante having
been brought to the ground, lay stretched
by his master's side ; Sancho stripped, and
troubled with apprehensions of the holy
brotherhood, and Don Quixote much chag-
rined at being so mal-treated by those on
whom he had conferred so great a benefit.
CHAPTER XXIII.
OF WHAT BEFEL THE RENOWNED DON
QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA,*
BEING ONE OF THE MOST EXTRAORDI-
NARY ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS
FAITHFUL HISTORY.
Don Quixote, finding himself thus ill-
requited, said to his squire : *^ Sancho, I
have always heard it said that to do good
to the vulgar is to throw water into the sea.
Had I believed what you said to me, I
might have prevented this trouble ; but it is
done, I must have patience, and henceforth
take warning." " Your worship will as
much take warning," answered Sancho, '' as
* A mountain, or rather chain of mountains, dividing
the kingdom of Caatile from the pronnce of Andalusia,
I am a Turk: but since you say that, if
you had believed me, this mischief would
have been prevented, believe me now, and
you will avoid what is still worse ; for, let
me tell you, there is no putting off the holy
brotherhood with chivalries: they do not
care two farthings for all the knights-errant
in the world ; and I fancy already that T
hear their arrows whizzing about my ears."
'' Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote : " but, that thou may est
not say I am obstinate, and that I never do
what thou advisest, I will for once take thy
counsel, and retire from that fury of which
thou art in so much fear ; but upon this one
condition — that, neither living nor dying,
thou shalt ever say that I retired and with-
drew myself from this peril out of fear, but
that I did it out of mere compliance with
thy intreaties. If thou sayest otherwise, it
is-a lie; and, from this time to that, and
from that time to this, I tell thee thou liest,
and wilt lie, every time thou shalt either say
or think it. Reply not, for the bare thought
of withdrawing and retreating from any
danger, and especially from this, which
seems to carry some appearance of danger
with it, inclines me to remain here and ex-
pect alone not that holy brotherhood only,
of whom thou speakest, but the brothers of
the twelve tribes of Israel, and the seven
Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and
even all the brothers and brotherhoods in
the world." " Sir," answered Sancho, " re-
treating is not running away, nor is staying
wisdom, when the danger over-balances the
hope ; and it is the part of wise men to
secure themselves to-day for to-fnorrow, and
not to venture all upon one throw. And
know that, although I am but a clown and
a peasant, I yet have some smattering of
what is called good conduct : therefore re*
pent not of having taken my advice, but get
upon Rozinante if you can, if not I will assist
you, and follow me : for my noddle tells me
that, for the present, we have more need of
heels than hands." Don Quixote mounted
without replying a word more ; and, Sancho
leading the way upon his ass, they entered
and remarkable for being (Morena) of a moorish or
swarthy colour.— J.
y=
o=
DON QUIXOTE.
118
on one side of the Sierra Morena, which
was near, and it was Sancho's intention to
pass through it, and get out at Viso or Al-
modovar del Campo, and there hide them-
selves for some days among those craggy
rocks, in case the holy broüierhood should
come in search of them. He was encou-
raged to this, by ñnding that the provisions
carried by his ass had escaped safe from the
bkirmish with the galley-slaves, which he
looked upon as a miracle, considering what
the slaves took away, and how narrowly
they searched.
That night they got into the heart of the
Sierra Morena, where Sancho thought it
would be well to pass the remainder of the
night, if not some days : or at least as long
as their provisions lasted. Accordingly there
they took up their lodging under the shelter
of rocks overgrown with cork-trees. But
destiny, which, according to the opinion of
those who have not the light of the true
faitli, guides and disposes all things its
own way, so ordered it that Ginesde Passa-
monte, the famous cheat, and robber (whom
the valour and phrenzy of Don Quixote had
delivered from the chain), being justly afraid
of the holy brotherhood, took it into his
head to hide himself among those very
mountains ; and in the very place where, by
the same impulse, Don Quixote and Sancho
Panza had taken refuge; arriving just in
time to distinguish who they were, although
they bad fallen asleep. Now, as the wicked
are always ungrateful, and necessity urges
desperate measures, and present convenience
over - balances every consideration of the
fature, Gines, who had neither gratitude nor
good -nature, resolved to steal Sancho
Panza's ass ; not caring for Rozinante, as a
thing neither pawnable nor saleable. Sancho
Panza slept j the varlet stole his ass ; and,
before dawn of day, was too &r off to be
recovered.
Aurora issued fo^th, giving joy to the
earth, but grief to Sancho Panza, who, when
he missed his Dapple, began to utter the
most doleful lamentations, insomuch that
Bon Quixote awaked at his cries, and heard
him say : " O child of my bowels, bom in
my house, the joy of my children, the enter-
tBJnment of my wife, the envy of my neigh-
bours, the relief of my burdens, and lastly,
the half of my maintenance ! For, with the
six and twenty maravedís which I have
earned every day by thy means, have I half
supported my family!" Don Quixote, on
learning the cause of these lamentations,
comfortedr Sancho in the best manner ho
could, and desired him to have patience,
promising to give him a bill of exchange for
three asses out of five which he had left at
home. Sancho, comforted by this promise,
wiped away his tears, moderated his sighs,
and tlianked his master for the kindness he
shewed him. Don Quixote's heart gladden-
ed upon entering among the mountams, be-
ing the kind of situation he thought likely
to furnish those adventures he was in quest
of. They recalled to his memory the mar-
vellous events which had befallen knights-
errant in such solitudes and deserts. He
went on meditating on these things, and his
mind was so absorbed in them that he
thought of nothing else. Nor had Sancho
any other concern, now that he thought
himself out of danger, than to appease his
hunger with what remained of the clerical
spoils: and thus, sitting side -ways, as
women do, upon his beast, he jogged after
his master, emptying the bag, and stuffing
his paunch : and, while so employed, he
would not have given two maravedís for the
rarest adventure that could have happened.
While thus engaged, he raised his eyes,
and observed that his master, who had stop-
ped, was endeavouring, with the point of his
lance, to raise something that lay upon the
ground : upon which he hastened to assist
him, if necessary, and came up to him just
as he had turned over with his lance a
saddle-cushion, and a portmanteau fastened
to it, half, or rather quite, rotten and torn,
but so heavy that Sancho was forced to
alight in order to take it up. His master
ordered him to examine it. Sancho very
readily obeyed, and, although the portman-
teau was secured with its chain and padlock
he could see through the chasms what it
contained ; which was four fine hoUand
shirts, and other linen, no less curious than
clean ; and, in a handkerchief, he found a
quantity of gold crowns, which he no sooner
espied than he exclaimed: " Blessed be
^=
^^^
114
ADVENTURES OF
heaveo, which has presented ns with one
profitable adventure !" And, searching fur-
ther, he found a little pocket-book, richly
bound ; which Don Quixote desired to have,
bidding him take the money and keep it for
himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the
favour ; and, taking the linen out of the
portmanteau, he put it in the provender-bag.
All this was perceived by Don Quixote, who
said : ^' I am of opinion, Sancho (nor can it
possibly be otherwise), that some traveller
must have lost his way in these mountains,
and iallen into the hands of robbers, who
have killed him, and brought him to this
remote part to bury him. '' It cannot be
so," answered Sancho ; '' for, had they been
robbers, they would not have left this money
here." '< Thou art in the right," said Don
Quixote, '^ and I cannot conjecture what it
should be : but stay, let us see whether this
pocket-book has any thing written in it that
may lead to a discovery." He opened it,
and the first thing he found was a rough
copy of verses, and, being legible, he read
aloud, that Sancho might hear it, the follow-
ing sonnet :
Know'st thou, O Lore, the pangi that I aiutain.
Or, cruel, doat thou view those pugs unmoved 7
Or hat Mme hidden cause its influence proT'd ,
Bj all this sad Tariety of pain 7
Lore is a God, then surely he must know.
And knowing, pity wretchedness like mine ;
From other hands proceeds the fatal blow-
Is then the deed, unpitying Chloe, thine ?
Ah, no ! a form so exquisitely iai»
A soul so merciless can ne'er enclose.
From Heaven's high will my fate resistless flows.
And I, submissive, must its vengeance bear.
Nought but a miracle my life can save.
And snatch its destined victim from the grave.
*' From those verses," quoth Sancho,
*' nothing can be collected, unless, fix>m the
clue there given, you can come at the whole
bottom." " What clue is here ?" said Don
Quixote. '' I thought," said Sancho, '' your
worship named a clue." " No, I said Chloe,"
answered Don Quixote; ''and doubtless
that is the name of tlte lady of whom the
author of this sonnet complains; and, in
&ith, either he is a tolerable poet, or I know
but little of the art" "So then," said
Sancho, " your worship understands making
verses too !" '' Yes, and better than thou
thinkest/' answered Don Quixote; "and
so thou shalt see, when thou bearest a letter
to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, written in
verse firom beginning to end ; for know,
Sancho, that all, or most, of the knights-
errant of times past were great poets, and
great mnncians ; these two accomplishments,
or rather graces, being annexed to lovers-
errant. True it is that the couplets of for-
mer knights have more of pasmón than
elegance in them." " Pray, sir, read on
fiirther," said Sancho : "perhaps you may
find something to satisfy us." Don Quixote
turned over the leaf, and said : " This is in
prose, and seems to be a letter." " A letter
of business, sir?" demanded Sancho. *^ By
the beginning, it seems rather to be one of
love," answered Don Quixote. " Then
pray, sir, read it aloud," said Sancho ; " for
I mightily relish these love-matters." " With
all my heart," said Don Quixote; and
reading aloud, as Sancho desired, he found
it to this eifect :
"Thy broken faith, and my certain
misery, drive roe to a place whence thou
wilt sooner hear the news of my death than
the cause of my complaint. Thou hast re-
nounced me, O ungrateful maid, for one of
larger possessions, but not of more worth
than myself. If virtue were a treasure now
in esteem, I should have no reason to envy
the good fortune of others, nor to bewail my
own wretchedness. What thy beauty ex-
cited, thy conduct has erased : by the former
I thought thee an angel, by the latter I
know thou art a woman. Peace be to thee,
fair cause of my disquiet ! and may heaven
grant that the perfidy of thy consort remain
for ever unknown to thee, that thou mayest
not repent of what thou hast done, and
afford me that revenge which I do not
desire."
The letter bemg read, Don Quixote said :
" We can gather little more firom this than
from the verses. It is evident, however,
that the writer of them is some sb'ghted
lover." Then, turning over other parts of
the book, he found other verses and letters,
some of which were legible, and some not ;
but the purport was the same in all — their
sole contents bemg reproaches, lamenta-
tions, suspicions, desires, dislikings, favours,
and sJjghfes, interspersed with rapturous
DON QUIXOTE.
115
praises and mournful complaints. While
Don Quixote was examining the book^
Sancho examioed the portmanteau, without
leaving a comer either in that or in the
saddle-cnshion which he did not search,
scrutinise, and look into, nor seam which
he ájd not rip, nor lock of wool which he
did not carefully pick— that nothing might
be lost for want of diligence, or through
carelessness — such was the cupidity excited
in him by the discovery of this golden
treasure, consisting of more than a hundred
crowns! And, although he could find no
more, he thought himself abundantly re-
warded, by those already in his possession,
for the tossings in the blanket, the vomitiugs
of the balsam, the benedictions of the pack-
staves, the cufis of the carrier, the loss of
the wallet, and the theft of his cloak;
together with all the hunger, thirst, and
iatigne he had suffered in his good master's
service.
The "knight of the sorro^vful figure"
was extremely desirous to know who was
the owner of the portmanteau ; for he con-
eluded, from the sonnet and the letter, by
the money in gold, and by the fineness of
the linen, that it must doubtless belong to
some lover of condition, whom the disdain
and ill-treatment of his mistress had reduced
to d^pair ; but, as no information could be
expected in that rugged and uninhabitable
place, he had only to proceed forward,
taking whatever road Rozinante pleased
(who invariably gave preference to that
which he found the most passable), and still
thinking that among the rocks he should
certainly meet with some strange adventure.
As he went onward impressed with this
idea, he espied, on the top of a rising
ground not far from him, a man springing
from rock to rock with extraordinary agility.
He seemed to be almost naked, his beard
black and bushy, his hair long and tangled,
his legs and feet bare ; he had on breeches
of murrey-coloured velvet, but so ragged as
scarcely to cover him ; all which particulars,
though he passed swiftly by, were observed
by the knight. He endeavoured, but in
7ftin, to follow him ; for it was not given to
Rozinantc's feebleness to make way over
thoee craggy places, especially as he was
naturally slow-footed and phlegmatic. Don
Quixote immediately conceived that this must
be the owner of the saddle-cushion and port-
manteau, and resolved therefore to go in
search of him, even though it should prove
a twelvemonth's labour, in that wild region.
He immediately commanded Sancho to cut
short over one side of the mountain, while
he skirted the other ; as they might possibly
by this expedition find the man who had so
suddenly vanished from their sight. " I
cannot do it," answered Sancho ; ''for the
moment I offer to stir from your worship,
fear is upon me, assaulting me with a
thousand kinds of terrors and apparitions ;
and let this serve to advertise you that
henceforward I depart not a fingeres breadth
from your presence." " Be it so," said he
of ' the sorrowful figure,' '' and I am well
pleased that thou shouldst rely upon my
courage, which shall never fail thee,
although the very soul in thy body should
desert thee. Follow me, therefore, step by
step, or as thou canst, and make lanterns of
thine eyes ; we will go round this craggy
hill, and perhaps we may encounter the
man we saw, who doubtless is the owner of
what we have found." To which Sancho
replied : '' It would be much more prudent
not to look after him ; for if we should find
him, and he, perchance, proves to be the
owner of the money, it is plain I must re-
store it : and, therefore, it would be better,
without this unnecessary diligence, to pre-
serve it faithfully, until, by some way less
curious and officious, its true owner shall be
found ; by which time, perhaps, I may have
spent it, and then I am free by law."
" Therein thou art mistaken, Sancho," an-
swered Don Quixote ; " for, since we have
a vehement suspicion of who is the right
owner, it is our duty to seek him, and to
return it ; otherwise that suspicion makes us
no less guilty than if he really were so. Do
not then repine, friend Sancho, at this
search, considering how much I shall be
relieved by finding him." Then he pricked
Rozinante on, and Sancho followed, when,
having gone round part of the mountain,
they found a dead mule lying in a brook,
saddled and bridled, and half devoured by
dogs and crows ; which confirmed them in
:©
116
ADVENTURES OF
the opinion that he who Hed from them "was j
owner both of the mule and the bundle. |
While they stood looking at the mule
they heard a whistle like that of a shepherd
tending his flock ,* and presently, on their
left, appeared a number of goats, and behind
them, higher up on the mountain, an old
man, being the goatherd that kept them.
Don Quixote called to him aloud, and
beckoned him to come down to them. He
as loudly answered, enquiring what had
brought them to that desolate place, seldom
or never trodden unless by the feet of goats,
wolves, or other beasts that frequented those
mountains? Sancho promised, in reply,
that if he would come down they would
satisfy him in every thing. The goatherd
descended, and, coming to the place where
Don Quixote stood, he said : '^ I suppose,
gentlemen, you are looking at the dead
mule ? in truth, it has now lain there these
six months. Pray tell me, have you met
with his master hereabouts ?" " We have
met with nothing," answered Don Quixote,
'^but a saddle-cushion and a small port-
manteau, which we found not far hence.''
'< I found it too,'' answered the goatherd,
'^ but would by no means take it up, nor
come near it, for fear of some mischief,
and of being charged with theft ; for the
devil is subtle, and lays stumbling-blocks in
our way, over which we fall without know-
ing how." " So say I," answered Sancho ;
** for I also found it, and would not go within
a stone's throw of it ; there I left it, and
there it may lie for me ; for I will not have
a dog with a bell," " Tell me, honest
man," said Don Quixote," " do you know
who is the owner of these goods ?" ** What
I know," said the goatherd, " is that six
months ago, more or less, there came to a
shepherd's hut, about three leagues from
tliis place, a genteel and comely youth,
mounted on the very mule which lies dead
there, and with the same saddle-cushion and
portmanteau that you say you found and
touched not. He enquired of us which
part of these mountains was the most rude
and unfrequented. We told him it was
here where we now are ; and so it is truly ;
for if you were to go on about half a league
farther, perhaps you would never find the
way out : and I wonder how you could
get even hither, since there is no road nor
path to lead you to it. The youth then, I
say, hearing our answer, turned about his
mule and made towards the part we pointed
out, leaving us all pleased with his goodly
appearance, and wondering at his question
and the haste he made to reach the moun-
tidn. From that time we saw him not again
until some days after he issued out upon one
of our shepherds, and, without saying a word,
struck him, and immediately fell upon our
sumpter-ass, which he plundered of our bread
and cheese, and then fled again to the rocks
with wonderful swifbiess. Some of us goat-
herds, after this, sought for him nearly two
days through the most intricate part of these
mountains, and at last found him lying in
the hollow of a large cork-tree. He came
out to us with much gentleness, his garment
torn, and his face so disfigured and scorched
by the sun that we should scarcely have
known him, but that his clothes, ragged as
they were, convinced us he was the person
we were in search after. He saluted us
courteously, and in few, but civil, words, bid
us not be surprised to see him in that con-
dition, which was necessary in order to per-
form a certain penance enjoined him for his
manifold sins. We intreated him to tell us
who he was, but could get no more from
him. We also desired him to inform us
where he might be found ; because when he
stood in need of food, without which he
could not subsist, we would willingly bring
some to him; and, if this did not plea.«e
him, we begged that, at least, he would
come and ask for it, and not take it away
from the shepherds by force. He thanked
us for our offers, begged pardon for his past
violence, and promised thenceforth to ask it
for God's sake, without molesting any body.
As to the place of his abode, he said, he had
no other than that which chance presented
him, wherever the night overtook him ; and
he ended his discourse with so many tears
tliat we who heard him must have been very
stones not to have wept with him, con-
sidering what he was when we first saw him,
and what he now appeared ; for, as I before
said, he was a very comely and graceful
youth, and by his courteoTis behaviour
vt^
=r(Q)
DON QUIXOTE,
117
shewed himself to be well-born ; which was '
evident even to country - people like us.
Suddenly he was silent, and, fixing his eyes
on the ground, he remained in that posture
for a length of time, whilst we all stood ^till
in suspense, waiting to see what would be
the end of his trance : for by his motionless
position, and the furious look of his eyes,
frowning and biting his lips, we judged that
his mad fit was coming on, and indeed our
suspicions were quickly confirmed ; for he
suddenly darted forward, and feU with great
fury upon one that stood next him, whom he
bit and struck with so much violence that, if
we had not released him, he would have
taken away his life. In the midst of his
rage he frequently called out, " Ah, traitor
Fernando ! now shalt thou pay for the wrong
thoa hast done me ; these hands shall tear
out that heart, the dark dwelling of deceit
and yillany V* and added to these other ex-
pressions, all pointed at the same Fernando,
and charging him with falsehood and trea-
chery. We disengaged him from our com-
panion at last, with no small difficulty ; upon
which he suddenly left us, and plunged into
a thicket so entangled with bushes and
briars that it was impossible to follow him.
By this we guessed that his madness re-
turned b}*- fits, and that some person, whose
name is Fernando, must have done him
some injury of so grievous a nature as to
reduce him to the wretched condition in
which he appeared. And in that we have
since been confirmed, as he has frequently
come out into the road, sometimes begging
food of the shepherds, and at other times
taking it from them by force : for when the
mad fit is upon him, though the shepherds
ofier it fireely, he will not take it without
coming to blows; but, when he is in his
senses, be asks it with courtesy, and receives
it with thanks, and even with tears. In
truth, gentlemen, I must tell you,'' pursued
the goatherd, '^ that yesterday I and four
young men, two of them my servants and
two my fnends, resolved to go in search of
him, and, having found him, either by per-
suasion or force carry him to the town of
Almodovar, which is eight leagues off, there
to get him cured, if his distemper be curable ;
or at least to leom who he is, and whether
he has any relations to whom we may give
notice of his misfortune. This, gentlemen,
is all I can tell you, in answer to your in-
quiry ; by which you may understand that
the owner of the goods you found is tne
same wretched person who passed you so
quickly :'' — for Don Quixote had told him
that he had seen a man leaping about the
rocks.
Don Quixote was surprised at what he
heard from the goatherd ; and, being now
still more desirous of knowing who the un-
fortunate madman was, he renewed his
determination to search every part of tiie
mountain, leaving neither comer nor cave
unexplored until he should find him. But
fortune managed better for him than he ex-
pected ; for, at that very instant, the same
youth appeared, descending towards them,
and muttering to himself something which
was not intelligible. The rags he wore were
such as have been described : but, as he
drew near, Don Quixote peroeived that his
buff doublet, though torn to pieces, still re-
tained the perfume of amber; whence he
concluded that he could not possibly be of
low condition. When the young men came
up to them, he saluted them in a harsh and
untuned voice, but with a civil air. Don
Quixote politely returned the salute, and,
alighting from Hozinante, with graceful
demeanour and address advanced to embrace
him, and held him a considerable time clasped
within his arms, as if they had been long
acquainted. The other, whom we may truly
call the tattered knight of woful, as Don
Quixote was of the sorrowful, figure, having
suffered himself to be embraced, drew back
a little, and, laying his hands on Don
Quixote's shoulders, stood contemplating
him, as if to ascertain whether he knew
him ; and perhaps no less surprised at the
aspect, demeanour, and habiliments of the
knight than was Don Quixote at the sight
of him. In short, the first who broke silence
after this prelude was the " ragged knight,"
and what he said shall be told in the next
chapter.
=(ú>
118
ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER XXIV.
A CONTINUATION OF THE ADVENTURE
IN THE SIERRA MORENA.
The history informs us that great was the
attention wherewith Don Quixote listened
to the '^ tattered knight" of the mountain,
who thus addressed himself to the knight :
** Assuredly, sigfior, whoever you are, for I
do not know you, I am obliged to you for
the courtesy you have manifested towards
me ; and I wish it were in my power to serve
you with more than my good -will, which is
all that my fate allows me to offer in return
for your civility." " So great is my desire
to do you service," answered Don Quixote,
'Hhat I had determined not to quit these
mountains until I found you and learned
from yourself whether your affliction, which
is evident by the strange life you lead, may
admit of any remedy, and, if so, make every
possible exertion to procure it ; and^ should
your misfortune be of such a kind that every
avenue to consolation is closed, I intended to
join in your moans and lamentations — for
sympathy is ever an alleviation to misery :
and if you should think my intention merits
any acknowledgment, I beseech you, sir, by
the infinite courtesy I see you possess; I
conjure you also by whatever in this life you
have loved, or do love most, to tell me who
vou are, and what has brought you hither,
CO live and die like a brute beast, amidst
these solitudes : an abode, if I may judge
from your person and attire, so unsuitable to
you. And I swear," added Don Quixote,
" by the order of knighthood I have received,
though unworthy and a sinner, and by the
profession of a knight-errant, if you gratify
me in this, to serve you with all the energy
which it is my duty to exert, either in reme-
dying your misfortune, if it admit of remedy,
or in assisting you to bewail it, as I have
already promised." The '' knight of the
mountain," hearing him of '^ the sorrowful
figure" talk thus, could only gaze upon him,
viewing him from head to foot ; and, after
sarveying him again and again, he said to
him : " If you have anything to give me to
eat, for God's sake let me have it, and when
I have eaten, I will do all you desire, in re-
^2)-
turn for the good wishes you have expressed
towards me."
Sancho immediately took from his wallet,
and the goatherd from his scrip, some pro-
visions, wherewith the wretched wanderer
satisfied his hunger : eating what they gave
him like a distracted person, so ravenously
that he made no interval between one mouth-
fril and another: for he rather devoured
than ate ; and, during his repast, neither he
nor the by - standers spoke a word. When
he had finished, he nmde signs to them to
follow him, which they did, and having
conducted them a short distance to a little
green plot, he there laid himself down, and
the rest did the same. When the " tattered
knight " had composed himself, he said : ''If
you desire, gentlemen, that I should tell you,
in few words, the immensity of my misfor-
tunes, you must promise not to interrupt, by
questions or otherwise, the thread of my
doleful history ; for in the instant you do so,
my narrative will break off." These words
brought to Don Quixote's memory the tale
related by his squire, which, because he had
not reckoned the number of goats that had
passed the river, remained unfinished. ** I
give this caution," said the ragged moun-
taineer, " because I would pass briefly over
the account of my misfortunes ; for recalling
them to my remembrance only adds to my
woe: and, the less I am questioned, the
sooner I shall have finished my story ; yet
will I not omit any material circumstance,
as it is my wish entirely to satisfy you."
Don Quixote, in the name of all tlie rest,
promised not to interrupt him, and upon this
assurance he began in the following manner :
'^ My name is Cárdenlo ; the place of my
birth, one of the best cities of Andalusia ;
my family noble ; my parents wealthy ; my
wretchedness so great tibat it must have been
deplored by my parents, and felt by my re-
lations, although not to be alleviated by all
their wealth : for riches are of littie avail in
many of the calamities to which mankind
are liable. In that city there existed a hea-
ven, wherein love had placed all the joy I
could desire : such is the beauty of Lucinda,
a damsel as well-bom and as rich as myself,
though more fortunate, and less constant
than my honourable intentions deserved.
&
©
DON QUIXOTE.
119
This Lucinda I loved and adored from my
childhood ; and she, on her part, loved me
with that innocent affection proper to her
age. Onr parents were not unacquainted
with onr attachment, nor was it displeasing
to them : foreseeing that it conld end only
in an union sanctioned, as it were, hy the
equality of our birth and circumstances. Our
love increased with our years, insomuch that
Lucinda's father thonght it prudent to re-
strain my wonted freedom of access to his
house : thus imitating the parents of the un-
fortanate Thisbe, so celebrated by the poets.
This restraint served only to encrease the
ardour of our affection ; for, though it was
in their power to impose silence on our
tongues, they could not do the same on our
pens, which reveal the secrets of the soul
more effectually than even the speech, for
the presence of a beloved object often so be-
wilders and confounds its faculties that the
tongue cannot perform its office. O hea-
vens ! how many billet-doux did I write to
her ! What charming, what modest answers
did I receive ! How many sonnets did I pen !
How many love-verses indite^ in which my
soul unfolded all its passion, described its
ardour^ cherished its remembrances, and in-
dnlged its fancy ! At length, my patience
being exhausted, and my soul languishing
to see her, J resolved at once to put into ex-
ecution what seemed to me the most likely
means to obtain my desired and deserved
reward ; that was, to demand her of her &-
ther, for my lawful wife ; which I immedi-
ately did. In reply, he thanked me for the
desire I expressed to honour him by an alli-
ance with his family ; bat that, as my father
was living, it belonged more properly to him
to make this demand : for, without his entire
concurrence, the act would appear secret and
unworthy of his Lucinda. I returned him
thanks for the kindness of his reception ; his
scruples I thought were reasonable, and I
made sure of my other's ready acquiescence.
( went therefore directly to him, and upon
entering his apartment, found him with a
letter open in his hand, which he gave me
before I spoke a word, saying, * By this let-
ter, you will see, Cárdenlo, the inclination
dnke Ricardo has to do you service.' Duke
Ricardo, gentlemen, as you cannot but know.
is a grandee of Spain, whose estate lies in
the best part of Andalusia. I read the let-
ter, which was so extremely kind that I
thought, even myself, it would be wrong in
my f&ther not to comply with its request,
which was that I should be sent immediately
to the duke, who was desirous of placing me,
not as a servant, but as a companion to his
eldest son ; which honour should be accom-
panied by such preferment as should corres-
pond with the estimation in which he held
me. I was nevertheless much perplexed by
the letter, and quite confounded when I
heard my father say: *Two days hence,
Cardenio, you shall depart, in compliance
with the duke's desire : and give thanks to
God for opening you a way to that fortune
I know you deserve ;' to which ne added
other paternal admonitions.
'' The time fixed for my departure came.
I conversed the night before with Lucinda,
and told her all that had passed ; and also
entreated her father to wait a few days,
and not to dispose of her, until I knew
what dnke Ricardo's pleasure was with me.
He promised me all I desired, and she con-
firmed it, with a thousand vows, and a
thousand faintings. I arrived, in sliort, at
the residence of duke Ricardo, who received
and treated me with so much kindness that
envy soon became active, by possessing his
old servants with an opinion that every
favour the duke conferred upon me was
prejudicial to their interest. But tlie person
most pleased at my arrival was a second
son of the duke, called Fernando, a spright-
ly young gentleman, of a gallant, liberal,
and amorous disposition, who, in a short
time, contracted so intimate a friendship
with me that it became the subject of gene-
ral conversation ; and though I was treated
with much favour by his elder brother, it
was not equal to the kindness and affection
of Don Fernando.
" Now, as unbounded confidence is always
the effect of such intimacy, and my friend-
ship for Don Fernando being most sincere,
he revealed to me all his thoughts, and par-
ticularly an amour, which gave him some
disquiet. He loved a country girl, the
daughter of one of his father's v&ssals.
Her parents were rich, and she herself was
-@
120
ADVENTURES OF
BO beautiful, discreet, and modest, that no
one could determine in which of these
qualities she most excelled. Don Femando's
passion for this lovely maiden was so exces-
sive that, in order to overcome the difficul-
ties opposed by her virtue, he resolved to
promise her marriage: knowing that she
was to be conquered by no other means.
Prompted by friendship, I employed the best
arguments I could suggest, to divert him
from such a purpose ; but, finding it was all
in vain, I resolved to acquaint his father,
the duke, with the affair. Don Fernando,
being artful and shrewd, suspected and
feared no less : knowing that I could not,
as a faithful servant, conceal from my lord
and master a concern so prejudicial to his
honour; and therefore, to amuse and de-
ceive me, he said, that he knew no better
remedy for effacing the remembrance of the
beauty that had so captivated him than to ab-
sent himself for some months : which, he said,
might be effected by our going together to my
father's house, under pretence, as he would
tell the duke, of purchasing horses in our
town, which is remarkable for producing the
best in the world. No sooner had he made
this proposal than, prompted by my own
love, I expressed my approbation of it, as
the best that possibly could be devised, and
should have done so, even had it been less
plausible, since it affi^rded me so good an
opportunity of returning to see my dear
Lucinda. Thus influenced, I seconded his
design, and desired him to put it in execu-
tion Avithout delay ; since absence, I assured
him, would certainly have its effect in spite
of the strongest inclination. At the very
time he made this proposal to me he had
already, as appeared afterwards, possessed
the maiden under the titie of a huslÑuid, and
only waited for a convenient season to divulge
it with safety to himself, being afraid of
what the duke his father might do, when be
should hear of his folly. Now as love in
young men is, for the most part, nothing
but appetite, and pleasure its ultimate end,
it expires with the attainment of its object ;
and what seems to be love vanishes, because
it has nothing of the durable nature of true
affection. In short, Don Fernando having
obtained possession of the country girl, his
desires grew ^nt, and his fondness abated ;
so tiiat, in reality, that absence which he
proposed as a remedy for his passion, he
only chose in order to avoid what was now
no longer agreeable to him. The duke con-
sented to his proposal, and ordered me to
bear him company. We reached our city,
and my father received him according to
his quality. I immediately visited Lucinda :
my passion revived (though, in truth, it had
been neither dead nor asleep), and unfor-
tunately for me, I revealed it to Don Fer-
nando ; thinking that, by tiie laws of friend-
ship, nothing should be concealed from him.
I expatiated so much on the beauty, grace,
and discretion of Lucinda, tiiat my praises
excited in him a desire of seeing a damsel
endowed with such accomplishments. Un-
happily I consented to gratify him, and
shewed her to him one night by the light of
a taper at a window, where we were accus-
tomed to converse together. He beheld
her, and every beauty he had hitherto seen
was cast in oblivion. He was struck dumb ;
he lost all sense ; he was entraliced — in
short, he became deeply enamoured, as will
appear by the sequel of my unfortunate story.
And, the more to inflame his passion, which
he concealed from me, he saw, by chance,
a letter she had written to me, expressing
her wish that I would again urge her other's
consent to our marriage, in terms so sen-
sible, so modest, and so full of tenderness,
that, when he had read it, he declared to me
that he thought in Lucinda alone were united
all the beauty, good sense, and excellent
qualities which were dispersed and divided
among the rest of her sex. True it is, I
confess, that although I knew what just
cause Don Fernando had to admire Lu-
cinda, I was grieved to hear those com-
mendations from his mouth. From that
time I began to fear and suspect him ; for
he was every moment talking of Lucinda,
and would begin the subject himself, how-
ever abruptly, which awakened in me I
know not what jealousy; and, tiiough I
feared no change in tiie goodness and fidelity
of Lucinda, yet I could not but dread the
very thing against which they seemed to
secure me. He also constantiy importuned
me to shew him the letters I wrote to
(^
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
121
Lacinda, as well as her answers, pretending
to be extremely delighted with both.
" Now it happened that Lucinda, having
desired me to lend her a book of chivalry,
of which she was very fond, entitled Amadis
de Gaul " Scarcely had Don Quixote
heard him mention a book of chivalry, when
he said : '^ Had you told me, sir, at the
beginning of your story, that the lady
Lucinda was fond of reading books of
chivalry, no more would have been neces-
sary to convince me of the sublimity of her
understanding; for it could never have
been so excellent as you have described it
had she wanted a relish for such savoury
reading : so that, with respect to me, it is
needless to waste more words in displaying
her beauty, worth, and understanding,
since, from only knowing her taste, I pro-
nounce her to be the most beautiful and the
most ingenious woman in the world. And
I wish, sir, that, together with Amadis de
Granl, you had sent her the good Don Rugel
of Greece ; for I know that the lady Lu-
cinda will be highly delighted with Daraida
and Garaya, and the wit of the shepherd
Darinel ; also with those admirable verses
of his Bucolics which he sung and repeated
with so much grace, wit, and freedom. But
this fault may be amended, and reparation
made, as soon as ever you will be pleased,
sir, to come with me to our town, where I
can furnish you with more than three
hundred books that are the delight of my
soul and the entertainment of my life. —
Yet it now occurs to me I have not one of
tbem left, — thanks to the malice of wicked
and envious enchanters ! Pardon me, sir,
for having broken my promise by this inter-
ruption, but, when I hear of matters apper-
taining to knights-errant and chivalry, I
can as well forbear talking of tliem as the
beams of the sun can cease to give heat, or
those of the moon to moisten. Pray, there-
fore, excuse me, and proceed ; for that is of
most importance to us at present/'
While Don Qaixote was saying all this
I Cárdenlo hung down his head upon his
breast, apparently in profound thought; and
I although Don Quixote twice desired him to
I continue his story, he neither lifted up his
I head, nor answered a word. But, after some
time, he raised it, and said : '^ I cannot get
it out of my mind, nor can any one persuade
me, — indeed he must be a blockhead who
understands or believes otherwise, but that
master Elisabat, that wicked rogue, lay
with queen Madasima." '^It is false, I
swear,'' answered Don Quixote in great
wrath; ^'it is extreme malice, or rather
villany, to say so. Queen Madasima was
a very noble lady, and it b not to be pre-
sumed that so high a princess should asso-
ciate with a quack ; and whoever asserts
that she did, lies like a very rascal : and I
will make him know it, on foot or on horse-
back, armed or unarmed, by night or by
day, or how he pleases." Cárdenlo sat
looking at him very attentively, and, the
mad fit being now upon him, he was in no
condition to prosecute his story, neither
would Don Quixote have heard him, so
much was he irritated by what he had heard
of Madasima ; and strange it was to see
him take her part with as much earnestness
as if she had been his true and natural mis-
tress— such was the effect of those cursed
books !
Cárdenlo, being now mad, and hearing
himself called liar and villain, with other
such opprobrious names, did not like the jest ;
and, catching up a stone that lay close by
him, he threw it with such violence at Don
Quixote's breast that it threw him on his
back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master
treated in this manner, attacked the madman
with his clenched fist ; and the ragged knight
received him in such sort that, with one
blow, he laid him at his feet, and then
trampled upon hfm to his heart's content.
The goatherd, who endeavoured to defend
him, fared little better ; and, when the mad-
man had sufficiently vented his fury upon
them all, he leñ them, and quietly retired
to his rocky haunts among the mountains.
Sancho got up in a rage to find himself so
roughly handled, and so undeservedly withal^
and was proceeding to take revenge on the
goatherd, telling him the fault was his, for
not having given them warning that this
man was subject to these mad fits ; for had
they known it they might have been upon
their guard. The goatherd answered that
he had given them notice of it, and that, if
^
122
ADVENTURES OF
tbey had not attended to it, the fimlt was
notfaú. Sancho Panza replied, the goatherd
rejoined; and the replies and rejoinders
ended in taking each other by the beard,
and coming to snch blows that, if Don
Qaizote had not interposed, they would
haye demolished each other. Bat Sancho
still kept fast hold of the goatherd, and
said, '' Let me alone, sir knight of the sor-
rowful figure, for, thb fellow being a
bumpkin like myself, and not a knight, I
may very safely revenge myself by fighting
with him hand to hand, like a man of
honoar.'' "True," said Don Quixote,
" but I know that he is not to blame for
what has happened." Hereupon they were
pacified ; and Don Quixote again enquired
of the goatherd whether it were possible to
find out Cardenio ; for he had a vehement
desire to learn the end of his story. The
goatherd told him, as before, that he did
not exactly know his haunts, but that, if he
waited some time about that part, he would
not fail to meet him, either in or out of bis
CHAPTER XXV.
M'HICH TREATS OF THE STRA2VOB THINGS
THAT BEFEL THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF
LA MANCHA IN THB SIERRA MORENA J
AND HOW HE IMITATED THB PENANCE
OF BELTENEBROS.
Don Quixote took his leave of the goat-
herd, and, mounting Rozinante, commanded
Sancho to follow hinri ; wLich he did very
unwillingly. They proceeded slowly on,
making their way into the most difficult
recesses of the mountain ; in the mean time
3ancho was dying to converse with his
naster, but would fain have had him begin
the discourse, that he might not disobey his
orders. Being, however, unable to hold out
any longer, be said to him : " Signer Don
Quixote, be pleased to give me your wor-
ship's blessing, and my dismission ; for I
will get home to my wife and children,
with whom I shall at least have the privi-
lege of talking and speaking my mind ; for
to desire me to bear your worship company
through these solitudes night and day,
without sofiering me to talk when I list, is
to bury me alive. If fate bad ordered it
that beasts should talk now, as they did in
the days of Guisopcte, it would not have
been quite so bad, since I might then have
communed with my ass as I pleased, and so
have foi^gotten my ill fortune ; for it is very
hard, and not to be borne with patience, for
a man to ramble about all his life in quest of
adventures, and to meet with nothing but
kicks and cufis, tossings in a blanket, and
bangs with stones, and, with all this, to have
bis mouth sewed up, not daring to utter what
he has in his heart, as if he were dumb."
''I understand thee, Sancho," answered
Don Quixote ; '' thou art impatient until I
take off the embargo I have laid on thy
tongue. Suppose it, then, removed, and
thou art permitted to say what thou wilt,
upon condition that this revocation is to
last no longer than whilst we are wandering
among these rocks." "Be it so," said
Sancho ; " let me talk now, for God knows
what will be hereafter. And now, taking
the benefit of this license, I ask, what had
your worship to do with standing up so
warmly for that same queen Magimasa, or
what's her name? or what was it to the
purpose whether that abbot* was her
gallant or not ? for, had you let that pass,
as you were not his judge, I verily believe
the madman would have gone on with his
story, and you would have escaped the
thump with the stone, the kicks, and above
half a dozen buffets."
"In faith, Sancho," answered Don
Quixote, "if thou didst but know, as I do,
how honourable and how excellent a lady
queen Madasima was, I am certain thou
wouldst acknowledge that I had a great
deal of patience in forbearing to dash to
pieces that mouth out of which such blas-
phemies issued ; for it is a monstrous impiety
to say, or even to think, that a queen
should be paramour to a barber-surgeon.
The truth of the story is that master Elisabat,
of whom the madman spoke, was a most
prudent man, of sound judgment, and served
• "Abad." Sancho, rememberiop only the latter
part of master Eliiabat's name, pleasantly calla him an
abbot. J.
(^=
DON QUIXOTE.
123
as tutor and physician to the queen ; but,
to suppose that she was his mistress is an
absurdity deserving of severe punishment ;
and to prove that Cardenio knew not what
he spoke, thou mayest remember that, when
he said it, he was not in his senses.^' " That
is what I say," quoth Sancho ; *^ and there-
fore no account should have been made of
his words ; for, if good fortune had not be-
friended your worship, and directed the
flint-stone at your head instead of your
breast, we had been in a fine condition for
standing up in defence of that dear lady,
whom Grod confound ; and Cardenio would
have come off unpunished, being insane/'
" Against the sane and insane," answered
Don Quixote, "it ¡a the duty of a knight-
errant to defend the honour of women, par-
ticularly that of a queen of such exalted
worth as queen Madasima, for whom I have
a particular affection, on account of her ex-
cellent qualities : for, besides being extremely
beantifol, she was very prudent, and very
patient in her afflictions, which were nume-
rous; and the counsels and company of
master Elisabat were of great use and
comfort to her, enabling her to bear her
sufferings with prudence and patience.
Hence the ignorant and evil-minded vulgar
took occasion to say that she was his para*
mour ; and I say again, they lie, and wül
lie two hundred times more, all who say or
think it." " I neither say nor think so,"
answered Sancho. *'Let those who say
it eat the lie, and swallow it with their
bread : whether they were guilty or no,
they have given an account to God before
now. I come from my vineyard ; I know
nothing. I am no friend to enquiring into
other men's lives ; for he that buys and lies
shall find the lie left in his purse behind.
Besides, naked was I bom, and naked I
remain; I neither win nor lose; if they
were guilty, what is that to me? Many
think to find bacon, when there is not so
much as a pin to hang it on ; but who can
hedge in the cuckoo — especially as God
himself is not spared ?" " Heaven defend
me !" said Don Quixote ; *' what a string
of nonsense ! What has our subject to do
with all these proverbs? Prythee, Sancho,
peace ; and henceforward attend to thy ass,
and forbear any interference with what doth
not concern thee. Be convinced, by thy
ñye senses, that whatever I have done, do,
or shall do, is highly reasonable, and exactly
conformable to the rules of chivalry, which
I am better acquainted with than all the
knights who ever professed it in the world.''
" Sir," replied Sancho, " is it a good rule
of chivalry for us to go wandering through
these mountains, without either path or
road, in quest of a madman who, perhaps,
when he is found, will be inclined to finish
what he began, — not his story, but the
breaking of your worship's head, and my
ribs?"
" Peace, Sancho, I repeat," said Don
Quixote : " for know that it is not only the
desire of finding the madman that brings me
to these parts, but an intention to perform in
them an exploit whereby I shall acquire per-
petual ñune and renown over the face of the
whole earth ; and it shall be such an one as
shall set the seal to make an accomplished
knight-errant." " And is this exploit a
very dangerous one?" quoth Sancho. "No,"
answered the knight ; " although the die
may chance to run unfortunately for us, yet
the whole will depend upon thy diligence."
" Upon my diligence !" exclaimed Sancho.
" Yes," said Don Quixote ; " for if thy
return be speedy from the place whither I
intend to send thee, my pain will soon be
over, and my glory forthwith commence:
and, that thou mayest no longer be in sus-
pense with regard to the tendency of ray
words, I inform thee, Sancho, that the fa-
mous Amadis de Gaul was one of the most
perfect of knights-errant — I should not say
one, for he was the sole, the principal, the
unique— in short, the prince of all his con-
temporaries. A üg for Don Belianis, and
all those who say that he equalled Amadis
in anything ! for I swear they are mistaken.
I say, moreover, that if a painter would be
famous in his art he must endeavour to copy
after the originals of the most excellent
masters. The same rule is also applicable
to all the other arts and sciences which adorn
the commonwealth ; thus, whoever aspires
to a reputation for prudence and patience,
must imitate Ulysses, in whose person and
toils Homer draws a lively picture of those
='^
124
ADVENTÜKES OF
qualities ; so also Virgil, in the character of
iBneas, delineates filial piety, courage, and
martial skill, being representations not of
what they really were, but of what they
ought to be, in order to serve as models of
virtue to succeeding generations. Thus was
Amadis the polar, the morning-star, and the
sun of all valiant and enamoured knights,
and whom all we, who militate under the
banners of love and chivalry, ought to fol-
low. This being the case, friend Sancho,
that knight-errant who best imitates him
will be most certain of arriving at pre-emi-
nence in chivalry. And an occasion upon
which this knight particularly displayed his
prudence, worth, courage, patience, con-
stancy, and love, was his retiring, when
disdained by the lady Oriana, to do penance
on the poor rock, changing his name to that
of Deltenebros ; a name most certainly sig-
nificant and proper for t-he life he had volun-
tarily chosen. Now it is easier for me to
imitate him in this than in cleaving giants^
beheading serpents, slaying dragons, routing
armies, shattering fleets, and dissolving en-
chantments ; and, since this place is so well
adapted for the purpose, I ought not to
neglect the opportunity which is now so
commodiously ofiered to me."
" What is it your worship really intends
to do in so remote a place as this?'' de-
manded Sancho. " Have I not told thee,"
answered Don Quixote, *^ that I design to
imitate Amadis, acting here the desperate,
raving, and furious lover ; at the same time
following the example of the valiant Don
Orlando, when he found by the side of a
fountain some indications that Angelica the
Fair had dishonoured herself with Medoro :
at grief whereof he ran mad, tore up trees
by the roots, disturbed the waters of the
crystal springs, slew shepherds, destroyed
fiocks, fired cottages, demolished houses,
dragged mares along the ground, and com-
mitted an hundred thousand other extra-
vagances, worthy of eternal record. And,
although it is not my design to imitate
Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he is
called by all these names), in every point,
and in all his frantic actions, words, and
thoughts, yet I will give as good a sketch
as I can of those which I deem most essen-
tial; or I may, perhaps, be content to imi*
tate only Amadis, who, without committing
any mischievous excesses, by tears and la-
mentations alone attained as much ñime as
all of them." '<It seems to me," quoth
Sancho, ** that the knights who acted in
such manner were provoked to it, and had a ■
reason for these follies and penances; but ¡
pray what cause has your worship to run
mad ? What lady has disdained you ? — or
what tokens have you discovered to con-
vince you that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso
has committed folly either with Moor or
christian?" "There lies the point," an-
swered Don Quixote, " and in this consists
the refinement of my plan. A knight -errant
who runs mad with just cause deserves no
thanks ; but to do so without reason is the
point : giving my lady to understand what I
should perform in the wet if I do this in the
dry. Besides, I have cause enough given
me by so long an absence from my ever-
honoured lady Dulcinea del Toboso ; for, as
thou heardst that shepherd, Ambrosio, say,
' The absent feel and fear every ill.' There-
fore, iiriend Sancho, counsel me not to refrain
from so rare, so happy, and so unparalleled
an imitation. Mad I am, and mad I must
be, until thy return with an answer to a
letter I intend to send by thee to my lady
Dulcinea; and, if it proves such as my
fidelity deserves, my madness and my pe-
nance will terminate : but if the contrary, I
shall be mad indeed ; and,' being so, shall
become insensible to everything: so that
whatever answer she returns, I shall be re-
lieved of the conflict and pain wherein thou
leavest me ; for if good, I shall enjoy it in
my right senses ; if otherwise, I shall be
mad, and consequently insensible of my
misfortune.
" But tell me, Sancho, hast thou taken
care of Mambrino's helmet ? for I saw thee
take it from the ground, when that ungrate-
ful wretch proved the excellence of its
quality, bj^ vainly endeavouring to break
it to pieces." To which Sancho answered :
''As God liveth, sir knight of the sorrowful
figure, I cannot bear with patience some
things your worship says : they are enough
to make me think that all you tell me of
chivalry, and of winning kingdoms and
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
125
empiresy of bestowing islands, and doing
other favours and mighty things, according
to the castom of knights-errant, must be
matter of mere smoke, and all friction, or
fiction, or how do you call it? For, to hear
you say that a barber's bason is Mambrino's
helmet, and to persist in that error for near
about four days, what can one think but
that he, who says and affirms such a thing,
must be crack-brained ? I have the bason in
my wallet, all battered ; and I shall take it
hi«me to get it mended, for the use of my
beard, if God be so gracious as to restore
me one time or other to my wife and chil-
dren.'' " Now I swear, by the same oath,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, ''that thou
hast the shallowest brain that any squire
has, or ever had, in the world. Is it possi-
ble that, notwithstanding all the time thou
hast travelled with me, thou dost not per-
ceive that all affairs in which knights-errant
are concerned appear chimeras, follies, and
extravagances, and seem all done by the
rule of contraries 7 Not that they are in
reality so, but because there is a crew of en-
chanters always about us, who metamor-
phose and disguise all our concerns, and turn
*hem according to their own pleasure, or
according as they are inclined to favour or
ruin us. Hence it is that the thing, which
to thee appears a barber's bason, appears to
me the helmet of Mambrino, and to another
will appear something else; and it was a
singular foresight of the sage my friend, to
make that appear to others a bason which,
really and truly, is Mambrino's helmet : be-
cause, being of such high value, all the
world would persecute me, in order to ob-
tain it ; but now, thinking it nothing but
a barber's bason, they give themselves no
trouble about it: as was evident in him
who, after endeavouring to break it, cast it
from him, which, in faith, he would never
have done had he known what it was.
Take care of it, friend ; although at present
I have no need of it : since I must strip off
all my armour, and remain as naked as ]
was bom, if I should determine upon
imitating Orlando, in my penance, instead
of Amadis."
While they were thus discoursing, they
irrived at the foot of a high mountain, which
stood separated from several others that sur-
rounded it, as if it had been hewn out from
them. Near its base ran a gentle stream,
that watered a verdant and luxurious vale,
adorned with many wide - spreading trees,
plants, and wild flowers of various hues.
This was the spot in which the knight of
the sorrowful figure chose to perform his
penance; and, while contemplating the
scene, he thus broke forth in a loud voice :
" This is the place, O ye heavens ! which
I select and appoint for bewaUing the mis-
fortune in which ye have involved me. This
is the spot where my flowing tears shall
increase the waters of this crystal stream,
and my sighs, continual and deep, shall in-
cessantly move the foliage of these lofty
trees, in testimony and token of the pain
my persecuted heart endures. 0 ye rural
deities, whoever ye be that inhabit these
remote deserts, give ear to the complaints oi
an unhappy lover, whom long absence and
some pangs of jealousy have driven to bewail
himself among these nigged heights, and to
complain of the cruelty of that ungrateful
fair, the utmost extent and ultimate perfec-
tion of all human beauty! 0 ye wood-
nymphs and dryads, who are accustomed to
inhabit the dark recesses of tlie mountain
groves (so may the nimble and lascivious
satyrs, by whom ye are wooed in vain, nevei
disturb your sweet repose), assist me u
lament my hard hie, or at least be not wear}
of hearing my groans ! O my Dulcinea
del Toboso, light of my darkness, glory of
my pain, the north-star of my travels, and
over-ruling planet of my fortune (so may
heaven b'sten to all thy petitions), consider,
I beseech thee, to what a condition tby ab-
sence hath reduced me, aud reward me as
my fidelity deserves ! O ye solitary trees,
who henceforth are to be the companions of
my retirement, wave gently your branches,
to indicate that my presence does not offend
you ! And, 0 thou my squire, agreeable
companion in my prosperous and adverse
fortune, carefully imprint on thy memory
what thou shalt see me here perform, that
thou mayest recount and recite it to her who
is the sole cause of all I" Thus saying, he
alighted fi^m Rozinante, and in an instant
took off his bridle and saddle, and, clipping
(^
126
=^
ADVENTURES OF
him on the hinder parts, said to him : '' O
Bteed, as excellent for my performances as
unfortunate in thy fate ! he gives thee liberty
who is himself deprived of it Go whither
thou wilt ; for thou hast it written on thy
forehead that neither Astolpho's Hippogriff^
nor the famous Frontino, which cost Brada-
mante so dear, could match thee in speed."
Sancho, observing all this, said, '^ God's
peace be with him who saved us the trouble of
unharnessing Dapple ; for in faith he should
have wanted neither slaps nor speeches in
his praise. Yet if he were here, I would not
consent to his being unpannelled, there being
no occasion for it ; for he had nothing to do
with love or despair, any more than I, who
was once his master, when it so pleased God.
And truly, sir knight of the sorrowful figure,
if it be so, that my departure and your mad-
ness take place in earnest, it will be well to
saddle Rozinante again, that he may supply
the loss of my Dapple, and save me time in
going and coming ; for if I walk, I know
not how I shall be able either to go or return,
being in truth but a sorry traveller on foot."
'* Be that as thou wilt," answered Don
Quixote; '^for I do not disapprove thy
proposal ; and I say thou shalt depart within
three days, during which time I intend thee
to bear witness of what I do and say for her,
that thou mayest report it accordingly."
" What have I more to see," quoth Sancho,
" than what I have already seen ?" " So
far thou art well prepared ;" answered Don
Quixote 'y " but I have now to rend my gar-
ments, scatter my arms about, and dash my
head against these rocks ; with other things
of the like sort, which will strike thee with
admiration." " For the love of God," said
Sancho, "beware how you give yourself
those blows, for you may chance to touch
upon some unlucky point of a rock, that
may at once put an end to this new project
of penance ; and I should think, since your
worship is of opinion that knocks of the head
are necessary, and that this work cannot be
done without them, you might content your-
self, since all is a fiction, a counterfeit, and
a sham, I say, you might content yourself
with running your head against T^ater, or
some soft thing, such as cotton ; and leave
it to me to tell my lady that you dashed
your head against the point of a rock, harder
than a diamond." *^ I thank thee for thy
good intentions, friend Sancho," answered
Don Quixote ; " but I would have thee to
know, that all these actions of mine are no
mockery but done very much in earnest : for
to act otherwise would be an infraction of
the rules of chivalry, which enjoin us to ut-
ter no ñüsehood, on pain of being punished
as apostates ; and the doing one thing for
anotiier is the same as lying; therefore,
blows must be real and substantial, without
artifice or evasion. However, it will be ne-
cessary to leave me some lint for my wounds,
since it was the will of fortune that we should
lose the balsam." " It was worse to lose the
ass," answered Sancho ; " for, with him, we
lost lint and every thing else ; and I beseech
your worship not to put me in mind of that
cursed drench ; for, at barely hearing it men-
tioned, my very soul, as well as my stomach,
is turned inside out. As for the three days
allowed me for seeing your mad pranks, I
beseech you to reckon them as already passed,
for I take all for granted, and will tell won-
ders to my lady : do you write the letter, and
dispatch me quickly, for I long to come back
and release your worship from this purga-
tory, in which I leave you." "Purga-
tory, dost thou call it, Sancho?" said Don
Quixote. " Call it rather hell, or worse, if
any thing can be worse." " I have heard
say," quoth Sancho, " that ^ fit)m hell there
is no retention.' " ^' I know not," said Don
Quixote, " what retention means." " Re-
tention," answered Sancho, " means that be
who is once in hell never does, nor ever can,
get out again. But it will be quite the re-
verse with your worship, or it shall go hard
with my heeb, if I have but spurs to enliven
Rozinante. Let me but once get to Toboso,
and into the presence of my lady Dulcinea,
and I will tell her such a story of the foolish
mad things (for they are all bo better) which
your worship has done and is still doing,
that I shall bring her to be as supple as a
glove, though I find her harder than a cork
tree ; and with her answer, all sweetness and
honey, will I return through the air, like a
witch, and fetch your worship out of this
U=
=<?5)
DON QUIXOTE.
127
piugatory, which, though it seems so, is no
hell, becaase, as I said, your worship may
hope to get out of it.''
'^ That is true," answered the knight of
the sorrowful figure — " but how shall we
contrive to write the letter ?" — " And the
ass-colt bill?" added Sancho. <^ Nothing
shaU be omitted/' said Don Quixote ; '^ and
since we have no paper, we shall do well to
write it as the ancients did, on the leaves of
trees, or on tablets of wax ; though it will
be as difficult at present to meet with these
as with paper. But, now I recollect, it may
be as well, or indeed better, to write it in
Cardenio's pocket-book, and you will take
care to get it fairly transcribed upon paper,
in the first town you reach, where there is
a schoolmaster; or, if there be none, any
pariah clerk will transcribe it for you : but
be aure you give it to no hackney-writer of
the law ; for the devil himself will never be
able to read their confounded law- hand."
"Bat what must we do about the signing it
with your own hand ?" said Sancho. '' The
letters of Amadis were never subscribed,"
answered Don Quixote. " Very well," re-
plied Sancho ; *' but' the order for the colts
most needs be signed by yourself; for, if
that be copied, they will say it is a false sig-
nature, and I shall be forced to go without
the colts." " The order shall be signed in
the same pocket-book ; and, at sight of it,
my niece will make no difficulty in comply-
ing with it. As to the love-letter, let it be
subscribed thus: ^ Yours, until death, the
knight of the sorrowful figure.' And it is
of little importance whether it be written in
another hand ; for, I remember, Dulcinea
can neither write nor read, nor has she ever
seen a letter or writing of mine in her whole
life ; for our loves have always been of the
Platonic kind, extending no iarther than to
modest glances at each other; and even
those so very rarely that I can truly swear
that, during the twelve years that I have
loved her more than the light of these eyes,
which the earth must one day consume, I
have not seen her four times ; and perhaps
of these four times she may not have once
perceived that I looked upon her — such is
the reserve and seclusion in which she is
brought up by father Lorenzo Corchuelo,
and her mother Aldonza Nogales !"
" Hey day !" quoth Sancho, " what, the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo ! Is she the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called
Aldonza Lorenzo ?" '* It is even she," said
Don Quixote, " and she deserves to be mis-
tress of the universe." " I know her well,"
quoth Sancho ; " and I can assure you she
will pitch the bar with the lustiest swain in
the parish. Long live the giver ! why she
is a lass of mettle, tall, straight, and vigor
ous, and I warrant can make her part good
with any knight-errant that shall have her
for a mistress. O the jade, what a pair of
lungs and a voice she has ! I remember she
got out one day upon the bell-tower of the
church, to call some young ploughmen, who
were in a field of her father's ; and, though
they were half a league off, they heard her
as plainly as if they had stood at the foot
of the tower ; and the best of her is that
she is not at all coy, but as bold as a
court lady, and makes a jest and a may-
game of every body. I say then, * sir knight
of the sorrowful figure,' that you not only
may, and ought to run mad for her, but also
you may justly despair and hang yourself;
and nobody that hears it but will say you
did extremely well, though the devil should
carry you away. I would fain begone, if
it is only to see her : for I have not seen her
this many a day, and by this time she must
needs be altered ; for it mightily spoils wo-
men's faces to be always abroad in the field,
exposed to the sun and weather. I confess
to your worship, sigñor Don Quixote, that
hitherto I have been hugely mistaken, for I
thought, for certain, that the lady Dulcinea
was some great princess, with whom you
were in love, or at least some person of such
great quality as to deserve the rich presents
yon have sent her, as well of the Biscainer,
as of the galley-slaves ; and many others
from the victories your worship must have
gained before I came to be your squire.
But; all things considered, what good can it
do the lady Aldonza Lorenzo — I mean the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, to have the van-
quished whom your worship sends or may
send, falling upon their knees before her?
=€)
128
ADVENTURES OF
For perhaps, at the time they arrive, she may
be carding flax, or threshing in the barn, and
they may be confounded at the sight of her,
and she may laugh and care little for the
present?" "I have often told thee, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote, '' that thou art an eternal
babbler, and, though void of wit, thy blunt-
ncss often stings : but, to convince thee at
once of thy folly, and my discretion, I will
tell thee a short tale.
" Know then that a certain widow, hand-
some, young, gay, and rich, and withal no
prude, fell in love with a lay-brother : young,
well-made, and vigorous. His superior heard
of it, and one day took occasion to speak to
the good widow, in the way of brotherly
reprehension. ' I wonder, madam,' said he,
' and not without great reason, that a wo-
man of your quality, so beautiful and so rich,
should fall in love with such a despicable,
mean, silly fellow, when there are, in this
house, so many graduates, dignitaries, and
divines, among whom you might pick and
choose, and say this I like and this I leave,
as you would among pears.' But she an-
swered him with great frankness and gaiety:
• You are much mistaken, worthy sir, and
your sentiments are very antiquated, if you
imagine that I have made an ill choice in
that fellow, silly as he may appear, since, for
ought that I desire of him, he knows as much
of philosophy as Aristotle himself, if not
more.' In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea
del Toboso, for the purpose I intend her,
deserves as liighly as the greatest princess
on earth. For of those poets who have
celebrated the praises of ladies under fic-
titious names, many had no such mis-
tresses. Thinkest thou that the Amaryllises,
the Phyllises, the Silvias, the Dianas, the
Galateas, the Alidas, and the like, famous
in books, ballads, barber's shops, and
stage-plays, were really ladies of flesh and
blood, and beloved by those who have cele-
brated them ? Certainly not : they are
mostly feigned, to supply subjects for verse,
and to make the authors pass for men of
gallantry. It is therefore sufficient that I
think and believe that the good Aldonza
Lorenzo is beautiful and chaste ; and as to
her lineage, it matters not ; for no enquiry
concerning it is requisite ; and to me it is
unnecessary, as I regard her as the greatest
princess in the world. For thou must know,
Sancho, if thou knowest it not already, that
two "things, above all others, incite to love,
namely, beauty and a good name. Now
both these are to be found in perfection in
Dulcinea ; for in beauty, none can be cora-
dared to her, and for pnrity of reputation,
few can equal her. In fine, I conceive she
is exactly what I have described, and every
thing that I can desire , both as to beauty
and quality, unequalled by Helen, or by
Lucretia, or any other of the famous women
of antiquity, whether Grecian, Roman, or
Goth ; and I care not what be said ; since,
if, upon this account, I am blamed by the
ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the wise."
**Your worship," replied Sancho, " is always
in the right, and I am an ass — why do I
mention an ass — one should not talk of
halters in the house of the hanged ? But I
am off — give me the letter, sir, and God
be with you."
Don Quixote took out the pocket-book,
and, stepping aside, began with much com-
posure to write the letter; and, having
finished, he called Sancho, and said he
would read it to him, that he might have
it by heart, lest he might perchance lose it
by tlie way : for every thing was to be
feared from his evil destiny. To which
Sancho answered : •* Write it, sir, ti^'o or
three times in the book, and give it me and
I will take good care of it : but to suppose
that I can carry it in my memory, is a foUy^ ;
for mine is so bad that I often forget my
own name. Your worship, however, may
read it to me ; I shall be glad to hear it, for
it must needs be very much to the purpose."
" Listen then," said Don Quixote, " this is
what I have written.
Don Quixote's letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.
High and sovereign lady.
He who is stabbed by the point of ab-
sence, and pierced by the arrows of love, O
sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets thee
with wishes for that health which he enjoys
not himself. If thy beauty despise me, if
thy worth iavour me not, and if thy disdain
still pursue me, although inured to suffering,
I shall ill support an affliction, which is not
©=
r@
I>ON QUIXOTE.
129
only severe, but lasting. My good squire
SancLo \i^ill tell thee, O uugrateful fair, and
most beloved foe, to what a state I am re-
duced on thy account. If it be thy pleasure
to relieve me, I am thine ; if not, do what
scemeth good to thee : for, by my death, I
shall at once appease tiiy cruelty and my
own passion.
Until death thine,
The knight of the sorrowful figure."
" By the life of my father," quoth San-
cho, after hearing the letter; "it is the
finest thing I ever heard. Odds boddikins !
how choicely your worship expresses what-
ever yon please ! and how well you close all
with * the knight of the sorrowful figure !'
Verily, your worship is the devil himself
— there is nothing but what you know."
"The profession which I have embraced,"
answered Don Quixote, " requires a know-
ledge of every thing." " Well then," said
Sancho, "pray clap on the other side the
leaf the order for the three ass-colts, and
sign it very plain, that people may know
your hand at first sight." "With all my
heart," said the knight ; and, having written
it, he read as follows :
" Dear niece, at sight of this my first bill
of ass-colts, give order that three out of the
five I left at home in your custody be de-
livered to Sancho Panza my squire : which
three colts I order to be delivered and paid
for the like number received of him here
in tale ; and this, with his acquittance, shall
be your discharge. Done in the heart of
the Sierra Morena, the twenty-second of
August, this present year "
" It is mighty well," said Sancho ; " now
you have only to sign it." " It wants no
signing," said Don Quixote ; " I need only
put my cypher to it, which is the same thing,
and is sufiScient, not only for three, but for
three hundred asses." " I rely upon your
worship," answered Sancho; "let me go
and saddle Rozinante, and prepare to give
me your blessing, for I intend to depart
immediately, without staying to see the mad
frolics you are about to commit ; and I will
tell quite enough to satisfy her." "At
least, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " I wish,
nav, it is necessary, and I will have thee see
me naked, and perform a dozen or t^o
frantic actions ; for I shall dispatch them in
less than half an hour : and, having seen
these with thine own eyes, thou mayest
safely swear to those thou shalt add ; for be
assured thou wilt not relate so many as I
intend to perform." " For the love of God,
dear sir," quoth Sancho, " let me not see
your worship naked ; for it will move my
pity so much that I shall not be able to for-
bear weeping : and my head is so bad, after
the tears I shed last night for the loss of
poor Dapple, that I am in no condition, at
present, to begin new lamentations. So, if
your worship will have me an eye-witness
to any of your anticks, pray do them
clothed, and with all speed, and let them be
such OS will stand you in most stead : though
indeed, there is no need of them, as I said
before, it is only delaying my return, with
the news your worship so much desires and
deserves. So let the lady Dulcinea look to
it ; for if she does not answer as she should
do, I solemnly protest I will fetch it out of
her stomach by dint of kicks and bufiiets
— for it is a shame that so famous a knight-
errant, as your worship, should run mad,
without why or wherefore, for a let
not madam provoke me to speak out ; or,
before God, I shall blab, and out with all
by wholesale, though it spoil the market.
I am pretty good at this sport ; she does
not know me : if she did, in faith, we should
be of one mind." " In troth, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, " to all appearance thou art
as mad as myself." " Not so," answered
Sancho, " only a little more choleric. But
setting that aside, what has your worship to
eat until my return ? Are you to go upon
the highway, to rob the shepherds, like
Cárdenlo?" "Trouble not thyself about
that," answered Don Quixote : "for were
I otherwise provided, I should eat nothing
but the herbs and fruits, which here grow
wild: for abstinence and other austerities
are essential in this affair." " Now I think of
it, sir," said Sancho, "how shall I be able
to find my way back again to this bye-
place ?" " Observe and mark well the spot,
and I will endeavour to remain near it ;"
said Don Quixote, " and will, moreover,
ascend some of the highest ridges to discover
(^
=-^
130
ADVENTURES OF
thee upon thy return. But the surest way
not to miss me^ or lose thyself, will be to
cut down some of the broom that abounds
here, and scatter it here and there, on thy
way to the plain, to serve as marks and
tokens to guide thee on thy return, in imi-
tation of Theseus's due to the labyrinth.
Sancho Panza followed this counsel ; and
having provided himself with branches, he
begged his master's blessing, and, not with-
out many tears on both sides, took his leave
of him ; and mounting upon Rozinante, with
an especial charge from Don Quixote to
regard him as he would his own proper
person, he rode towards the plain, strewing
the boughs at intervals, as his master had
directed him. Thus he departed, although
Don Quixote still importuned him to stay
and see him perform, if it were but a couple
of his gambols. He had not gone above a
hundred paces^ when he turned back and
said : ^' Your worship, sir, said right that,
to enable me to swear with a safe conscience,
it would be proper I should, at least, see one
of your mad tricks ; though, in plain truth,
I have seen enough in seeing you stay here.''
"Did I not tell thee so?" quoth Don
Quixote : " stay but a moment, Sancho, I
will dispatch them as quickly as you can say
a credo." Then stripping off his breeches
in all haste, he remained naked from the
waist downwards, or covered only with the
tail of his shirt; and presently, without
more ado, he cut a couple of capers in the
air, and as many tumbles, heels over head,
making such an exposure that, to avoid a
second view, Sancho turned Hozinante about,
fully satisfied that he might swear his master
was stark mad : we will therefore leave him
pursuing his journey until his return, which
was speedy.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A CONTINUATION OF THE REFINEMENTS
PBAOTISED BY DON QUIXOTE, AS A
LOVEB, IN THE SIERRA MORENA.
The histor}^, then recounting what the
" knight of the sorrowful figure" did when
he found himself alone, informs us that,
having finished his gambols, half-naked^
and perceiving that Sancho was gone.
without caring to be witness to any more
of his pranks, mounted the top of a high
rock, and there began to deliberate on a
subject that he had often considered before,
without coming to any resolution ; and that
was which of the two was the best and most
proper model for his imitation, Orlando in
his furious fits, or Amadis in his melemcholy
moods: and thus he argued with himself:
if Orlando was as good and valiant a knight
as he is universally allowed to have been,
where is the wonder? since, in fact, he was
enchanted, and could only be slain by
having a needle thrust into the sole of his
foot ; and therefore he always wore shoes
with seven soles of iron. This contrivance,
however, availed him nothing against
Bernardo del Carpió, who knew the secret,
and pressed him to death between his arms
in Roncesvalles. But, setting aside his
valour, let us consider his madness, which
was certainly occasioned by the discovery
he made at the fountain, and by the intelli-
gence given him by the shepherd, that
Angelica had slept more than two siestas
with Medoro, a little curl-pated Moor, page
to Agramante. And if he knew this, and was
convinced of his lady's infidelity, it was no
wonder he ran mad. But how can I imitate
him in his phrenzy, without a similar cause ?
My Dulcinea del Toboso, I dare swear, never,
in all her life, beheld a real and acknowledged
Moor, and that she is this day as the mother
that bore her ; and I should do her a mani-
fest wrong if, suspecting otherwise, I should
be seized with the same species of phrenzy
as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other
side I see that Amadis de Gaul, without
losing his senses, or any raving fits, acquired
a reputation equally high, as a lover, since,
finding himself disdained by his lady Oriana,
who commanded him not to appear in her
presence until it was her pleasure, he only-
retired to the poor rock, accompanied by a
hermit, and there wept abundantly until
heaven succoured him in his great tribula-
tion. Now this being the case, why should
I take the pains to strip myself naked, or
molest these trees, that never did mc harm ?
Or wherefore should I disturb the water of
these crystal streams, which are to furnish
me with drink when I want it? All honour
DON QUIXOTE.
131
then to the memory of Amadis ! and let him
be the model of Don Quixote de la Mancha,
of whom shall be said, what was said of
another, that, if he did not achieve great
things, he at least died in attempting them ;
and, though neither rejected nor disdained
by my Dulcinea, it is sufficient that I am
absent from her. Now then to the work
— come to my memory, ye deeds of Amadis,
and instruct me where to begin the task of
imitation ! It now occurs to me that he
prayed much— that will I also do." Where-
upon he strung some large galls of a cork-
tree, which served him for a rosary; but
he regretted exceedingly that there was no
hermit to hear his confession, and administer
consolation to him. He thus passed the time,
walking about and writing and graving on
tlie barks of trees, or tracing, in the fine sand,
many verses of a plaintive kind, or in praise
of his Dulcinea. Among those afterwards
discovered, only the following were entire
and legible :
I.
Te loftj trees, with spreading arms,
The pride and shelter of the plain :
Ye humbler shmbs and flow'iy charms
Which here in spring:ing glory reign I
If mj complaints may pity movei
Hear the sad story of my love I
While with me here you pass your hoars,
Should yon grow faded with my cares,
1*11 bribe you with refreshing showers ;
Yon shall be watered with my tears.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
II.
Love's truest slave, despairing, chose
This lonely wild, this desert plain.
The aUent witness of the woes
Wlxieh he, though guiltless, must sustún.
Unknowing why these pains he bears,
He groans, he rayes, and he despairs.
With lingering fires love racks my soul :
In Tain I grieve, in vain lament ;
like tortured fiends I weep, I howl.
And burn, yet never can repent.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
III.
While I through honour's thorny ways,
In search of distant glory rove.
Malignant fate my toil repays
With endless woes and hopeless love.
Thus I on barren rocks despair,
^d curse my stars, yet bless my fair.
Love, arm'd with snakes, has left his dart,
And now does like a fury rave.
And scourge and sting on every part,
And into madness lash his slave.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcine%
Del Toboso.
The whimsical addition at the end of each
stanza occasioned no small amusement to
those who found the verses ; for they con-
cluded that Don Quixote had thought that,
unless to the name of " Dulcinea" he added
" Del Toboso," the object of his praise would
not be known — and they were right, as he
afterwards confessed. He wrote many
others, but only these three stanzas could
be clearly made out. In such tender an''
melancholy occupations, sighing, or in-
voking the sylvan deities, the nymphs of
the mountain streams, and the mournful
echo to listen and answer to his moan, he
passed the time ; and sometimes in gathering
herbs to sustain himself until Sancho's re-
turn, who, if he had tarried three weeks
instead of three days, " the knight of the
sorrowful figure" would have been so dis-
figured that he would not have been
recognized by the very mother who bore
him. Here, however, it will be proper to
leave him, wrapped up in poetry and grief,
to relate what happened to the squire during
his embassy.
As soon as Sancho had gained the high
road, he directed his course immediately to
Toboso, and the next day he came within
sight of the inn where the misfortune of the
blanket had befallen him ; and, fancying
himself again fiying in the air, he felt no
disposition to enter it, although it was then
the hour of dinner, and he longed for some-
thing warm — all having been cold-treat with
him for many days past. This inclination,
nevertheless, drew him forcibly towards the
inn ; and, as he stood doubtful whether or
not to enter, two persons came out who
immediately recognised him. *^ Pray, sigñor
licentiate," said one to the other, ^'is not that
Sancho Panza yonder on horseback, who, as
our friend's housekeeper told us, accom-
panied her master as his squire ? " '' Truly
it is," said the licentiate : '^ and that is our
Don Quixote's horse." No wonder they
knew him so well, for they were the priest
and the barber of his village, and the very
persons who had tried and passed sentence
of execution on the mischievous books.
Being now certain it was Sancho Panza and
Rozinante, and hoping to hear some tidings*
of Don Quixote, the priest went up to him^
=©
182
ADVENTURES OF
and, calling him by his name, ^' Friend
Sancho Panza," said he, " where have you
left your master?" Sancho immediately
knew them, and resolved to conceal the
circumstances and place of Don Quixote's
retreat; he therefore told them that his
master was very busy in a certain place,
about a certain affair of the greatest import-
ance to himself, which he durst not discover
for the eyes in his head. " No, no, Sancho,"
quoth the barber, " that story will not pass.
If you do not tell us where he is, we shall
conclude, as we suspect already, that you
have murdered and robbed him, since you
come thus upon his horse. See, then, that
you produce the owner of that horse, or woe
be to you !" ** There is no reason why you
should threaten me," quoth Sancho ; *' for
I am not a man to rob or murder any body.
Let every man's fate kill him, or God that
made him. My master is doing a certain
penance much to his liking, in the midst of
yon mountains." He then, very freely and
without hesitation, related to them in what
state he had left him, the adventares that
had befallen them, and how ha was then
carrying a letter to the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso — the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo,
with whom his master was up to the ears
in love.
They were both astonished at Sancho's
report ; and, though tliey already knew the
nature of Don Quixote's derangement, yet
every fresh instance of it was to them a new
source of wonder. They begged Sancho
Panza to shew them the letter he was carry-
ing to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. He
said it was written in a pocket-book, and
that his master had ordered him to get it
copied out upon paper at the first town he
should arrive at. The priest said, if he
would shew it to him, he would transcribe
it in a very &ir character. Sancho Panza
put his hand into his bosom to take out the
book, but found it not ; nor could he have
found it had he searched until this time ;
for it remained with Don Quixote, who had
forgotten to give it to him. When Sancho
found he had no book, he turned as pale as
death ; and, having felt again all over his
body in great perturbation, without success,
he laid hold of his beard with both hands,
and tore away half of it ; and then gave
himself sundry cuffs on the nose and mouth,
bathing them all in blood. The priest and
barber seeing this, asked him wherefore he
treated himself so roughly. " Wherefore ?"
answered Sancho, " but that I have let slip
through my fingers three ass-colts, each of
them a castle !" " How so ?" replied the
barber. " I have lost the pocket-book,"
answered Sancho, ** that contained the letter
to Dulcinea, and a bill signed by my master,
in which he ordered his niece to deliver to
me three colts out of four or ñve he had at
home." This led him to mention his loss of
Dapple ; but the priest bid him be of good
cheer, telling him that, when he saw his
master, he would engage him to renew the
order upon paper in a regular way ; for one
written in a pocket-book would not be
accepted. Sancho was comforted by this
assurance, and said that he did not care for
the loss of the letter to Dulcinea, as he could
almost say it by heart ; so that they might
write it down, where and when they pleased.
" Repeat it then, Sancho," quoth the barber,
" and we will write it afterwards." Sancho
then began to scratch his bead, in order to
fetch the letter to his remembrance ; now he
stood upon one foot, and then upon the
other ; sometimes he looked down upon tlie
ground, and sometimes up to the sky : then,
after biting off half a nail of one finger, and
keeping his hearers long in expectation, he
said : ^' The devil take all I remember of the
letter ; though at the beginning I believe it
said : * High andsubterrane lady.' " " No,"
said the barber, " not subterrane, but super-
humane, or sovereign lady." *' Aye, so it
was," said Sancho. " Then, if I do not
mistake, it went on ; ' the stabbed, and the
waking, and the pierced, kisses your ho-
nour's hands, ungrateful and most regardless
fair,' and then it said I know not what of
' health and sickness that he sent;' and
so he went on, until at last he ended with
' thine till death, the knight of the sorrowful
figure.' "
They were both not a little diverted at
Sancho's excellent memory, and commended
it much, desiring him to repeat the letter
twice more, that they also might get it by
heart, in order to write it down in du)e time.
=<^
<^
DON QUIXOTE.
133
Thrice Sancho repeated it, and thnce he
added three thousand other extravagances ;
relating to them also many other things
concerning his master, but not a word of
the blanket. He informed them likewise
how his lord, upon his return with a kind
dispatch from his lady Dulcinea del Toboso
was to set about endeavouring to become an
emperor, or at least a king (for so it was
concerted between them) — a thing that
would be very easily done, considering the
valour and strength of his arm ; and when
this was accomplished, his master was to
marry him (as by that time he should, no
doubt, be a widower), and give him to wife
one of the empress's maids of honour, heiress
to a large and rich territory on the main
land: for, as to islands, he was quite out
of conceit with them. Sancho said all this
with so much gravity, ever and anon wiping
his nose, that they were amazed at the po-
tency of Don Quixote's malady, which had
borne along with it the senses also of this
poor fellow. They would not give them-
selves the trouble to convince him of his
folly, as it was of a harmless nature, and
afforded them amusement: they therefore
told him he should pray for his lord's health,
since it was very possible, and very practica-
able for him, in process of time, to become
an emperor, as he said, or at least an arch-
bishop, or something else of equal dignity.
To which Sancho answered, ^* Gentlemen,
if fortune should so order it that my master
should take it into his head not to be an em-
peror, but an archbishop, I would iain know
what archbishops-errant usually give to their
squires?" "They usually give them," an-
swered the priest, " some benefice, or cure,
or vergership, which brings them in a good
penny -rent; besides the perquisites of the
altar, usually valued at as much more."
" For this it will be necessary," replied
Sancho, " that the squire be unmarried, and
that he know, at least, the responses to the
mass ; and, if so, woe is me ! for I am mar-
ried, and do not know my A, B, C. What
will become of me, if my master should have
a mind to be an archbishop, and not an
emperor, like other knights-errant !" " Be
not uneasy, friend Sancho,'^ said the bar-
ber ; ** for we will admonish and intreat
your master, even to make it a case of con-
science, to become an emperor and not an
archbishop ; — indeed, it will suit him better,
as he is more of a soldier than a scholar.'*
" So I think," answered Sancho, " though
I can affirm that he has a head -piece for
every thing ; but for my part, I will pray
Heaven to direct him to that which is best
for him, and will enable him to do tlie most
for me." " You talk like a wise man," said
the priest, " and a good christian ; but we
must now contrive to relieve your master
from this unprofitable penance ; and, there-
fore, let us go in to concert proper measures,
and also to get our dinner, which by this
time is ready. Sancho said, they might
go in, but that he should choose to stay
without — he would tell them why another
time ; he begged them, however, to bring
him out something warm to eat, and also
some barley for Rozinante. Accordingly
they left him and entered the inn, and soon
after the barber returned to him with some
food.
The curate and barber having deliberated
together on the best means of accomplishing
their purpose, a device occurred to the priest,
exactly fitted to Don Quixote's humour, and
likely to effect what they desired ; which
was, that he should perform himself the part
of a damsel - errant, and the barber equip
himself as her squire; in which disguise
they should repair to Don Quixote ; and
the curate, presenting himself as an afflicted
and distressed lady, should beg a boon of
him, which he, as a valorous knight-errant,
could not do otherwise than grant ; and this
should be a request that he would accom-
pany her whither she should lead him, to
redress an injury done her by a discourteous
knight : intreating him, at the same time,
not to desire her to remove her mask, noz
make any farther enquiries concerning her,
until he had done her justice on that wicked
knight. He made no doubt but that Don
Quixote would consent to any such terms,
and they might thus get him away from
that place, and carry him home, where they
would endeavour to find some remedy for
his extraordinary malady.
M
=K
134
ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER XXVII.
HOW THB PRIEST AND THE BARBER
PROCEEDED IN THEIR PROJECT, WITH
OTHER THINGS WORTHY OP BEING
RELATED IN THIS HISTORY.
The barber liked the priest's contrivance so
well that they immediately began to carry
it into execution. They borrowed a petti-
coat and head-dress of the landlady, leaving
in pawn for them a new cassock belonging
to the priest ; and the barber made himself
a huge beard of the tail of a pied oz, in
which the inn-keeper used to hang his comb.
The hostess having asked them for what
purpose they wanted those things, the priest
gave her a brief account of Don Quixote's
Insanity, and the necessity of that disguise
to draw him from his present retreat. The
host and hostess immediately conjectured
that this was the same person who had once
been their guest, the maker of the balsam,
and the master of the blankettcd squire;
and they related to the priest what had
passed between them, without omitting what
Sancho had been so careful to conceal. In
the meantime the landlady equipped tlie
priest to admiration ; she put him on a cloth
petticoat, laid thick with stripes of black
velvet, each the breadth of a span, all pinked
and slashed ; and a corset of green velvet,
trimmed with a border of white satin, which,
together with the petticoat, must have been
made in the days of king Bamba.* The
priest would not consent to wear a woman's
head-dress, but put on a little white quilted
cap, which he used as a night cap, and bound
one of his garters of black taffeta about his
forehead, and with the other made a kind of
veil, which coveced his face and beard very
well. He then pulled liis hat over his face,
which was so large that it served him for an
umbrella, and wrapping his cloak around
him, he got upon his mule sideways like a
woman. The barber mounted also, with a
beard that reached to his girdle, of a colour
between sorrel and white, being, as before
said, made of the tail of a pied ox. They
took leave of all, not excepting the good
Maritornes, who promised, though a sinner,
* Runba was aa ancient Gothic king of Spain.— J.
to pray, over an entire rosary, that God
might give them good success in so arduous
and christian a business as that which they
had undertaken.
But, scarcely had they got out of the inn,
when the curate began to think he had done
amiss, and that it was indecent for a priest
to be so accoutred, although for so good a
purpose ; and, acquainting the barber with
his scruples, he begged him to exchange
apparel, as it would better become him to
personate the distressed damsel, and he
would himself act the squire, as being a less
profanation of his dignity : and, if he would
not consent, he was determined to proceed
no ñirther, though the devil should run
away with Don Quixote. They were now
joined by Sancho, who was highly diverted
at their appearance. The barber consented
to the proposed exchange ; upon which, the
priest began to instruct him how to act his
part, and what expressions to use to Don
Quixote, in order to prevail upon him to
accompany them, and leave the place of his
penance. The barber assured him, that,
without his instructions, he w^ould undertake
to manage that point to a tittle. The dress,
however, he would not put on, until they
came near to the place of Don Quixote's
retreat. The priest then adjusted his beard,
and they proceeded forward, guided by
Sancho Panza, who, on the way, related to
them their adventure with the madman
whom they had encountered in the moun-
tain ; but said not a word about the port-
manteau, and its contents : for, with all
his folly and simplicity, the rogue was
somewhat covetous.
The next day, they arrived at the place
where Sancho had strewed the branches to
ascertain the place where he had left his
master ; and, upon seeing them, he gave
notice that they had reached the entrance
of the mountain pass, and would therefore
do well to put on their disguise, if that had
any concern with the delivery of his master.
They had before told him that their disguise
was of the utmost importance towards dis-
engaging his master from the miserable life
be had chosen ; and that he must by no
means tell him who they were ; and if he
should enquire, as no doubt he would.
DON QUIXOTE.
185
whether he had delivered the letter to Dal-
tinea, he should say he had ; and that she,
not being able to read or write, had answer-
ed by word of mouth, and commanded the
knight, on pain of her displeasure, to repair
to her immediately, upon an affair of much
importance : for, with this, and what they
intended to say themselves, they should cer-
tainly reconcile him to a better mode of life,
and put him in the way of soon becoming
an emperor, or a king : as to an archbishop,
he had nothing to fear on that subject.
Sancho listened to all this, and imprinted it
well in his memory ; and gave them many
thanks for promising to advise his lord to
be an emperor, and not an archbishop : for
he was persuaded that, in rewarding their
squires, emperors could do more than arch-
bishops-errant. He told them also it would
be proper he should go before, to find him,
and deliver him his lady's answer : for, per-
haps, that alone would be sufficient to bring
him out of that place, without farther
trouble. They agreed with Sancho, and
determined to wait for his return with in-
telligence of his master. Sancho entered
the monntain pass, and left them in a pleas-
ant spot, refreshed by a streamlet of clear
water, and shaded by rocks and over-hang-
ing foliage.
It was in the month of August, when in
those parts the heats are violent, and about
three o'clock in the afternoon: on which
account they . found the situation very
agreeable, and consented the more readily
to wait there till Sancho's return. While
they were reposing in the shade, a voice
reached their ears, which, although unac-
companied by any instrument, sounded sweet
and melodious. They were much surprised,
since that was not a place where they might
expect to hear fine singing ; for although it
is common to tell of shepherds, with melo-
dious voices, warbling over hills and dales,
yet this is rather poetical fancy than plain
truth. • Besides, the verses they heard were
not those of a rustic muse, but of refined and
courtly invention, as will, appear by the
following stanzas :
What causes all my grief and pain ?
Cruel disdain.
What aggravates my misery ?
Accursed jealousy.
How has my soul its patience lost?
By tedious absence cross'd.
Alas ! no balsam can be found
To heal the grief of such a wound.
When absence» jealousy, and scnm.
Have left me hopeless and forlorn.
What in my breast this grief could move 7
Neglected love.
What doth my fond desires withstand?
Fate's cruel hand.
And what confirms my misery?
Heaven's fiz'd decree.
Ah me 1 my boding fears portend
This strange disease my life will end :
For die I must, when three such foes,
Heav'n, fate, and love, my bliss oppose.
My peace of mind what can restore?
Death's welcome hour.
What gains love's joys most readily?
Fickle inconstancy.
Its pains what medicine can assuage ?
Wild phrenzy's rage.
'Tis therefore little wisdom, sure,
For such a g^ef to seek a cure.
That knows no better remedy
Than phrenzy, death, inconstancy.
The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice,
and the skill of the singer, all conspired to
impress the auditors with wonder and de-
light, and they remained for some time
motionless, in expectation of hearing more :
but, finding the silence continue, they re-
solved to see who it was who had sung so
agreeably ; and were again detained by the
same voice, regaling their ears with this
sonnet :
SONNET.
Friendship, thou hast with nimble flight
Exulting gain'd th' empyreal height.
In heav'n to dwell, whilst here below
Thy semblance reigns in mimic show
From thence to earth, at thy behest.
Descends fair peace, celestial guest I
Beneath whose veil of shining hue
Deceit oft lurks, conceal d from view.
Leave, friendship I leave thy heavenly seat.
Or strip thy livery off the cheat.
If still he wears thy borrowed smiles.
And still unwary truth beguiles.
Soon must this dark terrestrial ball
Into its first confusion fall.
The song ended with a deep sigh, and
they again listened very attentively, in
hopes of hearing more ; but the music being
changed into sobs and lamentation, tliey
went in search of the unhappy person whose
voice was no less excellent than his com-
plaints were mournful. They had not gone
far when, turning the point of a rock, they
:^
©^
=f)
130
ADVENTURES OF
perceived a man of the same stature and
appearance that Sancho had described Car-
denio to them. The man expressed no
surprise at the sight of them, but stood
still, inclining his head upon his breast^ in
a pensive posture, without again rabing his
eyes from the ground. The priest, who
was a well-spoken man, being already ac-
quainted with his misfortune, went up to
him, and in few, but very impressive, words,
intreated him to forsake that miserable kind
of life, and not hazard so great a misfortune
as to lose it in that inhospitable place. Car-
denio was then perfectly tranquil, and free
from those outrageous fits with which he
was so often seized : he likewise appeared
to be sensible that the persons who now
accosted him were unlike the inhabitants of
those mountains; he was still more sur-
prised to hear them speak of his concerns,
and he replied : " It is very evident to me,
gentlemen, whoever you are, that heaven,
which succours the good, and often even
the wicked, unworthy as I am, sends to me
in this solitude, so remote from the com-
merce of human kind, persons who, repre-
senting to me, by various and forcible
arguments, how irrational is my mode of
life, endeavour to divert me from it ; but,
not knowing, as I do, that, by flying from
this misery, I shall be plunged into worse,
they doubtless take me for a fool or mad-
man; and no wonder, for I am myself
aware that, so intense and so overwhelming
is the sense of my misery, I sometimes become
like a stone, void of all knowledge and sen-
sation. I know this to be true, by the traces
I leave of my phrenzy; but I can only
lament iu vaio, curse my fortune, and seek
an excuse for my extravagance, by imparting
the cause to all who will listen to me, since
none who are acquainted with my situation
could fail to pardon my conduct and com-
passionate my sufferings. And, gentlemen,
if you come with the same intention that
others have done, before you proceed any
farther in your prudent counsel, I beseech
you to hear my sad story; for thea you
will probably spare yourselves the trouble
of endeavouring to find consolation for an
evil which has no remedy.
The two friends, being desirous of hearing
his own account of himself, intreated him to
indulge them, assuring him they would do
nothing but what was agreeable to him,
either in the way of remedy or advice. The
unhappy young man began his melancholy
story, almost in the same words in which
he had related it to Don Quixote and the
goatherd some few days before, when, on
account of master Elisabat and Don Quixote's
zeal in defending the honour of knight-
errantry, the tale was abruptly suspended ;
but Cardenio's sane interval now enabled
him to conclude it quietly. On coming to
the circumstance of the love-letter which
Don Fernando found between the leaves of
the book of Amadis de Gaul, he said he
remembered it perfectly well, and that it
was as follows :
" * Each day I discover in you qualities
which raise you in my esteem ; and there-
fore, if you would put it in my power to
discharge my obligations to you, without
prejudice to my honour, you may easily do
it. I have a father, who knows you, and
has an affection for me ; who will never
force my inclinations, and will comply with
whatever you can justly desire, if you really
have that value for me which you profess,
and which I trust you have.'
'< This letter made me resolve to demand
Lucinda in marriage, as I have already
related, and was one of those which pleased
Don Fernando so much. It was this letter,
also, which made him determine upon my
ruin before my design could be effected. I |
told Don Fernando that Lucinda's father
expected that the proposal should come from
mine, but that I durst not mention it to him,
lest he should refuse his consent : not that
he was ignorant of Lucinda's exalted merits,
which might ennoble any family of Spain,
but because I had understood, from him, that
he was desirous I should not marry until it
should be seen what Duke Ricardo would
do for me. In short I told him that I had
not courage to speak to my father about it> ¡
being full of vague apprehensions and sad I
forebodings. In reply to all this, Don Fer- |
nando engaged to induce my father to pro- i
|Kwe me to the father of Lucinda O
DON QUIXOTE.
137
ambitious Marius ! cruel Catiliae ! wicked
Sylk! crafty Galalon! perfidious Vellido !
vindictive Julian! O covetous Judas ! Cruel^
wicked, and crafty traitor! what injury
had been done thee by a poor wretch who
so frankly disclosed to thee the secrets of
his heart? Wherein had I offended thee?
Have I not ever sought the advancement
of thy interest and honour ? But why do I
complain — miserable wretch that I am ! For
when the stars are adverse, what is human
power ! Who could have thought that Don
Fernando, noble and generous, obliged by
my services, and secure of success wherever
his amorous inclinations led him, should
take such cruel pains to deprive me of my
single ewe-lamb! — But no more of these
unavailing reflections ; I will now resume
the broken thread of my sad story.
'^ Don Fernando, thinking my presence an
obstacle to the execution of his treacherous
design, resolved to send me to his elder
brother for money to pay for six horses,
which he bought, merely for a pretence to
get me out of the way, that he might the
I more conveniently execute his diabolical
purpose. Could I foresee such treachery ?
Could I even suspect it? Surely not: on
' the contrary, well satisfied with his purchase,
I cheerfully consented to depart immedi-
ately. That night I had an interview with
Lucinda, and told her what had been agreed
upon between Don Fernando and myself,
assuring her of my hopes of a successful
result. She, equally unsuspicious of Don
Fernando, desired me to return speedily,
since she believed the completion of our
wishes was only deferred until proposals
should be made to her father by mine. I
know not whence it was, but as she spoke
her eyes filled with tears, and some sudden
obstruction in her throat prevented her
articulating another word. 1 was surprised
at her unusual emotion, for we generally
conversed together with pleasure, unalloyed
by tears, sighs, jealousy, suspicion, or
alarms, — I, expatiating upon my good
fortune in possessing such a mistress ; and
she, kindly commending in me what she
thought worthy of commendation. We
amused each other, also, by the little con-
cerns of our neighbours and acquaintance ^
and my presumption never extended further
than to seize, by force, one of her snowy
hands, and press it to my lips, as well as '
the narrowness of the iron gate between us
would permit. But the night preceding
the doleful day of my departure, she wept,
sighed, and abruptly withdrew, leaving me |
full of surprise and trepidation at witnessing |
such uncommon indications of grief and '
tenderness in my Lucinda. Still I cherished |
my hopes, and ascribed all to the excess of
her tenderness for me, and the sorrow |
natural in lovers upon separation. I set
out on my journey sad and pensive, my
soul full of gloomy thoughts and fears —
manifest presages of the sad iate in store
for me.
'^ I executed my commission to Don Fer-
nando's brother, by whom I was well re-
ceived, but not soon dismissed ; for to my
grief, he ordered me to wait eight days, and
to keep out of his father's sight ; because
his brother had desired that a certain sum of
money might be sent to him, without the
duke's knowledge. All this was a contrivance
of the false Fernando ; and I felt disposed
to resist the injunction, as it seemed to me
impossible to support life so many days ab-
sent from Lucinda, especially having left her
in such a state of dejection. Nevertheless, I
did obey, like a good servant, although at
the expense of my health. But, four days
after my arrival, a man came in quest of me,
with a letter, which, by the superscription,
I knew to be from Lucinda. I opened it
with alarm, convinced it must be something
very extraordinary that had induced her to
write. Before I read it, I made some en-
quhries of the messenger. He told me that
< passing accidentally through a streei in the
town, a very beautiful lady, with tears in
her eyes, called to him from a window, and
said to him, in great agitation, ' Friend, if
you are a christian, I beg of you, for the
love of God, to carry this letter with all ex-
pedition to the place and person to whom
it is directed ; in so doing you will perform
an act of charity acceptable to our Lord ; and
to supply you with the necessary expense,
take what is tied up in this handkerchief;'
so saying, she threw the handkerchief out of
the window; which contained a hundred
--(g)
=©
138
ADVENTURES OF
real8, and this gold ring, with the letter
I have given you. She saw me take up the
letter and the handkerchief, and assure her,
hy signs, that I would do what she com-
manded, and she then quitted the window.
Finding myself so well paid for the trouble,
and knowing, by the superscription, it was
for you, sir ; induced moreover by the tears
of diat beautiful lady, I resolved to trust no
other person, but deliver it with my own
hands ; and within sixteen hours I have per-
formed the journey, which you know is
eighteen leagues.' While the grateful mes-
senger thus spoke, I hung upon his words,
my legs trembling so that I could scarcely
stand. At length I opened the letter, which
contained these words :
' The promise Don Fernando gave you, to
intercede with your father, he has fulfilled,
more for his own gratification than your
interest. Know, sir, that he has demanded
me to wife : and my &ther, allured by the
advantage he thinks Don Fernando pos-
sesses over you, has accepted this proposal
so eagerly that the marriage is to be solemn-
ized two days hence, and with so much
privacy that, except heaven, a few of our
own family are alone to witness it. Con-
ceive my situation ! and think whether you
ought not to return. Whether I love you
or not, the event will prove. Heaven
grant this may come to your hand before
mine be compelled to join his who breaks
his promised faith.'
I set out immediately, without waiting for
any other answer, or tiie money : for now I
plainly saw it was not the purchase of horses,
but the indulgence of his pleasure that had
induced Don Fernando to send me to his
brother. My rage against Don Fernando,
and the fear of losing the rich reward of my
long service and affection, gave wings to my
speed ; and the next day I reached our town,
at the moment favourable for an inteview
with Lucinda. I went privately, having left
my mule with the honest man who brought
me the letter : and fortune was just then so
propitious that I found Lucinda at the
grate — the constant witness of our loves.
We saw each other — but how! Who is
there in the world that can boast of having
fathomed, and thoroughly penetrated, the
intricate and ever -changing nature of a
woman ? Certainly none. As soon as Lu-
cinda saw me she said : ' Cardenio, I am in
my bridal habit ; they are now waiting for
me in the hall — the treacherous Don Fer-
nando and my covetous ÜEtther, with some
others, who shall sooner be witnesses of my
death than of my nuptials. Be not afflicted,
my fnend ; but endeavour to be present at
this sacrifice, which, if my arguments can-
not avert, I carry a dagger about me, which
can oppose a more effectual resistance, by
putting an end to my life, and will give you
a convincing proof of the affection I have
ever borne you.' I answered with confusion
and precipitation : 'Let your actions, madam,
prove the truth of your words. If you carry
a dagger to secure your honour, I carry a
sword to defend you, or kill myself, if for-
tune proves adverse.' I do not believe she
heard all I said, being hastily called away :
for the bridegroom waited for her. Here
the night of my sorrow closed in upon me !
here set the sun of my happiness ! My eyes
were clouded in darkness and my brain was
disordered ! I was irresolute whether to enter
her house : and seemed bereaved of the power
to move: but recollecting how important
my presence might be, on that occasion, I
exerted myself, and hastened thither. Be-
ing perfectly acquainted with all the avenues,
and the whole household engaged, I escaped
observation, and concealed myself in the
recess of a window in the hall, behind the
hangings, where two pieces of tapestry met ;
whence I could see all that passed. Who
can describe the ilutterings of my heart, and
my various sensations, as I stood there?
The bridegroom entered the hall, in his usual
dress, accompanied by a cousin of Lucinda,
and no other person was present, except the
servants of the house. Soon afler, from a
dressing room, came forth Lucinda, accom-
panied by her mother, and two of her own
maids adorned in the extreme of courtly splen-
dour. The agony and distraction I endured
allowed me not to observe the particulars of
her dress; I remarked only the colours,
which were carnation and white, and the
precious stones that glittered on every part
=(p>
DON QUIXOTE.
139
of her attire : surpassed however by the sin-
gular beauty of her fair and golden tresses,
in the splendour of which, the brilliance of
her jewels, and the blaze of the surrounding
lights, seemed to be lost. O memory, thou
mortal enemy of my repose ! Wherefore now
recal to me the incomparable beauty of that
adored enemy of mine ? Were it not better,
thou cruel faculty ! to represent to my ima-
gination her conduct at that period ? that,
moved by so flagrant an injury, I may strive,
if not to avenge it, at least to end this life of
pain. Be not weary, gentlemen, of these
digressioDS ; for my misfortunes are not such
as can be related briefly and methodicaUy,
since every circumstance appears to me of
importance." The priest assured him that,
far from being tired of listening to him, they
took great pleasure in his minutest details,
which merited no less attention than the
principal parts of his story.
" I say then," continued Cardenio, " that,
being all assembled in the hall, the priest
entered, and having taken them both by the
hand, in order to perform what is necessary
on such occasions, when he came to these
words, 'Will you, sigñora Lucinda, take
sigñor Don Fernando, who is here present,
for your lawful husband, as our holy mother
the church commands?' I thrust out my
bead and neck through the tapestry, and,
with attentive ears and distracted soul,
awaited Lucinda's reply ; as the sentence of
my death, or the confirmation of my life.
O ! that I had then dared to venture forth,
and to have cried aloud — ^Ah, Lucinda, Lu-
cinda ! beware what you do ; consider what
you owe to me ! Remember that you are
mine, and cannot belong to another. Be
assured that in pronouncing Yes you will
instantly destroy me ! Ah, traitor, Don
Fernando ! ravisher of my glory, death of
my life ! what b it thou wouldst have 7 to
what dost thou pretend ? Reflect that, as a
christian, thou canst not accomplish thy pur-
pose ; for Lucinda is my wife, and I am her
husband. Ah, fool that I am ! Now I am
absent, I can say what I ought to have said,
but did not ! Now, that I have suflered my-
self to be robbed of my soul's treasure, I am
cursing the thief, on whom I might have re-
venged myself, if I had been then as prompt
to act, as I am now to complain ! I was
then a coward and a fool, no wonder there-
fore if I now die ashamed, repentant, and mad.
The priest stood expecting Lucinda's
answer, who paused for a long time ; and
when I thought she would draw forth the
dagger in defence of her honour, or make
some declaration which might redound to
my advantage, I heard her say in a low and
faint voice, ' I will.' Don Fernando said the
same, and, the ring being put on, they re-
mained tied in an indissoluble band. The
bridegroom approached to embrace his bride;
and she, laying her hand on her heart, fainted
in the arms of her mother. Imagine my con-
dition after that fatal Yes, by which my hopes
were frustrated, Lucinda's vows and promises
broken, and I for ever deprived of all chance
of happiness. I was totally confounded, I
thought myself abandoned by heaven and
earth ; the air denying me breath for my
sighs, and the water moisture for my tears :
fire alone supplied me with rage and jealousy.
On Lucinda's fainting, all were in confusion,
and her mother unlacing her bosom to give
her air, discovered in it a folded paper, which
Don Fernando instantly seized, and read it
by the light of one of the flambeaux : after
which, he sat himself down in a chair, appa-
rently full of thought, and without attending
to the exertions made to recover his bride.
'^ During this general consternation, I de-
parted, indifierent whether I was seen or
not ; but determined, if seen, to act so des-
perate a part that all the world should
know the just indignation of my breast, by
the chastisement of the false Don Fernando,
and of the fickle, though swooning, traitress.
But my fate, to reserve me for greater evils,
if greater can possibly exist, ordained that,
at that juncture, I had the use of my under-
standing, which has since failed me ; and,
instead of seizing the opportunity to revenge
myself on my cruel enemies, I condemned
myself to a more severe fate than I could
have inflicted on them ; for what is sudden
death, to a protracted life of anguish ? In
short, I quitted the house, and, returning
to the place where I had left the mule, I
mounted and rode out of the town, not dar-
ing, like anothev Lot, to look behind me ;
and, when I found myself alone on the plain.
140
ADVENTURES OF
concealed by the darkness o( the night, the
silence inviting my lamentations, I gave
vent to a thousand execrations on Lucinda
and Don Fernando, as if that, alas ! would
afford me satisfaction for the wrongs I had
sustained. I called her cruel, false, and un-
grateful ; and, above all, mercenary, since
the wealth of my enemy had seduced her
affections from me. But, amidst all these
reproaches, I sought to find excuses for her
submission to parents whom she had ever
been accustomed implicitly to obey ; espe-
cially as they offered her a husband with
such powerful attractions. Then again, I
considered that she need not have been
ashamed of avowing her engagement to me,
since, had it not been for Don Femando's
proposals, her parents could not have desired
a more suitable connection ; and I thought
how easily she could have declared herself
mine, when on the point of giving her hand
to my rival. In fine, I concluded that her
love had been leis than her ambition, and
she had thus forgotten those promises by
which she had beguiled my hopes and
cherished my passion.
" In the utmost perturbation of mind, I
journeyed on, the rest of the night, and, at
daybreak, reached these mountains, over
which I wandered three days more, without
road or path, until I came to a valley not
far hence ; and enquiring of some shepherd'i,
for the most rude and solitary part, they
directed me to this place : where I instantly
came, determined to pass here the remainder
of my life. Among these crags, my mule
fell down dead through weariness and hun-
ger, or, what is more probable, to be relieved
of so useless a burden ; and thus was I left,
extended on the ground, fitmished and ex-
hausted, neither hoping nor caring for relief.
How long I continued in this state, I know
not; but at length I got up, without the
sensation of hunger, and found near me some
goatherds, who had undoubtedly relieved
my wants : they told me of the condition in
which they found me, and of many wild
and extravagant things that I had uttered,
clearly proving the derangement of my in-
tellects ; and I am conscious that since then,
I have not been always quite right, but
have committed a thousand extravagances.
tearing my garments, howling aloud through
these solitudes, cursing my fortune, and re-
peating in vain the beloved hame of my
enemy. When my senses return, I find
myself so weary, and bruised, that I can
scarcely move. My usual abode' is in the
hollow of a cork-tree, large enough to en-
close this wretched body. The goatherds
charitably supply me with food, laying it on
the rocks, and in places where they think I
may find it : and even when my senses are
disordered, necessity points out my suste-
nance. At other times, as they have inform-
ed me in my lucid intervals, I come into the
road, and take from the shepherds by force
those provisions which they would freely
give me. Thus I pass my miserable life,
waiting until it shaU please heaven to bring
it to a period, or erase from my memory
the beauty and treachery of Lucinda, and
the perfidy of Don Fernando : otherwise,
heaven have mercy on me ! for I feel no
power to change my mode of life.
'^ This, gentlemen, is my melancholy tale.
Trouble not yourselves, I beseech you, to
counsel or persuade me ; for it will be of no
more avail than to prescribe medicines to the
patient who rejects them. I will have no
health without Lucinda : and, since it was
her pleasure to give herself to another, it is
mine to indulge in woe. By her inconstancy
she sought my ruin — and she shall be grati-
fied : for even the last solace of misery
— utter despair, affords no relief to my woes,
which I believe even death will not termi-
nate."
Here Cardenio concluded his long tale of
love and sorrow ; and, just as the priest was
preparing to say something consolatory, he
was prevented by the sound of a human
voice, which, in a mournful tone, was heard
to say what will be related in the following
chapter.
♦
CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHICH TREATS OP THE NEW AMD AGREE-
ABLE ADVENTURE THAT BEFEL THE
PRIEST AND THE BARBER IN THE
SIERRA MORENA.
Most happy and fortunate was that age, in
which the most daring knight Don Quixote
=@
DON QUIXOTE.
141
de la Mancha was asbered into the world ;
since, in consequence of his honourable reso-
lution to revive the long neglected, and al-
most extinguished order of knight-errantry,
we are regaled in these our times, so barren
of entertainment, not only by his own de-
lightful history, but also the tales and
episodes contained in it, which are scarcely
less agreeable, ingenious, and true, than the
narration itself; the thread of which, being
already carded, twisted, and reeled, may
now be resymed. As the priest was preparing
to say something consolatory to Cardenio,
I he was prevented by a voice, uttering these
I mournful accents !
I '^ O heavens 1 Have I then at last found
a place which may afford a secret grave for
thb wretched body ? Yes — if the silence
of this rocky desert deceive me not, here I
may die in peace. Ah, woe is me ! Here
at least I may freely pour forth my lament-
ations to heaven, and shall be less wretched
than among men, from whom I should in
vain seek counsel, redress, or consolation."
These words being distinctiy heard by the
curate and his companions, they rose up to
seek the mourner, who they knew by the
voice, to be near them ; and they had not
gone many paces when they espied a youth,
dressed like a peasant, sitting under an ash
tree, at the foot of a rock ; they could not,
at first, see his &ce, as he was stooping to
bathe his feet, in a rivulet which ran by.
They drew near so sUentiy that he did not
hear them ; and, while he continued thus
employed, they stood in admiration at the
beanty and whiteness of his feet, which
looked like pure crystal among the pebbles
of the brook, and did not seem formed for
breaking clods or following the plough, as
might have been expected from the apparel
of the youth. The curate, who went fore-
most, made a sign to the others to crouch
down and conceal themselves behind some
fragments of a rock, whence they might
watch his motions. He was clad in a drab
coloured jerkin, girded closely round his
body, with a piece of white linen ; his
breeches, gaiters, and his cap, were all of
the same colour. His gaiters being now
pulled up, exposed his legs, which in colour
resembled alabaster. After bathing his
lovely feet, he wiped them with a handker-
chief, which he drew from under his cap ;
and, in doing this, he displayed a face of
such exquisite beauty tiiat Cardenio said to
the priest, in a low voice ; ^' Since it is not
Lucinda, this can be no human creature."
The youth then took off his cap, and shak-
ing his head, a profusion of hair, that Apollo
himself might envy, fell over his shoulders
— and betrayed the woman, and the most
beautiful one that two of the party had evei
beheld! Cardenio declared that Lucinda
alone could be compared to her. Her long
and golden tresses covered not only her
shoulders, but her whole body; and he^
snowy fingers served her for a comb. Her
beauty made the three spectators impatient
to find out who she was, and they now de-
termined to accost her. The lovely maiden
looked up, on hearing them approach, and,
with both her hands, putting her hair from
before her eyes, she saw the intruders ; upor
which she hastily arose, and snatched up a
bundle, apparentiy of clothes, which laid
near her, and, without staying to put on her
shoes or bind up her hair, she fied with pre-
cipitation and alarm ; but had scarcely gone
six paces, when, her tender feet being un-
able to bear the sharp stones, she fell to
the ground. The priest now addressed him-
self to her : *'Do not fly, madam, I entreat
you ; for we only desire to serve you : in-
deed, there is no reason why you should at-
tempt so inconvenient a flight" Surprised
and confounded, she made no reply. The
priest then, taking her hand, proceeded to
say : " Your hair reveals to us, madam,
what your habit would conceal ; and it is
manifest that no slight cause has induced
you to disguise your beauty in such unwor^
thy attire, and brought you to a solitude
like this, where it has been our good fortune
to find you ; and I hope, dear madam, or,
if you please, dear sir, that you will dismiss
every alarm on our account, and give us
an opportunity of rendering you some
assistance."
While the priest thus addressed her, the
disguised maiden stood like one stupified,
her eyes fixed on them, without answeriug
one word : like a country clown when he
is suddenly surprised by some new sight.
^=^
=a>
142
ADVENTURES OF
At length, after the priest had said more to
the same purpose, she heaved a deep sigh,
and, breaking silence, said : '^ Since even
these retired mountains have failed to con-
ceal me, and my hair has betrayed me, I
can no longer attempt to disguise myself.
Indeed, gentlemen, I feel very grateful for
your kind offers to serve me, but such is my
unfortunate situation that commiseration is
all I can expect ; — ^nevertheless, that I may
not suffer, in your opinion, from the strange
circumstances under which you have dis-
covered me, I will tell you the cause without
reserve, whatever pain it may give me." She
spoke with so much grace, and in so sweet
a voice, that they were still more charmed
with her, and repeated their kind offers
and solicitations for her confidence. Having
first modestly put on her shoes and stockings,
and gathered up her hair, she seated herself
upon a flat stone, her three auditors placing
themselves round her ; and, after some efforts
to restrain her tears, she began her story in
this manner :
'^ There is a town in this province of
Andalusia, from which a duke takes his
title, that makes him a grandee of Spain.
This duke has two sons ; the elder, heir to
his estate, and, apparently, to his virtues ;
the younger, heir to, I know not what, un-
less it be to the treachery of Vellido and the
deceitfulness of Galalon. My parents are
vassals to thb nobleman, and are very rich,
though of hutable birth, otherwise I should
not be in this ^Tetched state ; for their want
of rank is probably the cause of all my mis-
fortunes. Not, indeed, that there is any
thing disgraceful in the condition of my
family — they are farmers, simple, honest
people, and such as are called old rusty
christians,* of that class which, by their
v/ealth and handsome way of living, are,
by degrees, acquiring them the name of
gentlemen. But what they prized, above
rank or riches, was their daughter, sole
heiress of their fortune, and I was always
treated by them with the utmost indulgence
and affection. I was the light of their eyes,
the staff of their old age, and, under heaven,
* That is, original Spaniards, without mixture of
Moor or J^w for «everal generations : such only being
qualified for titles of honour. J,
the sole object of all their hopes. And, ad
I was mistress of their affections, so was 1
of all they possessed. To me they entrusted
the management of the household ; through
my hands passed the accounts of all that
was sown and reaped; the oil-mills, the
wine-presses, the numerous herds, flocks,
and bee-hives — everything, in short, was
intrusted to my care. I was both steward
and mistress, and always performed my
duties to their satisfaction. The leisure hours
that remained I passed in sewing, spinning,
or making lace, and sometimes in reading
good books, or, if my spirits required the
relief of music, I had recourse to my harp.
Such was the life I led in my father's house ;
and I have not been so particular in de-
scribing it out of ostentation, but that you
may know how undeservedly I have been
cast from that happy state into my present
misery. Thus I passed my time, constantly
occupied and in retírement, seen only, as I
imagined, by our own servants ; for, when
I went to mass, it was early in the morning,
accompanied by my mother, and so closely
veiled that my eyes saw no more ground
than the space which my foot covered.
Yet the eyes of love, or rather of idle-
ness, which are like those of a lynx, dis-
covered me. Don Fernando, the younger
son of the duke, whom I mentioned to
you'' she had no sooner named Don
Fernando than Cardenio's colour changed,
and he was so violently agitated that the
priest and the barber were afraid he would
be seized with one of those paroxysms of
phrenzy to which he was subject. But he
remained quiet, fixing his eyes attentively
on the country-maid, well conjecturing who
she was: while she, not observing the
emotions of Cárdenlo, continued her story,
saying : " No sooner had he seen me than
(as he afterwards declared,) he conceived
for me a violent affection but, to shorten
the account of my misfortunes, I pass over
in silence the devices Don Fernando em-
ployed to make his passion known to me-
He bribed all our servants; he offered
presents to my relations ; every day was a
festival in our streets : and at night nobody
could sleep for serenades. Infinite were the
billet-doux that came, I knew not how, to
©=
=^
0z=
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
143
my bands, filled with amorous declarations
and expressions of kindness, containing more
promises and oaths than letters. All these
efibrts to seduce me, I resisted : not that the
giallantry and solicitations of Don Fernando
were displeasing to me ; for I confess that
I felt flattered and gratified by the attentions
of a gentleman of his high rank ; besides,
women are always pleased to be admired.
However, I was supported by a sense of
Tirtue, and the good advice of my parents,
who told me that they relied on my virtue
and prudence, at the same time begged me
to consider the inequality between myself
and Don Fernando, and to suspect, what-
ever he might say to the contrary, that it
was his own pleasure, not my happiness,
that he had in view ; and if I would consent
to raise a barrier against his unworthy pro-
jects, they would engage immediately to find
a suitable match for me. Thus cautioned, I
maintained the utmost reserve towards Don
Fernando, and never gave him the least
eneouragement, either by look or word ;
but my behaviour only increased his brutal
passion — love I cannot call it, for, 'had he
truly loved me, you would have been spared
this sad tale.
** Don Fernando, having discovered my
parents' intentions for my security, was
determined to defeat them ; and one night,
as I was in my chamber, the door fast
locked and only my maid present, he sud-
denly stood before me. Terrified at his
unexpected appearance, I was deprived of
the power of utterance, and, all strength
failing me, he caught me in his arms. The
traitor then pleaded by sighs and tears, and
with such an appearance of truth that I, a
poor simple creature, without experience,
began to give some credit to him, though I
I was far from being moved to any criminal
compassion. When I was sufficiently re-
covered to speak, I exerted myself, and said
to him : ' If my life depended on the sacri-
fice of my honour, I would not preserve it
on such tenns ; and though my person is
within your grasp, you have no power over
; my mind. I am your vassal—not your slave.
Youv rank does not give you the privilege
to msnlt me, who have an equal claim to
self- respect with yourself. I despise your
riches, and distrust your words ; neither am
I to be moved by your sighs and tear$.
Had I been thus solicited by one who hod
obtained the sanction of my parents, and
honourably demanded my hand, I might
have listened to proposals — but to no others
than those of a lawful husband/
" « If that be all, beautiful Dorothea !'
said the treacherous man, 'here I pledge
to you my hand ; and let all-seeing heaven,
and that image of our lady, witness the
agreement!'" When Cardenio heard her
call herself Dorothea, he was confirmed in
his conjecture ; but he would not interrupt
the story, being desirous to hear the event
of what, in part, he knew already ; and he
only said : " What, Madam ! is your name
Dorothea? I have heard of one of that
name whose misfortunes much resemble
yours. But proceed ; another time I may
tell you things that will equally excite your
wonder and compassion." Dorothea, struck
by Cardenio's words, and his strange and
tattered dress, entreated him, if he knew
any thing of her afinirs, to tell her without
delay ; for fortune had still left her courage
to bear any disaster that might beftd her,
being certain that nothing could increase
her misery. " I should be sorry to say any
thing that would do so, madam," replied
Cardenio; nor is it necessary for me to
speak at present."
Dorothea proceeded. ''Don Fernando
then took up the holy image and called upon
it to witness our espousals : pledging him-
himself, by the most solemn vows, to become
my husband ; notwithstanding my entreaties
that he would consider the displeasure of his
family, and other disadvantages that might
result firom so unequal an union. All that
I urged was of no avail, since it cost him
nothing to make promises, who never meant
to perform them. Being in some degree
moved by his perseverance, I began to con-
sider that I should not be the first of lowly
birth who had been elevated by her beauty
to rank ; and that such good fortune should
not be lightly rejected. I reflected also
that my reputation would infallibly sufier by
this visit, in ppite of my innocence ; and
alas ! above all, I was moved by his insin-
uating manners and tender protestations,
C^
©^
144
ADVENTURES OF
which might have well softened a harder
heart than mine. I called my maid to bear
testimony to his plighted faith — again he
repeated the most solemn vows, attesting
new saints to hear tliem, and thus he finally
succeeded in becoming a perjured traitor.
" On the morning that followed that fatal
night, Don Fernando quitted roe without
reluctance : he assured me indeed of his
truth and honour, but not with the warmth
and vehemence of the preceding night ; and
at parting, he drew a valuable ring from his
finger, and put it upon mine. Whatever his
sensations might have been, I remained con-
fused and almost distracted. I knew not
whether good or harm had befallen me, and
was uncertain whether I should chide my
maid for her treachery in admitting Don
Fernando to my chamber. That perBdious
man visited me but once more, although ac-
cess was free to him, as I had become his
wife. Months passed away, and in vain I
watched for his coming ; yet he was in the
town, and every day amusing himself with
hunting. What melancholy days and hours
were those to me ! for I began to doubt his
fidelity. Then my damsel heard those re-
proofs for her presumption which she had
before escaped. I long strove to hide my
tears and so to guard my looks that my pa-
rents might not see and enquire into the
cause of my wretchedness ; but suddenly my
forbearance was at an end, with all regard
to delicacy and fame, upon the intelligence
reaching me that Don Fernando was mar-
ried in a neighbouring town, to a beautiful
young lady, of some rank and fortune, named
Lucinda.'^ Cárdenlo heard the name of
Lucinda, at first, only with signs of indigna-
tion, but soon añer, a flood of tears burst
from his eyes. Dorothea, however, pursued
her story, saying : ** When this sad news
reached my ears, my heart, instead of being
chilled by it, was so incensed and inflamed
with rage that I could scarcely forbear
rushing into the streets, and proclaiming the
baseness and treachery I had experienced.
But I became more tranquil, after forming
a project which I executed the same night.
I borrowed this apparel of a shepherd swain,
in my father's service, whom I entrusted
with my secret, and begged him to attend
me in my pursuit of Don Fernando. He
assured me it was a rash undertaking ; but
finding me resolute, he said he would go
with me to the end of the world. Immedi-
ately I packed np some of my own clothes,
with money and jewels, and at night secretly
left the house, attended only by my servant
and a thousand anxious thoughts ; and tra-
velled on foot, to the town where I expected
to find my husband : impatient to arrive, if
not in time to prevent his perfidy, to reproach
him for it.
" I enquired where the parents of Lucinda
lived ; and the first person to whom I ad- I
dressed myself told me more than I desired I
to hear. He directed me to the house, and
gave me an account of all that had happened I
at the young lady's marriage. He told me
also that, on the night that Don Fernando |
was married to Lucinda, after she had pro-
nounced the fatal Yes, she fell into a swoon; ,
and the bridegroom, in unclasping her bosom '
to give her air, found a paper written by her-
self, in which she aflirmed that she could
not be wife to Don Fernando, because she
was already betrothed to Cárdenlo (who, as
the man told me, was a gentleman of the
same town) and that she had pronounced |
her assent to Don Fernando merely in
obedience to her parents. The paper also
revealed her intention to kill herself as soon '
as the ceremony was over, which was con-
firmed by a poniard they found concealed
upon her. Don Fernando was so enraged |
to find himself thus mocked and slighted i
tliat he seized hold of the same poniard, and
would certainly have stabbed her had he ,
not been prevented by those present; where-
upon he immediately quitted the place. |
When Lucinda revived, she confessed to
her parents the engagement she had formed
with Cárdenlo, who, it was suspected, had
witnessed the ^ceremony, and had hastened
from the city in despair; for he left a paper
expressing his sense of the wrong be had
suflered, and declaring his resolution to fly
from mankind for ever.
■ "All this was publicly known, and the
general subject of conversation ; especially
when it appeared that Lucinda also was
missing from her father's house — a circum-
stance that overwhelmed her family with
DON QUIXOTE.
i«>
grief, but revived my hopes ; for I flattered
myself that heaven had thus interposed to
prevent the completion of Don Femando's
second marriage, in order to touch his con-
science, and restore him to a sense of duty
and honour. These illusive hopes enabled
me to endure a life which is now become
insupportable to me.
'' In this situation, undecided what course
to take, I heard myself proclaimed by the
public crier, offering a great reward for dis-
covering me, and describing my person and
dress. It was also reported that I had eloped
from my father's house with the lad that at-
tended me. I was stung to the soul to find how
very low I had ñillen in the public opinion ;
and, urged by the fear of discovery, I in-
stantly left the city, and at night took refage
among these mountains. But it is traly
said one evil produces another, and misfor-
tunes never come singly: for my servant,
hitherto so faithful, took advantage of this
solitary place, and, dismissing all regard
either to God or his mistress, began to make
love to me ; and, on my answering him as
he deserved, he would have used force, but
merciful heaven favoured me, and endued
me with strength to push him down a preci-
pice, where I left him, whether dead or
alive I know not, for, in spite of terror and
fatigue, I fled from the spot with the utmost
speed. After this I engaged myself in the
service of a shepherd, and have lived for
some months among these wilds, always
endeavouring to be abroad, lest I should
I betray myself. Yet all my care was to no
purpose, for my master at length discovered
that I was not a man, and the same evil
thoughts sprung up in his breast that had
possessed my servant. Lest I might not find
the same means at hand to free myself from
violence, I sought for security in flight, and
have endeavoured to hide myself among
these rocks. Here, with incessant sighs and
tears, I implore heaven to have pity on me,
and either alleviate my misery, or put an
end to my life in tliis desert, that no traces
may remain of so wretched a creature."
CHAPTER XXIX.
WHICH TREATS OF THE BEAUTIFUL DORO-
THEA'S DISCHETI02«; WITH OTHER VERT
INGENIOUS AND ENTERTAINING PARE-
TIC ULARS.
"This, gentlemen," added Dorothea," is my
tragical story ; think whether the sighs and
tears which you have witnessed have not
been more than justified. My misfortunes,
as you will confess, are incapable of a
remedy ; and all I desire of you is to advise
me how to live without the continual dread
of being discovered j for, although I am
certain of a kind reception from my parents,
so overwhelmed am I with shame that I
choose rather to banish myself for ever from
their sight than appear before them the
object of such hateful suspicions."
Here she was silent, while her blashes
and confusion sufficiently manifested the
shame and agony of her soul. Her auditors
were much affected by her tale, and the
curate was just going to address her, when
Cardenio interrupted him, saying : " You,
madam, then, are the beautiful Dorothea,
only daughter of the rich Clenardo." Doro-
thea stared at hearing her father named by
such a miserable - looking object, and she
asked him who he was, since he knew her
father. " I am that hapless Cardenio," he
replied, " who suffers from the base author
of your misfortunes, reduced^ as you now
behold, to nakedness and misery — deprived
even of reason! Yes, Dorothea, I heard
that fatal Yes pronounced by Lucinda, and,
unable to bear my anguish, I fled precipi-
tately from her house. Amidst these moun-
tains I thought to have terminated my
wretched existence ; but the account you
have just given has inspired me with hope
that heaven may still have happiness in
store for us. Lucinda has avowed herself
to be mine, and therefore cannot wed
another ; Don Fernando, being yours, cannot
have Lucinda. Let us then, my dear lady,
indulge the hope that we may both yet
recover our own, since it is not absolutely
lost. Indeed I swear to you that, although
I leave it to heaven to avenge my own
injuries, your claims will I assert; nor will
I leave you until I have obliged Don
Fernando, either by argument or my sword,
to do you justice."
Dorethea would have thrown herself at
the feet of Cardenio, to express her gratitude
@=
=©
146
A DVENTÜRES OF
to him, bad he not prevented her. The
licentiate too commended his generous deter-
mination, and entreated them both to accom-
pany him to his village, where they might
consult on the most proper measures to be
adopted in the present state of their affairs ;
a proposal to which they thankfully acceded.
The barber, who had hitherto been silent,
now joined in expressing his good wbhes to
them ; he also briefly related the circum-
stances which had brought them to that
place ; and when he mentioned the extra-
ordinary insanity of Don Quixote, Cardenio
had an indistinct recollection of having some
altercation with the knight, but could not
remember whence it arose.
They were now interrupted by the voice
of Sancho Panza, who, not finding them
where he left them, began to call out loudly;
they went instantly to meet him, and were
eager in their enquiries after Don Quixote.
He told them that he had found- him naked
to his shirt, feeble, wan, and half dead with
hunger, sighing for his lady Dulcinea ; and
though he had informed him that it was her
express desire that he should leave that
place, and repair to Toboso, where she
expected him, his answer was that he posi-
tively would not appear before her beauty,
until he had performed exploits that might
render him worthy of her favour ; if his
master, he added, persisted in that humour,
he would run a risque of never becoming an
emperor, as in honour bound ; nor even an
archbishop, which was the least he could
be : so they must consider what was to be
done to get him away. The licentiate begged
him not to give himself any uneasiness on
that account, for they should certainly con-
trive to get him out of his present retreat.
The priest then informed Cardenio and
Dorothea of their plan for Don Quixote's
cure, or at least for decoying him to his
own house. Upon which Dorothea said
she would undertake to act the distressed
damsel better than the barber, especially as
she had apparel, with which she could per-
form it to the life ; and they might have
reliance upon her, ts she had read many
books of chivalry, and was well acquainted
with the style in which distressed damsels
were wont to beg their boons of kuights-
errant. " Let us then hasten to put our
design into execution ; " exclaimed the
curate; "since fortune seems to favour
all our views." Dorothea immediately took
from her bundle a petticoat of very rich
stuff, and a mantle of fine green silk ; and,
out of a casket, a necklace, and other jewels,
with which bhe quickly adorned herself in
such a manner that she had all the appear-
ance of a rich and noble lady. They were
charmed with her beauty, grace, and eleg-
ance ; and agreed that Don Fernando must
be a man of little taste, since he could slight
so much excellence. But her greatest admirer
was Sancho Panza, who thought that, in all
his life, he had never seen so beautiful a
creature ; and he earnestly desired the priest
to tell him who that handsome lady was,
and what she was looking for in those parts ?
" This beautiful lady, friend Sancho," an-
swered the priest, '^ is, to say the least of her,
heiress, in the direct male line, of the great
kingdom of Micomicon ; and she comes in
quest of your master, to beg a boon of him,
which is, to redress a wrong or injury done
her by a wicked giant : for it is the fame of
your master's prowess, which is spread over
all Guinea, that has brought this princess to
seek him." ^* Now, a happy seeking, and
a happy finding," quoth Sancho Panza,
" especially if my master is so fortunate as
to redress that injury, and right that wrong,
by killing the whoreson giant you mention ;
and kill him he certainly will, if he encoun-
ters him, unless he be a goblin ; for my
master has no power at all over goblins.
But one thing I must again beg of your
worship, signer licentiate, and that is to
prevent my master from taking it into his
head to be an archbishop, and advise him
to marry this princess out of hand, for then,
not being qualified to receive archi-episcopal
orders, he will come with ease to his king-
dom, and I, to the end of my wishes : for I
have considered the matter well, and find,
by my account, it will not suit me for my
master to be an archbishop ; as I am unfit
for the church, being a married man ; and
for me to be now going about to procure
dispensations for holding church - livings,
having, as I have, a wife and children,
would be an endless piece of work. So
&^^v% :^
j.r.ii.r>£nT r>t
< CARMSIAONC S«
p. 117.
DON QUIXOTE.
147
ihat, sir, the whole business rests upon my
aiaster's niarr^'ing this lady out of hand —
:iot knowing her grace, I cannot call her
by her name/' " The princess Micomicona
is her name/' said the priest, ^^ for as her
kingdom is named Micomicon, of course
she must be called so," "To be sure,"
answered Sancho ; " for I have known
many take their title and surname from their
birth place, as Pedro de Alcalá, John de
Ubeda, Diego de Valladolid ; and, for aught
I know, it may be the custom there, in
Guinea, for queens to take the names of
their kingdoms." " It is certainly so," said
the priest j '* and, as to your master's marry-
ing this princess, I will promote it to the
utmost of my power." With which assur-
ance Sancho was no less satisfied than the
priest was amazed at his simplicity, in thus
entering into the extravagant fancies of his
master.
Dorothea now having mounted the priest's
mule, and the barber fitted on the ox-tail
beard, they desired Sancho to conduct tiiem
to Don Quixote, cautioning him not say
that he knew the licentiate or the barber,
since on that depended all his fortune. Nei-
ther the priest, nor Cárdenlo, would go with
them ; the latter, that he might not remind
Don Quixote of the dispute which he had
with him ; and the priest, because his pre-
sence was not then necessary : so the others,
therefore, went on before while they fol-
lowed slowly on foot. The priest would
have instructed Dorothea in her part ; but
>he would not trouble him, assuring him
ihat she would perform it precisely according
to the rules and precepts of chivahry.
Havbg proceeded about three quarters of
a league, they discovered Don Quixote in a
wild, rocky recess, at that time clothed, but
aot armed. Dorothea now whipped on her
palfrey, attended by the well-bearded squire ;
and, having approached the knight, her
squire leaped from his mule to assist his
lady, who, lightly dismounting, went and
threw herself at Don Quixote's feet, where,
in spite of his efforts to raise her, she
remained kneeling, as she thus addressed
bim : —
" I will never arise from this place, 0
valorous and redoubted knight, until your
goodness and courtesy vouchsafe me a boon,
which will redound to the honour and glory
of your person, and to the lasting benefit of
the most disconsolate and aggrieved damsel
the sun has ever beheld. And if the valour
of your puissant arm correspond with the
report of your immortal fame, you are bound
to protect an unhappy wight, who, attracted
by the odour of your renown, is come from
distant regions to seek at your hands a
remedy for her misfortunes."
" It is impossible for me to answer you,
fair lady," said Don Quixote, " while you
remain in that posture." " I will not arise,
sigñor," answered the afflicted damsel,
"until your courtesy shall vouchsafe the
boon I ask." " I do vouchsafe and grant
it you," answered Don Quixote, " provided
my compliance be of no detriment to my
king, my country, or to her who keeps the
key of my heart and liberty." " It will
not be to the prejudice of either of these,
dear sir," replied the afflicted damsel. San-
cho, now approaching his master, whispered
softly in his ear, " Your worship may very
safely grant the boon she asks ; for it is a
mere trifle, only to kill a great lubberly
giant ; and she who begs it is the mighty
princess Micomicona, queen of the great
kingdom of Micomicon in iBthiopia. "
" Whosoever the lady may be," answered
Don Quixote, " I shall act as my duty and
my conscience dictate, in conformity to the
rules of my profession :" then, addressing
himself to the damsel, he said, "Fairest
lady, arise ; for I vouchsafe you whatever
boon you ask." " My request then is," said
the damsel, " that your magnanimity will
go whither I shall conduct you ; and that
you will promise not to engage in any other
adventure until you have avenged me on a
traitor, who, against all right, human and
divine, has usurped my kingdom." " I
grant your request," answered Don Quixote ;
"and therefore, lady, dispel that melan-
choly which oppresses you, and let your
fainting hopes recover fresh life and strength,
for, by the help of God, and my powerful
arm, you shall soon be restored to your
kingdom, and seated on the throne of your
ancient and high estate, in despite of all the
miscreants who would oppose it ; and there-
148
=^
ADVENTURES OF
fore we will instantly proceed to action, for
there is always danger in delay." The
distressed damsel would fain have kissed
his hands ; but Don Quixote, who was, in
every respect, a most gallant and courteous
knight, would by no means consent to it,
but, making her arise, embraced her with
much politeness and respect, and ordered
Sancho to look after Rozinante's girths, and
to assist him to arm. Sancho took down
the armour from a tree, where it hung,
like a trophy, and, having got Rozinante
ready, quickly armed his master, who then
cried, " In God's name, let us hasten to
succour this great lady." The barber was
still upon his knees, and under much diffi-
culty to forbear laughing, and keep his
beard from falling — an accident which might
have occasioned the miscarriage of their
ingenious stratagem ; but seeing that the
boon was already granted, and Don Quixote
prepared to fulfil his engagement, he got
up and took his lady by the otlier hand ;
when they both assisted to place her upon
the mule, and then mounted themselves.
Sancho alone remained on foot, which re-
newed his grief for the loss of his Dapple :
but he bore it cheerfully ; reflecting that his
master was now in the right road, and just
upon the point of becoming an emperor;
for he made no doubt but that he was to
marry that princess, and be at least king of
Micomicon. One thing only troubled him,
which was that his kingdom being in the
land of negroes, his subjects would all be
blacks ; but presently recollecting a special
remedy, he said to himself: " What care I,
if my subjects be blacks ? what have I to
do but to ship them off to Spain, where I
may sell them for ready money, with which
money I may buy some title or office, on
which I may live at ease all the days of my
life ? See whether I have not brains enough
to manage mutters, and sell thirty or ten
thousand slaves in the turn of a hand !
Before God, I will make them fly, little and
big ; and let them be every so black, I will
turn them into white and yellow boys : —
let me alone to lick my own fingers." After
these reflections, he went on in such good
spirits that he forgot the fatigue of travel -
on foot.
Cárdenlo and the priest, concealed among
the bushes, had observed all that passed, and
being now desirous to join them, the priest,
who had a ready invention, soon hit upon an
expedient ; for witli a pair of scissars, which
he carried in a case, he quickly cut ofl* Car-
denio's beard ; then put him on a gray
capouch, and gave him his own black cloak,
(himself remaining in his breeches and
doublet,) which so changed Cardenio's ap-
pearance that had he looked in a mirror he
would not have known himself. Although
the others had, in the mean time, been pro-
ceeding onward, they easily gained the high
road first, because tlie narrow passes between
the rocks were more difficult to horse *than
to foot travellers. They waited in the plain
until Don Quixote and his party came up :
whereupon the curate, after gazing for some
time earnestly at him, at last ran towards
him with open arms, exclaiming aloud ;
" Happy is this meeting, O thou mhrror of
chivalry, my noble countryman, Don Quix-
ote de la Mancha ! the flower and cream
of gentility, the protector of suflering man-
kind, the quintessence of knight-errantry ! "
Having thus spoken, he embraced Don
Quixote by the knee of his left leg.
The knight was surprised at this address,
but, after attentively surveying the features
of the speaker, he recognized him, and would
immediately have alighted; but the priest
would not sufler it. " You must permit me
to alight, signer licentiate," said Don Quix-
ote; " for it would be very improper that
I should remain on horseback, while so a
reverend a person as you are travelling on
foot." **I will by no means consent to
your dismounting," replied the priest,
^' since on horseback you have achieved the
greatest exploits this age hath witnessed.
As for myself, an unworthy priest, I shall be
satisfied if one of these gentlemen, of your
company, will allow me to mount behind
him ; and I shall then fancy myself mounted
on Pegasus, or on a Zebra, or the sprightly
courser, bestrode by the famous Moor Mu-
zarque, who lies to this day enchanted in
the great mountain Zulema, not far distant
from the grand Compluto." • " I did not
♦ An univenity of Spain, ncip called Alcalá de He-
nares. J,
<k¿=
DON QUIXOTE.
M9
think of that, dear signer licentiate/' said
Don Quizóte ; " and I know her highness
the princess will, for my sake, order her
squire to accommodate you with the saddle
of his mole ; and he may ride behind, if the
beast will carry double." " I believe she
will,'' answered the princess ; ^^ and I know
it is nnnecessary for me to lay my com-
mands upon my squire; for he is too
courteous and weU-bred to suffer an eccle-
siastic to go on foot, when he may ride."
*^ Most certainly ;" answered the barber;
and, alighting in an instant, he complimented
the priest with the saddle, which he accepted
without much intreaty. But it unluckily
happened that, as the barber was getting
apon the crupper, the mule, which was a
hackney, and conseqaentiy a vicious jade,
threw up her hind-legs twice or thrice into
the air; and had they met with master
Nicholas's breast or head, he would have
wished his rambling after Don Quixote at
the devil. He was, however, thrown to the
ground, and so suddenly that he forgot to
take due care of his beard, which fell off;
and aU he could do was to cover his nice
with both hands, and cry out, that his jaw-
bone was broken. Don Quixote, seeing
such a mass of beard, without jaws, and
without blood, lying at a distance from the
&ce of the fallen squire, exclaimed ; '' Hea^
Tens ! what a miracle ! His beard has
fallen as clean from his face as if he had
been shaven V The priest, seeing the dan-
ger they were in of discovery, instantly
seized the beard, and ran to master Nicholas,
who was still on the ground, moaning ; and
going up close to him, with one twitch,
ne-placed it : muttering over him some words,
which he said were a specific charm for
fixing on beards, as they should soon see ;
and, when it was adjusted, the squire re-
mained as well bearded, and as whole, as
before. Don Quixote was amazed at what
he saw, and begged the priest to teach him
that charm ; for he was of opinion that its
virtue could not be confined to the refixing
of beards, because it was clear that, where
the beard was torn off, the fiesh must be left
wounded and bloody, and, since it wrought
a perfect cure, it must be valuable upon otlier
occasions. The priest said tliat his surmise
was just, and promised to tal^^e the first
opportunity of teaching him the art. They
now agreed that the priest should mount
first, and that all three should ride by turns,
until they came to the inn, which was dis-
tant about two leagues.
Don Quixote, the princess, and the priest,
being thus mounted, attended by Cardenio,
the barber, and Sancho Panza on foot, Don
Quixote said to the damsel : " Your highness
will now be pleased to lead on, in whatever
direction you please." Before she could re-
ply, the licentiate interposing said : ''Whither
would your ladyship go ? To the kingdom
of Micomicon, I presume, or I am much
mistaken." She, being aware that she was
to answer in the affirmative, said : '^ Yes,
sigñor, that kingdom is indeed the place of
my destination." " If so," said the priest,
" we must pass through my native village ;
and thence you must go straight to Cartha-
gena, where you may embark ; and, if you
have a fair wind, a smooth sea, and no
storms, in somewhat less than nine years
you will get within view of the great lake
Meona, I meanMeotis, which is not more than
a hundred days' journey from your highness's
territories." " You are mistaken, good sir,"
said she ; " for it is not two years since I left
it ; and, although I had very bad weather
during the whole passage, here I am, and I
have beheld, what so ardently I desired to
see — signer Don Quixote de la Mancha ;
the üme of whose valour reached my ears
the moment I set foot in Spain, and deter-
mined me upon seeking him, that I might
appeal to his courtesy, and commit the
justice of my cause to the valour of his
invincible arm." "Cease, I pray, these
encomiums ;" said Don Quixote, " for I am
an enemy to every species of flattery ; and
even this if be not such, still are my chaste
ears offended at this kind of discourse. All
that I can say, dear madam, is that my
powers, such as they are, shall be employed
in your service, even at the forfeit of my
life ; but waving these matters for the pre-
sent, I beg the signer licentiate to tell me
what has brought him into these parts, alone^
unattended, and so lightiy apparelled." ** I
can soon satisfy your worship," answered
the priest, '^ our friend, master Nicholas, and
@=
150
ADVENTURES OF
I were going to Seville, to receive a legacy
left me by a relation in India, and no incon-
siderable sum, being sixty thousand crowns ;
and on our road, yesterday, we were attacked
by four highway robbers, who stripped us
of all we had, to our very beards, and in
such a manner that ihe barber thought it
expedient to put on a false one ; as for this
youth here (pointing to Cárdenlo) you see
how they have treated him. It is publicly
reported here tliat those who robbed us were
galley* slaves, set at liberty near this very
place, by a man so valiant that, in spite of the
commissary and his guards, he released them
all : but he must certainly have been out of
his senses, or as great a rogue as any of them,
since be could let loose wolves among sheep,
foxes among poultry, and wasps among the
honey; for he has defrauded justice of her due,
and has set himself up against his king and
natural lord, by acting against his lawful
authority. He has, I say, disabled the gal-
leys of their hands, and disturbed the many
years' repose of the holy brotherhood : in a
word, he has done a deed by which his body
may suffer, and his soul be for ever lost."
Sancho had communicated the adventure
of the galley-slaves, so gloriously achieved
by his master ; and the priest laid it on thus
heavily to see what effect it would have
upon Don Quixote ; whose colour changed
at every word, and he dared not confess
that he had been the deliverer of those wor-
thy gentlemen. ''These,'' said the priest,
'< were the persons that robbed us ; and God
of his mercy pardon him who prevented the
punishment they so richly deserved."
CHAPTEH XXX.
WHICH TREATS OF THE INGENIOUS ME-
THOD PURSUED TO WITHDRAW OUR
ENAMOURED KNIGHT FROM THE RI-
GOROUS PENANCE WHICH HE BAD
IMPOSED ON HIMSELF.
As soon as the priest had done speaking,
Sancho said : '^ By my troth^ sigñor licen-
tiate, it was my master who did that feat ;
not but that I gave him fair warning, and
advised him to mind what he was about,
and that it was a sin to set them at liberty ;
for that they were all going to the galleys
for being most notorious villains." ''Block-
head !" said Don Quixote, " knights- emnt
are not bound to enquire whether the af-
flicted, fettered, and oppressed, whom tbey
meet upon the road, are brought to that situ-
ation by their &ults or their misfortunes. It
is their part to assist them under oppression,
and to regard their sufferings, not their crimes.
I encountered a bead-roll and string of mi-
serable wretches, and acted towards them as
my profession required of me. As for the
rest, I care not : and whoever takes it amiss,
saving the holy dignity of sigñor the licen-
tiate, and his reverend person, I say, be
knows but little of the principles of chivalry,
and lies, like a base-bom son of a whore; and
this I will maintain with the edge of my
sword !" So saying, he fixed himself firmly
in his stirrups and lowered his vizor : for
Mambrino's helmet, as he called it, hung
useless at his saddle-bow, until it could be
repaired of the damages it had received firom
the galley-slaves.
Dorothea was possessed of too much hu-
mour and sprightly wit not to join with the
rest in their diversion at Don Quixote's ex-
pense ; and, perceiving his wrath, she said :
"Sir knight, be pleased to remember the
boon you have promised me, and that yoa
are thereby bound not to engage in any
other adventure, however urgent ; therefore
assuage your wrath, for had sigfior the licen-
tiate known that the galley-slaves were
freed by that invincible arm, he would sooner
have sewed up his month with three stitches,
and thrice have bitten his tongue, than be
would have said a word that might redound
to the disparagement of your worship." ''By
my faith I would ;" exclaimed the priest ;
" or even have plucked off one of my mus-
tachios." " I will say no more, madam,"
said Don Quixote ; " and I will repress that
just indignation raised within my breast,
and quietly proceed, until I have accom-
plished the promised boon. But, in requital,
I beseech yon to inform roe of the particulars
of your grievance, as well as the number and
quality of the persons on whom I must take
due, satisfactory, and complete revenge."
" That I will do most willingly," answered
DON QUIXOTE,
161
Dorothea, '4f a detail of afflictions will not
be wearisome to you.'' '* Not in the least, my
dear madam/' replied the knight. '^ Well
then," said Dorothea, " you have only to
favonr me with your attention." Cardenio
and the barber now walked by her side, cu-
rious to hear what kind of a story she would
invent. Sancho, who was as much deceived
as his master, did the same ; and, after a hem
or two, and other preparatory airs, with
much grace, she thus began her story :
" In the first place, you must know, gen-
tlemen, thatmynameis" here she stopped
short, having forgotten the name the priest
bad given her ; but he came to her aid, say-
ing, " I am not all surprised at your high-
ness's emotion, upon this recurrence to your
misfortunes ; for affliction too often deprives
us of the faculty of memory— even now, your
highness seems to forget that yon are the
great princess Micomicona," "True in-
deed!" answered Dorothea, "but I will
command my distracted thoughts, and pro-
ceed in my true tale of sorrow.
" My fkther, Tinacrio the wise, was very
learned in the magic art, and foresaw by it
that my mother, the queen Xaramilla, would
die before him ; that he must soon after de-
part this life, and that I should thus be left
an orphan. But this he said did not trouble
him so much as the fore-knowledge he had
that a monstrous giant, lord of a great island,
bordering upon our kingdom, called Panda-
filando of the gloomy aspect, for it is averred
that, although his eyes stand in their pro-
per place, he always looks askew, as if he
squinted ; and this he does out of pure ma-
lignity, to scare and frighten those he looks
at — My father foresaw, as I said before,
that this giant would take advantage of my
orphan state, invade my kingdom with a
mighty force, and take it all from me, with-
out leaving me the smallest village, wherein
to hide my head ; but that it was in my
power to avoid this all ruin and misery
by marrying him, although he could not
imagine that I would consent to the match—
and he was in the right ; for I could never
think of marrying this, nor any other giant,
* This geographical error of the princcu is probably
a «atire on the hutorian Mariana, who gravely relates
that QuintvM Pabias, the conaul, baving tent fifteen
however huge and monstrous. My fatfaer^s
advice was that, when, upon his decease,
Pandafilaudo invaded my kingdom, I should
not make any defence, for that would be my
ruin ; but, to avoid death, and the total
destruction of my faithful and loyal subjects,
my best way was, voluntarily to quit the
kingdom, since it would be impossible for me
to defend myself against tlie hellish power
of the giant ; and immediately set out, with
a few attendants, for Spaiu, where I should
find a remedy for my distress, in a knight-
errant, whose fame, about that time, would
extend itself all over that kingdom ; and
whose name, if I remember right, was to
be Don Axote, or Don Gigsote." ** Don
Quixote, you mean, madam," quoth Sancho
Panza, " or otherwise called the knight of
the sorrowful figure." "You are right,"
said Dorothea. " He said, farther, that he
was to be tall and thin visaged ; and on his
right side, under the left shoulder, or there-
abouts, he was to have a gray mole, with
hairs like bristles."
Don Quixote, hearing this, said to bis
squire, " Come hither, Sancho ; help me to
strip, that I may know whether I am the
knight alluded to in the prophecy of that
sage king." " You need not strip," said
Sancho ; " I know you have exactly such a
mole on the ridge of your back— a sure sign
of strength." " That is sufficient," said
Dorothea ; " for we must not stand upon
trifles. It matters not whether it be on the
shoulder or on the back-bone ; — there is a
mole, and it is all of the same flesh. And
doubtless I am perfectly right in recom-
mending myself to sigfior Don Quixote ; for
he must be the knight whom my father
meant, since it is proved, both by his person
and his extraordinary fame, not only in
Spain, but over all la Mancha : for I was
hardly landed in Ossuna before I heard of
so many of his exploits that I felt immedi-
ately assured that he must be the very
person whom I came to seek." " But, dear
madam, how came you to land at Ossuna,"
said Don Quixote, " since that is not a sea-
port town V ' * Before Dorothea could reply,
thousand men into Sp^in against Viriatus, these troops
were landed at a city called Ormni (or Ossuna) in AndJi-
losia ; whereas this city is many leagues from the sea. /.
=^
©=
152
advkntüres of
the priest, interposing, said : ^' Doubtless
the princess would say that, after she had
landed at Mala^, the first place where she
heard news of your worship was Ossuna/'
'< That is what I meant to say/' said Doro-
thea. " Nothing can be more clear," re-
joined the priest. '* Please your majesty to
proceed." " I have little more to add,"
replied Dorothea, "but that, having now
had the good fortune to meet >vith sigñor
Don Quixote, I already look upon myself
as queen and mistress of my whole kingdom,
since he, out of his courtesy and generosity,
has promised, in compliance with my re-
quest, to go with me wherever I please to
conduct him ; which shall be only into the
presence of Pandafilando of the Gloomy
Aspect, that he may slay him, and restore
to me that which has been so unjustly
usurped. Nor is there the smallest reason
to doubt but that all this will come to pass,
according to the prophecy of the wise
Tinacrio, my good father ; who, moreover,
left an order, written either in Chaldean or
Greek (for I cannot read them), that, if
this knight in the prophecy, after cutting
oif the giant's head, should desire to marry
me, I must immediately submit to be his
lawful wife, and, with my person, give him
also possession of my kingdom."
"Now what thinkest thou, friend Sancho ?"
quoth Don Quixote. " Dost thou hear that?
Did not I tell thee so? See whether we
have not now a kingdom to command, and
a queen to marry !" " Odds my life I so it
is," cried Sancho ; "and pox take him^ for a
son of a whore, who will not marry as soon
as signer Pandafilando's weason is cut.
About it then; her majesty's a dainty bit:
I wish all the fleas in my bed were no
worse." And so saying, he cut a couple of
capers, and exhibited other tokens of
delight Then, laying hold of the reins of
Dorothea's mule, and making her stop,
^ fell down upon his knees before her,
6eseeching her to give him her hand to
kiss, in token that he acknowledged her
for his queen and mistress. With difficulty
could the rest of the party restrain their
laughter at the madness of the master and
the simplicity of the man. Dorothea held
out her hand to him, and promised to make
him a great lord in her kingdom, when
heaven should be so propitious as to put her
again in possession of it. Sancho returned
her thanks in expressions which served to
encrease their mirth.
" This, gentlemen," continued Dorothea,
" is my history ; I have only to add that,
of all the attendants I brought with me
from my kingdom, I have none left but
this well-bearded squire ; for the rest wer€
all drowned in a violent storm which over
took us in sight of the port. He and I go'
ashore on a couple of planks, as it were by
miracle; and indeed the whole progress ow
my life is miracle and mystery, as you may
have observed. And if I have exaggerated,
or not been so exact as I ought to have
been, ascribe it, I entreat you, to what the
reverend gentleman said at the beginning
of my narrative, that continual and extra-
ordinary troubles deprive the sufferer even
of memory." " Mine shall never fail me,
0 most worthy and exalted lady!" cried
Don Quixote, " whatever I may be called
upon to endure in your service. And again
1 confirm my engagement, and swear to
accompany you to the remotest regions of
the earth, until I shall meet and grapple
with that fierce enemy of yours, whose
proud head, by the help of God and this
my strong arm, I will cut off with the edge
of this (I will not say good) sword ; thanks
be to Gines de Passamonte, who carried off
my own." These last words he uttered in
a lower tone ; then, again raising his voice,
he proceeded to say : " Having severed it
from his body, and re-placed you in peace-
able possession of your dominions, the dis-
posal of your person will be at your own
discretion, since, while my memory is
engrossed, my heart enthralled, and my
mind subjected, to her who — I say no more
— it is impossible I should prevail upon
myself even to think of marrying, although
it were a phoenix."
Don Quixote's last declaration was so
displeasing to Sancho that, in a great fury,
he exclaimed : "I vow and swear, sigñor
Don Quixote, your worship cannot be in
your right senses ! How else is it possible
you should scruple to iharry so great a
princess ? Do you think that fortune is to
=f^
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
153
offer youy at every tarn, such good luck as
this ? Is my lady Dulcinea more beautiful?
no indeed, not by half! — nay, I could almost
say she is not worthy to tie this lady's
shoe-string. 1 am like, indeed, to get the
earldom, if your worship stands fishing for
mushrooms in the bottom of the sea ! Marry,
marry at once, in the devil's name, and
take this kingdom that drops into your
hand ; and, when you are a king, make me
a marquis, or a lord-lieutenant, and then the
devil take the rest !" Don Quixote, unable
to endure such blasphemies against his lady
Dulcinea, raised his lance, and, without
word or warning, let it fall with such vio-
lence upon Sancho that he was laid flat on
the ground ; and, had not Dorothea called
out, intreating him to forbear, the squire
had doubtless been killed on the spot.
''Thinkestthon," said Don Quixote to him,
after a short pause, *^ base varlet! that I am
always to stand with my arms folded ; and
that there is to be nothing but transgression
on thy side, and forgiveness on mine? Expect
it not, excommunicated wretch ! for so thou
sorely art, having presumed to speak ill of tlie
peerless Dulcinea. Knowest thou not, rustic,
slave, beggar ! that, were it not for the power
she infuses into my arm, I should not have
enough to kill a flea ? TeU me, envenomed
scoffer ! who, tliinkest thou, has gained this
kingdom, and cut off the head of this giant,
and made thee a marquis (all which I look
upon as done), but the valour of Dulcinea,
employing my arm as the instrument of her
exploits ? She fights, she vanquishes in me ;
in her I live and breathe, and of her I hold
my life and being. 0 whoreson villain !
what ingratitude^ when thou seest thyself
exalted from the dust of the earth, to the
title of a lord, to make so base a return as
to speak contemptuously of the hand that
rais^ thee V Sancho was not so much hurt
bat that he heard all his master said to him ;
and, getting up nimbly, he ran behind Doro-
thea's palfrey ; and, thus sheltered, he said
to him : ** Pw^y, sir, tell me if you are re-
solved not to marry this princess, it is plain
the kingdom will not be yours — what favours
then ^vill yon be able to bestow on me?
That is what I complain of. Marry this
queen, sir, once for all, now we have her.
as it were, rained down upon us from hea-
ven, and afterwards you may turn to my lady
Dulcinea : for there have been kings who
have had mistresses. As to the matter of
beauty, I have nothing to say to that ; but if 1
must speak the truth, I really think them both
very well to pass, though I never saw the
lady Dulcinea." " How ! never saw her,
blasphemous traitor!" said Don Quixote;
" hast thou not just brought me a message
from her ?" " I say I did not see her so lei-
surely," said Sancho, <^ as to take particular
notice of her features, piece by piece ; but,
take her altogether, she looks well enough."
" Now I pardon thee," said Don Quixote ;
''and do thou excuse my wrath towards
thee ; for first motions are not in our power."
'' So I find," answered Sancho ; "and in me,
the desire of talking is always a first motion,
and I cannot forbear uttering, at once, what-
ever comes to my tongue's end." '' Never-
theless," quoth Don Quixote, '' take heed,
Sancho, what thou utterest; for, ' the pitcher
that goes so often to the well ' 1; say
no more." " Well then," answered Sancho,
'' God is in heaven, who sees all guile, and
shall be judge of which does most harm, I,
in not speaking well, or your worship, not
doing well." "Let there be no more of
this," said Dorothea; "go, Sancho, and
kiss your master's hand, and ask his pardon.
Henceforward be more cautious in your
praises and dispraises ; and speak no ill of
that lady Toboso, of whom I know no more
than that I am her humble servant Put
your trust in God : for you shall not want
an estate to live upon, like a prince." San-
cho went with his head hanging down, and
begged his master's hand, who presented it to
him with much gravity ; and, when he had
kissed it, Don Quixote gave him his bless-
ing : he then begged that he would walk on
before with him, as he wished to put some
questions to him, and to have some conversa-
tion on affairs of great importance. Having
both advanced a little distance before the
rest, Don Quixote said : "Since thy return,
I have had no opportunity to enquire after
many particulars concerning thy embassy,
and the answer thou broughtest back ; and,
now that fortune presents a favourable occa-
sion, deny me not the gratification whicJ»
154
ADVENTURES Ot
thoa art able to bestow, by such agreeable
communications." " Ask me what question»
you please, sir," answered Sancho : " I
warrant I shall get out as well as I got in ;
but I beseech your worship not to be so re-
vengeful for the future." "What dost thou
mean, Sancho?'' quoth Don Quixote. *'I
say so," replied Sancho, " because the blows
you were pleased to bestow on me just now
were rather on account of the quarrel the
devil raised between us the other night than
for what I said against my lady Dulcinea,
whom I love and reverence, like any relic,
though she is one only inasmuch as she be-
longs to your worship." " No more of that,
Sancho, at thy peril ;" said Don Quixote ^
" for it offends me : I forgave thee before,
and thou now knowcst the saying — * For a
new sin a new penance.'" At this time,
they saw a man coming towards them,
mounted upon an ass, and as he drew near,
he had the appearance of a gipsey. But
Sancho Panza, who, wherever he saw an
ass, followed it with eyes and heart, had no
sooner got a glimpse of the man than he
recognised Gines de Passamonte, and, by
the same clue, was directed to his lost ass ;
for it was really Dapple himself, on which
Gines was mounted ! for in order to escape
discovery and sell the animal, he had dis-
guised himself like a gipsey, as he could
speak their language, among many others,
as readily as his native tongue. Sancho
immediately called out aloud to him, "Ah,
rogue Ginesillo I leave my darling, let go
my life, rob me not of my comfort, quit my
sweetheait, leave my delight ! fly ! whore-
son, fly ! get you gone, thief! and give up
what is not your own." So much railing
was not necessary ; for, at the first word,
Gines dismounted in a trice, and, taking to
his heels, was out of sight in an instant.
Sancho ran to his Dapple, and, embracing
him, said : " How hast thou done, my dear-
est Dapple, delight of my eyes, my sweet
companion !" Then he kissed and caressed
him, as if he had been a human creature.
The ass held his peace, and suflered himself
to be thus kissed and caressed by Sancho,
without answering him one word. They all
came up, and wished him joy on the restora-
tion of his Dapple ; especially Don Quixote,
who, at the same time, assured him that he
should not, on that account, revoke his or-
der for the three colts ; for which he had
Sancho's hearty thanks.
In the mean time, the priest commended
Dorothea for her ingenuity, in the contri-
vance of her story, for its conciseness, and
its resemblance to the narrations in books of
chivalry. She said she had often amused i
herself with such kind of books, but that she |
did not know much of geography, and there- ¡
fore had said at a venture that she landed
at Ossuna. " So I conjectured," said the
priest } " and therefore I corrected your mis-
take. But is it not strange to see how
readily this unhappy gentleman believes all
these fictions, only because they resemble
the style and manner of his absurd books ?"
" It is indeed extraordinary," said Cárdenlo,
" and so unprecedented that I much ques-
tion whether any one could be found pos-
sessed of ingenuity enough to invent and
fabricate such a character." " There is ano-
ther thing remarkable," said the priest,
" which is, that, except on that particular
subject, this good gentleman can discourse
very rationally, and seems to have a clear
judgment and excellent understanding."
While they pursued this conversation,
Don Quixote proceeded in his with Sancho.
" Let us forget, friend Panza, what is past ;
and tell me now, all rancour and animosity
apart, where, how, and when didst thou find
Dulcinea ? What was she doing ? What
didst thou say to her? What answer did
she return? How did she look when she read
my letter? Who transcribed it for thee?
Tell me all that is worth knowing, inquiring,
or answering. Inform me of all, without
adding or diminishing ought to deprive me
of any satisfaction." " Sir," answered San-
cho, " to say the truth, nobody transcribed
the letter for me ; for I carried no letter at
all." "Thou sayest true," quoth Don
Quixote ; " for I found the pocket-book, in
which I wrote it, two days afler thy depar-
ture ; which troubled me exceedingly ; and
I thought thou wouldst return for it." " So
I should have done," answered Sancho, "had
I not got it by heart, when your worship
read it to me ; and so perfectly that I re»
peatcd it to a parish clerk, who wrote it
Q=
=©
DON QUIXOTE.
156
down 80 exactly that he said, though he
had read many letters of excommunication,
he had never in all his life seen or read so
pretty a letter." << And hast thou it still hy
heart, Sancho ?" said Don Quixote. " No,
sir/' answered Sancho : *^ for after I had
delivered it, seeing it was to he of no &rther
use, I forgot it on purpose ; if I rememher
anything it is, f subterrane,' I mean * sov-
ereign lady,' and the conclusion, 'tliine
until death, the knight of the sorrowful
figure:' and between these two things I
put above three hundred souls, and lives,
and dear eyes."
4
CHAPTER XXXI.
OP THK RBLISHING CONVERSATION
WHICH PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIX-
OTE AND HIS SQUIBB SANCHO PANZA,
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS.
"All this is very well — proceed ;" said Don
I Quixote. '' On thy arrival, what was that
queen of beauty doing ? I suppose thou
found'st her stringing pearls, or embroider-
ing some device with threads of gold for
this her captive knight." " No, faith !"
answered Sancho ; " I found her winnowing
two bushels of wheat in a back-yard of her
her house." " Then be assured," said Don
Quixote, *^ that the grains of that wheat
were so many grains of pearl, when touched
by her hands. And didst thou observe,
friend, whether the wheat was fine, or of
the ordinary sort?" " It was neither," an-
swered Sancho, " but of the reddish kind."
" Rely upon it, however," quoth Don Quix-
ote, " that, when winnowed by her hands,
it made the finest manchet bread — but go
on. When thou gavest her my letter, did
she kiss it ? Did she pnt it upon her head ?
Did she nse any ceremony worthy of such
a letter? or what did she do?" '«When
I was gobg to give it her," answered
Sancho, «'she was so busy, winnowing a
good sieve-full of the wheat, that she said
to me, * Lay' the letter, friend, upon that
sack; for I cannot read it until I have
' done what I am about.'" "Discreet lady !"
said Don Quixote; "this was assuredly
I t'lat she might read and enjoy it at lei-
I sure ! — Proce:id, Sancho : while thus era-
(b-. —
ployed, what discourse had she with thee ?
what did she enquire concerning me ? And
what didst thou answer? Tell me all; omit
not the slightest circumstance." " She asked
me nothing ;" said Sancho ; " but I told hei
how your worship was doing penance, foi
her service, among these rocks, naked from
the waist upwards, just like a savage ;
sleeping on the ground, not eating breai*
on a napkin, nor combing your beard,
weeping, and cursing your fortune." " In
saying that I cursed my fortune, thou saidst
wrong," quoth Don Quixote: "I rather
bless it, and shall bless it all the days of
my life, for having made me worthy to love
BO high a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso."
" So high indeed," answered Sancho, " thai
in good faith, she is a hand taller than I
am." " Why, how ! Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "hast thou measured with her?"
"Yes," answered Sancho : " for, as I was
helping her to put a sack of wheat upon an
ass, we came so close together that I noticed
she was taller than I by more than a full
span." "True," replied Don Quixote, "and
is not this uncommon stature adorned by
millions of intellectual graces ? One thing,
Sancho, thou can'st not deny ; when near
her, thou must have perceived a Sabcean
odour, an aromatic fragrance, a something
sweet, for which I cannot find a name— a
scent, a perfume — as if thou wert in {he
shop of some curious glover." " All I can
say is," quoth Sancho, " that I perceived
somewhat of a strong smell, which must
have been owing to the sweat she was in
with hard work." "Impossible!" cried
Don Quixote ; " that smell must have pro-
ceeded from thyself: for well I know the
scent of that lovely rose among thorns, that
lily of the valley,that liquid amber." " Verj'
likely," answered Sancho; "for the very
same smell often comes from me, which,
methought, then came from my lady Dul-
cinea: but Where's the wonder, that one
devD should be like another?" "Well
then," continued Don Quixote, " she nas
now done winnowing, and the com is sent
to the mill. What did she do when she
had read the letter ?" " The letter," quoth
Sancho, " she did not read ; for she said
that she could neither read nor write ; so
156
ADVENTURES OF
she tore it to pieces, saying, she would not
give it to any body to read, that her secrets
might not be known all over the village ;
and that what I had told her by word of
mouth, concerning your worship's love, and
all you were doing for her sake, was enough ;
and she bid me tell your worship that she
kissed your hands, and that she would
rather see you than write to you ; so
begged and commanded you, at sight hereof,
to quit those brakes and bushes, and leave
off these foolish pranks, and set out imme-
diately for Toboso, if business of more
consequence did not prevent you ; for she
wished mightily to see your worship. She
laughed heartily when I told her how you
called yourself the knight of the sorrowful
figure. I asked her, whether the Biscainer
had been there with her; she told me he
had, and that he was a very good kind of
fellow ; I asked her also ailer the galley-
slaves, but she had not yet seen any of
them." ** All this is well," said Don Quix-
ote ; " but, tell me, what jewel did she present
thee with at thy departure, in return for the
tidings thou hadst brought her 7 for it is an
ancient and universal custom among knights,
and ladies-errant, to bestow some rich jewel
on the squires, damsels, or dwarfs, who bring
them news of their mistresses or knights, as
a reward or acknowledgment for their wel-
come intelligence." " Very likely," quoth
Sancho, ^* and a good custom it was ; but
it must have been in days of yore; for
now-a-days, the custom is to give only a
piece of bread and cheese : for that was
what my lady Dulcinea gave me, over the
pales of the yard, when she dismissed me ;
and, by the way, the cheese was made of
sheep's-milk." <<She is extremely gene-
rous," said Don Quixote ; "and if she did
not give thee a jewel, it must have been
because she had none about her : but gifts
are good after Easter.* I shall see her, and
all will then be rectified.
"But I marvel at one thing, Sancho,
which is that thou must have gone and
returned through the air ; for thou hast been
little more than three days in performing
this journey, although the distance between
* A proverbial expreuion, «ignifjing that a good thing
ta alway* ■easonablc. J.
this place and Toboso is more than thirty
leagues ; whence I conclude that the sage
enchanter, who has the superintendance of
my affairs (for such an one there is, or I should
be no true knight-errant) I say, this same
enchanter must have expedited thy journey ;
for there are sages who will take up a
knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and, with-
out his knowing any thing of the matter, he
awakes the next day above a thousand
leagues from the place where he fell asleep.
Indeed, were it otherwise, it would be im-
possible for knights-errant to succour each
other, as they often do, in the critical moment
of danger. A knight, for instance, happens
to be fighting in the mountains of Armenia,
with some dreadful monster, or fierce goblin,
or some other knight ; he has the worst of
the combat, and is just upon the point of
being killed, when suddenly another knight,
his friend, who, perhaps a moment before
was in England, comes upon a cloud, or in
a fiery chariot, and rescues him from death ;
and on the «ame evening he finds himself in
his own chamber, supping with a good appe-
tite, after a journey of two or three thousand
leagues. And all this is effected by the di-
ligence and skill of those sage enchanters.
So that, friend Sancho, I make no difiiculty
in believing that thou hast really performed
the journey in that short time; having,
doubtless, been borne unconsciously through
the air by some friendly power. But wav-
ing this subject for the present, what thinkest
thou I should do respecting my lady's orders
that I should wait upwn her? I am bound
to obey her commands, yet how is it possible,
on account of the boon I have promised to
this princess ? The laws of chivalry oblige
me to consider my honour, rather than my
pleasure. On the one hand, I am torn with
impatience to see my lady— on the other, I
am incited by glory to the accomplishment
of tliis enterprise. My best plan, I believe,
will be to travel with all possible expedition,
cut off the giant's head, replace the princess
on her throne, and then instantly return to
that sun which illumines my senses, who
will pardon a delay which was only to
augment ber fame and glory ; since all my
victories past, present, and to come, are but
emanations from her &vour."
as)
=^
PON QUIXOTE.
167
''Alack!'' cried Sancho^ "your worship
must needs be downright crazy ! Tell me,
pray, do you mean to take this journey for
nothing? And will you let slip such a match
as this, when the dowry is a kingdom, which,
they say, is above twenty thousand leagues
round, and abounding in all things necessary
for the support of life, and bigger than
Portugal and Castile together. For the love
of God, talk no more in this manner, but
follow my advice, and be married out of
hand, at the first place where there is a
priest ; our licentiate here will do it very
cleverly. And, please to recollect I am old
enough to give advice, and what I now
give is as fit as if it were cast in a mould
for you : for a sparrow in the hand is worth
more than a bustard on the wing ; and he
that will not when he may, when he would
he shall have nay." " Hear me, Sancho,"
replied Don Quixote, ^' if thou advisest me
to marry, only that I may have it in my
power to reward thee, be assured that I can
gratify thy desire without taking such a
measure ; before the battle, I will make an
agreement to possess part of the kingdom,
without marrying the princess ; and when I
have it, to whom dost thou think I shall
give it, but to thyself?" " No doubt ;" an-
swered Sancho : '* but pray, sir, take care
to choose it towards the sea, that, if I should
I not like living there, I may ship off my
black subjects, and dispose of them, as I said
before. I would not have your worship
trouble yourself now about seeing my lady
Dulcinea, but go and kill the giant, and let
us make an end of this business ; for, before
God, I verily believe it will bring us much
honour and profit." '' Thou art in the right,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, '' and I shall
follow thy counsel, and accompany the prin-
cess, before I visit my lady Dulcinea. But
I beg thou wilt say nothing on the subject
of our conference, not even to our compan-
ions : for since Dulcinea is so reserved that
she would not have her thoughts known, it
would be improper in me or any other per-
son to reveal them." '' If so," quoth Sancho,
** why does your worship send all those you
conquer, by your mighty arm, to present
themselves before my lady Dulcinea, for this
is giving it under your hand that you are in
love with her ?" " How dull and simple thou
art !" said Don Quixote. '' Seest thou not,
Sancho, that all this redounds the more to
her exaltation ? For thou must know that,
in this our style of chivalry, it is to the
honour of a lady to have many knights-
errant, who serve her merely for her own
sake, without indulging a hope of any other
reward for their z^ than the honour of
being admitted among the number of her
knights.", "I have heard it preached,"
quoth Sancho, *^ that God is to be loved with
this kind of love, for himself alone, without
our being moved to it by hope of reward,
or fear of punishment : though, for my part,
I am inclined to love and serve him for what
he is able to do for me." " The devil take
thee for a bumpkin," sidd Don Quixote ;
*Uhou sayest ever and anon such apt things
that one would almost think thee a scholar."
•* And yet, by my faith," quoth Sancho, " I
cannot so much as read."
While they were thus talking, master
Nicholas called aloud to them to stop, as
they wished to quench their thirst at a small
spring near the road. Don Quixote halted,
much to the satisfaction of Sancho, who be-
gan to be tired of telling so many lies, and
was afraid his master should at last catch
him tripping : for although he knew Dulci-
nea was a peasant girl of Toboso, he had
nevejr seen her in his life. In the mean
while. Cárdenlo had put on the clothes worn
by Dorothea in her disguise, being rather
better than his own. They alighted at the
fountain, and with the provisions which the
curate had brought from the inn, they all
appeased their hunger.
While they were thus employed, a lad
happened to pass that way, who, after
looking earnestly at the party, ran up to
Don Quixote, and, embracing his knees,
began to weep, saying : " Ah, dear sir ! does
not your worship know me ? Look at me
well : I am Andres, the lad whom you de-
livered from the oak to which I was tied."
Don Quixote recollected him, and, taking
him by the hand, he thus addressed the
company : " To convince you of the import-
ance of knight-errants in the world, in order
to redress the wrongs and injuries committed
by insolent and wicked men, know that,
168
ADVENTURES OF
flome time since, as I was passing by a
wood, I heard certain cries, and the voice
of some person in affliction and distress.
Prompted by my duty, I hastened towards
the place whence the voice seemed to come,
and I found, tied to an oak, this lad whom
you see here. — I am rejoiced to my soul
that he is present, for he will attest the
truth of what I tell you. He was bound,
I say, to an oak tree, naked from the waist
upward, and a country fellow, whom I
afterwards found to be his master, was
lashing him with the reins of a bridle. I
immediately demanded the reason of so
severe a chastisement. The clown answered
that he was his servant, whom he was pun-
ishing for neglect, proceeding rather from
knavery than simplicity. Sir, said the boy,
he whips me only because I ask him for my
wages. The master, in reply, made many
speeches and excuses, which I heard indeed,
but did not admit. In short I compelled
him to unbind the youth, and made him
swear to take him home, and pay every
real, perfumed into the bargain. — Is not all
tiiis true, son Andres ? Didst thou not ob-
serve with what authority I commanded,
and with what humility he promised to do
whatever I enjoined, notified, and required
of him ? Answer boldly : relate to this
company what passed, that they may see
the benefits resulting from the vocation of
knights-errant." " All that your worship
has said is very true," answered the lad;
'' but the business ended quite contrary to
what your worship supposes." " How con-
trary?'' replied Don Quixote: "did not
the rustic instantly pay thee?" "He not
only did not pay me," answered the boy,
" but, as soon as your worship was out of
the wood, and wc were left alone, he tied
me again to the same tree, and gave roe so
many fresh lashes that I was flayed like
any saint Bartholomew; and, at every
stroke, he said something by way of scofiT
or jest upon your worship, which, if I had
not felt so much pain, would have made
me laugh. In short, he laid on in such
manner that I have been ever since in a
hospital, to get cured of the bruises that
cruel fellow then gave me : for all which
your worship is to blame, for, had you gone
on your way, and not come when you were
not called, nor meddled with other folks'
buaness, my master would have been sa-
tisfied with giving me a dozen or two of
lashes, and then would have loosed me, and
paid me my due. But, as your worship
abused him so unmercifully, and called him
so many bad names, his wrath was kindled ;
and, not having it in his power to be re-
venged on you, no sooner had you left him
than he discharged such a tempest upon me
that I shall never be a man again while I
live."
"The mischief," said Don Quixote, " was
in my departing before I had seen you paid ;
for I should have known, by long experi-
ence, that no rustic will keep his word, if
he finds it his interest to break it. But thoa
mayest remember, Andres, that I swore, if
he paid thee not, I would hunt him out,
although he were concealed in a whale's
belly." "That is true," quotii Andres;
"but it signified nothing." "Thou shaJt
see that," said Don Quixote: and so saying,
he started up, and ordered Sancho to bridle
Rozinante, who was grazing. Dorothea
asked him what he intended to do? He
told her that he was going in search of the
rustic, to chastise him for his base conduct,
and make him pay Andres to the last
fiurthing, in spite and defiance of all the
rustics in the world. She desired he would
recollect that, according to the promised
boon, he could not engage in any other ad-
venture until her's had been accomplished ;
and, as no one could be more sensible of
this than himself, she intreated him to curb
his resentment until his return from her
kingdom. " You are right," answered Don
Quixote ; " and Andres must, as you say,
madam, have patience until my return ; and
I again swear not to rest until he is revenged
and paid." " I do not think much of these
oaths," said Andres : " I would rather have
wherewithal to carry me to Seville than all
the revenges in the world. If you have
anything to give me to eat, let me have it,
and God be with your worship, and with
all knights-errant, and may they prove as
lucky erran ts to themselves as they have
been to me." Sancho pulled out a piece of
bread and cheese, and, giving it to the lad.
í^-
DON QUIXOTE.
159
said to him : *' Here, brother Andres, we
have all a share in your misfortune."
»* Why, what share have you in it V* said
Andres. '* This piece of bread and cheese
which I give you," answered Sancho;
" God knows whether I may not want it
myself; for I would have you know, friend,
that we squires to knights-errant are subject
to much hunger and ill-luck, and other
things too, which are better felt than told."
Andres took the bread and cheese, and,
seeing that nobody else gave him anything,
he made his bow and marched off. It is
true, he said at parting, to Don Quixote :
'* For the love of God, signer knight-errant,
if you ever meet me again, though you see me
bcAten to pieces, do not come with your help,
but leave me to my &te, which cannot be so
bad but that it will be made worse by your
worship, whom God confound, together with
all the knights-errant that ever were bom !"
So saying, he ran off with so much speed
that nobody attempted to follow him. Don
Quixote was much abashed at this affair of
AndreSy and his companions endeavoured to
restrain their inclination to laugh, that they
might not put him quite out of countenance.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
WHICH TREATS OP WHAT BEFPL DON
QUIXOTB AND HIS COMPANY AT THE
inn-
Having finished their repast, they forth-
with mounted, and, without encountering
any adventure worth relating, arrived, the
next day, at that inn so much the dread and
terror of Sancho Panza, who now, much
against his will, was obliged to enter it.
The hostess, the host, their daughter, and
Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and his
squire, went out to meet and welcome them.
llie knight received them with a grave,
but approving, countenance, desiring them
to prepare a better bed than they had given
him before ; to which the hostess answered
that, provided he would pay better than he
did before, she would get him a bed for a
prince. Don Quixote having satisfied them
by his promises, they provided him with a
tolerable bed, in the same apartment which
he had before occupied ; and, being much
shattered both in body and brains, he imme-
diately threw himself down upon it. He
was no sooner shut into his chamber but the
hostess fell upon the barber, and, taking
him by the beard, said : ** By my fidth, you
shall use my tail no longer for a beard ;
give me my tail again, for my husband^s
comb is so thrown about that it is a shame."
The barber would not part with it for all
her tugging, until the licentiate told him
that he might give it her ; for, as there was
no further need of that artifice, he might
now appear in his own shape, and tell
Don Quixote that, being robbed by the
galley-slaves, he had fled to this inn ; and,
if he should ask for the princess's squire,
they should say she had dispatched him
before, with intelligence to her subjects of
her approach, with their common deliverer.
Upon which the barber willingly surren-
dered the tail to the hostess, together with
the other articles which she had lent them
in order to effect Don Quixote's enlargement.
All the people of the inn were struck at
the beauty of Dorothea, and the comely
person of Cardenio ; the priest ordered them
to get ready what the house afforded, and
tlie host, hoping to be well paid, quickly
served up a decent supper. Don Quixote
still continued asleep, and they agreed not
to awake him ; for at that time he had more
occasion for sleep than food.
During the supper, at which the host and
his family were present, as well as the stran-
gers who happened to be then at the inn,
the discourse turned upon the extraordinary
derangement of Don Quixote, and the state
in which he had been found in the mountain.
The hostess, seeing that Sancho was not pre-
sent, related to them his adventure with the
carrier, and also the whole story of the blan-
ket, at which they were not a little diverted.
The priest happening to remark that the
books of chivalry which Don Quixote
had read had turned his brain, the inn-
keeper said, '* I cannot conceive how tliat
can be ; for really, in my opinion, there is
no choicer reading in the world. I have
three or four of them by me, with some ma-
nuscripts, which, in good truth, have kept
me alive, and many otliers : for, in harvest-
=©
160
ADVENTURES OF
time, among the reapers who take shelter
here, during the noon - day heat, there is
always some one among them able to read,
who will take up one of these books, and
above thirty of us place ourselves round him,
and listen to him with so much pleasure that
it keeps away a thousand grey hairs: at
least, I can say for myself that, when I hear
of those furious and terrible blows which
the knights - errant lay on, I long to be
doing as much, and could sit and hear them
day and night." " I wish you did," quoth
the hostess ; " for I never have a quiet mo-
ment in my house but when you are listening
to the reading ; for you are then so besotted
that you forget to scold." " Yes, indeed,"
said Maritornes, " and in good faith, I too
like much to hear those things ; for they are
very fine, especially when they tell us how
such a lady and her knight lie embracing
each other under an orange tree, and how a
duenna stands upon the watch, dying with
envy, and her heart going pit-a-pat. I say,
all this is pure honey." "And pray, young
damsel, what is your opinion of these mat-
ters ?" said the priest, addressing himself to
the inn-keeper's daughter. " I do not know,
indeed, sir," answered the girl : " I listen
too, and, though I do not understand, I take
some pleasure in hearing ; yet, truly, those
blows and slashes, which please my father
so much, are not to my mind. I like the
complaints the knights make when they are
absent from their mistresses: and, really,
sometimes they make me weep, for pity."
" Then you would soon atford them relief,
young gentlewoman," said Dorothea, "if
they wept for you ?" "I do not know what
I should do," answered the girl : " only I
know that some of those ladies are so cruel
that their knights call them tigers and lions,
and a Uiousand other ugly names. And,
Jesu ! I cannot imagine what kind of folks
they must be who are so hard - hearted and
unconscionable, that, rather than bestow a
kind look on an honest gentleman, they will
let him die, or run mad. For my part, I
cannot see why so much coyness : if they
would behave like honest women, let them
marry them ; for that is what the gentlemen
would be at." " Hold your tongue, hussey,"
said the hostess : "methinks you know a great
deal of these matters ; it does not become
young maidens to know, or talk, so much."
" When this gentleman asked me a civil ques-
tion," replied the girl, "I could do no less,
sure, than answer him." " Well, well," said
the priest ; " but pray, landlord, let us see
those books." " With all my heart," an-
swered the host ; and going into his chamber,
he brought out an old cloke-bag, with a pad-
lock and chain to it, and, opening it, he took
out three large volumes, and some manu-
script papers written in a very fair character.
The first book which he opened he found
to be Don Cirongilio of Thrace, the next,
Felixmarte of Hyrcania, and the third, the
history of the Grand Captain Gonzalo Her-
nandez of Cordova, with the life of Diego
Garcia de Paredes, When the priest had
read the titles of the two ñrst, he turned to
the barber, and said : ** We want here our
friend's house-keeper and niece." " Not at
all," replied the barber ; " for I myself can
carry them to toe yard, or to the chimney,
where there is a very good fire." " What,
sir, would you bum my books ?" said the
innkeeper. " Only these two," said the
priest, " Don Cirongilio, and Felixmarte."
"What, then, are my books heretical, or
phlegmatical, that you want to bum them ?"
" Schismatical, you would say, friend," said
the barber, " and not phlegmatical." "Yes,
yes," replied the inn -keeper ; "but if you
intend to bum any, let it be this of the great
Captain, and Diego de Garcia ; for I will
sooner let you bum one of my children than
either of the others." " Brother," said the
priest, " these two books are full of extrava-
gant fictions and absurd conceits ; whereas
the history of ' the great Captain ' is matter
of fact, and contains the exploits of Gonzalo
Hernandez of Cordova, who, for his numer-
ous brave actions, acquired, all over the
world, the title of the great Captain: a
name renowned and illustrious, and merited
by him alone. As for Diego Garcia de
Paredes, he was a distinguished gentleman,
bom in the town of Truxillo in Estrema-
dura ; a brave soldier, and of so much bodily
strength that he could stop a mill-wheel,
in its most rapid motion, with a single fin-
ger. Being once posted with a two-handed
sword at the entrance upon a bridge. Ur
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
161
rqiellcd a prodigious army, and prevented
their passage over it ; there are other exploits
of the same kind, which, if instead of being
related by himself, with the modesty of a
cavalier who is his own historian, they had
been recorded by some other dispassionate
and unprejudiced author, would have eclipsed
the actions of the Hectors, Achilleses, and
Orlandos." " Persuade ray grandmother
td that," quoth tlie inn - keeper ; " do but
see what it is he wonders at — the stopping
of a mill-wheel ! Before God, your worship
should read what I have read, concerning
Felixmarte of Hyrcania, who with one back
stroke, cut asunder five giants through the
middle, as if they had been so many bean-
cods, of which the children make puppet-
friars. At another time, he encountered a
great and powerful army, consisting of above
a million six hundred thousand soldiers, all
armed irom head to foot, and routed them,
as if they had been a flock of sheep. But
what will you say of the good Don Ciron-
gilio of Thrace? who was so stout and
valiant, as you may there read in the book,
that once, as he was sailing on a river, see-
ing a fiery serpent rise to the surface of the
water, he immediately threw himself upon
it, and, getting astride its scaly shoulders,
squeezed its throat with both his hands, with
so much force that the serpent, finding it-
self in danger of being choaked, had no
other remedy but to plunge to the bottom
of the river, carrying with him the knight,
who would not quit his hold ; and, when
they reached the bottom, he found himself
in such a fine palace, and beautiful gardens,
that it was wonderful ; and presently the
serpent turned into an old man, who said so
many things to him that the like was never
heard ! Therefore pray say no more, sir ; for
if you were but to hear all this you would
run mad with pleasure. A ñg for the grand
Captain, and your Diego Garcia I"
Dorothea, here whispering to Cardenio,
said, ** Our landlord wants but little to make
the second part of Don Quixote." " I
think so too," answered Gardenia: '* for he
evidently takes all that is related in these
books for gospel ; and the bare- footed friars
themselves could not make him believe
otherwise." "Look you, brother," said
the priest ; " there never was in the world
such a man as Felixmarte of Hyrcania, nor
Don Cirongilio of Thrace, nor any other
knights, mentioned in books of cliivalry ;
for all is the invention of idle wits, who
composed them for the purpose of tliat
amusement which, you say, your reapers
find in them. I swear to you, there never
were such knights in the world, nor were
such feats, nor extravagances, ever per-
formed." " To another dog with that bone,"
answered the host : " what then ! I do not
know how many make ñve ; nor where my
own shoe pinches ! — do not think, sir, that
I am now to be fed with pap : for, before
God, I am no suckling. A fine jest indeed,
that your worship should endeavour to make
me believe that the contents of these good
books, printed with the license of the king's
privy-council, are all extravagant fables ; as
if they would allow the printing of a pack
of lies !" " I have already told you, friend,"
replied the priest, " that it is done for the
amusement of our idle thoughts ; and, as
in all well-instituted commonwealths, the
games of chess, tennis, and billiards, are
permitted for the entertainment of those
who have nothing to do, and who ought
not, or cannot, work ; for the same reason
they permit such books to be published ;
presuming, as they well may, that no body
can be so ignorant as to take them for truth ;
and if this had been a more seasonable time,
I could lay down such rules for the com-
posing books of chivalry as should, perhaps,
make them, not only agreeable, but even
useful , however, I hope an opportunity may
ofier for me to communicate my ideas to
those who have the power to turn them to
account. Here, landlord, take your books,
and, if you will not trust my word, you must
settle the point of their truth or fiction as
you please ; much good may they do you ;
and God grant you halt not on the same
foot as your guest, Don Quixote." " Not
so," answered the inn-keeper, " I shall not
be so mad as to turn knight - errant ; for I
know very well that times are altered since
those famous knights wandered about the
world."
Sancho entered during this conversation,
and was much confounded at hearing tlial
p-
1C2
ADVENTURES OF
¡I
knights-errant were not now in fashion, and
that all books of chivalry were mere lies
and fooleries ; he therefore secretly resolved
to wait the event of his master's present
expedition, determined, if it was not suc-
cessful, to leave him, and return home to
his wife and children, and to his accustomed
labour.
The inn -keeper was carrying away the
books, when the priest said to him : '' Pray
5top, till I have looked at those papers
which are written in so fair a character."
The host took them out, and, having given
them to him, he found about eight sheets
in manuscript, with a large title page, on
which was written " The Novel of the Cu-
rious Impertinent." The priest having read
three or four lines to himself, said : ^< In
truth I do not dislike the title of this novel,
and I feel disposed to read the whole."
" Your reverence will do well," answered
the inn-keeper ; for I assure you that some
of my guests, who have read it, liked it
mightily, and earnestly begged it of me,
but I would not give it them, meaning to
restore it to the person who left behind him
the portmanteau, with these books and pa-
pers. Perhaps their owner may come this
way again, some time or other ; and though
I shall feel the loss of the books, I will
faithfully restore them : for, though I am
an inn -keeper, thank God I am a chris-
tian." " You are much in the right, friend,"
said the priest ; ^' nevertheless, if the novel
pleases me, you must give me leave to take
a copy of it." " With all my heart," an-
swered the inn-keeper. In the mean time,
Cardenio had taken up the novel, and being
likewise pleased with what he saw, he re-
quested the priest to read it aloud. <' I will,"
said the priest, '' unless you think we had
better spend our time in sleeping." '^ I
would rather listen to some tale," said
Dorothea, ^' for my spirits are not so tran-
quil as to allow me to sleep." Master
Nicholas and Sancho expressed the same
inclination. '' Well then," said the priest,
** I will read it ; for I feel, myself, a little
curiosity, and possibly it may yield us some
amusement. So listen to me, good people,
for thus it begins."
<¡^--
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE NOYBI. OP THE CURIOUS
IHPBBTINERT.
In Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy,
in the province called Tuscany, lived An-
selmo and Lothario, two gentlemen of rank
and fortune, and so united in friendship that,
by all who knew them, they were distin-
guished by the appellation of the Two Friends.
They were both unmarried, and of similar
age and disposition. Anselmo was indeed
somewhat more inclined to amorous pleasures
than Lothario, who gave the preference to
country sports ; but each would occasionally
neglect his own favourite pursuits, to follow
those of his friend : thus were their inclina-
tions as harmoniously regulated as the
motions of a clock. It so happened that
Anselmo fell desperately in love with a
beautiful young lady of condition in the
same city, named Camilla ; and he resolved,
with the approbation of his friend Lothario,
without which he did nothing, to demand
her in marriage of her fisither. He employed
Lothario in the affair, who managed it much
to his satisfaction, for, in a short time, he
found himself in possession of the object of
his affection; and Lothario received the
warmest acknowledgments from both, for
his friendly mediation.
For some days after the marriage — days
usually dedicated to festivity, — Lothario
frequented, as usual, his friend Anselmo's
house; but the nuptial season being past,
and compliments of congratulation over,
Lothario began to remit the frequency of
his visits to Anselmo ; discreetly thinking it
improper to visit friends, when married, as
often as in their bachelor-state: for, al-
though true friendship is not suspicious, yet
so nice is the honour of a husband that it is
liable to suffer even by a relative, much more
by a friend. Anselmo observed Lothario's
remissness, and complained of it; telling
him that he would never have married had
he suspected that it would occasion any
abatement in their friendly intercoune ; and
he entreated him to resume his visits on their
former terms of famih'arity, assuring liim
=^
-^(D
DON QUIXOTE.
168
tliat his 'wife's sentiments and wishes on the
subject entirely corresponded with his own.
Lothario replied with much prudence to the
friendly importunities of Anselmo, and at
length induced him to rest satisfied by a
promise that he would dine with him twice
a week, and on holidays. Lothario, how-
ever, resolved to observe this agreement no
farther than he should find consistent with
the honour of his friend, whose reputation
was no less dear to him than his own. He
justly thought that a man, on whom heaven
has bestowed a beautiful wife, should be as
cautious respecting the friends he introduces
at home as to her female acquaintance
abroad ; for what cannot be concerted in
the market - place, at church, or at public
asáembliesy may be easily effected by the
assbtance of some female relative or confi-
dential friend. At the same time he acknow-
ledged that a husband often required the
admonition or interference of a friend, in
case of any inadvertency or wont of pru-
dence in a wife, which his own affection
might cause him to overlook. But where is
Anselmo to find such an adviser, so discreet,
so faithful, and sincere, unless it be in
Lothario himself? — who, with the utmost
diligence and attention, watched over the
honour of his friend, and contrived to re-
trench, cut short, and abridge the number of
appointed visiting-days, lest the idle and
malicious should censure the free access of
a young, rich, and accomplished cavalier,
like himself, to the house of a beautiful
woman, like Camilla. And though his
known integrity and worth might bridle
the tongues of the censorious, yet he was
unwilling that his own honour, or that of
his friend, should be in the least suspected.
Most of the days therefore, on which he had
agreed to visit him, he employed in concerns
which he pretended were indispensable : and
thus gave occasion for friendly complaints
on one side, and excuses on the other.
One day, as they were walking in the
fields together, Anselmo said to his friend ;
" I am sensible, Lothario, that I can never
be sufficientiy grateful to God for the bless-
ings he has bestoued upon me, in giving
BU! such excellent parents, and the goods of
nature and fortuue, in abundance ; and es-
pecially in having blessed me with such a
friend as yourself, and such a wife as
Camilla; treasures, which I feel to be
inestimable. Yet, notwithstanding all these
advantages, I am the most uneasy and
dissatisfied man living ; having been for
some time past harassed by a desire, so
strange, and singular, that I am surprised
and irritated at my own folly, and have en-
deavoured with all my power to repress it ;
but I find it impossible. On your firiendly
breast, then, I would fain repose my core,
and trust by your assiduity to be restored to
tranquillity and happiness.
Lothario was surprised at this long pre-
amble, and could not possibly conjecture to
what it tended. He told Anselmo that he
was bound in friendship to repose implicit
confidence in him, and that he might rely
on all the assistance in his power. " With
this assurance, my friend," answered An-
selmo, " I will confess, then, to you, that
the cause of my solicitude is a desire to
ascertain whether my wife be as good and
perfect as I think she is. Of this I cannot
be assured unless she pass an ordeal, as gold
does that of fire : for how, my friend, can
a woman prove her virtue, if she be not
tried ? She only is chaste who has resisted
all tlie various solicitations of an importu-
nate lover. What merit can a woman claim
for being virtuous, if nobody persuades her
to be otherwise? What is there extraordi-
nary in a woman's prudence, if no oppor-
tunity is given her to go astray ? Or if she
be only restrained by the fear of a husband's
vengeance ? She, therefore, who is correct
out of fear, or from want of opportunity,
does not deserve to be held in the same
degree of estimation as one who resists
importunity. For these reasons, and others
that I could assign, my desire is that Camilla
should pass through tlie fiery ordeal of
temptation, and, if she come out triumphant,
as I believe she will, I shall account myself
supremely happy, and can then say that I
have attained the summit of good fortune ;
since the virtuous woman is fallen to my
lot, of whom the wise man says, * Who can
find her?' But should the event prove
otherwise, the satisfaction of having proved
the truth will enable me to bear tlie affliction
--©
IC.4:
ADVENTURES OF
occasioned by bo costly an experiment. And,
since nothing can divert me from it, I re-
quest you, my friend Lothario, to be my
instrument in this business, for which I will
afford you every facility, and you shall want
nothing that I can think necessary to gain
upon a modest, virtuous, reserved, and dis-
interested woman. Among other reasons
which induce me to trust this nice affair to
you is my confidence that, if Camilla should
be overcome, you will not push the "victory
to the last extremity ; m> that I shall be
wronged only in the intention, and the
injury will remain, by you, buried in silence,
which, as it regards me, will, most certainly,
be eternal as that of death. Therefore, if
you would have me enjoy my existence, you
must immediately engage in this amorous
combat, not languidly and lazily, but with
all the fervour and diligence my design
requires, and with the secrecy which I
expect from your friendship."
Lothario had listened to Anselmo with
the utmost attention, and without once in-
terrupting him ; even after he had ceased
speaking, he continued for some tíme ga2dng
at him in silence and surprise. "Surely,
my friend Anselmo," he at length exclaimed,
"you have been saying all this in jest:
could I think you in earnest I should doubt
the evidence of my senses, and question
whether you were really Anselmo, and I
Lothario ! Certainly you are not the An-
selmo you were wont to be, or you would
not have made such a request of your
Lothario — for men may prove and use their
friends, as the poet expresses it, 'usque ad
aras ;' meaning that a friend should not be
required to act contrary to the law of God.
If such was the precept of a heathen,
surely it would be unbecoming a christian
to transgress it ; if an infraction ever ad-
mitted of excuse, it could only be when the
honour and life of a friend were at stake.
But tell me, I pray, which of these are now
in danger, that I should venture to gratify
you by committing so detestable an action ?
On the contrary, if I understand yon right,
instead of preserving, you would have me
deprive both you and myself of honour and
life ; for, in robbing you of honour, I should
take your life, since a man dishonoured is
@r
worse than dead ; and if I become the in-
strument of this evil, shall I not incur the
same fate ? Hear me patiently, my friend,
and answer not until you have heard all my
arguments against your strange proposal."
" With all my heart," said Anselmo ; "say
what you please."
" It seems to me, Anselmo," resumed Lo-
thario, " that it is now with you as it always
is with the Moors, who never can be con-
vinced of the errors of their sect by the
evidence of Holy Scriptures, nor by argu-
ments drawn from reason, or founded upon
articles of faith ; but you must give them
proofs tliat are plain, intelligible, undeniable,
and, in short, mathematically demonstrated ;
such as — ' If from equal parts we take equal
parts, those that remain are also equal.'
And, if they do not comprehend this by
words — ^and indeed they do not— you must
shew it to them with your hands, and set it
before their very eyes ; and, after all, per-
haps nothing can convince them of the
truths of our holy religion. Thus it is with
you — and so hopeless is the task of contend-
ing by argument against such preposterous
folly that only my friendship for you pre-
vents me from leaving yon at once to the
punishment that will attend it. You desire
me, Anselmo, to assail her who is modest
and prudent — to seduce her who is virtuous :
as you thus acknowledge that your wife
possesses these qualities, what is it you
would have ? Being convinced of what is
doubtless the fact — that her virtue is im-
pregnable— how can she be raised higher in
your estimation? for she cannot be more
than perfect. If, in reality, yon have not
that favourable opinion of her which you
profess to have, wherefore put her to such a
test? Treat her rather as you think she
deserves. But if, on the contrary, you
believe in her chastity and truth, it is ab-
surd to make an impertinent experiment,
which cannot enhance the intrinsic worth of
those qualities. To attempt voluntarily tliat
which must be productive of evil rather than
good is madness and folly. Difficult works
are undertaken for the sake of God, of the
world, or of both : the first are those per-
formed by the saints, while they endeavour
to live a life of angels in their human
.=€^
DON QUIXOTE.
165
frames. Such as are performed for love of
the world are encountered by those who
navigate the boundless ocean, traverse dis-
tant countries and various climates, to
acquire what are called the goods of fortune,
rhose who assail hazardous enterprizes, for
the sake both of God and man, are brave
soldiers, who no sooner perceive in the ene-
my's wall a breach made by a single canon-
ball, than, regardless of danger, and full of
zeal in the defence of their faith, their
country, and their king, they rush where
death in a thousand shapes awaits them.
These are difficulties commonly attempted ;
and, though perilous, they are glorious and
profitable. But your enterprize will neither
acquire you glory from God, the goods of
fortune, nor reputation among men; for,
supposing the event to be satisfactory, you
will be no gainer ; if it should be otherwise,
your sitaation will be wretched beyond
conception, and it can afford you but little
satis&ction, under the consciousness of such
a misfortune, to think that it is unknown to
others. For, as that celebrated poet, Louis
Transito, says, in his * Tears of St. Peter,'—
Shame, grief, xemone, in Peter's breast increase.
Soon as the blushing morn his crime betrays;
'Whtaa most unseen, then most himself he sees.
And with due horror all his soul surreys.
For n gnat spirit needs no censuring eyes
To wound his soul, when conscious of a fault ;
But, self-condemn* d, and e'en self-panish'd, lies,
And dreads no witness like upbraiding thought.
** Expect not, therefore, by concealment to
banish sorrow ; for, even though you weep
not openly, tears of blood will flow from
your heart. So wept that simple doctor
who, according to the poet, would venture
to make trial of the cup which the more
prudent Rinaldo wisely declined doing; and
although this be a poetical fiction, there is
a concealed moral in it worthy to be ob-
served and followed. But I have yet some-
thing more to say upon this subject, which,
I hope, will fully convince you of the folly
of your project.
** TeU me, Anselmo, if you were so for-
tunate as to possess a superlatively fine
diamond, the value of which was acknow-
ledged by jewellers, who all unanimously
declared that, in weight, goodness, and
beauty, it was excellent of its kind, would
it be reasonable to insist on this diamond
being laid on an anvil to try, by the
hammer, whether it were really so hard and
so fine as it was pronounced to be ? If the
stone bear the proof, it could not thereby
acquire additional value; and, should it
break, would not all be lost? Yes, cer-
tainly, and its owner pass for a fool ! Con-
sider, then, friend Anselmo, that Camilla is
a precious gem, both in your own estimation
and in that of the world, and tliat it is ab-
surd to expose her to danger, since, though
she should remain entire, she cannot rise in
value ; and, should she fail, reflect what
would be your loss, as well as your self-
reproaches for having caused both her ruin
and your own ! There is no jewel in the
world so valuable as a chaste and virtuous
woman. The honour of women consists in
the good opinion of the world ; and, since
that of your wife is eminently good, why
would you have it questioned? Woman,
my friend, is an imperfect creature, and,
instead of laying stumbling-blocks in her
way, we should clear the path before her,
that she may readily attain that virtue
which is essential in her. Naturalists in-
fonn us that the erniin is a little creature
with extremely white fur, and that, when
the hunters are in pursuit of it, they spread
with mire all the passes leading to its
haunts, to which they then drive it, know-
ing that it will submit to be taken ratlier
than defile itself. The virtuous and modest
woman is an ermin, and her chastity whiter
than snow ; and, in order to preserve it, a ver}>^
different method must be taken from that
which is used with the ermin : she must not
be driven into mire ; that is, the foul addresses
of lovers ; since she may not have sufficient
virtue and strength to extricate herself from
the snare. Instead of exposing her to such
danger, you should present to her view the
beauty of virtue and fair fame. The repu-
tation of a woman may also be compared to
a mirror of crystal, shining and bright, but
Uable to be sullied by every breath that
comes near it. The virtuous woman roust
be treated like a relic — adored, but not
handled ; she should be guarded and prized,
like a fine flower-garden, the beauty and
fragrance of which the owner allows others
to enjoy only at a distance, and through
©^
(^^
lu8
ADVENTURES OF
iron rails. I will also repeat to you some
▼erses, applicable to the present subject,
which I remember to have heard in a
modem comedy. A prudent old man ad-
vises the father of a young maiden to look
well after her, and lock her up. Among
others, he gives the following reasons :
I.
If woman 's glaM, why «hould we try
Whether she can be broke, or no !
Great hacarda in the trial lie.
Because, perchance, she nuty be so.
II.
Who that is wise, such brittle ware
Would careless dash upon the floor.
Which broken, nothing can repair,
Nor solder to its form restore !
III.
In this opinion all are found,
And reason vouches what I say.
Wherever DanaCs abound,
There golden showers will make their way.
" All tliat I have hitherto said, Anselmo,
relates to you. It is now proper I should
say something concerning myself; and par-
don me if I am prolix ; for I am compelled
to be so, in order to extricate you from the
labyrinth into which you have strayed.
You look upon me as your friend, and yet,
against all rules of friendship, would have
me forfeit my own honour, as well as deprive
you of yours. That mine would be lost is
plain ; for, when Camilla heard of my pro-
fessions of love, she would certainly regard
me as the basest of men, for entertaining
views so derogatory to myself and my friend.
And that your honour would suffer is equally
certain ; for she would naturally think that
I had discovered some levity in her, which
encouraged me to declare a guilty passion ;
and would consequently regard herself as
dishonoured ; and in her dishonour, you,
as her husband, must participate. For the
husband of an adultress, though not acces*
sary, nor even privy, to her transgressions,
is nevertheless universally branded by an
opprobrious and vilifying name, and re-
garded with contempt, rather than pity;
yet if you will listen to me w^ith patience, I
will explain to you why it is just that the
husband should suffer this odium. We are
informed by the Holy Scriptures that woman
• was formed from the rib of our first parent,
Adam, and thence pronounced to be of one
flesh. At the same time, the holy sacra-
ment of marriage was ordained, with ties
that death alone can dissolve. The husband,
therefore, being of the same flesh as bi^
wife, must needs be affected by whatever
affects her, as the head feels the smart of the
ancle, and pain in any one of the members
is communicated to the whole body. Thus,
however guiltless the man, he must parti-
cipate in the woman's dishonour, and her
shame is his disgrace. Think then, An-
selmo, on the danger to which you expose
yourself, in seeking to disturb the repose of
your virtuous consort. Consider, from what
vain and impertinent curiosity yon would
stir up the passions, now dormant in the
breast of your chaste spouse. Reflect what
an immense risk you incur, for a triflmg
gratification. But, if all I have said be
not sufficient to dissuade you from your
preposterous design, you must seek anotlicr
instrument to effect your disgrace and misery ;
for I am resolved not to act this part, though
I should lose your friendship, which is the
greatest loss I can conceive."
Here the virtuous and discreet Lothario
ceased ; and Anselmo was perplexed, for
some time, how to answer him ; at length
he said, *^ I have listened to you, my friend,
with attention ; and your arguments prove
the sincerity of your friendship, as well as
your good sense. I am well aware that, in
adhering to my project, and rejecting your
counsel, I am acting unwisely ; but, my dear
Lothario, you must look upon my folly as
disease, and grant it some indulgence-
satisfy me by just making an attempt, even
though it be but a cold one, upon Camilla,
who surely will not surrender at the first
onset ; and by this act of friendship on your
part, I promise to rest contented. You will
thereby restore me to the enjoyment of
existence, and preserve my honour, which
would otherwise be endangered by your
forcing me to apply to another person ; for
determined I still am to make this experi-
ment. Do not be concerned at the tempo-
rary loss of Camilla's good opinion ; for
after her integrity has been proved, you may
disclose our plot to her, whereupon she will
immediately restore you to favour. I en-
treat you then not to decline the task, since
you may so easily gratify me ; and again I
promise to be satisfied by your first essay.'*
:@
DON QUIXOTE.
167
Lothario finding Anselmo determined in
his purpose, and being unable to suggest any
other dissuasive arguments, affected to yield
to his request, lest he should expose his folly
to some other person. Anselmo embraced
him with great tenderness and affection and
thanked him as much for his compliance as
if he had done him some great favour. It
was agreed between them that he should
begin operations the very next day, when
Anselmo would give him an opportunity to
converse alone with Camilla, and supply
him also with money and jewels for presents
to her. He advised him to serenade her,
and write verses in her praise, and if he
thought it too much trouble, he would him-
self compose them for him. Lothario con-
sented to every thing, but with an intention
very different from what his friend imagined.
This arrangement being made, they return-
ed to Anselrao's house, where they found
Camilla anxiously waiting the return of her
spouse, who, that day, was later than usual.
Lothario, after some time, retired to his own
house, leaving his friend no less happy than
he was himself perplexed at the impertinent
business in wliich he had engaged. How-
ever, he devised a plan, by which he might
deceive Anselmo and avoid giving offence
to his wife. The next day be went to dine
with his friend, and was kindly received by
Camilla, who, indeed, always treated him
with much cordiality, on account of the
friendship her husband entertained for him.
Dinner being finished, and the cloth re-
moved, Anselmo desired Lothario to stay
with Camilla while he went upon an urgent
affair, which he should dispatch in about an
hour and half. Camilla intreated him not
to go, and Lothario offered to accompany
him ; but it was all to no purpose ; he im-
portuned Lothario to wait for him ; saying
he wished particularly to speak with him
on his return ; at the same time he desired
Camilla to entertain his friend during his
absence, for which he made a very plausible
excuse.
Anselmo departed, and Camilla and Lo-
thario remained together ; the rest of the
family being engaged at dinner. Thus
Lothario perceived that he had entered the
lists, as his friend desired, with an enemy
before him sufficiently powerful to conquer,
by her beauty alone, a squadron of armed
cavaliers: think, then, whether Lothario had
not cause to fear. However, tlie first thing
that he did was to lean his elbow on the
arm of the chair, and his cheek on his
hand ; and, begging Camilla to pardon his
ill-manners, he said he was inclined for a
little repose. Camilla answered that he
would be more at ease on the couch than in
the chair, and therefore begged that he would
lie down upon it. Lothario declined the
offer, and remained sleeping in his chair,
until Anselmo returned, who, finding Camilla
retired to her chamber, and Lothario asleep,
concluded, as his absence had been long,
that there had been time enough for them
both to talk and to sleep ; and he thought
Lothario would never wake, so great was
his impatience to learn his success. Lothario
at length awaking, they walked out toge-
gether, when in answer to the enquiries of
Anselmo, he said : " That he did not think
it proper to open too far the first time, and
therefore all he had done was to tell her she
was very handsome, and that the whole city
talked of her wit and beauty ; and this he
thought a good introduction, as he should
thus insinuate himself into her good will,
and dispose her to listen to him the next
time with pleasure; employing the same
artifice as the devil, who when he would
entrap a cautious person, assumes an angel
form, till he carries his point, when the
cloven footappears.^' Anselmo was extremely
well satisfied, and said he would give him
the same opportunity every day, without
leaving home, for that he could find some
employment, to account for his withdrawing
himself.
Many days now passed, and Lothario,
still preserving his respect to Camilla, as-
sured Anselmo that he had assailed her, but
that she never betrayed the least symptom
of weakness, nor gave him a shadow of
hope ; on the contrary, that she threatened
to inform her husband, if he did not relin-
quish his base design. " So far, all is well,"
said Anselmo, ^'hitherto Camilla has re-
sisted words; we must now attack her
another way. To-morrow I will give you
two thousand crowns in gold to present to
^
©^
168
ADVENTURES OF
©=
her, and as many more to purchase jewels,
by way of lure : for women are pleased with
finery, and, if she resists this temptation, I
will be satisfied, and give you no farther
trouble." Lothario promised that, since he
had begun, he would go through with this
affair, although his defeat was certain. The
next day he received the four thousand
crowns, and, with them, four thousand per-
plexities, as to the new lies he must in-
vent ; he resolved, however, to tell him that
Camilla was quite as inflexible to presents
and promises as to words, so that he need
not trouble himself farther, since it was all
time lost.
Unfortunately, however, Anselmo was
seized with an inclination, one day, after
leaving Lothario and his wife alone as usual,
to listen at the door, and peep through the
key-hole, when, after waiting above half an
hour, he heard not a single word pass be-
tween them — ^in truth, if he had waited all
day, it would have been to no purpose. He
now concluded that his friend had deceived
him ; but, to ascertain it, he called him aside,
and enquired how matters were going on.
Lothario said, in reply, that he could not
persevere any longer, for that she had re-
buked him so sharply, he could not presume
to open his lips to her again upon the
subject. << Ah ! Lothario, Lothario ! '' cried
Anselmo, '^ is this your return for my confi-
dence ? Is it thus you fulfil your engage-
ments to me ? I have been watching you a
long time at that door, and find that you
have not spoken a word to Camilla ; from
which I must infer that you have never yet
spoken to her. If so, why is it you deceive
me ? and prevent me from applying to
others, who would gratify my desire ?" An-
selmo said no more ; Lothario was abashed
and confounded, and, thinking his honour
touched, by being detected in a lie, swore to
Anselmo, that from that moment he engaged
to satisfy him ; and would deceive him no
more, as he should find, if he had the curi-
osity to watch him; he might, however,
save himself the trouble, for he was deter-
mined to make such exertions for his satis-
faction that there should be no room left for
suspicion. Anselmo believed him ; and, to
crive him an opportunity, less liable to inter-
ruption, he resolved to absent himself thtm
home for eight days, and to visit a friend,
who lived in a neighbouring village, from
whom he managed to get a pressing invita-
tion, in order to account for his departure to
CamiUa. Rash, foolish Anselmo ! what art
thou doing ? Plotting thine own dishonour!
contriving thine own ruin ! Thou art in
tranquil possession of a virtuous wife ; the
sole object of her affections, and under
heaven, her only guide ! Thus blessed by
the treasures of honour, beauty, and virtue,
why do you madly endanger them ? Con-
sider that he who seeks after what is im-
possible ought in justice to be denied what
is possible; as a certain poet has better
expressed it, in these verses :
" In death alone I life would find,
And health in racking pain ;
Fair honour in a traitor's mind,
Or freedom in a chain.
But since I ask what ne'er can be,
The Fates, alas I decide,
What they would else have granted tin:.
Shall ever be denied.*'
Anselmo, on leaving home, told Camilla
that Lothario would take charge of the
house^ during his absence, and he desired
she would treat him as his own person.
The discreet and virtuous wife did not ap-
prove this arrangement, and represented to
him the impropriety of another man taking
his place at table, when he was absent; and
she assured him that, if he would entrust
the care of the household to her, he would
find her fully competent to the charge.
Anselmo, however, still persisted in his or-
ders, and Camilla v/as compelled to yield
to them, though with great reluctance.
The day after Anselmo's departure, Lo-
thario went to his house, where he met with
a kind but modest reception from Camilla,
who, to avoid being left alone with him,
was constantly attended by her servants,
especially a female one, named Leonela, to
whom she had been attached from her in-
fancy. Three days passed, and Lothario
had not begun his enterprise, though he was
not without opportunities, during the neces-
sary absence of the servants at their dinner-
time. Leonela, indeed, was deshred by her
mistress to dine first, so that she might
never quit her side ; but she had her o\n\
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
169 I
engagements, and often left them alone,
notwithstanding the orders of her mistress.
However the modest demeanour of Camilla
and the propriety of her conduct restrained
Lothario's tongue; but the influence of
her virtue, in imposing this silence, proved
but the more dangerous ; for, if his tongue
was at rest, his thoughts were in motion,
and he had leisure to contemplate all the
perfections of her mind and person, which
could not have &iled to move even a heart of
marble. This silent but dangerous contem-
plation gradually undermined his fidelity to
Anselmo ; yet a thousand times he thought
of retiring irom the city and absenting
himself for ever both from Camilla and his
friend ; but the pleasure he experienced in
her presence still detained him. Many
were the internal struggles he had, to resist
the delight he felt in gazing on her ; and
BtiU, when alone, he reproached himself for
being so false a friend and so bad a christian ;
yet, on considering the conduct of Anselmo,
whose folly he thought exceeded his own
perfidy, he only wished he could stand as
excusable before God as before men. In
fine, the beauty and goodness of Camilla,
together with the opportunity which the
inconsiderate husband had forced upon him,
quite overcame Lothario's integrity ; and,
after maintaining a hard conflict witli his
passion during three days, he became regard-
less of everything but its gratification. At
their next meeting, therefore, he began to
address Camilla with so much warmth of
expresfflon that she was astonished, and,
without making any reply, rose from her
seat, and retired to her chamber. But her
frigidity did not discourage her lover, for
hope is ever born with love ; he only grew
more ardent. In the mean time, Camilla,
thinking it improper to give him another
opportunity of addressing her, dispatched a
messenger, the same night, to Anselmo,
vrith the following letter.
; CHAPTER XXXIV.
¡ IX WHICH IS CONTINUED "THE NOVEL
OP THE CURIOUS IMPERTINENT."
CAMILLA TO ANSELMO.
'* It is said that an army should not be left
without a general, nor a castle without a
governor ; but it is worse for a young wife
to be left without her husband. I find it so
Impossible to endure your absence any longer
that, if you do not return immediately, I
must retreat to my other's house, though I
leave yours unguarded ; for he whom you
left as a protector is, I believe, more intent
upon his own pleasure than your interests.
You are prudent, so I need say no more."
Anselmo received this letter, and under-
stood by it that Lothario had begun the
attack, and that Camilla must have received
it according to his wish. Overjoyed at this
good news, he sent Camilla a verbal mes-
sage, desiring her not to remove from her
house upon any account, for he would return
very speedily. Camilla was surprised at this
answer, which only increased her perplexity :
for now she was equally afraid to remain in
her own house, and to retire to that of her
parents ; since, by staying, her virtue was
endangered, and by departing she would act
contrary to her husband's positive command.
Her final determination proved the worst,
which was to stay and not shun Lothario,
lest it might excite the observation of the
servants; and she now regretted having
written to her husband, lest he should sus-
pect that some impropriety in her conduct
had encouraged Lothario to treat her with
disrespect. But, conscious of her own in-
tegrity, she trusted in God and her own
virtue : resolving, by her silence, to dis-
courage Lothario, without communicating
any more on the subject to her husband,
lest it should involve him in a quarrel. She
even began to consider how she might excuse
Lothario to Anselmo, when he should enquire
into the meaning of her letter.
With this determination, more honourable
than prudent, the next day she quietly heard
what Lothario had to say, and he pleaded
with so much energy that the firmness of
Camilla began to waver; and her virtue
could hardly prevent her eyes from shewing
some indications of amorous compassion.
This was not lost upon him, and it only
tended to encrease the ardour of his passion.
He resolved to press the siege, while time
and opportunity served ; and he employed
170
ADVENTURES OF
against her the powerful engine of flattery ;
thus assaOing her by the most vulnerable
part of woman — her vanity. In fact^ he
andermined the fortress of her virtue^ and
directed against it so irresistable a force that,
had she been made of brass, she must have
folien. He wept, entreated, flattered, and
solicited, with such vehemence of passion
that he gradually overcame her reserve, and
Anally obtained a triumph. She surren-
dered— yes, even Camilla surrendered ! No
wonder, when Lothario's friendship could
not stand its ground ! A dear proof that
the passion of love is to be conquered by
flight alone ; and that it is in vain to con-
tend with a power which, though human,
requires more than human strength to
subdue.
Leonela alone was privy to her lady's
frailty, for it was impossible to have con-
cealed it from her. Lothario never told
Camilla of her husband's project, and of his
having purposely afforded him the oppor-
tunity of addressing her, lest she should
doubt his sincerity, or set less value on his
passion.
After some days, Anselmo returned, little
thinking he had lost a treasure which,
though least guarded, he most valued. He
repaired instantly to Lothario, and embrac-
ing him, enquired for the news which was
to decide his fate. ^^ The news I have for
you, O friend Anselmo," said Lothario, ** is
that you have a wife worthy to be the model
and crown of all good women. My words
were given to the wind ; my ofl*ers have been
despised, my presents refused, and the tears
I feigned treated with ridicule. In short,
as Camilla is the sum of all beauty, so is
she of goodness, modesty, and every virtue
which can make a woman praise-worthy
and happy. Therefore, friend, take back
your money ; here it is : I had no occasion
to use it ; for Camilla's integrity is not to
be shaken by any thing so base. Be satis-
fled, Anselmo, and since you have safely
passed the gulf of suspicion, do not hazard
fresh trials on the dangerous ocean, but rest
securely in harbour, until you are required
to pay that tribute from which no human
being is exempted."
Anselmo was entirely satisfied with Lotha-
rio's report, to which he gave as much credit
as if it had been delivered by an oracle.
Nevertheless he desired him not entirely to
give up the pursuit, were it only out oí
curiosity and amusement ; though it would
not be necessary to ply her so closely as
before : all that he now desired of him was
to write verses in her praise, under the name
of Chloris ; and he would give Camilla to
understand that he was in love with a lady,
to whom he had given that name, that he
might celebrate her without oflending her
modesty; he even engaged to write the
verses himself, if Lothario was unwilling
to take that trouble. " There will be no
need of that," said Lothario; ^'for the
Muses are not so unpropitious to me but that
now and then they make me a visit. Tell
Camilla of my counterfeit passion, and leave
the verses to me ; which, if not so good as
the subject deserves, shaU, at least, be the
best I can make." This agreement being
concluded between the impertinent husband
and the treacherous friend, the former re-
turned home, and inquired of Camilla, as
she had expected, the occasion of her writing
the letter, which she had sent him. Camilla
answered that she then fancied Lothario
treated her with rather more fineedom than
when he was at home : but that she now
believed it to have been merely imaginary
on her part ; for indeed, of late, he had
avoided seeinor, and being alone with, her.
Anselmo replied that she might dismiss all
suspicion ; for, to his knowledge, Lothario
was in love with a young lady of condition
in the city, whom he celebrated under tlie
name of Chloris; and, even were it not
so, she hod nothing to fear, considering
Lothario's virtue, and the great friendship
that subsisted between them. Had not
Camilla been advertised, by Lothario, that
this story of his love for Chloris was all a
fiction, which he had invented merely to
obtain an opportunity of indulging in the
praises of herself, she would doubtless have
been seized with a fit of jealousy ; but
having been thus prepared, she felt no
uneasiness on the subject.
The next day, as they were at table to-
gether, Anselmo desired Lothario to recite
some of the verses he had composed on his
a----
DON QUIXOTE.
171
beloved Chloris ; for, since she was un-
known to Camilla, he need not scrapie to
repeat them. "Even were she not un-
known," answered Lothario, " I would not
conceal the praises which are her due ; for
when a lover complains of his mistress,
while he extols her perfections, he casts no
reproach upon her good name. I will there-
fore, without scrapie, read to you this sonnet,
which I composed yesterday, on the ingrati-
tude of Chloris."
SONNETS.
In the dead lilencc of the peaceful night,
When others' cares are huch*d in aoft repose»
The sad «ccoant of mj neglected woes
To conscious heaven and Cbloris I recite.
And when the sun, with his returning light.
Forth from the east his radiant journey goes.
With accents, such ai sorrow only knows,
My griefs to tell is all my poor delight
And when bright Phoebus, from hb starry thronct
Sends rays direct upon the parched soil,
Still in the moumfiil tale I perserere ;
Returning night renews my sorrow's toil ;
And tho* from mom to night I weep and moan,
Nor heaven nor Chloris my complainings hear.
Camilla was very well pleased with the
sonnet, and Anselmo was lavish in his com-
mendation, declaring that the lady was too
cruel not to reward so much truth.
" What then I" replied Camilla, " are we to
take all that the enamoured poets tell us
for troth?" "Whatever they may say as
poets,'' answered Lothario, "certainly, as
lovers, they speak truth, and express still
less than they feel." " Undouhtedly," said
Anselmo, who was ready to confirm all
Lothario said, to advance his credit with
Camilla ; but this complacency in her hus-
band she did not observe ; being engrossed
by her passion for Lothario. And, taking
pleasure in hearing his verses (especially as
she was conscious of being herself the
Chloris to whom they were addressed), she
requested him, if he could recollect any
others, to repeat them. " I do recollect
another," replied Lothario, " but I fear it is
even worse than the one you have just heard,
however, you shall judge yourself."
SONNET.
Believe me, nymph, I feel th' impending blow.
And glory in the near approach of death ;
For, when thou see'st my corse devoid of breath,
lij constancy and truth thou sure wilt know.
M'elcome to me Oblivion's shade obscure !
Welcome the loas of fortune, life, and fame I
But thy lov'd features, and thy honour'd name.
Deep graven on my heart, shall still endure.
And these, as sacred relics, «ill I keep
Till that sad moment when, to endless night.
My long-tormented sotil shall take her flight.
Alas for him who, on the darkcn'd deep.
Floats idly, sport of the tempestuous tíde,
No port to shield him, and no star to guide !
Anselmo commended thb second sonnet
as much as he had done the first; and
thus he went on, labouring to secure his
own shame, and adding fresh links to the
chain of his infamy; and the more the
lover triumphed, the more he assured the
husband of his unblemished honour. Thus
the lower Camilla sunk into the abyss of
infamy, the higher she rose, in her husband's
opinion, towards the pinnacle of virtue and
honour.
One day when Camilla was alone with
her maid, she said to her : " I am ashamed,
Leonela, to think how little value I placed
on myself in allowing Lothario so soon to
gain the entire possession of my heart : I
fear he will look upon my easy surrender as
the efiTect of levity, without reflecting on
his own resistless power." " Dear madam,"
answered Leonela, "let not this trouble you,
for there is nothing in it : a gift, if it be
worth anything, is not worse for being soon
given ; and therefore they say he who gives
quickly gives twice." " But tliey say also,"
returaed Camilla, "that which is lightly
gained is little valued." " This does not afiect
your case," answered Leonela ; "for love, as
I have heard say, sometimes flies and some-
times walks ; rans with one person, and goes
leisurely with another ; some he warms, and
some he boras ; some he wounds, and others
he kills : in one and the same instant he
forms and accomplishes his projects. He
often in the moraing lays siege to a fortress
which, in the evening, surrenders to him —
for no force is able to resist him. What then
are you afraid of, if this was the case with
Lothario? My master's absence was in-
stramental to love's success, and no time
was to be lost, for love has no better minister
than opportunity. This I am well acquainted
with, from experience rather than hear-say ;
and, one day or other, madam, I may let
you see that 1 also am a girl of flesh and
blood. Besides, madam, you did not yield
before you had seen, in his eyes, in his
173
ADVENTURES OF
sighs, in his expressions, in his promises,
and his presents, the whole soul of Lothario,
and how worthy he was of your love : then
let not these scruples and niceties disturb
you, but be assured Lothario esteems you
no less than you do him ; and rest satbfied
that, since you are fallen into the snare of
love, it is with a person of worth and cha-
racter, and one who possesses not only the
four SS,* which, tliey say, all true lovers
ought to have, but the whole alphabet.
Do but hear me, and you shall see how I
have it by heart. He is, if I am not mis-
taken, amiable, bountiful, constant, daring,
enamoured, faithful, gallant, honourable,
illustrious, kind, loyal, mild, noble, obliging,
prudent, quiet, rich, and the SS, as they
say : lastly, true, valiant, and wise : the X
suits him not, because it is a harsh letter ;
the Y, he is young ; the Z, zealous of your
honour."
Camilla smiled at this alphabet of her
maid, whom she found to be more con-
versant in love -matters than she had
hitherto owned ; and indeed she now con-
fessed to her that she had an affair with a
young gentleman of the same city. At this
Camilla was much disturbed, fearing lest
from that quarter her own honour might be
in danger ; she therefore enquired whether
her amour had gone farther than words.
Leonela, with the utmost assurance, owned
that it had ; for it is certain that the slips of
the mistress take all shame from the maid,
who, when her mistress makes a false step,
thinks nothing of downright halting, and
takes no trouble to conceal it. Camilla
could only entreat Leonela to say nothing
of her affair to her lover, and to manage
her own concerns with such secrecy that it
might not come to the knowledge of An-
selmo or of Lothario. Leonela promised to
be careful ; nevertheless Camilla's fears were
verified, for the shameless girl, when she
found that her mistress's conduct was not
what it had been, made bold to introduce
and conceal her lover in the house, pre-
suming that her lady would not dare to
complain, if she should discover it. For
tlib inconvenience, among others, attends
* Sabio, solo, Mlicilo j secreto. P.
the misconduct of mistresses : they become
slaves to their own servants, whose dis-
honesty and lewdness they are obliged to
conceal. Thus it was with Camilla; for,
though she frequently saw that Leonela
entertained her gallant in the house, so far
from daring to chide her, she gave her
opportunities of secreting him, and did all
she could to prevent him from being seen
by her husband. Yet, notwithstanding all
her precautions, Lothario once discovered
him retreating from the house at break of
day. At first he thought it must be some
vision of his fancy ; but when he saw him
steal off, muffling himself up, and endeavour-
ing to conceal himself, suspicions succeeded,
which would have been tlie ruin of them
all, had it not been averted by CamiUa. It
never occurred to Lothario that the man
whom he had seen coming out of Anselmo's
house at so unseasonable an hour might
have gone thither upon Leonela's account ;
he did not even remember that there was
such a person in the world ; but he thought
that Camilla, as she had been easy and
complying to him, was not less so to
another : for a woman always loses, with
her virtue, the confidence even of the man
to whose entreaties and solicitations she
surrendered her honour; and he is ready
to believe, upon the slightest grounds, that
she yields to others even with greater
fiicility.
All Lothario's good sense and prudence
seemed to have failed him upon this occa-
sion; for, without a moment's rational
reflection, blinded with jealous rage, and
furious to be revenged on Camilla, who had
offended him in nothing, he hastened to
Anselmo. " My friend," he said, " I can
no longer forbear communicating to you
what, for some days past, I have been
struggling to conceal. Your wife, Anselmo,
submits to my will and pleasure. One of
my motives for delaying to tell you was
my uncertainty whether slie was really cul-
pable, or only meant to try whether the
love I professed was with your connivance,
or in earnest; in which case she would have
informed you of my attempts upon her ; but
finding she has been silent to you on (he
subject, I must conclude that she is serious
II
il
@=-
DON QUIXOTE.
173
m her promises to grant me an interview in
the wardrobe the next time yon are absent
Crom home. However, as the fault is com-
mitted only in thought, do not rashly seek
to revenge yourself; for, before the appointed
time, Camilla may change her mind, and
repent. If you will follow my advice, you
shall have an opportunity of ascertaining
the truth, without the possibility of being
mistaken ; and you can then act as you
may think proper. Let your wife imagine
that you have left home for some days, and
conceal yourself behind the tapestry in the
wardrobe, where you may be convinced, by
your own eyes, of Camilla's real sentiments,
and, if they are evil, you may then secretly
and quietly avenge your wrongs."
Anselmo was struck aghast at Lothario's
intelligence, for already he looked upon her
^n'ctory as complete, and began to enjoy the
glory of her triumph. For some time he
remained with his eyes fixed motionless on
the ground ; at length he said, " Lothario,
yon have acted the friendly part I required
of you ; I will now be guided by your
advice in every thing — do what you will,
only be cautious to preserve secrecy." Lo-
thario satisfied him by his promises; but
scarcely had he quitted him when he began
to be sensible of the folly of his conduct,
and regret that he had taken so cruel and un-
manly a way to revenge himself on Camilla,
lie cursed his senseless impetuosity, and
felt quite at a loss how to act in such a
dilemma. Finally he resolved to confess all
to Camilla ; and, on tlie same day, contrived
to see her alone. " Ah, my dear Lothario,"
she exclaimed, immediately on his entrance,
''I am overwhelmed with anxiety; for
Leonela's impudence is now carried to such
a height that she entertains her gallant
every night in the house, and he stays with
her nntil day-light, to the imminent danger
of my reputation, which is exposed to the
suspicions of those who may chance to see
him leave the house at such unseasonable
hours : and what grieves me is that I cannot
chastise, or even reprimand, her ; for, though
I am alarmed at her conduct, I am com-
pelled to bear it in silence, as she is in our
confidence."
Lothario at first suspected that this was
all artifice in Camilla to deceive him, in case
he bad seen the man going out of the house ;
but he was soon convinced of her sincerity,
and felt ashamed, and full of remorse, at
his unjust suspicions. However, he en-
deavoured to tranquillize Camilla, and
promised to curb Leonela's insolence. He
then confessed to her the furious fit of
jealousy tlmt had taken possession of him,
and what had passed between Anselmo and
himself while he was under its influence. He
entreated her to pardon his madness, and to
devise some means of averting the mischief
in which his rashness had involved them
both. Camilla was surprised on hearing
Lothario's confession, and expressed no
little resentment towards him for having
harboured such unworthy suspicions of her,
as well as for the rash and inconsiderate step
he had taken. But she instantly thought of
an expedient to repair the state of their
afifairs, which, at present, seemed so des-
perate : for women have naturally a ready
invention, either for good or evil, though
they are not equally successful in their
premeditated schemes. She desired Lothario
to introduce her husband to tlie appointed
place of concealment the following day, in
pursuance of a plan by which she proposed
to fiiciiitate their future intercourse; and,
without letting him into the whole of her
design, she only desired him, after Anselmo
was posted, to be ready at Leonela's call,
and to answer whatever she should say to
him just as he would do if he were uncon-
scious that Anselmo was listening. Lothario
pressed her to explain to him her whole
design, that he might be the better prepared.
" No other preparation is necessary," replied
Camilla ; " you have only to give me direct
answers." She was unwilling to impart to
him the whole of her design, lest he sliould
find objections to it.
Lothario then left her ; and the next day,
Anselmo, under pretence of going to his
friend's villa, went from home, but immedi-
ately returned to his hiding-place, where
he remained in a state of violent pertur-
bation, as may readily be imagined, since
he thought himself oif the point of witnessing
his own dishonour, and losing that treasure
which he had fancied he possessed in his
-^(§)
174
ADVENTURES OF
beloved Camilla. The mistress and maid
having ascertained that Anselmo was behind
the hangings, entered the wardrobe together,
when Camilla, heaving a deep sigh, said,
" Ah, my Leonela, would it not be better
you should plunge Anselmo's sword into
this infamous bosom ? But no! — why should
I alone be punished for another's fault ? I
will first know what the insolent Lothario
saw in me to encourage him to make so
wicked an attempt against my honour and
that of his friend. Go to the window,
Leonela, and call him ; for I doubt not but
that he is waiting in the street, in expecta-
tion of succeeding in his atrocious design —
but my purpose shall sooner be executed."
" Ah, dear madam V* cried the artful Leo-
nela, " what do you mean to do with that
dagger 7 Is it to be used against yourself
or Lothario? In either case both your
reputation and mine will suffer. Bear the
insult he has offered you rather than let
this wicked man into the house, now that
we are alone; consider, madam, we are
helpless women, and he is a strong man,
bent upon a viUanous purpose ; and, before
you could effect yours, he might do worse
than deprive you of life. A mischief take
my master Anselmo for giving this impudent
fellow such an ascendant in his house ! But
pray, madam, if you kill him — which, I
suppose is your intention — what shall we
do with his body ?" " What, my friend ?"
answered Camilla ; *^ why, leave him here
for Anselmo to inter ; for it is but just he
should have the satisfaction of burying his
own infamy. Call him immediately; for
every moment's delay of my revenge is an
offence against that loyalty I owe to my
husband."
To all this Anselmo listened, and every
word spoken by Camilla had the intended
effect upon him ; and when she talked of
killing Lothario, he was on the point of
coming forth to prevent it, but was withheld
by the strong desire he had to see the end
of so gallant and virtuous a resolution:
intending, however, to appear in time to
prevent mischief. Camilla was, in the next
place, taken with a strdtag fainting fit; and,
throwing herself upon a couch, Leonela
began to weep bitterly, exclaiming • " Ah,
woe is me ! that the flower of virtue, the
crown of good women, the pattern of chas-
tity, should die here in my arms!" with
other such expressions which might well
have made her pass, with whoever heard
them, for the most compassionate and faith- j
ful damsel in the universe, and her lady '
for another persecuted Penelope. Camilla, \
having recovered from her swoon, said,
" Why do yon not go, Leonela, and call
the most faithless friend that ever existed ?
Be quick, run, fly — let not the fire of my
rage evaporate by delay, and my just
vengeance be spent in empty threats and
curses !" '^ I am going to call him," said
Leonela ; " but, dear madam, you must
first give me that dagger, lest, when I am
gone, you should give those who love you
cause to weep all their lives." *• Go, dear
Leonela, and fear not," said Camilla ; " I
will not do it: for though I am resolute
in defending my honour, I shall not act
like Lucretia, who is said to have killed
herself without having committed any fault,
and without first taking his life who was
the cause of her misfortune. Yes, I will
die, die I must : but it shall be after I have
satiated my revenge on him who has insulted
me without provocation."
After much intreaty, Leonela obeyed; !
and, while she was away, Camilla indulged
in soliloquy. " Good heaven !" she cried,
" would it not have been more advisable to
have repulsed Lothario, as formerly, rather
than give him reason to think injuriously of '
me by delaying to undeceive him ? Surely it
would — but then I should go unrevenged ;
nor would my husband's honour be satisfied
if be were to escape with impunity. No!
let the traitor pay for his insolence with
his life ! and if ever the affair be known,
Camilla shall be vindicated to the world.
It might, indeed, have been better to have
disclosed all to Anselmo, but he disregarded
ray hints — bis own confiding nature would
not admit of a thought prejudicial to his
friend. Scarcely could I trust my own
senses when he first declared himself. But
wherefore do I talk thus? My resolution
is taken — Yes, vengeance on the traitor.
Let him die ! Unspotted my husband re-
ceived me to his arms, and unspotted I will
©.
©^
:@
DON QUIXOTE.
176
y-
leaye him, tliough bathed in my own blood
and that of the falsest of friends." She now
paced about the room with the drawn
dagger in her hand, taking such irregular
and huge strides, and with such gestures,
that her brain seemed disordered, and she
was more like a desperate ruffian than a
delicate woman.
All this Anselmo observed with amaze-
ment from behind the arras, and, thinking
that what he had witnessed was sufficient
to dispel doubts still greater than tliose he
had entertained, he began to wish that
Lothario might not come, for fear of some
fatal accident, and was upon the point of
rushing out to clasp his wife in his arms,
when he was prevented by the return of
Leonela, accompanied by Lothario; upon
whose entrance Camilla drew, with the
dagger, a long Une between them, and said:
'^Observe, Lothario, if you dare to pass
that line I will instantly pierce my bteast
with this dagger. But listen to what I
have to say to you. In the first place tell
me, Lothario, do you know Anselmo, my
husband, and in what estimation do you
bold him? Tell me, also, whether yon
know me ? Answer me at once — for these
are simple questions." Lothario easily
comprehended her design, and accordingly
humoured it, so that they managed the
whole scene admirably together. *'I did
not imagine, fair Camilla," he replied,
" that you called me to answer to things so
foreign to the purpose for which I came
hither. If it be to delay the promised
£Eivour, why not have adjourned it to a still
farther day — for the nearer the prospect of
possession, the more eager we are for the
enjoyment. In answer to your questions I
say that I have known your husband An-
selmo from infancy ; of our friendship I will
say nothing, that I may not be witness
against myself of the wrong which love —
that powerful excuse for greater fiiults —
compels roe to commit against him. You
too I know, and adore — for less excellence
I should not have transgressed the laws of
friendship, which are now violated by its
potent adversary, love." " If you acknow-
ledge so much," replied Camilla, ''thou
mortal enemy of all deserving love ! how
dare you appear before me — the beloved of
Anselmo, whom, without provocation, you
injure ? But alas ! unhappy creature that
I am ! perhaps, unconsciously, I may have
encouraged your presumption, not by im-
modesty, but through some inadvertency
into which a woman may innocently fall
when she conceives no reserve to be neces-
sary. But say, perfidious man, did I ever,
by a single expression, encourage you to
hope? Was not your flattery always re-
pulsed with indignation, and your presents
rejected with scorn ? Still I take blame to
myself for having moved you to so criminal
an attempt, and I cannot acquit myself of
indiscretion, since you have nourished hope ;
I will, therefore, suffer the punishment due
to your ofience, and have brought you
hither to witness the sacrifice I intend to
make to the wounded honour of my worthy
husband, who, by you, has been deliberately
injured : and, alas ! by me also, through
negligence; the thought of which is so
agonizing to me that I am impatient to
become my own executioner. Yes, I will
die ! but not without revenging myself of
him who has reduced me to this state of
desperation !"
At these words, she flew upon Lothario,
with the drawn dagger, with such incredible
force and velocity, and apparently so deter-
mined to stab him to the heart, that he was
almost in doubt himself whether her efforts
were feigned or real ; and he was obliged to
exert all his dexterity to escape a wound :
indeed, she acted so much to the life that she
actually shed her own blood. Finding, or
rather feigning, that she was unable to stab
Lothario, she exclaimed, " though fate denies
me complete satisfaction, it shall not disap-
point me of one part of my revenge !" Then
forcibly releasing her dagger-hand from the
grasp of Lothario, she directed the point
agsdnst herself, (being, however, careful in
her choice of the part) and having wounded
herself on her left side, near the shoulder,
she fell, as if fainting, to the ground.
Leonela and Lothario stood in amazement,
at this action, and knew not what to think,
when they saw Camilla lying on the floor,
bathed in her own blood. Lothario ran up
to her, terrified and breathless, to draw out
^(y
-^©
170
ADVENTURES OF
tlie dagger ; but, on perceiving the sligbt-
ness of the wound, his fears Tanlsbed, and
he admired the sagacity, prudence, and
ingenuity of the fair Camilla. And now he
took up his part, and began to make a
most pathetic lamentation over the body of
Camilla, as if she were dead ; imprecating
heavy curses, not only on himself, but on
him who had been the cause of the disaster ;
his grief, in short, appeared so inconsolable
that he seemed to be an object even of
greater compassion than Camilla herself.
Leonela took her lady in her arms, and laid
her on the couch, beseeching Lothario
secretly to procure medical aid. She also
desired his advice as to what they should
say to Anselmo, if he should return before
the wound was healed. He answered tliat
they might say what they pleased, for he
was not in a condition to give advice ; all he
desired was that she would endeavour to
staunch the blood : as for himself, he would
go where he should never be seen more.
Then, with every demonstration of sorrow,
he left the house; and when he found him-
self alone, and out of sight, he never ceased
crossing himself, in amazement at the inge-
nuity of Camilla, and the art of Leonela.
He amused himself, too, in tliinking of An-
selmo's happy certainty of possessing in his
wife a second Portia, and was impatient to
be with him, that they might rejoice together
at the most complete imposture that ever
was practised.
Leonela staunched her mistress's blood,
of which there was just enough to give
effect to her stratagem ; and, washing the
wound with a little wine, she bound it up as
well as she could ; in the mean time, her
expressions were such as might alone have
convinced Anselmo that in Camilla he
possessed a model of chastity ; and Camilla
too now uttered some words, reproaching
herself for a deficiency of courage and spirit
in having failed in ridding herself of a life
she so much abhorred. She asked her maid's
advice, whether or not she should relate
what had happened to her beloved spouse.
Leonela persuaded her to say nothing about
it, since it would oblige him to take revenge
on Lothario, which he could not do without
great danger to himself; and that it was
tlie duty of a good wife to avoid every oc-
casion of involving her husband in a quarrel.
Camilla approved her advice, and said she
would follow it ; but that they must consider
what to say to Anselmo about the wound,
which he could not iail to observe. To
which Leonela answered, that, for her part,
she could not tell a lie, even in jest. " How
then can I V said Camilla, *^ who could
neither invent, nor persist in one, if it were
to save my life ? If a good excuse cannot
be contrived, it will be better to tell him the
naked truth, than be caught in a falsehood."
^' Do not be uneasy, madam," answered
Leonela ; " for, between this and to-morrow
morning, I will consider of something to tell
him ; and perhaps you may be able to con-
ceal the wound from his sight, and heaven
will befnend us. Compose yourself, good
madam ; endeavour to quiet your spirits,
that my master may not find you in such
agitation ; and leave the rest to my care,
and to heaven, which always favours the
honest purpose."
Anselmo stood an attentive spectator of
this tragedy, representing the death of his
honour ; in which the actors performed with
so much expression and pathos that tliey
seemed transformed into the very characters
they personated. He longed for night, that
he might have an opportunity of slipping out
of his house to see his dear friend, Lothario,
and rejoice with him on finding so precious
a jewel, by the happy developement of his
wife's virtue. Tliey both took care to give
him an opportunity to retreat, of which he
instantly availed himself, to hasten in search
of Lothario ; and, on their meeting, his em-
braces were innumerable, and his praises of
Camilla unbounded. All which Lothario
listened to without being able to testify any
joy : for, he could not but reflect how much
his friend ^vas deceived, and how ungener-
ously he was treated. Anselmo perceived
that Lothario did not express any pleasure,
but he ascribed it to Camilla's wound, of which
he had been the occasion. He therefore
desired him not to be unhappy about Camilla;
as the wound must be slight, since she and
her maid had agreed to hide it from him : he
might then be assured tiiat there was no
cause for alarm, but much for joy ; for that
p. 177.
DON QUIXOTE.
177
by bis friendly exertions, he was now ele-
vated to the highest summit of human feli-
city ; and he desired no better amusement
than to write verses in praise of Camilla, to
perpetuate her memory to all future ages.
I'Othario commended his resolution and
promised his assistance in the execution of
so meritorious a work.
Thus Anselmo remained the most agree-
ably deceived man that ever existed. He
led home under his arm, the instrument, as
be thought, of his glory, but in truth, his
bane ; who was received by Camilla with a
frowning aspect, but a joyful heart. This
imposture lasted for a few months, when
fortune, turning her wheel, the iniquity,
hitherto so artfully concealed, came to light,
and Anselmo's impertinent curiosity cost him
his life.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THB DBBADFUL BATTLE WHICH DON
QLIXOTB FOUGHT WITH THE WIIÍB-
BAOS, AND THE CONCLUSION OF
" THB NOVEL OF THB CURIOUS IM-
PERTINENT."
The novel was nearly finished, when San-
cho Panza, full of dismay, came running
out of Don Quixote's chamber, crying aloud,
" Run, gentlemen, quickly, and succour my
master, who is over head and ears in the
toughest batde my eyes ever beheld. As
God shall save me, he has given the giant,
that enemy of the princess Micomicona,
such a stroke that he has cut his head as
clean oíF his shoulders as if it had been a
turnip !*' " What say you, brother V* quoth
the priest, (la3^g aside the novel,) ''are
you in your senses, Sancho ? How can this
possibly be, since the giant is two thousand
leagues off V At that instant they heard a
great noise in the room, and Don Quixote
calling aloud, "Stay, cowardly thief! rob-
ber ! rogue ! Here I have you, and your
. scimitar shall avail you nothing V Then
' followed the sound of strokes and slashes
against the walls. "Do not stand listen-
ing," quoth Sancho, " but go in and end
the fray, or help my master : though by this
time, there will be no occasion ; as 1 dare
say the giant is dead, and giving an account
to God of his past wicked life : for I saw
the blood run about the floor, and the head
cut off, lying on one side, and as big as a
wine-skin." " I will be hanged," exclaimed
the inn-keeper, " if Don Quixote, or Don
Devil, has not gashed some of the wine-
skins that stand at his bed's-head ; and the
wine he has spilt this fellow takes for
blood." So saying, he rushed into the room,
followed by the whole company ; and they
found Don Quixote in the strangest situation
imaginable. He was in his shirt, which was
not long enough before, to cover his thighs,
and was six inches shorter behind ; his legs
were long and lank, very hairy, and not
over clean ; he had on his head a little
greasy red cap, which belonged to the inn-
keeper. About his left arm he had twisted
the bed blanket, (to which Sancho owed &
grudge, — he well knew why,) and in his
right hand he held hb drawn sword, with
which he was laying about him on all sides,
calling out as if in actual combat ; his eyes
were shut, being still asleep, and dreaming
that he was engaged in battle with the giant :
for his mind was so full of the adventure
which he had undertaken that he dreamt
that, having reached tlie kingdom of Mico-
micon, and engaged in combat with his
enemy, he was cleaving the giant down
with a stroke that also proved fatal to the
wine -skins, and set the whole room afloat
with wine. The inn-keeper, seeing this, was
in such a rage that, with clenched fists, he
fell so furiously upon Don Quixote that if
Cárdenlo and the priest had not taken him
off, he would have put an end to the war of
the giant. The barber seeing that the poor
gentleman was still not awake, he brought
a large bucket of cold water, with which he
soused him all over ; and, even that ablution
did not restore him so entirely as to make
him sensible of his situation. Dorothea,
perceiving how scantily and airily he was
arrayed, would not stay to see the fight be-
tween her champion and adversary. Sancho
searched about the floor for the head of the
giant, and, not finding it, he said, " Well, I
see plainly that every thing about this house
' is cnchiinlment : for the last time I was here
I had thumps and blows given me in tliú very
©
^-.
178
ADVENTURES OF
came place by an invisible hand ; and now
the bead is vanished, which I saw cut off
with my own eyes, and the blood sponting
from tlie body like any fountain." " What
blood, and what fountain ? thou enemy to
God and his saints !" said the inn-keeper :
*' dost thou not see, fellow, that the blood
and the fountain are nothing but these skins
ripped open, and the red wine floating about
the room ? — I wish I may see his soul float-
ing in hell that pierced them ¡" " So much
the worse for me,'' said Sancho ; ** for want
of this head, I shall see my earldom melt
away like salt in water." Thus, Sancho,
awake, was as wise as Don Quixote asleep :
his head being quite turned by his master's
promises. The inn -keeper lost all patience
at the indiflerence of the squire, and the mis-
chievous havoc of the knight ; and he swore
they should not escape, as the}' did before,
without paying ; and that the privileges of
his chivalry should not exempt him this time
from discharging both reckonings, even to
the patching of the wine-skins.
Don Quixote (whose hands were held by
the priest) now conceiving the adventure to
be finished, and that he was in the presence
of the princess Micomicona, fell on his knees
before the priest, and said, ''High and
renowned lady, your highness may hence-
forward live secure of harm from that ill-
bom wretch. I have now discharged the
promise I gave you, since, by the assistance
of heaven, and through the &vour of her
by whom I live and breathe, I have so hap-
pily accomplished the enterprize." •* Did
not I tell you so V* quoth Sancho, hearing
this : " you see I was not drunk — look, if
my master has not already put the giant in
pickle ! Here are the bulls !* my earldom
is cock-sure." Who could forbear laughing
at the absurdities of both master and man ?
They were all diverted except the inn-keeper,
who cursed himself to the devil. At length
the barber, Cardenio, apd the priest, with
much difficulty, got Don Quixote upon his
bed again, where, exhausted with his labour,
he slept soundly. They left him to his re-
pose, and went out to the inn-door, trying
to comfort Sancho for his disappointment in
* In alltuion to the joy of the moh in
not finding the gianf s head ; but they had
most trouble in pacifying the inn-keeper,
who was in despair at the untimely death of
his wine-skins. The hostess grumbled top,
muttering to herself: " In an evil hour this
knight-errant came into my house !--0 that
I had never set eyes on him ; for he has been
a dear guest to me. The last time he went
away without paying his night's reckoning,
for supper, bed, straw, and barley, for him-
self, and squire, his horse and ass ; telling
us, forsooth, that he was a knight- adven-
turer—evil beial him, and all the adventurers
in the world 1 — and so he was not obliged
to pay anything, according to tlie rules of
knight-errantry. It was on his account, too,
this other gentleman carries off my tail,
which he returns me damaged and good for
nothing ; and, after all, to rip open my skins,
and let out my wine — would it were hi?
blood ! But he shall not escape again ; for,
by the bones of my father, and the soul of
my mother, they shall pay me down upon
the nail, every farthing, or I am not my
father's daughter !" Thus the hostess went
on in great wrath ; and honest Maritornes
agreed with her mistress. The daughter
held her peace, only now and then smiled.
The priest endeavoured to quiet all of them :
promising to make the best reparation
in his power, for the skins as well as the
wine ; and especially for the damage done
to tlie tail, which they valued so much.
Dorothea comforted Sancho Panza, telling
him that, if it should really appear that
his master had cut off the giant's head, she
would, when peaceably seated on her throne,
bestow on him the best earldom in her do-
minions. With this promise, Sancho was
comforted, and he assured the princess that
she might depend upon it he had seen the
giant's head, and that it had a beard which
reached down to the girdle ; and if it could
not be found, it was owing to the witch-
craft in that house, of which he had seca
and felt enough, the last time they lodged
there. Dorothea agreed with him; but,
assured him that all would end well, and to
his heart's desire. Tranquillity being now
restored, the priest was requested by Car-
Sptun, when they tee the bulls coming.—/.
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
179
denio, Dorothea and the rest, to read the
remainder of the novel ; and, to please them,
as well as himself, he continued as ibllows :
" Anselmo now lived perfectly happy and
free from care, being convinced of Camilla's
virtue. She affected to treat Lothario with
coldness, to deceive her husband, and Lo-
thario entreated him to excuse his visits to
the house, since it was plain that the sight
of him was disagreeable to his wife. But
the duped Anselmo would by no means com-
ply with his request : and thus, by a thou-
sand different ways, he administered to his
own dishonour. As for Leonela, she was so
pleased to find herself thus at liberty that,
regardless of everything, she abandoned
herself to her pleasures, without the least
restraint, being certain of her lady's con-
nivance and help.
In short, one night, Anselmo heard steps
in Leonela's chamber ; and, on his at-
tempting to go in, to see who it was, he
found the door held against him ; which
made him only more determined to be satis-
fied, he therefore burst open the door, and,
'y\st as be entered, saw a man leap down
from the window into the street. He would
immediately have pursued him, but was
prevented by Leonela, who clung about him
crying ; '* Dear sir, be calm ; do not be
angry, nor pursue the man who leaped out ;
be belongs to me— in fact, he is my hus-
band." Anselmo would not believe Leonela,
but drew his poniard in a great fury, and
threatened to stab her, if she did not teU
him the whole truth. In her fright, not
knowing what she said, she cried out, *^ Do
not kill me, sir, and I will tell yon things of
greater importance than you can imagine."
'^ Tell roe them, quickly," said Anselmo,
** or you are a dead woman." " At present
it is impossible," said Leonela, '^ I am in
such confusion ; let me alone until to-mor-
row morning, and then you shall hear what
will astonish you : in the mean time be
assared that the person, who jumped out at
the window, is a young man of this city,
who has given me a promise of marriage."
Anselmo was now appeased, and consented
to wait till next morning for an explanation :
never dreaming that he should hear any
thing against Camilla. But he locked
Leonela into her room, telling her she should
not stir thence until he had heard what she
had to communicate. He went immediately
to Camilla, and related to her all that had
passed with her waiting-woman, and the
promise she had given to impart to him
things of the utmost importance. It is need-
less to say whether Camilla was alarmed
or not : so great was her consternation that,
never doubting of Leonela's intention to
tell Anselmo all she knew of her infidelity,
she had not the courage to wait until she
saw whether her fears were well or ill-
grounded. But that same night, when An-
selmo was asleep, she collected her jewels,
with some money, and privately leaving her
house, went to Lothario, to whom she com-
municated what had passed ; desiring him
to conduct her to a place of safety, or to
accompany her to some retreat, where they
might live secure from Anselmo. Lothario
was so confounded that he knew not what
to say, or how to act. At length, he pro-
posed to conduct her to a convent, of which
his sister was the prioress. Camilla consented,
and Lothario immediately conveyed her to
the monastery, where he left her. He like-
wise absented himself from the city.
At day-break Anselmo arose, without
observing Camilla's absence, and, impatient
for Leonela's communications, he hastened
to the chamber in which he had confined
her. He opened the door and went in, but
found no Leonela there : he only found the
sheets tied to the window, by means of
which, it appeared, she had slid down and
made her escape. He returned, much dis-
appointed, to inform Camilla of the circum-
stance, and, not finding her in her bed, nor
in any part of the house, he was all astonish-
ment. He enquired of the servants for her,
and no one could give him any tidings.
But when he found her jewels gone, he
began to suspect the fatal truth. Full of
grief and consternation, he ran, half dressed,
to the house of his friend Lothario, to tell
him of his disaster ; and, being informed by
his servants that their master had gone
away in the night, with all the money he
had by him, he became nearly frantic. To
complete his misery, on his return home he
found his house entirely deserted; every
zQ
^"^
180
ADVENTURES OF
servant^ male and female, having quitted it.
He was unable either to think, speak, or
act, and his senses gradually began to fail
him. In an instant he found himself for-
saken by his wife, his friend, and even his
servants ; robbed of honour, abandoned by
heaven ! He at last resolved to leave the city,
and go to the friend he had visited before.
Having locked up his house, he mounted
on horseback, and set out oppressed with
sorrow ; but, before he had reached half
way, overwhelmed with the thoughts of
his misfortune, he was unable to proceed :
he therefore alighted, and tied his horse to
a tree, at the foot of which he sunk down,
and gave vent to the most bitter and mourn-
ful lamentations. There he remained till
evening, when a man on horseback hap-
pening to pass that way, he saluted him,
and enquired what news there was in
Florence. "Very strange news indeed,"
said the man ; '< for it is publicly reported
that, last night, Lothario, the rich Anselmo's
particular friend, carried off Camilla, wife
to Anselmo; and that he also is missing.
All this was told by Camilla's maid-servant,
whom the governor caught, in the night,
letting herself down by a sheet from a
window of Anselmo's house. However, I
do not know all the particulars; only I
know that the whole town is in astonish-
ment at this event : for no one could have
expected any such thing, considering the
great friendship of the genüemen, Vvhich
was so remarkable that they were styled the
Two Friends," "Is it known," said An-
selmo, "what road Lothario and Camilla
have taken?" "It is not," replied the
citizen, " although the governor has ordered
diligent search to be made after them."
" God be with you !" said Anselmo. " And
with you also," said the man, who proceeded
on his way.
This dismal news almost bereaved An-
selmo both of his senses and his life. With
diíBculty he mounted his horse again, and
reached the house of his friend, who had
not yet heard of his misfortune ; but, seeing
him pale, spiritless, and faint, he concluded
that he had met with some heavy affliction.
AnseJmo begged he would lead him to a
chamber, and give him pen, ink, and paper.
They complied with his request, leaving mm
alone on the bed. So acute was now the sense
of his misery that he felt it was impossible
for him to survive it ; and he wished to
leave behind some memorial of the cause of
his death ; but, before he could write all he
intended, his breath failed him, and he ex-
pired, a victim to that grief which he had
brought upon himself by his impertinent
curiosity.
The master of the house, after some time,
went to Ansclmo's chamber to enquire after
him, when he found him lying upon his face,
his body half in bed, and half resting on the
table, upon which laid a written paper —
the pen was still in his hand. His friend
spoke to him, and, approaching him, took
hold of his hand, but he found him cold and
breathless. Surprised and grieved, he called
his family to witness the disastrous end of
Anselmo. On the paper he then read the
following lines, which he knew to be An-
selmo's hand-writing:
"A foolish and impertinent desire has
deprived me of life. If Camilla hear of my
death, let her know that I forgive her ; for
she was not obliged to perform miracles,
nor ought I to have required them of her ;
and, since I was the contriver of ray own
dishonour, there is no reason why"
Thus far had Anselmo written ; unable,
as it appeared, to finish the sentence. On
the following day his friend sent to inform
his relations of the sad event. They already
knew of his disgrace, and of the retreat of
his wife. Camilla, indeed, was on the point
of quitting life at the same time as her
husband — not for grief at his fate, but her
lover's absence. Although now a widow,
she would neither leave the convent, nor
take the veil, until some days after, wnen
intelligence reached her that Lothario had
been slain in a battie fought between
Monsieur de Lautrec and that great com-
mander Gonzalo Femandes of Cordua, in
the kingdom of Naples, wliither the too*
late repentant friend had retreated. She
then took the religious habit, and died
shortiy after, a prey to sorrow. Such was
the fatal catastrophe of a drama which com-
menced in folly."
I!
DON QUIXOTE.
181
" I like this novel very well," said the
priest, " but I cannot persuade myself that
it is true ; and, if it be a fiction, the author
has erred against probability ; for it is im-
XK)ssible to conceive that any husband would
be so absurd us to venture upon so dangerous
an experiment as that made by Anselmo.
Had this case been supposed between a
gallant and his mistress, it might pass ;
but, between husband and wife, it is quite
incredible. However, the story is not ill
told."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
WHICH TRKATS OF OTHER UNCOMMON
INCIDENTS THAT HAPPENED AT THE
Thk host was standing at the inn door,
wlien he suddenly exclaimed, " Here comes
a goodly company of guests ! If they stop
here, we shall sing, O be joyful !" " What
are they?" said Cardenio. ** Four men,"
answered the host, '*on horseback, a la
Gineta,* with lances and target, and black
masksf on their faces; and there is a woman
with them, on a ride - saddle, dressed in
white, and her face likewise covered ; be-
sides those, there are two lads on foot."
* * Are they near ?" said the priest. ** So
near," replied the inn -keeper, "that they
are already at the door." Dorothea, hearing
this, veiled her face, and Cardenio retired
to Don Quixote's chamber. When the
persons mentioned by the host entered the
yard, the four horsemen (who appeared to
be gentlemen) having alighted, went to
assist the lady to dismount; and one of
them, taking her in his arms, placed her in
a chmr, near the door of the chamber to
which Cardenio had retired. During all
this time not one of the party had taken off
their masks, or spoken a word. The lady,
when seated in a chair, heaved a deep sigh,
and her arms hung listless down, as if she
were in a weak and fSunting state. When
i their servants took the horses to the stable,
the priest followed and questioned one of
^ A mode of ridinErwith short itimpt, which the
Spaniarda took from the Arabs. It is still used in
Africa, among; tlie eastern nations, and also in some
northern parts. /.
them, being curious to know who these
silent people were. " In truth, signer,"
replied the servant, " I cannot tell you who
they are; "but they must be people of
quality, especially he who took the lady in
his arms, because all the rest pay him such
respect, and do nothing but what he orders
and directs." " And the lady, pray who is
she V asked the priest. " Neither can I
tell that," replied the lacquey ; " for I have
not once seen her face during the whole
journey. I often, indeed, heard her sigh,
and utter such groans that any one of them
was enough to break her heart : but it is
no wonder that we cannot tell you any
more, as my comrade and I have been only
two days in their service ; for, having met
us upon the road, they persuaded us to go
Avith them as faras Andaluzia, and promised
to pay us well." " Have you heard any
of tiieir names?" said the priest. "No,
indeed," answered tlie lad, "for they all
travel in so much silence, we hear nothing
but the sighs and sobs of the poor lady,
which move our pity ; and, wheresoever she
is going, we suspect that it is against her
will. From her habit she must be a nun,
or, perhaps, going to be made one, and not
from her OAvn choice, which makes her so
sorrowful." **Very likely," quoth the
priest ; and then, leaving them, he returned
to the room where he had left Dorothea,
whose compassion being excited by the
sighs of the masked lady, she approached
her, and said, " You seem in distress, deor
madam ; if it be in the power of a woman
to render you any service, most willingly I
ofier you mine." The afflicted lady returned
no answer ; and, although Dorothea renewed
her offers, she persisted in her silence, until
the cavalier in the mask, who seemed to be
the superior of the party, came up, and said
to Dorothea, "Trouble not yourself, madam,
to offer any thing to this woman, for she is
very ungrateful ; nor endeavour to get an
answer from her, unless you wish to hear
some falsehoood." " No," said the lady,
who had hitherto been silent ; " on the con-
t The original word is "Antifaz," which is not pro>
ciaclj our mask, being a piece of thin black silk worn
before the face in travelling, not for disguise, but to
keep off the dust and sun. J.
— (y/
182
ADVENTURES OF
trary, it is from my aversion to falsehood
that I am thus wretched ; for it is my truth
alone which makes you act so false and
treacherous a part."
These words were distinctly heard by
Cardenio, who was A^ery near to the speaker,
being separated only by the door of Don
Quixote's chamber ; and, on hearing them,
he cried out aloud, "Good God ! what do I
hear? what voice is that which has reached
my ears?" The lady, in much surprise,
turned her head at these exclamations ,* and,
not seeing who uttered them, she started up,
and was going into the room, when the
cavalier detained her, and would not suffer
her to move a step. In this sudden com-
motion her mask fell off, and discovered a
face of incomparable beauty, although pale
and full of terror ; for she looked wildly
around her, examining every place with so
much eagerness that she seemed distracted,
and excited the sympathy of Dorothea and
others of the party, who could not conjecture
the cause of her agitation. The cavalier
held her fast by the shoulders, and, his
hands being thus engaged, he could not
keep on his mask, which at length fell to
the ground, and Dorothea, who also had
her arms round the lady, raising her eyes,
discovered in the stranger — her husband,
Don Fernando ! when instantly, with a
long and dismal Oh ! she fell backward in
a swoon, and had not the barber, who stood
close by, caught her in her arms, she would
have fallen to the ground. The priest then
hastily removed her veil to throw water in
her face ; upon which Don Fernando recog-
nized her, and seemed petrified at the sight.
Nevertheless, he still kept his hold of
Lucinda, who was the lady that was en-
deavouring to release herself fxx)m him ; for
she knew Cardenio's voice, and he well
recollected hers. The groan of Dorothea,
when she fainted, was also heard by Car-
denio, who, believing it came from his
Lucinda, rushed into the room, and the
first object he saw was Don Fernando,
holding Lucinda in his arms. They all
gazed upon each other in silence ; for none
seemed able to utter a word. Lucinda was
the first who recovered the power of speech,
and she thus addressed Don Fernando:
(y)=:
" Let me go, my lord : I entreat you, as
you are a gentleman, that you Avill suffer
me to fly to the protection of him from whom
in vain you have endeavoured to separate
nie. See how mysteriously Heaven has
conducted me into the presence of my true
husband ! — You well know, by a thousand
proofs, that nothing can shake tlie faith I
have pledged to him. Cease, therefore, your
fruitless persecution, or let your love be
converted into rage, and destroy me ; for
then at least I shall die in the presence of
my beloved, who, by my death, will be
convinced of my inviolable fidelity."
Dorothea in the mean time had recovered
her senses, and, hearing what Lucinda said,
she conjectured who she was. Seeing tliat
Don Fernando still held her, she approached
him, and threw herself at his feet — her
lovely face bathed in tears. "Ah, ray lord !"
said she, "were you not dazzled by tliat
beauty in your arms, you would see the
unhappy Dorothea, who is now prostrate at
your feet. I am that humble country girl
whom you vouchsafed to call yours j she
Avho lived a happy and modest life until,
seduced by your importunities, and the
apparent sincerity of your affection, she
resigned her liberty to you. How you
requited her, is now too manifest ! But do
not think that I have followed the path of
dishonour: grief and misery alone have
attended my steps since your cruel desertion.
When I was persuaded to bind myself to
you, it was with ties that, changed as your
sentiments may be, can never be dissolved.
Ah, my lord ! will not my tenderness com-
pensate for the beauty and rank of her for
whom you abandon me 7 Recollect that
you are mine, and Lucinda belongs to Car-
denio: surely it will be easier for you to
revive your own love towards her who
adores you than to inspire her with love
who hates you. You were not ignorant of
my condition when I consented to become
yours, on honourable terms : then, as you
are a christian and a gentleman, I claim the
fulfilment of your promise, for I am your
true and lawful wife. Still, if you refuse
to acknowledge me, protect me as your
slave, and I will submit ; but do not aban-
don me to the world — do not afflict the
^J=
DON QUIXOTE.
183
declining years of my parentB, who have
ever Leen your faithful vassals. Think not of
tlieir meanness— for rank is not essential in
a wife; besides, true nobility consists in
virtue, and, if you forfeit that by wronging
mcy you degrade yourself below me. But,
however you may please to act towards roe,
my lord, I am still your wife — witness your
words, witness your letters, and witness
heaven, whom you called upon to sanctify
our mutual vows ! Lastly, I appeal to your
conscience, which will embitter with self-
reproach every enjoyment of your life, if
you fail to listen to its dictates."
The afiBicted Dorothea urged these and
other arguments in so aiFecting a manner
that she excited the most lively interest in
all present. Don Fernando listened in silence
to her words, which were followed by such
bursts of overwhelming grief that no human
heart could witness it without emotion.
Lucinda longed to comfort her and condole
with her, but she was still detained. Don
Fernando at length suddenly disengaged
his arms from her, after having gazed
awhile on Dorothea. " You have con-
quered, fair Dorothea !" he exclaimed ; ** you
have conquered ! There is no resisting
you !"
Lucinda was so faint, when released from
Don Femando's embrace, that she was just
falling to the ground; but Cardenio
hastened to her support : " These arms,"
said he, '^ shall protect thee, my beloved,
my faithful mistress! Heaven grant you
may now find repose !" Lucinda looked up
to be assured that it was indeed her Cardenio,
and, on seeing his beloved face, regardless of
forms, she threw her arms round his neck
and embraced him with the utmost tender-
ness. " Oh, Cardenio ! you are my true
lord ! Whatever the fates may condemn me
to suffer, I am for ever yours !"
This was an affecting scene to all present.
Dorothea watched Don Fernando, and fear-
ing that he meditated revenge on Cardenio,
as he looked agitated, and put his hand to
his sword, she clung round him, embracing
his knees, and said to him, " What means
my love, my only refuge ? Behold your
true wife, at your feet ! Lucinda is in the
arms of her husband, and even in your
presence bedews his bosom with tears of
love; how then can you think of uniting
yourself to her! — For heaven's sake, and for
the honour of your name, let tlieir declara-
tions of mutual affection, instead of moving
your wrath, induce you to leave them un-
molested, to pass tlieir lives happily together ;
you will tlius shew to the world that you
are not governed by your passions, but have
a noble, generous mind."
While Dorothea spoke, Cardenio kept his
eyes fixed on Don Fernando, and was pre-
pared to defend himself, if assaulted by him.
But that nobleman was now surrounded by
the whole party, not excepting honest San-
cho, who all interceded for Dorotliea ; and
the priest represented to him that so singular
a meeting must not be ascribed to chance,
but totlie special providence of Heaven. He
begged him also to consider how vain would
be the attempt to seperate Cardenio and
Lucinda, who would be happy even to die,
proving each other's faith ; and how pru-
dent as well as noble, it would be in him,
to triumph over his passion, and freely
leave the two lovers to enjoy the happi-
ness of mutual affection. That he should
turn to the lovely Dorothea, who had such
strong claims upon him, not only on account
of her extreme tenderness for him, but
the promises he had made her, which, as a
christian and a man of honour, he was
bound to perform : adding to these argu-
ments, that it would be no derogation to
his rank to elevate beauty adorned witli
virtue.
These truths, so forcibly urged, were not
lost upon the mind of Don Fernando, who
embraced Dorotliea, saying, " Rise, my dear
lady ; for that is not a posture for the mis-
tress of my soul ; and if I have offended
against you, surely it has been by the will
of Heaven, that I might know your true
value, by such proofs of your constancy and
affection. 1 only entreat that you will not
reproach me for my involuntary offence,
but look at the now happy Lucinda, and her
eyes will plead my excuse. May she enjoy
long years of happiness with her Cardenio ;
and heaven grant me the same with my
Dorothea^" Again he pressed her to his
heart, and could scarcely forbear shewing
=r-^
184
ADVENTURES OF
bis emotions of tenderness and repentance,
by tears : indeed, all the company present,
Avere so mach affected that their tears of
sympathy might have been mistaken for
those of sorrow — even Sancho Panza wept ;
though he owned, afterwards, that it was
only because Dorothea turned out not to be
the queen Micomicona, who was to have
made his fortune. Cardenio and Lucinda
expressed their acknowledgments to Don
Fernando for his present conduct, in so
feeling a manner that he was too much
moved to find words to reply to them.
Dorothea being now questioned by Don
Fernando as to the circumstances which
had brought her to that place, she gave a
brief detail of what she had before related
to Cardenio; and so interesting was her
narrative to Don Fernando and his party,
and so graceful her delivery, that they even
regretted when the story of her misfortunes
was ended. Don Fernando then related
what he had done after finding in Lucinda's
bosom the paper declaring herself the wife
of Cardenio. He confessed that his first
impulse was to take her life, and he should
actually have done so had he not been
prevented by her parents ; upon which he
immediately quitted the house, full of shame
and fury, determined to seize the first oppor-
tunity of revenge. On the following day
he heard that she had left her father's house,
concealing the place of her retreat; but,
after some months, he discovered that she
bad retu-ed to a convent, whither he imme-
diately pursued her, accompanied by the
three gentlemen then present. He watched
an opportunity, when the convent-gate was
open, to make his entrance, leaving two of
his companions to secure the gate, and,
having found Lucinda walking in the
cloisters, attended only by a nun, they seized
her, and bore her away to a place where
they had prepared every accommodation
necessary for their project. Lucinda, he
said, had fainted on seeing herself in his
power, and, when her senses retunied,
she wept and sighed, but never spoke a
single word. Thus, in silence and sorrow,
they had reached that inn, which, he
trusted, was the goal of aU their earthly
misfortunes.
@=
CHAPTER XXXVir.
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE HISTORY
OF THE FAMOUS INFANTA MICOMICONA,
WITH OTHER PLEASANT ADVENTURES.
Sancho experienced no small grief of mind
on thus seeing all his hopes of preferment
iast disappearing and vanishing into smoke,
by the transformation of the fair princess
Micomicona into Dorothea, and the giant
into Don Fernando ; while his master, un-
conscious of what was passing, lay wrapped
in profound sleep. Dorothea could not be
certain whether the happiness she enjoyed
was not a dream ; and Cardenio and Lu-
cinda entertained the same doubts. Don
Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for having
delivered him from a perilous situation, in
which his honour, as well as his soul, were
in imminent danger. In short, all were
pleased at the happy conclusion of such
intricate and hopeless affairs. The priest,
like a man of sense, placed every thing in
its true light, and congratulated each upon
their share of the good fortune that had be-
fallen them. But the landlady was more
delighted than all ; as Cardenio and the
priest had promised to pay her, with interest,
for every loss she had sustained upon Don
Quixote's account. Sancho alone was af-
flicted, unhappy, and full of sorrow ^ and
with dismal looks, he went in to his master,
just then awake, to whom he said : '^ Your
worship may sleep on, sigñor sorrowful
figure, without troubling yourself about kill-
ing any giant, or restoring the princess to
her kingdom ; for that is already done and
over." "I verily believe it," answered
Don Quixote, '' for I have had the most
monstrous and dreadful battle with the giant
that ever I expect to have in the whole
course of my life ; with one back -stroke
I tumbled his head to the ground^ and so
great was the quantity of blood tiiat gushed
from it that the stream ran along the ground,
like a torrent of water." *' Like red wine,
your worship might better say," answered
Sancho ; " for I can tell you, if you do not
know it already, that the dead giant is a
pierced wine -skin, and the blood, eighteen
gallons of red wine contained in its belly ;
and the head cut off is — the whore that bore
=í^
DON QUIXOTE.
185
me, and the devil take all for me !'' '' What
say est thou, fool V* replied Don Quixote.
** Art thou in thy senses ?" " Pray, get up,
sir," quoth Sancho^ '^ and you will see what
a fine day's work you have made, and what
a reckoning we have to pay ; and you will
see, too, the queen converted into a private
lady, called Dorothea, with other matters,
which, if you take them right, will astonish
you." ^*I shall wonder at nothing," re-
; plied Don Quixote : *^ for, thou mayest
I; remember, the last time we were here, I
j told thee that all things in this place went
I by enchantment ; and there can be nothing
j surprising in it if this were the case again."
I " I should believe so too," answered Sancho,
l> ^' if my being tossed in the blanket had been
I I a matter of this nature : but it was down-
' right real and true ; and I saw the very
same inn-keeper hold a corner of the blanket,
I end cant me towards heaven with notable
: alacrity, laughing too, all the time; and
' where it happens that we know persons, in
I my opinion (simple and a sinner as I am),
I there is no enchantment at all, but much mis-
! usage and much mishap." ^' Well, God will
remedy it," quoth Don Quixote ; " give mc
r my clothes, that I may go and see the events
¡I and transformations tüou hast mentioned."
I Sancho reached him his apparel; and,
while he was dressing, the priest gave Don
! Fernando and his companions an account of
Don Quixote's madness, and of the artifice
¡i they had used to get him from the poor
I rock, to which he imagined himself ban-
• isbed, through his lady's disdain. He related
¡ also most of the adventures which Sancho
¡ bad communicated to them, to their great
I diversion and astonishment; for they, like
others, considered it as the most singular
! species of insanity that ever took possession
of the imagination. The priest said ferther
that, since the lady Dorothea's good-fortune
wonld not permit her to prosecute their de-
sign, it was necessary to contrive some other
expedient to get him home. Cardenio of-
fered his assistance, and proposed that Lu-
cinda should personate Dorothea. '< No,"
said Don Fernando, ** it must not be so ;
for I w^ill have Dorothea herself proceed in
her part; and as this good gentleman's
viüage is not fax distant, I shall be glad to
contribute to his cure." " It is not above
two days' journey," said the priest. " If it
were farther," said Don Fernando, " I
would undertake it with pleasure, for so
good a purpose."
Don Quixote now came forth, clad in all
his armour; Mambrino's helmet, though
bruised and battered, on his head, his target
braced, and resting on his sapling or lance.
His strange appearance greatly surprised
Don Fernando and his company, who failed
not to observe his long and withered visage
of sallow hue, his ill -matched armour, and
measured pace. They paused, in silent ex-
pectation of hearing him speak, when, with
much gravity and solemnity, fixing his eyes
upon the fair Dorothea, he said, '* I am in-
formed, fair lady, by this my squire, that
your grandeur is annihilated, and your very
being demolished ; and, that from a queen,
you are metamorphosed into a private maiden.
If this has been done by order of the necro-
mantic king your &ther, fearing lest I should
not afford you the necessary and due aid, I
say he knew not one half of his art, and that
he was but little versed in histories of knight-
errantry ; for, had he read them as atten-
tively as I have read and considered them,
he would have known that other knights,
of less fame than myself, have achieved still
greater difficulties : it being no such mighty
business to kill a pitiful giant, arrogant as
he may be ; for not many hours are past
since I was engaged with one myself, and
— I say no more, lest I should be suspected
of falsehood ; but time, the revealer of all
things will declare it, when least^expected."
*^ It was with a couple of wine -skins, and
not a giant," quoth the inn - keeper — here
he was interrupted by Don Fernando, who
commanded him to hold his peace, and in
no wise to interrupt Don Quixote's discourse,
who went on, saying, " I assure you, there-
fore, high and disinherited lady, that, if for
the cause I have mentioned, your father has
made this metamorphose in your person, it
is perfectly needless : for there is no danger
upon earth, through which my sword shall
not force a way, and, by bringing down the
head of your enemy to the ground, shortly
place upon your own the crown of your
kingdom.
180
ADVENTURES OF
Here Don Quixote ceased, and waited tlic
answer of the princess, who, knowing it to
be Don Femando's desire that she should
carry on the deception until Don Quixote's
return home, with much dignity and grace,
replied, ** Whosoever told you, Talorous
knight of the sorrowful figure, that I was
changed and altered from what I was spoke
not tlie truth ; for I am the same to day
that I was yesterday. It is true, indeed,
that certain events, fortunate beyond my
hopes, have be&Ilen me since then, yet do I
not cease to be what I was before, and to
entertain the same tlioughts I have ever In-
dulged, of availing myself of the valour of
your valiant and invincible arm. Therefore,
dear sir^ with your accustomed goodness, do
justice to the honour of my father, and
acknowledge his wisdom and prudence :
since by his skill he found out so easy and
certain a way to remedy my misfortunes :
for I verily believe, had it not been for you,
sir, I should never have enjoyed my present
happiness ; and in this, I speak the exact
trudi, as most of these gentlemen, I am sure,
will testify. Let us then proceed on our
journey to-morrow (for to-day it is too
late) ; and to heaven and your prowess I
trust for a successful issue."
Thus spoke the discreet Dorothea ; where-
upon, Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, said
to him, " I tell thee, Sancho, thou art the
greatest rascal in Spain. Say, vagabond !
didst thou not tell me just now that this
princess was tranformed into a damsel called
Dorothea; and that the head, which I
lopped from a giant's shoulders, was the
whore that bore thee ; with other absurdities,
which were enough to confound me? I
vow,'' (and here he looked up to heaven,
and gnashed his teeth) <<I have a great
inclination to make such an example of thee
as shall put sense into the brains of all the
lying squires of future times !" ** Pray,
sir, be pacified," answered Sancho ; ^^ for I
may have been mistaken as to the change of
my lady the princess Micomicona ; but as
to the giant's head, or at least the piercing
of the skins, and the blood being red wine,
I am not deceived, as God liveth : for there
are the skins at your worship's bed's-head,
cut and slashed, and the red wine has made
a pond of the room ; and you will find 1
speak true, when our host demands damages.
As for the rest, I rejoice in my heart tiiat
my lady queen is as she was ; for I have my
share in it, like every neighbour's child."
" I tell thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
« thou art an ass. Excuse me, that's
enough." " It is enough," said Don Fer-
nando, ''and let no more be said on the
subject; and since the pnnoess hath declared
that we are to set forward in the morning,
it being too late to-day, let us pass this
night in agreeable conversation ; and to-
morrow we will all accompany sigfior Don
Quixote : for we desire to be eye-witnesses
of the valorous and unheard-of deeds which
he is to perform in the accomplishment of
this great enterprise." '' It is my part to
serve and attend you," answered Don
Quixote ; '^ and much am I indebted to you
for your good opinion ; which it shall be
my endeavour not to disappoint, even at the
expense of my life, or even more, if more
were possible."
Many were the compliments, and polite
offers of service passing between Don Quix-
ote and Don Fernando, when they were
interrupted by the arrival of two other per-
sons, at the inn. The one was a man, who
by his garb seemed to be a Christian lately
come from among tlie Moors ; for he had
on a blue cloth coat, with short skirts, half
sleeves, and no collar: his breeches also
were of blue cloth, and his cap of the same
colour : he had on a pair of date-coloured
buskins, and a Moorish scimitar hung in a
shoulder-belt across his breast. He was
accompanied by a female, in a Moorish
dress, mounted on an ass, her &ce veiled, a
brocade turban on her head, and covered
with a mantle firom her shoulders to her feet
The man was of a robust and agreeable
figure, rather above forty years of age, of
a dark complexion, with large mustachios,
and a well-set beard ; in short, his deport-
ment, had he been well-dressed, Avould have
marked him for a gentleman. Upon his
entrance, he asked for a room, and seemed
disconcerted on hearing that there was not
one unoccupied; nevertheless he alighted
with his female companion, who was evi»
dently a Moor. The other ladies, as well
(ÜT-
@=
DON QUIXOTE.
187
as the landlady, ber daughter, and maid, all
surrounded the stranger, attracted by the
novelty of ber appearance ; and Dorothea,
who was always obliging and considerate,
perceiving they were disappointed at not
having an apartment, accosted her, saying,
" Do not be distressed, my dear madam, at
an inconvenience which must be expected
in places of this kind ; but if you will
please to share with us (pointing to Lucinda)
such accommodation as we have, you may
perhaps have found worse in the course of
your journey." The veiled lady returned
her no answer, but, rising from her seat, and
laying her hands across on her breast, bowed
her head and body, in token that she thanked
her. By her silence they conjectured that she
could not speak their language, and were con-
firmed in their opinion of her being a Moor.
Her companion, who had been engaged
out of the room, now entered, and seeing
that she was addressed by some of the com-
pany, he said, '* Ladies, this young person
understands scarcely any thing of the
Spanish language, and is therefore unable
to converse with you." "We have only
been requesting her to favour us with her
company, and share our accommodations,"
said Lucinda; "and we will shew her all
the attention due to strangers who need it,
especially those of our own sex." " My
dear madam," he replied, " I return you a
thousand thanks both for this lady and my-
self, and am fully sensible of the extent of
the fevour you offer us." *' Allow me to
ask you, signer, whether the lady is a
Christian or a Moor ?" said Dorothea. " By
birth she is a Moor," replied the stranger ;
" but in her heart she is a Christian, having
an ardent wish to become one." " She is
not yet baptized then ?" answered Lucinda.
" There has not yet been an opportunity,"
answered the stranger, "since she left
Algiers, her native country ; and she has not
hitherto been in such imminent danger of
deatli as to make it necessary to have her
baptized, before she be instructed in all the
ceremonies enjoined by our church ; but, if
it please God, she will soon be baptized, in
a manner becoming her rank, which is be-
yond what either her appearance, or mine,
indicate."
(^ =
These strangers excited the curiosity of
the whole party, who refrained, however,
from importuning them with questions :
conceiving they would be more inclined to
take repose than to satisfy them. Dorothea
now took the lady's hand, and, leading her
to a seat, placed herself by her, and tlien
requested her to unveil; upon which she
gave an enquiring look at her companion ;
and he having interpreted what had been
said to her in Arabic, she removed her veil,
and discovered a face so exquisitely beautiful
that Dorothea thought she exceeded Ludnda,
who, on her part, thought her handsomer
than Dorothea; while their admirers all
seemed to confess that if either of tliem
could have a rival in beauty it was in this
Moorish lady ; and, as it is the privilege of
beauty to conciliate and attract good-will,
they were all eager to shew her attention.
Don Fernando enquired her name, of her
companion ; " Lela Zoniida," he replied ;
when ^e interposed in a ffweet, earnest
manner — "No, not Zoraida; Maria, Maria."
Giving them to understand that her name
was Maria, not Zoraida. These words were
pronounced in so touching a voice that they
were all affected ; especially the ladies, who
are naturally tender - hearted. Lucinda
embraced her, most affectionately, saying,
"Yes, yes, Maria, Maria;" who answered,
"Yes, Maria; Zoraida macange" — meaning,
not Zoraida.
It being now night, supper was served
up (in providing which the landlord had,
by Don Femando's order, exerted himself
to the utmost). They seated themselves at
a long table, like those in halls ; for there
was no other, either round or square, in the
house. They insisted on Don Quixote's
taking the head 4)f the table, though he
would have declined it ; the princess Mico-
micona he placed next to him, being her
champion; Lucinda and Zoraida seated
themselves beside her; opposite them sat
Don Fernando and Cárdenlo; the curate
and barber sat next to the ladies, and the
rest of the gentlemen opposite to tliem ; and
thus they banquetted much to their satisfac-
tion. Don Quixote added to their amuse-
ment, for, being moved by the same spirit
which had inspired him with eloquence at
©=
IBS
ADVENTURES OF
tlie goatherd's supper, instead of eating, he
now harangued as follows :
" It must certainly be confessed, gentle-
men, that great and wonderful are the
occurrences which befal those who profesa
the order of knight - errantry. What man
existing, who should now enter at this
castle-gate, and see us thus seated, could
imagine ns to be the persons we really are !
Who should say that this lady, here seated
by my side, is that great queen we all know
her to be, and I that * knight of the sorrow-
ful figure' so blazoned abroad by the mouth
of fame ! There no longer remains a doubt
but that this art and profession exceeds all
that have ever been followed by man ; fvnd
that it is the more honourable, inasmuch as
it is exposed to more danger. Away with
those who say that letters have the advan-
tage over arms ! Whoever they may be, I
will maintain that they know not what they
soy ; for the reason they usually give, and
upon which they usually lay the greatest
stress, is that the labours of tlie brain exceed
those of the body, and that arms arc simply
ft corporeal exercise; as if it were the
business of porters alone, for which mere
strength is required, or as if the ])rofession
of arms did not call for that fortitude which
dei^ends on a vigorous understanding, or as
if the mental powers of the warrior who has
an army, or the defence of a besieged city,
committed to his charge, be not called into
exertion, as well as those of his body ! Let
it be seen how, by mere corporeal strength,
he can penetrate the designs of the enemy,
form stratagems, overcome difficulties, and
avert threatened dangers ! — no, these are all
the efforts of the understanding, in which
the body has no shore. Since, then, arms
exercise the mind as well as letters, let us
now see whose mind is most exerted — the
scholar or the soldier. This may be deter-
. mined by the ultimate object of each ; for
that pursuit deserves the most esteem which
has the noblest aim in view. Now the end
and design of letters — I speak not of the-
ology, the aim of which is to guide and
elevate the soul of man to heaven, for with
that none can be compared ; but I speak of
human learning, whose end, I say, is to
regulate distributive justice, and give to
every man his due; to know good laws,
and cause them to be strictly ol»erved : an
object most certainly generous and exalted,
and worthy of high commendation ; but not
equal to that which is annexed to tlie pro-
fession of arms, Avhose end and purpose is
Peace — tha greatest blessing man can enjoy
in this life; for the first glad tidings the
world received was what the angels brought
on that night, which was our day, when
they sang in tlie clouds, ' Glory to God on
high, and on earth peace and good -will
towards men!' and the salutation which
the best Master of earth and of heaven
taught his disciples was that, when they
entered into any house, they should say,
* Peace be to this house !' and many times
he síúd, * My peace I give unto you, my
peace I leave with you ; peace be amongst
you.* It is, indeed, a treasure without
which there can be no true happiness. To
obtain this peace is the legitimate object of
war — by war and arms I mean the same
thing. Peace, then, being the object of
war, it must be granted that, in its ultimate
aim, it is superior to the pursuit of letters.
We will now compare the corporeal labours
of the soldier and the scholar."
Don Quixote thus pursued his discourse so
rationally that his auditors could scarcely
think him insane ; on the contrary, most of
them being gentlemen, to whom the exercise
of arms properly appertains, they listened
to him with particular pleasure while he
thus continued : *' Among the hardships of
the scholar we may, in the first place, name
poverty (not that all are poor — but let us
suppose the worst) ; and when I have said
that he endures poverty, no more need be
said of his misery, for he who is poor is des-
titute of every good thing ; he endures misery
in all shapes, in hunger and in cold, some-
times in nakedness, and sometimes in a
combination of all. Still, however, he gets
something to eat, either from the rich man's
leavings, or the sops of the convent* — that
last miserable resource of the poor scholar ;
nor are they without some neighbour's fire-
* Meaning the sops in porridge given at the gates of monasteries, /.
=(CÍ)
DON QUIXOTE.
180
BÍde or chimney corner to keep them, at
least, from extreme cold ; and at night they
can generally sleep under cover. I will not
enlarge upon other trifling inconveniences
to which they are exposed ; such as scarcity
of linen, want of shoes, thread- bare coats,
and the surfeits they are liable to when good
fortune sets a plentiful table in their way.
This is the hard and rugged path they tread,
sometimes stumbling and falling, then rising
and falling again, till they reach the emi-
nence they have had in view ; and, after
passing these Scyllas and Charybdises, we
have seen tliem from a chair command and
govern the world, their hunger converted
into satiety, tlieir pinching cold into refresh-
ing coolness, their nakedness into em-
broidery, and their slumbers on a mat to
repose on hoUand and damask — a reward
justly merited by their virtue. But their
hardships fall far short of those of the
warrior, as I shall soon convince you."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE CONTINUATION OF DON QUIXOTE's
CURIOUS ORATION UPON ARMS AND
UiTTERS.
'* Since, in speaking of the scholar," said
Don Quixote, continuing his discourse,
" we began with his poverty and its several
branches, let us see whether the soldier be
richer. We shall find that poverty itself
is not more poor: for he depends on his
wretched pay, which comes late and some-
times never ; or upon what he can pillage,
at the imminent risk of his life and con-
science. Such oflen is his nakedness that
his slashed buff-doublet serves him both for
finery and shirt ; and, in the midst of winter,
on the open plain, he has nothing to warm
him bnt the breath of his mouth, which,
issuing from an empty place, must needs be
cold. But let us wait, and see whether
night will make amends for these inconve-
niences ; if his bed be too narrow, it is his
own fault : for he may measure out as many
feet of earth as he pleases, and roll himself
thereon at pleasure, without fear of rumpling
the sheets. Suppose the moment arrived of
taking his degree ; 1 mean, suppose the day
of battle come — his doctoral cap may then
be of lint to cover some gun-shot wound,
which, perhaps, has gone through his tem«
pies, or deprived him of an arm or a leg.
And even suppose that Heaven in its mercy
should preserve him alive and unhurt, he
will probably remain as poor as ever ; for
he must be engaged and victorious in many
battles before he can expect high promotion ;
and such good fortune happens only by a mi-
racle : for you will allow, gentlemen, that few
are the number of those that have reaped the
reward of their services, compared with those
who have perished in war. The dead are
countless; whereas those who survived to
be rewarded may be numbered with three
figures. Not so with scholars, who, by tlieir
salaries (I will not say their perquisites), are
generally handsomely provided for. Thus
the labours of tlie soldier are greater, al-
though his reward is less. It may be said,
in answer to this, that it is easier to reward
two thousand scholars than thirty thousand
soldiers : for scholars are rewarded by giving
them employments, which must of course be
given to men of their profession ; whereas
the soldier can only be rewarded by the pro-
perty of the master whom he serves ; and
this defence serves to strengthen my argu-
ment.
*^ But, waving this point, let us consider
the comparative claims to pre-eminence ; for
the partisans of each can bring powerful
arguments in support of their own cause.
It is said, in &vour of letters, that, without
tiicm, arms could not subsist ; for war must
have its laws, and laws come within the
province of the learned. But, it may be
alleged, in reply, that arms are necessary to
the maintenance of law ; by arms, the pub-
lic roads are protected, cities guarded, states
defended, kingdoms preserved, and the seas
cleared of corsairs and pirates. In short,
without arms there would be no safety for
cities, commonwealths, or kingdoms. Be-
sides, it is just to estimate a pursuit jn
proportion to the cost of its attainment.
Now it is true that eminence iti learning
is purchased by time, watching, hunger^
nakedness, vertigo, indigestion, and many
other inconveniences already mentioned.
190
ADVENTURES OF
But a man who rises gradually to be a good
soldier endures ali these, and iar more.
What is the hunger and poverty which me-
nace the man of letters, compared to the
situation of the soldier, who, besieged in
some fortress, and placed as sentinel in some
ravelin or cavalier, perceives that the enemy
is mining towards the place where he stands,
and yet must on no account stir from his
post, or shun the imminent danger that
threatens him ? All that he can do, in such
a case, is to give notice to his officer of what
passes, that he may endeavour to counteract
it; in the meantime, he must stand his
ground, in momentary expectation of being
mounted to the clouds Avithout wings, and
then dashed headlong to the earth. And, if
this be thought but a trifling danger, let us
see whether it be equalled or exceeded by
the encounter of two galleys, prow to prow,
in the midst of the wide sea ; locked and
grappled together, so that there is no more
room left for the soldier than the two -foot
plank at the beak-head ; and though he sees
as many threatening ministers of death be-
fore him as tliere are pieces of artillery
pointed at him from the opposite side, not
the length of a lance from his body ; though
he knows that the first slip of his foot sends
liim to the bottom of the sea ; yet with an
undaunted heart, inspired by honour, he
exposes himself as a mark to all their Are,
and endeavours, by that narrow pass, to
force his way into the enemy's vessel ! And
what is most worthy of admiration, no
sooner is one fallen, never to rise again in
this world, than another takes his place ;
and if he also fall into the sea, which lies in
wait to devour him, another and another
succeeds without intermission ! — In all the
extremities of war, there is no example of
courage and intrepidity to exceed this.
Happy those ages which knew not the
dreadful fury of artillery ! — those instru-
ments of hell (where, I verily believe, the
inventor is now receiving the reward of his
diabolical ingenuity) ; by means of which
the cowardly and the base can deprive the
bravest soldier of life. While a gallant
spirit, animated with heroic ardour, is press-
ing to glory, comes a chance ball, sent by
one who, perhaps, fled in alarm at the flash
of his own accursed weapon, and in an in-
stant cuts short the life of him who deserved
to live for ages ! When I consider tiiis, I
could almost repent having undertaken tliis
profession of knight-errantry, in so detest-
able an age ; for, though no danger can
daunt me, still it gives me some concern to
think that powder and lead may suddenly
cut short my career of glory. But Heaven's
will be done ! I have this satisfaction, that
I shall acqub'e the greater fame if I succeed,
inasmuch as the perils by which I am beset
are greater than those to which the knights-
errant of past ages were exposed."
Don Quixote made this long harangue
while the rest were eating : forgetting to
raise a morsel to his mouth, though Sancho
Panza ever and anon reminded him of his
supper, telling him he would have time
enough afterwards to talk as much as he
pleased. His other auditors were concerned
that a man who seemed to possess so good an
understanding should, on a particular point,
be so eg^egiously in want of it. The priest
told him there was great reason in all that
he had said in favour of arms, and, although
himself a scholar and a graduate, he ac-
quiesced in his opinion.
The collation being over, the dotli was
removed; and, while the hostess and her
damsels were preparing the chamber which
Don Quixote had occupied for the ladies,
Don Fernando requested the stranger to
gratify them by relating his adventures :
since, from the lady who accompanied him,
he was certain they must be both interesting
and extraordinary. The stranger said that
he would willingly comply with their re-
quest, though he was afraid his history
would not afford them much amusement.
The priest and the rest of the party thanked
him ; and, seeing them all prepared to listen
to him with attention, he began his nar-
rative, in a modest and agreeable manner,
as follows :
♦
CHAPTER XXXIX.
WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS
LIFE AND ADVENTURES.
" In a village among the mountains of Leon
my family had its origin ; and, although
¿)^
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
191
more favoured by nature than fortune, in
that humble region, my father was consi-
dered wealthy ; and might really have been
sOy had he known the art of economizing,
rather than squandering his estate. This
disposition to profusion proceeded from his
having been a soldier in his younger days :
for the army is a school in which the miser
becomes generous, and tiie generous prodi-
gal ; miserly soldiers are, like monsters, but
Tery rarely seen. Liberality may be carried
too far, in those who have children to inherit
their name and rank ; and this was my ñsi-
ther's failing. He had three sons, and, being
himself aware of this propensity to extrava-
gance, and of his inability to restrain it, he
determined to dispose of his property, and
by that means, effectually deprive himself
of the power of lavishing it : he therefore
called us one day together, and thus ad-
dressed thus :
" * My sons, I need not say I love you, for
you arc my children : and yet yon may well
doubt my love, since I have not refrained
from dissipating your inheritance. But to
prove to you that I am not an unnatural
father, I have finally resolved upon the exe-
cution of a plan, which is the result of ma-
ture deliberation. You are now of an age
to establish yourselves in the world, or at
least to choose some employment, from which
you may hereafter reap honour and profit.
I intend to divide my property into four
parts, three of which you shall equally share,
and the fourth I will reserve to subsist upon
for the remaining days it may please Hea-
ven to allot me : it is, however, my wish
that each, when in possession of his share,
should follow the path that I shall direct.
We have a proverb in Spain, in my opinion,
a very true one, as most proverbs are, being
maxims drawn from experience ; it is this :
' The church, the sea, or the court ;' mean-
ing that whoever would prosper should
either get into the church, engage in com-
merce, or serve the king in his court : for it
is also said that ' the king's morsel is better
than the lord's bounty.' It would therefore
give me great satisfaction if one of you
would follow letters, another merchandise,
ind the third serve the king in tlie army :
K>r it is diñicult to get admission into his
household ; and though a military career is
not favourable to the acquirement of wealth,
it seldom fails to confer honour. Within
eight days I will give you each your share
in money; and now tell me whether you
are disposed to follow my advice.* As I
was the eldest, he desired me to ansv/er first.
Upon which, I entreated him not to part
with his estate, but to spend as much as he
pleased : for that we were young enough to
labour for ourselves; and I concluded by
assuring him that I would do as he desired,
and enter the army, to serve God and my
king. My second brother complied likewise,
and chose to go to the Indies, turning his
portion into merchandise. The youngest,
and I believe the wisest, said he would take
to the church, and for that purpose finish
his studies at Salamanca.
"Having determined upon our several
professions, my father embraced us, and in-
sisted upon our taking each his share of the
estate which an uncle of ours purchased that
it might not be alienated from the family.
The portion of each, I remember, amounted
to three thousand ducats. We all took our
leave of our good father on the same day ;
and, thinking it inhuman to leave him, at
his advanced age, with so reduced an in-
come, I prevailed on him to take back two
thousand ducats from my share ; the remain-
der being sufficient to equip me with what
was necessary for a soldier. My two brothers
followed my example, and returned him
each a thousand ducats ; so that my father
now had four thousand in ready- money,
and the value of three thousand more, which
was his share of the land. In short we
separated, not without much grief on all
sides, and mutual promises of correspond-
ence ; one of my brothers taking the road
to Salamanca, the other to Seville, and I to
Alicant. It is now two and twenty years
since I leflt my father, and in all that time
I have heard nothing either of him or of my
brothers, although I have sent them many
letters. But I shall now briefly relate to you
what has befallen me during that period.
"On my arrival at Alicant, finding a
vessel bound to Genoa with a cargo of wool,
I embarked, and had a good passage to that
city. Thence I proceeded to Milan, where
=^
192
ADVENTURES OF
I furnished myself with arms and military
finery, intending, at that time, to enter the
service at Piedmont ; but hearing, on my
journey to Alexandria de la Paglia, that the
duke of Alva was entering Flanders with an
army, I changed my mind and joined the
duke, whom I continued to serve in all hig
battles, and was present at the death of the
counts D'Egmont and Horn. I procured
an ensign's commission in the company of
the celebrated captain of Guadalajara,
named Diego de Urbina. Soon after my
arrival in Flanders, news came of the league
concluded between Pope Pius V., of happy
memory, and Spain, against the common
enemy the Turk ; who, about the same time,
liad taken the island of Cyprus from the
Venetians : a serious loss to that republic.
Don John of Austria, natural brother of our
good king Philip, was appointed general-
issimo of this alliance, and such great pre-
parations for war were every where talked
of that 1 conceived an ardent desire to be
present in the expected engagement ; there-
fore, in spite of the assurances I had received
' of being promoted on the first occasion that
' offered, I relinquished all, and resolved to go
into Italy ; and, fortunately for my design,
Don John passed through Genoa, on his
way to Naples to join the Venetian fleet,
which he of Austria afterwards did at Mes-
sina. In the glorious action which followed
I was engaged, and, more from good hap
than merit, was already advanced to the
honourable post of captain. But on that
day, so happy for Christendom, by shewing
the fallacy of the prevailing opinion that
the Turks were invincible at sea, — on that
day, so humiliating to Ottoman pride, I
alone remained unfortunate ; — 'for surely
more happy were the Christians who died on
that occasion than the survivors ! instead of
receiving a naval crown for my services, I
found myself, the following night, loaded
with chains.
" My misfortune was occasioned in this
way. Uchali, king of Algiers, a bold and
successful corsair, having boarded and taken
the captain-galley of Malta, in which three
knights only were left alive, and those des-
perately wounded, the captain -galley of
John Andrea D'Oria came up to her relief,
on board of which I was, with my company ;
and, acting as my duty enjoined upon this
occasion I leaped into the enemy's galley, ex-
pecting to be followed by my men ; but the
two vessels separating, I was left alone among
enemies, too numerous for me to resist, and
carried off prisoner, after receiving many
wounds. Thus Uchali escaped and I re-
mained his captive — the only mourner, on
a day of joy ; a slave, at the moment when
so many were set free ! for fifteen thousand
Christians, from the Turkish galleys, were,
on that day, restored to liberty. I was
carried to Constantinople, where the Grand
Signer Selim appointed my master general
of the sea, for his bravery, and for having
brought off the flag of the order of Malta.
"The year following, which was Seventy-
two, I was at Navarino, rowing in the cap-
tain-galley of the Three Lanthoms; and,
there I observed the opportunity tiiat was
then lost, of taking tiie whole Turkish fleet
in port : for all the Levantines and Jani-
zaries on board took it for granted they
should be attacked in the very harbour, and
had their baggage and passamaquas in rea-
diness for mcJLing their escape on shore,
without intending to resist — such was the
terror which our navy had inspired. But
it was ordered otherwise ; not tiirough any
fault in our general, but for the sins of
Christendom, and because God ordains that
there should always be some scourge to
chastise us. In short, Uchali got into Mo-
don, an island near Navarino, and, putting
his men on shore, he fortified the entrance
of the port, and remained quiet until tlie
season forced Don John to return home.
In this campaign, tiie galley, called the
Prize, whose captain was a son of the fa-
mous corsair Barbarossa, was taken by the
She-wolf, of Naples, commanded by that
thunderbolt of war the fortunate and invin-
cible captain, Don Alvara de Basan, mar-
quis of Santa Cruz. I cannot forbear relating
what happened at the taking of this vessel.
The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, and
treated his slaves so ill, that, as soon as the
rowers saw that the She -wolf was ready to
board them, they all at once let fall their
oars, and, seizing their captain, who stood
near the poop, tliey tossed him along from
DON QUIXOTE.
193
bank to bank, and from the poop to the
prow, giving him such blows that, before
his body had passed the mainmast, his soul
was gone to hell : so great was the hatred
which his craelty had inspired !
" We returned to Constantinople, where
tbe year following we received intelligence
that Don John had taken the city of Tunis
from the Turks, and put Muley Hamet in
possession of it : thus cutting off the hopes
of Muley Hamida, who was one of die most
brave, but cruel, of Moors. The Grand Turk
felt this loss very sensibly ; and, with that
sagacity which is inherent in the Ottoman
family, he made peace with the Venetians
(to whom it was very acceptable) ; and the
•aext year he attacked the fortress of Goleta,
as wdl as the fort which Don John had left
half finished near Tunis. During all these
transactions, I was still at the oar, without
any hope of redemption ; being determined
not to let my father know of my captivity.
The Goleta and the fort were botíi lost, hav-
ing been attacked by the Turks with an
army of seventy-five thousand men, besides
above four hundred thousand Moors and
Arabs ; which vast multitude was furnished
with immense quantities of ammunition and
warlike stores ; together with so many pio-
neers that each man bringing only a handful
of earth might have covered both the Goleta
and the fort. Although the Goleta was until
then supposed to be impregnable, no blame
attached to the defenders ; for it was found
that, water being no longer near the surface,
as formerly, the besiegers were enabled to
raise mounds of sand, that commanded the
fortifications : and, thus attacking them by
a cavalier, it was impossible to make any
defence. It has been ignorantly asserted
that our troops ought not to have shut them-
selves up in the Goleta, but have met the
enemy at the place of disembarkment — as if
so small a number, being scarcely seven
thousand men, could have at once defended
the works and taken the field against such
an overwhelming force ! But many were of
opinion, and myself among the rest, that the
destruction of that place was a providential
circumstance for Spain ; for it was the forge
of iniquity, the sponge, the devourer of
countless sums, idly expended for no other
reason than because it was a conquest of the
invincible Charles the Fifth : as if his im-
mortal fame depended on the preservation of
those ramparts ! The fort was also so obsti-
nately defended that above ñye and twentj
thousand of the enemy were destroyed in
twenty- two general assaults ; and, of three
hundred that were left alive, not one was
taken unwounded : an evident proof of their
unconquerable spirit. A little fort, also, in
the middle of the lake, commanded by Don
John Zanoguera of Valencia, surrendered
upon terms. Don Pedro Portocarrero, gen-
eral of Goleta, was made prisoner, who died
on his way to Constantinople, broken-hearted
for the loss of the fortress, which he had so
bravely defended. They also took the
commander of the fort, Gabrio Cerbellon, a
Milanese gentleman, a great engineer, and
a brave soldier. Several persons of distinc-
tion lost their lives in these two garrisons :
among whom was Pagan D'Oria, knight of
Malta, a gentleman well known for his ex-
alted liberality to his brother, the famous
John Andrea D'Oria ; and his fate was tiie
more lamented, having been put to death by
some African Arabs, who, upon seeing that
the fort was lost, offered to convey him, dis-
guised as a Moor, to Tabarca, a small haven
or settlement, which the Genoese have on
that coast, for the coral-fishing. These Arabs
cut off his head, and carried it to the general
of the Turkish fleet, who made good our
Castilian proverb that, ' though we love the
treason, we hate the traitor ;' for the general
ordered those who delivered him the present
to be instantly hanged, because they had
not brought him alive. Among the chris-
tians taken in the fort was an ensign, whose
name was Don Pedro D'Aguilar, an Anda-
lusian, who was a good soldier, as well as
a poet. I mention this because it was our
&te to be slaves to the same master: we
served in the same galley, and worked at
the same oar. Ue composed two sonnets,
by way of epitaph, one upon Goleta, and
the other upon the Fort, which I will en-
deavour to repeat; for I think they will
please you."
When the captive named Don Pedro
d'Aguilar, Don Fernando looked and smiled
at his companions ; and when he mentioned
^=
J 94
ADVENTURES OF
the sonnets, one of them said, ^' I beseech
you, sir, before you proceed, tell me what
became of that Don Pedro d'Aguilar."
''AH I know concerning him," answered
the captive, '' is that, ailer he had been two
years at Constantinople, he escaped disguised
as an Amaut,* with a Greek ; and I believe
he succeeded in recovering his liberty, but
am not certain : for though I saw the Greek,
about a year after, in Coostantinople, I had
not an opportunity of asking him the
success of thehr journey." "That Don
Pedro," said the gentleman, " is my brother;
he returned to Spain, and is now married
and settled in his native city ; he has three
children, and is blessed with health and
affluence." " Thanks be to God !" exclaimed
the captive ; "for what transport in life
can equal that which a man feels on the
restoration of his liberty !" " I well remem-
ber those sonnets which you mention;"
added the gentleman. "Then, pray, sir,
repeat them," said the captive ; " for you
will do it better than I can." The gentle-
man willingly complied : that upon the
Goleta was as follows.
CHAPTER XL.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE HISTOBY
OF THE CAPTIVE.
SONNET.
" O BAPPT «ouli, by death at length let free
From the dark priaon of mortalitj,
By glorious deeds, whoee memory nerer dies—
From earth's dim spot exalted to the skies !
What fury stood in every eye confessed !
What generous ardour fir*d each manly breast,
M'hilst slaughtered heaps dlstain'd the sandy shore,
And the ting'd ocean blush'd with hostile gore I
O'erpower'd by numbers, gloriously ye fell :
Deatli only could such matchless courage quell :
Whilst dying thus ye triumph o'er your foes,
Itsfune the world, iU glory heaven, bestows !"
" You have it correctly," said the captive.
" This," said the gentleman, " if I remember
right, was the one written on the fort :
SONNET.
* From 'midst these walls, whose ruins spr«ai aronnd,
And scattered clods that heap th' ensanguin'd ground,
Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight.
To better regions took their happy flight.
* A native of Albania.
Long with anconqnered'd souls they bravely stood.
And fearless shed their unavailing blood :
Till, to superior force compell'd to yield.
Their lives they quitted in the wdl-foughfe fidd.
This fatal soil has ever been the tomb
Of slaughter'd heroes, buried in its womb :
Yet braver bodies did it ne'er sustain.
Nor send more glorious souls the skies to gain.' "
The sonnets were not disapproved, and
the captive now pursued his story. ** When
the Turks had got possession of Goleta, they
gave orders for its demolition : and, to lessen
their labour, they undermined it in three
different places : the new works, erected by
the engineer Fratin, came easily down ; but
the old walls, though apparently the weak-
est part, they could not raze. The fleet
returned in triumph to Constantinople, and
within a few months, Uchali, whose slave 1
had become, died ; he was called Uchali
Fytaz, or the scabby renegado, being so
nick-named, according to the custom of the
Turks, who have but four fiimily sir-names,
and these descend from the Ottoman race :
the rest of the people are named either from
their incidental blemishes, or peculiarities of
body or mind. This leper had been four-
teen years a slave to the Grand Sigñor ; and
when he was about four and thirty years of
age, being irritated by a blow he received
from a Turk, while he was at the oar, he
renounced his religion, that he might have
it in his power to be revenged on him. He
rose by his bravery alone, and not by the
base intrigues of Court ; and became king
of Algiers, and afterwards General of the
sea, which is the third command in the em-
pire. He was a native of Calabria, a man
of good morals, and treated his slaves with
humanity. He had three thousand of them,
and, in his will, he left one half of them
among his renegadoes, the other to the
Grand Signer, who is always joint-heir with
the heirs of all his subjects. I fell to the
lot of a Venetian, who had been cabin boy
in a vessel taken by Uchali, with whom he
became a great favourite. His name was
Hassan Aga, and one of the cruellest of
that apostate class ; he was afterwards king
of Algiers, and with him, I left Constanti-
nople, pleased at the idea of being nearer to
Spain — not that I intended to inform my
family of my w^retched situation, but I
hoped to find another place, more fitvourable
\U^
DON QUIXOTE.
195
to my schemes of escape, which hitherto I
had attempted in vain. In Algiers I par-
posed to renew my efforts : for, notwith-
standing my numerous disappointments, the
hope of recovering my liberty never
abandoned me ; no sooner did one expedient
fiiil than I grasped at another, which still
preserved my hopes alive.
<^ By these means I supported existence,
shut up in a prison which the Turks call a
Bath,* where they confine their christian
captives — not only those which belong to
the king, but the captives of private indi-
viduals. In this place there is also another
class, who serve the city in its public works,
and in other offices ; they are called the
slaves of the Almazen, and, as they belong
to the public, having no particular master,
they find it very difficult to regain their
liberty ; for, even when they might procure
money, there are none with whom they
can negotiate their ransom. The king's
slaves do not work with the rest, unless
their ransom is slow in coming ; in which
case they are put upon toilsome labour, to
hasten its arrival. As they knew my rank
to be that of a captain, in spite of my as-
surances that I had neither interest or
money, they would place me among those
who expected to be redeemed; and the
chain I wore was rather as a sign of ransom
than to secure my person.
''Thus I passed years of captivity, with
other gentlemen of condition, from whom
ransom was expected. We suffered much
both from hunger and nakedness ; but these
were less painful to endure than the sight
of those unparalleled and excessive cruelties
which our tyrant inflicted upon his christian
slaves : not a day passed on which one of
these unfortunate men were not either
banged, impaled, or mutilated ; and often
* The batba of the christian captives are large courU
fardt, the interior of which are tarroaiided bj «mall
chamberme Within thae the eaptívea who are not under
■tnct confinement are enclosed at night ; the others are
confined in dungeons. (Biblioteca real. est. H. cod. 89,
p. 375* SZfi.)
Another account, printed in 1639. and written by a
lansomed captive, describes these baths as containing
four churches in which maas was daily said by twelve
prieats, and where other holy rites and ceremonies were
performed with due decorum ; moreover it was said that
the captivee amused themselves with various games and
', representations, especially on Christmas eve. P.
without the least provocation. Even the
Turks ackuowledged that he acted thus
merely for the gratification of his murderous
and inhuman disposition. One Spanish
soldier only, whose name was something de
Saavedra,t happened to be in his good
graces; and, although his enterprises to
effect an escape were such as will long be
remembered there, he never gave him a
blow, nor ordered one to be given him, nor
even rebuked him : yet, for the least of
many things he did, we all feared he would
be impaled alive; so, indeed, he feared
himself, more than once. Had the time
allowed me, I could tell you of some things
done by this soldier which would surprise
you more than my own narrative.
" But to return. The court - yard of our
place of confinement was overlooked by the
windows of a house belonging to a Moor of
distinction, which, as is usual there, were
rather peep - holes than windows, and even
these had thick and close lattices. It hap-
pened that one day, as I was upon a terrace
belonging to our prison, with three of my
companions, trying, by way of pastime, who
could leap farthest with his chains, I ac-
cidentally looked up and observed a cane
held out from one of the windows above us ;
a handkerchief was fastened to the end of
it, which, waving, seemed to invite us to
take hold of it. One of my companions
seeing it, placed himself under the cane,
expecting it would be dropped ; but, as he
approached, the cane was drawn back again.
Upon his retiring, the cane was again low-
ered as before. Another of our party then
went towards it, but was rejected in the
same manner. The third then tried it, but
without any better success. Upon which I
determined to try my fortane ; and I had no
sooner placed myself under the cane than it
t The Saavedra here mentioned is Miguel de Cerrantet
himself, who, in this passi^ only, spcakx expressly of
himself; the hero of the captive's tale being captain
Viedma, who was a fellow - sufferer with him under
the tyranny of Asan Aga. In confirmation of the
various attempts and schemes formed by Cervantes to
effect his escape, the following passage from P. Uacdo
may be quoted (Topografia de Argel, fol. 164): -"A
detail of the events which took place in the cave during
the three months those christians were confined there,
with an account of the captivity and enterprises of
Miguel de Cervantes, would, of themselves, form ft
complete history." P.
=S)
196
ADVENTURES OF
fell at ray feet. I immediately untied the
handkerchief, and, in a knot at one corner,
found ten zianyis — a sort of base gold coin
used by the Moors, each piece worth about
ten reals of our money. You will conceive
that I felt no less pleasure than surprise at
this singular circumstance, especially as it
was so obvious that the favour was intended
exclusively for me. I took my money, re-
turned to the terrace, looked again to the
window, and perceived a very white hand
hastily open and close it. Thence we con-
jectured that it must be some woman residing
in that house who had been thus charitable;
and, to express our thanks, we made our
reverences ailer the Moorish fashion, in-
clining the head, bending the body, and
laying the hands on the breast.
'< Soon after, a small cross made of cane
was held out of the window, and then drawn
in again. On this signal we concluded that
it must be some christian woman who was
a captive in that house ; but the whiteness
of the hand, and the bracelets on the wrist,
seemed to oppose this idea. Then again we
imagined it might be a christian renegade,
whom their masters often marry ; for tney
value them more than the women of their
own nation. But our reasonings and con-
jectures were wide of the truth. From this
time we continued to gaze at the window
with great anxiety, as to our polar star;
but fifteen days elapsed without having once
seen either hand or any other signal ; and
though in this interval we had anxiously
endeavoured to procure information as to the
inhabitants of that house, we never could
learn more than that the house belonged to
a rich Moor named Agimorato, who had been
Alcaide of Pata, an office among them of great
authority. At length the cane and handker-
chief again appeared, with a still larger knot;
and at a time when, as before, all the other
captives were absent except myself and
three companions. "We repeated our former
trial, each of my three companions going
before me ; but the cane was not let down
until I approached. The knot, I found,
contained Spanish crowns in gold, and a
paper written in Arabic, which was marked
with a large cross. I kissed the croas, took
the crowns, and returned to the terrace.
where we all made our reverences. Again
the hand appeared, and, after I had made
signs that I would read the paper, the
window was closed.
** We were very impatient to know the
contents of the paper, but none of us under-
stood Arabic, and it was difficult to find an
interpreter. I determined at length to con-
fide in a renegado, a native of Murcia, who
had professed himself friendly towards me,
and whom, from an interchange of confi-
dence, I could safely trust : for it is usual
with these men, when they wish to return
to Christendom, to procure certificates from
captives of distinction, attesting their cha-
racter as good christians, lliese certificates
are, however, sometimes employed for artful
purposes. For instance, if, on their piratical
excursions, they happen to be shipwrecked
or taken, they produce their written charac-
ters, pretending they had only joined the
pirates to efiect their escape into a christian
country, and, by this means, live unmo-
lested, until they have an opportuni^ of
returning to Barbary to resume their former
course of life. But my friend was not of this
number. With a good design he had ob-
tained certificates, in which we had spoken
of him in the highest terms ; and, had the
Moors found these papers upon him, they
would certainly have burnt him alive. I
knew that this man was well acquainted
with the Arabic language; but, before I
entrusted to him the whole affiiir, I desired
him to read the paper, which I pretended
to have found by chance in a hole of my
cell. He opened it, and stood for some time
studying and translating it to himself
asked him if he understood it. * Perfectly,*
he said, ' and, if I would provide him with
pen and ink, he would give me an exact
translation.' We instantiy supplied bim
with what he required, and he wrote down
a literal translation of the Moorish paper,
observing to us that the words Lela Maricn
signified our Lady the Virgin Mary. We
read the paper, which was nearly in these
words :
' When I was a child my father had a
woman -slave, who instructed me in the
christian worship, and told me many things
of Lela Marien. This christian died, and J
^=
(?<:=
DON QUIXOTE.
107
know she did not go to the fire, but to Alia ;
for I saw her twice afterwards, and she bid
me go to the country of the christians to
see Lela Marien, who loved me very much.
I know not how it is^ though 1 have seen
many christians from this window, none has
looked like a gentleman but thyself. I am
very beautiful, and young, and have a great
deal of money to carry away with me.
Try if thou canst find means for us to get
away, and thou shalt be my husband, if it
please thee ; and, if otherwise, I shall not
care, for Lela Manen will provide me a
husband. I write this myself; be careful
who reads it. Trust not any Moor, for they
are all treacherous. I am full of fears, and
would not have thee trust any body ; for
if my father hears of it he will immedi-
ately throw mc into a well, and cover me
with stones. I will fasten a thread to the
cane ; tie thy answer to it, and if thou hast
nobody that can write Arabic, tell me by
sig^s ; for Lela Marien will enable me to
understand them. Both she and Alia pro-
tect thee I and this cross too, which I often
kiss ', for so the captive instructed me.'
'^ Conceive, gentlemen, our emotion at
the contents of this paper I Being indeed
so manifest, the renegado clearly perceived
that it could not have been found by acci-
dent, but was actually written to one of us;
and he therefore intreated us, if his conjec-
tures were true, to confide in him ; for he
would venture his life for our liberty. As
he spoke, he drew from his bosom a crucifix
of brass, and with tear?, swore by the God
that image represented, in whom, though a
sinner, he firmly believed, that he would
faithfully keep secret whatever we should
reveal to him : for he hoped that, through
the same means, by which we regained our
liberty, he should be restored to the bosom of
our holy church, from which, like a rotten
member, he had been separated, through his
ignorance and sin. This was spoken with
such evident marks of sincerity that we
agreed to tell him the truth ; and therefore
communicated to him the whole afisdr, with-
out reserve. We shewed him the window,
out of which the cane had appeared, and he
detennined to find out the owner of the
house. Having considered that it would be
proper to answer the lady's billet, the rene-
gado instantly wrote what I dictated to him,
which I can repeat correctly to you : for not
one of the material circumstances, which be-
fel me in this adventure, has yet escaped my
memory, nor ever will, as long as I live.
My answer to the Moor was this :
" ' The true Alia preserve thee, dear lady,
and that blessed Marien, the true mother of
God ! who, because she loves thee, has in-
spired thee with a desire to go into the land
of christians. Pray that she will instruct
thee how to obey her commands, and she is
so good that she will not deny thee. As for
myself and the christians witíi me, we are
ready to hazard our lives to serve thee. Fail
not to write and inform me of thy resolutions,
and I will always answer thee : for, thanks
to the great Alia ! we have a christian cap-
tive who is well acquainted with thy lan-
guage ; and thou maycst, without fear,
communicate anything to us. I proniise
thee, on the word of a good christian, to
make thee my wife, as soon as we reach a
christian country ; and, be assured, the chris-
tians perform their promises. Alia, and
Marien his mother, protect thee, dear lady !'
^' My letter being thus prepared, I waited
for two days, when an opportunity again
offered of being alone on the terrace ; and
the cane soon made its appearance, though
I could not see by whom it was held. I
found the thread already attached to the
end of it to receive my letter, which I im-
mediately fastened to it. Shortly after, tlie
handkerchief was dropped, in which I now
found gold and silver coin, to the amount of
fifty crowns — a joyful sight, when regarded
as the means of obtaining liberty ! On the
same evening we were told by our renegado
that this house was inhabited by a very rich
Moor, named Agimorato ; that he had an
only daughter, heiress to his whole property,
who was considered the most beautiful wo-
man in all Barbary ; and thai several of the
viceroys, who had been sent thither, had
sought her in marriage, but that she had
rejected them. He also learned that she
had a christian woman-slave, who died some
-(4¿)
^
id8
ADVENTURES OF
time before : all which agreed perfectly with
the contents of the paper. We then con-
sulted with the renegado» on what measure
we should take to carry off the Moori^ lady,
and make our escape into Christendom ; and
it was finally agreed that we should wait for
a second letter from Zoraida (the name of
her who now desires to be called Maria); for
it was obvious that she was in possession of
the surest means of effecting our design.
During the four following days^ the bath
was constantly full of people ; but the first
time it was vacan t, the cane again appeared
with the prolific handkerchief. The billet
I then received contained these words :
" ' I do not know, dear sigfior, how we
are to get to Spain ; nor has Lela Marien
informed me, although I have asked her.
The only means I can think of is to convey
to thee, through this window, a large sum
of money, with which thou mayest redeem
thyself and friends ; one of whom may then
procure a bark from the land of the chris-
tians, and return for the rest. I will be
ready in my father's garden, at the Babazon
gate, close to the sea -side, — thou roay'st
safely convey me thence to the bark ; but
remember thou art to be my husband: other-
wise I will pray to Marien to punish thee.
If thou canst trust nobody to go for the bark,
ransom thyself and go ; for I shall be secure
of thy return, as thou art a gentleman and
a christian. Take care not to mistake the
garden ; when I see thee walking there, I
shall conclude thou art alone, and will fur-
nish thee with money. Alia preserve thee,
dear sigñor !'
" On hearing the proposal contained in
this letter, eacH offered himself to be the
ransomed person ; promising faithfully to
return with the boat. But the renegado
would not trust any of us : for he said he
well knew, by experience, how seldom
promises, made in slavery, are remembered
after a release from bondage. Many cap-
tives of distinction, he said, had tried this
expedient: ransoming one, to send with
money to Valencia or Majorca, in order to
procure a vessel for tiie conveyance of others ;
but none ever returned to fulfil his engage-
ment: for the dread of again falling into
captivity effaces from the memory every
other obligation. In confirmation of what
he said, he related to us many extraordinary
instances of the kind ; and he concluded
with saying that the best way would be to
give the money, intended for the ransom of
a christian, to him, that he might purchase
a vessel there, in Algiers, under pretence of
turning merchant, and trading to Tetuan,
and along the coast ; that when master of
the vessel, he could easily contrive means to
get them from the bath, and put them on
board ; especially if the Moor would furnish
money enough to redeem them all. The
greatest difficulty, he said, was that the
Moors do not allow a renegado to have any
but large vessels fitted for piratical uses ;
as they suspect their real motives, if they
purchase small ones: but he thought this
objection might be removed by taking in a
Tagarin Moor, as a partner in his pretended
mercantile concern. Having once got a
vessel at their command, he assured us, we
might consider every thing as accomplished.
'* Although my companions and myself
would have preferred sending for the vessel
to Majorca, as the Moorish lady proposed,
yet we dared not contradict him, lest he
should betray our project, and, by dis-
covering the clandestine correspondence of
Zoraida, endanger her life, for whom we
would willingly have sacrificed our own :
we therefore resolved to commit ourselves
into the hands of God, and trust the
renegado. He instantly wrote my answer
to Zoraida, saying that we would do all she
advised, for she had directed as well as if
Lela Marien herself had inspired her ; that
the delay, or immediate execution, of the
plan, depended solely upon herself; and I
repeated my promise to become her husband.
The next day, therefore, when the bath was
clear, she, at various times, with the help of
the cane and handkerchief, gave ns two thou*
sand crowns in gold, and a paper, informing
me that on the first Juma, that is Friday,
she was to go to her other's garden, and
that, before she went, she would give us
more money : desiring us to tell her if it
was not sufficient, as she could give us
any sum ; having such abundance un-
á5>^
DON QUIXOTE.
199
der her care that her father would never
miss it
** We immediately gave ñve hundred
crowns to the renegado, to buy the vessel.
With eight hundred I ransomed myself, and
deposited the money with a merchant of
Valencia, then at Algiers, who redeemed me
from the king; passing his word for me
that, by the first ship from Valencia, my
ransom should be paid. For had he paid
him then, it would have made the king sus-
pect that it had lain some time in his hands,
and that he had employed it to his own use.
Indeed it would have been by no means
safe, with a master of such a disposition as
mine, to have paid the money immediately.
The Thursday preceding the Friday, on
which the fair Zoraida was to go to the gar-
den, she gave us a thousand crowns more,
with a billet, entreating me, when I was
ransomed, to seek her father's garden, and
take every opportunity of seeing her. I
promised her, in few words, that I would not
fail, and begged that she would recommend
ns in her prayers to Lela Marien, We now
concerted the means for redeeming our three
companions, lest, if I were ransomed without
them^ they might feel uneasy, and be
tempted by the devil to do something to the
prejudice of Zoraida : I therefore ransomed
them in the same way, and placed the
whole amount in the hands of the merchant,
that he might have no fear in becoming
responsible for us; although we did not
admit him into our confidence."
CHAPTER XLI.
WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE CONTINUES
HIS STORY.
<'Ix less than fifteen days our renegado had
purchased a very good bark, large enough
to hold thirty persons ; and, to prevent sus-
picion, he made a short voyage to a place
called Sargel, thbrty leagues from Algiers
towards Oran, — a place of great trade for
dried figs. Two or three times he made
this trip, accompanied by his Tagarin part-
ner. The Moors of Arragon are, in Barbary,
called Tagarins, and those of Granada, Mu-
dajeres ; and, in the kingdom of Fez, the
Mudajeres are called Elches, who are prin-
cipally employed by the king, in military
service. Each time that he passed with his
bark, he cast anchor in a little creek very
near to the garden where Zoraida waited
for us ; and there he either performed the
Zaia with his Moorish rowers, or contrived
some way of practising, in jest, their future
project, in order to elude suspicion. He
would also occasionally visit Zoraida's
garden, and beg some fruit, which her father
often gave him, without knowing who he
was. His object was to speak to Zoraida,
and tell her that he was the person whom I
had entrusted to convey her to Christendom,
and that she might feel in perfect security.
But this was impossible, as the Moorish
women never suffer themselves to be seen
either by Moor or Turk, unless by the com-
mand of their husbands or fathers : though
christian slaves, it is true, are allowed to
converse with them, and, perhaps, even with
too much freedom. I should have been sorry
if he had spoken to her, sé she might have
been alarmed at the affair having been
entrusted to a renegado; but he had no
opportunity of effecting his design . Finding
that he could now safely go to and from
Sargel, and anchor where he pleased, and
that the Tagarin, his partner, was wholly
subservient to him ; in short, that nothing
was wanting but some christians to assist at
the oar, he desired me to determine on our
party, and to be ready on the following
Friday. I immediately engaged twelve
Spaniards, all able rowers, which, just at that
time, was no easy matter to procure ; for
there were twenty corsairs out on pirating
excursions, and they had taken almost all
the rowers with them. All I said to them
was that they must steal privately out of
the town on the following Friday, in the
dusk of the evening, and wait for me near
Agimorato's garden ; and with this caution,
which I gave to each separately, that, if
they should see any other christians there,
they had only to say I ordered them to stay
for me in that place.
" After these steps were taken, one thing
was yet wanting, and that the most essen-
tial of all, namely, to apprize Zoraida of our
intended movements, that she might not be
=y)
=5i
200
ADVENTUBES OF
alarmed it* we rushed upon her ni^tbout pre-
vious warning. I went, therefore^ mj'^self,
on tbe day preceding our departure, to the
garden^ under pretence of gathering herbs.
Tbe first person I met was her father, who
addressed roe in a jargon which is used over
all Barbary, and even at Constantinople,
among the captives and Moors. It is neither
Morisco nor Castilian, nor the language of
any other nation, but a medley of several ;
and is very generally understood. He asked
me what I sought for in that garden, and to
whom I belonged ? I told him tliat I was
a slave ot Arnaute Mami, his friend, and
that I came to request herbs for his table.
He then asked me if I was upon ransom ? —
At this moment the fair Zoraida, having ob-
served me in the garden, had quitted the
house, and came towards us. Her father,
seeing her slowly approach, called her to
him. It would be in vain for me to attempt
to describe the beautiful creature who then
appeared before my eyes. More jewels hung
about her lovely neck, and were suspended
from her ears, or scattered over her tresses,
than she had hairs on her head. Her ancles
were, according to custom, bare, and encir-
cled by carcaxes, or foot- bracelets, of the
purest gold, and so studded with diamonds
that, as she told me since, her father valued
them at ten thousand pistoles ; and those
she wore on her arms were of equal value.
Pearls of the finest quality were streM'ed
about her in profusion : those precious gems,
indeed, form one of the principal embellish-
ments of the Moorish ladies, and are, there-
fore, in great request among the natives.
Zoraida's father was said to have possessed
them in abundance, and other wealth to the
amount of two hundred thousand crowns ;
of all which she, who is now mine, was
once sole mistress. Whether or not she
then appeared beautiful thus adorned, and
in the days of her prosperity, may be con-
jectured by what remains after so many
fatigues ; for it is well known that beauty
is often at the mercy of accident, as well as
liable to be improved or impaired by the
pasbions. In short, I gazed upon her as
the most lovely object my eyes had ever
beheld. Indeed when I considered my ob-
ligations to her I could only regard her
as an angel descended from heaven for my
deliverance.
^' When she had come up to us, her father
told her, in his own language, that I was
a captive belonging to his friend Arnaute
Mami. She then asked me, in that medley
speech which I mentioned to you, whether
I was a gentleman, and why I did not ran-
som myself. I told her that I was ahready
ransomed, and by the sum which was to be
paid, she might judge how my master ranked
me, whose demand had been fifteen hundred
pieces of eight. ^ Truly,' said she, * had you
belonged to my father, he should not have
parted with you for twice that sum : for you
christians always deceive in the account you
give of yourselves, pretending to be poor, in
order to cheat the Moors.' * It may be so,
sigñora,' answered I, ' but, in truth, I dealt
sincerely with my master, and shall ever do
the same by every body.' * And when do you
go away?' said Zoraida. 'I believe to-
morrow,' said I : 'for there is a French
vessel, which is expected to sail then, and I
intend to go in her.' * Would it not be bet-
ter,' replied Zoraida, 'to stay until some
ships come from Spain, and go with one of
tliem, rather than with the French, who are
not your friends ?' ' I think not, sigfiora,'
replied I ; ' but should the late intelligence
of the arrival of a Spanish ship prove true,
I would perhaps stay a short time longer ;
it is, however, more probable that I shall
depart to-morrow : for I so ardently desire
to be in my own country, and with the per-
sons I love, that I am impatient of any delay.'
'You are perhaps married,' said Zoraida, 'and
are therefore so anxious to return, and be at
home with your wife ?' ' No, indeed,' I re-
plied, ' but I am under an engagement to mar-
ry, as soon as I return.' ' And is the lady, to
whom you are engaged, beautiful 7' said Zo-
raida. ' So beautiful,' answered I, ' that, to
compliment her, and say the truth, she is
very like yourself.' Her fiither laughed
heartily at this, and said, ' By the Prophet,
christian, she must be beautiful indeed, if
she resembles my daughter, who is the
handsomest woman in this kingdom ! Ob-
serve her well, and you will see that I speak
the truth.' Zoraida's father was our inter-
preter in most of this conversation, being
=fii
DON QUIXOTE.
201
bercer acquainted than she was with the
language ; for, though she knew something
01 it, she expressed her meaning more by
signs than words.
" While we were thus engaged, a Moor
came running to us, crying aloud that four
Turks had leaped over the wall of the gar-
den, and were gathering the fruit, though it
was not yet ripe. The old man, as well as
Zoraida, was much alarmed ; for the Moors
are afraid of the Turks, especially their sol-
diers, whose conduct towards them is inso-
lent and imperious : even more so than to
their slaves. Zoraida's fiither therefore said
to her, 'Daughter, make haste into the
house, and lock yourself in, while I go and
speak to these dogs ; and you, christian, ga-
ther your herbs, and begone in peace, and
Alia send you safe to your own country. I
made my obeisance, and he went after the
Turks. Zoraida also retired, but as soon as
her father was out of sight, she returned to
me, and said, with her eyes full jf tears,
' Tamezi, christiano ? tamexi V that is, ' Art
thou going away, christian ? Art thou go-
ing?' *Ye8, dearest lady,' said I, *but
not without you. Expect me the nexs
Jama, and be not alarmed when yon see
us ; for we will convey you safely to a
christian land.' She understood all that I
said ; and, throwing her arm about my neck,
she began, with &ultering steps, to move
towards the house ; when, unfortunately, as
it might have proved, her father returned,
and saw us in that attitude. We were aware
thai he had seen us, and Zoraida had the
presence of mind not to take her arm from
my neck, but rather held me closer ; and
letting her head fall upon my breast, and
bending her knees, she pretended to be faint-
ing: so that I appeared to be under the
necessity of supporting her. Her father
came running to us, and seeing his daughter
in that situation, enquired the cause. Bui
as she made no reply, he said, ' Those dogs
have certainly terrified her;' and, taking
her from me, he supported her in his arms ;
and she, heaving a deep sigh, with her eyes
«till full of tears, said : ' Amexi, christiano,
I amexi :' ' Begone, christian, begone.' Her
' father said, ' There is no occasion, child, for
! the christian to go away ; he has done you
no harm, and the Turks are gone off. Be
not alarmed, for there is no danger.' 'They
have indeed frightened her very much,' said
I, ' and as she desires me to go, I will not
disobey ; but, with your leave, I will come
again to this garden for herbs. Peace be
with you.' ' Come whenever you please ;'
said Agimorata ; ' for my daughter does not
say this as having been offended by you or
any other christian.' I now took my leave
of them both, and she, looking as if her soul
had been rent from her, went away with her
father, while I, under pretence of gathering
herbs, carefully surveyed the whole garden,
examining all the inlets and outlets, the
strength of the house, and whatever might
tend to facilitate our business.
'' Having finished my observations, I com-
municated to the renegado and my compa-
nions all that had passed, anxiously wishing
for the hour when I might securely enjoy
the happiness which fortune presented to me
in the company of the beautiful Zoraida.
^^The appointed day at length arrived,
and, strictly following the rules and direc-
tions we had previously settled, every thing
proceeded with the fairest prospect of success.
The day following my interview with Zora-
ida, our renegado, at the close of the evening,
cast anchor almost opposite her residence ;
and the christians who were to be employed
at the oar were ready, and concealed about
the neighbourhood, anxiously waiting for
me, and eager to surprise the bark, which
was lying within view : for they knew no-
thing of our plan, but thought they were
to regain their liberty by force, and by kill-
ing the Moors who were on board the vessel ;
they joined us therefore the moment we made
our appearance. The critical time was now
arrived, the city gates being shut, and not
a single person seen abroad ; we therefore
deliberated whether it would be better to go
first to Zoraida, or secure the Moors who
rowed the vessel. In the mean time, our
renegado came to us, asking us why we de-
layed ? for that now was the time, all his
Moors being thoughtless of danger, and most
of them asleep. When we told him what
we were consulting about, he assured us
that it was necessary first to seize the vessel,
which might be done with the utmost ease
802
ADVENTURES OF
and safety ; and then we might go for Zo-
raída. We all approved his counsel, and,
guided by him, immediately proceeded to
the vessel j when he, leaping in first, drew
his cutlass, and said, in Morisco, ' Let not
one man of you «tir, or he shall instantly die.'
All the christians quickly followed their
leader ; and the Moors, who were cowardly
fellows, in great alarm, and without making
any resistance (for indeed they had few or
no arms), quietly suffered themselves to be
bound ; which was done in a moment : the
christians still threatening that, if they
made the least noise, they would instantly
put them all to death.
" This being done, and half our number
left on board to guard them, the remainder,
led on by the renegado, went to Agimorato's
garden. Fortunately, the door opened as
easily to us as if it had not been locked ;
and we came up to the house in profound
silence. The lovely Zoraida was waiting
for us at a window, and hearing our ap-
proach, she asked, in a low voice, whether
we were Nazareni — that is, christians. I
answered in the affirmative, and desired her
to come down. She knew my voice, and
instantly obeyed the summons, appearing to
us all beautiful beyond description, and in
the richest attire. I took her hand, and,
kissing it, the renegado and the rest of our
party followed my example : thinking that
I only meant to express our thanks and ac-
knowledgments to her as the instrument of
our deliverance. The renegado asked her,
in Morisco, whether her father was in the
house. She said he was, but that be was
asleep. ' Then we must awake him,' replied
the renegado, * and carry him and all his
treasures with us.' * No,' said she, ' my
father shall not be touched; and there is
nothing of much value but what I have with
me, which is sufficient to satisfy and enrich
you all : wait a moment and you shall see.'
She then went in again, promising to return
quickly, and entreating us to be silent. The
renegado having told me what had passed,
I insisted that she should be obeyed in every
thing. Zoraida now returned with a little
trunk so full of gold crowns that she could
scarcely carry it.
'* in the mean time the father of Zoraida
unfortunately awoke, and, hearing a nrase
in the garden, looked out at the window^
and saw the christians. Upon which, he
cried out as loud as he could, in Arabic,
'Christians! christians! thieves! thieves!'
His outcry threw us all into the utmost
consternation. The renegado perceiving our
danger, and the necessity for prompt exer-
tion, rushed up, with several others, to the
chamber of Agimorato ; while I remained
below, not daring to quit Zoraida, who had
fidnted in my arms. They acquitted them-
selves so well that in a moment they came
down with their prisoner, his hands tied, and
his mouth stopped with a handkerchief, and
threatening, if he made the least noise, that
it should cost him his life. When Zoraida
saw her ¿Either, she covered her eyes, to
avoid the sight of him ; and he was aston-
ished to see her with us, but little thought
how willingly she had put herself into our
hands. We hastened with all possible speed
to the bark, where our comrades were wait-
ing for us with impatience ; and scarcely
two hours of the night had passed, when we
were all safely on board. We now untied
the hands of Zoraida's father, and took the
handkerchief out of his mouth: but the
renegado again warned him, at the peril of
his life, not to speak a word. When he saw
his daughter, he began to sigh piteously ;
especially when he observed that I held her
closely embraced, without resistance or com-
plaint on her part : nevertheless he remained
silent, lest we should put the renegado's
threats into execution.
'< When Zoraida saw that we were on the
point of leaving the coast, she begged the
renegado to communicate to me her wish
that I would unbind the Moors, and set her
father at liberty ; for that she would sooner
throw herself into the sea than see a parent,
who loved her so tenderly, carried away
captive before her eyes, and upon her ac-
count. The renegado told me her request,
and I desired that she might be gratified ;
but he refused to comply, saying that, if
they were put on shore at that place, they
would immediately raise the country, and
dispatch armed vessels after us ; and, thus
beset by sea and land, it would be impossible
for us to escape : all therefore that could be
:^
DON QUIXOTE.
203
done was to give tbem their liberty at the
first christian country we should touch at.
In this opinion, we all concurred, and
Zoraida was herself satisfied, on hearing our
determination, with the reasons why we
could not then grant her request. With
glad silence and cheerful dih'gence, our
brave rowers now handled their oars, and,
recommending ourselves to God with all our
hearts, we began to make towards the island
of Majorca, which is the nearest christian
land. But the north wind beginning to
blow fresh, and the sea being somewhat
rough, it was found impossible to steer our
course to Majorca, and we were compelled
to keep along shore towards Gran, though
not without great apprehensions of being
discovered from the town of Sargel, which
Ues on that coast, about sixty miles fit>m
Algiers. We were afraid likewise of meet-
ing, in our passage, with some of the
galeots, which bring merchandise from
Tetuan : though, unless it were a cruiser,
we trusted that we should be able to defend
ourselves, if not capture some vessel, where-
in we might more securely pursue our voy-
age. During this time Zoraida kept her
head constantly between my hands, that
she might not look on her father; and I
could hear her continually calling upon Lela
Marien to assist us.
*' We had rowed about thirty miles, when
morning dawned, and we found ourselves
near a shore, which seemed to be quite a
desert, and no human creature to be seen.
However, by labouring hard at the oars, we
we got a little out to sea, which had now
become more calm ; and having made about
two leagues, we ordered the rowers to rest,
by turns, in order to recruit themselves with
the food, of which we had abundance ; but
they refused to quit their oars, saying that
it was not a time to repose, but that they
could eat and row at the same time, if those
who were unemployed would supply them.
This was done ; but soon the wind began to
blow a brisk gale, which compelled us to
lay aside our oars ; therefore hoisting sail,
we steered directly to Oran, as it was im-
possible to hold any other course ; and we
proceeded with great rapidity, without any
other fear than that of meeting some corsair.
We gave provisions to the Moorish prisoner?,
comrorting them with the assurance that
they were not slaves, but should have their
liberty, the first opportunity ; and we
promised the same to Zoraida's father. ' I
might hope for much,' he replied, *from
your liberality and generous treatment, O
christians ! but I am not so simple as to ex-
pect my liberty, or that you would expose
yourselves to the danger of robbing me of it,
without some view to my ransom ; however,
you have only to name the sum you require,
for myself and this my unhappy daughter,
who is the better part of my soul.' He then
wept so bitterly that we were moved to
compassion ; and Zoraida, looking up and
seeing her &ther in tears, left me to throw
herself in his arms. Nothing could be more
affecting than the scene. The father, now
observing her rich atthre, said, ' How is this,
daughter ! — last night, I saw you dressed as
usual, and now you are adorned in your
gayest apparel V She answered not a word.
The renegado interpreted to us what the Moor
had said, for he had spoken in his own lan-
guage. He then noticed the casket in which
his daughter kept her jewels, and, being still
more perplexed, he asked her, how it had
come into our hands, and what it contained.
The renegado now interposed, saying, * Do
not trouble yourself with so many questions,
sigfior ; for in a word I can answer all —
your daughter is a christian, and has been
the means of filing off our chains, and
restoring us to liberty. She is here, with
her own consent, and, I believe, well
pleased : like one who goes out of darkness
into light, from death to life, and firom suf-
fering to glory.' * Is this true, daughter V
said the Moor. 'It is,' answered Zoraida.
* You are then become a christian,' replied
the old man, ' and have thrown your father
into the power of his enemies ?' To which
Zoraida answered : ' I am indeed a christian,
but I never thought of doing you harm ; I
only wished to do myself good.' 'And
what good have you done yourself, my
daughter ?' ' Ask that,' answered she, ' of
Lela Marien, who can tell you better than
I can.' On hearing his daughter speak
thus, the Moor, with sudden impetuosity,
threw himself headlong into the sea, and
©^
-(y
204
ADVENTURES OF
would certainly have been drowned, bad
not the wide and cumbrous garmenft be
wore kept bim a sbort time above water.
Zoraida called out to us to save bim, and we
all hastened to bis assistance, and dragged
bim out, balf drowned and senseless : a sigbt
wbicb so mucb affected Zoraida tbat sbe
lamented over bim, as if be were dead. We
placed bim so tbat be might disgorge the
water be bad swallowed, and in about two
hours be recovered bis senses. In the mean
time, the wind changing, we were obliged
to ply our oars, to avoid running upon the
shore ; and by good fortune we came to a
creek by the side of a small promontory,
which by the Moors is called the cape of
Cava Rumia, meaning, in our language,
* The wicked christian woman ;' for the
Moors have a tradition tbat Cava,* who
occasioned the loss of Spain, lies buried
there. Although they reckon it an ill omen
to be forced to anchor at this place, it proved
a safe harbour to us, considering bow high
the sea ran. We placed sentinels on shore,
and never dropped our oars ; and, after
partaking of the refreshments which the
renegado had provided, we prayed devoutly
to God and to our lady, for assistance and
protection, in the happy accomplishment of
our enterprise. Order was given, at Zo-
raida's intreaty, to set on shore her father,
and also the rest of the Moors, who, until
now, bad been fast bound ; for her tender
heart could not endure to see her fittber
and countrymen under confinement. We
promised her it should be done, when we
put to sea again, since we ran no risque in
leaving them in so desolate a place. Our
prayers were not in vain : for the wind
presently changed in our favour, and the
sea was calm, inviting us to prosecute our
voyage.
" We now unbound the Moors, and set
them, one by one, on shore, to their great
surprise ; but, when we came to Zoraida's
father, who was then perfectly in his senses,
be said, ' Why, christians, is this wicked
woman desirous of my being set at liberty ?
&-
* The daughter of Count Julian, who was the cause of
bringing the Moon into Spain.— J
t Although we rejoice at the escape of the captive and
his associates, we regret that it was not effected by
Think you it is out of filial piety ? No,
certainly ; it is because my presence would
disturb her in the indulgence of her evil in-
clinations. Nor think that sbe is moved to
change her religion because sbe thinks it
better tlian ours ; no, it is because sbe knows
tbat there is more licentiousness in your |
country.' Then, turning to Zoraida, while
we held him fast, lest be should do ber any
violence, he said, 'Thou ill>ad\ised, thou
infamous girl! Whither art thou blindly
going with these dogs, our natural enemies ?
Cursed be the hour wherein I begat thee,
and cursed the indulgence and luxury ia
which I brought thee up!' Finding him
not disposed to be soon silent, I hurried him
ashore, where he continued his execrations
and wailings : praying to Mahomet that
be would beseech God to destroy, confound,
and annihilate us, and when we bad got
too far off to bear bis words, we could see
him tearing his beard, plucking off bis hair,
and rolling himself on the ground : so high
he once raised bis voice that these words
reached us, ^ Come back, beloved daughter !
come back, and I will forgive thee all ; let
those men keep the money they have, but
do thou come back, and comfort tliy
wretched father, who must perish in this
desert land, if thou forsakest bim!' All
this Zoraida, beard-— all this sbe felt, and
bewailed; but could only say, in reply,
' May it please Alia, my dear father, tbat
Lela Marien, who has been the cause of my
turning christian, may comfort you in your
affliction ! Alia well knows that I could not
do otherwise than I have done, and that
these christians owe me no thanks for any
favour to them, since my mmd would never
have bad rest, until I had performed this
work, which to me seems as good, as you,
my dearest father, think it bad.'— But her
father could no longer see or bear ber. I
said all I could to console her, as we pro-
ceeded on our voyage, and happily the wind
was so favourable tbat we made no doubt
of being next morning upon the coast of
Spain, t
means less cruel, if the circumstances were trae, or, if
inTented,that the author had not made the lady's fithtf,
who was destined to lo much misery, a personage less
worthy of our compasnion. The latter part of this stoty
-^
=rf^
DON QUIXOTE.
206
'"'But, as good seldom or never comes
unmixed with evil, it happened unfortu-
nately, or, perhaps, through the curses the
Moor bestowed on his daughter (for a
father's curse is always to be dreaded,
whatever he may be) — I say it happened
that, about the third hour of the night,
when we were far out to sea, and under full
sail, we discovered, by the light of the
moon, a round vessel with all her sails out,
a little a- head of us, but so near that, to
avoid running foul of her, we were forced
to strike sail ; and they also put the helm
hard up, to enable us to pass. The men
had posted themselves on the quarter-deck,
to ask who we were, whither we were
going, and whence we came : but, as their
enquiries were in French, our renegado
said, ' Let no one answer, for these are cer-
tainly French corsairs, who plunder every
thing that falls in their way.' Upon this
caution all were silent, and we continued
our course, their vessel being to the wind-
ward ; but we had not proceeded far when
they suddenly fired two guns, and both, as
it appeared, with chain-shot, for one cut our
mast through the middle, which, together with
the sail, fell into the sea, and the other, at the
same instant, came through the middle of our
bark, laying it quite open, though witliout
wounding any of us. But, finding ourselves
sinking, we began to cry aloud for help,
and intreated them to save us from drowning.
They then struck their sails, and sent out a
boat, with twelve Frenchmen a-board, well
armed with muskets, and their matches
lighted ; but, seeing how few we were, and
aSbrds a «triking exempliflcation of the deplorable state
of moral feeling when under the influence of religioua
bigotry, at the time when this book was written. What
bat this could have caused the amiable and liberal
Cerrantes to imagine that hi» countrymen would receive
pleasure from so horrible a display of parental suffering,
aggravated by so much injustice and cruelty? It was
dearly the author's intention to give a favourable im-
pression of the character of Zoraida, and he would have
it thought that the powerful workings of instinctive piety
and love were sufficient to justify her elopement with a
foreign slave— a stranger, of whom she knew nothing,
except what she had remarked of his person from the
lattice-window of her chamber. Allowing the damsel
full credit for these spiritual motives, operating uncon-
j sciously on her gentle nature, and also for the slight
eompuaetion she discovered at the frantic grief she had
caused in the bosom of an affectionate father, it cannot
be denied that her conduct presents an example of filial
iogratitode, of wantonness and treachery, that would
that our vessel was sinking, they took us
in, and told us that we had suffered for oui
incivility in returning them no answer.
Our renegado took the trunk containing
Zoraida's treasure, and, unperceived, threw
it into the sea. In short, we all passed into
the French ship, where, having gained from
us all the information tiiey wanted, they
proceeded to treat us as enemies, stripping
us of every thing, even of the bracelets
which Zoraida wore upon her ancles. But
I suffered most fiiom apprehensions lest they
should rob her of the most precious jewel of
all. But the desires of these kind of men
seldom extend farther than to money, in the
pursuit of which they are insatiable. They
would have taken away even the clothes
we wore as slaves, had they thought them
of the smallest value. Some of them pro<-
posed throwing us all overboard, wrapped
up in a sail : for their object was to trade
in some of the Spanish ports, pretending to
be of Brittany ; and, should they carry us
with them, they would there be seized, and
punished for the robbery. But the captain,
who had plundered my dear Zoraida, said
he was contented with what he had already
got, and that he would not touch at any
port of Spain, but pass the Straits of
Gibraltar by night, and make the best of
his way for Rochelle, whence he came; and
therefore they finally agreed to provide us
with a boat, and what was necessary for so
short a voyage as we had to make. Tbis
they did on the following day, when in
view of the Spanish coast, at the sight of
which all Our troubles were forgotten — so
not be easy for any young lady to surpass, even though
she had never heanl the name of '* Lela Marien."
In such a country— or raiher, at such a time, it appears
that the load of misery thus heaped upon an unoffending,
an honest, and even generous Individual, was fairly con-
vertible into matter of joy and exultation, because the
sufferer happened, conformably to the practice of his
nation, to adore the common Father of mankind in a
form, and in terms, not used among the readers of his
tale of woe ; becaiue another lamb had been added to
the good flock — a new convert gained to the true faith I
However delightful it must be to behold the real examples
of desertion from the ranks of inñdelity, or pleasing to
contemplate such as are only feigned, the mind that can
make no account of such a specude of human cslamity,
unjustly caused, and rejoice at the minute advantage by
which it is accompanied, must have little of that genuine
religion, boundless in its charity, which rejects with in«
dignation whatever good is to be purchased at the price
of ntorol rectitude and the best feelings of humanity.
(^.
=@
20G
ADVENTURES OF
great is the delight of regaioing liberty ! It
^va8 about noon when they dismissed us,
with two barrels of water and some biscuit.
The captain was even so far moved by com-
passion as to give the beautiful Zoraida, at
our departure, about forty crowns in gold,
at the same time forbidding his soldiers to
strip her of the clothes which she now
wears.
" We expressed to them more gratitude
for what they refrained from doing than
resentment for what we had suffered from
them ; and thus we separated, they steering
towards the Straits, and we towards the
land before us, rowing so hard that we
hoped to reach it before morning. Some
of our parcy thought it unsafe to land, at
dark, upon a coast with which we were
unacquainted; while others were so im-
patient that they were for making the
attempt, even though among rocks, rather
than be exposed to the corsairs of Tetuan,
who are often at night in Barbary, and
the next morning on the coast of Spain,
where they usually make some prize, and
return to sleep at their own homes. It was
agreed, at last, that we should row gently
towards the shore, and, if the sea proved
calm, land where we could ; and, before
midnight, we found ourselves close to a
large and high mountain, at the foot of
which there was a convenient landing-place.
We ran our boat into the sand, leaped on
shore, and kissed the ground; thanking
God, with teais of joy, for the happy
termination of our perilous voyage. We
dragged our boat on shore, and then climbed
the mountain, scarcely crediting that we
were really upon christian ground. We
were anxious for daybreak ; but, having at
length gained the top of the mountain,
whence we had hoped to discover some
village or shepherd's hut, we could see no
indications of human abode ; we therefore
proceeded farther into the country, trusting
we should soon meet with some person to
inform us where we were. But what most
troubled me was to see Zoraida travel on
foot through those craggy places; for,
though I sometimes carried her in my arms,
she was more distressed than relieved by
my labour. I therefore led her by the
(3-
hand, and she bore the &tigue with the
utmost patience and cheerfulness.
''Thus we proceeded for about a quarter
of a league, when the sound of a little bell
reached our ears, which was a signal that
flocks were near; and, eagerly looking
around us, we perceived a young shepherd at
the foot of a cork - tree, quietly shaping a
stick with his knife. We called out to him,
upon which he raised his head and hastily got
up, and the first who presented themselves to
his sight being the renegado and Zoraida,
in Moorish habits, he thought all the Moors
in Barbary were upon him ; making, there-
fore, towards the wood, with incredible
speed, he cried out, as loud as he could,
'Moors! the Moors are landed! Moors,
Moors ! arm, arm !' we were perplexed, at
first, how to act; but, considering that be
would certainly alarm the country, and that
the militia of the coast would quickly be
out to see what was the matter, we agreed
that the renegado should strip off his Turkish
habit, and put on a jerkin, or slave's cassock, ;
which one of our party immediately gave '
him, leaving himself only in his shirt. Then,
recommending ourselves to God, we pursued
the same road that the shepherd had taken,
expecting every moment that the coast-
guard would be upon us. Nor were we
deceived in our apprehensions, for, not long '
afterwards, when we were descending into
the plain, we discovered above fifty horse-
men advancing on a half- gallop; upon
which we stood still to wait thehr approach :
but, as they drew near, and found, instead
of the Moors they had expected, a party of
poor Christian captives, they were not a
little surprised ; and one of them asked us
whether we had been the cause of the alarm
spread in the country. I told him that I
believed so, and was proceeding to inform
him whence we came, and who we were,
when one of our party recognized the horse-
man who had questioned us ; and, inter-
rupting me, he exclaimed, ' God be praised
for bringing us to this part of the country !
for if I am not mistaken the ground we
stand upon is the territory of Yelez Malaga,
and, if long captivity has not impaired my
memory, you, sir, who now question us, are
Pedro de Bustamante, my uncle.' Scarcely
:=l^
DON QUIXOTE.
907
had the chrístían captive ceased speaking,
when the horseman threw himself from his
oorse, and ran to embrace the young man,
saying to him, ' Dear nephew of my sou], I
well remember you ! How often have I
bewailed your loss, with your mother and
kindred, who are still living to enjoy the
pleasure of seeing you again ! We knew
you were in Algiers ; and, by your dress,
and that of your companions, I conjecture
that you must have recovered your liberty
in some miraculous manner.' ' It is so,
indeed,' answered the young man, 'and
when an opportunity offers, you shall know
the whole story.' As soon as the horsemen
understood that we were christian captives,
they alighted, and each of them invited us
to accept of his horse to carry us to the city
of Velez Malaga, which was a league and
a half distant. Some of them went back to
convey the boat to the town, on being in-
formed where we had left it ; others took us
op behind them, and Zoraida rode behind
our captive's uncle. The news of our coming
having reached the town before us, multi-
tudes came out to greet us. They were not
much surprised by the sight of liberated
captives, or Moors made slaves, ibr the
people of that coast are accustomed to both,
but they were struck by the beauty of
Zoraida, which then appeared in perfection ;
for the exercise of walking, and the delight
of being safe in Christendom, produced such
a complexion that, if my affection did not
deceive me, the world never saw a more
beautiful creature.
" We went directly to the church, to give
God thanks for the mercy of our deliverance ;
and Zoraida, upon first entering, said the
images there were very like that of Lela
Marien. The renegado told her that she
was right, and explained to her as well he
could, what they signified, that she might
* Cerrantes hu repeated tbit itory in his pUy of " The
Baths of Argel,'* and Lope de Vega has also msde it
the subject of his "Captires of ArgeL" Cervantes ex-
pressly declares it to be a fact ; nor is the circumstance
singular, for P. Sepulreda el llierto, who in the Escurial
«rote the events of his own time^ relates that» in the year
1595, a Gennan lady, wife to the Bey , and sultaness of Argel ,
who had been made captive when a child, came over to
Spain, aided by a monk of the Order of ftlercy, who had
been one of the captives. She entrusted btm with letters,
ccmmnnicating her purpose to Fhilip II. and the Infanta
adore them as the representations of that
very Lela Marien who had spoken to her:
nor was she slow in comprehending him, for
she had good sense and a ready apprehension.
After this they accommodated us in different
houses of the town ; and tlie christian, our
companion, took the renegado, Zoraida, and
myself, to the house of his parents, who
treated us with the same kindness they
shewed towards tlieir own son. We staid
in Velez six days ; when the renegado, hav-
ing gained all necessary information on the
subject, repaired to the city of Granada,
there to be re- admitted, by means of the
holy Inquisition, into the bosom of our
church. The rest of the freed captives each
went their own way, leaving Zoriada and
myself to pursue ours, with no otherworldly
wealth than the crowns which the courtesy
of the Frenchmen had bestowed on her;
some of which proved useful in purchasing
the animal on which she rides. I have
hitherto attended her as a father and esquire,
not as a husband ; and we are going to see
if my father be yet alive, or whether my
brothers have been more fortunate than my-
self: though, since heaven has given me
Zoraida, I cahnot conceive that any better
fortune could have befallen me. The patience
with which she bears the inconveniences at-
tendant on poverty, and the fervour of her
piety, excites my warmest admiration ; and
I consider myself bound to serve her all the
days of my life : yet the delight I feel in
knowing her to be mine is sometimes dis-
turbed by an uncertainty whether I shall
find any comer in my own country wherein
to shelter her; and also whether time or
death may not have made such alterations
in my family, that I shall find none left to
acknowledge me.
" This, gentleman, is my story ;• whether
it has been entertaining or uncommon, you
Ponna Isabel Clara Eugenia, which he delivered, and then
returned to Argel. Having obtained permission of the
Bey to pass some days at a garden or pleasure - house,
which he had near the shore, she was there rejoined by
the loonk : being enabled to find each other out by per-
fumes, which they had previously agreed to use, for that
purpose. The marquis of Denia, then viceroy of Valen-
cia, afterwards duke of Lerma, received orders from his
majesty to send a vessel for them to Argel ; " and the
sultaness," says P. Sepulvieda, "embarked with all her
richest jewels and most valuable property, accompanied
208
ADVENTURES OF
we the best judges : I can only say, for ray
own part, that I would willingly have been
more brief; and, indeed, I have omitted
many circumstances, lest you should think
me tedious."
CHAPTER XLIU
WHICH TREATSOF OTHER OGGÜRRRNCES
AT THE INN ; AND OF MANY OTHER
THINGS WORTHY TO BE KNOWN.
Herb the captive ceased speaking. ^^ Truly,
captain/' said DonFernando, '' your narrative
has been so interesting to us, both from the
extraordinary nature of the events them-
selves, and your manner of relating them,
that we should not have been wearied had
it lasted till to-morrow." The whole party
now offered their service8,>with such expres-
sions of kindness and sincerity that the
captain felt highly gratified. Don Fernando,
in particular, offered, if he would return
with him, to prevail with the marquis, his
brother, to stand god -father at Zoraida's
baptism ; and promised, on his own part, to
afford him all the assistance necessary for
his appearance in his own country, with the
dignity and distinction due to his person.
The captive thanked him most courteously,
but declined his generous offers.
Night was now advanced, and a coach
arrived at the inn, with some horsemen.
The travellezB wanted lodging for the night,
but the hostess told them that there was not
an inch of room disengaged in the whole
inn. ^'Notwithstanding that," said one of
the men on horseback, "there must be room
made for my lord judge here in the coach."
On hearing this, the hostess was disturbed,
and said : " Sir, the truth is, I have no bed ;
but if his worship, my lord judge, brings one
with him, let him enter in God's name ; for
I and my husband will quit our own cham-
ber to accommodate his honour."
'' Be it BO," quoth the squire ; and, by this
by aboat twenty penont, and immediately set tail. One
Mooiith woman, in her tndn, on diacovering that they
were going to Spain, began to call so loudly upon heaven
that they were obliged to destroy her: earth was speedily
roused by her cries, and a thousand vessels were imme-
diately in pursuit, but Ood did not suffer them to be
orertaken. The sultaness reached Valencia, and was
time, a person had alighted from the coach
whose garb immediately shewed the nature
and dignity of his station : for his long gown,
and tucked-up sleeves, denoted him to be a
judge, as his servant had said. He led by
the hand a young lady, apparently about
sixteen years of age, in a riding - dress, so
lovely and elegant in her person that ail
were struck with so much admiration that,
had they not seen Dorothea, Lucinda, and
Zoraida, they would never have believed
that there was such another beautiful damsel
in existence. Don Quixote was present at
their entrance, and he thus addressed them :
** Your worship may securely enter, and
range this castle ; for, however confined and
inconvenient it may be, place will always
be found for arms and letters; especially
when, like your worship, they appear under
the patronage of beauty : for to this fair
maiden not only castles should throw open
wide their gates, but rocks divide and sepa-
rate, and mountains bow their lofty heads,
in salutation. Enter, sir, into this paradise !
for here you will find suns and stars, worthy
of that lovely heaven you bring with you.
Here you will find arms in their zenith, and
beauty in perfection !" The judge marvelled
greatly at this speech, and he earnestly sur-
veyed the knight, no less astonished by his
appearance than his discourse, and was con-
sidering what to say in reply, when the other
ladies made their appearance, attracted by
the account the hostess had given of the
beauty of the young lady. Don Fernando,
Cárdenlo, and the priest, paid their compli-
ments in a more intelligible manner than
Don Quixote, and all the ladies of the castle
welcomed the fair stranger. In short, the
judge easily perceived that he was in the
company of persons of distinction ; but the
mien, visage, and behaviour of Don Quixote
confounded him. After mutual courtesies
and enquiries as to what accommodation the
inn afforded, the arrangements previously
made were adopted : namely, that all the
cordially receired by the citixens and their viceroy. At
court, ajso, she was well received by the king and royal
family ; the place of her abode being left to her own
decision, she fixed upon Valencia,- where ^he passed her
life, supported by a pension from his miú^'y*'* (Biblio-
teca real. est. H. cod. 160, torn. 2. p. U.) — P.
DON QUIXOTE.
209
women should lodge in the large chamber,
and the men remain without, as their guard.
The jndge was content that the young lady,
who was his daughter, should accompany
the other ladies; and she herself readily
consented : thus with part of the inn-keep-
er's narrow bed, together with that which
the judge had brought with him, they ac-
commodated themselves during the night,
better than they had expected.
The captive, from the moment he saw
the judge, felt his heart beat, from an im-
pression that this gentleman was his brother.
He therefore enquired his name and country
of one of the servants, who told him that he
was the licentiate John Perez de Viedma,
and he had heard that his native place was
in a town in the mountains of Leon. This
account confirmed him in the opinion that
this was indeed that brother who, by the
advice of his father, had applied himself to
letters. Agitated and overjoyed, he called
aside Don Fernando, Cárdenlo, and the
priest, and communicated to them his dis-
covery. The servant had also told him that
he was going to the Indies, as judge of the
courts of Mexico, and that the young lady
was his daughter, whose mother had died
in giving her birdi, but had left her a rich
inheritance. He asked them how they
thought he had best make himself known,
or how he could ascertain whether his
brother, seeing him so poor, would be
ashamed to own him, or receive him to his
bosom with affection. '^ Leave me to make
that experiment,'^ said the priest ; '' not
that I make any doubt, sigñor captain, of
your meeting with a kind reception; for
there is an appearance of worth and good
sense in your bnrffaer which neither implies
arrogance nor inability to appreciate duly
the accidents of fortune.'' *' Nevertheless,"
said the captain, '' I would rather not dis-
cover myself abruptly to him." <' Leave
all to me," answered the priest, "and I will
manage the affiur to your satis&ction."
A collation bemg now ready, they all sat
down to table, except the captain, to partake
of it, and also the ladies, who remained in
their own chamber. The priest took this
opportunity of saying to the judge, " My
lonl, I had a comrade of your name in
Constantinople, where I was a slave some
years. He was a captain, and one of the
bravest soldiers in ihe Spanish infantry;
but he was as unfortunate as brave.''
" Pray what was this captain's name ?"
said the judge. * * He was called," answered
the priest, "Ruy Perez de Viedma, and
was bom in a village in the mountains of
Leon. He related to me a circumstance
which, from a person of less veracity than
himself, I should have taken for a tale such
as old women tell by a winter's fire - side.
He told me that his father had divided his
estate equally between himself and his three
sons, and, after giving them certain precepts
better than those of Cato, he proposed to
them the choice of three profeaaions. My
friend adopted that of arms, and I can
assure you that he was so successful that,
in a few years, without any other aid than
his own bravery and merit, he rose to the
rank of a captain of foot, and was in tlie
high-road to preferment, when fortune
proved adverse, and he lost her favours,
together with his liberty, in that glorious
action which gave freedom to so many — I
mean the battle of Lepanto. I was myself
taken in Goleta, and afterwards, by different
adventures, we became comrades in Constan-
tinople. He was afterwards sent to Algiers,
where he met with one of the strangest
adventures in the world." The priest then
briefly related to him what had passed
between his brother and Zoraida. He was
listened to by the judge with extreme atten-
tion ; but he proceeeded no farther than to
that point where the christians were plun-
dered by the French, and his comrade and
the beautiful Moor left in poverty ; pre-
tending that he knew not what became of
them afterwards, whether they ever reached
Spain, or were carried by their captors to
France.
The captain stood listening at some dis-
tance, and watching all the emotions of his
brother, who, when the priest had finished
his story, sighed profoundly, and, with tears
in his eyes, said, " Oh, sir, you know not
how nearly I am affected by what you have
communicated ! That gallant captain you
mention is my elder brother, who, having
entertained more elevated thoucrhts than
'^
=©
«10
ADVENTURES OF
my younger brother or myself, cboee the
honourable profession of arms, which was
one of the three pursuits proposed to us
by our father. I applied myself to letters,
which, by the blessing of God and my own
exertions, has raised me to my present rank.
My younger brother is in Peru, abounding
in riches, and has amply repaid the sum be
took out with him. He has enabled my
father to indulge his liberal disposition, and
supplied me with the means of prosecuting
my studies with every advantage, until I
attained the rank which at present I enjoy.
My &ther is still living, and continually
prays to God that his eyes may not be
closed in death before he has once again
beheld his first -bom son. It surprises me
that he never communicated his situation to
his family, for, had either of us known of
it, he need not have waited for the miracle
of the cane to have obtained his ransom.
My anxiety is now about the treatment he
may have met with from those Frenchmen ;
this uncertainty as to his fate will render my
voyage most sad and melancholy. Oh, my
brother! If I knew but where to find thee,
I would deliver thee at any risk. Ah, wno
shall bear the news to our aged father, ¿hat
thou art living 7 Wert thou buried in the
deepest dungeon of Barbary, his wealth and
that of thy brothers should redeem thee !
O lovely and bountiful Zoraida! who can
repay thy kindness to my brother? Who
shall be so happy as to witness thy regene-
ration by baptism, and be present at thy
nuptials, which would give us all so much
delight ?" The judge affiscted all his audi-
tors by these and other demonstrations of
sorrow and fraternal affection.
The priest, finding he had gained his
point according to the captain's wish, would
no longer protract their pain, and, rising
from table, he went into the adjoining
chamber, and led out Zovaida, who was fol-
lowed by the other ladies ; he took also the
hand of the captain, and introduced them
both to the judge, saying, *' My lord, cease
your lamentations, for here is your brother
and good sister-in-law. Captain Yiedma
and the beautiful Moor, to whom he owes
so much. They have been reduced to
poverty by the French, only to have an
opportunity of proving a brother's liberality.
The captain ran towards hm brother, who
first held bade to look at him ; (^en, reeog-
nizing him, he pressed him to his heart,
while his eyes overflowed with tea» of joy.
The meeting was indeed affecting beyond
description. From time to time llieir ntutoal
enquiries were suspended by renewed de-
monstrations of fraternal love : often th«
judge embraced Zoraida, and as often re-
turned her to the caresses of his daughter .
and a most pleasing sight it was to see the
mutual embraces oí the fair christian and
lovely Moor.
Don Quixote was idl this time a silent
but attentive observer, satisfied at the cor-
respondence of these singular events with
the annals of chivalry. It was agreed that
the captain and Zoraida should go with their
brother to Seville, and acquaint their father
of his return, so that the old man might be
present at the baptism and nuptials of
Zoraida, as it was impossible for the judge
to defer his journey beyond a month. The
night being being now far advanced, Jhey
proposed retiring to repose during the re-
mainder, Don Quixote offering his service
to guard the castle, lest some giant, or other
miscreant errant, tempted by the treasure of
beauty there inclosed, should presume to
make an attack upon it. His friends tiianked
him, and took occasion to amuse the judge
with an account of his strange phrenzy.
Sancho Panza alone was out of all patience
at sitting up so late. However, he was
better accommodated than any of them,
upon the accoutrements of his aas, lor whidi
he dearly paid, as shall be hereafter related.
The ladies having retired to their chamber,
and the rest accommodated as well as they
could be, Don Quixote, aoccMrding to his
promise, sallied out of the inn to take his
post at the castle -gate.
A short time before day -break, a voice
reached the ears of the ladies, so sweet and
melodious that it forcibly arrested their at-
tention, especially that of Dorothea, by
whose side slept Donna Clara de Viedma,
the daughter of the judge. The voice was
unaccompanied by any instrument, and they
were surprised at the skill of the singer.
Sometimes they fimcied that the sound pro-
DON QUIXOTE.
211
ceeded from the yard, and at the other times,
from the Btable. While they were in this
uncertabty, Cardenio came to the chamber-
door, and said, "If you are not asleep,
pray listen ; and you will hear one of the
muleteers singing enchantingly." Dorothea
told him that they had heard him ; upon
which Cardenio retired. Then listening
with mnch attention, Dorothea plainly dis-
tinguished the following words.
CHAPTER XLIII.
WHICH TREATS OF THE AGREEABLE
HISTORY OP THE YOUNG MULETEER ;
WITH OTHER STRANGE ACCIDENTS
THAT HAPPENED IN THE INN.
Toss' o in a sea of doubt» and fean.
Love's hapless mariner, I sail
Tlliere oo inviting port appears,
To aereen me from the stormy gale.
At distance Tiew'd, a ehecring star
Conducts me through the swelling tide :
A brighter luminary fue
Than Plüinurna e'er descried.
- My soqI. attracted by ita blase.
Still follows where it points the way.
And, while attentively I gaze,
Considen not how far I stray.
But female pride, reserved and shy,
Like clouds that deepen on the dty.
Oft shrouds it from my longing eye.
When most I need iht guiding ray,
O lovely star, so pure and bright !
Whose splendour feeds my vital fire,
The moment thou deny'st thy light,
Thy lost adorer will expire.
Dorothea thought it was a great loss to
Donna Clara not to hear such excellent
singing, she therefore gave her a gentle
shake and awoke her : *' Excuse me, my
dear, for disturbing you/' she said, ^' since
it is only that you may have the pleasure of
hearing the sweetest Toice which perhaps
yon ever heard in your life !'' Clara, half
awake, was obliged to ask Dorothea to re*
peat what she had said to her ; after which,
she endeayoored to command her attention,
hut had no sooner heard a few words of the
song, than she was seized with a fit of
trembling as violent as the attack of a
quartan ague : and, clinging round Doro-
thea, she cried, ^' Ah, my dear lady ! why
did you wake me ? The greatest service
that could be done me would be for ever to
close both my eyes and ears, that I might
neither see nor hear that unhappy musician."
" What do you say, my dear V answered
Dorothea : '' Is it not a muleteer who is
singing?" " Oh no," replied Clara ; "he
is a young gentleman of large possessions,
and so much master of my heart that, if he
reject it not, it shall be his eternally." Do-
rothea was surprised at the passionate ex-
pressions of the girl, which she would not
have expected from one of her tender years.
She therefore said to her, " Your wordb sur-
prise me, sigñora Clara: explain yourself
farther ; what is this you say of heart, and
possessions — and who is this musician, whose
voice affects you so much ? — But stay — do
not speak just yet : he seems to be preparing
to sing again, and I roust not lose the plea-
sure of hearing him." Clara, however,
stopped her own ears with both her hands,
to Dorothea's great surprise, who listened
very attentively to the following
SONG.
üneonquer'd hope» thou haae dl fear.
And last deserter of the braye,
Thou soothing ease of mortal care.
Thou traveller beysnd the grave I
Thou soul of patience, airy food.
Bold warrant of a distant good,
Reviving cordial, kind decoy :
Though fortune frowns and friends depart :
Though Sylvia flies me, flattering joy,
Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doating heart !
No slave, to laay ease resigned,
E*er trlnmph'd over npble foea :
The monarch fortune most ia kind
To him who bravely dares oppose.
They say, love rates his blessings high.
But who would prise an easy joy ?
My scornful fair then I'll parsue,
Though the coy beauty still denies ;
I grovel now on earth, 'tis true.
But, raised by her, the humble slare may rise.
Here the musician ceased to sing, and
Donna Clara again began to sigh ; both of
whom excited Dorothea's curiosity, and she
pressed her to explain what she had just be-
fore said. Clara embraced her, and, putting
her face close to her ear, she whispered, lest
she should be overheard by Lucinda, '' that
singer, my dear Madam," said she, " is the
son of an Arragonian gentleman who ia lord
of two towns, and, when at court, lives op-
posite to my ftither. Although my father
kept his windows covered with canvas in
the winter, and lattices in summer, it hap-
212
ADVENTURES OF
pened, by some chance, that this yonng
gentleman saw me — whether at church, or
where it was, I know not, but, in truth, he
fell in love with me, and expressed his pas-
sion, from the window of his house, by so
many signs, and so many tears, that I was
forced to believe him, and even to love him
too. Among other signs, he often joined
one hand with the other, signifying his
desire to marry me ; and though I should
have been very glad if it might have been
so, yet, being alone, and having no mother,
I knew not who to speak to on the subject,
and therefore let it rest, without granting
him any other favour than, when his father
and mine were both abroad, to lift up the
lattice window, just to shew myself, at which
he seemed so delighted that you would have
thought him mad. When the time of my
father's departure drew near, he heard of it,
though not from me, for I never had an op-
portunity to speak to him, and soon after
he fell sick, as I was told, for grief; so that,
on the day we came away, I could not see
him to say farewell, though it were only
with my eyes. But, after we had travelled
two days, on entering a village, about a
day's journey hence, I saw him at the door
of an inn, in the habit of a muleteer, so dis-
guised that, had not his image been deeply
imprinted in my heart, I could not have
known him. I was surprised and overjoyed
at the sight of him, and he stole looks at
me, unobserved by my father, whom he
carefully avoids, when he passes, either on
the road, or at the inns. When I think
who he is, and how he travels on foot, bear-
ing so much fiEitigue, for love of me, I am
ready to die with pity, and cannot help fol-
lowing him with my eyes. I cannot imagine
what his intentions are, nor how he could
leave his fitther, who loves him passionately,
having no other heir, and also because he
is so very deserving, as you will perceive,
when you see him. I can assure you, be-
sides, that all he sings is of his own com-
posing ; for I have heard that he is a great
scholar and a poet. Every time I see him,
or hear him sing, I tremble all over with
fright, lest my father should recollect him,
and discover our inclinations. Although I
never spoke a word to liim in my life, yet I
love him so well that I never can live with-
out him. This, dear madam, is all I can tell
you about him whose voice has pleased you
so much ; by that alone you may easily per-
ceive he is no muleteer, but master of hearts
and towns, as I have already told you."
'* Enough, my dear Clara," said Dorothea,
kissing her a thousand times ; ''you need not
say more: compose yourself till morning,
for I hope to be able to manage your affair
so that the conclusion may be as happy as
the beginning is innocent." " Ah, sigñora !"
said Donna Clara, ''what conclusion can
be expected, since his father is of such high
rank and fortune that I am not worthy to
be even his servant, much less his wife ? As
to marrying without my father's knowledge,
I would not do it for all the world. I only
wish this young man would go back, and
leave me : absence, perhaps, may lessen the
pain I now feel ; though I fear it will not
have much effect. What a strange sorcery
this love is ! I know not how it came to
possess me, so young as I am — in truth I
believe we are both of the same age, and I
am not yet sixteen, nor shall I be, as my
father says, until next Michaelmas." Doro-
thea could not forbear smiling at Donna
Clara's childish simplicity ; however, she
entreated her again to sleep the remainder
of the night, and to hope for every thing in
the morning.
Profound silence now reigned over tlie
whole house ; all being asleep except the inn-
keeper's daughter and her maid Mantornes,
who, knowing Don Quixote's weak points,
determined to amuse themselves by playing
him some trick while he was keeping guard
without doors. There was no window on
that side of the house which overlooked the
field, except a small opening to the straw-
loft, where the straw was thrown out. At
this hole the pair of damsels planted them-
selves, whence they commanded a view of
the knight on horseback, leaning on his
lance, and could hear him, ever and anon,
heaving such deep and mournful sighs that
they seemed torn from the very bottom of
his soul. They could also distinguish words,
uttered in a soft, soothing, amorous tone ;
such as, " O my lady Dulcinea del Toboso !
perfection of all beaaty, quintessence oí
DON QUIXOTE.
218
discretion, treasury of wit, and pledge of
modesty ! what may now be thy sweet em-
ployment? Art thou, perad venture, thinking
of thy captive knight, who voluntarily ex-
poses himself to so many perils for thy sake ?
O thou triformed luminary, bring me swift
tidings of her ! Perhaps thou art now gazing
at her, envious of her beauty, as she walks
through some gallery of her sumptuous
palace, or leans over some balcony, con-
sidering how she may, without offence to
her virtue and dignity, assuage the tor-
ment which this poor afflicted heart of
mine endures for her! or meditating on
what glory she shall bestow on my suffer-
ings, what solace to my cares, or recompense
to my long services ! And thou, O sun 1
who must now be preparing to harness thy
steeds to come forth and visit my adorable
lady, salute her, I entreat thee, in my name:
but beware that thou dost not kiss her iace,
for I shall be more jealous of thee than thou
wert of that swift ingrate who made thee
sweat and run over the plains of Thessaly,
or along the banks of Peneus — 1 do not
exactly remember over which it was thou
ran'st so jealous and so enamour'd."
Thus far Don Quixote had proceeded in
his soliloquy, when the inn-keeper's daughter
softly called to him, saying : <' Pray, sir,
come a little this way." Don Quixote
turned his head, and perceived, by the Ught
of the moon, which then shone bright, that
some person beckoned him towards the
spike -hole, which, to his fancy, was a
window with gilded bars, suitable to the rich
castle he conceived the inn to be; and, his
former visions again recurring, he concluded
that the iair damsel of the castle, irresist-
ibly enamoured of him, had now come to
repeat her visit Unwilling, therefore, to
appear discourteous or ungrateful, he ap-
proached the aperture, and replied, '< I
lament, iair lady, that you should have
placed your affections where it is impossible
for you to meet with that return which your
great merit and beauty deserve : yet ought
you not to blame an unfortunate knight
whom love has already enthralled. Pardon
me, dear lady ; retire, and do not, by any
farther disclosure of your sentiments, make
me appear yet mofe ungrateful ; but if I can
repay you by another way than a return of
passion, I entreat that you will command
me, and 1 swear, by that sweet absent enemy
of mine, to gratify you immediately, though
you should require a lock of Medusa's hair,
which was composed of snakes, or the sun-
beams inclosed in a vial«" ^' Sir," quoth
Maritornes, " my lady wants none of these."
'^ What then doth your lady require, discreet
duenna V* answered Don Quixote. '* Only
one of your beautiful hands," quoth Mari-
tornes, ''whereby partly to satisfy that
longing which brought her to this window,
so much to the peril of her honour that, if
her lord and father should know of it, he
would whip off at least one of her ears."
'' Let him dare to do it !" cried Don Quixote,
''fatal should be his punishment for pre-
suming to lay violent hands on the delicate
members of an enamoured daughter." Mari-
tornes, not doubting but that he would
grant the request, hastened down into the
stable, and brought back the halter belonging
to Sancho's dapple, just as Don Quixote had
got upon Hosdnante's saddle to reach the
gilded window at which the enamoured
damsel stood ; and, giving her his hand, he
said : " Accept, madam, this hand, or rather
this scourge of the wicked : accept, I say,
this hand, which that of woman never before
touched, not even hers who has the entire
right to my whole person. I offer it not to
be kissed, but that you may behold the con-
texture of its nerves, the firm knitting of
its muscles, the largeness and spaciousness
of its veins, whence you may infer what
must be the strength of that arm which
belongs to such a hand." " We shall soon
see that," quoth Maritornes. Then, making a
running - knot in the halter, she fixed it on his
wrist, and tied the other end of it fast to the
staple of the hay -loft door. Don Quixote,
feeling the harsh rope about his wrist,
said, " You seem rather to rasp than grasp
my hand — pray do not treat it so roughly,
since that is not to blame for my adverse
inclination : nor is it just to vent your dis-
pleasure thus : indeed, this kind of revenge
is very unworthy of a lover." But his
expostulations were unheard ; for, as soon
as Maritornes had tied the knot, they both
went laughing away, having fiastened it in
'^
®=
214
ADVENTURES OF
such a maimer that it was impossible for him
to get loose.
Thus he remained standing upright on
Rozinante, his arm within the hole, and
tied by the wrist to the bolt of the door, and
in the utmost alarm lest Rozinante should
move on either side, and leave him sus-
pended. He durst not, therefore, make the
least motion; though indeed he might
well have expected, from the sobriety and
patience of Rozinante, that he would remain
in that position an entire century. In short,
Don Quixote, finding himself thus situated,
and the ladies gone, concluded that it was
an afiBedr of enchantment, like others which
had formerly happened to him m the same
castle. He then cursed his own indiscretion
for having entered it a second time : since
he might have learnt, from his chivalry,
that when a knight was unsuccessful in an
adventure, it was a sign that its accomplish-
ment was reserved for anotlier, and that
second trials were always fruitless. He
made many attempts to release himself,
though be was afraid of making any great
exertion, lest Rostnante should stir; but
his efforts were all in vain, and he was
compelled either to remain standing on the
saddle, or to tear off his hand. Now he
wished for Amadis's sword, against which
no enchantment had power ; and now he
cursed his fortune. Sometimes he expatiated
on the loss the world would sustain during
the period of his enchantment ; other mo-
ments were devoted to his beloved Dulcinea
del Toboso, and some to his good squire
Sancho Panza, who, stretched on his ass's
pannel, and buried in sleep, was dreaming
of no such misfortune ; nor did he frdl to
invoke the aid of the sages Lirgandeo and
Alquife, and call upon his special friend
Urganda. Thus the morning found him,
like a bull, roaring with despair; for he
expected no relief with the dawn, fearing
his enchantment was eternal ; and he was
the more induced to believe it as Rozinante
made not the least motion, and he verily
thought himself and his horse must remain
in the same posture, without eating, drink-
ing, or sleeping, until the evil influence of
the stars had passed over, or some more
powerful sage should disenchant him.
But he was mistaken ; for it was scarcely
daylight, when four men on horseback
stopped at the inn, well appointed and
accoutred, with carbines hanging on their
saddle-bows. Not findmg the inn-door open
they called aloud, and knocked very hard ;
upon which Don Quixote called out from
the place where he stood sentinel, in an
arrogant and loud voice, *' Knights, or
squires, or whoever ye are, desist from
knocking at the gate of this castle ; for at
this early hour, its inmates are doubtless
sleeping ; at least they are not accustomed
to open the gates of Üieir fortress, until the
sun has spread his beams over the whole
horizon: retire until brighter day -light
shall inform us whether it be proper to
admit you or not.'' " What the devil of a
fortress, or castle is this,'' quoth one of them,
''that we are obliged to observe all this
ceremony 7 if you are the inn-keeper, make
some body open the door, for we are
travellers, and only want to bait our horses,
and go on, as we are in haste." '' What
say ye, sirs, — do I look like an inn-keeper?"
said Don Quixote. '' I know not what
you look like," answered the other ; '' but
I am sure you talk preposterously to call
this inn a castle." '' A castle it is," replied
Don Quixote, " and one of the best in the
whole province ; and at this moment con-
tains within its walls persons who have had
crowns on their heads and sceptres in their
hands." *'You had better have said the
reverse," quoth the traveller ; '' the soepti«
on the head, and the crown in the hand : —
but, perhaps, some company of strolling
players are here, who frequently wear such
things ; this is not a place for any other sort
of crowned heads." '' Your ignorance must
be great," replied Don Quixote, *' if you
know not that such events are very common
in chivalry." The other horseman, impati-
ent at the dialogue, repeated his knocks with
so much violence that he roused not only
the h(»t, but all the company in the house.
Just at that time it happened that tíie
horse of one of the travellers was seized with
an inclination to smell at Rozinante, who,
sad and spiritless, was then supporting his
distended lord ; but being, in &ct, a horse
of flesh, although he seemed to be one of
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
216
stone, he could not be ineensible to i¡ke oom-
plimenty nor zeñise to retain it with equal
kindness. Bot scarcely had he stirred a
step) when Don Qaixote's feet slipped from
the saddle, and he rondned suspaoded by
the arm, in so much torture that be fancied
his wrist or his arm was tearing from his
body ; and he hung so near the ground that
he eonld just reach it with the tips of his
toes, which only made his situation the
worse ; for, feeling how near he was to the
grofund, he stretched and strained with all
his might to reach it ; like those, who are
tortored by the strappado,, and who, being
placed in the same dilemma, aggravate their
saflecii^ by their fruitkes efforts to stretch
themselves.
CHAPTER XLIV.
A CONTINUATION OP THE KXTRAOllDI-
XA&T ADVBNTURE9 THAT HAPPENED
IN THE INN,
Don Quixote roared so loudly that the
host opened the inn-door, in great alarm, to
discover the cause of the out-cry. Maritoiv-
nes, being waked by the noise, and guessing
the cause, went to the straw-loft, and
privately untied the halter, which held up
Don Quixote, who immediately came to
the ground. Without answering a word,
to the many enquiries that were made to
him, by tlie inn-keeper and travellers, he
slipped the rope from off his wrist, and
springing £rom the earth, mounted Rozi-
nante, braced his target, couched his lance,
and, taking a good compass about the field,
came up at a half-gallop, saying, '^ Who-
ever shall dare to affirm that I was fairly
enchanted, I say he lies, and, provided my
sovereign lady, the princess Micomicona,
gives me leave, I challenge him to single
combat.'' The new-comers were amazed
at Don Quixote's words, till the inn-keeper
explained the wonder, by telling them that
he was disordered in his senses. They then
enquired of the host whether there was not
in the house a youth about fifteen years
old, habited like a muleteer, — in short, de-
scribing Donna Clara's lover. The host
said, that there were so many people in the
inn that he had not observed such a person
as they described. But one of them, just
then seeing the judge's coach, said, " He
must certainly be here; for there is the coach
which he is said to follow. Let one of us
remain here, and the rest go in to search for
him; and it would not be amiss for one of
us to ride round the house, in case he sliould
attempt to escape over the pales of the
yard." All this tiiey immediatdy did, much
to the inn-keeper's surprise, who could not
guess the meaning of so much activity.
It was now full day-light, and most of
the company in the house were rising ;
among the first, were Donna Clara and
Dorotíiea, who had slept but indifferently,
the one from concern at being so near her
lover, and the other from a desire of seeing
him. Don Quixote, finding that the four
travellers regarded neither him nor his
challenge, was furious with rage ; and, could
he have feund a precedent among tlie ordi-
nances of chivalry fer engaging in a new
adventure after he hod pledged his word to
forbear until the first had been accomplished,
he would now have fiercely attacked them
all, and compelled tliem to reply : but,
reflecting that he was bound in honour first
to reinstate the princess upon her throne, he
endeavoured to tranquillize himself. In tlie
mean time the men pursued their search
after the youth, and at last found him peace-
ably sleeping by the side of a muleteer. One
of them,, pulling him by the arm, said,
<< Upon my word, sigñor Don Louis, your
dress is very becoming a gentleman like
you, and the bed you lie on is very suitable
to the tenderness with which your mother
l»rought you upl*^ The youth was roused
from his deep, and, looking earnestly at tlie
man who held him, he soon recollected him
to be one of his father's servants, and was
so confounded that he could not say a word.
" Sigñor Don Louis," continued the servant,
'^you must instantly return home, unless
you would cause the death of my lord, your
father, he is in such grief at your absence."
" Why, how did my fiiLther know," said
Don Louis, " that I came this road, and in
this dress ?" ^' He was informed by a
student, to whom you mentioned your pro-
ject, and who was induced to disclose it from
216
ADVENTURES OF
(s^^
compassion at your father's distress. There
arc four of us here at your service, and we
shall be rejoiced to restore you to your
family," " That will be as Í shall please,
or as heaven may ordain," answered Don
Louis. <' What, signor, should you please
to do, but return home ?" rejoined the ser-
vant ; — " indeed you cannot do otherwise."
The muleteer, who had been Don Louis's
companion, hearing this contest, went to
acquaint Don Fernando and the rest of the
company with what was passing : telling
them that the man had called the young
lad, Don, and wanted him to return to his
father's house, but that he refused to go.
They all recollected his fine voice, and being
eager to know who he was, and to assist him
if any violence were offered him, they re-
paired to the place where he was contending
with his servant. Dorothea now came out
of her chamber, with Donna Clara ; and,
calling Cardenio aside, she related to him,
in a few words, the history of the musician
and Donna Clara. He then told her of the
search that had been made after the young
man, by the servants; and, although he
whispered, he was overheard by Donna
Clara, who was thrown into such an agony
by the intelligence that she would have
fallen to the ground if Dorothea had not
supported her. Cardenio advised her to
retire with Donna Clara, while he endea-
voured to make some arrangements in their
behalf. Don Louis was now surrounded
by all the four servants, entreating that
he would immediately return to comfort
his father. He answered that he could not
possibly do so until he had accomplished
that on which his life, his honour, and his
soul, depended. The servants still urged him^
saying they would certainly not go back
without him, and that they must compel him
to return if he refused. ^' That you shall
not do," replied Don Louis, '' at least
yon shall not take me living." This con-
test had now drawn together most of the
people in the house : Don Fernando, Car-
denio, the judge, the priest, the barber, and
even Don Quixote, had quitted his post of
castle -guard. Cardenio, already knowing
the young man's story, asked the men why
they would take away the youth against
his will ? « To save hk father's life," re-
plied one of them ; ** which is in danger
from distress of mind." " There is no occa-
sion to give an account of my afiairs here,"
said Don Loub ; " I am free, and will go
back if I please ; otherwise, none of you
shall force me." " But reason will prevail
with you," answered the servant ; *' and if
not^ we must do our duty." " Hold," said
the judge, *' let us know the whole of this
afiair," the man (who recollected him) an-
swered, " Does not your worship know this
gentleman 7 He is your neighbour's son,
and has absented himself from his father's
house, in a garb very unbecoming his qua-
lity, as your worship may see." The judge,
after looking at him with attention, recog-
nized him, and accosted him in a friendly
manner : " What childish fit>lic is this,
sigfior Don Louis," said he; "or what
powerful motive has induced you to disguise
yourself in a manner so unbecoming yooi
rank ?" The eyes of the youth were filled
with tears, and he could not say a word.
The judge desired the servants to be quiet,
promising that all should be well ; and, taking
Don Louis by the hand, he led him aside,
and questioned him.
In the mean time a great uproar was
heard at the inn-door, which was occasioned
by two guests who had lodged there that
night, and who, seeing every body engaged,
had attempted to go off without paying their
reckoning ; but ¿e host, being more atten-
tive to his own business than to that of
other people, laid hold of them as they were
going out of the door, and demanded his
money ; giving them such hard words for
their evil intention that they were provoked
to return him an answer with their fists, and
so much to the purpose that the poor inn-
keeper was forced to call out for help. The
hostess and her daughter seeing none more
proper to give him succour than Don Quix-
ote, applied to him. " Sir knight," said the
daughter, ^' I beseech you, by the valour
which God has given you, to come and help
my poor father, whom a couple of wicked
fellows are beating without mercy." Don
Quixote, very leisurely, and with much
phlegm, replied, " Fair maiden, your petition
cannot be granted at present, because I axn
DON QUIXOTE.
•20
incapacitated tirom engaging in any other
ad ven toro until I have accomplished one
for Tvhich my word is already plighted : all
that I can do in your service is to advise
you to go and desire your father to maintain
the fight as well as he can, and by no means
allow himself to be vanquished ; in the
mean time I will go and request permission
of the princess Micomicona to relieve him iu
his distress, which, if she grants me, rest
assured, I will forthwith deliver him." "As
I am a sinner," quoth Maritornes, who was
present, "before your worship can do all
that, my master may be gone into the other
world.'* "Suffer me, madam, to obtain
that permission ;" answered Don Quixote,
" and, if I procure it, it matters not though
he be in the other world ; for thence would
I liberate him, in spite of the other world
itself : or at least I will take such ample
revenge on those who sent him thither that
you shall be entirely satisfied." Then, with-
out saying another word, he approached
Dorothea, and, throwing himself on his knees
before her, in chivalrous terms, he entreated
that her grandeur w^ould vouchsafe to give
him leave to succour the governor of the
castle, who was in grievous distress. The
princess very graciously consented ; when,
bracing on his target, and drawing his
sword, he proceeded to the inn-door, where
the two guests were still maltreating the
poor host ; but, before he came there, he
suddenly stopped short and stood irresolute,
though Maritornes and the hostess asked him
why he delayed helping their master. " I
delay," said Don Quixote, " because it is
not lawful for me to draw my sword against
plebeians ; but call hither my squire, Sancho
Panza ; for to him doth this matter more
properly belong." In the meantime the
conflict at the door of the inn continued
without intermission, very much to the dis-
advantage of the inn-keeper, and the rage
of Maritornes, the hostess and her daughter,
who were ready to run distracted to see the
cowardice of Don Quixote, and the Injury
done to their lord and master.
But here we must leave him : for some-
body will no doubt come to his relief; if
not, let him suffer for being so fool-hardy as
to engage in such an unequal contest ; and
^ =
let us remove fiflty paces off, to sec what
Don Louis replied to the judge, whom we
left questioning him as to the cause of his
travelling on foot so meanly apparelled.
The youth clasping his hands, as if some
great afiliction wrung his heart, and shed-
ding tears in abundance, said, in answer,
"I can only say, dear sir, that, from the
moment Heaven was pleased, by means of
our vicinity, to give me a sight of Donna
Clara, your daughter, she became sovereign
mistress of my affections ] and if you, my
true lord and father, do not oppose it, this
very day she shall be my wife. For her, I
left my father's house, and for her I assumed
this garb, to follow her wheresoever she
might go. She knows herself no more of
my passion than what she may have per-
ceived, by occasionally seeing at a distance
my eyes full of tenderness and tears. You
know, my lord, the wealth and rank of my
&mily, of whom I am the sole heir ; if these
circumstances can plead in my favour,
receive me immediately for your son : for,
though my father, influenced by other views
of his own, should not approve my choice,
time may reconcile him to it." Here the
enamoured youth was silent, and the judge
remained in suspense : no less surprised by
the ingenuous confession of Don Louis than
perplexed how to act in the aflair ; in reply,
threfore, he only desired him to be calm for
the present, and not let his servants return
that day, that there might be time to con-
sider what was most expedient to be done.
Don Louis kissed his hands with vehemence,
bathing them with tears, that might have
softened a heart of marble, much more that
of the judge, who, being a man of sense,
was aware how advantageous this match
would be for his daughter. Nevertheless,
he would rather, if possible, that it should
take place with the consent of Don Louis's
father, who he knew had pretensions to a
tide for his son.
By this time the inn-keeper and his guests
had made peace, more through the persua-
sions and arguments of Don Quixote than
his threats ; and the reckoning was paid.
And now the devil, who never sleeps, so
ordered it that, at this time, the very bar-
ber entered the inn who had been deprived
ai8
ADVENTÜBES OF
of Mambrino's helmet by Don Quixote, and
of the trappings of his ass, by Sancho Panza ;
and, as he was leading his beast to the sta-
ble, he espied Sancha Panza, who at that
moment was repairing something about the
self-^ame pannel. He instantly fell upon him
with fury : " Ah thief!" said he, " have I
got you at last ! — give me my bason and my
pannel, with all the furniture you stole from
me !" Sancho, finding himself thus sud-
denly attacked and abused, secured the
pannel with one hand, and with the other
made the barber such a return that his
mouth was bathed in blood. Nevertheless,
the barber would not let go his hold ; but
raised his voice so high that he drew every
body round him, while he called out, '^ Jus-
tice, in the king's name! This rogue and
highway - robber here would murder me
for endeavouring to recover my own goods."
'' You lie," answered Sancho, ''I am no
highway-robber ; my master, Don Quixote,
won these spoils in fair war." Don Qnixote
was now present and not a little pleased to
see how well his squire acted both on the
offensive and defensive ; and, regarding him
tiienceforward as a man of mettle, he re-
solved in his mind to dub him a knight the
first opportunity that offered : thinking the
order of chivcJry would be well bestowed
upon him.
During this contest the barber made many
protestations. " Gentlemen," said he, '' this
pannel is as certainly mine as the death I
owe to God ; I know it as well as if it were
a child of my own body, and yonder stands
my ass in the stable, who will not suffer me
to lie— pray do but try it, and, if it does not
fit him to a hair, let me be infamous ; and
moreover, the very day they took this from
me, they robbed me likewise of a new brass
bason, never hanselled, that cost me a crown."
Here Don Quixote could not forbear inter-
posing ; and, separating the two combatants,
he made them lay down the pannel on the
ground to public view, until the truth should
be decided. ^'The error of this honest
squire," said he, ^'is manifest, in calling
that a bason, which was, is^ and ever shall
be, Mambrino's helmet : — that helmet which
I won in fidr war, and am therefore its
right and lawful possessor. With r^ard
^
to the pannel, I decline any interference ;
all I can say is that my squire, Sancho,
asked my permission to take the trapping»
belonging to the horse of this conquered
coward, to adorn his own withal. I gave
him leave--he took them, and, if finom horse-
trapping» they are metamorphosed into an
ass's pannel, I have no other reasons to give
than that these transformations are firequent
in affairs of chivalry. In confirmation of
what I say, go, Sancho, and bring hither
the helmet which this honest man terms a
bason." << In faith, sir," quoth Sancho, '< if
we have no better proof than that of what
your worship says, Mambrino's helmet will
prove as errant a bason as the honest man'a
trappings are a pack-saddle." " Do what I
eommand,"replied Don Quixote ; ** ibrsorely
all things in this castle cannot be governed
by enchantment" Sancho went for the
bason, and, returning with it, he gave it to
Don Quixote. *' Only behold, gentlemen !"
said he, '* how can this squire have the face
to declare that this is a bason, and not the
helmet which I have described to you? —
By the order of knighthood which I profiess,
I swear that this very helmet is the same
which I took from him, without addition or
dimunition." *^ There is no doubt of that,"
quoth Sancho, ^' fbr, from the time my mas-
ter won it, until now, he has fought but one
battle in it, which was when he freed those
unlucky galley-slaves ; and had it not been
for that same bason -helmet, he would not
have got off so well fiK)m the showers of
stones which rained upon him, in that
skirmish."
CHAPTER XLV.
IN WHICH THE DISPUTE CONCBRNINO
HAMBRINO'S HELMBT, AND THE PAN-
NEL, IS decided; WITH OTHER AD-
VENTURES THA.T REALLY AND TRULY
HAPPENED.
" Good sirs," quoth the barber, <' hear what
these gentlefolks say ! They will have it
that this is no bason, but a helmet !" ^^Aye,"
said Don Quixote, ** and whoever shall affirm
the contrary I will convince him, if he be
DON QUIXOTE.
319
a knight, that he lies, and if a squire, that
he lies and lies again, a thousand times."
Our barber, master Nicholas, who was pre-
sent, wishing to carry on the jest, for the
amusement of the company, addressed him-
self to the other barber and said : '^ Sigñor
barber, or whoerer you are, know that I
also am of your profession, and ha^e had my
certificate of examination aboye these twenty
years, and am well acquainted with aU the
instruments of barber -surgery, without ex-
ception. I have likewise been a soldier
in my youth, and therefore know what a
helmet is, and what a morion or cap of
steel is, as well as a casque with its bever,
and other matters relating to soldiery, — I
mean to the arms commonly used by soldien.
And I say, with submission always to better
judgments, that the piece before us, which
that gentleman holds in his hand, not only
is not a barber's bason, but is as iar from
being so as white is from black, and truth
from falsehood. At the same time I say
that, although it be a helmet, it is not a com-
plete helmet." " Certainly not," said Don
Quixote f '' for one -half of it is wanting,
namely the bever." " Undoubtedly," said
the priest, who perceived his friend the bar-
ber's design ; and Cardenio, Don Fernando,
and his companions, all confirmed the same:
even the judge, had not his thoughts been
engrossed by the a£Ur of Don Louis, would
have taken some share in the jest ; but, in
the perplexed state of his mind, he could
attend but little to these pleasantries.
<< Mercy on me !" quoth the astonished
barber, '' how is it possible that so many
honoured gentlemen should maintain that this
is not a bason, but a helmet ! This would
be enough to astonish a whole university, be
it ever so wise. Well, if the bason be a hel-
med then the pannel must needs be a horse's
furniture, as the gentleman has said." *' To
me, indeed, it seems to be a pannel," said
Don Quixote ; ^' but I have already told
you I will not interfere on that subject."
** Whether it be the pannel of an ass, or the
capaiison of a horse," said the priest, ^' must
be left to the decision of sigfior Don Quix-
ote : for, in matters of chivalry, all these
gentlemen and myself submit to his judg-
ment." " By all that is holy ! gentlemen,"
said Dcm Quixote, ^* such extraordinary
things have be&Uen me in this castle that
I dare not vouch for the certainty of any
thing that it may contain, for I verily be-
lieve that all is conducted by the powers
of enchantment During my first visit, I was
tormented by an enchanted Moor, while
Sancho fiired no better among some of his
followers ; and this night I have been sus-
pended for nearly two hours by my arm,
without knowing either the means or the
cause of my persecution : it would be rash
in me, therefore, to give my opinion in an
affair of so much perplexity. As to the
question whether this be a bason or a hel-
met, I have already answered; but with
regard to the pannel, gentlemen, not daring
myself to pronounce a definitive sentence, I
refer it to your wisdom to decide. Perhaps,
as you are not knights-errant, the enchant-
ments of this place may not have the same
power over you, and, your understandingi
remaining free, you may judge of things as
they really are, and not as they appear to
me." "There is no doubt," answered Don
Fernando, " but that sigfior Don Quixote
is right in leaving the decision of this case
to us ; and, that we may proceed in it, upon
solid grounds, 1 will tiJce the votes of these
gentlemen in secret, and then give you a
clear and full account of the result."
To those acquainted with Don Quixote,
all this was choice entertainment ; while to
others it seemed the height of folly, among
which were Don Louis, his servants, and
three other guests, troopen of the holy bro-
therhood, who just then arrived at the inn.
As for the barber, be was quite raving to
see his bason converted into Mambrino's hel-
met before his eyes, and he made no doubt
but his pannel would undergo a like trans-
formation. It was diverting to see Don
Fernando walking round, and taking the
opinion of each person at his ear, whether
that precious object of contention was a
pannel or a caparison ; and, after he had
taken the votes of all those who knew Don
Quixote, he said aloud to the barber, " In
truth, honest fiiend, I am weary of collect-
ing votes; for I propose the question to
nobody who does not say, in reply, that it is
quite ridiculous to assert that this is an ass's
'(Q}
c-=
='?)
220
ADVENTURES OF
pannel; and not the caparison of a horse, and
even of a well bred horse ; and, as yon have
given us no proofs to the contrary, you must
have patience and submit^ for in spite of both
yon and yourass, this is no pannel." ''Let me
never enjoy a place in heaven !" exclaimed
the barber, " if your worships are not all
mistaken ; and so may my sonl appear be-
fore God as this appears to me a pannel,
and not a caparison : but so go the laws :*
1 say no more ; and verily I am not
drunk, for I am as yet fasting from every
thing but sin."
The barber's simplicity caused no less
merriment than the vagaries of the knight^
who now said, " As sentence is passed, let
each take his own ; and him to whom God
giveth, may St. Peter bless." One of Don
Louis's four servants now interposed, " How
is it possible/' said he, '^ that men of com-
mon understanding should say that this is
not a bason, nor that a pannel ? But since
you do actually affirm it, I suspect there
must be some mystery in obstinately main-
taining a thing so contrary to the plain
truth : for, by (and out he rapped a
round oath) all the votes in the world shall
never persuade me that this is not a barber's
bason, and that a jack-ass's pannel." *^ May
it not be that of a she ass ?" quoth the priest.
'^ That is all one," said the servant ; '< the
question is only whether it be, or be not, a
pannel." One of the officers of the holy
brotherhood, who had over-heard the dis-
pute, cried out, full of indignation, '^ It is
as surely a pannel as my father is my
father ; and whoever says, or shall say, to
the contrary, must be drunk." ** You lie
like a pitiful scoundrel," answered Don
Quixote ; and, lifting up his lance, which
was still in his hand, he aimed such a blow
at the head of the trooper that, had he not
«lipped aside, he would have been levelled
to the ground. The lance came down with
such fury that it was shivered to pieces.
'< Help ! help the holy brotherhood !" cried
out the other officers. The inn-keeper, being
himself one of that body, ran instantly for
his wand and his sword, to support his
* He itops in the middle of the proverb, " Alia tad
lejf», donde quieren reye» " — as we »ay, " Might OTer-
I right."
comrades. Don Louis's servants surrounded
their master, lest he should escape during
the confusion. The barber, perceiving the
house turned topsy-turvy, laid hold again
of his pannel, and Sancho did the same.
Don Quixote drew his sword, and fell upon
the troopers ; and Don Louis called out to
his servants to leave him, that they might
assist Don Quixote, Cárdenlo, and Don
Fernando, who all took part with the knight.
The priest cried out, the hostess shrieked,
her daughter wept. Maritornes roared,
Dorothea was alarmed, Lucinda stood
amazed, and Donna Clara fainted away.
The barber cuffed Sancho, and Sancho
pommeled the barber. Don Louis gave one
of his servants, who had presumed to hold
him by the arm lest he should escape, such
a blow with his fist that his mouth was
bathed in blood ; which caused the judge to
interpose in his defence. Don Fernando
got one of the troopers down, and laid on
his blows most unmercifally ; while the inn-
keeper bawled aloud for help to the holy
brotherhood ! Thus was the whole inn filled
with críes, wailings, and shrieks, dismay,
confusion, and terror, kicks, cudgellings,
and effiision of blood. In the midst of this
chaos, and hurly burly, Don Quixote
suddenly conceived that he was Involved
over h^ and ears in the discord of king
Agramante's camp ; and he called out in a
voice which made the whole inn shake,
" Hold, all of you ! Put up your swords ;
be pacified, and listen all to me, if ye would
live." His vehemence made them desist,
and he went on, saying : " Did I not tell
you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted,
and that some legion of devils must inhabit
it? Behold the confirmation of what I
said ! Mark, with your own eyes, how the
discord of Agramante*s camp is transferred
hither amongst us ! there they fight for the
sword, here for the horse, yonder for the
eagle, here again for the helmet: we all
fight, and no one understands another. Let,
then, my lord judge, and his reverence the
priest, come forward, the one as king Agra-
mante, the other as king Sobrino, and
restore us to peace, for, by the powers
divine ! it were most disgraceful and iniq-iit-
ous that so many gentlemen of our rank
DON QUIXOTE.
221
should slay each other for such trivial
matters." The troopers, not understanding
Don Quixote's language, and finding them-
selves still roughly handled by Don Fer-
nando, Cárdenlo, and their companions,
would not be pacified ; but the barber sub-
mitted : for both his beard and his pannel
were demolished in the 8cu£9e ; and Sancho,
like a dutiful servant, obeyed the least word
of his master. Don Louis's four servants
were also quiet, seeing how unprofitable it
was to interfere. The inn -keeper, still re-
fractory, insisted that the insolence of that
madman ought to be chastised, who was con-
tinually turning his house upside down. At
length, the tumult subsided ; the pannel was
to remain a caparison, and the bason a helmet,
and the inn a castle, at least in Don Quixote's
imagination, until the day of judgment.
Amity and peace being now restored, by
the interposition of the judge and the priest,
the servants of Don Louis renewed their
solicitations for his return. The judge having,
in the mean time, informed Don Fernando,
Cárdenlo, and the priest, of what had passed
between himself and the young man, he
consulted with them on the afiiur, and it
was finally agreed that Don Fernando
fihould make himself known to Don Louis's
servants, and inform them that it was his
desire that the young gentleman should ac-
company him to Andalusia, where he would
be treated by the marquis his brother in a
manner suitable to his quality ; for his de-
termination was, at all events, not to return,
just at that time, into his father's presence.
The servants, being apprised of Don Fer-
nando's rank, and finding Don Louis
resolute, agreed, among themselves, that
three of them should return to give his
father account of what had passed, and that
the other should stay to attend Don Louis,
and not leave him, until he knew his lord's
pleasure. Thus was this complicated tumult
appeased by the authority of Agramante,
and the prudence of Sobrino.
But the enemy of peace and concord,
finding himself foiled and disappointed in
the scanty produce of so promising a field,
resolved to try his fortune once more, by
contriving new frays and disturbances. The
oflicers of the holy brotherhood, on hearing
the quality of their opponents, retreated
fi-om the fray, thinking that, whatever might
be the issue, they were likely to be losers.
But one of this body, who had been severely
handled by Don Fernando, happened to
recollect that, among other warrants in his
possession, he had one against Don Quixote,
whom his superiors had ordered to be taken
into custody for releasing galley-slaves:
thus confirming Sancho's just apprehensions.
In order to examine whether the person of
Don Quixote answered the description, he
drew forth a parchment scroll from his
doublet, and began to read it slowly (for
he was not much of a scholar), ever and
anon, as he proceeded, fixing his eyes on
Don Quixote, comparing the marks in his
warrant with the lines of his physiognomy.
Fmding them exactly to correspond, and
being convinced that he was the very person
therein described, he held out the warrant
in his left hand, while, with his right, he
seized Don Quixote by the collar with so
powerful a grasp as almost to strangle him,
at the same time crying aloud — " Help the
holy brotherhood ! and, that you may see
I require it in earnest, read this warrant,
wherein it is expressly ordered that this
highway -robber should be apprehended."
The priest took the warrant, and found
what the trooper said was true ; the descrip-
tion exactly corresponding with the person
of Don Quixote. The knight, finding him-
self so rudely handled by this scoundrel,
was exasperated to the highest pitch, and,
trembling with rage, caught the trooper by
the throat with both hands ; and, had he
not been immediately rescued by his com-
rades, he would certainly have been strangled
before Don Quixote had loosed his hold.
The inn -keeper, who was bound to aid his
brethren in office, ran instantly to help him.
The hostess, seeing her husband again en-
gaged in battle, again exalted her voice ;
her daughter and Maritornes added their
pipes to the same tune, calling upon heaven
and all around them for assistance. " As
God shall save me," exclaimed Sancho,
^'what my master says is true, about the
enchantments of this castle ; for it is impos-
sible to live an hour quietly in it." Don
Fernando at length parted the officer and
^@
222
ADVENTURES OF
Don Quixote, and, to the satisfaction of
both, unlocked their hands from the doublet-
collar of the one^ and from the wind-pipe of
the other. Nevertheless the troopers per-
sisted in claiming their prisoner : declaring
that the king's service, and that of the holy
brotherhood, required it; and in whose
name they again demanded help and assist-
ance in apprehending that common robber
and highway thief. Don Quixote smiled at
these expressions, and, with great calmness,
said, ** Come hither, base and ill-bom crew :
call ye it robbing on the highway to loosen
the chains of the captive, to set the prisoner
free, to succour the oppressed, to faise the
fallen, and relieve the needy and wretched?
Ah, scoundrel race! undeserving, by the
meanness and baseness of your understand-
ings, that heaven should reveal to you the
worth inherent in knight-errantry, or make
you sensible of your own sin and ignorance
in not revering the shadow, much more the
presence, of any knight -errant! Tell me,
ye rogues in a troop! — not troopers, but
highway marauders, under license of the
holy brotherhood — tell me, who was the
blockhead that signed the warrant for ap-
prehending such a knight as I am ? Who
was he who knew not that knights -errant
are exempt from all judicial authority;
that their sword is their law, valour their
privilege, and their own will their edicts ?
Who was the madman, I say again, who
knew not that there is no patent of gen-
tility which contains so many privileges and
exemptions as are acquired by the knight-
errant on the day he devotes himself to the
rigorous exercise of chivalry 7 What knight-
errant ever paid custom, poll-tax, subsidy,
quit- rent, porterage, or ferry-boat? What
tailor ever brought in a bill for making his
clothes.^ What governor that lodged him
in his castle ever made him pay for his
entertainment? What king did not seat
him at his table? What damsel was not
enamoured of him, and did not yield herself
up entirely to his will and pleasure ? Finally,
what knight- errant ever did, or shall exist,
who has not courage, with his single arm,
to bestow a hundred bastinadoes on any
four hundred troopers of the holy brother-
hood who shall dare to oppose him ?''
CHAPTER XLVI.
THB NOTABLE ADVBNTUKE OP THE HOLY
BROTHERHOOD; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF
THE FEROCITY OF OUR GOOD KNIGHT
DON QUIXOTE.
While Don Quixote was thus haranguing
the officers, the priest was endeavouring to
persuade them that, since Don Quixote, as
they might easily perceive, was deranged in
hb mind, it was useless for them to proceed
fardier in the affair ; for, if they were to
apprehend him, he would soon be released
as insane. But the trooper only said, in
answer, that it was not his busmess to
judge of the state of Don Quixote's intel-
lects, but to obey the order of his superior ;
and that, when he had once secured him,
they might set him free as often as they
pleased. " Indeed,'' said the priest, " you
must forbear this once ; nor do I think that
he will suffer himself to be taken." In fact
the priest said so much, and Don Quixote
acted so extravagantly, that the officers
would have been more crazy than himself
had they not desisted after such evidence of
his infirmity. They judged it best, there-
fore, to be quiet, and endeavour to make
peace between the barber and Sancho Panza,
who still continued their scuffle with great
rancour. As officers of justice, therefore, they
compounded the matter, and pronounced such
a decision that, if both parties were not per-
fectly contented, at least they were in some
degree satisfied ; it being settled that they
should exchange pannels, but neither girths
nor halters. As for Mambrino's helmet,
the priest, unknown to Don Quixote, paid
the barber eight reals, for which he received
a discharge in full, acquitting him of ail
fraud thenceforth and for evermore.
Thus were these important contests de-
cided ; and fortune seemed to smile on all
the heroes and heroines of the inn — even the
face of Donna Clara betrayed the joy of her
heart as the servants of Don Louis had ac-
quiesced in his wishes. Zoraida, although
she could not understand every thing, looked
sad or gay, in conformity to the expressions
she observed in their several countenances,
especially that of her Spaniard, on whom
not only her eyes, but her soul, rested.
=3)
=Cr^
DON QUIXOTE.
The inn-keeper, observing the recompense
which the priest had made the barber^
claimed also the payment of his demands
upon Don Quixote, with ample satisfaction
for the damage done to his skins, and the loss
oF his wine ; and swore that neither Rozi-
naste nor the ass should stir out of the inn
until be had been paid the uttermost farthing.
The priest, however, endeavoured to soothe
him, and, what was more, Don Fernando
settled the knight's account, although the
judge would fain have taken the debt upon
himself. Peace was, therefore, entirely
restored, and the inn no longer displayed
the confusion of Agramante's camp, as Don
Quixote had called it, but rather the tran-
quillity of the days of Octavius Ceesar : —
thanks to the mediation and eloquence of the
priest, and the liberality of Don Fernando.
Don Quixote, now finding himself disen-
gaged, thought it was time to pursue his
journey, and accomplish the grand entep-
prise for which he had been elected. Ac^
cordingly he approached the princess, and
threw himself upon his knees before her;
but she would not listen to him in that
posture 'f and therefore, in obedience to her,
he arose, and thus addressed her : <' It is a
common adage, fair lady, that ' diligence is
the mother of success ;' and experience con-
stantly verifies its truth. The active solicitor
brings the doubtful suit to a happy issue ;
but this truth is never more obvious than in
military operations, where expedition and
dispatch anticipate the designs of the enemy,
and victory is secured before he is prepared
for defence. I am induced to make these
remarks, most exalted lady, because our
abode in this eastle seems no longer neces-
sary, and may indeed be prejudicial; for
who knows but your enemy the giant may,
by secret spies, get intelligence of my
approach, and thus gain time to fortify
himself in some impregnable fortress, against
which my vigilance^ and the force of my inde-
fatigable arm, may be ineffectual. There-
fore, sovereign lady, that his designs may
be prevented by our diligence, let us depart
quickly in the name of that good-fortune
which will be yours the moment I come face
to fiice with your enemy." Here Don
Quixote was silent, and, with dignified com-
posure, awaited the answer of the beautiful
itt&ata, who, with an air of majesty, and
in a style corresponding with that of her
knight, thus replied: ^'I am obliged to
you, sir knight, for the zeal you testify in my
cause, so worthy of a true knight, whose
office and employment it is to succour the
orphan and distressed; and heaven grant
that our desires may be soon aocompli^ed ;
that you may see that all women are not
ungrateful. As to my departure, let it be
instantly, for I hare no other will but yours;
dispose of me entirely at your pleasure : for
she who has committed the defence of her
peison, aifd the restoration of her dominions,
into your hands, must not oppose what your
wisdom shall direct." " By heaven !" ex-
elaimed Don Quixote, " I will not lose the
opportunity of exalting a lady who thus
liu]d[>leth herself. I will replace her on the
throae of her ancestors. Let us depart im-
mediately : for the ardour of my zeal makes
me impatient; nor hath heaven created,
nor hell seen, aught of danger that can
daunt or afiright me. Sancho, let Bozi-
nante be saddled, get ready thine own
bcasty and also her majesty's palfrey ; let us
take our leave of the governor of the castle,
and of these nobles, that we may set fortli
instantly."
Sancho, who had been present «all the
time, shook his head, saying, *' Ah, master
of mine ! there are more tricks in the town
than are dreamt of; with all respect be it
^oken." " What tricks can there be to
my prejudice in any town or city in the
world, thou bumpkin V* said Don Quixote.
*' If your worship puts yourself into a
passion," answered Sancho, '^I will hold
my tongue, and not say what I am bound
to say, as a faithful squire and a dutiful
servanL" " Say what thou wüt," replied
Don Quixote, '^ but think not to intimidate
me ; for it is thy nature to be fiunt-hearted
— ^mine, to be proof against all fear." '< As
I am a sinner to God," answered Sancho,
*' I mean nothing of all this ; I mean only
that I am sure, and positively certain, that
this lady who calls herself queen of the
great kingdom of Micomicon is no more a
queen than my mother ; for, if she were so,
she would not be nazzling, at every turn,
e^
224
ADVENTURES OF
and in every corner, with a certain person
in the company." Dorothea's colour rose
at Sancho's remark; for it was indeed true
that her spouse, Don Fernando, now and
then, by stealth, had snatched with his lips
an earnest of that reward his affections de-
served; and Sancho, having observed it,
thought this freedom more becoming a lady
of pleasure than the queen of so vast a
kingdom. As Dorothea could not contradict
Sancho, she remained silent, and suffered
him to continue his remarks. '' I say this, sir,
because supposing, after we have travelled
through thick and thin, and passed many
bad nights and worse days, one who is now
enjoying himself in this inn should chance
to reap the fruit of our labours, there would
be no use in my hastening to saddle Rozi-
nante, or get ready the ass and the palfrey :
therefore we had better be quiet ; let every
drab mind her spinning, and let us to
dinner." Good heaven ! How great was
the indignation of Don Quixote, on hearing
hb squire speak in terms so disrespectful 1
It was so great that, with a altering voice
and stammering tongue, while living fire
darted from his eyes, he cried, '' Scoundrel !
unmannerly, ignorant, ill - spoken, foul -
mouthed, impudent, murmuring, and back-
biting villain ! How darest thou utter such
words in my presence, and in the presence
of these illustrious ladies ! How darest thou
to entertain such rude and insolent thoughts
in thy conñised imagination ! Avoid my
presence, monster of nature, treasury of
lies, magazine of deceits, storehouse of
rogueries, inventor of mischiefs, publisher
of absurdities, and foe to all the honour due
to royalty ! Begone ! appear not before
me, on pain of my severest indignation !"
And, as he spoke, he arched his brows,
swelled his cheeks, stared around him, and
gave a violent stamp with his right foot on
the ground ; plainly indicating the fury that
raged in his breast. Poor Sancho was so terri-
fied by this storm of passion that he would
have been glad if the earth had opened that
instant and swallowed him up ; he knew not
what to say or do, so he turned his back, and
hastened out of the presence of his furious
master.
But tlic discreet Dorotliea, perfectly un-
derstanding Don Quixote, in order to pacify
his wrath, said, ''Be not offended, sir knight
of the sorrowful figure, at the impertinence of
your good squire : for, perhaps, he has not
spoken without some foundation : nor can
it be suspected, considering his good sense
and christian conscience, that he would bear
fidse witness against any body ; it is possible
that since, as you affirm yourself, sir-knight,
the powers of enchantment prevail in this
castle, Sancho may, by the same diabolical
illusion, have seen what he has affirmed, so
much to the prejudice of my honour." " By
the Omnipotent, I swear," quoth Don Quix-
ote, " your highness has hit the mark ! —
some evil apparition must have appeared to
this sinner, and represented to him what it
was impossible for him to see any other way ;
for I am perfectly assured of the simplicity
and innocence of the unhappy wretch, and
that he is incapable of slandering any person
living." '' So it is, and so it shall be," said
Don Fernando : '' therefore, sigfior Don
Quixote, you ought to pardon him, and
restore him to your favour, ' sicut erat in
principio,' before these illusions turned his
brain." Don Quixote having promised his
forgiveness, the priest went for Sancho, who
came in with much humility, and, on his
knees, b^ged his master's hand, which was
given to him ; and, after he had allowed
him to kiss it, he gave him his blessing,
adding, " Thou wilt now, son Sancho, be
thoroughly convinced of what I have often
told thee, that all things in this castle are
conducted by enchantment." ''I believe
so too," quoth Sancho, ''except the business
of the blanket, which really fell out in the
ordinary way." " Believe not so," answered
Don Quixote ; " for, in that case, I would
have revenged thee at the^time, and even
now ; but neither could I then, nor can I
now, find on whom to resent the injury."
To gratify the curiosity which this remark
had excited, the inn - keeper gave a very
circumstantial account of Sancho Panza's
excursion in the air, which, though it enter-
tained the rest, would have distressed the
feelings of the squire, if his master had not
given him fresh assurances that it was all p.
matter of enchantment. However, Sancho's
fiiith'was never so strong but that he
©t=
DON QUIXOTE.
Q2o
shrewdly saspected it to be a downright
fact, and no illusion at all, that he had been
tossed in the blanket, by persons of flesh
and blood, and by no visionary phantoms.
This illustrious company had now pass-
ed two days in the inn ; and, thinking it
time to depart, they conndered how the
priest and barber might conyey the knight
to his home, without troubling Dorothea
and Don Fernando to accompany them;
and, for that purpose, having first engaged
a waggoner, who happened to pass by
with his team of oxen, they proceeded in
the following manner: — They formed a
kind of cage, with poles grate-wise, large
enough to contain Don Quixote at his ease;
then, by the direction of the priest, Don
Fernando and his companions, with Don
Louis's servants, the officers of the holy
brotherhood, and the inn -keeper, covered
their faces, and disguised themselves so as
not to be recognised by Don Quixote. This
done they silently entered the room where
the knight laid fast asleep, reposing after
his late exertions, and secured him with
cords; so that when he awoke, he stared
about in amazement at the 'strange visages
that surrounded him, but found himself
totally unable to move. His disordered
imagination operatmg as usual immediately
suggested to him that these were goblins of
the enchanted castle, and that he was en-
tangled in its charms, since he felt himself
unable to stir in his own defence : a surmise
which the curate, who projected the strata-
gem, had anticipated. Sancho alone was
in his own proper figure ; and, though he
wanted but little of being infected with his
master's infirmity, yet he was not ignorant
who aU these counterfeit goblins were ; but
he thought it best to be quiet, until he saw
what was intended by this seizure and im-
prisonment of his master. Neither did the
knight utter a word, but submissively waited
the issue of his misfortune. Having brought
the cage into the chamber, they placed him
within it, and secured it so that it was im-
possible he should make his escape ; in this
situation he was conveyed out of the house,
and, on leaving the chamber, a voice was
Ih ard, as dreadful as the Í arber could form,
('not he of the pannel, but the otlier) saying :
** O knight of the sorrowful figure ! Let not
thy present confinement afflict thee, since it
is essential to the speedy accomplishment of
the adventure in which thy great valour hath
engaged thee ; which shall be finished when
the furious Manchegan lion shall be coupled
with the white Tobosian dove, after having
submitted their stately necks to the soft ma-
trimonial yoke ; from which wonderful con-
junction shall spring into the light of the
world, brave whelps, who shall emulate the
ravaging claws of their valorous sire* And
this shall come to pass before the pursuer
of the fugitive nymph shall have made two
circuits to visit the bright constellations, in
his rapid and natural course. And thou, O
the most noble and obedient squire that ever
had sword in belt, beard on &ce, and smell
in nostrils, be not dismayed nor afflicted to
see the flower of knight-errantry carried
thus away before thine eyes : for, ere long,
if it so please the great Artificer of the world,
thou shalt see thyself so exalted and subli-
mated as not to know thyself: and thus
will the promises of thy valorous lord be ful-
filled. Be assured, moreover, in the name
of the sage Mentironiana^* that thy wages
shall be punctually paid thee : follow there-
fore the valorous and enchanted knight,
for it is expedient for thee to go where ye
both may find repose. More I am not per-
mitted to say. Heaven protect thee I I now
go — I well know whither !" As he con-
cluded this solemn prediction, the prophet
first raised his voice high, then gradually low-
ered it to so pathetic a tone that even those
who were in the plot were not unmoved.
Don Quixote was much comforted by this
prophecy, quickly comprehending the whole
signification thereof; for he saw that it pro-
mised him the felicity of being joined in holy
wedlock with his beloved Dulcinea del To-
boso, from whom should issue the whelps,
his sons, to the everlasting honour of La
Mancha* Upon the strength of this convic-
tion, he exclaimed, with a deep sigh, ** O
thou, whoever thou art, who hast prognos-
ticated me so much good, I beseech thee to
intercede in my behalf with the sage en-
chanter who hath the charge of ray affairs,
¿bat he suffer me not to perish in the prison.
* A void framed from ** mentira, " a lie.— J
'^=
226
ADVENTURES OF
wherein I am now enclosed, before these
promises of joyful and heavenly import are
fulfilled : let them but come to passi and I
shall glory in the pains of my imprisonment,
enjoy the chains with which I am bound,
and imagine this hard couch, whereon I lie,
a soil bridal bed of down. On the affec-
tionate attachment of my squire, Sancho
Panza, I have too much reliance to think
that he will desert me, whatever be my for-
tunes ; and though it should even happen,
through his or my evil destiny, that I were
unable to give him the island, or something
equivalent, according to my promise, at least
he cannot lose his salary ; for, in my will,
which is already made, I have settled that
point ; not indeed proportionable to his many
and good services, but according to my own
ability." Sancho Panza bowed with great
respect, and kissed both his master's hands ;
for one alone he could not, as they were
both tied together. The goblins then took
the cage on Üieir shoulders, and placed it on
the waggon.
•g^J!
CHAPTER XLVII.
OF THE STRANGE AND WONDERFUL
MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE DE
LA MANCHA WAS ENCHANTED, VTLTK
OTHER REMARKABLE OCCURRENOKS.
" Many very grave historians of knights-
errant have I read," said Don Quixote, on
finding himself thus cooped up and carted,
" but 1 never read, saw, or heard of en-
chanted knights being transported in this
manner, and so slowly as these lazy, heavy,
animals seem to proceed; for they were
usually conveyed through the air with
wonderñil speed, enveloped in some thick
and dark doud, or on some chariot of fire,
or mounted upon a hippogriff, or some such
animal. But to be carried upon a team
drawn by oxen, before God 1 it overwhelms
me with confusion ! Perhaps, however, the
enchantments of these our times may differ
from those of the ancients ; and it is also
possible that, as I am a new knight in the
world, and the first who revived the long-
forgotten exercise of knight-errantry, new
modes may have been invented. What
think'st thou of this, son Sancho 1" " I do
not know what to think," answered Sancho,
*' not being so well read as your worship in
scriptures -errant, yet I dare affirm and
swear that these hobgoblins here about us
are not altogether caÜioUc." " Catholic my
father !'' answered Don Quixote : " how
can they be catholic, being devils, who have
assumed fitntastic shapes, to efiect their pur-
pose, and throw me into this state ? To con-
vince thyself of this, try to touch and feel
them, and thou wilt find that their bodies
have no substance, but are of air, existing
only to the sight" "'Fore God! sir!"
replied Sancho, "I have ah^ady touched
them, and this devil, who is so very busy
here about us, is as plump as a partridge,
and has another property very difierent firom
what your devils are wont to have : for it is
said, they all smell of brimstone, and other
bad scents ; but this spark smells of amber
at half a league's distance." Sancho spoke
of Don Fernando, who being a cavalier of
rank, must have been perfumed as Sancho
described. "Wonder not at this, friend
Sancho," answered Don Quixote ; " for thou
must know that devils are cunning, and,
although they may carry perfumes about
them, they have no scent themselves, being
spirits ; or, if they do smell, it can be of
nothing but what is foul and offensive, since,
wherever they are, they carry hell about
them, and have no respite from their tor-
ments. Now, perfumes being pleasing and
delicious, it is quite impossible that they
should have such an odour ; or if, to thy
sense, one smelleth of amber, either thou
deceivest thyself, or he would mislead thee,
that thou might'st not know him for a
fiend."
Thus were the knight and squire discours-
ing together, when Don Fernando and
Cárdenlo, fearing lest Sancho should see into
the whole of their plot, being abeady not
far from it, resolved to hasten their depar-
ture, and, calling the inn-keeper aside, they
ordered him to saddle Rozinante and pannel
the ass, which he did with great expedition.
In the mean while the priest engaged to
pay the troopers of the holy brotherhood,
to accompany Don Quixote home to his
ñzz
DON QUIXOTE.
227
village. Cardenio fastened the buckler on
one side, and the bason on the other, of the
pommel of Roadnante'a saddle ; then, after
placing the two troopers with their carabines,
on each side of the waggon, he made signs
to Sancho to mount his ass, and lead Rozi-
nante by the bridle. But, before the car
moved forward, the hostess, her daughter,
and Maritornes, came out to take their leave
of Don Quixote, pretending to shed tears
for grief at his misfortune. ''Weep not,
my good ladies," said the knight, " for dis-
asters of this kind are incident to those of
ray profession ; and if such calamities did
not befal me I should not account myself a
distinguished knight-errant, for these events
never occur to the ignoble, but to thoee
whoee valour and virtue excite the envy of
princes and knights, who seek by evil
machinations to defame whatever is praise-
worthy and good. Notwithstanding which,
so powerful is virtue that of herself alone,
in spite of all the necromantic skill of the
first enchanter, Zoroaster, she will come off
victorious in every attack, and spread her
lustre over the world, as the sun illumines
the heavens. Pardon me, fair ladies, if I
have, through inadvertence, given you any
offence : — for intentionally I never offended
any person, and I beseech you to pray
heaven for my deliverance from my present
thraldom ; and if ever I find myself at
liberty, I shall not forget the &vours you
hare done me in this castle, but shall
acknowledge and requite them as they
deserve."
While this passed between the ladies of
the castle and Don Quixote, the priest and
the barber took their leave of Don Fernando
and his companions, the captain, and of all
the ladies, now supremely happy. Don
Fernando requested the priest to give him
intelligence of Don Quixote ; assuring him
that nothing would afford him more satis-
faction than to hear of his future proceed-
ings; and he promised, on his part, to
inform him of whatever might amuse or
please him, respecting his own marriage, the
baptism of Zoraida, and the return of Lu-
' cinda to her parents, and also the issue of
Don Louis's amour. The priest engaged to
perform all that was desired of him with
the utmost punctuality; after which they
separated with many expressions of mutual
cordiality and good -will. Just before the
priest left the house, the inn-keeper brought
him some papers, which he said he had
found in the lining of the wallet that con-
tained the novel of the Curious Impertinent;
and, since the owner had never returned to
claim them, and he could not read himself,
he might take them away with him. The
priest thanked him; and, opening the
papers, found them to be a novel entitled
^'Rinconete and Cortadillo;"* and, con-
cluding that it was by the same author as
that of the Curious Impertinent, was in-
clined to judge fieivourably of it : he there-
fore accepted the manuscript, intending to
peruse it the first opportunity that offered.
He and the barber then joined the caval-
cade, which was arranged in the following
order : In the firont was the car, guided
by the owner, and on each side the troopers,
with their matchlocks : then came Sancho,
upon his ass, leading Rozinante by the
bridle ; and, in the rear, the priest and his
finend Nicholas, mounted on their stately
mules; and thus the whole moved on,
with great solemnity, regulated by the slow
pace of the oxen. Don Quixote sat in the
cage, with his hands tied, and his legs
stretched out, leaning against the bars as
silently and patiently as if he had been,
not a man of flesh and blood, but a statue
of stone. In this manner they travelled
about two leagues, when they came to a
va&ey, which the waggoner thought a con-
yenient place for resting and baiting his
cattle ; but, on his proposing it, the barber
recommended that they should travel a little
fiurther, as, beyond the next rising ground,
there was a vale that afforded much better
pasture ; and this advice was followed.
The priest, happening about this time to
look back, perceived behind them six or
seven horsemen, well mounted and ac-
coutred, who soon came up with them ; for
they were not travelling with the phleg-
matic pace of the oxen, but like persons
mounted on good ecclesiastical mules, and
eager to reach a place of shelter against the
* Written by Cervantes.
^^
=©
328
ADVENTURES OP
mid 'day sun. The speedy overtook the
slowy and each party courteously saluted
the other. One of the travellers, who was
a canon of Toledo^ and master to those who
accompanied him, observing the orderly
procession of the waggon, the troopers,
Sancho, Rozinante, the priest, and the
barber, and especially Don Quixote, caged-
up and imprisoned, could not forbear making
some enquiries; though, on observing the
badges of the holy brotherhood, he con-
cluded that they were conveying some
notorious robber, or other criminal, whose
punishment belonged to that fraternity.
'* Why the gentleman is carried in this
manner," replied one of the troopers who
was questioned, '^ he must tell you himself;
for we know nothing about the matter.''
Upon which Don Quixote (having over-
heard what passed) said: "If perchance,
gentlemen, you are conversant in the afftdrs
of chivalry, I will acquaint yon with my
mbfortunes ; but if not, I will spare myself
that trouble." The priest and the barber,
perceiving that the travellers were speaking
with Don Quixote, rode up to them, lest
any thing should pass that might frustrate
their plot. The canon, in answer to Don
Quixote, said, "In truth, brother, I am
more conversant in books of chivalry than
in Vilklpando's Summaries: you may,
therefore, freely communicate to me what-
ever you please." " With heaven's per-
mission, then," replied Don Quixote, *' be it
known to you, sigfior cavalier, that I am en-
chanted in this cage, through the envy and
fraud of wicked necromancers ; for virtue is
more persecuted by the wicked than beloved
by the good. A knight-errant I am : — not
one of those whose names fame has forgotten
to eternize, but one who, in despite of envy
itself, and of all the magicians of Persia,
the Brahmins of India, and the gymnoso-
phists of Ethiopia, shall enrol his name in
the temple of immortality, to serve as a
model and mirror to future ages, whereby
knights-«rrant may see the track they are
to follow, if they are ambitious of reaching
the honourable summit and pinnacle of true
glory." ** Sigfior Don Quixote de la Man-
cha says the truth," said the priest, ^' for he
b conveyed in that enchanted state, not
(§z
through his own iault or demerit, but the
malice of those to whom virtue is odious and
courage obnoxious. This, sir, is the knight of
the sorrowful figure, whose valorous exploits
and heroic deeds shall be recorded on solid
brass and everlasting marble, in despite of all
the efforts of envy and malice to conceal
and obscure them." The canon, upon hearing
not only the imprisoned, but the free, man
talk in such a style, crossed himself in
amazement, nor were his followers less sur-
prised; and, Sancho now coming up, to
mend the matter, said, " Look ye, gentle-
men, let it be well or ill taken, I will out
with it : the truth of the case is my master,
Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted aa
my mother; he is in his perfect senses, he
eats, drinks, and does his occasions like
other men, and as he did yesterday before
they cooped him up. This being so, will
you persuade me he is enchanted? The
enchanted, I have heard say, neither eat,
nor sleep, nor speak ; but my master here,
if nobody stops him, will talk ye more than
thirty barristers." Then, turning to the priest,
he went on saying: "Ah, master priest,
master priest, do I not know you ? And think
you that I cannot guess what these new
enchantments drive at ? Let me tell you I
know you, though you do hide your face,
and understand you too, sly as you may be.
But the good cannot abide where envy
rules, nor is generosity found in a beggarl}'
breast. Evil beM the devil ! Had it not
been for your reverence, before this time
his worship had been married to the princess
Micomicona, and I had been an earl at least ;
for I could expect no less from my master's
bounty and tiie greatness of my services.
But I find the proverb true that ' the wheel
of fortune turns swifter than a mill-wheel,*
and they who were yesterday at the top
are to-day at the bottom. I am grieved
for my poor wife and children ; for, when
they might reasonably expect to see their
father come home a governor or viceroy of
some island or kingdom, they will now see
him return a pitiful groom. All this I say,
master priest, only to make your paternity
feel some conscience in regard to what you
are doing with my master ; take heed that
God does not call you to an account, in tlie |
e?=
DON QUIXOTE.
229
next life, for this imprisonment of my lord,
and require at your hands all the good he
might have done during this time of his con-
finement" " SnuflP me these candles," quoth
the barber, interrupting the squire ; " what !
art thou, Sancho, of thy master's fraternity ?
as God shall save me, I begin to think thou
art likely to keep him company in the cage,
for thy share of his humour and his chi-
valry. In an evil hour wert thou gotten with
child by his promises, and thy head filled
with islands." " I am not with child by any
body," answered Sancho, ^' nor am I a man
to suffer myself to be gotten with child by
the best king that may be ; and, though I
am a poor man, I am an old christian, and
owe no body any thing ; and, if I covet
islands, there are others who covet worse
things ; and every one is the son of his own
works ; and, being a man, I may come to
be pope, and, much more easily, governor
of an island; especially since my master
may win so many that he may be at a loss
where to bestow them. Take heed, master
barber, what yon say ] for shaving of beards
is not all, and there is some difference be-
tween Pedro and Pedro. I say this because
we know one another, and there is no
patting ialse dice upon me. As for my
master's enchantment, God knows the truth,
and let that rest — it is the worse for stir-
ring.'' The barber would not answer Sancho,
lest his simplicity should betray them ; and
for the same reason the priest desired the
canon to go on a littie before, saying he
would let him into the mystery of the im-
prisonment, with other particulars that
would amuse him.
The canon and his servants then rode on
before with the priest, who entertained him
with a circumstantial account of Don Quix-
ote, from the first symptoms of his derange-
ment to his present situation in the cage.
The canon was surprised at what he heard.
"Truly," said he to the curate," those tales of
chivalry are very prejudicial to the common-
weal ; and though, led away by an idle and
ialse taste, I have read in part, dmost all that
are printed, I could never get through the
whole of any one of them ; they are all so
much alike. In my opinion, this kind of
writing and composition falls under the head
of what are called Milesian fables, which
are extravagant stories, calculated merely
to amuse, and very unlike those moral tales,
which are no less instructive than entertain-
ing; and though the principal object of
such books is to please, I know not how
they can attain that end, by such monstrous
absurdities : for the mind receives pleasure
from the beauty and consistency of what is
presented to the imagination, not from that
which is incongruous and unnatural. Where
is the sense or consistency of a tale, in which
a youth of sixteen hews down a giant as
taU as a steeple, and splits him in two as if
he were made of paste ? Or how are we to
be interested in the detail of a battie, when we
are told that the hero contends alone against
a million of adversaries, and obtains the vic-
tory by his single arm ? Then, what shall
we say to the facility with which a queen
or empress throws herself into the arms of an
errant and unknown knight ? What mind,
not wholly barbarous and uncultivated, can
feel satisfied in reading that a vast tower,
full of knights, is launched upon the ocean,
and sailing, like a ship before the wind, is
to-night, inLombardy,and to-morrow morn-
ing in the country of Préster John in the
Indies, or in some other, that Ptolomy never
discovered, nor Marcus Paulus ever saw ?
It may be said that these, being professedly
works of invention, should not be criticised
for inaccuracy : but I say that fiction should
be probable, and that, in proportion as it is
so, it is pleasing. Fables should not be com-
posed to outrage the understanding; but
by makmg the wonderful appear possible,
and creating in the mind a pleasing interest,
they may both surprise and entertain : which
cannot be effected where no regard is paid
to probability. I have never yet found a
regular, well-connected fable, in any of our
books of chivalry: — they are all incon-
sistent and monstrous ; the style is generally
bad; and they abound with incredible
exploits, lascivious amours, absurd senti-
ments, and miraculous adventures : in short,
they should be banished every christian
country."
The priest listened attentively to these ob-
servations of the canon, which he thought
were perfectiy just ; and he told him that he
=&
@=
230
ADVENTURES OF
also had such enmity to those tales of chi-
valry that he had destroyed all that Don
Quixote had possessed, which were not a
few in number ; and he amused the canon
very much by his account of the formal
trial and condemnation through which they
had passed. *' Notwithstanding all that I
have said against these kind of books/' said
the canon, ^* I think they certainly have the
advantage of possessing an ample field for
the exercise of genius : there is such scope
for descriptive powers, in storms, shipwrecks,
and battles ; and also delineation of cha-
racter, for instance, in the military hero —
his foresight in anticipating the stratagems of
his adversary, his doquence in encouraging
or restraining his foUowers, his wisdom in
council, his promptitude in action. Now,
the author paints a sad and tragical event,
and now, one that is joyful ; sometimes he
expatiates on a valiant and courteous knight,
at others, on a rude and lawless barbarian ;
now on a warlike and afiable prince, then, a
good and loyal vassal. He may shew himself
to be an excellent astronomer or geographer,
a musician, or a statesman ; and, if he
pleases, may even dilate on the wonders of
necromancy. He may describe the subtilty
of Ulysses, the piety of iBneas, the bravery
of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the
treachery of Sinon, the friendship of Eurya-
lus, the liberality of Alexander, the valour
of Ceesar, the clemency and probity of Tra-
jan, the fidelity of Zopyrus, the wisdom of
Cato, and findly all those qualities which
constitute the perfect hero : either uniting
them in a single person, or distributing them
among many ; and if all this be done in a
natural and pleasing style, a web of various
and beautiful contexture might surely be
wrought, that would be equally deb'ghtful
and instructive. The freedom indeed of this
kind of composition is alike favourable to
the author, whether he would display his
powers in epic (for there may be epic in
prose as well as verse), or in lyric, in tra-
gedy or comedy, — in short, in every de-
partment of the delicious arts of poetry and
oratory.
* UtereUj, I should have been like the tidlor at
the itreet corner. The entire proverb it, *' Ser como el
•astre de la encraeiada, que eoaia de Talde, j penta,
CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN WHICH THS CANON CONTINUES HIS
DISCOURSE ON BOOKS OF CHIVALRY,
WITH OTHER SUBJECTS WORTHY OF
HIS GENIUS.
" It is exactly as you say, sir," said the
priest to the canon ; '^ and, therefore, those
who have hitherto composed such books are
the more deserving of censure for their en-
tire disregard to good sense, and every rule
by which they might have become the rivals
in prose of the two princes of Greek and Latin
poetry." '' I have m3rself made an attempt
to write a book of knight-errantry, on a
better plan," said the canon, " and, to con-
fess the truth, I have not written less than a
hundred sheets, which I have shewn to some
learned and judicious friends, as well as to
others less cultivated and more likely to be
pleased with extravagance ; and from all I
met with encouragement. Notwithstanding
this, I have never proceeded in the work,
partly from an idea that it was foreign to
my profession, and partly from the consider-
ation of what a great majority of ibols there
are in the world ; and, although I know
that the approbation of tiie judicious few
should outweigh the censure of the ignorant,
yet I feel averse to exposmg myself to vul-
gar eriticism. I was discouraged, too, when-
ever I reflected on the present state of the
drama, and the absurdity and incoherence
of roost of our modem comedies, whether
fictitious or historical: for the actor and
author both say that they must please the
people, and not produce compositions which
can only be appreciated by half a score men
of sense ; and that they would rather gain
subsistence by tiie many than reputation by
the few. What other fate then couW I ex-
pect, but that, after racking my brains to
produce a reasonable work, I should get
nothing but my labour for my pains ?• I
have occasionally endeavoured to persuade
theatrical managers that they would not
only gain more credit, but, eventually, find
it more advantageous, to produce better
•I hilo de m cMa." *"n> b« like the tailor et the «row.
way, who sewed for nothing, and found the threatf
hlanelf.**— J.
DON QUIXOTE.
281
dramas ; but they will not listen to reason.
Conversing one day with a fellow of this
kind, I said, ^ Do yon not remember that, a
few years since, three tragedies were pro-
duced which were universally admired ; that
delighted both the ignorant and wise, the
vulgar as well as the cultivated ; and that
by those three pieces the players gained more
than by thirty of the best which have since
been represented V ^ I suppose you mean the
Isabella, PhiUis, and Alexandra ;'* he replied.
' The same,' said I, ' and pray recollect that
although they were written in strict con-
formity to the rules of art, they were suc-
cessful : the whole blame, therefore, is not
to be ascribed to the taste of the vulgar.
There is nothing absurd, for instance, in the
play of Ingratitude Revenged,t nor in the
Numantia ',t nor in the Merchant Lover ;§
much less in the Pavourable Enemy ;|| or in
some others composed by ingenious poets,
to their own renown and the profit of those
who acted them.' To these I added other
ax^uments, which, I thought, in some de-
gree perplexed biro, but were not so con-
vincing as to make him reform his erroneous
practice."
" Signer canon," said the priest, ^' you
have touched upon a subject which has re-
vived in me an old grudge I have borne
against onr modem plays, scarcely less than
that I feel towards books of chivalry ; for,
though the drama, according to Cicero,
ought to be the mirror of human life, an ex-
emplar of manners, and an image of truth —
those which are now produced are mirrors of
inconsistency, patterns of foUy, and images
of licentiousness. What, for instance, can
be more absurd than the introduction of a
child, in the first scene of the first act, in
swaddling-clothes, that, in the second, makes
his appearance as a bearded man 7 or to repre-
sent an old man valiant, a young man cow-
ardly, a footman a rhetorician, a page a
privy-counsellor, a king a water-carrier, and
a princess a scullion ? Nor are they more ob-
servant of place than of time. I have seen
a comedy, the first act of which was laid
in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third
* The author of these tngedies wu Lapercio Leon-
ardo y Argentóla.— P.
t By Lope de Vega.— P.
in Africa ; and, had there been four acts,
the fourth would doubtiess have been in Ame-
rica. If truth of imitation be an important
requisite in dramatic writing, how can any
one, with a decent share of understanding,
bear to see an action which passed in the
time of king Pepin or Charlemagne, ascribed
to the emperor Heradius, who is intro-
duced carrying the cross into Jerusalem, or
recovering the holy sepulchre like Godfrey
of Boulogne, though numberless years had
elapsed between these actions ? And when
the piece is founded on fiction, to see histo-
rical events mingled with &cts relating to
different persons and times; and all this
without any appearance of probability, but,
on the contrary, full of the grossest absurd-
ity. And yet there are people who think
all this perfection, and call every thing else
mere pedantry. The sacred dramas too, —
how they are made to abound with fidse and
incomprehenuble events! ¿"equentiy con-
founding the miracles of one saint with
those of another : — indeed, they are often
introduced in plays on profane subjects,
merely to please the people. Thus is our
national taste degraded in the opinion of
cultivated nations, who, judging by the
extravagance and absurdity of our produc-
tions, conceive us to be in a state of igno-
rance and barbarism. It is not a sufficient
excuse to say that the object, in permit-
ting theatrical exhibitions, being chiefly to
provide innocent recreation for the people,
it is unnecessary to limit and restrain the
dramatic author within strict rules of compo-
sition ; for I affirm that the same object is,
beyond all comparison, more efiectnally at-
tained by legitimate works. The spectator of
a good drama is amused, admonished, and
improved, by what is diverting, affecting, and
moral, in the representation ; he is cautioned
against deceit, corrected by example, incensed
against vice, stimulated to the love of virtue.
Such are the effects produced by dramatic
excellence, but they are not to be expected
on our present stage : although we have many
authors, perfectiy aware of the prevailing
defects, but who justify themselves by saying
X A tragedy by Cenantes— p.
^ By Gaspar de Avila.— P.
I By Francisco TerreRa.— P«
=3
232
ADVENTURES OF
that, in order to make their works saleable,
they must write what the theatre will pur-
chase. We have a proof of this evea in
the happiest genius of our country, who has
written an infinite number of dramatic works
with such viyacity and elegance of style,
such loftiness of sentiment and richness of
elocution, that his fame has spread over the
world ; nevertheless, in conforming occa-
sionally to the bad taste of the present day,
his productions are not all equally excel-
lent. Besides the errors of taste, some
authors have indulged in public and pri-
vate scandal, insomuch that the actors have
been obliged to abscond. These and every
other inconvenience would be obviated if
some intelligent and judicious person of the
court were appointed to examine all plays
before they are acted, and without whose
approbation none should be performed.
Tlins guarded, the comedian might act
without personal risque, and the author
would -write with more circumspection ; and
by such a regulation, works of merit might
be more frequent, to the benefit and honour
of the country. And, in truth, were the
same or some other person appointed to ex-
amine all future books of chivalry, we
might hope to see some more perfect pro-
ductions of this kind, to enrich our language,
and which, superseding the old romances,
would afford rational amusement, not to the
idle alone, but the active : for the bow can-
not remain always bent, and relaxation, both
of body and mind, is indispensable to all."
The canon and the priest were now inter-
rupted in their dialogue by the barber, who,
coming up to them, said, ** This is the spot
where I proposed that we should rest our-
selves ; and the cattle will find here plenty
of grass/' The canon, hearing this, deter-
mined to halt likewise, induced by the
beauty of the place, and the pleasure he
found in the priest's conversation ; besides,
he was curious to see and hear more of Don
Quixote. He ordered some of his attend-
ants to go to the nearest inn, and bring pro-
visions for the whole party; but he was
told by one of them that their sumpter-mule,
which had gone forward, carried abundance
of reireshment, and that they should want
nothing from the inn but barley ; upon
which he dispatched them in haste for the
mule.
During the foregoing conversation between
the canon and the curate, Sancho, perceiving
that he might speak to his master without
the continual presence of the priest and the
barber, whom he looked upon with suspicion,
came up to his master's cage, and said to
him, *' Sir, to disburden my conscience, I
must tell yon something about this enchant-
ment of yours; and it is this, that those
who are riding along with ns, with their
faces covered, are the priest and the barber
of our town ; and I fancy they have played
you this trick, and are carrying you in this
manner, out of pure envy of your worship,
for surpassing them in ueunous achievements.
Now, supposing this to be true, it is plain
that you are not enchanted, but cheated and
fooled ; for proof whereof, I would ask you
one thing, and if you answer me, as I be-
lieve you must, you shall lay your finger
upon this cheat, and find that it is just as I
say." <^ Ask what thou wilt, son Sancho,"
answered Don Quixote ; *^ for I will satisfy
thee, to the full, without reserve. But as
to thy assertion that those persons, who
accompany us, are the priest and the barber,
our townsmen and acquaintance, — ^however
they may appear to thee, thou must in no
wise believe it. Of this thou may'st be
assured, that, if they appear to be such, they
have only assumed their semblance : for en-
chanters can easily take what forms they
please, and they may have selected those of
our two friends, in order to mislead and in-
volve thee in such a labyrinth of fancies
that even the clue of Theseus could not
extricate thee. Besides, they may also have
done it to make me waver in my judgment,
and prevent me from suspecting üom what
quarter this injury comes. For if, on tlie
one hand, thou say'st that the priest and
the barber of our village are our companions,
and, on the other, I find myself locked up
in a cage, and am conscious that super-
natural force alone would have power to
imprison me — ^what can I say or think, but
that the manner of my enchantment is
more extraordinary than any that I have
ever read of in history? Rest assured,
therefore, that these are no more the persons
=^
=(f^
DON QUIXOTE.
tliou say'sty than I ain a Turk. As to tby
queries — make them; for I will answer
thee, though thou should'st continue asking
until to-morrow morning." *< Blessed Vir-
gin !" answered Sancho, raising his voice^
*' is your worship indeed so thick-skulled,
and devoid of brains, that you do not see
what I tell you to be the very truth, and
that there is more roguery than enchantment
in this mishap of yours, as I will clearly
prove. Now tell me, as God shall deliver
you from this trouble, and as you hope to
find yourself in my lady Dulcinea's arms,
when you least think of it,'' ''Cease
conjuring me," said Don Quixote, ''and
ask what questions thou wilt, for I have
already told thee that I will answer them
with the utmost precision." " That is what
I want," replied Sancho ; " and all I crave
is that you would tell me, without adding
or diminishmg a tittle, and with that truth
which is expected from all who exercise the
profession of arms, as your worship does,
under the title of knights-errant,"-
' I tell thee I will lie in nothing," answered
Don Quixote: "therefore speak; for, in
truth, Sancho, I am wearied with so many
salvos, postulatums, and preparatives." " I
say," replied Sancho, " that I am fully satis-
fied of the goodness and veracity of my
master, and therefore, it being quite to the
purpose in our affair, I ask (with respect be
it spoken,) whether, since you have been
cooped up, or, as you call it, enchanted in
this cage, your worship has had any incli-
nation to open the greater or the lesser
sluices, as people are wont to say ?" " I
do not understand, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, " what is thy meaning, by open-
ing sluices : explain thyself, if thou woulds't
liave me give thee a direct answer." " Is
it possible," quoth Sancho, " your worship
should not understand that phrase, when the
very children at school are weaned with it ?
You must know then, it means, whether you
have not had an inclination to do what no-
body can do for you ?" " Ay, now I com-
prehend thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote ;
" in truth, I have often had such inclination,
and have at this very instant ; and, if thou
can'st, I pray thee, help me out of this strait,
for I doubt all is not so clean as it should be."
CHAPTER XLIX.
OP THE INGENIOUS CONFERENCB BE-
TWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS
MASTER DON QUIXOTE.
" Ah !" quoth Sancho, " now I have caught
you : this is what I longed to know with all
my heart and soul. Come on, sir ; can you
deny what is in every body's mouth, when
a person is in the dumps ? It is always then
said, ' I know not what such a one ails —
he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor
answers to the purpose, like other men—
surely he is enchanted.' Wherefore it is
clear that such and such only are enchanted
who neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep, nor
perform the natural actions I speak of, and
not they who have such calls as your wor-
ship has, and who eat and drink when they
can get it, and answer properly to all that
is asked them." " Thou art right, Sancho,"
answered Don Quixote ; " but I have al-
ready told thee that there are sundry sorts
of enchantments, and it is probable that, in
process of time, they may have changed,
and that now it may be usual for those who
are enchanted to do as I do, though it was
formerly otherwise : it is impossible to argue
or draw conclusions from the varying cus-
toms of different periods. I know, and am
verily persuaded, that I am enchanted ;
and that is sufficient for my conscience,
which would be heavily burdened, if I
thought I was not so, but suffered myself to
lie in this cage like a coward, defrauding
the necessitous and oppressed of succour,
when, perhaps, at this very moment, they
may be in extreme want of my aid and
protection." " But for all that," replied
Sancho, " I say, for your greater and more
abundant satisfaction, that your worship
will do well to endeavour to get out of tljis
prison ; and I will undertake to help you
with all my might You may tlien once
more mount your trusty Rozinante, who
seems as if he were enchanted too, he looks
so melancholy and dejected ; and we may
again try our fortune in search of adven-
tures : and, if matters turn out not quite to
our hearts content, we can come back to the
cage, and I promise you, on the faith of a
:-y
(e=
234
ADVENTURES OF
good and loyal squire, to shut myself up in
it with your worship." " I am content to
follow thy advice, brother Sancho/' replied
Don Quixote, ''and when thou seest an op-
portunity for effecting my deliverance, I will
be guided entirely by thee : but be assured,
Sancho, thou wilt find thyself mistaken as
to the nature of my misfortune."
In such conversation the knight - errant
and the evil - errant squire were engaged,
until they came to the place where the priest,
the canon, and the barber, were already
alighted, and waiting for them. The wag-
goner then unyoked the oxen from his team,
and turned them loose upon that green and
delicious spot, the freshness of which was
inviting, not only to those who w^ere en-
chanted, like Don Quixote, but to discreet
and enlightened persons like his squire, who
besought the priest to permit his master to
come out of the cage for a short time; other-
wise that prison would not be quite so clean
as decency required, in the accommodation
of such a knight as his master. The priest
understood him, and said that he would
readily consent to his request, but he feared
lest his master, finding himself at liberty,
should play his old pranks, and be gone
where he might never be seen more. *^ I
will be security for his not running away,"
replied Sancho. ''And I also," said the
canon, " if he will give his parole of
honour." " I give it," said Don Quixote ;
" especially as those who, like myself, are
enchanted, have no power over their own
persons, for their persecutors may render
them motionless during three centuries : —
you may therefore safely release me." He
then intimated, &rther, that his removal
might prove more agreeable to all the party
on another account. The canon took him
by the hand, though he was still manacled,
and, upon his faith and word, they uncaged
him, to his great satisfaction. The first thing
that he did was to stretch himself; after
that, he went up to Rozinante, and giving
him a couple of slaps on the hinder parts,
with the palm of his hand, he said, " I yet
trust in Heaven, O thou flower and pattern
of steeds ! that we shall both soon see our-
selves in that state which is the desire of
our hearts : — thou with thy lord on thy
®=
back, and I mounted upon thee, exercising
the function for which Heaven destined
me !" The knight then, attended by San-
cho, retired to some little distance ; whence
he came back much relieved, and still more
eager to put in execution what his squire
had projected. The canon contemplated
him with surprise ; for he displayed in con-
versation a very good understanding, and
seemed, as it hath been before observed,
only to lose his stirrups on the theme of chi-
valry ; and while they were waiting for the
return of the sumpter-mule, he was induced,
out of compassion to his infirmity, to address
him on the subject :
"Is it possible, worthy sir," said the canon,
" that the disgusting and idle study of books
of chivalry should so powerfully have af-
fected your brain as to make you believe
that you are now enchanted, with other
fancies of the same kind, as far from truth
as falsehood itself? Is it possible that hu-
man reason can credit the existence of all
that infinite tribe of knights — the Amadises,
the emperors of Trapisonda, Felixmartcs of
Hyrcania, all the palfreys, damsels - errant,
serpents, dragons, giants, all the wonderful
adventures, enchantments, battles, furious
encounters^ enamoured princesses, ennobled
squires, witty dwarfe, billet - doux, amours,
Amazonian ladies — in short, all the absurd-
ities which books of chivalry contain ? For
my own part, I confess, when I read them
without reflecting on thehr falsehood and
folly, they give me some amusement; but,
when I consider what they are, I dash them
against the wall, and even commit them to
the flames, when I am near a fire, as well
deserving such a fate, for their want of com-
mon sense, and their injurious tefndency, In
misleading the uninformed. Nay, they may
even disturb the intellects of sensible and
well-bom gentlemen, as is manifest by the
effect they have had on your worship, who
is reduced by them to such a state that
you are forced to be shut up in a cage, and
carried on a team from place to place» like
some lion or tiger, exhibited for money.
Ah, sigñor Don Quixote ! have pity on your-
self, shake off this folly, and employ the
talents with which Heaven has blessed you
in the cultivation of literature more sahser-
DON QUIXOTE.
235
vient to your honour, as well as profitable
to your mind. If a strong natural impulse
still leads you to books containing the ex-
ploits of heroes^ read, in the holy scriptures^
the book of Judges, where you will meet
with wonderful truths and achievements no
less heroic than true. Portugal had a Yiri-
atus, Rome a Caesar, Carthage a Hannibal,
Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fer-
nando Gonzalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia
a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a Diego
Garcia de Paredes, Xerez a Garci Perez de
Vargas, Toledo a Garcilaso,* and Seville
a Don Manuel de Leon ; the memoirs of
whose heroic deeds afibrd a rational source
of amusement and pleasure. This, indeed,
would be a study worthy of your under-
standing, my dear sir, by which you would
become well instructed in history, enamoured
of virtue, iamiliar with goodness, improved
in morals ; and would acquire valour with-
out rashness, and caution without cowardice;
which would, at the same time, redound to
the glory of God, your own profit, and the
fame of La Mancha, whence I have been
informed yon derive your birth and origin.''
Don Quixote listened with great attention
to the canon till he had ceased speaking, and
then, looking stedfastly in his face, he replied,
" I conceive, sir, that you mean to insinuate
that there never were knights -errant in the
world ; that all books of chivalry are false,
mischievous, and unprofitable to the com-
monwealth; and that I have done ill in
reading, worse in believing, and still worse
in imitating, them, by following the rigorous
profession of knight-errantry, as by them
exemplified ; and also that you deny that
there ever existed the Amadises either of
Gaul or of Greece, or any of those cele-
brated knights?'' '< I mean precisely what
you say,*' replied the canon. ^< You also
were pleased to add, I believe," continued
Don Quixote, '' that those books had done
me much prejudice, having injured my
brain, and occasioned my imprisonment in
a cage ; and that it would be better for me
to change my course of study by reading
other books more true, more pleasant, and
* Tbia k not Oaralaso the poet, bat one of that name
who dktingniehed himself bj Tarioue military acbiere-
manta on the plain* of Oreaada.— P.
more instructive." ^'Just so," quoth the
canon. " Why then," said Don Quixote.,
'* in my opinion, sir, it is yourself who are
deranged and enchanted, since you have
dared to blaspheme an order so universally
acknowledged in the world, and its exist-
ence so authenticated that he who denies it
merits that punishment you are pleased to
say you infiict on certain books. To assert
that there never was an Amadis in the
world, nor any other of the knights-adven-
turers of whom so many records remain, is
to say that the sun does not enlighten, the
frost produce cold, nor the earth yield sus-
tenance. What human ingenuity can make
us doubt the truth of that afiair between the
Infanta Floripes and Guy of Burgundy?
and that of Fierabrás at the bridge of
Mantible, which occurred in the time of
Charlemagne ? — I vow to God they are as
true as that it is now day-light ! If these
are fictitious, it must be denied also that
there ever was a Hector or an Achilles, or
a Trojan war, or the twelve peers of France,
or king Arthur of England, who is still
wandering about transformed into a raven,
and is every moment expected in his king-
dom. They will even dare to affirm that
the history of Guarino Mezquino, and that
of the acquisition of the Santo Grial, are
lies ; and that the amours of Sir Tristram
and the queen Iseo, as well as those of
Ginebra and Lancelot, are also apocryphal :
although there are persons who almost re-
member to have seen the duenna Quintañona,
who was the best wine -skinner in Great
Britain. And this is so certain that I re-
member my grandmother by my father's
side, when she saw any duenna reverently
coifed, would say to me, 'That woman,
grandson, looks like the duenna Quinta-
ñona :' whence I infer that she must either
have known her, or at least have seen some
true effigy of her. Then, who can deny the
truth of the history of Peter of Provence
and the fair Magalona ? since, even to this
day, you may see, in the king's armoury,
the very peg wherewith the valiant Peter
steered the wooden horse that bore him
through the air; which peg is somewhat
larger than the pole of a coach ; and near it
lies the saddle of Babieca. In Roncesvalles^
236
ADVENTURES OF
too, there may be seeu Orlando's horn, the
size of a great beam. It is, therefore, evi-
dent that there were the twelve Peers, the
Peters, the Cids, and all those knights com-
monly termed adventurers ; and, if that be
doubted, it will be said too that the valiant
Portuguese, John de Merlo, was no knight-
errant ; he who went to Burgundy, and, in
the city of Ras, fought the fisimous lord of
Chami, monseigneur Pierre ; and after-
wards, in the city of Basil, monseigneur
Enrique of Remestan: coming off con-
queror in both engagements. They will
deny also the challenges and feats performed
in Burgundy by the valiant Spaniards, Pedro
Barba and Gutierre Quizada (from whom I
am h'neally descended) who vanquished the
sons of the count San Polo. Let them demy,
likewise, that Don Fernando de Guevara
travelled into Germany in quest of adven-
tures, where he fought with messire George,
a knight of the duke of Austria's court.
Let them say that the justs of Suero de
Quiñones of the Pass were all mockery;
and the enterprises of monseigneur Louis de
Falces against Don Gonzalo de Guzman, a
Castilian knight, with many other exploits
performed by christian knights of these and
other kingdoms : — all so authentic and true
that, I say again, whoever denies them roust
be wholly destitute of sense and reason.'^
The canon was astonished at Don Quixote's
medley of truth and fiction, as well as at the
extent of his knowledge on affairs of chi-
valry: and he replied, *^l cannot deny,
sigñor Don Quixote, but that there is some
truth in what you say, especially with
regard to the knights- errant of Spain; I
grant, also, that there were the twelve peers
of France : but I can never believe that they
performed all those deeds ascribed to them
by archbishop Turpin. The truth is they
were knights chosen by the kings of France,
and called peers from being all equal in
quality and prowess— at least it was intended
that they should be so ; and in this respect
they were similar to the religious order of
Saint Jago or Calatrava, all the professors of
which, it is presumed, are noble, valiant, and
virtuous; and were called knights of St.
John, or of Alcantara, just as those of the
ancient order were termed knights of the
twelve peers. That there was a Cid no one
will deny,and likewise a Bernardo del Car-
pió: but that they performed all the exploits
ascribed to them I believe there is great
reason to doubt. As to Peter of Provence's ¡
peg, and its standing near Babieca's saddle
in the king's armoury, I confess my sin in
being so ignorant or short-sighted that,
though I have seen the saddle, I never could
discover the peg, — large as it is, according i
to your description." "Yet, unquestion-
ably, there it is,'' replied Don Quixote,
" and they say, moreover, that it is kept in
a leathern case to prevent rust" " It may
be so," answered the canon ; " but, by the
holy orders 1 have received, I do not re-
member to have seen it. Yet, even granting
it, I am not therefore bound to believe all
the stories of so many Amadises, and the
whole tribe of knights-errant; and it is
extraordinary that a gentleman possessed of
your understanding and talents should give
credit to such extravagance and absurdity."
CHAPTER L.
OF THB INGENIOUS CONTEST BETWEEN
DON QUIXOTE AND THB CANON, WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS.
" A aooD jest, truly ;" said Don Quixote,
"that books printed with the license of
kings and the approbation of the examiners,
read with general pleasure, and applauded
by great and small, poor and rich, learned
and ignorant, nobles and plebeians, — in
short, by people of every state and condition,
should be all lies, and, at the same time,
appear so much like truth! Fordo they
not tell us the parentage, the country, the
kindred, the age, with a particular detail of
every action of this or that knight ? — Good
sir, be silent, and utter not such blasphemies ;
and believe roe serious when I advise you
to think on this subject more like a man of
sense : only peruse these memoirs, and they
will abundantly repay your trouble. What
more delightful than to have, as it were,
placed before our eyes, avast lake of boiling
pitch, with a prodigious number of serpents,
snakes, crocodiles, and divers other kinds of
fierce and dreadful creatures, floating in it ;
z¿íjí
=(R)
DON QUIXOTE.
237
and, from the midst of the lake, to hear a
most dreadful voice, saying, * O knight,
whosoever thon art now surveying this tre-
mendous lake, if thon wonldst possess the
treasure that lies conceded beneath these
sable waters, shew the value of thy un-
daunted breast, and plunge thyself headlong
into the midst of the black and burning
liquid ; if not, thou wilt be unworthy to see
the mighty wonders inclosed therein, and
contained in the seven castles of the seven
enchanted nymphs who dwell beneath this
horrid blackness.' And scarcely has the
knight heard these terrific words when,
without farther consideration or reflection
upon the danger to which he exposes him*
self, and, even without putting off his cum-
brous armour, he recommends himself to God
and his mistress, and plunges headlong into
the boiling pool ; when unexpectedly he finds
himself in the midst of flowery fields, with
which those of Elysium can bear no com-
parison ; where the sky seems far more clear,
and the sun shines with greater brightness.
Beyond it appears a forest of beautiful and
shady trees, whose verdure regales the sight,
whilst the ears are entertained with the sweet
and artless notes of an infinite number of
little birds of various hues, hopping among
the intricate branches. Here he discovers a
little brook, whose clear waters, resembling
liquid crystal, run murmuring over the fine
sands and snowy pebbles, which rival sifted
gold and purest pearl. There he sees an
artificial fountain of variegated jasper and
polished marble. Here he beholds another
of rustic composition, in which the minute
shells of the muscle, with the white and
yellow wreathed houses of the snail, arranged
in orderly confusion, interspersed with pieces
of glittering crystal and pellucid emeralds,
compose a work of such variety that art,
imitating nature, seems here to surpass her.
Then suddenly he descries a strong castle or
stately palace, the walls of which are massy
gold, the battlements composed of diamonds,
and the gates of hyacinths; in short the
structure is so admirable that, though the ma-
terials whereof it is framed are no less than
diamonds, carbuncles, rubies, pearls, gold,
and emeralds, yet the workmanship is still
more precious. And, after this, can anything
be more charming than to behold, sallying
forth at the castle-gate, a goodly troop of
damsels, in such rich and gorgeous attire
that, were J to attempt the minute descrip-
tion that is given in history, the task would
be endless ; and then she who appears to be
the principal takes by the hand the daring
knight who threw himself into the burning
lake, and silently leads him into the rich
palace or castle, and, stripping him as naked
as when he first came into the world, bathes
him in temperate water, and then anoints
him with odoriferous essences, and puts on
him a shirt of the finest lawn, all sweet-
scented and perfumed. Then comes another
damsel, and throws over his shoulders a
mantle worth a city, at least. He is after-
wards led into another hall, where he is
struck with wonder and admiration at the
sight of tables spread in beautiful order.
Then to see him wash his hands in water
distilled from amber and sweet-scented
flowers ! To see him seated in a chair of
ivory ! To behold the damsels waiting upou
him, all preserving a marvellous silence!
Then to see such variety of delicious viands,
so savourily dressed that the appetite is at a
loss where to direct the hand ! To hear soft
music while he is eating, without knowing
whence the sounds proceed! And, when
the repast is finished, and the tables re-
moved, the knight reclines on his seat, and,
perhaps, is pickmg his teeth, when suddenly
the door of the saloon opens, and lo ! a
damsel enters, more beautiful than any of
the former, who, seating herself by the
knight's side, begins to give him an account
of that castle, and to inform him how she is
enchanted in it, with sundry other matters
which amaze the knight and all those who
read his history. I will enlarge on this no
further; for you must be convinced, from
what I have said, that every part of every
history of a knight-errant must yield wonder
and delight Study well these books, sigfior,
for, believe me, you will find that they will
exhilarate and improve your mind. Of
myself I can say that, since I have been a
knight-errant I am become valiant, polite,
liberal, well-bred, generous, courteous,
daring, affable, patient, a sufferer of toihi,
imprisonments, and enchantments ; and, al
■Ú
(^
238
ADVENTURES OF
thoagh 80 lately enclosed within a cage like
a maniac, yet do I hope, by the valour of
my ann, and the favour of heaven, to see
myself, in a short time, king of .some king-
dom, when I ma}*^ display the gratitude and
liberality enclosed in this breast of mine ;
for, upon my faith, sir, the poor mon is
unable to exercise the virtue of liberality ;
and the gratitude which consists only in
inclination is a dead thing, even as fiiith
without works is dead. I shall, therefore,
rejoice when fortune presents me with an
opportunity of exalting myself, that I may
shew my heart in conferring benefits on my
friends, especially on poor Sancho Panza
here, my squire, who is one of the best men
in the world ; and I would fain bestow on
him an earldom, as I have long since pro-
mised: although I am somewhat in doubt
of his ability in the government of his
estate."
Sancho overhearing his master's last wonla,
said, ''Take you the trouble, sigfior Bon
Quixote, to procure me that same earldom,
which your worship has so often promised,
and r have been so long waiting for, and
you shall see that I shall not want for ability
to govern it. But even if I should, there
are people, I have heard say, who farm these
lordships, and paying the owners so much a
year, tak<^ upon themselves the government
of the whole, whilst his lordship lolls at his
ease, enjoying his estate, without concerning
himself any further about it. Just so will I
do, and give myself no more trouble than
needs must, but enjoy myself like any duke,
and let the world rub.'' '' This, brother
Sancho," said the canon, '' may be done,
as far as regards the management of your
revenue ; but the administration of justice
must be attended to by the lord himself;
and requires capacity, judgment, and above
all, an upright intention, without which no-
thing prospers : for Heaven assists the good
intent of the simple, and disappoints the evil
designs of the cunning." '' I do not under-
stand these philosophies," answered Sancho,
" all I know is that, I wish I may as surely
have the earldom as I should know how to
govern it ; for I have as large a soul as another,
and as large a body as the best of them ;
and I should be as much king of my own
dominion as any other king : and, being so,
I would do what I pleased ; and, doing what
I pleased, I should have my will ; and, hav-
ing my will, I should be contented ; and,
being content, thei^p is no more to be desired ;
and, when there is no more to desire, there's
an end of it, and let the estate come ; so
God be with ye, and let us see it, as one
blind man said to another." '' These are no
bad philosophies, as you say, Sancho," quoth
the canon : '' nevertheless, there is a great
deal more to be said upon the subject of
earldoms." "That may be," observed Don
Quixote; '' but I am guided by the numerous
examples offered on this subject by knights
of my own profession, who, in compensation
for tiie loyal and signal services they had
received from their squires, conferred upon
them extraordinary iavours, making them
absolute lords of cities and islands : indeed,
there was one whose services were so great
that he had the presumption to accept of a
kingdom. But why should I say more,
when before me is the bright example of the
great Amadis de Gaul, who made his squire
knight of the Firm-Island ? Surely I may,
therefore, without scruple of conscience,
make an earl of Sancho Panza, who is one
of the best squires that ever served knight-
errant" Witii all this methodical raving, the
canon was no less amused than astonished.
The servants who went to the inn, for
the sumpter-mule, had now retunied, and,
having spread a carpet over the green grass,
the party seated themselves under the shade
of some trees, and there enjoyed their repast,
while the cattie luxuriated on the fresh pas-
ture. As they were thus employed, they
suddenly heard a noise, and the sound of a
littie bdl from a thicket near to them ; at
the same instant, a beautiful she - goat,
speckled with black, white, and gray, ran
out of the thicket, followed by a goatherd,
calling to her aloud, in the usual language,
to stop and come back to the fold. The
fugitive animal, trembling and affrighted,
ran to the company, claiming, as it were,
their protection ; but the goatherd pursued
her, and, seizing her by the horns, addressed
her as a rational creature, " Ah ! wanton,
spotted thing ! How hast thou strayed of
late! What wolves have frighted thee,
tí=
DON QUIXOTE.
2^
child ? Wilt thou tell me, pretty one, what
this means? But what else can it mean,
but that thou art a female, and therefore
canst not be quiet I A plague on thy hu-
mours, and on all theirs whom thou resem-
blest ! Tom back, my love, turn back ; for
though not content, at least, thou wilt be
more safe in thine own fold, and among thy
companions ; for if thou, who shouldst pro-
tect and guide them, go astray, what must
become of them?''
The party were yery much amused by the
goatherd's remonstrances, and the canon said,
'' 1 intreat you, l»rother, not to be in such
haste to force back this goat to her fold ; for,
since she is a female, she will follow her na-
tural inclination in spite of aU your opposi-
tion. Come, do not be angry, but eat and
drink with us, and let the wayward creature
rest herself." At the same time he offered
him the hinder quarter of a cold rabbit on
the point of a fork. The goatherd thanked
him, and accepted his offer, and being then
in a better temper, he said, " Do not think
me a fool, gentlemen, for talking so seriously
to this animal : for, in truth, my words were
not without a meaning ; and, though I am a
rustic, I know the difference between con-
yersing with men and beasts." '^ I doubt it
not," said the priest, '^ — indeed, it is well
known that the mountains breed learned
men, and the huts of shej^erds contain
philosophers." ^' At least, sir," replied the
goatherd, ''they oontam men who have
some knowledge gained from experience ;
and, if I shall not be intruding, gentlemen,
I will tell you a circumstance which con-
firms it."
''Since this affúr," said Don Quixote,
" bears somewhat the semblance of an ad-
venture, for my own part, friend, I shall
listen to you most willingly : I can answer
also for these gentlemen, who are persons
of sense, and will relish the curious, the en-
tertaining, and the marvellous, which I
doubt not but your story contains; I entreat
you, fiiend, to begin it immediately." " I
shall take myself away to the side of yonder
brook," said Sancho, " with this pasty, of
which I mean to lay in enough to last three
days at least : for I have heard my master
Don Quixote say that the squire of a knight-
errant should eat when he can, and as long
as he can, because he may lose his way for
six days together, in a wood ; and then, if
a man has not his beUy well lined, or his
wallet well provided, there he may stay, till
he is turned into a mummy," " Thou art
in the right, Sancho," said Don Quixote :
" go where thou wilt, and eat what thou
canst ; my appetite is already satisfied, and
my mind only needs refreshment, which the
tale of this good man will doubtless afford.
The goatherd being now requested by the
the others of the company to begin his tale,
he patted his goat, which he still held by
the horns, saying, " Lie thee down by me,
speckled fool ; for we shall have time enough
to return to our fold." The goat seemed to
understand him ; for, as soon as her master
was seated, she laid herself quietly down by
him, and, looking up into his face, seemed
to listen to his story, which he began as
follows.
CHAPTER LI.
THB OOATHEBD'S NARRATIVE.
" Three leagues from this valley there is
a town, which, thougli small, is one of the
richest in these parts ; and among its inhabit-
ants was a &rmer of such an excellent cha-
racter that, though riches generally gain
esteem, he was more respected for his good
qualities than for his wealth ; and his happi-
ness was completed in possessing a daughter
of extraordinary beauty, discretion, and vir-
tue. When a child, she was lovely, but at
the age of sixteen she was perfectly beau-
tiful, and her fame extended over all the
neighbouring villages, — villages, do I say ?
— ^it spread itself to the remotest cities, even
into the palaces of kings ! People came
from every part to see her, as some relic, or
wonder-working image. Her father guarded
her, and she guarded herself : for no pad-
locks, bolts, or bars, secure a maiden so well
as her own reserve. The wealth of the
iather, and the beauty of the daughter, in-
duced many to seek her hand, insomuch
that he, whose right it was to dispose of so
precious a jewel, was perplexed, and knew
MO
ADVENTURES OF
not whom to select among her importunate
suitors. I was one of the number, and had
indulged fond hopes of success, being known
to her iather, born in the same village, un-
tainted in bloody in the flower of my age,
rich, and of no mean understanding. Ano-
ther of our village, of equal pretensions with
myself, solicited her also ; and, her &ther
being equally satisfied with both both of us,
was perplexed which to prefer, and therefore
determined to leave the choice to Leandra
herself, — for so the maiden is called : an
example worthy the imitation of all parents.
I do not say they should give them their
choice of what is improper ; but they should
propose to them what is good, and leave
them to select thence, according to their taste.
I know not which of us Leandra preferred ;
this only I know, that her father put us both
off by pleading the tender age of his daughter,
and with such general expressions as neither
bound himself, nor disobliged us. My rival's
name is Anselmo, mine Eugenio ; for you
ought to know the names of the persons
concerned in this tragedy, the catastrophe
of which, though still suspended, will surely
be disastrous.
''About that time there came to our viUage
one Vincent de la Rosa, son of a poor farmer
in the same place. This Vincent had returned
from Italy and other countries, where he
had served in the wars : having been carried
away from our town at twelve years of age
by a captain who happened to march that
way with his company ; and now, at the
end of twelve years more, he came back in
a soldier's garb, bedizened with a variety of
colours, and covered with a thousand trinkets
and glittering chains. To-day he put on
one piece of finery, to-morrow another: but
all slight and counterfeit, of little or no value.
The country - folks (who are naturally en-
vious, and, if they chance to have leisure,
are malice itself), observed, and reckoned
up, all his trappings and gew-gaws, and
found that he had tiiree suits of apparel, of
different colours, with hose and garters to
them ; but those he disguised in so many
different ways, and with so much contri-
vance, that, had they not been counted, one
would have s^'om that he had above ten
suits, and twenty plumes of feathers. Do
not look upon this description of his dress as
impertinent or superfluous, for it is an im-
portant part of the story. He used to seat
himself on a stone-bench, under a great pop-
lar tree in our market-place, and there he
would hold us all gaping, and listening to
the history of his exploits. There was no
country on the whole globe that he had not
seen, nor battle in which he had not been
engaged. He had slain more moors tiian
are in Morocco and Tunis, and fought more
single combats, according to his own account,
than Gante, Luna, Diego Grarcia de Paredes,
and a thousand others, from which he always
came off victorious, and without losing a
drop of blood ; at the same time he would
shew us marks of wounds, which, though
they were not to be discerned, he assured
us were so many musket -shots, received in
different actions. With the utmost arrogance,
he would Thee and Thou his equals and ac-
quaintance, and boast that his arm was his
father, his deeds his pedigree, and that, under
the titie of soldier, he owed the king him-
self nothing. In addition to this boasting,
he pretended to be somewhat of a musician,
and scratched a littie upon the guitar, which
some people admired. But his accomplish-
ments did not end here ; for he was likewise
something of a poet, and would compose a
ballad, a league and a half in length, on
every trifling incident that happened in the
village.
" Now this soldier whom I have described,
this Vincent de la Rosa, this hero, this gal-
lant, this musician, this poet, was often seen
and admired by Leandra, from a window of
her house, which faced the market-place.
She was struck with the tinsel of his gaudy
apparel ; his ballads enchanted her ; for he
gave at least twenty copies about, of oil he
composed. The exploits he related of him-
self reached her ears — in short, as the devil
would have it, she fell downright in love
with him, before he had entertained the pre-
sumption of courting her. In short, as in
affairs of love none are so easily accom-
plished as those which are favoured by tiie
inclination of the lady ; Leandra and Vin-
cent soon came to a mutual understanding,
and, before any of her numerous suitors had
the least suspicion of her design, she had
^
=(S)
DON QUIXOTE.
241
already accomplished it, and left tlie house
of her afiectionate iather (she had no mother)
and quitted the town witli the soldier, who
came off in tliis enterprise more triumphantly
than in any of those of which he had so arro-
gantly boasted. This event excited general
astonishment. Anselmo and I were utterly
confounded, her father grieved, her kindred
ashamed, justice alarmed, and the troopers
of the holy brotherhood in full activity.
They beset the high- ways, and searched the
woods, leaving no place unexplored, and
at the end of three days tliey found the
poor giddy Leandra in the cave of a moun-
tain, stripped of all her clothes, and the
money and jewels which she had carried
away from home. They brought her back
to her disconsolate father ; and, being ques-
tioned, she freely confessed that Vincent de
la Rosa had deceived her, and, upon promise
of marriage, had persuaded her to leave her
father's house, telling her he would carry her
to Naples, the richest and most delicious city
in the whole world. The imprudent and
credulous girl said that, having believed him,
she had robbed her father, and given the
whole to him on the night of her elopement ;
and tliat he had carried her among the moun-
tains, and left her shut up in that cave, after
plundering her of every thing but her honour.
It was no easy matter to persuade us of the
young roan's forbearance, but she affirmed
it so positively that her father was much
comforted with the idea that she had not
sustained an irreparable loss.
'^The same day that Leandra returned,
she disappeared s^in from our eyes, as her
father placed her in the monastery of a neigh-
bouring town, in hopes that time might efface
the blemish which her reputation had suf-
fered. Her tender years were some excuse
for her fault: especially with those who
were indifferent as to whether she was good
or bad : but those who know how much sense
and understanding she possesses could only
ascribe her &ult to levity, and the foibles
natural to womankind. When Leandra was
gone, Anselmo and myself were blind to
every thing — at least no object could give
us pleasure. We cursed tlie soldier's finery,
and reprobated her father's want of vigilance;
nor hod time any effect in diminishing our
regret. At length we agreed to quit tlie
town, and retire to this valley, where wc
pass our lives, tending our flocks, and in-
dulging our passion by praises, lamentations,
or reproaches, and sometimes in solitary
sighs and groans. Our example has been
followed by many other admirers of Leandra,
who have joined us in the same employment :
indeed, we are so numerous that this place
seems converted into the pastoral Arcadia ;
nor is there a part of it where the name of
our beautiful mistress is not heard. One
utters execrations against her, calling her
fond, fickle, and immodest; another con-
demns her forwardness and levity ; some
excuse and pardon her ; otliers arraign and
condemn her ; one praises her beauty, another
rails at her disposition : in truth, all blame,
and all adore her — nay, such is the general
phrenzy that some complain of her disdain
who never had spoken to her, and some
there are who bemoan themselves and affect
to feel the raging disease of jealousy, though,
as I have said before, her fault was known
before her inclinations were suspected. There
is no hollow of a rock, nor margin of a rivu-
let, nor shade of a tree, that is not occupied
b|^ some shepherd, lamenting to the winds.
Wherever there is an echo, it is continually
heard repeating the name of Leandra ; tlic
mountains resound Leandra ; the brook >
murmur Leandra : in short, Leandra huid-
us all in a state of delirium and encliuiii-
nient, hoping without hope, and dreadiu-
we know not what. He who shows the
least, though he has the most, sense among
us madmen, is my rival Anselmo, for he com-
plains only of absence ; and to the sound of
a rebec, which he touches to admiration,
pours forth his complaint in verses of won-
derful ingenuity. I follow a better coui*he ;
which is to inveigh against the levity of
women, their inconstancy, and double-deal-
ing, their vain promises, and broken faith,
their absurd and misplaced affections.
** This, gentlemen, gave risse to the ex-
pressions I used to the goat ; fur, being a
female, I despise her, though she is the best
of all my flock. I have now finished my
story, which, I fear, you have thought
ttuiiuus ; but I shall be glad to make you
amends by regaling you at my cottage,
242
ADVENTURES OF
which is near, and where you will find new
milk, good cheese, and abundance of fruit."
CHAPTER LII.
OF THE QUARREL BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
AND THE goatherd; WITH THE RARE
ADVENTURE OP THE DISCIPLINA NTS,
WHICH HE HAPPILY ACCOMPLISHED
WITH THE SWEAT OF HIS BROW.
The goatherd's tale amused all his auditors,
especially the canon, who was struck by his
manner of telling it, which was more like
that of a scholar and a gentleman than an
unpolished goatherd ; and he was convinced
that the priest was perfectly right when he
affirmed that men of letters were often pro-
duced among mountains. They all offered
their service to Eugenio: but the most
liberal in his offers was Don Quixote, who
said to him, " In truth, brother goatherd,
were I in a situation to undertake any new
adventure, I would immediately engage
myself in your service, and release your
lady from the nunnery in spite of the abbess
and all opposers, then deliver her into your
hands, to be disposed of at your pleasure, so
far as is consistent with the laws of chivalry,
which enjoin that no kind of outrage be
offered to damsels. I trust, however, in
heaven, that the power of one malicious
enchanter shall not be so prevalent over
another but that a better disposed one may
trium-ph ; and then I promise you my aid
and protection, according to the duty of my
profession, which is no other than to favour
the weak and necessitous." The goatherd
stared at Don Quixote, and, observing his
bad plight and scurvy appearance, he whis-
pered to the barber, who sat next to him,
*' Pray, sir, who is that man that looks and
talks so strangely V " Who should it be,"
answered the barber, ^* but the famous Don
Quixote de la Mancha,- the redresser of in-
juries, the righter of wrongs, the protector
of maidens, the dread of giants, and the
conqueror of battles V " Why this is like
what we hear in the stories of knights-
errant," said the goatherd ; " but I take it
either your worship is in jest, or the apart-
ments in this gentleman's skull are unfur-
nished." " You are a very great rascal,"
exclaimed the knight ; " it is yourself who
are empty -skulled and shallow - brained ;
for mine is fuller than was ever the vile
woman that bore thee !" and, as he spoke,
he snatched up a loaf that was near him,
and threw it at the goatherd's face with so
much fury that he laid his nose flat. Tlie
goatherd did not much relish tlie jest, so,
without any respect to the table-cloth, or
to the company present, he leaped upon
Don Quixote, and, seizing him by the
throat with both hands, would doubtless
have strangled him had not Sancho Panza,
who came up at that moment, taken him by
the shoulders and thrown him back on the
table cloth, demolishing dishes and platters,
and spilling and overtumicg all that was
upon it. Don Quixote, finding himself free,
turned again upon the goatherd, who, being
kicked and trampled upon by Sancho, was
feeling about, upon all fours, for some knife
or weapon to take a bloody revenge witlial :
but the canon and the priest prevented him.
The barber, however, maliciously contrived
that the goatherd should get Don Quixote
under him, whom he buffeted so unmer-
cifully that he had ample retaliation for
his own sufferings. Thb ludicrous en-
counter overcame the gravity of both the
churchmen, while the troopers of the holy
brotherhood, enjoying the conflict, stood
urging on the combatants, as if it had been
a dog-flght. Sancho struggled in vain to
release himself from one of the canon's
servants, who prevented him from going to
assist his master. In the midst of this sport
a trumpet was suddenly heard sounding so
dismally that every lace was instantly
turned in the direction whence the sound
proceeded. Don Quixote's attention was
particularly excited, though he still lay
under the goatherd in a bruised and battered
condition. ** Thou devil," he said to him,
" for a devil thou must be to have such
power over me, I beg that thou wilt arrant
a tnice for one hour, as the solemn sound
of that trumpet seems to call me to some new
adventure." The goatherd, whose revenge
was by this time sated, immediately let him
go, and Don Quixote, having got upon his
legs again, presently saw several people
p. 243.
-o
DüíN QUIXOTE.
248
descending from a rising ground, arraju»d
in white after the manner ot* disci plinants.*
That year, the heavens having failed to
refresh the earth witii seasonable showers,
throughout all the villages of that district
processions, disciplines, and public prayers,
were ordered, beseeching God to shew his
mercy by sending them rain. For this
purpose the people of a neighbouring village
'.vere coming in procession to a holy her-
mitage built upon the side of a hill not far
from that spot. The strange attire of the
disciplinants struck Don Quixote, who, not
Recollecting what he must often have seen
before, imagined it to be some adventure
which, as a knight-errant, was reserved for
him alone ; and he was confirmed in his
opinion on seeing an image clothed in black,
that they carried with them, and which he
doubted not was some illustrious lady,
forcibly borne away by ruffians and mis-
creants. With all the expedition in his
power, he therefore went up to Rozinante,
and, taking the bridle and buckler from the
pommel of the saddle, he bridled him in a
trice, and, calling to Sancho for his sword,
h¿ mounted, braced his target, and, in a
loud voice, said to all that were present :
'* Now, my worthy companions, ye shall
see how important to the world is the pro-
fession of chivalry ! now shall ye see, in the
restoration of that captive lady to liberty,
whether knights- errant are to be valued
or not !" So saying, he clapped heels to
Hozinante (for spurs he had none), and, on
H hand-gallop (for we no where read, in all
this faithful liistory, that Hozinante ever
went full speed), he advanced to encounter
the disciplinants. The priest, the canon,
and the barber, in vain endeavoured to stop
him; and in vain did Sancho cry out,
"Whither go you, signer Don Quixote?
what devils drive you to assault the catholic
faith ? Evil befal me I do but look — it is
a procession of disciplinants, and the lady
carried upon the bier is the blessed image of
onr Holy Virgin ; take heed, for this once I
ara sure you know not what you are about."
Sancho wearied himself to no purpose ; for
* Fennns, either rolunteen or hirelings, who march
in proceuion, whippiag tbeimclvt-i by way of public
pcnaoee. J.
his master was bo bcut upon an encounter
that he heard not a word ; nor would he
have turnod back though the king himself
had commanded him.
Having reached tlie procession, he checked
Rozinante, who already wanted to rest a
little, and in a hoarse and agitated voice,
cried out, " Stop there, ye who cover your
faces, for an evil purpose, I doubt not — stop
and listen to me." The bearers of the imflge
stood still, and one of the four ecclesiastics,
who sung the litanies, observing the strange
figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Ka-
zinante, and other ludicrous circumstances
attending the knight, replied, " Friend, if
you have any thing to say to us, sny it
quickly ; for these our brethren are scourging
their flesh, and we cannot stay to hear any
thing that may not be said in two words."
" I will say it one," replied Don Quixote,
*^ you must immediately release that fair
lady, whose tears and sorrowful countenance
clearly prove that she is carried away against
her will, and that yon nave done her some
atrocious injury ; J, who was born to redress
such wrongs, command you, therefore, not to
proceed one step further until you have given
her the liberty she desires and deserves." By
these expressions they concluded that Don
Quixote must be some whimsical madman,
and only laughed at him, which enraged him
to such a degree that, without saying another
word, he drew his sword and attacked the
bearers ; one of whom, leaving the burden
to his comrades, stept forward, brandishing
the pole on which the bier had been stip>
ported ; but it was quickly broken in two
by a powerful stroke, aimed by the knight,
who, however, received instantly such a
blow on the shoulder of his sword-arm that,
his buckler being of no avail against rustic
strength, he was felled to the ground. San-
cho, who had followed him, now chilled out
to the man not to strike again, for he was a
poor enchanted knight, who had never done
any body harm in all his life. The peasant
forbore, it is true, though not on account of
Sancho's appeal, but because he saw his
opponent without motion ; and, thinking he
had killed him, he hastily tucked up his
vest under his girdle, and fled like a deer
over the field.
^4
ADVENTURES OF
By tliis time all Don Quucote*s party had
come np, and those in the procession, seeing
among them troopers of the holy brotherhood,
armed with their cross-bows, began tobe
alarmed, and drew up in a circle round the
image ; then lifting up their hoods,* and
grasping their whips, and the ecclesiastics
their tapers, they waited the assault, deter-
mined to defend themselves, or, if possible,
offend their aggressors, while Sancho threw
himself on the body of liis master, and, be-
lieving him to be really dead, poured forth
the most dolorous lamentation. The alarm
of both squadrons was speedily dissipated,
as our curate was recognised by one of the
ecclesiastics in the procession ; and on hear-
ing, from him, who Don Quixote was, they
all hastened to see whether the poor knight
hod really suffered a mortal injury, or not ;
when they heard Sancho Panza with stream-
ing eyes exclaim : " O flower of chivalry,
who by one single stroke hast finished the
career of thy well-spent life ! O glory of thy
race, credit and renown of La Mancha, yea
of the whole world, which, by wanting thee,
will be over - run with evil - doers, who will
no longer fear chastisement for theh: iniqui-
ties ! O liberal above all Alexanders, since, for
eight months' service, only, thou hast given
me the best island the sea doth compass or
surround ! 0 thou that wert humble with
the haughty, and arrogant with the humble,
undertaker of dangers, sufferer of affronts,
in love without cause, imitator of the good,
scourge of the wicked, enemy of the base ;
in a word, knight - errant — which is all in
all." Sancho's cries roused Don Quixote,
who faintly said, ^' He who lives absent
from thee, sweetest Dulcinea, endures fur
greater miseries than this ! — Help, friend
Sancho, to place me upon the enchanted
car : I am no longer in a condition to press
the saddle of Bozinante, for this shoulder is
broken to pieces." " That I will do with
all my heart, dear sir," answered Sancho ;
^' and let us return to our homes, with these
gentlemen who wish you well ; and there
sve can prepare for another sally, that may
tarn out more profitable." " Thou sayest
well, Sancho," answered Don Quixote,
* T\^t diiciplanta iKear hoo i», that ¡hey may not be known, bnt which they can nee tliroQgh. — /.
"and it will be highly prudent in us to
wait until the evil influence of the star
which now reigns is passed over." The
canon, the priest, and the barber, told him
tliey approved his resolution ; and, the knight
being now placed in the waggon, as before,
they prepared to depart. The goatherd took
his leave, and the troopers, not being dis-
posed to attend them farther, were dis-
charged. The canon also separated from
them, having first obtained a promise from
the priest that he would acquaint him with
the future fate of Don Quixote. Thus the
party now consisted only of the priest, the
barber, Don Quixote, and Sancho, with
good Rozinante, who bore all accidents as
patiently as his master. The waggoner
yoked his oxen, and, having accommodated
Don Quixote with a truss of hay, they jogged
on in the way the priest directed ; and at
the end of six days reached Don Quixote's
village. It was about noon when they made
their entrance, and, it being Sunday, all the
people were standing about the market-place
through which the waggon passed. Every
body ran to see who was in it, and were not
a little surprised when they recognised tlieir
townsman ; and a boy ran off at full speed
with tidings, to the house-keeper, that he
was coming home, lean and pale, stretched
out at length in a waggon drawn by oxen.
On hearing this, the two good women made
the most pathetic lamentations, and renewed
their curses against books of chivalry : espe-
cially when they saw the poor knight entering
at the gate.
Upon the news of Don Quixote's arrival,
Sancho Fanza's wife repaired thither, and
on meeting him, her first enquiry was whether
the ass had come home well. Sancho told
her that he was in a better condition than
his master. " The Lord be praised," replied
she, ** for so great a mercy to me ! But tell
me, husband, what good have yon got by
your squireship ? Have you brought a pet-
ticoat home for me, and shoes for your chil-
dren?" " I have brought you nothing of
that sort, dear wife," quoth Sancho ; " but I
have got other things of greater consequence."
" I am very glad of that," answered the wife,
y¿Múf
p. 244.
=@
X)ÜN QUIXOTE.
246
" pray shew ine your thing» of greater con-
sequeDce, friend ; for I would fain see them,
to gladden my heart, which has been so sad,
all the long time you have been away." You
shall see them at home, wife," quoth Sancho,
'^ and be satisfied at present ; for if it please
God that we make another sally in quest
of adventures, you will soon see me an earl
or governor of an island, and no common one
neither, but one of the best that is to be had."
'^ Grant Heaven it may be so ! husband,"
quoth the wife, ** for we have need enough
of it. But ))ray tell me what you mean
by islands ; for I do not understand you."
'' Honey is not for the mouth of an ass,"
answered Sancho : " In good time, wife,
you shall see, yea, and admire to hear your-
self styled Ladyship by all your vassals."
" What do you mean, Sancho, by ladyship,
islands, and vassals?" answered Teresa
Panza ; for that was the name of Sancho's
wife, though they were not of kin, but be-
cause it was the custom of La Mancha for
the wife to take the husband's name. *' Do
not be in so much haste,Teresa," said Sancho ;
it is enough that I tell you what is tnie, so
lock up your mouth : — only take this by the
way, that there is nothing in the world so
pleasant as to be an honourable esquire to
a knight - errant and seeker of adventures.
To be sure most of them are not so much to
a man's mind as he could wish ; for, as I
know by experience, ninety-nine of a hun-
dred fiül out cross and unlucky ; especially,
when one happens to be tossed in a blanket,
or well cudgelled : yet, for all tliat, it is a
fine thing to go about in expectation of
accidents, traversing mountains, searching
woods, marching over rocks, visiting castles,
lodging in inns, all at pleasure, and the devil
a farthing to pay.
While this discourse was passing between
Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa, tlie
housekeeper and the niece received Don
Quixote, and, after undressing him, they
laid him in his old bed, whence he looked
ut them with eyes askance, not knowing
perfectly where he was. Often did the
women raise their voices in abuse of all
books of chivalry, overwhelming their
luithors with the bitterest maledictions.
4is niece was charged by the priest to take
great care of Mm, and to keep a watchful
eye that he did not again make his escape,
after taking so much pains to get him home.
Yet they were full of apprehensions lest
they should lose him again as soon as he
found himself a little better ; and, indeed,
the event proved that their fears were not
groundless. But the author of tliis history,
though he applied himself with the utmost
curiosity and diligence to trace the exploits
which Don Quixote performed in his third
sally, could get no account of diem, at least
from any authentic writings ; fame has only
left a tradition, in La Mancha, tliat Don
Quixote, the third time he sallied from
home, went to Saragossa, and was present
at a famoQS tournament in that city, where
he performed deeds worthy of himself. Nor
would he have learned any thing concerning
his death, had he not fortunately become
acquainted with an aged physician, who
had in his custody a leaden box, found, as
he said, under the ruins of an ancient her-
mitage; in which box was discovered a
manuscript, written on parchment, in Gothic
characters, but in Castilian verse, containing
many of his exploits, and describing the
beauty of Dulcinea del Toboso, the form of
Rozinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza,
and the burial of Don Quixote himself,
with several epitaphs and eulogies on his
life and manners. All that could be read,
and perfectly made out, are here inserted by
the faithful author of this roost extraordinary
history, who desires no other recompense
for the vast labour he has bestowed in
searching into the archives of La Mancha,
than that his work may find equal favour
witli other books of knight-errantry : with
this he will be quite satisfied, and moreover
encouraged to seek after others, that may
be quite as entertaining, though not so true.
The first stanzas written on the parchment,
which was found in the leaden box, were
the following :
TRE ACADEMICIANS
OP
AKGAMASILLA, A TOWff OF LA MANCHA,
ON THE
LIFE AND DEATH OF THE VALOROU8
DON QUIXOTE DB LA MANCHA,
HOC SCRIPSKRUNT.
■^^==
en)
•i40
DON QUIXOTE.
monicongo^ Academician of Argamiñüa, on the sepuUure
of Don Quixote.
EPITAPH.
La Manchm'i thunderbolt of war.
The sharpest wit and loftiest muse.
The arm, which from Gaéta far
To Catai did iU force diffuse ;
He who, through love and valour's fixe,
Outstript great Amadis's fame,
Bid warlike Galaor retire.
And silenced Beiiaiüs' name ;
He who, vith helmet, sword, and shield,
On Rocinante, steed well known,
Adventures fought in many a field.
Lies underneath this frozen stone.
Paniaguado, Academizan of ArgasnatUia, in praise of
JhUdnea del Toboto,
SONNET.
She whom you see, the plump and lusty dame,
With high erected chest and vigorous mien.
Was erst th' enamour'd knight Don Quixote's flame»
The fair Dulcinea, of Toboso, queen.
For her, arm'd ci4[>-a-pee with sword and shield.
He trod the sable mountain o'er and o'er;
For her he travers'd-Montiers well-known field,
And in her serrice toils unnumber'd bore.
Hard fate I that death should crop so fine a flower 1
And Love o'er snch a knight exert his tyrant power I
Caprichoao, a most ingenioua Academician of Argoma-
ñíla, in praiic of Don Quizóte' t horse Rozinante.
SONNET.
On the aspiring adamantine trunk
Of an huge tree, whose root, with slaughter dnmk,
Sends forth a scent of war, La Mancha's knight.
Frantic with Talour, and retum'd from flght.
His bloody standard trembling in the air,
Hangs up his glittering armour, beaming far.
With that flne-tcmper'd steel whose edge o'erthrows,
Hacks, hews, confounds, and routs opposing foes.
Unheard-of prowess ! and unheard-of verse !
But art new struns inTcnts, new glories to rehearse.
If Amadis to Grecia gires renown.
Much more her chief does fierce Bellona crown.
Prizing La Mancha more than Gaul or Greece,
As Qmxote triumphs over Amadis.
Oblivion ne'er shall shroud his glorious name.
Whose Tery horse stands up to challenge fame,
Illustrious Bocinante, wond'rous steed !
Not with more generous pride, or mettled speed,
His rider erst Rinaldo's Bayard bore,
Or his mad lord, Orlando's Brilladore.
* These lines quoted from Ariosto.
Burlador, the little Academician of Argtmanuia,
on Sancho Panza.
SONNET.
See Sancho Panza, view him well.
And let this verse his praues tell.
His body was but small, 'tis true.
Yet had a soul as large as two.
No guile he knew, like some before him.
But simple as his mother bore him.
This gentle squire on gentle ass
Went gentle Rosinante's pace.
Following his lord from place to place.
To be an earl he did aspire.
And reason good for snch desire.
But worth, in these ungrateful times.
To envied honour seldom climbs.
Vain mortals I give your wishes o'er,
And trust the flatterer Hope no more.
Whose promises, whate'er they seem.
End in a shadow or a dream.
* Cachidiablo, Academician of ArgamanUa, on the
eepulture of Don Quijtote,
EPITAPH.
. Here lies an evil-errant knight,
Well bruised in many a firay,
Whose courser, Rozinante hight.
Long bore him many a way.
Close by his loving master's side
Lies booby Sancho Panza,
A trusty squire of courage tried.
And true as ever man saw.
Tiquitoc, Academician of ArgamasUla, on the eepuUure
of Dulcinea del Toboao.
Dulcinea, fat and fleshy, lies
Beneath this frosen stone,
Bat, since to frightful death a prize.
Reduced to skin and bone.
Of goodly parentage she came.
And had the lady in her ;
She was the great Don Quixote's flame.
But only death could win her.
These were all the verses that were
legible ; the remainder, being much defaced
and worm-eaten, were put into the hands
of one of the Academicians, that he might
discover their meaning by conjecture ; which,
after much thought and labour, we are in-
formed he has actually done, and that he
intends to publish them, in the hope of
Don Quixote's third sally.
" Forse altro cantarii con miglior plectro."*
(Orlando, canto zxx. stanza lO.)
.©
ADVENTURES
DON QUIXOTE-
TART II
iirrr-— p^
249
DEDICATION
TO THE
COUNT DB LBMOS.
When 1 lately presented to your Excel-
lency my dramatic works, which were
printed before they were performed, if I
remember right, I said that Don Quixote
had got his spars on ready to pay his respects
to your Excellency. I must now inform you
that be has already set out on his journey ; and,
if he reaches you in safety, I flatter myself
that I shall have done some service to your
Excellency : for, I have been importuned,
on all sides, to hasten his arrival, that he
may dissipate the nausea and disgust excited
by the other Don Quixote, which, under the
title of the Second Part^ has been introduced
to the world. The great Emperor of China,
in particular, has expressed the strongest
desire for my Quixote, and, about a month
ago, sent me a letter in his own language,
by an express, requesting, or rather beseech-
ing, me to send it to him without delay, as he
wished to found a college for teaching the
Castilian language, and that the book to be
there studied should be my history of Don
Quixote : at the same time appointing me
master of the said college. I asked the mrs-
Aiadrid, the 'lut Dvy of October,
Sixteen Htt'dred and Fifteen.
senger if his majesty had sent mc wherewithal
to defray my expenses. "No, indeed," he
replied. " Then you may go back again to
China, as soon as you please, my friend,*' said
I, "for I am not in a state of health to under-
take so long a journey. In short, what care
I ? Emperor for emperor, monarch for mon-
arch : — in Naples, there is the noble Count
de LemoB, who, without any college titles,
favours me with all the patronage and sup-
port my heart can desire !" With this
answer I dispatched him, and now take my
leave of your Excellency, first offering to
your notice another work of mine, called
" The Labours of Persiles and Sigismunda,"
which, Deo volente, will be finished in the
course of four months, and promises to be
either the best, or the worst, book of the
kind, in our language, — no, not the worst —
I retract that word: for my friends have
pronounced that it will reach the point of
perfection. Heaven preserve your Excel-
lency ! and Persiles shall soon wait unon
you, OS well as your humble servant
-r<^
350
PREFACE TO THE READER.
I
Heaven defend me! Reader, gentle or
simple, — whatever thou art, with what im-
patience must thou now be waiting for this
Preiace ! doubtless prepared to find it full
of resentment, railing, and invective against
the author of the second Don Quixote — him
I mean who, the world says, was begotten
in Tordesillas and born in Tarragona. But
in truth, it is not my intention to give
thee that satisfaction ; for, though injuries
are apt to awaken choler in the humblest
breast, yet in mine this rule must admit of
an exception. Perhaps thou wouldest have
me call him ass, madman, and coxcomb;
but no :-^be his own folly his punishment.
There is one thing, however, which I
cannot pass over in silence. I am guilty,
it seems, of being old ; and it is also proved
upon me that I have lost my hand ! as if
I had the power to arrest the progress of
time ; and, that this maim was the effect of
some tavern brawl, and not received on the
noblest occasion * tliat past or present times
have witnessed, or the future can ever hope
to see 1 If my wounds be disregarded by
those who simply look on them, they will be
honoured by those who know how they were
gained : for a soldier makes a nobler figure
dead, in the field of battle, than alive, fiying
from his enemy ; and so firmly fixed am I
in this opinion that, could the impossibility
be overcome, and I had the power to choose,
* The famous sra-flsht nf I^pan'o.
I would rather be again present in that sin*
pendous action than whole and sound, with-
out sharing in its glory. The scars on the
front of a brave soldier are stars that direct
others to the haven of honour, and create
in them a noble emulation. Let it be re-
membered, too, that books are not composed
by the hand, but the understanding, which
is ripened by experience and length of years.
I have also heard that this author calls
me envious; and, moreover, in consideration
of my ignorance, kindly describes to me what
envy is ! — In truth, the only envy of which
I am conscious is a noble, virtuous, and holy
emulation, which would never dispose me to
inveigh against an ecclesiastic ; especially,
against one who holds a dignified rank in
the Inquisition ; and if he has been influ-
enced by his le&L for the person f to whom
he seems to allude, he is utterly mistaken in
my sentiments; for I revere that gentle-
man's genius, and admire his works, and
his virtuous activity. Nevertheless, I can-
not refuse my acknowledgement to this
worthy author, for his commendation of my
novels, which, he says, are good, although
more satirical than moral ; but, how they
happen to be good, and yet deficient in mo-
rality, it would be difiicult to shew.
Methinks, Reader, thou wilt confess that
I proceed with much forbearance and mo-
desty, from a feeling that we should not add
t Lope de Veg*— /.
PREFAriK TO THE UEADEK.
251
to the sufferings of the aíHicted ; and, tliat
this gentleman's case must be lamentable is
svident from his not daring to appear in
open day : concealing his name and his
country, as if some treason, or other crime,
laid upon his conscience. But shouldst thou
by chance fall into his company, tell him, from
me, that I do not think myself aggrieved ; for
I well know what the temptations of the devil
are, and that one of the greatest is the per-
suading a man that he can write a book, by
which he will surely gain both wealth and
fame ; and, to illustrate the truth of this,
pray tell him, in thy pleasant way, the fol-
lowing story :
'^ A madman once, in Seville, was seized
wi.th as whimsical a conceit as ever entered
into a madman's brain. He provided him-
self with a hollow cane, pointed at one end,
and whenever he met with a dog in the street
or elsewhere, he laid hold of him, set his foot
on one of his hinder legs, and seizing the
other in his hand, dexterously applied the
pointed end of the cane to the dog's poste-
riora, and blew him up as round as a ball ;
then giving his inflated body a slap or two
with the palm of his hand, he let him go,
saying to the by-standers, who were always
numerous, ^ Well, gentlemen, I suppose you
think it an easy matter to blow up a dog ?' —
And you, sir, perhaps, may think it an easy
matter to write a book." If this story should
not happen to hit his fancy, pray, kind
Reader, tell him this other, which is likewise
of a madman and a dog.
''In the city of Cordova lived another
maniac, whose custom was to walk about
the streets with a large stone upon his head,
of no inconsiderable weight ; and wherever
he met with any careless cur, he edged
slily towards him, and when quite close, let
the stone fall plump upon his body ; where-
upon the dog, in great wrath, limped away,
barking and howling, for more than three
streets' length, without once looking behind
him. Now it happened that, among other
dogs, he met with one that belonged to a
cap-maker, who valued him mightily ; down
went the stone, and hit him exactly on the
head ; the poor animal cried out ; his master,
seeing the act, was enraged, and, catching up
I his measuring yard, fell upon the madman,
and left him with scarcely a whole bone in
his skin : at every blow venting his fury
in reproaches, saying, 'Dog! rogue! rascal!
What ! maltreat my dog ! — a spaniel ! Did
you not see, barbarian ! that my dog was
a spaniel V and after repeating the word
' spaniel ' very oi^en, he dismissed the cul-
prit, beaten to a jelly. The madman took
his correction in silence and walked off; nor
did he shew himself again in the market-
place till more than a month afterwards,
when he returned to his former amusement, *
with a still greater stone upon his head. It
was observed, however, that on commg up
to a dog, he first carefully surveyed it from
head to tail, and, not daring to let the stone
fall, he said, ' 'Ware, spaniel I — tliis won't
do.' In short, whatever dog he met with —
terrier, mastiff, or hound, — they were all
spaniels ; and so great was his dread of
committing another mistake that he never
ventured to let fall his slab again.'' — Thus
warned, perhaps our historian may think
it necessary, before he again lets fall the
ponderous weight of his wit, to look and
examine where it is likely to drop.
Tell him also that, as to his threatening,
by hb counterfeit wares, to deprive me of
my expected gain, I value it not a rush,
and will only answer him from the famous
interlude of Parendenga — "Long live my
lord and master, and Christ be with us all I"
Long live the great Count de Lemos!
whose well-known liberality supports me
under all the strokes of adverse fortune ;
and all honour and praise to the eminent
bounty of his grace the archbishop of
Toledo, Bernardo de Sandoval ! — and let
them write against me as many books as
there are letters in the rhymes Mingo
Rebulgo. These two nobles, unsought by
adulation on my part, but merely of thehr
own goodness, have taken upon them to
patronise and favour me; wherefore I esteem
myself happier and richer than if fortune,
by her ordinary means, had placed me on
her highest pinnacle. Such honour the
meritorious, not the vicious, may aspire to,
although oppressed by poverty. The noble
mind may be clouded by adversity, but
cannot be wholly concealed : for true merit
shines by a light of its own, and, glimmering
r(S)
252
PREFACE TO THE READER.
tiirough the rents and crannies of indigence,
is perceived, respected, and honoured by
the generous and the great.
More than this, Reader , thou needst not
say to him ; nor will I say more to thee,
except merely observing, for thy informa-
tion, that this Second Part of Don Quixote,
here offered to thee, is cut by the same hand,
and out of the same piece, as the First Part ;
and that herelr. I present thee with Don
Quixote whole and entire: having placed
him in bis gravts at full length, and fairly
dead, that no one may presume to expoc^ him
to new adventures, since he has achieved
enough already. It is sufficient that his in-
genious follies have been recorded by a writer
of credit, who has resolved to take up the
subject no more : for we may be surfeited
by too much of what is good, and scarcity
gives a relish to what is only indifiérent
I had forgotten to tell thee that thou
mayest soon expect the Pcrsiles, which I
have nearly complete, and also the second
part of tlie Galatea.
253
ADYBNTUKES OF DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER I.
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE PRIEST,
THE BAEBER, AND DON QUIXOTE, CON-
CEBNINQ HIS INDISPOSITION.
CiD Hametb Benengeli relates, in the
second port of this history, containing the
third sally of Don Quixote, that the priest
and the barber refrained, during a whole
month, from seeing him, lest they should
revive in his mind the remembrance of
things past. However, they paid frequent
visits to the niece and housekeeper, charging
them to take great care of him, and to give
him good nourishing diet, as that would be
salutary to his heart and his brain, whence
all the mischief proceeded. The good women
assured them of their continual care of tlie
patient, and said they occasionally observed
in him symptoms of returning reason. The
priest and the barber were greatly pleased
to hear this, and congratulated themselves
on the success of the scheme they had
adopted of bringing liim home enchanted in
the ox-waggon, as it is related in the last
chapter of the first part of this no less
great than accurate history. They resolved,
therefore, to visit him, and make trial of
his amendment : at the same time, thinking
it scarcely possible that his cure should be
complete, they agreed not to touch upon the
subject of knight-errantry, lest they might
open a wound which must yet be so tender.
They round him sitting on bis bed, clad
m a waistcoat of green baize, with a red
I Toledo cap on his head, and so lean and
«hri veiled that he looked like a mummy.
He received them with much politeness,
and, when they enquired after his health,
he answered them in a very sensible manner,
and with much elegance of expression. In
the course of their conversation they touched
upon matters of state and forms of govern-
ment, correcting this abuse and condemning
that, reforming one custom and exploding
anotíier : each of the tl jee setting himself up
for a perfect legislator, a modem Lycurgus,
or a spick-and-span new Solon ; and, by
their joint efforts, they seemed to have
clapped the commonwealth into a forge,
and hammered it into quite a new shape.
Don Quixote delivered himself with so much
good sense upon every subject they had
touched upon that the two examiners were
inclined to think that he was now really
in full possession of all his mental faculties.
The niece and the housekeeper were present
at the conversation, and, hearing from their
master such proofs of a sound mind, thought
they could never suflBciently thank heaven.
The priest, changing his former purpose of
not touching upon mattera of chivalry, was
now resolved to put the question of his
amendment fairly to the test : he therefore
mentioned, among other things, some intel-
ligence, lately brought from court, that the
Turk was advancing with a powerful fleet,
and that, his object being unknown, it was
impossible to say where the storm would
burst; that all Christendom was in great
alarm, and the king had already provided
for tlie security of Naples, Sicily, and the
island of Malta. To this Don Quixote
replied : " His majesty has acted with great
pnidence in providing in time for the defence
of his dominions, that he may not be taken
by surprise ; but, if my counsel miglit be
taken, I would advise him to a mensure
which, probably, never yet entered his
majesty's mind." On hearing this tlie pri«»st
said within himself: "God defend thee,
poor Don Quixote ! for methinks thou urt
about to fall from the summit of thy nmci-
ness into the depth of folly !" The barber.
=a>
254
ADVENTURES OF
--'7)
I
1
who had made the same reflection, now
asked Don Quixote what the measure was
which he thought would be so advantageous :
though, in all probability, it was like the
impertinent advice usually given to princes.
'* Mine, Mr. Shaver," answered Don
Quixote, ''shall not be impertinent, but
to the purpose." " I mean no offence,"
replied the barber, '' only experience has
shewn that all, or most, of the projects so
offered to his majesty are either imprac-
ticable, absurd, or prejudicial to himself or
his kingdom." " True," answered Don
Quixote; ''but mine is neither impracti-
cable, nor absurd, but the most easy, the
most just, and also the most reasonable and
expeditious, that ever entered the mind of
a projector." " Sigfior Don Quixote,"
quoth the priest, " you keep us too long in
suspense." " I do not choose," replied Don
Quixote, " that it should be told here now,
that another may carry it, by day-break, to
the lords of the privy-council, and thereby
intercept the reward whicli is only due to
me." "I give you my word," said the
barber, " here and before God, that I will
not reveal what your worship shall say
cither to king or to rook, or to any mortal
man, — an oath which I learned from the
romance of the priest, where he gives the
king information of the thief that robbed
him of the hundred pistoles and his ambling
mule." " I know not the history," said
Don Quixote ; " but I presume the oath is
a good one, because I am persuaded master
barber is an honest man." '* Though he
were not," said the priest, " I will pledge
myself for him, and engage, under any
penalty you please, that he shall be as
silent as the dumb on this affair." " And
who will be bound for your reverence,
master priest ?" said Don Quixote. " My
profession," answered the priest ; " which
enjoins secresy as an indispensable duty."
" Body of me !" cried Don Quixote ; " has
his majesty any thing to do but to issue a
proclamation ordering all the knights-errant
who are now wandering about Spain to
repair, on an appointed day, to court ? If
not more than half-a-dozen came, there
might be one of that number able, with his
single arm, to destroy the whole power of
the Turk. Pray, gentlemen, be attentive,
and listen to me. Is it any thing new for
a single knight-errant to defeat an army of
two hundred thousand men, as if tiiey had
all but one throat, or were made of pastry ?
I low many examples of such prowess does
history supply ! If, in an evil hour for me
(I will not say for any other), the famous
Don Belianis, or some one of the numerous
race of Amadis de Gaul, were in being at
this day to confront the Turk, in good faith
I would not farm his winnings ! But God
will protect his people, and provide some
one, if not as strong as the knights-errant
of old, at least not inferior to them in
courage, — God knows my meaning ; I say
no more!" "Alas!" exclaimed the niece
at this instant ; " may I perish if my uncle
has not a mind to turn knight-errant again !"
Whereupon Don Quixote said, " A knight-
errant I will live and die ; and let the Turk
come down or up when he pleases, and with
all the forces he can raise — once more, I
say, heaven knows my meaning." " Gen-
tlemen," said the barber, " give me leave
to tell you a short story of what happened
once in Seville ; for it comes so pat to the
purpose that I cannot help giving it to
you." Don Quixote and the priest signified
their consent, and the others being willing
to hear, he began thus :
" A certain man, being deranged in his
intellects, was placed by his relations in the
mad-house of Seville. He had taken bis
degrees in the canon law at Ossuna ; but,
had it been at Salamanca, many are of
opinion he would, nevertheless, have been
mad. This graduate, after some years' con-
finement, took it into his head that he was
quite in his right senses, and therefore wrote
to the archbishop, beseeching him, with
great earnestness, and, apparently, with
much reason, that he would be pleased to
deliver him from that miserable state of con-
finement in which he lived, since, through
the mercy of God, he had regained bis
senses ; adding that his relations, in order
to enjoy part of his estate, kept him still
there, and, in spite of the clearest evidence,
would insist upon his being mad as long as
he lived. The archbishop, prevailed upon
bv the many sensible epistles he received
DON QUIXOTE.
255
from hlitif sent one of his chaplains to the
keeper of tiie mad-hoosc to enquire into the
trnth of what the licentiate had alleged,
and also to talk with him, and, if it appeared
that he was in his senses, to set him at
liberty. The chaplain accordingly went to
the rector, who assured him that the man
was still insane, for, though he sometimes
talked very sensibly, it was seldom for any
length of time without betraying his de-
rangement ; as he would certainly iind on
conversing with him. The chaplain de-
termined to make the trial, and, during a
conversation of more than an hour, could
perceive no symptom of incoherence in his
discourse; on the contrary, he spoke with
so much sedateness and judgment that the
chaplain could not entertain a doubt of the
.«^nity of his intellects. Among other things
be assured him that the keeper was bribed,
by his relations, to persist in reporting him
to be deranged ; so that his large estate was
his greatest misfortune, to enjoy which his
enemies had recourse to fraud, and pre-
tended to doubt of the mercy of God in
restoring him from the condition of a hrute
to that of a man. In short, he talked so
plausibly that he made the rector appear
venal and corrupt, his relations unnatural,
and himself so discreet thai the chaplain
dotermined to take him immediately to the
archbishop, that he might be satisfied he
had done right. With this resolution the
good chaplain desired the keeper of the
house to restore to liim the clothes which
he wore when he was first put under his
care. The keeper again desired him to
beware what he did, since he might be
assured that the licentiate was still insane ;
but the chaplain was not to be moved either
by his cautions or entreaties, and, as he
acted by order of the archbishop, the keeper
was compelled to obey him. The licentiate
pat on his new clothes, and now, finding
himself rid of his lunatic attire, and habited
like a rational creature, he entreated the
chaplain, for charity's sake, to permit him
to take leave of his late companions in
affliction. Being desirous of seeing the
lunatics who were confíned in that house,
the chaplain, with several other persons,
followed him up stairs, and heard him accost
a man who lay stretched in a cell, out-
rageously mad, though just then composed !
and quiet. ' Brother,' said he to him,
' have you any commands for me ? for I
am going to return to my own house, God
having been pleased, of his infinite goodness
and mercy, without any desert of mine,
to restore me to my senses. I am now
sound and well, — for with God nothing
is impossible : put your whole trust and
confidence in him, and he will doubtless
restore you also. I will take care to send
you some choice food ; and fail not to eat
it : for I have reason to believe, from my
ovra experience, that all our distraction
proceeds from empty stomachs, and brains
filled with wind. Take heart, then, ray
friend, take heart; for despondence under
misfortune impairs our health, and hastens
our death.' This discourse was overheard by
another madman, the tenant of an opposite
cell, who, rising from an old mat, whereon
he had been lying stark-naked, asked who
it was that talked of going away restored
to his senses. ' It is I, brother, that am
going,' answered the licentiate ; * for,
thanks to heaven, my stay here is no longer
necessary. ' * Take heed, friend, what
you say,' replied the maniac ; * let not the
devil delude you ; stir not a foot, but keep
where you are, and you will spare yourself
the trouble of being brought back.' * I
know,' answered the other, ' that I am
perfectly well, and shall have no more
occasion to visit the station - churches.' *
'You well, truly?' said the madman;
' we shall soon see that. Farewell ! but I
swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent
on earth, that, for this single offence of
setting thee at large, and pronouncing thee
to be in thy sound senses, [ am determined
to infiict such a signal punishment on this
city, that the memory thereof shall endure
for ever and ever. And know'st thou not,
pitiful fellow, that I have the power to do
it ? I, who am the thundering Jove, and
grasp in my hands the flaming bolts with
which I might instantly destroy the world ?
—but, remitting that punishment, I will
• Certain churcheii with indulpencest appointed to
be visited either for pardon of sins, or for proenrioe
I blessings. J.
-'Q)
256
ADVENTURES OF
chastise their folly by closing the flood-
gates of heaven, so that no rain shall fall
upon this city or the surrounding country
for three years, reckoning from this very
day and hour on which my vengeance is
denounced. You at liberty I you recovered,
and in your right senses! And I here a
madman, distempered, and in bonds! — I
Avill no more rain than I will hang myself.'
Tiiis rhapsody was heard by all present,
and our licentiate, turning to the chaplain,
' My good sir,' said he, seizing both his
hands, 'regard not his foolish threats, but
be perfectly easy ; for should he, being
Jupiter, withhold his rain, I, who am
Neptune, the god of water, can dispense as
much as I please, and whenever there shall
be occasion.' To which the chaplain an-
swered, 'Nevertheless, sigñor Neptune, it
would not be well at present to provoke
signer Jupiter; therefore, I beseech you,
remain where you are, and when we have
more leisure, and a better opportunity, we
will return for you.' The rector and tlie
rest of the party laughed, and put the
chaplain quite out of countenance. In
short the licentiate was immediately dis-
robed, and he remained in confinement:
and there is an end of my story."
** This then, master barber," said Don
Quixote, '' is the story, wliich was so much
to the purpose that you could not forbear
telling it ? Ah ! signer cut-beard ! signer
cut-beard ! He must be blind indeed who
cannot see through a sieve. Is it possible
you should be ignorant that comparisons
of all kinds, whether as to sense, courage,
beauty, or rank, are always offensive ? I,
master barber, am not Neptune, god of the
waters ; nor do I set myself up for a wise
inan ; all I aim at is to convince the world
of its error in not reviving those happy times
when the order of knight-errantry flourished.
But this our degenerate age deserves not
CO enjoy so great a blessing as that which
was the boast of former ages, when knights-
errant took upon themselves the defence of
kingdoms, the protection of orphans, the
relief of damsels, the chastisement of the
haughty, and the reward of the humble.
The knights of these times rustle in damask
and brocade, ratlier than in coats of mail.
Where is the knight now who will lie in
the open field, exposed to the rigour of the
heavens, in complete armour from head to
foot? Or, leaning on his lance, takes a
short nap, without quitting his stirrups, like
the knights-errant of old times ? You have
no one now who, issuing out of a forest,
ascends some mountain, and thence traverses
a barren and desert shore of the sea, com-
monly stormy and tempestuous; and, finding
on the beach a small skifl*, without oars, sail,
mast, or tackle of any kind, he boldly throws
himself into it, committing himself to the
implacable billows of the deep ocean, which
now mount him up to the skies, and then cast
him down to the abyss ; and he, opposing
his courage to the irresistible hurricane, sud-
denly finds himself above three thousand
leagues firom the place where he embarked :
and, leaping on the remote and unknown
shore, encounters accidents worthy to be
recorded, not on parchment, but brass. But
in these days, sloth triumphs over activity,
idleness over labour, vice over virtue, arro-
gance over bravery, and the theory over
the practice of arms, which only existed and
flourished with knights-erraut in those ages
of gold. For, tell me, I pray, where was
there so much valour and virtue to be found,
as in Amadis de Gaul ? Who was more dis-
creet than Palmerin of England ? Who more
affable and obliging than Tirante the White?
Who more gallant than Lisuarte of Greece ?
Who gave or received more cuts and slashes
than Don Belianis ? Who was more intrepid
than Perion of Gaul? Who more enter-
prising than Felixraarte of Hyrcania ? Who
more smcere than Esplandian ? Who more
daring than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who
more brave than Rodamonte ? Who more
prudent than king Sobrino? Who more
intrepid than Rinaldo ? Who more invin-
cible than Orlando ? — and who more gallant
and courteous than Ruggierio, from whom,
according to Turpin's Cosmography, the
present dukes of Ferrara are descended ? All
these, and others that I could name, master
priest, were knights-errant, and the light of
chivalry ; and such as these are the men 1
would advise his majesty to employ. He
then would be well served, a vast expense
would be spared, and the Turk might go
DON QUIXOTE.
257
tear his beard for very madness : so now I
will stay at borne, since the chaplain does
not fetch me out ; and, if Jupiter is deter-
mioed to withhold his rain, here am I, who
will rain whenever I think proper— goodman
bason will see that I understand him."
^' In troth, sigñor Don Quixote," said the
barber, '' I meant no harm in what I said,
so help me God: therefore your worship
ought not to take it amiss." '< Whether I
ought or not," said Don Quixote, " is best
known to myself." " Well," said the priest,
'* though I have yet scarcely spoken, I should
be very glad to relieve my conscience of a
scruple, which has been started by what
sigñor Don Quixote just now said." " You
may command me, sigñor curate, in such
matters," answered Don Quixote, '^out then
with your scruple: for there can be no peace
with a scrupulous conscience." '* With this
license then," said the curate, *^ I must tell
you that I can by no means persuade myself
tliat the multitude of knights-errant, 3'our
worship has mentioned, were really and truly
persons of flesh and blood existing in the
world ; on the contrary, I imagine that the
accounts g^ven of them are all fictions and
dreams, invented by men awake, or, to speak
more -properly, half asleep." ** This is a
common mistake," answered Don Quixote,
which I have, upon sundry occasions, and
in many companies, endeavoured to correct.
Sometimes I have failed in my attempts, at
other times succeeded, being founded on the
basis of truth : for I can almost say these
eyes have seen Amadis de Gaul, who was
tall of stature, of a fair complexion, with a
well-set beard, though black ; his aspect
between mild and stera ; a man of few
words, not easily provoked, and soon paci-
fied. And as I have described Amadis,
so, methinks, I could paint and delineate
every knight-errant recorded in all the his-
tories in the world. For I feel such confi-
dence in tlie accuracy of their historians
that I find it easy, from their exploits and
character, to form a good philosophical guess
at their features, their complexions, and their
stature." " Pray, sigñor Don Quixote,"
quoth the barber, ^'what size do you think the
giant Morgante might have been ?" ''As to the
*iiatter of giants," answered Don Quixote,
" though it has been a controverted point,
whether they really existed or not, the
Holy Scripture, which cannot deviate a
tittle from truth, proves their reality in the
history of that huge Philistine Goliath, who
was seven cubits and a half high, — a prodi-
gious stature! Besides, in the island of
Sicily, tliere have been found thigh and
shoulder bones so large that, it is evident,
those to whom they belonged were giants,
tall as lofty steeples, which may be ascer-
tained beyond all doubt by the rules of
geometry. Nevertheless, I cannot precisely
tell you what were the dimensions of Mor-
gante, although I am inclined to believe
that he was not extremely tall : because I
find, in the history wherein his achievements
are particularly mentioned, that he often
slept under a roof; and, since he found a
house which could contain him, it is plain
he was not himself of an immeasurable size."
"That is true," quoth the priest; who,
being amused with his solemn extravagance,
asked his opinion of the persons of Kinaldo
of Montalvan, Orlando, and the rest of the
twelve peers of France, since they were all
knights-errant. " Of Rinaldo," answered
Don Quixote, " I dare boldly affirm, he was
broad-faced, of a ruddy complexion, rolling
eyes, and somewhat prominent, punctilious,
choleric to an excess, and a friend to robbers
and profligates. Of Roldan, or Rotolando,
or Orlando (for history gives him all these
names), I believe, and will maintain, that he
was of a middle stature, broad-shouldered,
rather bandy-legged, brown -complexioned,
carrotty-bearded, hairy-bodied, threatening
in aspect, sparing of speech, yet courteous
and well-bred." " If Oriando," replied tlie
priesty ''was not more comely than you
have described him, no wonder that my lady
Angelica the fair disdained and forsook him
for the grace, sprightliness, and gallantry of
the smooth-faced little Moor ; and she was
discreet in preferring the sofhiess of Medoro
to the roughness of Orlando." " That An-
gelica, master curate," replied Don Quixote,
" was a light, wanton, and capricious dam-
sel, and left the world as full of the fame of
her folly as of her beauty. She slighted a
thousand noble cavaliers, a thousand valiant
and wise admirers, and took up with a paltry
:r^
ADVENTURES OF
beardless page, without estate, and with no
other reputation than what he acquired from
his grateful fidelity to his friend. Even the
great extoUer of her beauty, the famous
Ariosto, either not daring, or not caring, to
celebrate what befel this lady after her low
intrigue, the subject not being over delicate,
left her with these verses :
Another Urd may ling in better •train.
How he CaUya's iceptre did obtain.
^' Poets are called * vates,' that is to say
Miviners;' and certainly these lines were
prophetic: for since that time a famous An-
dalusian poet* has bewailed and sung her
tears ; and her beauty has been celebrated
by a Castilian poetf of extraordinary merit.''
*» And pray tell me, sigfior Don Quixote,"
said the barber, '^ among so many who have
sung her praises, has no poet written a satire
upon this lady Angelica ?" " I verily be-
lieve," answered Don Quixote, ^^ that, if
Orlando or Sacripante had been poets, they
would long ago have settled that account ;
for it is not uncommon with poets, disdained
or rejected by their mistresses, to retaliate
by satires and lampoons : — a species of re«
venge, certainly unworthy a generous spirit;
but hitherto I have not met with any de&-
matory verses against the lady Angelica,
although she was the author of so much mis-
chief in the world." " Marvellous indeed !"
said the priest. At this moment, they were
interupted by a noise in the court -yard;
and hearing the niece and housekeeper vo-
ciferating aloud, they hastened to learn the
cause.
CHAPTER II.
WHICH TREATS OF THB NOTABLE QUAR-
REL BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND
DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE AND HOUSE-
KEEPER, WITH OTHER PLEASANT
OCCURRENCES.
The history relates that the outcry which
Don Quixote, the priest, and the barber
heard was raised by the niece and house-
* Louis Barahona de Soto.—/
keeper, in defending the door against Sancho
Panza, who came to pay his master a visit. |
<< Paunch-gutted fellow, get home!" £iúd I
one of them, " what have yon to do here ? '
it is by you our master is led astray and
carried rambling about the country, like a
vagabond." " Thou devilish houeekeeper !"
retorted Sancho, " ' tis I that am led astray,
and carried rambling up and down the high-
ways ; and it was your master that led me
this dance : — so there you are quite mistaken.
He tempted me from home with promises of
an iskind, which I still hope for." " May
the cursed islands choke thee, wretcL !"
answered the niece ; <' and, pray, what are
islands? Are they anything eatable? —
glutton, cormorant as thou art !" "They are
not to be eaten," replied Sancho, ''but go-
verned, and are better things than any four
cities, or four justiceships at court" '' For
all that," said the housekeeper, you shall
not come in here, you bag of mischief, and
bundle of roguery ! Get you home and
govern there ; go, plough and cart, and do
not trouble your silly pate about islands.'*
The priest and the barber were highly di-
verted at this dialogue ; but Don Quixote,
fearing lest Sancho should blunder out
something unseasonably, and touch upon
certain points not advantageous to his repu-
tation, ordered the women to hold their
peace, and let him in. Sancho entered, and
the priest and the barber took their leave of
Don Quixote, now quite despairing of liis
cure : seeing that he was more intoxicated
than ever with knight-errantry. '' You will
see, neighbour," said the curate, as tliey
walked away, " our friend will soon take
another flight." << No doubt of it," said the
barber, '< yet I think the credulity of the
squire still more extraordinary : — it seems
impossible to drive that same island out of
his head." << God help them !" cried the
priest, — '' however, let us watch their mo-
tions : the knight and the squire seem both
to be cast in the same mould, and the mad-
ness of the one, without the folly of the
of the other, would not be worth a rush."
" I should like to know what they are now
conferring about," said the barber. '< We
t Lope de Vega,—/.
^p^
DON QUIXOTE.
259
shall soon hear that from the niece or Loose -
keeper," replied the priest, " for, I lay my
life, they will not refrain from listening."
Don Quixote having shut himself up in
his chamber with Sancho, he said to Lim,
'' It concerns me much, Sancho, that thou
wilt still persist in saying that I enticed
thee from thy home. How! Did we not
both leave our homes together, journey to-
gether, and were both exposed to the same
fürtune? If thou wert once tossed in a
blanket, I have only had the advantage of
thee, in being a hundred times exposed to
hard blows." " That is but reasonable,"
answered Sancho ; ** for, as your worship
says, misfortunes belong more properly to
knights - errant themselves than to their
squires." " Thou art mistaken, Sancho,''
said Don Quixote : '' for, according to the
saying, ' Quando caput dolet, &c.' " ** I
understand no other language than my
own," replied Sancho. '' I mean," said Don
Quixote, ''that when the head aches, all
the members ache also; and therefore I,
being thy lord and master, am thy head,
and thou, being my servant, art a portion of
me, and therefore whatever evil I suffer
must be felt by thee, as thy sufferings like-
wise affect me." ** And so it should be,"
quoth Sancho, ^' but, when I, as a member,
suffered in the blanket, my head stood on
f other side of the pales, seeing me tossed in
the air, without taking the smallest share
in my pain, though, as the members are
bound to grieve at the ills of the head,
the head should have done the like for
them." <' Would'st thou then insinuate,
Saucho," replied Don Quixote, <^ that I was
not 'grieved when I saw thee tossed in the
air ? If that be thy meaning, be assured,
thou art deceived : for I felt more at tliat
time, in my mind, than thou didst in thy
body. But let us dismiss this subject at
present ; ibr a time will come when we may
set this matter to rights. And now tell me,
friend Sancho, what do they say of me in
the village? What opinion do the com-
mon people entertain of me ? What think
the gentlemen and the cavaliers? What is
said of my prowess, of my exploits, and of my
! courteous demeanour ? What say they to
the design I have formed of reviving the
'■^>-— — -
long forgotten order of chivalry ? In short,
Sancho, I would have thee tell me whatever
thou hast heard concerning these matters ;
and this thou must do, without adding to
the good, or omitting to the evil ; for it is
the part of faithful vassals to tell their lords
the truth in its native simplicity, neither
embellished by adulation, nor withheld out
of any idle delicacy. And, let me tell thee,
Sancho, that, if the naked truth could reach
the ears of princes, without the disguise of
flattery, we should see happier days, and
former ages would be deemed as iron, in
comparison of ours, which would then be
truly termed the golden age. Now remem-
ber this, Sancho, and give me an ingenuous
and frdthful account of what thou know'st
concerning these matters." ^' That I will,
with all my heart, sir," answered Sancho,
''on condition that your worship be not
angry at what I say, since you desire to
have the truth, stark naked, just as it came
to me." '^ I will in no wise be angry,"
replied Don Quixote, ^' speak then freely,
Sancho, and without any circamloeution."
*^ First and foremost, tlien," said Sancho,
<< the common people take your worship for
a downright madman, and me for no less a
fool. The gentry say that, not content to
keep to your own proper rank of a gentle-
man, you call yourself Don, and set up for
a knight, with no more than a paltry vine^
yard and a couple of acres of land, with a
rag before and a tatter behind. The cava-
liers say they c^o not choose to be vied with
by those country squires who clout their
shoes, and take up the iallen stiches of their
black stockings with green silk." <' That,"
said Don Quixote, ''is no reflection upon me;
for I always go well clad, and my apparel
is never patched ; a little torn it may be,
but more by the fretting of my armour than
by time." " As to your valour, courtesy,
achievements, and undertaking," continued
Sancho, "there are many different opinions.
Some say yon are mad, but humorous;
others, valiant, but unfortunate; others,
courteous, but absurd ; and thus they pull
us to pieces, till they leave neither your
worship nor me a single feather upon oht
backs." ''Take notice, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, " that, wherever virtue exists
=':3)
280
ADVENTURES OF
in an}' eminent degree, it is always perse-
cuted. Few, or none, of the famous men
of antiquity escaped the calumny of their
malicious contemporaries. Julius Csesar,
a most courageous, prudent, and valiant
general, was charged with being too am-
bitious, and also with want of personal
cleanliness. Alexander, whose exploits
gained him the surname of Great, is said to
have been addicted to drunkenness. Her-
cules, who performed so many labours, is
accused of being lascivious and effeminate.
Don Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul,
was taxed with being quarrelsome, and his
brother with being a whimperer. Amidst
so many aspersions cast on the worthy,
mine, O Sancho, may very well pass, if they
are no more than thou hast mentioned."
" Body of my father ! there's the rub, sir,"
exclaimed Sancho. << What, then, is there
more yet behind?'' said Don Quixote.
" Why, all the things I have told you are
tarts and cheesecakes to what remains
behind," replied Sancho : *' but, if your
worship would have all, to the very dregs,
I will bring one hither presently who can
tell you every thing, without missing a
tittle : for last night the son of Bartholomew
Carrasco returned from his studies at Sala-
manca, where he has taken his bachelor's
degree; and, when I went to bid him
welcome home, he told me that the history
of your worship was already printed in
books, under the title of ' Don Quixote de
la Mancha;' and he says it mentions me
too by my very name of Sancho Panza, and
also the lady Dulciuea del Toboso, and
several other private matters which passed
between us two only; insomuch tiiat I
crossed myself out of pure amazement, to
think how the historian who wrote it should
come to know them." '' Depend upon it,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the
author of this our history must be some sage
enchanter: for nothing is concealed from
them." "A sage, and an enchanter!"
quoth Sancho: "why, the bachelor Samson
Carrasco says the author of this history is
called Cid Hamete Berengena."* " That is
a Moorish name," answered Don Quixote."
" Jt may be so," xieplied Sancho ; *' for I
* ¿ancho tnirtalipii Bereogena, a
have heard that your Moors, for the most
part, are lovers of Berengenas." *' Sancho,"
said Don Quixote, " thou must be mistaken
in the surname of that same ^ Cid,' which,
in Arabic, signifies <a lord.'" "That
may be," answered Sancho, " but if your
worship would like to see him I will run
and fetch him." ** Thou wilt give me sin-
gular pleasure, firiend," said Don Quixote ;
" for I am surprised at what thou hast told
me, and shall be impatient till I am informed
of every particular." " I will go for him
directly," said Sancho ; then, leaving his
master, he went to seek the bachelor, with
whom he soon returned, and a most de-
lectable conversation then passed between
them.
CHAPTER III.
OP THE PLEASANT CONVERSATION WHICH
PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SAN-
CHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR
SAMPSON CARRASCO.
Don Quixote, full of thought, was impa-
tient for the return of Sancho and the
bachelor Carrasco, anxious to hear about >
the printed accounts of himself, yet scarcely
believing that such a history could really be
published, since the blood of the enemies he
had slain was still reeking on his sword- >
blade — indeed he did not see how it was pos-
sible that his high feats of arms should be
already in print. However, he finally con-
cluded that some sage, either friend or
enemy, by art magic, had sent them to the
press: if a friend, to proclaim and extol
them above the most signal achievements of
knights-errant — if an enemy, to annihilate i
and sink them below the meanest that ever I
were written even of a squire : though again
he recollected that the feats of squires never
were recorded. At any rate he was certain,
if it should prove the fact that such a !
history was really extant, being that of a '
knight-errant, it could not be otherwise than ¡
lofty, illustrious, magnificent, and true.
This thought afforded him some comfort,
but he lost it again on considering that the
author was a Moor, as it appeared from the j
■peciei of firait, for Beu Gngdi. J.
uj)=
^
DON QUIXOTE.
S9i
name of Cid, and that no truth could be
expected from Moors, who are all impostors,
liars, and visionaries. He also felt much
inquietude lest the author might have treated
his passion with indelicacy, and thereby
offend the immaculate purity of his lady
Duldnea del Toboso ; he hoped, however,
he might find a faithful delineation of his
own constancy and the decorum he had
ever inviolably preserved towards her ;
slighting, for her sake, queens, empresses,
and damsels of all degrees, and resisting the
most violent temptations. While he was
agitated by these and a thousand other
fancies, Sancho returned, accompanied by
the bachelor, who was received with all
possible courtesy.
This bachelor, though Samson by na?ne,
was no giant in person, but a little mirth-
loving man, with a good understanding;
about twenty - four years of age, of a pale
complexion, round-faced, flat -nosed, and
wide-mouthed: all indicating humour and
a native relish for jocularity, which indeed
shewed itself when, on approaching Don
Quixote, he threw himself upon his knees,
and said to him, ^' Sigñor Don Quixote de
la Mancha, allow me the honour of kissing
your illustrious hand ; for, by the habit of
St. Peter which I wear — though I have yet
taken only the four first degrees towards
holy orden, your worship is one of the most
famous knights-errant that hath ever been
or shall be, upon the whole circumference of
the earth ! A blessing light on Cid Hamete
Benengeli, who has recorded the history of
your mighty deeds! and blessings upon
blessings light on that ingenious scribe
whose laudable curiosity was the cause of
its being translated out of Arabic into our
vulgar Castilian, for the profit and amuse-
raeat of all mankind V* Don Quixote having
raised him from the ground, said to him,
'' It is true then that my history is really
published to the world, and that it was
written by a Moor and a sage ?" " So true
it is, sir," said Sampson, ^' that I verily
beUeve there are, at this very day, above
twelve thousand copies published of that
history : — witness Portugal, Barcelona, and
Valencia, where they were printed ; and
it is said to be now printing at Antwerp
— indeed, I prophecy that no nanon or Ian*
guage will be without a translation of it."
" There cannot be a more legitimate source
of gratification to a virtuous and distin-
guished man," said Don Quixote^ " than to
have his good name celebrated during his
life- time, and circulated over different na-
tions : — I say his good name, for if it were
otherwise than good, death, in any shape,
would be preferable." " As to high repu-
tation and a good name," said the bachelor,
*' your worship bears the palm over all past
knights-errant : for the Moor in the Arabian
language, and theCastilian in his translation,
have both taken care to paint to the life that
gallant deportment which distinguishes you,
that greatness of soul in confronting dangers,
that patience in adversity, that fortitude in
suffering, that modesty and continence in
love, so truly platonic, as that subsisting
between you and my lady Donna Dulcinea
del Toboso."
Sancho here interposed, saying, '^ I never
heard my lady Dulcinea called Donna be-
fore, but only plain Dulcinea del Toboso ; so
that here the history is already mistaken."
" That objection is of no importance," an-
swered Carrasco." " No, certainly," replied
Don Quixote ; — " but pray tell me, sigñor
bachelor, on which of my exploits do they
lay the greatest stress in that same history ?"
''As to that matter," said the bachelor,
'' opinions vary according to the difference
of tastes. Some are for the adventure of
the wind-mills, which your worship took for
so many Briareuses and giants ; others pre-
fer that of the fulling-mills ; one cries up
for the two armies, which turned out to be
flocks of sheep ; another for the dead body,
carrying for interment, to Segovia. Some
maintain that the affair of the galley-slaves
is the flower of all ; while others will have
it that none can be compared to that of the
two Benedictine giants, and the combat
with the valorous Biscainer." " Pray tell
me, sigñor bachelor," quoth Sancho, " has
it got, among the rest, the affair of the Yan-
guesian carriers, when our good Rozinante
was tempted to go astray ?" " The sage,"
answered Samson, " has omitted nothing —
he minutely details every tiling, even to the
capers Sancho cut in tlie blanket." '* I cut
©/=
ADVENTURES OP
no capers in the blanket/' answered Sancho ;
" in the air I own I did, and not much to
my liking." " There is no history of human
affairs, I conceive," said Don Quixote,
*^ which 18 not full of reverses, and none
more than those of chivalry." "Neverthe-
less," replied the bachelor, ^' some who have
read the history say they should have been
better pleased if the authors of it had for-
borne to enumerate all the buffetings endured
by sigfior Don Quixote in his different en-
counters." "Therein," quoth Sancho, "con-
sists the truth of the history." "They might
indeed as well have omitted them," said Don
Quixote, "since there is no necessity for
recording actions which are prejudicial to
the hero, without being essential to the his-
tory. It is not to be supposed that ^neas
was, in all his actions, so pure as Virgil
represents him, nor Ulysses so uniformly
pnident as he is described by Homer."
" True," replied Sampson ; " but it is one
thing to write as a poet, and another to
write as a historian. The poet may say
or sing, not as things were, but as they ought
to have been ] but the historian must pen
them, not as they ought to have been, but
as they really were, without adding to, or
diminishing anght from, the truth." " Well
then," said Sancho, "if this signer Moor is
so fond of telling the truth, and my roaster's
rib-roastings are all set down, I suppose
mine are not forgotten ; for they never took
measure of his worship's shoulders but at
the same time they contrived to get the
length and breadth of my whole body ;—
but why should I wonder at that, since, as
this same master of mine says, the members
must share the iate of the head ?" " Sancho,
thou art an arch rogue," replied Don Quix-
ote, "and in faith, upon some occasions,
hast no want of memory." "Though I
wanted ever so much to forget what my
poor body has suffered," quoth Sancho, " the
tokens that are still fresh on my ribs would
not let me." " Peace, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, " and let siguor bachelor proceed,
that I may know what is farther said of me
in the history." " And of me too," quoth
Sancho, " for I hear that I am one of the
principal parsons in it." "Persons, not
parsons, friend Sancho," quoth Samson.
**What, have we another corrector of
words !" quoth Sancho, " if we are to go on
at this rate, we shall make slow work of
it." " As sure as I live, Sancho," answered
the bachelor, ^< you are the second person
of the history : — nay, there are those who
had rather bear you talk than the finest
fellow of them all : though there are also
some who charge yon with being too credu-
lous in expecting the government of that
island, promised you by sigñorDon Quixote,
here present." "There is still sun-shine
on the wall," quoth Don Quixote ; " and,
when Sancho is more advanced in age, with
the experience that years bestow, he will be
better qualified to be a governor than he
is at present." " 'Pore Gad I sir," quoth
Sancho, "if I am not fit to govern an island
at these years, I shall be no better able at
the age of Methusalem. The mischief of it
is that the said island sticks somewhere
else, and not in my want of a head- piece
to govern it." " Recommend the matter to
God, Sancho," said Don Quixote : " and
all will be well — perhaps better than thou
may'st think ; for not a leaf stirs on the tree
without his permission." " That is very
true," quoth Samson ; "and if it please God
Sancho will not want a thousand islands to
govern, much less one." " I have seen go-
vernors ere now," quoth Sancho," who, in my
opinion, do not come up to the sole of my shoe,
and yet tliey are called Your Lordship, and
eat their victuals upon plate." " Those are
not governors of islands," replied Samson,
" but of other governments more manage-
able; for those who govern islands most at
least understand grammar." "Gramercy
for that !" quoth Sancho ; " it is all Greek
to me, for I know nothing of the matter ; so
let us leave the business of governments in
the hands of God, and let Him dispose of
of me in the way that I may best serve him.
But I am mightily pleased, sigñor bachelor
Samson Carrasco, that the author of the
history has not spoken ill of me ; for, upon
the faith of a trusty squire, had he said any
thing of me unbecoming an old christian^
as I am, the deaf should have heard it."
"That would be working miracles," answered
Samson. " Miracles, or no miracles,"
quoth Sancho, " people should take heed
et
@
DON QUIXOTE.
263
what they say and write of other folks, and
not set any thing down that comes upper-
most"
** One of the faults fonnd with this his-
tory," said the bachelor, '' is that the author
has inserted in it a novel called 'The Curious
Impertinent ;' not because the tale is bad in
itself, or ill-written, but they say that it is
out of place, having nothing to do with the
story of his worship ngñor Don Quixote."
"I will laya wager," replied Sancho, "the
whoreson author has made a fine hotch potch
of it, jumbling fish and flesh together."
" I aver then," said Don Quixote, " that
the author of my history could not be a sage,
but some ignorant pretender, who has en-
gaged in the work without deliberation, and
written down any thing, just at random:
like Orbeneja, the painter of Ubeda, who,
being asked what he was painting, answered,
' As it may happen ;' and who, when he had
painted a cock, to prevent impertinent mis-
takesy wrote under it, 'This isa cock*' Thus
perhaps it has fared with my history, which
may require a comment to make it intelligi-
ble." "Not at all," answered Samson;
" for it is so plain, so easy to be understood,
that children thumb it, boys read it, men
understand it, and old folks commend it ; in
short, it is so tossed about, so conned, and
80 thoroughly known by all sorts of people,
that no sooner is alean horse seen than they
cry, 'Yonder goes Rozinante/ But none
are so much addicted to reading it as your
pages : — in every nobleman's anti -chamber
you will be sure to find a Don Quixote. If
one lays it down, another takes it up ; one
asks for it, another snatches it ; — in short,
this history is the most pleasing and least
prejudicial work that was ever published :
for it contains not one indecent expression,
nor a thought that is not purely catholic."
"To write otherwise of me," said Don
Quixote, "had not been to write truths, but
lies; and historians who propagate false-
hoods should be condemned .to the stake,
like coiners of base money. Why the author
was induced to mix novels, or narratives of
other persons, with my history, which is
itBelf so rich in matter, I know not ; but
* The proverb entire ia» ' De pftja o de heno, el jergón
U<iio.'— * With hsj or with itraw, the tick U full.'—/.
some writers think, as the proverb says,
'With hay or with straw — it is all the
same.'* Verily, had he confined himself to
the publication of my thoughts, my sighs,
my groans, my laudable intentions, or my
actual achievements, he might, with these
alone, have compiled a volume as large,
or larger, than all the works of Tostatus.f
But in truth, sigfior bachelor, much know-
ledge |md a mature understanding are requi-
site for a historian, or indeed for a good
writer of any^kind ; and wit and humour
belongs to genius alone. There is no cha-
racter in comedy which requires so much
ingenuity as tljat of the fool ; for he must
not in reality be what he appears. History
is like sacred writing, because truth is essen-
tial to it ; and where there is truth the
Deity himself is present : nevertheless, there
are many who think that books may be
written and tossed out into the world like
fritters."
"There is no book so bad," said the bach-
elor, " but that something good may be found
in it." " Undoubtedly," said Don Quixote,
"I have known many, too, that have
enjoyed considerable reputation for their
talents in writing, until, by publishing,
they have either injured or entirely lost their
fame." " The reason of this is," said Sam-
son, " that as printed works may be read
leisurely, their defects are more easily seen,
and they are scrutinised more or less strictly
in proportion to the celebrity of the author.
Men of great talents, whether poets or his-
torians, seldom escape the attacks of those
who, without ever favouring the world with
any productions of their own, take delight
in criticising the works of others." " Nor
can we wonder at that," said Don Quixote,
"when we observe the same practice among
divines, who, though dull enough in the
pulpit themselves, are wonderfully sharp-
sighted in discovering the defects of other
preachers." " True indeed, signer Don
Quixote," said Carrasco, "and I wish
critics would be less fiistidious, nor dwell
so much upon the motes which may be
discerned even on the brightest works : for,
though aliquando bonus cbrmitat HomeruSy
T Thii author*! works consist* of twenty-four Tolumes
folio.
264
ADVENTURES OF
they ought to consider how much he was
awake to produce a work with so much light
and so little shade ; nay, perhaps even his
seeming blemishes are like moles, which are
sometimes thought to be rather an improve-
ment to beauty. But it cannot be denied .
that whoever publishes a book to the world
exposes himself to imminent peril, since, of
all things, nothing is more impossible than
10 satisfy every body." " My history must
please but very few, I fear," said Don
Quixote. " On the contrarj^'' replied the
bachelor, " as, sttUtorum infinitus est rm-
merus, so infinite is the number of those
who have been delighted with that history.
Though some, it is true, have taxed the
author with having a treacherous memory,
since he never explained who it was that
stole Sancho's Dapple ; it only appears that
he was stolen, yet soon after we find him
mounted upon the same beast, without being
told how it was recovered. They complain
also tliat he has omitted to inform us what
Sancho did with the hundred crowns which
he found in the portmanteau in the Sierra
Morena : for he never mentions them again,
to the great disappointment of many curious
persons, who reckon it one of the most
material defects in the work." "Master
Sampson," replied Sancho, " I am not in
the mind now to come to accounts or reck-
onings, for I have a qualm come over my
stomach, and shall not be easy till I have
rectified it with a couple of draughts of old
stingo ; I have the darling at home, and my
duck looks for me. When I have had my
feed, and my girths are tightened, I shall be
with you straight, and will satisfy you and
all the world in whatever they are pleased
to ask me both touching the loss of Dapple
and the laying out of the hundred crowns."
Then, without waiting for an answer, or
saying another word, he set off home. The
* The Moorish robb«rin the " Orlando enamorado" of
Boyardo (book ii. canto v.) and in the " Orlando Furi-
Oio" of Arioato (eaot. t.) Although thia ingenioiu theft
were the invention of Boyardo or Cervantei, the device
ahould not be pronounced as impracticable, notwith-
standing the opinion of Sigñor Rios (Analysia, p. ccxxx.)
for one of s similar kind was really put into execution
at Paris in the last century, and is thus related in the
'* History of Thieves/' printed at Lyons, 1604, book 3,
p. 1R7. " An immenne concourse of people were assem-
bled in the Place de Gréve on St. Jolxn's eve, attracted
bachelor being pressed by Don Quixote to
stay and do penance with him, he accepted
the invitation, and a couple of pigeons was
added to the usual fare ; chivalry was the
subject at table, and Carrasco carried it on
with the proper humour and spirit. Their
banquet over, they sle]>t during the heat of
the day ; after which Sancho returned, and
the former conversation w*tts renewed.
CHAPTER IV.
WHEREIN SANCHO F^NZA A.N8WRRS
THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO's
DOUBTS AND questions; WITH OTHER
INCIDENTS WORTH JT OF BEING KNOWN
AND RECITED.
Sancho returned to Don Quixote's house,
and, reviving the ¡ate subject of discourse
which he had so abruptly quitted, he said :
** Well, master Samson Carrasco, now you
want to know when and how my Dapple
was stolen, and who was the thief. You
must know, then, that on the very night
that we marched off to avoid the ofEcers of
the holy biotherhood, after the unlucky
aíÜMr of the galley-slaves, having made our
way into the Sierra Morena, my master
and I got into a thicket, where he, leaning '
upon his lance, and I, sitting upon Dapple,
mauled and tired by our late skirmishes,
we both fell as fast asleep as if we had been
stretched upon four feather- beds. For my
own part I slept so soundly that the thief,
whoever he was, had leisure enough to prop
me up on four stakes, which he planted
under the four comers of the pannel, and
then, drawing Dapple from under me, he
left me fairly mounted, without ever dream-
ing of my loss.'' " That is an easy matter,
and no new device,'' said Don Quixote;
" for it is recorded that, at the siege of
Albraca, the famous robber Brúñelo,* by
thither by a display of fireworks, and varioua other
entertainments. Among the number was an old peasant
from the country, who was beset by five thieves. He
was mounted upon an ass, and, on a signal between
them, fuur take hold of the pannel, one at eacV
corner, and the other giTea the animal a prick behind,
and, while the rustic is gaping at the sports, the ass is
drawn from beneath him ; the othen all at once let go
the pannel, and down comes the terrified rider, finnlT
believing the earth had opened to swallow him up
alive. P.
DON QUIXOTE.
269
the Tery same stratagem, stole the horse of
Sacripante from between his legs." " At
daybreak," continaed Sancho, " when I
awoke and began to stretch myself^ the
stakes gave way, and down I came, with a
confounded squelch, to the ground. I
looked about me, but could see no Dapple ;
tears came into my eyes, and I made such a
lamentation that, if the author of our his-
tory has not set it down, he has surely
omitted an excellent thing. After some
days — I cannot exactly say how many —
as I was following the princess Micomi-
cona, I saw my ass again, and who should
be mounted on him but that cunning rogue
and notorious malefactor Gines de Passa-
monte, whom my master and I freed from
the galley - chain !" "The mistake does
not lie there," said Samson, " but in the
author making Sancho ride upon the same
beast before he is said to have recovered
bim." " All this," said Sancho, " I know
nothing about; it might be a mistake of
the historian, or, perhaps, a blunder of his
printer." " No doubt it was so," quoth
Samson : '' but what became of the
hundred crowns? — for there we are in the
dark." " I laid them out," replied Sancho,
*' for the benefit of my own person and that
of my wife and children ; and they have
been the cause of her bearing quietly my
rambles from home in the service of my
master Don Quixote : for had £ returned,
after so long a time, ass-less and pennyless,
I most have looked for a scurvy greeting :
and if you want to know any thing more
of me, here am I ready to answer the king
himself in person ; though it is nothing to
anybody whether I brought or brought not,
whether I spent or spent not; for if the
cuffs and blows that have been given me
in our travels were to be paid for in ready
money, and rated only at four maravedís a
piece, another hundred crowns would not pay
for half of them ; so let every man lay his
hand upon his heart, and not take white for
black, nor black for white ; for we are all
as God made us, and oftentimes a great
deal worse."
" I will take care," said Carrasco, " to
warn the author of tlie history not to forget,
in his next edition, what honest Sancho has
told us, which will make the book as f»>od
again." '^ Are tliere any other explana-
tions wanting in the work, sigñor bachelor?"
quoth Don Quixote. " There may be
others," answered Carrasco, *^ but none of
equal importance with those already men*
tioned." "Peradventure," said Don Quixote»
^' the author promises a second part?"
*^ He does," answered Samson, "but says he
has not yet been able to find out the pos*
sessor of it ; and therefore we are in doubt
whether or not it will ever make its appedr-
ance. Besides, some people say that second
parts are never good for any thing ; and
others, that there is enough of Don Quixote
ab^ady; though it is true there are some
merry souls who cry, <Let us have more
Quixotades; let but Don Quixote encounter,
and Sancho Panza talk, and go the world
as it may !" " But pray how stands the
editor affected?" enquired Don Quixote.
" How !" said Samson ; " why as soon as
he can find this history, which he is dili-
gently searching for, he will immediately
send it to press, more on account of the
profit, than the praise, which he hopes to
derive from it." " What, then," said
Sancho, " the author wants to get money
by it ? If so, it will be a wonder indeed if
it is well done ; for he will stitch it away
like a tailor on Easter-eve, and your hasty
works are never good for any thing. This
same signer Moor would do well to consider
a little what he is about ; for I and my
master will furnish him so abundantly with
lime and mortar in matter of adventures
that he may not only compile a second, but
a hundred parts. The good man thinks,
without doubt, that we lie sleeping here in
straw, but let him hold up the limping foot,
and he will see why it halts. All that I
can say is that, if my master had taken my
advice, we might have been now in the
field, redressing grievances and righting
wrongs, according to the usage of good
knights -errant." — At this moment, while
Sancho was yet speaking, the neighings of
Hozinante reached their ears ; which Don
Quixote took for a most happy omen, and
resolved, without delay, to resume his
functions, and again sally forth into the
world. He therefore consulted the bachelor
=^
266
ADVENTURES OF
•s to what coarse he should take, and was
advised by him to go straight to the king-
dom of Arragon and the city of Saragossa,
where, in a few days, a most solemn tour-
nament was to be held in honour of the
festival of saint George ; and there, by
vanquishing the Arragonian knights, he
would acquire the ascendancy over all the
knights in the world. He commended his
resolution as most honourable and brave;
at the same time cautioning him to be more
'\Fary in encountering great and needless
perils, because his life was not his own,
but belonged to those who stood in need of
hb aid and protection. *' That is just what
I say, signer Samson," quoth Sancho;
'^ for my master makes no more of attacking
a hundred armed men than a greedy boy
would do half-a-dozen melons. Body of
me, sigfior bachelor ! yes, there must be a
time to attack and a time to retreat, and
it must not be always, 'Saint Jago, and
charge, Spain!'* And farther, I have heard
it said (and, if I remember right, by my
master himself) that true valour lies in the
middle between cowardice and rashness;
and, if so, I would not have him either fall
on, or fly, without good reason for it. But,
above all, I would let my master know that,
if he takes me with him, it must be upon
condition that he shall battle it all himself,
and that I shall only have to tend his
person— I mean look after his clothes and
food ; all which I will do with a hearty
good will : but if he expects that I will
lay hand to my sword, though it be only
against beggarly wood-cutters with hooks
and hatchets, he is very much mistaken.
I, sigñor Samson, do not set up for being
tlie most valiant, but the best and most
faithful, squire that ever served knight-
errant ; and if my lord Don Quixote, in
consideration of my many and good services,
shall please to bestow on me some one of the
many islands his worship says he shall light
upon, I shall be much beholden to him for
the favour ; and if he give me none, here
I am, and it is better to trust God than
each other; and mayhap my government
bread might not go down so sweet as that
which I should eat without it ; and how do
I know but the devil, in one of these govern-
ments, might set up a stumbling-block in
my way, over which I may fall, and dash
out my grinders ? Sancho I was bom, and
Sancho I expect to die ; yet for all that if,
fairly and squarely, without much care or
much risk, heaven should chance to throw
an island, or some such thing, in my way,
I am not such a fool neither as to refuse it ;
for, as the saying is, ' When they give yon
a heifer, be ready with the rope,' and * when
good fortune knocks, make haste to let her
in.'"
" Brother Sancho," quoth the bachelor,
*'yo!j have spoken like any professor; never-
theless trust in God, and sigñor Don Quixote,
and then you may get not only an island, but
even a kingdom." *' One as likely as the
other," answered Sancho ; " though I could
tell sigñor Carrasco that my master will
not throw the kingdom he gives me into a
rotten sack ; for I have felt my pulse, and
find myself strong enough to rule kingdoms
and govern islands, and so much I have sig-
nified before now to my master." " Take
heed, Sancho," quoth the bachelor, "for
honours change manners ; and it may come
to pass, when you are a governor, that you
may not know even your own mother."
" That," answered Sancho, " may be the case
with those that are bom among the mallows,
but not with one whose soul, like mine, is
covered four inches thick with grease of the
old christian ; — no, no, I am not of the un-
grateful sort." " God grant it," said Don
Quixote, " but we shall see when the go-
vernment comes ; and methinks I have it
already in my eye."
The knight now requested Samson Car-
rasco, if he were a poet, to do him the fiivour
to compose some verses for him, as a fare-
well to his lady, and to place a letter of her
name at the beginning of each verse, so that
the initials joined together might make DuU-
cinea del Toboso. The bachelor said that,
though he was not one of the great poets of
Spain, who were said to be three and a half
in number, he would endeavour to comply
with his request ; at the same time, he fore«
* Santiago 7 ci«rra España," i> the cry of the Spaniardt at the oaaet in battle. J,
DON QUIXOTE.
267
«aw that it would be do easy task, as the
name consisted of seventeen letters ; for if
be made four stanzas of foar verses each,
there would be a letter too much, and if he
made them of ñye, which are called Décimas
or Redondillas, there wonld be three letters
wanting : howeyer, he said that he wonld
endeavour to sink a letter as well as he could,
so that the name of Dulcinea del Toboso
should be included in the four stanzas. '' Let
it be 90 by all means/' said Don Quixote ;
** for, when the name is not plain and mani-
fest, the lady is always doubtful whether the
verses be really composed for her.'* On this
point they agreed, and also that they should
set out within eight days from that time. Don
Quixote enjoined the bachelor to keep his
intention secret, especially from the priest,
and master Nicholas, as well as his niece
and housekeeper, lest they might endeavour
to obstruct his honourable purpose. Car-
rasco promised to attend to his caution, and
took his leave, after obtaining a promise on
his part to send him tidings of his progress
whenever an opportunity offered. Sancho
also went home to prepare for the intended
expedition.
♦— —
CHAPTER V.
OF THE DIgORXBT AKD PLEASANT
CONVERSATION WHICH PASSED BE*
TWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS
WIFE TERESA.
The translator of this history, on coming to
the present chapter, says that he takes it to
be apocryphal, because Sancho therein ex-
presses himself in a style very different fiom
what might be expected ñx>m his shallow
understanding, and speaks with an acuten^s
that seems wholly above his capacity ; never^
thelessy he would not omit the translation of
it, in compliance with the duty of his office,
1 and therefore proceeded as follows :
Sancho went home in such high spirits
that his wife observed his gaiety a bow-
shot off, insomuch that she could not help
¡ saying, " What makes you look so blithe,
friend Sancho ?'' To which he answered:
" Would to Heaven, dear wife, I were not
•o well pleased as I seem to be I" << I know
fe^
not what you mean, husband,'' replied she,
*' by saying you wish you were not so much
pleased : now, silly as I am, I cannot guess
how any one can desire not to be pleased."
" Look you, Teresa," answered Sancho, " I
am thus merry because I am about to return
to the service of my master Don Quixote,
who is going again in search after adven-
tures, and I am to acompany him : for so
my fate wills it. Besides I am merry with
the hopes of finding another hundred crowns
like those we have spent -, though it grieves
me to part from you and my children ; and
if God would be pleased to give me bread,
dryshod and at home, without dragging me
over crags and cross-paths, it is plain that
uiy joy would be better grounded, since it is
now mingled witii sorrow for leaving you :
so that I was right in saying that I should
be glad if it pleased God I were not so well
pleased." " Look you, Sancho," replied
Teresa, '^ ever since you have been a knight-
errant-man, yon talk in such a round-about
manner that nobody can understand you."
'' It is enough, wife," said Sancho, '^ that
God understands me. For he is the under-
stander of all things ; and so much for tliat.
And do you hear, wife, it behoves you to
take special care of Dapple for these three or
four days to come, that he may be in a con-
dition to bear arms ; so double his allowance,
and get the pack-saddle in order, and the
the rest of his tackling; for we are not
going to a wedding, but to roam about the
world, and to give and take with giants,
fiery dragons, and goblins, and to hear hiss-
ings, roarings, bellowings, and bleatings:
all which would be but flowers of lavender,
if we had not to do with Yangueses and
enchanted Moors. " " I believe indeed,
husband," replied Teresa, " that your squires
errant do not eat their bread for nothing,
and therefore I shall not fail to beseech our
Lord to deliver you speedily from so much
evil hap." " I tell you, wife," answered
Sancho, '^ that did I not expect, ere long,
to see myself a governor of an island, I vow
I should drop down dead upon the spot."
"Not so, good husband," quoth Teresa:
''let the ben live though It be with the
pip. Do you live, and the devil take all
the governments in the world. Without a
ADVENTURES OF
goyernment your mother brought yoa mto
the world, without a goTemment yoa have
liyed till now, and without it you will be
carried to yoar grave, whenever it shall
please God. How many folks are there in
the world that have no government ; and
yet they live, and are reckoned among the
people ! The best sauce in the world is
hunger, and as that is never wanting to the
poor, they always eat with a relish. But
if, perchance, Sancho, you should get a
government, do not forget me and your
children. Consider that your son Sancho is
just fifteen years old, and it is fit be should
go to school, if his uncle the abbot means to
breed him up to the church. Consider also
that Mary Sancha your daughter will not
break her heart if we marry her ; for I am
mbtaken if she has not as much mind to a
husband as you have to a government : and
verily, say I, better a daughter but humbly
married than highly kept." ^^In good
faith, dear wife," said Sancho, '^ if God be
so good to me that I get any thing like a
government, I will match Mary Sancha so
highly that there will be no coming near
her without calling her Your Ladyship."
" Not so, Sancho," answered Teresa, " the
best way is to marry her to her equal ; for
if you lift her from clouted shoes to high
heels, and, instead of her russet coat of four-
teen-penny stuff, give her a farthingale and
petticoats of silk; and instead of plain Molly
and thou, she be called Madam, aad Your
Ladyship, the girl will not know where she
is, and will fall into a thousand mistakes at
every step, shewing her home-spun country-
stuff." "Peace, fool," quoth Sancho, "she
has only to practise two or three years, and
the gravity will sit upon her as if they were
made for her ; and if not, what matters it ?
Let her be a lady, and come of it what will."
" Measure yourself by your condition, San-
cho," answered Teresa ; " and do not seek
to raise yourself higher, but remember the
proverb, * Wipe your neighbour's son's nose
and take him into your house.^ It would
be a pretty business truly to marry our Mary
to some great count or knight, who, when
the fancy takes him, would look upon her
as some strange thing, and be calling her
country -wench, clod -breaker's brat, and I
know not what else. No, not while I live,
husband ; I have not brought up my child
to be so used ; do you provide money, San-
cho, and leave the matching of her to my
care: for there is Lope Tocho, John Tocho's
son, a lusty hale young man, whom we
know, and I am sure he has a sneaking
kindness for the ghrl ; to him she will be
very well married, considering he is our
equal, and will always be under our eye ;
and we shall be all as one, parents and chil-
dren, grandsons and sons-in-law, and so the
peace and blessing of God will be among ns
all ; and do not you be for marrying her at
your courts and great palaces, where they
will neither understand her, nor she un-
derstand herself." " Hark you, beast, and
wife for Barabbas," replied Sancho, " why
would you now, without rhyme or reason,
hinder me from marrying my daughter with
one who may bring me grand-children that
may be styled Your Lordships ? — Look you,
Teresa, I have always heard my betters say,
' He that will not when he may, when he
will he shall have nay ;' and it would be
wrong, now that fortune is knocking at our
door, not to open it and bid her welcome.
^ Let us spread our sail to the &vourable
gale, now that it blows.'" — It was this
kind of language from Sancho, and more of
the same which followed, that made the
translator suspect the present chapter to be
apocryphal.
"Do you not think, animal," continued
Sancho, " that it would be well for me to
get hold of some good rich government that
may lift us out of the dirt, so that I may
wed Mary Sancha to any one I please?
You will then see how people will call you
Donna Teresa Panza, and you will sit in
the church with velvet cushions, carpets,
and tapestries, in spite of the best gentle-
women of the parish. No, no, stay as you
are, and be always the same thing, like a
figure in the hangings, without being ever
higher or lower. But no more of this ;
little Sancha shall be a countess in spite of
your teeth." " Take care what you say,
husband," answered Teresa ; " for I am afraid
this countess-ship will be my daughter's un-
doing. But you must do as you please—
make her a duchess or a princess ; but it
(?^=
=ía
DON QUIXOTE.
209
snail never be witli my conseut. I always
liked to see things suited like to like^ and
cannot abide to see folks take upon tlieni
when they should not. Plain Teresa was I
christened, and my name was never made
to be dizened either with Dons or Donnas.
My father's name w^as Cascajo, and I, being
your wife, am called Teresa Panza, though
indeed, by good rights I should be called
Teresa Cascajo: but the laws follow the
prince's will. I am content with that name
as it is, without being burtliened with Donna,
to make it so heavy that I should not be able
to carry it ; and I would not have people
cry out, when they see roe decked out
like any countess or governess, Mook how
stately madam hog- feeder struts it ! Yes-
terday she toiled at her distaff from morning
till night, and went to mass with the tail of
her petticoat over her head, for lack of a
veil: and to-day, forsooth, she goes with
her &rthingale, her embroideries, and all so
lofty as if we did not know her!' God
keep me in my seven, or my ñve, senses, or
as many as I have ; for I have no mind to
expose myself after this manner. Go you,
husband to your governing and islanding,
and puff yourself up as you please ; as for
my girl and I, by the life of my father, we
will neither of us stir a step from our own
town: for the proverb says,
Tht «rife tbat expects to have r good name
la always at borne, as if she were lame :
And the maid that is honest, her chicfest delight
Is still to be doing from morning to night.
Go you, with your Don Quixote to your
adventures, and leave us to our ill fortunes;
God will better them for us, if we deserve
it; though truly I cannot guess who made
him a Don, for neither his father nor his
grandfather had any such title." " Out of
all question," quoth Sancho, " some evil
spirit must have got into that body of thine !
— Heavens bless thee, woman I what a
heap of stuff hast thou been twisting to-
gether, without either head or tail ! What
has Cascajo, embroideries, or the proverbs,
to do with what I am saying ? Why, thou
foolish, ignorant prater (for so I may well
call thee, since thou can'st neither under-
stand what 1 say, nor see what is for thy
own good), had I told thee that our daughter
was to throw herself headlong from some
high steeple, or go gypsy ing about the
world as did the Infanta Donna Urraca,
thou would'st have been right in not coming
into my mind ; but if, in two turns of a
hand, and less than the twinkling of an
eye, I can equip her with a Don and Your
Ladyship, and raise thee from the straw to
sit under a canopy of state, and upon a
sofa with more velvet cushions than all the
Almohadas* of Morocco had Moors in their
lineage, why wilt thou not consent, and
desire what I desire ?" " Would you know
why, husband ?" answered Teresa. " It is
because of the proverb, which says, * He
that covers thee discovers thee.' The poor
man is scarcely looked at, while every eye
is turned upon the rich ; and, if the poor
man grows rich and great, then I warrant
you there is work enough for your grumblers
and backbiters, who swarm every where like
bees."
" Hearken to me, Teresa," answered
Sancho, and listen to what I am going to
say ; mayhap thou hast never heard it
before in all thy life : and I do not speak
now of my own head, but from the speeches
of that good lather the preacher, who held
forth to us last Lent in this village, who,
if I remember right, said that the things
which are present before our eyes take a
a stronger hold on our minds than things
past.''
All this parade of reasoning, so out
of character in Sancho, tended to confirm
the opinion of the translator that this
chapter could not possibly be genuine.
" That being the case," continued Sancho,
''when we see any person finely dressed^
and set off with rich apparel and with a
train of servants, we are moved to shew
him respect; for, though we cannot but
remember certain scurvy matters, either of
poverty or parentage, that formerly be-
longed to him, but which, being long gone
by, are almost forgotten, we only think of
what we see before our eyes. And if, as
the preacher said, the person so raised, by
good luck, from nothing, as it were, to the
* A play on the word Almohada, which signifies »
cushion, and is also the name of a famous tribe of Arabs
in Africa. J,
© =
=®
I
270
ADVENTURES OF
tip -top of prosperity, be well-behaved,
generous, and civil, and gives himself no
ridiculous airs, pretending to vie with the
old nobility, take my word for it, Teresa,
nobody will twit him with what he was,
but will respect him for what he is : except,
indeed, the envious, who hate every man's
good luck." '* I don't understand yon,
husband,'' replied Teresa ; ^' do what you
think fit, and do not crack my brains any
more with your speeches and flourishes;
but if you are revolved to do as you say"
" Resolved, you should say, wife,"
quoth Sancho, ^' and not revolved." ^' Do
not trouble yourself to mend my words,"
answered Teresa ; " I speak as it pleases
God, and meddle not with your fine notions.
— I say, if you hold still in the same mind
of being a governor, take your son Sancho
with you, and train him up to your calling,
for it is fit that sons should learn their
fathers' trade." " When I have a govern-
ment," quoth Sancho, ^' I will send for him
by the post ; and also money to you, which
I shall have in abundance, for people are
always ready enough to lend their money
to governors ; and mind you clothe the boy
80 that he may look, not like what he is,
but what he will be." '^Send you the
money," quoth Teresa, '* and I will make
him as fine as a palm-branch." '^ We are
agreed then," quoth Sancho, ^'that our
daughter is to be a countess ?" '* The day
that I see her a countess," answered Teresa,
''I shall reckon I am laying her in her
grave : but I say again you must do as you
please, for to this burden women are born —
they must obey their husbands if they are
ever such blockheads ;" and then she began
to weep as bitterly as if she already saw
little Sancha dead and buried. Sancho
comforted her, and promised that, though
he must make her a countess, he would put
it off as long as possible. Thus ended thev
dialogue,* and Sancho went to pay his
master another visit, in order to confer on
the subject of their departure.
* This dbpule between Sancho and hie wife Teresa,
on the subject of their daughter's marriage, has been
imitated by Moliere, in his comedy of " Le Bourgeois
Oentilhomme." (Act iii. Scene 12) This plagiarism
baa already been adverted to by Mons. de Cailhaya
CHAPTER VI.
OP WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE,
HIS NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, WHICH
IS ONE OF THE HOST IMPORTANT CHAP*
TERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY.
While Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa
Cascajo were conversing, as related in the
foregoing chapter, Don Quixote's niece and
housekeeper were not idle ; ibr they were
led to suspect, from a thousand symptoms,
that he was inclined to break loose a third
time, and return to the exercise of his
unlucky knight-errantry; and therefore
endeavoured, by all possible means, to divert
him from his unhappy purpose : but it was
all preaching in the desert, and hammering
on cold iron. Among the many dialogues
which passed between them on the subject,
the housekeeper said to him, '^ Indeed, sir,
if you will not tarry quietly at home, and
leave off rambling over hills and dales like
a troubled spirit in quest of those same
adventures, which I call misadventures, I
am fully resolved to pray to God and the
king to put a stop to it." To which Don
Quixote replied : ** Mistress housekeeper,
what answer God will return to your com-
plaints I know not, any more than what
his majesty will give you; I only know
that, if I were king, I would excuse myself
from answering the infinite number of im-
pertinent memorials which are daily pre-
sented to him. Indeed, one of the greatest
fatigues to which monarchs are subject is
the hearing and answering of every person
who chooses to address him ; and tiierefbre
I should be sorry if he were troubled with
my concerns.'^ " Pn^y, sir," «ud the house-
keeper, ''are there no knights in his
majesty's court?" "Yes, many," replied
Don Quixote ; '^ and highly necessary they
are to keep up the state and dignity of
princes." " Would it not, then, be better,"
replied she, " that your worship should be
one of them, so that you might quietly
serve your king and lord at court ?" " Look
you, friend," answered Don Quixote, " all
(De C4rt de la Comedie, torn. iii. p. 496), «bo alao ac-
koowledgea that the French theatie owe* to that M
Spain the first good tragedy and the first eomedy of ck»»
racter ; being those imitated by Comeille, from *'the Cid'*
of Guillen de Castro, and ** £1 Mentixtno" of Lope. P.
DON QUIXOTE.
271
knights cannot be courtiers, neither can,
nor ought, all courtiers to be knights -
errant. There must be some of every station
in the world, and though we are all knights,
there is a great difference between us ; for
the courtier-knight traverses the globe only
on a map, without expense or fatigue, suf-
fering neither heat nor cold, hunger nor
thirst; whereas the true knight- errant,
exposed to all the vicissitudes of the atmo-
sphere, by night and by day, on foot and
on horseback, explores every quarter of
the habitable world. Nor do we know our
enemies in picture only, but in their proper
persons, and attack them upon every occa-
sion, without standing upon trifles, or upon
the laws of duelling, such as whether our
adversary bears a shorter or longer lance or
sword — whether he is protected by holy
relics, or wears any secret coat of mail, or
whether the sun be duly divided or not:
with other ceremonies of the same stamp,
used in single combats between man and
nian, which thou dost not understand, but
I do. And thou must know, farther, that
the true knight- errant, though he should
espy ten giants, whose heads not only
touch, but overtop, the clouds, and though
each of them stalk on two prodigious towers
instead of legs, and hath arms like the main-
masts of huge and mighty ships of war, and
each eye like a great mill-wheel, and glow-
ing like fiery furnaces, yet must he in no
wise be affrighted, but, on the contrary,
with gentle demeanour and an undaunted
heart, encounter, assail, and, if possible, in
an instant vanquish and rout them, although
they should come defended by the impene-
trable coat of a certain shell -fish, harder
than diamond ; and, instead of swords,
armed with dreadful sabres of Damascan
steel, or, as I have seen more than once,
huge maees pointed with the same metal.
All this I have said, mistress housekeeper,
that thou may'st understand the difference
between one species of knight and another ;
and it were to be wished that all princes
could duly appreciate this last, or rather
first, order — I mean the knights -errant,
who, as their histories testify, were, in
times past, the bulwark not only of one,
but of many, kingdoms "
" Ah, dear uncle !" said the niece, " be
assured all the stories you tell us of knights-
errant are fables and lies; and their histories
deserve to be burnt, or at least to be marked
by a Sanbenito,* or some badge, that their
wickedness may be known." " Now, by
the God in whom I live !" said Don Quixote,
'^ were you not my own sister's daughter, I
would make such an example of you, for
the blasphemy you have uttered, that the
whole world should resound with it What !
a young baggage who scarcely knows how
to manage a dozen of bobbins, presume to
raise her voice in censure of the histories of
knights- errant 1 What would sir Amadis
have said to this?— though he, indeed, I
believe, would have pardoned thee ; for he
was the most humble and most courteous
knight of his time, and, moreover, a great
protector of damsels. But thy profanity
might have reached the ears of others, firora
whose indigpiation thou would'st not have
escaped so easily ; for all are not equally
gentle and courteous. Neither are all those
who call themselves knights really so : for
some are not sterling gold, but base, coun-
terfeit stuff, which, though deceiving the
sight, cannot stand the test of truth. There
are low fellows, who strain and swell even
to bursting, to appear great; and others you
will see, of exalted rank, who seem desirous
only to emulate the base. While the one
class rises by ambition or virtue, the other
sinks by meanness or vice : yet is it often
difficult to dbtinguish between these vari-
eties, so alike in name, and so different in
their actions." " Bless me, uncle V* quoth
the niece, ^< that you should be so knowing,
that, if need were, you might mount a
pulpit and hold forth in the streets, and
yet so infatuated as to imagine yourself
valiant at your time of life, and strong,
when, alas ! you are so infirm ; and pretend
to make crooked things straight, though
bent yourself under the weight of years;
and, above all, set up for a knight, when
yon are no such thing ! — Some gentry may
indeed pretend to that honour, but those
who are poor must not look so high."
* A coat of black canTaas, painted over with flames
and devil*. It ia woni by heretics, when going to be
burnt, by order of the Inouiaition. J.
fi7-2
ADVENTURES OF
"Thou art right, niece," answered Don
Quixote ; ** and I could tell thee such things
concerning lineages as would surprise thee :
but, not choosing to mix sacred with profane
subjects, I forbear. You must know, my
friends, that all the genealogies in the world
. may be reduced to four kinds. The first
are those families who from a low beginning
have raised and extended themselves, until
they have reached the highest pinnacle of
human greatness: the second are those of
high extraction, who have preserved their
original dignity ; the third sort are those
who, from a great foundation, have gradually
dwindled, until, like a pyramid, they termi-
nate in a small point. The last, which are
the most numerous class, are those who have
begun and continued low, and who must
f»nd the same: — such are the great mass
of the people. Of the first kind we have
an example in the Ottoman family, whose
founder, firom the lowly rank of a shepherd,
has attained its present height. Of the
second order, examples may be adduced
from sundry hereditary princes, who peace-
ably govern within the limits of their own
dominions without seeking to enlarge or
contract them. Of those who began great,
and have ended in a point, there are thou-
sands of instances ; for all the Pharaohs
and Ptolemies of Egypt, theCsesars of Rome,
with all that infinite herd (if I may so call
them) of princes, monarchs, and lords, the
Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and
Barbarians, — I say, all these families and
states, as well as tlieir founders, have ended
in a point — that is, in nothing : for it is im-
possible now to find any of their descendants,
and, if they were in existence, it would be in
some low and abject station. Of the lower
race I have nothing to say, only that they
serve to swell the number of the living,
without deserving any other iame or eulogy.
From all that I have said you must clearly
see, my good simpletons, that genealogies
are involved in endless confusion, and that
those only are illustrious and great who are
distinguished by their virtue and liberality,
as well as their riches : for the great man
who is vicious is only a great sinner ; and
* Elegy on the death of Don Bernardino
the rich man who wants liberality is but &
miserly pauper. The gratification which
wealth can bestow is not in mere possesion,
nor in lavishing it with prodigality, but in
the wise application of it. The poor knight
can only manifest his rank by his virtues
and general conduct. He must be well-bred,
courteous, kind and obliging ; not proud,
not arrogant, no murmurer : — above all, be
must be charitable, and by two maravedís
given cheerfully to the poor he shall display
as much generosity as the rich man who
bestows large alms by sound of bell. Of
such a man, no one will doubt his honour-
able descent, and general applause will be
the sure reward of his virtue. There are
two roads, my daughters, by which men
may attain riches and honour : the one by
letters, the other by arms. I have more in
me of the soldier than of the scholar ; and it
is evident, from my propensity to arms, that
I was bom under the influence of the pla-
net Mars ; so that I am, as it were, forced
into that track, and must follow it in spite
of the whole world. Your endeavours,
therefore, will be firuitless, in dissuading me
from that which heaven wills, fate ordains,
reason demands, and above all, that to which
my inclinations irresistibly impel me. Well
I know the innumerable toils of knight^
errantry ; but I know also its honour and
reward. The path of vhrtue is narrow, while
that of vice is easy and broad ; and equally
difierent are the points to which ¿hey lead :
the one to life eternal, the other to ignominy
and death. I know, as our great Castilian
poet expresses it,* that
"Through theae rough paths, to gain a glorióos name,
We climb the ateep ascent that leads to fame.
They miss the road who quit the rugged «ray,
And in the smoother tracks of pleasure straj."
" Ah, woe is me !" quoth the niece ; ** my
uncle a poet too ! He knows ever^' thing ;
notliing comes amiss to him ! I will lay a
wager that, if he had a mind to turn mason,
he could build a house with as much ease
as a bird-cage !" ** I assure thee, niece,"
answered Don Quixote, ** that were not my
whole soul engrossed by the arduous duties
of chivalry, I would engage to do any thing :
de Toledo, by Garcilaso de la Vega.~P.
io)—
^
DON QUIXOTE.
278
— there is not a curioas art wliich I would
not acquire : especially that of making bird*
cages and tooth-picks/'
A knocking at the door was now heard,
and finding, upon enquiry, that it was San-
cho Panza, the housekeeper, to avoid the
sight of him whom she abhorred, ran to hide
herself, while the niece let him in. His
roaster Don Quixoie received him with open
arms, and, being closetted together, a con-
versation ensued, not inferior to the former.
CHAPTER VIL
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTR
AND HIS SQUIRE, WITH OTHER RE-
MARKABLE OCCURRENCES.
When the housekeeper saw tliat Sancho
and her master were shut up together, she
Niiispected the drift of their conference ; and
doubting not but that another unfortunate
expedition would be the result, she put on her
veil and set off, full of trouble and anxiety, to
seek the bachelor Samson Carrasco : tliink-
ing that, as he was a well-spoken person, and
a new acquaintance of her master, he might
be able to dissaude him from so extravagant
a project. She found him walking to and
fro in the court -yard of his house, and she
immediately fell down on her knees before
him. The bachelor seeing her in this situa-
tion, and that she was apparently suffering
under some heavy affliction, said to her,
'< What is the matter, mistress housekeeper?
What has befiillen you that you seem ready
to give up tlie ghost?'' <^ Nothing at all,
dear sir," quoth she, '' only that my master
is most certainly breaking forth.'' ^< How
breaking forth, mistress ?" demanded Sam-
son ; '' has he burst in any part of his body?"
'^ No, but he is breaking forth into his old
madness, sigñor bachelor," she replied, *' he
is surely in the mind to be strolling again
about the wide world, for the third time, in
search of adventures, as he calls them» The
first time, he was brought home to us laid
athwart an ass, all battered and bruised.
The second time, he returned in an ox wag-
gon, locked up in a cage, and so changed,
poor soul I that his own mother would not
have known him ; so Iceble, wan, and
withered, and his eyes sunk into the farthest
comer of his brains, insomuch that it took
me above six hundred eggs to get him a
little up again, as God and' the world is my
witness, and my hens, that will not let me
lie." ** I can easily believe that," answered
tlie bachelor ; "for your hens are too well-
bred and fed to say one thing and mean
another. Then these apprehensions for your
master are the whole and sole cause of your
trouble, are they, Mrs. Housekeeper?" "Yes,
sir," answered she, " Be in no pain then,"
replied the bachelor, " but go iu.nie in God's
name, and- get me something warm for break-
fast, and on your way repeat the prayer of
saint Apollonia, if you know it ; I will be
with you instantly, and you shall see won-
ders." "Bless me!" replied the house-
keeper, " the prayer of saint Apollonia, say
you 7 that might do something if my mas-
ter's distemper laid in his gums ; but alas !
it is all in his brain." " I know what I
say^ mistress housekeeper," replied Samson,
" get you home, and do not stand disputing
with me ; for you know I am a Salamancan
bachelor of arts, and there is no bachelor-
izing beyond that." Then away went the
housekeeper home, while the bachelor re-
paired to the priest, with whom he held a
consultation, the issue of which will come
out in due time.
During the interview between Don Quixote
and Sancho, some conversation took place,
which the history relates at large with great
accuracy and truth. " I have now, sir,"
quoth Sancho to his master, " relueed my
wife to consent that I should go with your
worship wherever you please to carry me."
"Reduced, thou should'stsay, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, " and not * relueed.' " " Once
or twice, already," answered Sancho, " I
have besought your worship not to mend
my words, when you know my meaning ;
and when you do not, say, Sancho, or devil,
I understand thee not ; and then, if I do not
explain myself, you may correct me ; for I
am so focile" — "I do not understand thee now^
Sancho," said Don Quixote ', ** for I know
not the meaning of * focile.' " " So focile,"
answered Sancho, " means, I am so much
80," " I understand thee still less now,"
fe'z
=4i>
274
ADVENTURES OF
replied Don Quixote. '* Why if you do not
understand me" answered Sancho, '' I can-
not help it ; I know no more, so God help
me !" " O ! now I have it," answered Don
Quixote, ''thou wilt say that thou art so
docile, so pliant, and so tractable, that thou
wilt readily comprehend whatever I say, and
wilt learn whatever I shall teach thee." '* I
will lay a wager," quoth Saucho, "you took
me from the first, only you had a mind to
puzzle me, that you might hear some more
of my blunders." " Perhaps thou may'st
be right there," answered Don Quixote,
<* but tell me what says Teresa?" "Teresa,"
quoth Sancho, "says that iast bind, fast find,
and that we must have less talking, and
more doing : for he who shufiies is not he
who cuts, and, 'a bird in the hand is worth
two in the bush ;' and I say, though there
is but little in woman's advice, yet he that
wont take it is not over wise." " I say so
too," replied Don Quixote, " proceed, San-
cho, for thou talkest admirably to-day."
" The case is this," replied Sancho," " that,
tin your worship very well knows, we are
all mortal, — here to-day, and gone to-mor-
row ; that the lamb goes to the spit as soon
as the sheep ; and that nobody can promise
himself longer life than God pleases : for,
when death knocks at the door, he turas a
deaf ear to all excuses, — nothing can stay
him, neither foree, nor intreaties, nor scep-
tres, nor mitres : for so it is said both in
tlie street and the pulpit." "All this is
true," said Don Quixote, "but I do not
perceive what thou would'st be at." " What
I would be at," quoth Sancho, " is that
your worship would be pleased to allow me
wages, — so much a month, as long as I shall
serve you, and that, in case of need, the
same may be paid out of your estate : for
I have no mind to trust to rewards, which
may come late or never ; God help me with
my own, which I would be glad to know,
be it little or much : for the hen sits, if it be
but upon one egg ; and many littles make a
mickle, and while something is getting, no-
thing is losing. In good truth, should it
fall out that your worship should give me
that same island you have promised me (but
which I am afraid will never come), I would
not wish to make a hard bargain, but am
willing that my wages should be deducted
from the rent of such island fairly, cantity
for cantity." " Is not * quantity,' as good as
' cantity,' friend Sancho V answered Don
Quixote. " I understand you," quoth Sancho ;
" I suppose now, I should have said ' quan-
tity,'and not 'cantity,' but that signifies
nothing, since your worship knew my mean-
ing." " Yes, and to the very bottom of it,"
returned Don Quixote. " I plainly see the
mark at which thou art levelling all thy
proverbs ; but hear me, Sancho, I should
have no objection to appoint thee wages,
had I ever met with any example, among
the histories of knights-errant, that shewed
the least glimmering of any such monthly
or yearly stipend. I have read all, or most
of those histories, and do not remember ever
to have read that any knight-errant allowed
his squire fixed wages; on the contrary,
they all served upon courtesy, and, when
least expecting it, if their masters were for-
tunate, they were rewarded with an island,
or something equal to it ; at all events they
were certain of title and rank. If, Sancho,
upon the strength of these expectations, thou
art willing to return to my service, in God's
name do so : but thou art mistaken if thou
hast any hope that I shall act in opposition
to the ancient usages of chivalry. Return
home therefore, Sancho, and inform thy wife
of my determination ; and if she is willing
and thou art disposed to stay with me upon
the terms I mentioned— ¿m¿ quidem ; if not,
we will at least part friends : for if the dove-
house wants not bait, it will never want
pigeons ; and take notice, son, tliat a good
reversion is better than a bad possession, and
a good claim better than bad pay. I talk
thus, Sancho, to show thee that I also can
discharge a volley of proverbs. But, to be
plain with thee, if thou art not disposed to
accompany me upon courtesy, and follow
my fortunes, the Lord have thee in his keep-
ing, and make thee a saint; for I shall never
want squires more obedient, more diligent,
and, at the same time, less talkative and
selfish than thou art."
On hearing this fixed resolution, the hopes
of Sancho were overclouded, and his heart
sunk within him : for hitherto he bad never
supposed it possible that his master would go
DON QUIXOTE.
S7d
without him for the world's worth ; and as
he was standing, thoughtful and dejected,
Samson Carrasco entered the chamber, fol-
lowed by the niece and houskeeper, who
were curious to hear what arguments he
would use to dissuade the knight from his
threatened expedition. The waggish bach*
elor approached him with great respect, and
after embracing him, said in an elevated
tone, " O flower of knight-errantry I 0
resplendent light of arms ! O mirror and
glory of the Spanish nation ! May it please
licaven that all those who shall seek to pre-
vent or impede your third sally be lost in the
labyrinth of their own wiles, nor ever accom-
plish tlieir evil deshre !'' Then turning to the
housekeeper he said : *^ Now, mistress house*
keeper, you may save yourself the trouble of
saying the prayer of St. Apollonia ; for I
know that it is the positive determination of
the stars that signer Don Quixote shall re-
sume his glorious career, and I should greatly
bartben my conscience, did I not give in-
timation thereof, and persuade this knight no
longer to restrain the force of his valorous
arm, nor check the virtuous ardour of his
soul, since by delay he defrauds the injured
world of redress, orphans of protection, dam-
sels of deliverance, widows of relief, and
matrons of support, with other matters of
I this nature, dependent on knight-errantry.
Go on then, dear signer Don Quixote, my
brave and gallant knight! lose no time,
bat set forward rather to-day than to-mor-
row ; and if any thing be wanting to hasten
the execution of your design, here am I,
ready to assist you with ray life aim fortune ;
if your excellenty stand in need of a squire,
I sliall esteem myself singularly fortunate in
having the honour to serve you in that ca-
pacity." " Did I not tell thee," said Don
Quixote, turning to Sancho, " that I should
be in no want of squires ? Behold, who now
offers himself! The renowned bachelor, Sara-
son Carrasco, the darling and delight of the
Salamancan schools! sound and active of
body, patient of heat and cold, of hunger
and thirst, no prater, — in short, possessing
all the qualifications requisite in the squire
of a knight -errant I But Heaven forbid
that, to gratify my own private inclination,
I should endanger this pillar of literature,
this urn of genius, and lop off so flourishing
a branch of the noble and liberal arts. No,
let our new Samson abide in his country, and
do honour to the grey hairs of his venerable
parents, by becoming its ornament. I will
be content with any squire, since Sancho
deigns not to accompany me." "1 do
deign," quoth Sancho, with eyes swimming
in tears, '^ it shall never be said of me, dear
master, ' the bread eaten, the company broke
up.' I am not come of an ungrateful stock ;
for all the world knows, especially our vil-
lage, who the Panzas were, that have gone
before me. Besides, I know, by many good
works and better words, your worship's in-
clination to do me a kindness ; and if 1 have
said too much upon the article of wages, it
was to please my wife, who, when once she
sets about persuading one to a thing, no
mallet drives the hoops of a tub as she does
to get her will ; but a man must be a man,
and a woman a woman ; and since I am a
man elsewhere, I will also be one in my own
house, in spite of any body : so your wor^
ship has nothing to do but to look after your
will and its codicil, in such manner as it
cannot be rebuked ; and let us set out im-
mediately, tliat the soul of signer Samson
may be at rest, as he is obliged in conscience,
he says, to persuade your worship to make
a third sally ; and I again offer myself to
serve your worship, faithfully and loyally,
as well and better than all the squires tliat
ever served {¿night-errant, in past or present
times."
The bachelor listened in admiration to
Sancho, for, though he had read the first part
of the history, he had hardly conceived it
possible that he should really be so pleasant
a fellow as he is therein described ; but now
he could believe all that had been said of
him : in short he set down both the master
and man as the most extraordinary couple
the world had ever yet produced. Don
Quixote and Sancho being now perfectly
reconciled, they agreed, with the approba-
tion of the great Carrasco, their oracle, to
depart within three days, in which time they
might have leisure to provide what was ne-
cessary for the expedition, and especially a
complete helmet, which Don Quixote de-
clared to be indispensable. Samson engaged
@^
=®
276
ADVENTURES OF
to procure one from a friend, who, he was
sure, would not refuse it; though he con-
fessed the brightness of the steel was not a
little obscured by tarnish and rust. The
niece and housekeeper, on hearing tliis deter-
mination, made a woeful outcry, inveighing
bitterly against Carrasco, who had been act-
ing agreeably to a plan previously concerted
with the priest and barber. They tore their
hair, scratched and disfigured their faces,
like the funeral mourners* of former times,
and lamented the approaching departure of
their master, as if it were his death.
Three days were now employed in prepa-
ration, at the end of which time, Sancho,
having appeased his wife, and Don Quixote
his niece and housekeeper, they issued forth
in the evening, unobserved by any except
the bachelor, who insisted on bearing them
company half a league from the village.
The knight was mounted on bis good Rozi-
nante, and the squire on his trusty Dapple,
his wallets stored with food, and his purse
with money, providently supplied by his
master in case of need. When Samson took
his leave, he expressed an earnest desire to
have advice of his good or ill fortune, that
he might rejoice or condole with him, as the
laws of friendship required. Don Quixote
having promised to comply with this request,
the bachelor returned to the village, and the
knight and squire pursued their way towards
the great city of Toboso.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BBFBL DON
QUIXOTE AS HE WAS GOING TO VISIT
HIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.
" Blessed be the mighty Alia V* exclaims
Cid Hamete Benengeli, at the beginning
of this eighth chapter, '< blessed be Alia !''
thrice uttering these pious ejaculations,
upon seeing Don Quixote and Sancho again
take the field ; and he adds that from this
* It wu fonnerly the enatom to hire thf se mouraen
or bewailen, to lament over the body of the deceased.
In the testament of the Cid, there i* the following pacsage:
** Item, I deaire that no mourners be hirrd to weep over
me." (Escobar. Romance 00.) CoTarrubias add* in his
Tesoro, (vide endechar,) "This practice of bewailing
the dead was common over all Spain ; women, with heads
point the readers of this delightful history may
reckon that the exploits and pleasantries of
the knight and his squire will recommence,
and he entreats them to ñx their attention
only on the future achievements of that great
adventurer, which now begin upon the road
to Toboso, as did the former in the plain of
Montiel. If or, indeed, b this any very un-
reasonable request, considering what great
things he promises. And thus he proceeds.
Don Quixote and Sancho were now left
together, and scarcely had Samson quitted
them when Rozinante began to neigh, and
Dapple to bray, which both knight and
squire regarded as a good omen. It must
be confessed that the snortings and braying
of Dapple exceeded the neighings of the
steed; whence Sancho gathered that his
good luck was to rise above and exceed
that of his master. But whether he drew
this inference from any skill in judicial
astrology is not known, as the history is
silent in that particular ; certainly he had
been heard to say, when he happened to
fall or stumble, that he wished he had not
gone out that day, for nothing was to be
gotten by stumbling or falling but a torn
shoe or a broken rib ; wherein, although a
simpleton, he was not far out of the way.
*^ Friend Sancho," said Don Quixote to
his squire, '' the night comes on isipace, and
it will be dark before^, we reach Toboso,
whither I am resolved to go before I un-
dertake any other adventure. There will
I receive the farewell benediction of the
peerless Dulcinea, by which I shall secure '
the happy accomplishment of every perilous
enterprize : for nothing in this life inspires
a knight-errant with so much valour as the i
favour of his mistress." *<I believe it," i
answered Sancho ; " but I am of opinion it
will be difficult for your worship to speak
with her alone— at least in any place where
you may receive her benediction; unless
she tosses it over the pales of the yard |
where I saw her last, when I carried her
dishevelled, followed the bodies of their husbands, and
daughters, those of their fathers, tearing their hair and
uttering rach loud lamenUtioas that the priesta could
not perform their functions in the church.*' In some
provinces, there are stiU the remains of theso weeping
ceremonies.^ J*.
^
DON QUIXOTE.
277
the letter that gave an acconnt of the
pranks y oar worship was playing on the
moantain.'' "Didst thou conceive those
to be pales, Sancho/' quoth Don Quixote,
'^ over which thou did'st behold that para-
gon of gentility and beauty 7 Impossible I
Thou must mean galleries, arcades, or
cloisters, of some rich and royal palace."
'* AU that may be," answered Sancho ;
" but, if I do not forget, to me they seemed
pales, or I have a very shallow memory."
" However, let us go thither, Sancho," said
Don Quixote ; " for, so I but gaze on her,
be it through pales, the chinks of a hat, or
lattice window, the smallest ray from the
bright sun of her beauty will so enlighten
my understanding and fortify my heart
that I shall remain without a rival either
in prudence or valour.'' " In truth, sir,"
answered Sancho, "when I saw this sun
of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was
not bright enough to cast forth any beams,
owing, I take it, to the dust from the grain
which, I told you, her ladyship was win-
nowing, and which overcast her face like
a cloud." "What, Sancho!" said Don
Quixote, " dost thou persist in saying and
believing that my lady Dulcinea was win-
nowing wheat — an employment so unsuit-
able to persons of distinction, who are
devoted to other exercises and amusements
more becoming their elevated station? It
seems thou dost not remember, Sancho, our
poet's' verses, in which he describes the
labours of the four nymphs in their crystal
mansions, when they raised their heads
above the delightful Tagns, and seated
themselves on the verdant mead to work
those rich stuffs which, as described by the
ingenious bard, were all embroidered with
gold, silk, and pearls. And thus my lady
most have been employed when thou sawest
her ; but the envy of some wicked enchanter
clianges and transforms every thing that
should give me pleasure, and therefore,
should the author of that history of me,
which is said to be published, be some
enemy of mine, he may, I fear, have been
very inacccurate, mingling a thousand lies
with a single truth, and digressing into
idle tales unworthy of true and genuine
history. O envy ! Thou root of infinite
evils, and canker-worm of virtues ! There
is no other vice, Sancho, which has not
some object of pleasure to excuse it : but
envy is attended only with nothing but
disgust, malice, and rancour." "That is
what I say too," replied Sancho ; " and I
take it for granted, in that same legend or
history which the bachelor Carrasco tells us
he has seen, my reputation is tossed about
like a tennis-ball. Now, as I am an honest
man, I never spoke ill of any enchanter,
nor have I wealth enough to be envied.
It may be true indeed what they say, that
I am somewhat sly, and a little inclined
to roguish tricks ; but then I was always
reckoned more simple than knavish. Besides,
these same historians ought to spare me a
little, if I had nothing else in me but my
religion, for I am a true Catholic, and have
a mortal hatred to the Jews. But let them
say what they will ; naked I came, and
naked must go. I neither lose nor win ;
and so my name be but in print, and go
about the world merrily from hand to hand,
not a fig shall I care ; they may say of me
whatever they list."
"You remind me, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, " of what happened to a famous
poet of our own times, who wrote an abusive
satire upon the ladies of the court; but,
not having expressly named a certain female
of rank, so that it was doubtful whether she
was included in it or not, she took occasion
to reproach him for the omission, and de-
sired to know what he had seen in her that
she was to be excluded, and commanded
him, at his peril, to enlarge his satire, and
introduce her in the supplement. The poet
acquiesced, and did not spare her character;
but the lady, in order to be famous, was
well content to be infamous. The same
kind of ambition was that of the shepherd
who set ñre to the temple of Diana, ac-
counted one of the seven wonders of the
world, only that his name might live in
future ages ; and though, in order to defeat
his purpose, it was commanded by public
edict that his name should never be men-
tioned either in speech or writing, yet it is
known to have been Erostratus. A parallel
instance is that which happened to the
great emperor Charles the ,Fifth, when 1)0
<^-
-=^^
«78
ADVENTURES OF
went to look over the famous cliurch of the
Rotunda, which, by the ancients, was called
the Pantheon, or temple of all the gods,
but now by a better name — the church of
All Saints. It is the only entire edifice
remaining of heathen Rome, and one of the
most considerable records of the greatness
and magnificence of that city. It is circular
in form, spacious, and very light within,
though it has but one window, being a
circular opening at the top, through which
the emperor looked down to view the in-
terior of the structure. He was attended
by a Roman knight, who pointed out to
him all the beauties of that noble edifice ;
and after they had descended from the sky«
light, the knight said to him, < Sacred sir,
a thousand times I felt inclined to clasp
your majesty in my arms, and cast myself
down with you from the top to the bottom
of the church, that my name might be
eternal/ ' I thank you,' answered the
emperor, ' for not indulging your ambitious
thoughts upon this occasion, and shall take
care, in future, that your loyalty be not
exposed to so severe a trial, and therefore
command you never to let me see you again.'
He then dismissed him, but not without a
princely token of his generosity. This love
of fame, Sancho, is a very active principle
within us. What, thinkest thou, cast
Horatius down from the bridge, armed at
all points, into the depth of the Tiber?
What burnt the arm and hand of Mutius ?
What impelled Curtins to throw himself
into the flaming gulph that opened itself in
the midst of Rome? What made Caesar
pass the Rubicon in opposition to every
presage? What made the valiant Spaniards,
under the courteous and intrepid Cortez,
destroy their ships on the shores of a new
world? These, and a multitude of other
great exploits, were the effects of that un-
quenchable thirst after distinction — that
fame which mortals aspire to, as the only
meet recompense of great and glorious
deeds. Though we, who are catholic
christian knights-errant, ought to ñx our
hopes on that higher revrard placed in tlie
celestial and eternal regions, which is hap-
piness, perfect and everlasting : unlike that
shadow of glory which, being only of this
world, must perish with it. Since, then,
we seek a christian reward, O my Sancho,
let our works be conformable to the religion
we profess. In slaying giants we must
destroy pride and arrogance; we must
vanquish envy by generosity ; wrath, by a
serene and humble spirit; gluttony and
sloth, by temperance and vigilance ; licen-
tiousness, by chastity and inviolable fidelity
to the sovereign mistresses of our hearts ;
indolence, by traversing the world in search
of every honourable opportunity of obtain-
ing renown, as knights and christians.
Such, Sancho, are the means by which we
must gain that applause which is the reward
of exalted merit." "I understand very
well what your worship has been saying,"
quoth Sancho ; ''but, for all that, I wish
you would be so kind as to dissolve me one
doubt which has just come into my bead."
" Resolve, thou wouldst say, Sancho," said
Don Quixote: — ''declare it in God's name,
and I will satisfy thee as far as I am able."
"Pray tell me, sir," proceeded Sancho,
"those Julys or Augusts, and all those
mighty heroes you spoke of, who are dead
—where are they now ?" " The Gentiles,"
answered Don Quixote, " are doubtless in
hell; the christians, if they were good
christians, are either in purgatory or in
heaven." "Very well," quoth Sancho, —
''but pray, sir, tell me whether the sepul-
chres in which the bodies of those great
lords lie interred have silver lamps burning
before them, and whether the walls of their
chapels are adorned with crutches, winding-
sheets, old perukes, legs, waxen eyes, and
the like ; and, if not with these, pray how
are they adorned?" '''The sepulchres of
the heathens were for the most part sump-
tuoua temples," answered Don Quixote;
" but the ashes of Julius CaeMur were de-
posited in an urn, placed on the top of a
pyramid of stone of prodigious magnitude,
now called the obelisk of St. Peter. The
sepulchre of the emperor Adrian was a
fortress in Rome, as large as a goodly-sized
village, formerly called Moles Adrian!, and
now the costle of St. Angelo. Queen Arte-
misia buried her husband Mausolus in a
tomb which was numbered among the seven
wondere of the world: but neither tbese.
DON QUIXOTE.
270
nor any other of the nnmerous sepulchres
of the Gentiles, were decorated with wind-
ing-sheets, or any other offerings or signs,
intended to denote the holiness of the
deceased." <<That is what I am coming
to," replied Sancho ; <^ and now, pray tell
me, which is most difficult, to raise a dead
man to life, or to slay a giant ?" '' The
answer is very obvious," answered Don
Quixote ; — " to raise a dead mau." "There
I have caught you !" quoth Sancho. <^Then
his fame who raises the dead, gives sight to
the blind, makes the lame walk, and cures
the sick ; who has lamps continually burning
near his grave, and good christians always
in his chapels, adoring his relics upon their
knees ; — his fame, I say, shall be greater,
both in this world and the next, than that
which all tlie heathen emperors and knights-
errant in the world ever had or ever shall
have." **I grant it," answered Don Quixote.
" Then," replied Sancho, " the bodies and
relics of saints have this power, and grace,
and these privileges, or how do you call them,
and, with the license of our holy mother
church, have their lamps, winding-sheets,
crutches, pictures, perukes, eyes, and leg»,
whereby they increase people's devotion,
and spread abroad their own christian fame.
Kings themselves carry the bodies or relics
of saints upon their shoulders, kiss the
fragments of their bones, and adorn their
chapels and most favourite altars with
them." " Certainly, but what would'st thou
infer from all this, Sancho?" quoth Don
Quixote. " What I mean," said Sancho,
** is that we had better turn saints imme-
diately, and we shall then soon get tlmt
&me we are seeking after. And pray take
notice, sir, that it was but yesterday — I
mean very lately — a couple of poor bare-
footed friars were canonized, and people
now reckon it a great happiness to touch
or kiss the iron chains that bound them,
and which are now held in greater vene*
ration than Orlando's sword in the armoury
of our lord the king, God save him ; so
that it is better to be a poor friar, of the
meanest order, than the bravest knight -
errant : because four dozen of good penitent
lashes are more esteemed in the sight of
God than two thousand tilts with a lance,
though it be against giants, goblins, or
dragons.*' " I confess," answered Don
Quixote, " all this is true : but we cannot
be all friars ; and many and various are the
ways by which God conducts his elect to
heaven. Chivalry is a kind of religious
profession ; and some knights are now
saints in glory." " True," quoth Sancho ;
" but 1 have heard say there are more
friars in heaven than knights-errant" "It
may well be so," replied Don Quixote,
** because their number is much greater
than that of knights-errant." " And yet,"
quoth Sancho, "there are abundance of
the errant sort." " Abundance indeed,"
answered Don Quixote ; " but few who
deserve the name of knights."
In this and the like conversation they
passed that night and the following day,
without having encountered anything worth
relating, to the no little mortification of
Don Quixote ; but, to make amends, tlie
next day they came in view of the great
city of Toboso, at the sight of which Don
Quixote's spirits were much elevated, and
those of Sancho as much dejected ; because
he knew not the abode of Dulcinea, nor
had he ever seen her in his life, any more
than his master. Thus both were in a state
of suffering, the one anxious to see her, and
the other anxious because he had not seen
her ; for Sancho knew not what he should
do in case his master should dispatch him
to the city. Don Quixote having deter-
mined not to enter it until nightfall, he
waited, in the meantime, under the shade
of some oak trees; and then proceeded
towards the City, where things befel them
that were things indeed !
CHAPTER IX.
WHICH RELATES WHAT WILL BE FOUNK
THEREIN.
Half the night had passed away before
Don Quixote and Sancho left their retreat
and entered Toboso. All the town was
hushed in silence ; for its inhabitants were
sound asleep, stretched out at their ease.
The night was clear, though Sancho wished
it were otherwise, having occasion for its
darkness to conceal his prevarications. No
"é
(S=:
-^.
280
ADVENTURES OP
noise was heard in any part save the barking
of dogs, which annoyed the ears of Don
Quixote, and disquieted Sancho's heart.
Now and then, it is true, asses brayed,
swine grunted, and cats mewed — sounds
which seemed to be augmented by the
absence of every other noise. All these
circumstances the enamoured knight re-
garded as boding ill. Nevertheless, he said
to his squire : *' Son Sancho, lead on to
Dulcinea's palace; for it is possible we
may ñnd her awake." *^ To what palace ?
Body of the sun V answered Sancho, '' that
in which I saw her highness was but a little
mean house." *'It was, I suppose, some
small apartment of her castle which she had
retired to," said the knight, ^* to amuse
herself with her damsels, as is usual with
great ladies and princesses." " Since your
worship," quoth Sancho, ** will needs have
my lady Dulcinea's house to be a castle, is
this an hour to find the gates open ? and
is it ñt that we should stand thundering at
them till they open and let us in ; putting
the whole house in an uproar? Think you
we are going to a wenching-house, like
your gallants, who knock, and call, and are
let in at any hour they please ?" *^ First,
however, let us find this castle," replied
Don Quixote, ^' and then I will tell thee
how it is proper to act ; — but look, Sancho,
either my eyes deceive me, or that huge
dark pile we see yonder must be Dulcinea's
palace." "Then lead on yourself, sir,"
answered Sancho ; '' perhaps it may be so ;
though, if I were to see it with my eyes,
and touch it with my hands, I will believe
it just as much as that it is now day."
Don Quixote led the way, and, having
gone about two hundred paces, he came up
to the edifice which cast the dark shade,
and, perceiving a large tower, he soon
found that the building was no palace, but
the principal church of the place : where-
upon he said, " We are come to the church,
Sancho." "I see we are," answered
Sancho ; ^' and pray God we be not come
to our graves ; for it is no very good sign
to be rambling about church-yards at such
hours, and especially since I have already
told your worship, if I remember right,
that this same lady's house stands in a
blind alley." " God's curse light on thee,
blockhead !" said the knight ; ** where base
thou ever found castles and royal palaces
built in blind alleys?" "Sir," replied
Sancho, "each country has its customs;
so perhaps it )s the fashion here in Toboso
to build your palaces and great edifices in
alleys ; and therefore I beseech your worship
to let me look about among tliese lanes or
alleys just before me ; and perhaps in one
nook or other I may pop upon this same
palace, which I wish I may see devoured
by dogs, for puzzling and bewildering us
at this rate." " Speak with more respect,
Sancho, of what regards my lady," said
Don Quixote ; " let us keep our holydays
in peace, and not throw the rope afler the
bucket." " I will curb myself," answered
Sancho ; " but I cannot bear to think that,
though I have seen our mistress's house but
once, your worship will needs have me find
it at midnight, when you cannot find it
yourself, though you must have seen it
thousands of times?" "Thou wilt make
me desperate, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote,
" come hither, heretic; have I not told thee
a thousand times that I never saw the peer-
less Dulcinea in the whole course of my
life, nor ever stepped over the threshold of
her palace, and that I am enamoured by
report alone, and the great feme of her wit
and beauty ?" " I hear it now," answered
Sancho ; "and to tell you the truth, I have
seen her just as much as your worship."
" How can that be ?" cried Don Quixote ;
" did'st thou not tell me that thou sawest
her winnowing wheat?" "Take no heed
of that, sir," replied the squire ; " for the
fact is, her message, and the sight of her too,
were both by hearsay, and I can no more
tell who the lady Dulcinea is than I can
bufiet the moon." "Sancho, Sancho,"
answered Don Quixote, " there is a time to
jest, and a time when jests are unseasonable.
What ! because I say that I never saw nor
spoke to the mistress of my soul, must thou
say so likewise, when thou knowest it to be
untrue ?"
Their conversation was here Interropted
by the approach of a man with two mules^
and by the sound of a ploughshare, which
they dragged along the ground| our travel*
=&
©=
-^
DON QUIXOTE.
281
Icrs rightly guessed that he was a husband-
man. As he came near, they beard him sing-
ing the ballad of the defeat of the French at
Roncesvalles ; upon which Don Quixote ob-
servedy " No good fortune to-night^ Sancho,
— dost thou not hear what that peasant is
singing?'' ^*Yes, I do^'' answered Sancho,
" but what b the defeat at Roncesvalles to us?
If he had been singing the ballad of Calainos,
it would have had just as much to do with
the good or bad ending of our business.''
The country-fellow having now come up to
them, Don Quixote said to him, ^* Good-
morrow, honest friend; canst thou direct
me to the palace of the peerless princess,
Donna Dulcinea del Toboso ?" '' Sir," an-
swered the fellow, '^ I am a stranger here ;
for I have been but a few days in the service
of a farmer of this town. But the parish
priest, or the sexton, who live in yonder
house, across the road, can either of them
give your worship an account of that same
lady princess; for they keep a register of
all the inhabitants of Toboso ; not that I
think there is any princess living here,
though there are several great ladies, that
may every one be a princess in her own
house." " Among those, friend," said Don
Quixote, *' may be her for whom I am en-
quiring." ** Not unlikely," answered the
ploughman, " and so God speed you ; for it
will soon be day-break." Then pricking on
hia mules, he waited for no more questions.
Sancho, seeing his master perplexed and
dissatisfied, said to him; ''Sir, the day
comes on apace, and we shall soon have the
sun upon us, which will not be very pleasant
in the streets ; so I think we had better get
out of this place, and, while your worship
takes shelter in some wood hereabouts, I
will return and leave not a comer in all the
town unsearched, for this house, castle, or
palace of my lady ; and it shall go hard
with me but I find it ; and as soon as I
have done so I will speak to her ladyship,
and tell her where your worship is waiting
for her orders and dvections how you may
see her without damage to her honour
and reputation." "Sancho/' quoth Don
Quixote, ''thou hast uttered a thousand
sentences in the compass of a few words.
Thy counsel I relish much, and shall most
6» ■ ■
willingly follow it. Come on, son, and let
us seek for some shelter : then shalt thou
return, and seek out my lady, from whose
discretion and courtesy I expect more than
miraculous favours." Sancho was impatient
till he got his master out of the town, lest
his lies should be detected; he therefore
hastened on as fast as possible, and when
they had gone about the distance of two
miles, tiie knight retired into a shady grove,
while the squire returned in quest of the
lady Dulcinea; on which embassy things
occurred well worthy of credit and renewed
attention.
CHAPTER X.
WHEREIN IS HELATED THE STRATAGEM
PRACTISED BY SANCHO, OF ENCHANT-
ING THE LADY DULCINEA ; WITH OTHER
EVENTS NO LESS LUDICROUS THAN TRUE.
The author of this grand history, on coming
to the present chapter, says he felt much
inclined to suppress it, from an apprehension
that it would not be believed, because the
knight's phrenzy appears herein to be carried
to an excess beyond all conception. Not-
withstanding this difiidence he has, how-
ever, detailed the whole truth, without
adding or diminishing, determined not to
regard any doubts that might be entertained
of his veracity ; and he was in the right,
for truth will ever rise above falsehood, like
oil above water : he proceeds, therefore, as
follows.
Don Quixote having retired into a grove
near the city of Toboso, dispatched Sancho,
with orders not to return into his presence
till he had spoken to his lady, beseeching
her that she would be pleased to grant her
captive knight permission to wait upon her,
and that she would deign to bestow on him
her benediction, whereby he might secure
complete success in all his encounters and
arduous enterprises. Sancho promised to
execute his commands, and to return with
an answer no less iavourable than that
which he had formerly brought him. " Go
then, son," replied Don Quixote, " and be
not in confusion when tliou standest in the
blaze of tliat sun of beauty. Happy thou
above all the squires in the world ! Deeply
ADVENTURES OF
impress on thy memory the particulars of
thy reception — vrhether she changes colour
whUe thou art delivering thy embassy, and
betrays agitation on hearing my name;
whether her cushion cannot hold her, if
perchance thou should'st find her seated on
the rich Estrado;* or, if standing, mark
whether she is not obliged to sustain herself
sometimes upon one foot and sometimes
upon the other; whether she repeats her
answer to thee three or four times ; whether
she changes it from soft to harsh, from harsh
to soft again ; whether she raises her hand
to adjust her hair, though it be not disor-
dered— in short, observe all her actions and
motions : for by an accurate detail of them
I shall be enabled to penetrate into the
secret recesses of her heart, touching the
affair of my love: for let me tell thee,
Sancho, if thou know'st it not already, that
with lovers the external actions and gestures
are couriers, which bear authentic tidings
of what is passing in the interior of the
soul. Go, friend, and may better fortune
than mine conduct thee; be thou more
successful than my anxious heart will bode
during the painful period of thy absence."
'' I will go, and return quickly,'' quoth
Sancho. "In the mean time, good sir,
cheer up, and remember the saying, that a
good heart breaks bad luck ; and if there
is no hook, there is no bacon ; and where
we least expect it, the hare starts : this I
say because, though we could not find the
castle or palace of my lady Dulcinea in the
dark, now that it is daylight I reckon I
shall soon find it, and then — let me alone
to deal with her." "Verily, Sancho,"
quoth Don Quixote, " thou dost apply thy
proverbs most happily : yet heaven grant
me better luck in the attainment of my
hopes !"
Sancho now switched his Dapple, and
set off, leaving Don Quixote on horseback,
resting on his stirrups and leaning on his
lance, full of melancholy and confused
fancies, where we will leave him, and
attend Sancho Panza, who departed no
less perplexed and thoughtful ; insomuch
* That part of the floor at the upper end of the room
which U raised, and where the ladiei ait npon euihiona
to receive viiita. /.
that, afler he had got out of the grove and
looked behind him to ascertain that hb
master was out of sight, he alighted, and,
sitting down at the foot of a tree, he began
to hold a parley with himself. " Tell me
now, brother Sancho," quoth he, " whither
is your worship going ? Are you going to
seek some ass that is lost ?" " No verily."
"Then what are you going to seek?"
" Why J go to look for a thing of nothing
— a princess, the sun of beauty, and all
heaven together!" "Well, Sancho, and
where think you to find all this ?" "Where?
In the great city of Toboso." " Very well;
and pray who sent you on this errand ?"
" Why the renowned knight Don Quixote
de la Mancha, who redresses wrongs, and
gives drink to the hungry and meat to the
thirsty." " All this is mighty well ; and
do you know her house, Sancho ?" "My
master says it must be some royal palace or
stately castle." " And have you ever seen
her?" "Neither I nor my master have
ever seen her." "And do you think it
would be right or advisable that the people
of Toboso should know you are coming to
kidnap their princesses, and lead their ladies
astray! What if, for this offence, they
should come and grind your ribs to powder
with pure dry basting, and not leave you a
whole bone in your skin ?" " Truly they
would be much in the right of it, unless
they please to consider that I, being only a
messenger, am not in fault." " Trust not
to that, Sancho ; for the Manchegans are
very choleric, and their honour so ticklish
that it will not bear touching." " God's
my life ! If we should be scented, woe be
to us. But why do I go looking for a cat
with three legs for anotiier man's pleasure ?
Besides, to look for Dulcinea up and down
Toboso, is just as if one should look for little
Mary in Rabena, or a bachelor in Sala-
manca : — the devil, and nobody else, has
put me upon such a business !"
This was Sancho's soliloquy, the result of
which was to return to it again. " Well,"
continued he, " there is a remedy for every
thing but death, who, in spite of our teeth,
will have us in his clutches. This master
of mine, I can plainly see, is mad enough
for a strait waistcoat ; and, in truth, I am
©=
:^
DON QUIXOTE.
283
DOt much better ; nay, I am worse, in fol-
lowing and serving him, if there is any
truth fn the proverb, ' Shew me who thou
art with, and 1 will tell thee what thou
art ;' or in the other, ' Not with whom thou
wert bred, but with whom thou art fed.'
He, then, being in truth a madman, and so
mad as frequently to mistake one thing for
another, and not know black from white ;
as plainly appeared when he called the
wind - mills giants, mules dromedaries, and
the nock of sheep armies of fighting men,
with many more things to the same tune ;
this being the case, I say, it will not be
very difficult to make him believe that a
country wench (the first I light upon) is
the lady Dulcinea; and, should he not
believe it, I will swear to it; and, if
be swears, J will outswear him; and if he
persists, I will persist the more, so that
mine shall still be uppermost, come what
will of it. By this plan I may, perhaps,
tire him of sending me on such errands ; or
he may take it into his head tliat some
wicked enchanter has changed his lady's
form, out of pure spite.''
This project set Sancho's spirit at rest,
and he reckoned his business as good as
half done ; so he stayed where he was till
towards evening, that Don Quixote might
suppose him travelling on his mission.
Fortunately for him, just as he was going
to mount his Dapple, he espied three country
wenches coming from Toboso, each mounted
on a young ass, but whether male or female
I the author declares not: probably they
were females, as the country women com-
monly rode upon she- asses : however, that
being a matter of no great importance, it
is unnecessary to be at the trouble of ascer-
taining the point. Sancho no sooner got
sight of them than he rode back at a good
pace to seek his master Don Quixote, whom
he found breathing 'a thousand sighs and
amorous lamentations. When Don Quixote
saw him, he said, " Well, friend Sancho,
am I to mark this day with a white or a
black stone V " Your worship," answered
' Sancho, " had better mark it with red
ochre, as they do the inscriptions on pro-
fiiSBors' chairs, to be the more easily read by
¡ the lookers on." << Thou bringest me good
^■- T— ■- ■=
news, then V cried Don Quixote. " So
good," answered Sancho, " that your
worship has only to clap spurs to Rozinantc,
and get out upon the plain, to see tlie lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, who, with a couple
of her damsels, is coming to pay your
worship a visit." '' Gracious heaven 1"
exclaimed Don Quixote, '* what dost thou
say? Take care that thou beguil'st not
my real sorrow by a counterfeit joy."
"What should I get," answered Sancho,
"by deceiving your worship, only to be
found out the next moment? Come, sir,
put on, and you will see the princess, our
mistress, all arrayed and adorned — in short
like herself. She and her damsels are one
blaze of flaming gold ; all strings of pearls,
all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of tissue
above ten hands deep; their hair loose
about their shoulders, like so many sun-
beams blowing about in the wind; and,
what is more, they come mounted upon
three pyed belfreys, the finest you ever laid
eyes on." " Palfreys, thou would'st say,
Sancho," quoth Don Quixote. "Well,
well," answered Sancho, " belfreys and
palfreys are much the same thing ; but let
them be mounted how they will, they are
sure the finest creatures one would wish to
see; especially my mistress the princess
Dulcinea, who dazzles one's senses." " Let
us go, son Sancho," answered Don Quixote;
" and, as a reward for this welcome news,
I bequeath to thee tlie choicest spoils I
shall gain in my next adventure; and, if
that will not satisfy thee, I bequeath thee
the colts which my three mares will foal
this year upon our village common." " I
stick to the colts," answered Sancho ; " for
we cannot yet reckon up the worth of the
spoils."
They were now got out of the wood, and
saw the three wenches very near. Don
Quixote looked eagerly along the road
towards Toboso, and, seeing nobody but
the three wenches, he asked Sancho, in
much agitation, whether they were out of the
city when he left them. " Out of the city !"
answered Sancho ; " are your worship's eyes
in the nape of your neck, that you do not
see them now before you, shining like the
sun at noon -day?" "I see only three
284
ADVENTURES OF
country girls," answered Don Quixote, "on
three asses.'' " Now, God keep me from
the devil!" answered Sancho; "is it pos-
sible that three palfreys, or how do you
call them, white as the driven snow, should
look to you like asses ? As the lord liveth,
you shall pluck off this beard of mine if it
be so." " I tell thee, friend Sancho," an-
swered Don Quixote, ^* that it is as certain
they are asses, as that I am Don Quixote
and thou Sancho Panza ; — at least so they
seem to me." " Sir," quoth Sancho, " say
not such a thing ; but snuff those eyes of
yours, and come and pay reverence to the
mistress of your soul." So saying, he ad-
vanced forward to meet the peasant girls,
and, alighting from Dapple, he laid hold
of one of their asses by the halter, and,
bending both knees to the ground, said to
the girl, " Queen, princess, and duchess of
beauty, let your haughtiness and greatness
be pleased to receive into your grace and
good -liking your captive knight, who
stands there turned into stone, all disorder,
and without any pulse, to find himself
before your magnificent presence. I am
Sancho Panza, his squire, and he is that
way -worn knight Don Quixote de la
Mancha, otherwise called 'the knight of
the sorrowful figure.'"
Don Quixote had now placed himself on
his knees by Sancho, and, with wild and
staring eyes, surveyed her whom Sancho
called bis queen ; and, seeing nothing but
a peasant girl, with a broad face, fiat nose,
coarse and homely, he was so confounded
that he could not open his lips. The wenches
were also surprised to find themselves stopped
by two men so different in aspect, and both
on their knees; but the lady who was
stopped, breaking silence, said in an angry
tone : " Get out of the road, plague on ye !
and let us pass by, for we are in haste."
" O princess, and universal lady of Toboso !"
cried Sancho, "is not your magnificent
heart melting to see, on his knees before
your sublimated presence, the pillar and
prop of knight - errantry ?" " Hey day !
what's here to do?" cried another of the
girls ; " look how your small gentry come
to jeer us poor country girls, as if we could
not give them as good as they bring : go ! get
off about your business, and let us mind oun^
and so speed you well." " Rise, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote, on hearing this ; *' for I
now perceive that fortune, not yet satisfied
with persecuting me, has barred every avenue
whereby relief might come to this wretched
soul I bear about me in the fiesli. And thou,
O extreme of all that is valuable, summit
of human perfection, thou sole balm to this
disconsolate heart that adores thee, though
now some wicked enchanter spreads clouds
and cataracts over my eyes, changing, and
to them only, thy peerless beauty into that
of a poor rustic ; if he has not converted
mine also into that of some goblin, to render
it horrible to thy view, bestow on me one
kind and amorous look, and let this submis-
sive posture, these bended knees, before thy
disguised beauty, declare the humility with
which my soul adores thee !" " Marry come
up," quoth the wench, " with your idle gib-
berish ! get on with you, and let us go, and
we shall take it kindly." Sancho now let go
the halter, delighted that he had come off
so well with his contrivance. The imagi-
nary Dulcinea was no sooner at liberty than,
pricking her beast with a sharp-pointed stick,
which she held in her hand, she scoured
along the field ; but the ass, smarting more
than usual under the goad, began to kick
and wince in such a manner that down came
the lady Dulcinea to the ground. Don
Quixote instantly ran to her assistance, and
Sancho to re-place the panncl that had grot
under the ass's belly. Don Quixote was
then proceeding to raise bis enchanted mis-
tress, but the lady saved him that trouble :
for, immediately upon getting up from the
ground, she retired three or four steps back,
took a little run, then, clapping both hands
upon the ass's crupper, jumped into the sad-
dle lighter than a falcon, and seated herself
astride like a man. *^ By saint Roque !"
cried Sancho, " our lady mistress is lighter
than a bird, and could teach the nimblest
Cordovan or Mexican how to mount : she
springs into the saddle at a jump, and, with-
out the help of spurs, makes her palfrey run
like a wild ass ; and her damsels are not a
whit short of her, for they all fly like the
wind !" And this was the truth : for, Dul-
cinea being re-mounted, the other two mada
(irtH*l4TríWlC.JA
p. S84.
DON QUIXOTE.
285
after Ler, full Bpeed, without looking behind
then), for above half a league.
Don Quixote followed them with his eyes
as far as he was able, and, when they were
out of sight, turning to Sancho, he said,
*' What dost thou think now, Sancho ? See
how I am persecuted by enchanters ! Mark
how far their malice extends, even to de-
priving me of the pleasure of seeing my
mistress in her own proper form ! Surely I
was born to be an example of wretchedness,
and the butt and mark at which all the
arrows of ill-fortune are aimed ! And thou
must have observed too, Sancho, that these
traitors were not contented with changing
and transforming the countenance of my
Dulcinea, but they must give her the base
and uncouth figure of a country- wench ; at
the same time robbing her of that which is
peculiar to ladies of rank, — the fragrant scent
which they imbibe from being always among
flowers and sweet perfumes ; for if thou wilt
believe me, Sancho, when I approached to
help Dulcinea npon her palfrey (as thou
say'st, though to me it appeared but an ass)
she gave me such a whiff of undigested gar-
lic as almost poisoned my very soul." '^ O
base rabble," cried Sancho, *' O barbarous
and evil-minded enchanters! O! that I
Slight see you all strung and hung up by
the gills like smoked herrings ! Cunning ye
are, much ye can, and much evil ye do.
One would have tiiought it might have satis-
fied, ye, rogues as ye are I to have changed
the pearls of my lady's eyes into cork-galls,
and her hair of the purest gold into bristles
of a red cow's tail, and all her features from
beauty to ugliness, without meddling with
her breath, by which we might have guessed
at what was hid beneath her ugly crust —
though, to say the truth, to me she did not
appear in the least ugly, but rather all
beauty, which was raised to the highest
pitch, by a mole she had on her right lip,
like a whisker, with seven or eight red hairs
* These Autot are dramatic allegories, symbolical of
reIig:tou8 mTstcrics; they were represented on the festival
of the Corpas Chruti, and the OctaTe, not only at the
theatres, but before the councils of state, and even the
tribune of the Holy Inquisition. Under the veil of piety
these comedians also gained admission into nunneries : a
license which was condemned by zealous theologians, for
in their representations interludes were often introduced,
with singing and dancing, not always of a decorous kind.
on it, like threads of gold, and above a span
long !" <<As to the mole," said Don Quixote,
'^ according to the correspondence subsisting
between the moles of the face and those of
the body, Dulcinea should have another on
the brawn of her thigh, on the same side as
that on her face ; but, indeed, hairs of the
length thou say'st are somewhat of the
longest for moles." " Yet I can assure your
worship," answered Sancho, 'Hhat there
they were, and looked as if they had been
born with her." " I believe it, friend," re-
plied Don Quixote, '^ for nature has placed
nothing about Dulcinea but what is finished
and perfect ; and tlierefore, had she an hun-
dred moles, like those of which thou speakest,
in her they would not be moles, but moons
and resplendent stars. — But tell me, Sancho,
that which to me appeared to be a pannel,
was it a side-saddle or a pillion ?" ''It was
a side-saddle," answered Sancho, ''with a
field covering, worth half a kingdom for the
richness of it." " And that I should not see
all this !" exclaimed Don Quixote. "Again
I say, and a thousand times will I repeat it, I
am the most unfortunate of men 1" The sly
rogue Sancho had much difficulty to forbear
laughing, to think how exquisitely his mas-
ter was gulled. After more dialogue of the
same kind, they mounted their beasts again,
and followed the road to Saragossa, still
intending to be present at a solemn festival
annually held in that city ; but before they
reached it, events befel them which for their
importance, variety and novelty, well deserve
to be recorded and read.
CHAPTER XI.
OF THR STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH
BEFEL THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE,
WITH THE CART, OR WAIN, OF THE
CORTES OF DEATH.*
Don Quixote proceeded on his way at a
slow pace, exceedingly pensive, musing on
The Tarasca (the figure of a serpent), the Giants, and
the Chorus dances, were other apectacles exhibited to
solemnice this featival, and were all symbolical ; Quevedo
has shewn them to be of ancient origin, in his ** EspaTia
Defendida." But to theve figures of the ancients, the
Christians attached a mystic sense ; every thing, how-
ever, being liable to abuse, these allegorical shows art
now wisely prohibited. — P,
<^=
286
ADVENTURES OF
the base trick the enchanters had played
him, in transforming his lady Dulcinea into
the homely figure of a peasant^wench ; nor
could he devise any means of restoring her
to her former state. In these meditations
his mind was so absorbed that, without
perceiving it, the bridle dropped on Rozi-
nante's neck, who, taking advantage of the
liberty thus given him, at every step tamed
aside to take a mouthful of the fresh grass,
with which those parts abounded. Sancho
endeavoured to rouse him ; " Sorrow," said
iiBf ** was made for man, not for beasts, sir ;
but if men give too much way to it, they
become beasts. Take heart, sir ; recollect
yourself, and gatlier up Rozinante's reins ;
cheer up, awake, and shew that you have
courage befitting a knight-errant ! Wliat, in
the devil's name, is tlie matter ? Why are
you so cast down? Are we here, or in
France ? Satan take all the Dulcineas in
the world ! The welfare of a single knight-
errant is of more consequence than all the
enchantments and transformations on earth."
" Peace, Sancho," cried Don Quixote^ in
no very faint voice ; <' peace, I say, and
utter no blasphemies against that enchanted
lady, of whose disgrace and misfortune I am
the sole cause, since they proceed entirely
from the envy that the wicked bear to me."
" So say I," quoth Sancho, " for who saw
her then and sees her now, his heart must
melt with grief I vow." "Well indeed
may'st tliou say so," replied Don Quixote,
" thou who saw'st her in the full lustre of
her beauty: as the enchantment affected
not thy sight, nor concealed her perfections
from thee. Against me alone, and against
my eyes, was the force of its poison directed.
Nevertheless, Sancho, I suspect that thou
did'st not give me a true description of her
beauty ; for, if I remember right, thou said'st
her eyes were of pearl ; now, eyes that look
like pearl are rather those of a fish than
of a lady. I imagine the eyes of Dulcinea
roust be of verdant emeralds, arched over with
two celestial bows, that serve for eye-brows.
Thou must therefore take those pearls from
her eyes, and apply them to her teeth ; for
doubtless, Sancho, thou hast mistaken teeth
for eyes." "It may be so," answered Sancho,
'* for her beauty confounded me, as much as
her ugliness did your worship. But let us
recommend all to God, who alone knows
what shall befal us in this vale of tean, —
this evil world of ours, in which there is
scarcely any thing to be found without
some mixture of wickedness, imposture, and
knavery. One thing, dear sir, troubles roe
more than all the rest ; which is to think
what must be done when your worship shall
overcome some giant or knight- errant, and
send him to present himself before the beauty
of the lady Dulcinea. Where shall this poor
giant, or miserable vanquished knight, be
able to find her? Methinks I see them saun-
tering up and down Toboso, and gaping
about, like fools, for my lady Dulcinea ; and
though they should meet her in the middle
of the street, they will know her no more
than they would my father." " Perhaps,
Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " the en-
chantment may not extend to the vision of
vanquished knights or giants; — however,
we will make the experiment upon one or
two of the first I overcome, and send them
with orders to return and give me an account
of their reception." " Your worship is quite
in the right," replied SLMcho, " for by this
trial we shall surely come at the knowledge:
and if she is hid from your worship alone,
the misfortune will be more yours than hers;
and so that the lady Dulcinea have health
and contentment, we, for our parts, ought
to make shift and bear it as well as we can,
seeking our adventures, and leaving it to
time to do his work, who is the best doctor
for these and worse grievances."
Don Quixote would have answered San-
cho, but was prevented by the passing of a
cart across the road, full of the strangest
looking people imaginable ; it was without
any awning above, or covering to the sides,
and the carter who drove the mules had tlic
appearance of a frightful daemon. The first
figure that caught Don Quixote's attention,
was that of Death, with a human Tisage ;
close to him sat an angel, with large painted
wings ; on the other side stood an emperor,
with a crown, seemingly of gold, on his head.
At Death's feet sat the god Cupid, not blind-
fold, but with his bow, quiver, and arrows ;
a knight also appeared among them, in com-
plete armour ; only instead of a morion, at
'JO)-
DON QUIXOTE.
S87
casque, he wore a hat with a large plume of
feathers cf divers colours ; and there were
several other persons of equal diversity in
appearance. Such a sight coming thus ab*-
ruptly upon them, somewhat startled Don
Quixote, and the heart of Sancho was struck
with dismay. But with the knight, surprise
soon gave place to joy : for he anticipated
some new and perilous adventure ; and under
this impression , with a resolution prepared
for any danger, he planted himself just be-
fore the cart, and cried out in a loud me-
nacing voice, ^' Carter, coachman, or devi],
or whatever be thy denomination, tell me in-
stantly what thou art, whither going, and who
are the persons thou convey 'st in that vehicle,
which, by its freight, looks like Charon's
ferry-boat?'' To which the devil calmly
replied: "Sir, we are travelling players,
belonging to Ángulo el Malo's company.
To-day being the Octave of Corpus Christi,
we have been performing a piece represent-
ing the ^ Cortes of Death ;' this evening we
are to play it again in the village just before
us ; and, not having far to go, we travel in
tlie dresses of our parts to save trouble. This
young man represents Dea^ ; he an angel ;
that woman, who is our author's wife, plays
a queen ; the other a soldier ; this one an
emperor, and I am the devil, one of the
principal personages of the drama : for, in
thid company, I have all the chief parts. If
your worship desires any further information,
I am ready to answer your questions : for,
being a devil, I know every thing." " Upon
the faith of a knight-errant," answered Don
Quixote, '' when I first espied this cart, I
imagined some great adventure oiFered itself;
but appearances are not always to be trusted.
God be with you, good people ; go and per-
form your play, and if there be any thing in
which I may be of service to you, command
ne, for I will do it most readily, having been,
from my youth, a great admirer of masques
and theatrical representations."
While they were speaking, one of the motley
crew came up capering towards them, in an
¡ antic dress, frisking about with his morris-
bells, and three full-blown ox -bladders tied
to the end of a stick. Approaching the
knight, he flourished his bladders in the air,
and bounced them against the ground close
under the nose of Rozinante, who was so
startled by the noise that Don Quixote lost
all command over him, and having got the
curb between his teeth, away he scampered
over the plain, with more speed than might
have been expected from such an assemblage
of dry bones. Sancho, seeing his master's
danger, leaped from Dapple and ran to his
assissance; but, before his squu« could reach
him, he was upon the ground, and close by
him Rozinante, who fell with his master,
the usual termination of Rozinante's frolics.
Sancho had no sooner dismounted to assist
Don Quixote than the bladder-dancing devil
jumped upon Dapple, and thumping him
with the bladders, fear at the noise, more
than the smart, set him also flying over the
field towards the village where they were
going to act. Thus, Sancho, beholding at
one and the same moment Dapple's flight
and his master's iall, was at a loss to which
of the two duties he should first attend ; but,
like a good squire and faithful servant, the
love he bore to his master prevailed over his
ailection for his ass ; though as often as he
saw the bladders hoisted in the air, and fall
upon the body of his Dapple, he felt the
pangs and tortures of death, and he would
rather those blows had fallen on the apple
of his own eyes than on the least hair of his
ass's tail.
In this tribulation he came up to Don
Quixote, who was in a much worse plight
than he could have wished ; and, as he
helped him to get upon Rozinante, he said,
" Sir, tlie devil has run away with Dapple."
" What devil ?" demanded Don Quixote.
" He with the bladders," answered Sancho.
" I will recover him," replied Don Quixote,
"though he should hide himself in the
deepest and darkest dungeon of bell. Follow
roe, Sancho ; for the cart moves but slowly,
and the mules shall make compensation for
the loss of Dapple." "Stay, sir," cried
Sancho, "you may cool your anger, for
I see tlie devil tias left Dapple, and gone
his way." And so it was ; for Dapple and
the devil having tumbled, as well as Rozi-
nante and his master, the merry imp left
him and made off on foot to the village,
while Dapple turned back to his rightful
owner. " Nevertheless," said Don Quixote,
=@
=.o;
288
ADVENTURES OF
*^ it will not be ainiss to chastise the inso-
lence of this devil on some of bis company,
even upon the emperor himself." " Good
yonr worship," quoth Sancho: *'do not
think of such a thing, but take my advice
and never meddle with players ; for they
are a people mightily beloved. I have seen
a player taken up for two murders, and get
off scot-free. As they are merry folks and
give pleasure, every body favours them,
and is ready to stand thebr friend ; particu-
larly if they are of the king's or some
nobleman's company, who look and dress
like any princes." ^^ That capering buffoon
shall not escape with impunity, though he
were favoured by the whole human race !"
cried Don Quixote, as he rode off in pursuit
of the cart, which was now very near the
town, and he called aloud, '^ Halt a little,
merry sirs ; stay and let me teach you how
to treat cattle belonging to the squires
of knights- errant." Don Quixote's words
were loud enongh to be heard by the players,
who, perceiving his adverse designs upon
them, instantly jumped out of the cart.
Death first, and afler him the emperor, the
carter- devil, and the angel; nor did the
queen or the god Cupid stay behind ; and,
all armed with stones, waited in battle-
array, ready to receive Don Quixote at
* Thia description of the costlj garb of comedwns,
and of the patronage extended to them, muat refer to
the more advanced atagea of the drama : certainly it
waa far othenriae at ita commencement. According to
Roxaa (Viage entretenido, pp. 60 and 36l) the first
appearance nf a regular drama in Caatile waa about the
middle of the aizteentb century. The flnt comediana
vrere Lopede Rueda, Bautista Juan Correa, Herrera, and
Navarro. Theae were aucceeded by Cianeroa, Velaaques,
Tomaa de la Fuente, Ángulo, Alcocer, Rioa, and Gabriel
de la Torre. Lope de Vega aaya, in the year 1619, " there
were no playa in Spain before the time of Lope de Rueda,
whom, many now living remember to have aeen." (Pro*
loga de la Pane xiii.) Theae actors prepared the atage
for Juan de la Cueva, Cervantes, Loyola, Lope de Vega,
and other poets mentioned by Roxaa (p. 128 }
In Madrid the firat performancea were exhibited in
two court -yarda (corralea) belonging to the hoapital.
The Corrales were afterwards called Teatro, which waa
aucceeded by the Italian name of Coliseo. The price of
admiasion waa five quartoa, four of which were paid on
the aeat, and one at the entrance. The profita were
applied to the uae of the Hoapital and the Aaylum for
Koundlinga. In the aame place religioua dramaa were
alao exhibited, aa well aa the combat» ot wild beaata,
and the produce applied to the aupport of the infirm.
There waa, afterwarda, auch an increaae in the number
of comic poeta, and compoaera of licentioua interludea
•nil ballets, that the clergy conaulted together upon the
Uwfulneaa of auch performancea, and they were put
the points of their pebbles. Don Quixote,
seeing the gallant squadron, with arms up-
lifted, ready to discharge such a fearful
volley, checked Rozinante with the bridle,
and began to consider how be might most
prudently attack them. While he paused,
Sancho came up, and, seeing him on the
point of attacking that well-formed brigade,
remonstrated with him. ^^ It is mere mad-
ness, sir," said he, ^' to attempt such an en-
terprise. Pray consider there is no armour
proof against stones and brick, unless yoa
could thrust yourself into a bell of brass.
Besides, it is not courage, but rashness,
for one man singly to encounter an army,
where Death is present, and where emperors
fight in person, assisted by good and bad
angels. But if that is not reason enough,
remember that, though these people all look
like princes* and emperors, there is not a
real knight among them." " Now indeed,"
said Don Quixote, '^ thou hast hit the point,
Sancho, which can alone shake my resolu-
tion ; I neither can, nor ought to, draw my
sword, as I have often told thee, against
those who are not dubbed knigbts. To thee
it belongs, Sancho, to revenge the affront
offered to thy Dapple ; and from this spot
I will encourage and assist thee by my
voice and salutary instructions." *^ Good
nnder certain regulationa ; among which it was stipulated
that the actreaaca ahould not appear in gold or silver
tiaauea, nor in tabbiea and brocadea ; that there ahould
be a reform in the hoop ; that they should not wear
man'a apparel, and their petticoata ahould reach to tneir
feet; that the houra of performance ahould not be at
night, but at two in the winter, and at three in the
aummer; that the companiea ahould be reduced to aix
or eight in number, and the dramaa confined to aubjects
of morality, auch aa exemplary Uvea or deatha, and deeda
of valour, without any mixture of love: prohibiting
nearly all which had hitherto been repreaented, particu*
larly those of Lope de Vega, which had been ao injurioua
to morala.
Notwithstanding theae reatrictiona, in l633 a memoria*
waa presented to Philip IV. by the celebrated actor
Criatobal Santiago Ortii, complaining that, in deftanee
of an Order of Council, limiting the companiea to the
number of aix, and thoae authoriaed by a apecial licenae,
there were, at that time, no lesa than forty companiea,
comprising above a thouaaud unlicenaed perfonnera,
all unprincipled and disaolute vagranta. Amonjc other
injuriea austúned by the licenaed companiea, he aaya
that playa purchased by them, at the aum of eight
hundred reala each, and from which they might ex-
pect to derive, in the course of the year, one or two
thousand ducats, were no aooner repreaented than they
were atolen by the unlicenaed actoiv, and performed
about the country, to the aerioua damage of the pro-
prietors. P.
DON QUIXOTE.
289
christians should never revenge injaries/'
answered Sancho ; *^ and I dare say that
Dapple is as forgiving as myself, and ready
to submit his case to my will and pleasure,
which is to live peaceably with all tlie
world, as long as heaven is pleased to
grant me life." " Since this is thy resolu-
tion, good Sancho, discreet Sancho, christian
Sancho, and honest Sancho," replied Don
Quixote, '' let us leave these phantoms, and
seek better and more substantial adventures;
for this country, I see, is likely to afford us
many and very extraordinary ones." He
then wheeled Rozinante about, Sancho took
his Dapple, and Death, with his flying
squadron, having returned to their cart,
each pursued their way. Thus happily
terminated the awful adventure of Death's
caravan — thanks to the wholesome advice
that Sancho Panza gave his master, who,
the next day, encountering an enamoured
knight -errant, met with an adventure not
a whit less important than the one just
related.
CHAPTER XII.
OF THE STRANGB ADYEKTURS WHICH
BEFEL THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE
WITH THE BRAVE KNIGHT OF THE
MIRRORS.
Don Quixote and his squire passed the
night following their encounter with Death
ander some tall, umbrageous trees ; and, as
they were refreshing themselves, by Sancho's
advice, from the store of provisions carried
by Dapple, he said to his master, '^ What a
fool, sir, should I have been had I chosen,
for my reward, the spoils of your worship's
tirst adventure, instead of the three ass-
colts ! It is a true saying, ^ A sparrow in
the hand is better than a vulture upon the
wing.'" ** However, Sancho," answered
Don Quixote, " had'st thou suffered me to
make the attack which I had premeditated,
thy share of the booty would have been at
least the emperor's crown of gold and
Cupid's painted wings; for I would have
^ plucked them off perforce, and delivered
them into thy hands." " The crowns and
sceptres of your theatrical emperors," an-
swered Sancho, *' are never pure gold, but
tinsel, or copper." " That is true," replied
Don Quixote; "nor would it be proper
that the decorations of a play should be
otherwise than counterfeit, like the drama
itself, which I would have thee hold in due
estimation, as well as the actors and authors,
for they are all instruments of much benefit
to the commonwealth, continually presenting
a mirror before our eyes, in which we see
lively representations of the actions of
human life: nothing, indeed, more truly
portrays to us what we are, and what we
should be, than the drama. Tell me, hast
thou never seen a play in which kings,
emperors, popes, lords, and ladies are iutro-
duced, with divers other personages ; one
acting the ruffian, another the knave ; one
the merchant, another the soldier; one a
designing fool, another a foolish lover ; and
observed that, when the play is done, and
the actors undressed, they are all again
upon a level?" "Yes, marry have I,"
quoth Sancho. ^'The very same thing,
then," said Don Quixote, '^ happens on
the stage of this world, on which some play
the part of emperors, others of popes — in
short, every part that can be introduced in
a comedy ; but, at the conclusion of this
drama of life, death strips us of the robes
which made the difference between man
and man, and leaves us all on one level
in the grave." " A brave comparison !"
quoth Sancho ; '' though not so new but
that I have heard it many times, as well as
that of the game at chess ; which is that,
while the game is going, every piece has
its office, and, when it is ended, they are
all huddled together, and put into a bag : —
just as we are put together into the ground
when we are dead." " Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "thou art daily improving in sense,"
" And so I ought," answered Sancho ; "for
some of your worship's wisdom must needs
stick to me ; as dry and barren soil, by
well dunging and digging, comes at last to
bear good fruit.. My meaning is that your
worship's conversation has been the dung
laid upon the barren soil of my poor wit,
and the tillage has been the time I have
been in your service and company; by
which I hope to produce fruit like any
290
ADVENTURES OF
blessing, and such as will not disparage my
teacher, nor let me stray from the paths of
good - breeding, which your worship has
made in my shallow understanding." Don
Qaixote smiled at Sancho's affected style ;
but he really did think him improved, and
was frequently surprised by his obsenrations,
when he did not display his ignorance by
soaring too high. His chief strength lay
in proverbs, of which he had always abun-
dance ready, though perhaps not always
fitting the occasion, as may often have
been remarked in the course of this history.
In this kind of conversation they spent
great part of the night, till Sancho felt
disposed to let down the portcullices of his
eyes, as he used to say when he was inclined
to sleep. So, having unrigged his Dapple,
he turned him loose into pasture; but he
did not take off the saddle from Rozinante's
back, it being the express command of his
master that he should continue saddled
whilst they kept the field, and were not
sleeping under a roof, in conformity to an
ancient established custom religiously ob-
served among knights -errant, which was
to take off the bridle, and hang it on the
pommel of the saddle, but by no means to
remove the saddle. Sancho observed this
rule, and gave Rozinante the same liberty
he had given to Dapple ; and here it may
be noticed that the friendship subsisting
between this pair was so remarkable that
there is a tradition handed down from
father to son, that the author of this faithful
history compiled several chapters expressly
upon that subject; but, to maintain the
decorum due to an heroic work, he would not
insert them. Nevertheless, he occasionally
mentions these animals, and says that, when
they came together, they always fell to
scratching one another with their teeth,
and, when they were tired, or satisfied,
Rozinante would stretch his neck at least
half-a-yard across that of Dapple, and both
fixing their eyes attentively on the ground,
would stand three days in that posture —
at least as long as they were undisturbed,
or till hunger compelled them to seek
food. The author is said to have com-
* ** From m frieod to a friend, a bof in the eye/' is a
pared their friendship to that of Nisos and
Euraylus, or that of Pylades and Orestes.
How steady, then, must have been the
friendship of these two peaceable animals —
to the shame of men, who are so regardless
of its laws ! Hence the sayings, ' A friend
cannot find a friend ;' < Reeds become darts;'
and *From a friend to a friend, the bug, &c.'*
Nor let it be taken amiss that any com-
parison should be made between the mutual
cordiality of animals and that of men ; for
much useful knowledge and many salutary
precepts have been taught by the brute
creation. We are indebted, for example,
to the stork for the clyster, and for emetics
to the dog ; from which animal we may
also learn gratitude, as well as vigilance
from cranes, foresight firom ants, modesty
from elephants, and loyalty from horses.
At length Sancho fell asleep at the foot of
a cork-tree, while Don Quixote slumbered I
beneath a branching oak. But it was not '
long before he was disturbed by a noise near
him ; he started up and looking in the direc-
tion whence the sounds proceeded, could
discern two men on horse-back, one of whom
dismounting, said to the other, '' Alight,
friend, and unbridle the horses; for this
place will afford them pasture, and offers to j
me that silence and solitude which my I
amorous thoughts require/' As he spoke,
he threw himself on the ground, and in this
motion a rattling of armour was heard, which
convinced Don Quixote that this was a
knight-errant; and going to Sancho, w^ho
was fast asleep, he pulled him by the arm,
and having with some difiicnlty roused him,
he said in a low voice, " Friend Sancho, we
have got an adventure here." " God send
it be a good one," answered Sancho ; ^* and
pray, sir, where may this same adventure
be ?" " Where, sayest thou, Sancho ?" re-
plied Don Quixote, *^ turn thine eyes that
way, and thou wilt see a knight-errant lying
extended, who seems to me not over happy
in his mind : for I just now saw him dis-
mount and throw himself upon the ground,
as if much oppressed with grief, and his
armour rattled as he fell." " But how do
you know," quoth Sancho, *' that this is an
prorerb applied to the fUae proüeetiona of frieadahip. P.
DON QUIXOTE.
291
adventore V* '^ Though I cannot yet posi-
tively call it an adventure, it has the usual
signs of one — but listen, he is tuning an in-
strument and seems to be preparing to sing.''
"By my troth, so he is," cried Sancho,
" and he must be some knight or other in
love." " As all knights -errant must be ;"
quoth Don Quixote, " but hearken, and we
shall discover his thoughts by his song, for
out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh." Sancho would have replied, but
the knight of the wood, whose voice was
only moderately good, began to sing, and
they both attentively listened to the follow-
ing words :
SONNET.
Bright anthoreat of my good or ill»
ProNcribe the law I invtt obaorre :
M7 heart, obedient to thy will,
Shall never from ita duty ewerre.
If yon refose my gñe& to know,
The «tified angUBh teals my htt ;
But if your ean would drink my woe.
Lore shall himself the tale relate.
Though contraries my heart compose.
Hard as the diamond's solid frame.
And soft u yielding wax that flows.
To thee, my fair, 'tis still the same.
Túkt it for cT'ry stamp pnpar'd :
Imprint what characters you choose :
The faithful Ublet, soft or hard,
The dear impression ne'er shall lose.
With a deep sigh that seemed to be drawn
from the very bottom of his heart, the knight
of the wood ended his song ; and after some
pause, in a plaintiff and dolorous voice, he
exclaimed, " O thou most beautiful and most
ungrateful of woman-kind ! O divine Casil-
dea de Vandalia ! Wilt thou then suffer this
thy captive knight to consume and pine
away in continual peregrinations, and in
severest toils ? Is it not enough that I have
caused thee to be acknowledged the most
consummate beauty in the world, by all the
knights of Navarre, of Leon, of Tartesia, of
Castile, and in fine, by all the knights of
La Mancha?" " Not so," said Don Quixote,
" for I am of La Mancha, and never have
made such an acknowledgment, nor ever
will admit an assertion so prejudicial to the
beauty of my mistress. Thou scest, Sancho,
how this knight raves — but let us listen ;
perhaps he will make some farther declara-
tion" "Ay, marry will he," replied Sancho,
" for he seems to be in a humour to complain
for a month to come." But they were mis-
taken ; for the knight, hearing voices near
them, proceeded no farther in his lamenta-
tion, but, rising up, said aloud in a courteous
voice, " Who goes there ? What are ye ?
Of the number of the happy, or of the af-
flicted ?" " Of the afflicted," answered Don
Quixote. "Come to me then," answered
the knight of the wood, " and you will find
sorrow and misery itself!" These expres-
sions were uttered in so moving a tone that
Don Quixote, followed by Sancho, went up
to the mournful knight, who taking his hand
said to him, " Sit down here, sir knight, for
to be assured that you profess the order of
chivalry, it is sufficient that I find you here,
encompassed by solitude and the cold dew&
of night : the proper station for knights-
errant." " A knight I am," replied Don
Quixote, " and of the order you name, and,
although my heart is the mansion of misery
and woo, yet can I sympathise in the sorrows
of others ; from the strain I just now heard
from you, I conclude that yours are of the
amorous kind — arising I mean from a pas-
sion for some ungrateful &ir."
Whilst thus discoursing, they were seated
together on the ground, peaceably and soci-
ably, not as if, at day-break, they were to
fall upon each other with mortal fury. " Per-
chance you too, are in love, sir knight," said
he of the wood to Don Quixote. " Such is
my cruel destiny," answered Don Quixote ;
" though the sorrows that may arise from
well-placed affections ought rather to be ac-
counted blessings than calamities." " That
is true," replied the knight of the wood,
" provided our reason and understanding be
not affected by disdain, which when carried
to excess is more like vengeance." " I never
was disdained by my mistress," answered
Don Quixote. " No verily," quoth Sancho,
who s^pod close by, " for my lady is as gen-
tle as a lamb, and as soft as butter." " Is
this your squire ?" demanded the knight of
the wood. " He is," replied Don Quixote.
" I never in my life saw a squire," said the
knight of the wood, " who durst presume to
speak, where his lord was conversing : at
least there stands mine, as tall as his father,
and it cannot be proved that he ever opened
=®
::©
292
ADVENTURES OF
his lips where I was speaking." ** I'faith !"
quoth Sancho, '' I have talked, and can talk
before one as good as and perhaps,—: —
but let that rest : perhaps the less said the
better." The knight of the wood's squire
now took Sancho by the arm, and said, '^ Let
us two go where we may chat squire -like
together, and leave these masters of ours to
talk over their loves to each other : for I
warrant they will not have done before to-
morrow morning." " With all my heart,"
quoth Sancho, " and I will tell you who I
am, that you may judge whether I am not
fit to make one among the talking squires."
The squires then withdrew, and a dialogue
passed between them as lively as that of
their masters was grave.
CHAPTER XIII.
WHBREIir IS CONTINUED THB ADVEN-
TÜRB OF THB KNIGHT OF THE WOOD
WITH THE WISE AND WITTY DIALOGUE
BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES.
The knights and squires being thus sepa-
rated, the former were engaged on tlie
subject of their loves, while the latter gave
an account to each other of their lives. The
history first relates the conversation between
the servants, and afterwards proceeds to that
of the masters. Having retired a little apart,
the squire of the wood said to Sancho, ^' This
is a toilsome life we squires to knights-er-
rant lead ; in good truth, we eat our bread
by the sweat of our brows, which is one of
the curses God laid upon our first parents."
" You may say, too, that we eat it by the
frost of our bodies," added Sancho, '*for who
has to bear more cold, as well as heat, than
your miserable squires to knight-errantry?
It would not be quite so bad if we could
always get something to eat : for good fare
lessens care ; but how often we m«st pass
whole days without breaking our fas\ —
unless it be upon air !" " All this may be
endured," quoth he of the wood, "with the
hopes of reward: for that knight -errant
must be unlucky indeed who does not speed-
ily recompense his squire with, at least, a
handsome government, or some pretty earl-
dom." "I," replied Sancho, "have already
told my master that I should be satisfied with
the government of an island ; and he is so
noble, and so generous, that he has promised
it me a thousand times." " And I," said he
of the wood, "should think myself amply
rewarded for all my services with acanonr}%
and I have my master's word for it too."
*^ Why then," quoth Sancho, " belike your
master is some knight of the church, and
so can bestow rewards of that kind on his
squires ; mine is only a layman. Some of
his wise friends advised him once to be an
archbishop, but he would be nothing but an
emperor, and I trembled all the while, lest
he should take a liking to the church ; be-
cause you must know I am not gifted that
way — to say the truth, sir, though I look
like a man, I am a very beast in such mat-
ters." " Let me tell you, friend," qnoth he
of the wood, " you are quite in the wrong ;
for these island governments are often more
plague than profit. Some are crabbed, some
beggarly, some — in short, the best of them
are sure to bring more care than they are
worth, and are mostly too heavy for the
shoulders that have to bear them. I sus-
pect it would be wiser in us to quit this
thankless drudgery and stay at home, where
we may find easier work and better pastime:
for he must be a sorry squire who has not
his nag, his brace of grey-hounds, and an
angling-rod to enjoy himself with at home."
"I am not without these things," answered
Sancho ; " it is true I have no horse, but
then I have an ass which is worth twice as
much as my master's steed. God send me
a bad Easter, and may it be the first that
comes if I would swap with him, though he
should offer me four bushels of barley to
boot } no faith, that would not I, though
you may take for a joke the price I set
upon my Dapple : for dapple, sir, is the
colour of my ass. Greyhounds I cannot he
in want of, as our town is overstocked with
them : besides, the rarest sporting is that we
find at other people's cost." " Really and
truly, brother squire," answered he of the
wood, *' I have resolved with myself to quit
the frolics of these knights -errant, and get
home again and look after my children ; for
I have three like Indian pearls." " And I
have two," quoth Sancho, " fit to be pre-
DON QUIXOTE.
203
Bented to the pope himself in person ; espe-
cially my girl that I am breeding up for a
coantess, if it please God, in spite of her
mother." ''And pray, what may be the age
of the yonng lady you are breeding up for
a countess?" demanded he of the wood.
" Fifteen years, or thereabouts/' answered
Sancho, '' and she is as tall as a lance, as
fresh as an April morning, and as strong as
a porter." ''These are qualifications," said
he of the wood, " not only for a countess,
bat for a wood nymph ! Ah the whoreson
young slut ! H ow buxom must the jade be I"
To this Sancho answered somewhat angrily,
" She is no whore, nor was her mother one
before her ; nor whilst I live shall either of
them be so, God willing : so pray speak
more dvilly, for such language is unbe-
coming one brought up like you, among
knights-errant, who are good breeding it-
self.'' "Why ! brother squire, you do'nt
undeistand what praising is," quoth he of
the wood. " What ! do you not know that,
when some knight at a bull- feast gives the
bull a home thrust with his lance ; or when
a thing is well hit off, it is common to say —
' Ah ! how cleverly the son of a whore did
it V which, though it seems to be a slander,
is in fact, great commendation ! I would
have you renounce every son or daughter
whose actions do not make them deserving
of such compliments." "I do renounce
them," answered Sancho, " and, since you
mean so well by it, you may call my wife
and children all the whores and bawds you
please ; foF all they do or say is excellent,
and well worthy of such praises ; and, that
I may return and see them again, I beseech
God to deliver me from mortal sin — that is,
from this dangerous profession of squireship
into which I have run a second time, drawn
and tempted by a purse of a hundred ducats,
which I found one day among the moun-
tains. In trutli, the devil is continually
setting before my eyes, here, there, and
every where, a bag full of gold pistoles, so
that methinks at every step I am laying my
hand upon it, hugging it, and carrying it
home, buying lands, settling rents, and living
like a prince ; and while this runs in my
head, I can bear all the toil which must be
suffered with this foolish master of mine.
whoy to my knowledge, is more of the mad-
man than the knight."
" Indeed, friend," said the squire of the
wood, " you verify the proverb, which says,
' that covetousncss bursts the bag.' Truly,
friend, now you talk of madmen, there is not
a greater gne in the world than my master.
The old saying may be applied to him,
' Other folks' burdens break the ass's back :'
for he gives up his own wits to recover those
of another; and is searching after that
which, when found, may chance to hit him
in the teeth." " By the way, he is in love,
it seems ?" said Sancho. " Yes," quoth he
of the wood, " with one Casildea de Vanda-
lia, one of the most whimsical dames in the
world ; but that is not the foot he halts on
at present : he has some other crotchets in
his pate, which we shall hear more of anon.'
" There is no road so even but it has its
stumbling places," replied Sancho ; " in
other folks' houses they boil beans, but in
mine, whole kettles full. Madness will have
more followers than discretion, but, if tlie
common saying is true that there is some
comfort in having partners in grief, I may
comfort myself with you, who serve as crack-
brained a master as my own." " Crack-
brained, but valiant," answered he of the
wood, "and more knavish than either."
" Mine," answered Sancho, " has nothing
of the knave in him ; so far from it, he has a
soul as pure as a pitcher, and would not harm
a fly ; he bears no malice, and a child may
persuade him it is night at noon -day : for
which I love him as my life, and cannot find
in my heart to leave him, in spite of all his
pranks." "For all that, brother," quoth
he of the wood, " if the blind lead the blind,
both may fall into the ditch. We had better
turn us fairly about, and go back to our
homes : for they who seek adventures find
them sometimes to their cost."
Here the squire of the wood observing
Sancho to spit very often, and very dry,
"Methinks," said he, "we have talked
till our tongues cleave to the roofs of our
mouths; but I have got, hanging at my
saddle-bow, that which will loosen them ;"
when, rising up, he quickly produced a
large bottle of wine, and a pasty, half-a- •
yard long, without any exaggeration ; for
/Ü/
294
ADVENTURES OF
it was made of so large a rabbit that Sancho
thought verily it must contain a whole goat,
or at least a kid ; and, after due examina-
tion, " How," said he, " do you carry such
things about with you?" ** Why, what
did you think ?" answered the other ; <^ did
you take me for some starveling squire ? —
No, no, I have a better cupboard behind
me on my horse than a general carries with
him upon a march." Sancho fell to, without
waiting for entreaties, and swallowed down
huge mouthfuls in the dark. " Your
worship," said he, 'Ms indeed a squire,
trusty and loyal, round and sound, mag-
nificent and great withal, as this banquet
proves Cif it did not come by enchantment) ;
and not a poor wretch like myself, with
notliing in my wallet but a piece of cheese,
and that so hard that you may knock out
a giant's brains with it ; and four dozen of
carobes to bear it company, with as many
filberts — thanks to my master's stinginess,
and to the fancy he has taken that knights-
errant ought to feed, like cattle, upon roots
and wild herbs." " Troth, brother," replied
he of the wood, " I have no stomach for
your wild pears, nor sweet thbtles, nor
your mountain roots ; let our masters have
them, with their fancies and their laws of
chivalry, and let them eat what they com-
mend. I carry cold meats and this bottle
at the pommel of my saddle, happen what
will ; and such is my love and reverence
for it, that I kiss and hug it every moment."
And as he spoke he put it into Sancho's
hand, who grasped it, and, applying it
straightway to his mouth, continued gasdng
at the stars for a quarter of an hour ; then,
having finished his draught, he let his head
iall on one side, and, fetching a deep sigh,
said, " O the whoreson rogue ! How catholic
it is !" " You see now," quoth he of the
wood, "how properly you commend this
wine in calling it whoreson." " I agree
with you now," answered Sancho, "and
own that it is no discredit to be called son
of a whore, when it comes in the way of
compliment. But tell me, by all you love
best, is not this wine of Ciudad Real ?"
" Thou art a rare taster," answered he of
the wood ; " it is indeed of no other growth,
and has, besides, some years over its head."
" Trust me for that," quoth Sancho ; « de-
pend upon it I always hit right, and can
guess to a hair. And this is all natural in
me ; 4et me but smell them, and I will tell
you the country, the kind, the flavour, the
age, strength, and all about it; for yoa
must know I have had in my fiunily, by
the father's side, two of the rarest tasters
that were ever known in La Mancha ; and
I will give you a proof of their skill. A
certain hogshead was given to each of them
to taste, and their opinion asked as to the
condition, quality, goodness, or badness, of
the wine. One tried it with the tip of his
tongue ; the other only put it to hb nose.
The fint said the wine savoured of iron ;
the second said it had rather a twang of
goat's leather. The owner protested that
the vessel was clean, and the wine neat,
so that it could not taste either of iron or
leatlier. Notwithstanding this, the two
&mous tasters stood positively to what tliey
had said. Time went on ; tlie wine was
sold off, and, on cleaning the cask, a small
key, hanging to a leathern thong, was
found at tlie bottom. Judge then, »r,
whether one of that race may not be weil
entitled to give his opinion in these matters."
"That being the case," quoth he of the
wood, " we should leave oíF seeking ad-
ventures, and, since wc have a good loaf,
let us not look for cheesecakes, but make
haste and get home to our own cots, for
there God will find us, if it be his will."
"I will serve my master till he reaches
Saragossa," quoth Sancho, " then mayhap
we shall turn over a new leaf."
Thus the good squires went on talking,
and eating and drinking, until it was full
time that sleep should give their tongues a
respite, and allay their thirst, for to quench
it seemed to be impossible ; and both of
them, still keeping hold of the almost empty
bottle, fell fast asleep, in which situation
we will leave them at present, to relate
whaib passed between the two knights.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH IS CONTIlf UKD THB ADVBNTURB
OF THB KNIGHT OF THB WOOD.
Much conversation passed between the two
DON QUIXOTE.
296
knights. Among other things the history
informs ns that he of the wood said to Don
Quixote, " In fact, sir knight, I must con-
fess that, by destiny, or rather by choice, I
V¿came enamoured of the peerless Casildea
je Vandalia : — peerless I call her, because
she is without her peer, either in rank,
beauty, or form. Casildea repaid my
honourable and virtuous passion by employ-
mg me as Hercules was employed by his
stepmother in many and various perils:
promising me, at the end of each of them,
that the next should crown my hopes; but,
alas I she still goes on, adding link after
link to the chain of my labours, insomuch
that they are now countless; nor can I
tell when they are to cease, and my tender
wishes be gratified. One time she com-
manded me to go and challenge Giralda,*
the famous giantess of Seville, who is as
stout and strong as if she were made of
brass, and, though never stirring from one
spot, is the most changeable and unsteady
woman in the world. I came, I saw, I
conquered — I made her stand still, and
fixed her to a point ; for, during a whole
week, no wind blew but from the north.
Another time she commanded me to weigh
those ancient statues, the fierce bulls of
GuÍ8ando,t an enterprise better suited to a
porter than a knight. Another time she
commanded me to plunge headlong into
Cabra's cave (direful mandate!) and bring
her a particular detail of all that lies en-
closed within its dark abyss. I stopped the
motion of the Giralda, I weighed the bulls
of Guisando, I plunged headlong into the
cavern of Cabra, and brought to light its
hidden secrets ; yet still my hopes are dead
— O how dead ! And her commands and
disdains alive — 0 how alive ! In short, she
has now commanded me to travel over all
the provinces of Spain, and compel every
knight whom I meet to confess that, in
beauty, she excels all others now in exist-
ence ; and that I am the most valiant and
the most enamoured knight in the universe.
In obedience to this command I have already
traversed the greatest part of Spain, and
* BiMs ttatue on a tteeple at S«tU1c, which Mrm for
have vanquished divers knights who have
had the presumption to contradict me. But
what I value myself most upon is having
vanquished, in single combat, that renowned
knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, and
made him confess that my Casildea is more
beautiful than his Dulcinea ; and I reckon
that, in this conquest alone, I have van-
quished all the knights in the world ; for
this Don Quixote has conquered them all,
and I, having overcome him. his glory,
his fame, and his honour, are, consequently
transferred to me. All the innumerable
exploits of the said Don Quixote I, there-
fore, consider as already mine, and placed
to my account."
Don Quixote was amazed at the assertions
of the knight of the wood, and had been
every moment on the point of giving him
the lie ; but he restrained himself, that he
might convict him of fabehood firom his
own mouth ; and therefore he said, very
calmly, " That you may have vanquished,
sir knight, most of the knights -errant of
Spain, or even of the whole world, I will
not dispute ; but that you have conquered
Don Quixote de la Mancha I have much
reason to doubt. Some one resembling him,
I allow, it might have been, though, in
truth, I believe there are not many like
him." ** How say you ?" cried he of the
wood ; ^* by the canopy of heaven, I fought
with Don Quixote, vanquished him, and
made him surrender to me ! He is a man
of an erect figure, withered face, long and
meagre limbs, grizzle -haired, hawk-nosed,
with large black mustachios, and styles
himself the ' knight of the sorrowful figure.'
The name of his squire is Sancho Panza j
he oppresses the back, and governs the
reins, of a famous steed called Rozinantc —
in a word, the mistress of his thoughts is
one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly called
Aldonza Lorenzo, as my Casildea, being
of Andalusia, is now distinguished by the
name of Casildea de Vandalia. And now,
if I have not sufficiently proved what I
have said, here is my sword, which shall
make incredulity itself believe V* *' Softly,
t Two Urge ttatuea in that town, rappoaed to have be«n
placed there by M etellus. in the time of the Romant. J
=^©1
296
ADVENTURES OF
8ir knight," said Don Quixote, ^and hear
what I have to say. Yoa must know that
this Don Quixote you speak of is the dearest
friend I have in the world, insomuch that
he is, as it were, another self; and, not-
withstanding the very accurate description
you have given of him, I am convinced, by
the evidence of my senses, that you have
never subdued him. It is, indeed, possible
that, as he is continually persecuted by
enchanters, some one of these may have
assumed his shape, and suiFered himself to
be vanquished, in order to defraud him of
the fame which his exalted feats of chivalry
have acquired him over the whole face of
the earth. A proof of tlieir malice occurred
but a few days since, when they transformed
the figure and face of the beautiful Dulcinea
del Toboso into the form of a mean rustic
wench. And now if, after all, you doubt
the truth of what I say, behold the true
Don Quixote himself before you, ready to
convince you of your error, by force of
arms, on foot or on horseback, or in what-
ever manner you please." He then rose
up, and, grasping his sword, awaited the
determination of the knight of the wood,
wlio very calmly said in reply, " A good
paymaster wants no pledge : he who could
vanquish signor Don Quixote, under trans-
formation, may well hope to make him
yield in his proper person. But, as knights-
errant should by no means perform their
feats in the dark, like robbers and ruffians,
let us wait for daylight, that the sun may
witness our exploits ; and let the condition
of our combat be that the conquered shall
remain entirely at the mercy and disposal
of the conqueror ; provided that he require
nothing of him but what a knight may
with honour submit to." Don Quixote
having expressed himself entirely satisfied
with these conditions, they went to seek
their squires, whom they found snoring in
the very same posture as that in whieh
sleep had first surprised them. They were
soon awakened by their masters, and ordered
to prepare the steeds, so that they might
be ready, at sunrise, for a bloody single
* In tilu and tournamente the seeondi were a kind
of gotlfathen to the principaU» and certain ceremonies
were performed on thme occaaions. J.
combat. At this intelligence Sancho was
thunderstruck, and ready to swoon away
with fear for his master, from what he* had
been told, by the squire of the wood, of his
knight's prowess. Both the squires, how-
ever, without saying a word, went to seek
their cattle; and the three horses and
Dapple, having smelt each other out, were
found all very sociably together.
'''You must understand, brother," said
the squire of the wood to Sancho, *^ that it
is not the custom in Andulasia for the
seconds to stand idle, with their arms
folded, while their godsons* are engaged
in combat. So this is to give you notice
tiiat, while our masters are at it, we must
fight too, and make splinters of one another."
'' This custom, signor squire," answered
Sancho, '' may pass among ruffians ; but
among the squires of knights - errant no
such practice is thought of, — at least I
have not heard my master talk of any such
cust;Qm ; and he knows by heart all tlie
laws of knight-errantry. But, supposing
there is any such law, I shall not obey it.
I would rather pay the penalty laid upon
such peaceable squires, which, I dare say,
cannot be above a couple of pounds of |
wax;t and that will cost me less money
than plaisters to cure a broken head.
Besides how can I fight when I have got
no sword, and never had one in my life ?"
'' I know a remedy for that," said he of
the wood: "here are a couple of linen
bags of the same size ; you shall take one,
and I the other, and so, with equal weapons, |
we will have a bout at bag-blows." '* With
all my heart," answered Sancho ; ''for such
a battle will only dust our jackets." " It
must not be quite so, either," replied the
other; "for, lest the wind should blow
them aside, we must put in them half-a-
dozen clean and smooth pebbles, of equal
weight; and thus we may brush one another
without much harm or damage." " Body
of my father !" answered Sancho, *' what
sable fur, what bottoms of carded cotton,
forsooth, you would put into the bags, that
we may not break our bones to powder !
I
t Small offences, in Spain, are fined at a pound or
two of white wax, for the tapers in churches, ücc, and ¡
confessors frequently enjoin it as a penance. J. .
DON QUIXOTE.
297
Bat I tell you what, master, though they
should be filled with balls of raw silk, I
shall not fight. Let our masters fight, and
take the consequences; but let us drink
and live, for time takes care to rid us of
our lives, without our seeking ways to go
before our appointed term and season."
" Nay," replied he of the wood, " do let
us fight, if it be but for half- an -hour."
" No, no," answered Sancho, •* I shall not
be so rude nor ungrateful as to have any
quarrel with a gentleman after eating and
drinking with him. Besides, who the devil
can set about dry fighting without being
provoked to it?" "If that be all," quoth
he of the wood, " I can easily manage it ;
for, before we begin our fight, I will come
up, and just give yon three or four hand-
some cufis, which will lay you fiat at my
feet, and awaken y«ur choler, though it
slept sounder than a dormouse." ^' Against
that trick," answered Sancho, '^I have
another, not a whit behind it ; which is to
! take a good cudgel, and, before you come
near enough to awaken my choler, I will
bastinado yours into so sound a sleep
that it shall never awake but in another
world. Let me tell you I am not a man to
sufier my fiice to be handled, so let every
one look to the arrow ; though the safest
way would be to let that same choler sleep
on — for one man knows not what another
can do, and some people go out for wool,
and come home shorn. In all times, God
blessed the peace -makers, and cursed the
peace -breakers. If a baited cat turns into
a lion, God knows what I, that am a man,
may turn into : and therefore I warn you,
roaster squire, that all the damage and
mischief that may follow from our quarrel
must be placed to your account." "Agreed,*^
replied he of the wood. "God send us
daylight, and we shall see what is to be
done."
And now a thousand sorts of birds, glitter-
ing in their gay attire, began to chirp and
warble in the trees, and in a variety of joyous
notes seemed to hale the blushing Aurora,
who now displayed her rising beauties from
the bright arcades and balconies of the east,
' and gently shook from her locks a shower
I of liquid pearls, sprinkling that reviving
treasure over all vegetation. The willows
distilled their delicious manna, the fountains
smiled, the brooks murmured, the woods
and meads rejoiced at her approach. But
scarcely had hill and dale received the wel-
come light of day, and objects become visible,
when the first thing that presented itself to
the eyes of Sancho Panza was the squire of
the wood's nose, which was so large that it
almost overshadowed his whole body. Its
magnitude was indeed extraordinary ; it
was moreover a hawk-nose, full of warts
and carbuncles, of the colour of a mulberry,
and hanging two fingers' breadth below his
mouth. The size, the colour, the carbun-
cles, and the crookedness, produced such a
countenance of horror that Sancho, at sight
thereof, began to tremble from head to foot,
and he resolved within himself to take t^vo
hundred cufis before he would be provoked
to attack such a hobgoblin.
Don Quixote also sun^eyed his antagonist,
but, the beaver of his helmet being down, his
face was concealed ; it was evident, how-
ever, that he was a strong-made man, no\.
very tall, and that over his armour he wore
a kind of surtout or loose coat, apparently
of the finest gold cloth, besprinkled with
little moons of polished glass, which made
a very gay and shining appearance ; a large
plume of feathers, green, yellow, and white,
waved above his helmet. His lance, which
was leaning against a tree, was very large
and thick, and headed with pointed steel,
above a span long. All these circumstances
Don Quixote attentively marked, and in-
ferred, firom appearances, that he was a very
potent knight, but he was not therefore
daunted, like Sancho Panza ; on the contrary,
with a gallant spirit, he said to the knight
of the mirrors, ** Sir-knight, if your eager-
ness for combat has not exhausted your
courtesy, I intreat you to lift up your
beaver a little, that I may see whether your
countenance corresponds with your gallant
demeanour." " Whether vanquished or vic-
torious in this enterprise, sir- knight," an-
swered he of the mirrors, " you will have
time and leisure enough for seeing roe ; and
if I comply not now with your request, it is
because I think it would be an indignity to
the beauteous Casildea de Vandalia to lose
r@
298
ADVENTURES OF
any time in forcing you to make the confes-
sion required." " However, while we are
mounting our horses," said Don Quixote,
'' you can tell me whether I resemble that
Don Quixote whom you said you had van-
quished." ''As like as one egg is to another,"
replied he of the mirrors, '^ though, as you
say you are persecuted by enchanters, I dare
not afiirm tJiat you are actually the same
person." *' I am satisfied that you acknow*
ledge you may be deceived," said Don
Quixote ; '* however, to remove all doubt,
let us to horse, and in less time than you
would have spent in raising your beaver, if
God, my mistress, and my arm avail me, I
will see your hee, and you shall be con-
vinced I am not the vanquished Don
Quixote."
They now mounted without more words,
and Don Quixote wheeled Rozinante about,
to take sufficient ground for the encounter,
while the other knight did the same; but
before Don Quixote had gone twenty paces,
he heard himself called by his opponent,
who, meeting him half way, said, '^Remem-
ber, sir -knight, our agreement; which is
that the conquered shall remain at the dis-
cretion of the conqueror." '* I know it,"
answered Don Quixote, ''provided that
which is imposed shall not transgress the
laws of chivalry," " Certainly," answered
he of the mirrors. At this juncture the
squire's strange nose presented itself to Don
Quixote's sight, who was no less struck than
Sancho, insomuch tiiat he looked upon him
as a monster, or some creature of a new
species. Sancho, seeing his master set forth
to take his career, would not stay alone with
Long-nose, lest, perchance, he should get a
filip from that dreadful snout, which would
level him to the ground, either by force or
fright. So he ran after his master, holding
by the stirrap leather, and when he thought
it was nearly time for him to face about, " I
beseech your worship," he cried, ** before
you turn, to help me up into yon cork-tree,
where I can see better and more to my liking
the brave battle you are going to have with
that knight." " I rather believe, Sancho,"
quoth Don Quixote, "that thou art for
mounting a scaffold to see the bull-8]$orts
without danger." " To tell you the truth.
sir," answered Sancho, " that squire's i
strous nose fills me with dread, and I dare
not stand near him." " It is indeed a fearful
sight," said Don Quixote, "to any other
but myself; come, therefore, and I will help
thee up."
While Don Quixote was engaged in help-
ing Sancho up into the cork-tree, the knight
of the mirrors took as large a compass as he
thought necessary, and, believing that Don
Quixote had done the same, without waiting
for sound of trumpet, or any other signal,
he turned about his horse, who was not a
whit more active nor more sightly than Ro-
zinante, and at his best speed, though not
exceeding a middling trot, he advanced to
encounter the enemy ; but, seeing him em-
ployed with Sancho, he reined in his steed
and stopped in the midst of his career ; for
which his horse was most thankful, being
unable to stir any farther. Don Quixote,
thinking his enemy was coming full speed
against him, clapped spurs to Rozinante'slean
flanks, and made him so bestir himself that,
as the history relates, this was the only time
in his life that he approached to something
like a gallop; and with this unprecedented
fury he soon came up to where his adversary
stood, striking his spurs rowel -deep into the
sides of his charger, without being able to
make him stir a finger's length from the
place where he had been checked in his
career. At this fortunate juncture Don
Quixote met his adversary embarrassed not
only with his horse but his lance : which he
either knew not how, or had not time, to ñx
in its rest, and therefore our knight, who
saw not these perplexities, assailed him with
perfect security, and with such force that he
soon brought him to the ground, over his
horse's crupper, leaving him motionless and
without any signs of life. Sancho, on seeing
thb, immediately slid down from the cork-
tree, and in all haste ran to his master, who
alighted firom Rozinante and went up to the
vanquished knight, when, unlacing his hel-
met to see whether he was dead, or if yet
alive, to give him air, he beheld but
who can relate what he beheld, without
causing amazement, wonder, and terror, in
all that shall hear it? He saw, says tlie
history, the very face, the very figure, the
DON QUIXOTE.
209
very aspect, the very phyBiognomy, the very
eihgies and semblance of the bachelor Sam-
son Carrasco! ''Come hither, Sancho/'
cried he aloud, '' and see, but believe not ;
make baste, son, and mark what wizards
and enchanters can do!" Sancho ap-
proached, and seeing the face of the bach-,
dor Samson Carrasco, he began to cross and
bless himself a thousand times over. All this
time the overthrown cavalier shewed no
signs of life. '' My advice is,'' said Sancho,
" that, at all events, your worship should
thrust your sword down the throat of this
roan who is so like the bachelor Samson
Carrasco : for in dispatching him you may
destroy one of those enchanters your ene-
mies." ''Thou sa3r'8t not amiss," quoth
Don Quixote, '' for the fewer enemies the
better." He then drew his sword to put
Sancho's advice into execution, when the
squire of the mirrors dame running up, but
without the frightful nose, and cried aloud,
'' Have a care, signer Don Quixote, what
you do ; for it is the bachelor Samson Car-
rasco your friend, and I am his squhre."
Sancho seeing his face now shorn of its
deformity, exdaimed, ''The nose ! where is
the nose ?" " Here it is," said the other ;
taking from his right hand pocket, a paste-
board nose, formed and painted in the man-
ner already described ; and Sancho, now
looking earnestly at him, made another ex-
clamation, " Blessed Virgin, defend me !"
cried he, " is not this Tom Cecial my neigh-
bour V* " Indeed am I," answered the
unnosed squire ; " Tom Cecial I am, friend
Sancho Panza, and I will tell you pre-
sently what tricks' brought me hither ; but
now, good Sancho, entreat, in the mean
time, your master not to hurt the knight of
the mirrors at his feet : for he is truly no
other than the rash and ill-advised bachelor
Samson Carrasco, our townsman."
' fiy this time the knight of the mirrors
1 began to recover his senses, which Don
j Quixote perceiving, he clapped the point
of his ndced s^n^ord to his throat and said,
" You are a dead man, sir-knight, if you
, confess not that the peerless Dulcinea del
i Toboso excels in beauty your Casildea de
Vandalia; you must promise also, on my
sparing your life, to go to the city of Toboso,
and present yourself before her from me,
that she may dispose of you as she shall
think fit ; and, if she leaves you at liberty,
then shall you return to me without delay, the
fame of my exploits being your guide, — to
relate to me the circumstances of your inter-
view : these conditions being strictly con-
formable to the terms agreed on before our
encounter, and also to tíie rules of knight-
errantry." "'I confess," said the fallen
knight, " that the lady Dulcinea del To-
boso's torn and dirty shoe is preferable to
the ill-combed, though clean, locks of Casil-
dea ; and I promise to go and return from
her presence to yours, and give you the
exact and particular account which you
require of me."
" You must likewise confess and believe,"
added Don Quixote, " that the knight you
vanquished was not Don Quixote de la
Mancha, but some one resembling him;
as I do confess and believe that, though
resembling the bachelor Samson Carrasco,
yon are not he, but some other whom
my enemies have purposely transformed
into his likeness, to restrain the impetu-
osity of my rage, and make me use with
moderation the glory of my conquest."
"I confess, judge, and believe every thing,
precisely as you do yourself," answered the
disjointed knight ; " and now suffer me to
rise, I beseech you, if my bruises do not
prevent me." Don Quixote raised him with
the assistance of his squire, on whom Sancho
still kept his eyes fixed ; and though from
some conversation that passed between them
he had much reason to believe it was really
his old friend Tom Cedal, he was so pre-
possessed by all that his master had said
about enchanters that he would not trust
his own eyes. In short, both master and
man persisted in their error, and the knight
of the mirrors, with his squire, much out of
humour and in ill-plight, went in search of
some convenient place where he might sear-
doth himself and splinter his ribe. Don
Quixote and Sancho continued their journey
to Saragossa, where the history leaves them
to give some account of the knight of the
mirrors, and his well-snouted squire.
300
ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER XV.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE KNIGHT
OF THE HIBRORS AND HIS SQUIRE.
Exceedingly happy, elated, and Tain-
glorious was Don Quixote at his triumph
over 80 valiant a knight as he imagined him
of the mirrors to be, and from whose promise
he hoped to learn whether his adored mistress
still remained in a state of enchantment.
But Don Qaixote expected one thing, and
he of the mirrors intended another : his only
care at present being to get, as soon as pos-
sible, plaisters for his bruises. The history
then proceeds to tell us that when the bach-
elor Samson Carrasco advised Don Quixote
to resume his functions of knight-errantry,
he had previously consulted with the priest
and the barber upon the best means of
inducing Don Quixote to stay peaceably
and quietly at home ; and it was agreed by
general vote, as well as by the particular
advice of Carrasco, that they should let Don
Quixote make another sally (since it seemed
impossible to detain him), and that the
bachelor should then also sally forth like a
knight-errant, and take an opportunity of
engaging him to fight, and after vanquishing
him, which they held to be an easy matter,
he should remain, according to a previous
agreement, at tiie disposal of the conqueror,
who should command him to return home
and not quit it for the space of two years,
or till he had received further orders from
him. They doubted not but that he would
readily comply, rather than infringe the laws
of chivalry ; and they hoped that, during
this interval, he might forget his follies, or
that some means might be discovered of
curing his malady. Carrasco engaged in
the enterprize, and Tom Cecial, Sancho
Panza's neighbour, a merry shallow-brained
fellow, proffered his service as squire.
Samson armed himself in the manner al-
ready described, and Tom Cecial fitted the
counterfeit nose to his face for the purpose
of disguising himself; and, following the
same road that Don Quixote had taken,
they were not far off when the adventure
of Death's car took place ; but it was in the
wood they overtook him, which was the
scene of the late action, and where, had it
not been for Don Quixote's extraordinary
conceit tiiat the bachelor was not the bach-
elor, that gentleman, not meeting even so
much as nests, where he thought to find
birds, would have been incapacitated for
ever from taking the degree of licentiate.
Tom Cecial, after the unlucky issue of their
expedition, said to the bachelor, "Most cer-
tainly, sigfior Carrasco, we have been rightly
served. It is easy to plan a thing, but very
often difiicult to get through with it. Don
Quixote is mad, and we are in our senses ;
he gets off sound and laughing, and your
worship remains sore and sorrowful : now,
pray which is the greater madman, he who
is so because he cannot help it, or he who is
so on purpose ?" " The difference between
these two sorts of madmen is," replied Sam-
son, " that hewho cannot help it will remain
so, and he who deliberately plays the fool
may leave off when he thinks fit." " That
being the case," said Tom Cecial, ** I was
mad when I desired to be your worship's
squire, and now I desire to be so no longer,
but shall hasten home again." " That you
may do," answered Samson,** but, for myself,
I cannot think of returning to mine till I
have soundly banged this same Don Quixote.
It is not now with the hope of curing him
cf his madness that I shall seek him, but a
desire for revenge; — the pain of my ribs
^vill not allow me to entertain a more
charitable purpose." In this humour they
went talking on till they came to a village,
where they luckily met with a bone-setter,
who undertook to cure the unfortunate
Samson. Tom Cecial now returned home,
leaving his master meditating schemes of
revenge, and though the history will have
occasion to mention him again hereafter,
it must now attend the motions of our
triumphant knight.
CHAPTER XVI.
OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE WITH A
WORTHY GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA.
Don Quixote pursued his journey with the
pleasure, satisfaction, and self-complacency
=@
II
DON QUIXOTE.
801
already described : imaginmgy because of
his late victory, that be was the most yaliant
knight the world could then boast of. He
cared neither for enchantments nor en-
chantersy and looked upon all the adven-
tures which should henceforth beiai him as
already achieved and brought to a happy
conclusion. He no longer remembered his
innumerable sufferings during the progress of
his chivalries : the stoning that demolished
half his grinders, the ingratitude of the
galley-slaves, nor the audacity of the Yan-
guesian carriers and their shower of pack
staves : — in short, he inwardly exclaimed
that, could be but devise any means of dis-
enchanting his lady Dulcinea, he should not
envy the highest fortune that ever was,
or could be, attained by the most prosperous
knight-errant of past ages !
He was wholly absorbed in these reflections,
when Sancho said to him, " Is it not strange,
sir, that I still have before my eyes the mon-
strous nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial V*
"And dost thou really believe, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, "that the knight of the
mirrors was the bachelor Samson Carrasco,
and his squire thy friend Tom Cecial ?" "I
know not what to say about it," answered
Sancho : " I only know that the marks he
gave me of my house, wife, and children,
could be given by nobody else; and his face,
when the nose was off, was Tom Cedal's,
just as I have often seen it, — for he lives in
the next house to idy own ; the tone of his
voice, too, was the very same." " Come,
come, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " let
us reason upon this matter. How can it be
imagined that the bachelor Samson Carrasco
should come as a knight-errant, armed at
all points, to fight with me 7 Was I ever
his enemy ? Have I ever given him occa-
sion to bear me ill-will? Am I his rival ?
Or has he embraced the profession of arms,
envying the fame I have acquired by them?"
" But, then, what are we to say, sir," an-
swered Sancho, "to the likeness of that
knight, whoever he may be, to the bachelor
Samson Carrasco, and his squire to my neigh-
bour Tom Cecial ? If it be enchantment,
as your worship says, why were they to be
made like those two above all other in the
world?" "Trust me, Sancho, the whole
is artífice," answered Don Quixote, " and a
trick of the wicked magicians who persecute
me. Knowing that I might be victorious,
they cunningly contrived that my vanquished
enemy should assume the appearance of the
worthy bachelor, in order that the friendship
which I bear him might interpose between
the edge of my sword and the rigour of my
arm, and, by checking my just indignation,
the wretch might escape with life, who, by
fraud and violence, sought mine. Indeed,
already thou knowest by experience, Sancho,
how easy a thing it is for enchanters to
change one face into another, making the
fair foul, and the foul fair ; since, not two
days ago, thou sawest with thine own eyes
the grace and beauty of the peerless Dulcinea
in their highest perfection, while to me she
appeared under the mean and disgusting
exterior of a rude country- wench, with cata-
racts on her eyes, and a bad smell in her
mouth. If then the wicked enchanter durst
make so foul a transformation, no won-
der at this deception of his, in order to
snatch the glory of victory out of my hands !
However, I am gratified in knowing that,
whatever was the form he pleased to assume,
my triumph over him was complete." " God
knows the truth of all things," answered
Sancho ; who, well knowing the transform-
ation of Dulcinea to have been a device
of his own, was not quite satisfied with his
master's elucidations : but he would make
no reply, lest he should betray himself.
While thus discoursing, they were over-
taken by a gentleman, mounted on a very
fine flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a greeK
cloth riding-coat, faced with murry-coloured
velvet, and a hunter's-cap of the same ; the
mare's furniture corresponded in colour with
his dress, and was adapted to field sports ;
a Moorish scymitar hung at his shoulder-
belt, which was green and gold ; his buskins
were wrought like the belt, and his spurs
were green, not gilt, but green, and polished
so neatly that, as they suited his clothes,
they looked better than if they had been of
pure gold. He saluted them courteously,
and, spurring his mare, was passing on, when
Don Quixote said to him, " If you are tra-
velling our road, signer, and are not in haste,
will you favour us with your company ?"
302
ADVENTURES OF
** Indeed, sígñor," replied he, " I should not
have passed on, but I was afraid your horse
might prove unruly in the company of my
mare." '"Sir," answered Sancho, "if that
be all, you may safely trust your mare ; for
ours is the soberest and best behaved horse
in the world ; and, at such a time, was never
guilty of a roguish trick in his life, but once,
and then my master and I paid for it seven*
fold. I say, again, your worship need not
fear ; for if she were served up betwixt two
dishes, I assure you, he would not so much
as look her in the face." The traveller
checked his mare, his curiosity being excited
by the appearance of Don Quixote, who rode
without his helmet, which Sancho carried
like a cloak*bag, at the pommel of his ass's
pannel ; but if he stared at Don Quixote,
he was himself surveyed with no less atten-
tion by the knight, who conceived him to
be some person of consequence. His age
seemed to be about fifty, though he had but
few grey hairs ; his face was of the aqui-
line form, of a countenance neither too gay
nor too grave, and by his whole exterior it
was evident that he was no ordinary person.
It was not less manifest that the traveller,
as he contemplated Don Quixote, thought
he had never seen any thing like him before.
With wonder he gazed upon his tall person,
his meagre, sallow visage, his lank horse,
his armour and stately deportment : altoge-
ther presenting a figure, like which nothing,
for many centuries past, had been seen in
that country.
Don Quixote perceived that he had
attracted the attention of the traveller, and,
being the pink of courtesy, and always
desirous of pleasing, he anticipated his
questions by saying, " You are probably
surprised, sigfior, at my appearance, which
is certainly uncommon in the present age ;
but this will be explained when I tell you
that I am a knight in search of adventures.
I left my country, mortgaged my estate,
quitted ease and pleasures, and threw myself
into the arms of fortune. I wished to revive
chivalry, so long deceased ; and, for some
I time past, exposed to many vicissitudes,
I stumbling in one place, and rising again
in another, I have prosecuted my design ;
succouring widows, protecting damsels,
aiding wives and orphans — all the natural
and proper duties of knights- errant. And
thus, by many valorous and christian
exploits, I have acquired the deserved
honour of being in print, throughout all,
or most of, the nations in the world. Thirty
thousand copies are already published of
my history, and, heaven permitting, thirty
thousand thousands more are likely to be
printed. Finally, to sum up all in a single
word, know that I am Don Quixote de la
Mancha, otherwise called the knight of the
sorrowful figure ! Though self-praise de-
preciates, I am compelled sometimes to
pronounce my own commendations, but it
is only when no friend is present to perform
that office for me. And now, my worthy
sur, that yon know my profession, and who
I am, you will cease to wonder at my
appearance."
After an interval of silence, the traveller
in green said, in reply, " You are indeed
right, sigñor, in conceiving me to be struck
by your appearance ; but you have rather
increased than lessened my wonder by the
account you give of yourself. How ! Is it
possible that there are knights -errant now
in the world, and that there are histories
printed of real chivalries? I had no idea
that there was any body now upon eartíi
who relieved widows, suoconred damsels,
aided wives, or protected orphans: nor
should yet have believed it had I not been
now convinced with my own eyes. Thank
heaven ! the history, you mention, of your
exalted and true achievements must surely
cast into oblivion all the fables of imaginary
knights -errant which abound so much, to
the detriment of good morals, and the pre-
judice and neglect of genuine history."
" There is much to be said," answered Don
Quixote, " upon the question of the truth or
fiction of the histories of knights - errant."
"Why, is there any one," answered he
in green, "who doubts the falsehood of
those histories?" "I doubt it," replied
Don Quixote — " but no more of that at
present; for, if we travel together mudi
farther, I hope to convince you, sir, that
you have been wrong in sufiering yourself to
be carried in the stream with those who cavil
at their truth." The traveller now first
DON QUIXOTE,
803
began to suspect the state of his companion's
intellects, and watched for a further con-
firmation of his suspicion : but, before they
entered into any other discoune, Don
Quixote said that, since he had so freely
described himself, he hoped he might be
permitted to ask who he was. To which
the traveller answered, " I, sir knight of the
sorrowful figure, am a gentleman, and native
of a village where, if it please God, we shall
dine to-day. My fortune is afiluent, and my
name is Don Diego de Miranda. I spend
my time with my wife, my children, and
my friends : my diversions are hunting and
fishing ; but I keep neither hawks nor grey-
hoands, only some decoy partridges, and a
stout ferret. I have about six dozen of books,
Spanish and Latin, some of history, and some
of devotion: those of chivalry have not
come over my threshold. I am more inclined
to the reading of pro&ne than devout
authors, provided they are well -written,
ingenious, and harmless in their tendency ;
though, in truth, there are very few books
of this kind in Spain. Sometimes I eat with
my neighbours and friends, and frequentiy
I invite them ; my table is neat and clean,
and not parsimoniously furnished. I slander
no one, nor do I listen to slander from
others. I pry not into other men's lives,
nor scrutinise their actions. I hear mass
every day ; I share my substance with the
poor, making no parade of my good works,
lest hypocrisy and vain-glory, those insidious
enemies of the human breast, should find
access to mine. It is always my endeavour
to make peace between those who are at
variance. I am devoted to our blessed Lady,
and ever trust in the infinite mercy of God
our Lord,"
Sancho was very attentive to the account
of this gentleman's life, which appeared to
him to be good and holy ; and, thinking
that one of such a character must needs
work miracles, he flung himself off his
Dapple, and, running up to him, he laid
hold of his right stirrup ; then, devoutiy,
and almost with tears, he kissed his feet
more than once. ^' What mean you by
this, brother?" said the gentieman ; *^ why
these embraces ?" " Pray let me kiss on,"
answered Sancho; ^<for your worship is
©
the first saint on horseback I ever saw in
all my life." ^< I am no saint," answered
the gentleman, <' but a great sinner : you,
my friend, must indeed be good, as your
simplicity proves." Sancho retired, and
mounted his ass again; having forced a
smile from the profound gravity of his
master, and caused fresh astonidiment in
Don Diego.
Don Quixote then asked him how many
children he had, at the same time observing
that the ancient philosophers, being without
the true knowledge of God, held supreme
happiness to consist in the gifts of nature
and fortune, in having many fiiends and
many good children. "I have one son,"
answered the gentieman; ''and, if I had
him not, perhaps I should think myself
happier: not that he is bad, but because
he is not all that I would have him. He
is eighteen years old ; six of which he has
spent at Salamanca, learning the Latin and
Greek languages, and, when I wished him
to proceed to other studies, I found him
infatuated with poetry, and could not
prevail upon him to look into the law,
which it was my desire he should study;
nor into theology, the queen of all sciences.
I was desirous that he should be an honour
to his family, since we live in an age in
which usefiil and virtuous literature is re-
warded by the sovereign, — I say virtuous,
for letters without virtue are pearls on a
dunghill. He passes whole days in ex-
amining whether Homer expressed himself
well in such a verse of the Iliad ; whether
Martial, in such an epigram, be obscene or
not ; whether such a line in Virgil should
be understood this or that way; — ^in a word,
all his conversation is with those and other
ancient poets, such as Horace, Persios,
Juvenal, and Tibullus: for the modern
Spanish authors he holds in no esteem.
At the same time, in spite of the contempt
he seems to have for Spanish poetry, his
thoughts are at tills very time entirely en-
grossed by a paraphrase on four verses, sent
him from Salamanca, and which, I believe,
is intended for a scholastic prize."
" Children, my good sir," replied Don
Quixote, '' are the flesh and blood of their
parents, and, whether good or bad, must
30i
ADVENTURES OF
©■
be loved and cherished as part of themselves.
It is the duty of parents to train them np,
from their infancy, in the paths of virtue
and good manners, and in christian disci-
pline, so that they may become the staff of
their age, and an honour to their posterity.
As to forcing them to this or that pursuit,
I do not hold it to be right, though I think
there is a propriety in advising them ; and,
when the student is so fortunate as to have
an inheritance, and therefore not compelled
to study for his subsistence, I should be for
indulging him in the pursuit of that science
to which his genius is most inclined ; and,
although that of poetry be less useful than
delightful, it does not usually reflect dis-
grace on its votaries. Poetry I regard as
a tender virgin, young, and extremely
beautiful, whom divers other virgins —
namely, all the other sciences — are assiduous
to enrich, to polish, and adorn. She is to
be served by them, and they are to be en-
nobled through her. But this same virgin
is not to be rudely handled, nor dragged
through the streets, nor exposed in the
market-place, nor posted on the corners or
gates of palaces. She is of so exquisite a
nature that he who knows how to treat
her will convert her into gold of the most
inestimable value. He who possesses her
should guard her with vigilance, neither
suffering her to be polluted by obscene, nor
degraded by dull and frivolous, works.
Although she must be in no wise venal,
she is not therefore to despise the fair reward
of honourable labours, either in heroic or
dramatic composition. Buffoons must not
come near her, neither must she be ap-
proached by the ignorant vulgar, who have
no sense of her charms; and this term is
equally applicable to all ranks : for who-
ever is ignorant is vulgar. He, therefore,
who, with the qualifications I have named,
devotes himself to poetry, will be honoured
and esteemed by all nations distinguished
for intellectual cultivation.
" With regard to your son's contempt for
Spanish poetry, I think he is therein to
blame. The great Homer, being a Greek,
did not write in Latin, nor did Virgil, who
was a Roman, write in Greek. In fact, all
the ancient poets wrote in the language of
their native country, and did not hunt after
foreign tongues to express their own sublime
conceptions. This custom, therefore, should
prevail among aU nations : the German poet
should not be undervalued for writmg in
his own tongue; nor the Castilian — nor
even the Biscainer — for writing the language
of that province. But your son, I should
imagine, does not dislike the Spanish poetry,
but poets who are unacquainted with other
languages, and deficient in that knowledge
which might enrich,, embellish, and in-
vigorate their native powers: although,
indeed, it is generally said that the gift of
poesy is innate — that is, a poet is born a
poet, and thus endowed by heaven, ap-
parently without study or art, composes
things which verify the saying, ^ Est deus
in nobis,' &:c. Thus the poet of nature who
improves himself by art rises fSur above him
who is merely the creature of study: art
may improve, but cannot surpass, nature ;
and therefore it is the union of both which
produces the perfect poet. Suffer, then,
your son to proceed in the career which the
star of his genius points out ; for, being so
good a scholar, and having already happily
mounted the first step of the sciences— that
of the learned languages — be may, by their
aid, attain the summit of literary eminence,
which is no less an honour and an ornament
to a gentleman than a mitre to the eccle-
siastic, or the long robe to the lawyer. If
your son write personal satires, chide him,
and tear his performances ; but if he writes
like Horace, reprehending vice in general,
commend him : for it is laudable in a poet
to employ his pen in a virtuous cause. Let
him direct the shafts of satire against vice,
in all its various forms, but not level them
at individuals, like some who, rather than
not indulge their mischievous wit, D^'iU
hazard a disgraceful banishment to the Isles
of Pontus.* If the poet be correct in his
morals, his verse will partake of the same
purity : the pen is the tongue of the mind,
and what his conceptions are, such will be
his productions. The wise and virtuous
subject who is gifted with poetic genius,
is ever honoured, and enriched by his
• AllDding to Ovid.
DON QUIXOTE.
d05
sovereign, and crowned with the leaves of
taat tree which the thunderbolt hurts not,
as a token that all should respect those
nrows which are so honourably adorned/'
Here Don Quixote paused, having by his
rational discourse made his companion waver
in the opinion he had formed of his insanity.
Sancho^ in the mean time, not finding the
conversation to his taste, had gone a short
distance out of the road to beg a little milk
of some shepherds whom he saw milking
their ewes ; and just as the traveller, highly
satisfied with Don Quixote's ingenuity and
good sense, was about to resume the con-
versation, Don Quixote perceived a cart
with royal banners, advancing on the same
road, and^ believing it to be something that
fell under his jurisdiction, he called aloud to
Saucho to bring him his helmet. Sancho
immediately leñ the shepherds, and pricking
lip Dapple, hastened to his master, wlio was
about to be engaged in a most terrific and
stupendous adventure.
CHAPTER XVIL
WHEREIN IS SET FORTH THE EXTREME
AND HIGHEST POINT AT WHICH THE
UNHEARD-OF COURAGE OF DON
QUIXOTE EVER DID, OR EVER COULD,
ARRIVE ; WITH THE SUCCESSFUL
ISSUE OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE
LIONS.
The history relates that, when Don Quixote
called out to Sancho to bring him his helmet,
he waa buying some curds of the shepherds ;
and, being summoned in such haste to liis
master, he knew not what to do with them,
nor how to carry them ; so that, to prevent
their being wasted, he poured them into the
helmet; and, satisfied with this excellent
device, he hurried away to receive the com-
mands of his lord. '^ Sancho," said tlie
knight, "give me my helmet; for either I
know little of adventures, or that which I
descry yonder is one that will oblige me to
have recourse to arms." He of the green
riding-coaty hearing this, looked on all sides
^ and could see nothing but a cart coming
towards them^ with two or three small fiags,
by which he thought it probable that it was
conveying some of the king's money. He
mentioned his conjecture to Don Quixote ;
but he heeded him not — his imagination was
too much possessed by adventures, and his
only reply was, " Fore- warned, fore-armed ;
to be prepared is half the victory. I know,
by experience, that I have enemies both
visible and invisible^ and I know not when,
nor from what quarter, nor at what time,
nor in what shape, they may attack me."
He then took his helmet from Sancho, before
he had discharged the curds, and, without
observing its contents, clapped it hastily upon
his head. The curds being squeezed and
pressed, the whey began to run down the
face and beard of the knight, to his great con-
sternation. "What can this mean, Sancho?"
said he, ^'methinks my skull is softening,
or my brains melting, or I sweat from head
to foot ! If so, it is certainly not through
fear, though I verily believe that this will
prove a terrible adventure. Give me some-
thing to wipe myself, Sancho ; for this co-
pious sweat blinds me." Sancho said nothing
but gave him a cloth ; at the same time,
thanking God that his master had not
found out the truth. Don Quixote wiped
himself, and took off his helmet to see what
it was so cool to his head ; and, observing
some white lumps in it, he put them to his
nose, and smelling them, " By the lady of
my soul," he exclaimed, " these are curds,
which thou hast put here, thou base unman-
nerly squire !" Sancho replied with much
coolness and cunning, "If they are curds,
sir, give them to me and I will eat them —
no, now I think of it, the devil may eat
them for me, for he only could have put
them tliere. What! I offer to foul your
worahip's helmet ! Egad, it seems as if I had
my enchanters too, who persecute me, as a
creature and member of your worship, and
have put that filthiness there to provoke your
wrath against me. But truly this time they
have missed their aim ; for I trust to my
master's good judgment, who will consider
that I have neither curds, nor cream, nor
any thing like it ; and that if I had,
I should sooner have put them into my
stomach than into your worship's helmet."
806
ADVENTURES OF
**Well," said Don Qaixote, "there may
be something in that.'' The gentleman, who
had been obeerving all that had passed,
was astonished ; and still more so at what
followed; for Don Quixote, after having
wiped his head, face, beard, and helmet,
again pat it on, and fixing himself firm
in his stirrups, adjusting his sword, and
grasping his lance, he exclaimed, " Now,
come what may, I am prepared to encounter
Satan himself!"
They were soon overtaken by the cart
with flags, which was attended only by the
driver, who rode upon one of the mules, and
a man sitting upon the fore-part of it. Don
Quixote planted himself just before them,
and said, "Whither go ye, brethren ? What
carriage is this ? What does it contain, and
what are those banners?" "The cart is
mine/' answered the carter, "and in it are
two fierce lions, which the general of Oran
is sending to court asa present to his majesty ;
the flags belong to our liege the king, to
shew that what is in the cart belongs to
him." "And are the lions large?" demanded
Don Quixote. " Larger never came from
Africa to Spain," said the man on the front
of the cart ; " I am their keeper, and in ray
time have had charge of many lions, but
never of any so large as these. They are a
male and a female ; the male is in the first
cage, and the female is in that behind. Not
having eaten to-day, they are now hungry ;
and therefore, sir, stand aside, for we must
make haste to the place where they are to
be fed." " What," said Don Quixote, with
a scornful smile, " Lion whelps against me !
Against me, your puny monsters ! and at
this time of day ! By yon blessed sun !
those who sent them hither shall see whe-
ther I am a man to be scared by lions.
Alight, honest fiiend ; and, since you are
their keeper, open the cages and turn out
your savages of the desert : for in the midst
of this field will I make them know who
Don Quixote de la Mancha is, in spite of
the enchanters that sent them hither to me."
" So, so," quoth the gentleman to himself,
" our good knight has now given us a speci-
men of what he is; doubtless the curds have
softened his skull, and made his brains mel-
low." Sancho now coming up to him, "for
God's sake, sir," cried he," hinder my master
from meddling with these lions ; for if he
does, they will tear us all to pieces. "What
then, is your master so mad," answered the
gentleman, " that you really fear he will
attack such fierce animals?" "He is not
mad," answered Sancho, "but daring."
" I will make him desist," replied the gentle-
man ; and, going up to Don Quixote, who
was importuning the keeper to open the
cages, " Sir," said he, " knights -errant
should engage in adventures that, at least,
aflbrd some prospect of success, and not such
as are altogether desperate ; for the valour
which borders on temerity has in it more
of madness than courage. Besides, sir-
knight, these lions do not come to assail
you : they are going to be presented to his
majesty ; and it is therefore improper to de-
tain them or retard their journey." " Sweet
sir," answered Don Quixote, "go hence,
and mind your decoy partridge, and your
stout ferret, and leave every one to his func-
tions. This is mine, and I shall see whether
these gentlemen lions will come against me
or not." Then, turning to the keeper, he
said, " I vow to God, Don rascal, if thou
dost not instantly open the cages, with thi»
lance I will pin thee to the cart." The
carter seeing that the armed phantom was
resolute, " Good sir," said he, " for cha-
rity's sake, be pleased to let me take off my
mules and get with them out of danger, before
the lions are let loose : for should my cattle
be killed, I am undone for ever, as I have no
other means of living than by this cart and
these mules." " Incredulous wretch !" cried
Don Quixote, " unyoke, and do as thou
wilt; but thou shalt soon see that thy
trouble might have been spared."
The carter alighted and unyoked in great
haste. The keeper then said aloud, " Bear
witness, all here present, that against my
will, and by compulsion, I open the cages
and let the lions loose. I protest against
what this gentleman is doing, and declare
all the mischief done by these beasts shall
be placed to his account, with my salary and
perquisites over and above. Pray, gentle-
men, take care of yourselves before I open
the door : for, as to myself, I am sore they
will do me no hurt." Again the gentleman
DON QUIXOTE.
307
pressed Bon Quixote to desist from so road
an action ; declaring to bim that be wad
thereby provokbg God's wrath. Don
Quixote replied that be knew what be was
doing. The gentleman rejoined and en-
treated him to consider well of it, for be was
certainly deceived. "Nay, sir," replied
Don Quixote, "if you will not be a spec-
tator of what you think will prove a tragedy,
spur your flea-bitten, and save yourself,"
Sancho too besought him, with tears in his
eyes, to desist from an enterprise compared
with which that of the wind -mills, the
dreadful one of the fulling-mills, and in
short, all the exploits he bad performed in
the whole course of bis life^ were mere tarts
and cheese-cakes. "Consider, sir, added
Sancho, " here is no enchantment^ nor any
thing like it ; for I saw, through the grates
and chinks of the cage, the paw of a true
lion ; and I guess, by the size of its claw,
that it is bigger than a mountain." " Thy
fears," answered Don Quixote, " would
make it appear to thee larger than half the
the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me ;
and if I perish here, thou knowest our old
agreement : repair to Dulcinea — I say no
more." To these be added other expressions,
which shewed the firmness of bis purpose,
and that all argument would be fruitless.
The gentleman would fain have compelled
bim to desist, but thought himself unequally
matched in weapons and armour, and that
it would not be prudent to engage with a
madman, whose violence and menaces against
the keeper were now redoubled -, the gentle-
man therefore spurred bis mare, Sancho his
Dapple, and the carter his mules, and all
endeavoured to get as far off as possible from
the carty before the lions were let loose.
Sancho bewailed the death of bis master :
verily believing it would now overtake bim
between the paws of the lions ; be cursed
his hard fortune, and the unlucky hour when
he again entered into his service. But, not-
withstanding his te^rs and lamentations, he
kept urging on his Dapple to get far enough
from the cart. The keeper seeing that the
fugitives were at a good distance, repeated
his arguments and entreaties, but to no pur-
pose : Don Quixote answered that be beard
him, and desired he would trouble himself no
more, but immediately obey his commands,
and open the door.
Whilst the keeper was unbarring the first
grate, Don Quixote deliberated within him-
self, whether it would be best to engage
on horse-back or not ; and finally deter-
mined it should be on foot, as Hozinante
might be terrified at the sight of the lions.
He therefore leaped from bis horse, flung
aside his lance, braced on bis shield, and
drew bis sword; then, slowly advancing,
with marvellous intrepidity and an un-
daunted heart, be planted himself before the
lions' cage, devoutly commending himself,
first to God, and then to his mistress
Dulcinea.
Here the author of this faithful history
breaks out in the following exclamation :
" O most magnanimous, potent and beyond
all expression, courageous, Don Quixote de
la Mancha ! Thou mirror of heroes, and
grand exemplar of valour ! Thou new and
second Don Manuel de Leon — the glory and
pride of Spanish knights ! In what words
shall I describe this tremendous exploit —
how render it credible to succeeding ages?
What praise or panegyric can be imagined,
though above all hyperboles hyperbolical,
that does not belong to thee ? — Thou, who
alone, firm, fearless, and intrepid, armed
with a single sword, and that none of the
sharpest ; defended with a single shield, and
that neither broad nor bright, stood'st ex-
pecting and braving two of the fiercest
lions that ever roared in Lybian desert ! —
But let thine own unrivalled deeds speak
thy praise — valorous Manchegan ! for I have
no words equal to the lofty theme." Here
the author ends bis exclamation, and
resumes the thread of the history.
The keeper, seeing Don Quixote fixed in
bis posture, and that he could not avoid let-
ting loose the lion, without incurring the
resentment of the angry and daring knight,
set wide open the door of the first cage,
where the monster laid, which appeared to
be of an extraordinary size, and of a hideous
and frightful aspect. The first thing tlie
creature did was to turn himself round in
the cage, reach out a paw, and stretch him-
self at full length. Then he opened his mouth
and yawned very leisurely ; after which be
^
308
ADVENTURES OF
^2)
I
threw out some half yard of toogae, where-
with he licked and washed his ftuse. This done,
he thrust his head out of the cage, and stared
round on all sides with eyes of red-hot coals:
a sight to have struck temerity itself with
terror! Don Quixote observed him with
fixed attention, impatient for him to leap
out of his den, that he might grapple with
him and tear him in pieces ; to such a height
of extravagance was he transported by his
unheard-of frenzy ! —But the generous lion,
more gentle than arrogant, taking no notice
of his vapouring and bravadoes, aft^r having
stared about him, turned himself round,
and, shewing his posteriors to Don Quixote,
calmly and quietly laid himself down again
in the cage. Upon which Don Quixote
ordered the keeper to give him some blows,
and provoke him to come forth. ^' That I
vriW not do," answered the keeper ; " for,
should I provoke him, I shall be the first
whom he will tear to pieces. Be satisfied,
sJgñor cavalier, with what is done, which is
every thing in point of courage, and do not
tempt fortune a second time. The lion has
the door open to him and the liberty to come
forth ; and since he has not yet done so, he
will not come out to-day. The greatness of
your worship's courage is already sufficiently
shewn : no brave combatant, as I take it, is
bound to do more than to challenge his foe,
and wait his coming in the field ; and if the
antagonist does not meet him, the disgrace
falls on him, while the challenger is entitled
to the crown of victory." " That is true,"
answered Don Quixote; "shut the door,
friend, and give me a certificate, in the best
form you can, of what you have here seen
me perform. It should be known that you
opened the door to tlie lion ; that I waited
for him ; that he came not out ; again I
waited for him ; again he came not out ;
and again he laid himself down. I am bound
to no more — enchantments, avaunt! So
Heaven prosper right and justice, and true
chivalry! Shut the door, as I told thee,
while I make a signal to the fugitive and
absent, that from your own mouth they may
have an account of this exploit."
The keeper closed the door, and Don
Quixote, having fixed the linen cloth with
which he had wiped the curda from his face
^z
upon the point of his lance, began to hail
the troop in the distance, who, with tbe
gentleman in green at their head, were still
retiring, but looking round at every step,
when, suddenly, Sancho observed the signal
of the white cloth. ** May I be hanged,"
cried he, ** if my master has not vanquished
the wild beasts, for he is calling to us y
They all stopped, and saw that it was Don
Quixote that made the sign ; and, their
fear in some degree abating, they ventured
to return slowly, till they could distinctly
hear the words of Don Quixote, who con-
tinued calling to them. When they bad
reached the cart again, Don Quixote said
to the driver, " Now, friend, put on your
mules again, and in God's name proceed ;
and, Sancho, give two crowns to him and
the keeper, to make them amends for this
delay." " That I will with all my heart,"
answered Sancho, — "but what is become
of the lions? Are they dead or alive?"
The keeper then very minutely, and with
due pauses, gave an account of the conflict,
enlarging, to the best of his skill, on the
valour of Don Quixote, at sight of whom
the daunted lion would not, orduist not,
stir out of the cage, though he had held
open the door a good while ; and, upon his
representing to the knight that it was
tempting God to provoke the lion, and to
force him out, he had at length, very reluc-
tantly, permitted him to close it again.
" What say'st thou to this, Sancho ?" said
Don Quixote; " can any enchantment
prevail against true courage ? Enchanters
may, indeed, deprive me of good fortune :
but of courage and resolution they never
can." Sancho gave the gold crowns ; the
carter yoked his mules ; the keeper thanked
Don Quixote for his present, and promised
to relate this valorous exploit to the king
himself, when he arrived at court. "If,
perchance, his majesty," said Don Quixote,
" should enquire who performed it, tell
him the knight of the lions: for hence-
forward I resolve that the title I have
hitherto borne, of the knight of the sorrow-
ful figure, shall be thus changed, converted,
and altered ; and herein I follow the ancient
practice of knights - errant, who changed
their natales at pleasure,"
©
DON QUIXOTE.
309
The cart now went forward, and Don
Qobcote, Sancho, and Don Diego de Mi-
randa (which was the name of the traveller
in green) pursued theirs. This gentleman
had not spoken a word for some time, his
attention having been totally engrossed by
the singular conduct and language of Don
Quixote, whom he accounted a sensible
madman, or one whose madness was mingled
with good sense. He had never seen the
first pert of our knight's history, or he
would have felt less astonishment at what
he had witnessed ; but now he knew not
what to think, seeing him, in his conver-
sation, so intelligent and sensible, and in
his actions so foolish, wild, and extravagant.
"What," thought he, "could be more
absurd than to put a helmet full of curds
upon his head, and then believe that en-
chanters had softened his skull 7 Or what
could equal his extravagance in seeking a
contest with lions V*
Don Quixote interrupted these reflections
by saying, " Doubtless, signer, you set me
down as extravagant and mad ; and no
wonder if such should be your thoughts,
for my actions indicate no less. Never-
theless, I would have you know that I am
not quite so irrational as I possibly may
appear to you. It is a gallant sight to see
a cavalier, in shining armour, prancing over
the lists, at some gay tournament, in sight
of the ladies ; it is a gallant sight when, in
the middle of a spacious square, a brave
cavalier, before the eyes of his prince, trans-
fixes, with his lance, a furious bull ; and a
gallant show do all those knights make
who, in military or other exercises, enter-
tain, enliven, and do honour to their prince's
court : but far above all these is the knight-
errant who, through deserts and solitudes,
through cross -ways, through woods, and
over mountains, goes in quest of perilous
adventures, which be undertakes and ac-
complishes, only to obtain a glorious and
immortal fame. — It is a nobler sight, I say,
to behold a knight - errant in the act of
succouring a widow in some desert, than a
courtier - knight complimenting a damsel
in the city. All knights have their peculiar
functions. Let the courtier serve the ladies,
ndom his prince's court with rich liveries.
entertain the poorer cavaliers at his splendid
table, order justs, manage tournaments, and
shew himself great, liberal, and magnificent,
above all, a good christian, and thus will
he fulfil his duties; but let the knight-
errant search the remotest comers of the
world, enter the most intricate labyrinths,
assail, at every step, impossibilities, brave,
in wild uncultivated deserts, the burning
rays of the summer's sun and the keen in-
clemency of the winter's wind and frost ; let
not lions daunt him, nor spectres afiright, nor
dragons terrify, him : for to seek, to attack,
to conquer them all is his particular duty.
Therefore, sir, as it has fallen to my lot to
be one of the number of knights-errant, I
cannot decline undertaking whatever seems
to me to come within my department:
which was obviously the case in regard to
the lions, although, at the same time, I
knew it to be the excess of temerity. Well
I know that fortitude is a virtue placed
between the two extremes of cowardice and
rashness : but it is better the valiant should
rise to the extreme of temerity than sink to
that of cowardice : for, as it is easier for the
prodigal, than the miser, to become liberal ;
so it is much easier for the rash, than the
cowardly, to become truly brave. In enter-
prises of every kind believe me, signer Don
Diego, it is better to lose the game by a
card too much than one too little ; for it
sounds better to be called rash and daring
than timorous and cowardly."
"All that you have said and done, signer
Don Quixote," answered Don Diego, " is
levelled by the line of right reason ; and I
think, if the laws and ordinances of knight-
errantry should be lost, they might be found
in your worship's breast, as their proper
depository and register. But, as it grows
late, let us quicken our pace, and we shall
soon reach my habitation, where you may
repose yourself after your late toil, which,
if not of the body, must have been a labour
of the mind." " I accept your kind ofier
with thanks," said the knight ; then, pro-
ceeding a little faster than before, they
reached, about two o'clock in the after-
noon, the mansion of Don Diego, whom
Don Quixote called the knight of the green
riding-coat.
(^.-
810
ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER XVIII.
OP WHAT BBFEL DON QUIXOTE IN THB
CASTLE, OR HOUSE, OF THE KNIGHT
OP THB GREEN RIDING-COAT; WITH
OTHER EXTRAORDINARY MATTERS.
Don Quixote, on approaching Don
Diego's house, observed it to be a spacioas
mansion, having, after the country fashion,
the arms of the family roughly carved in
stone over the great gates, the buttery in
the court-yard, the cellar under the porch,
and likewise several earthen wine -jars
placed around it, which, being of the ware
of Toboso, recalled to his memory bis
enchanted and metamorphosed Dulcinea ;
whereupon, sighing deeply, he broke out
into the following exclamation :
" Oh pledges, once mj comfort and relief,
Though pleaaing still, discorered now with grief!*
O ye Tobosian jars, that bring back to my
remembrance tlie sweet pledge of my most
bitter sorrow !" This was overheard by
the poetical scholar, Don Diego's son ; he
having, with his mother, come out to receive
him ; and both mother and son were not
a little astonished at the appearance of their
guest, who, alighting from Rozinante, very
courteously desired leave to kiss the lady's
hands. *^ Madam," said Don Diego, '^ this
gentleman is Don Quixote de la Mancha,
the wisest and most valiant knight -errant
in the world; receive him, I pray, with
your accustomed hospitality.'' The lady,
whose name was Donna Chrbtina, welcomed
him with much kindness and courtesy,
which Don Quixote returned in expressions
of the utmost politeness. The same kind of
compliments passed between him and the
student, with whom Don Quixote was much
pleased, judging him, by his conversation,
to be a young man of wit and good sense.
Here the original author gives a particular
account of Don Diego's house, describing
all that is usually contained in the mansion
of a wealthy country gentleman : but the
translator of the history thought fit to pass
over in silence these minute matters, as
• Verses of Garcilaso de la Vegi, in imiUtion of Virgil
(lib. iy. ▼. 651), "Dulces exuTi», dnm Fata, deosque
sinebant.*' P
inconsistent with tlie general tenour of the
work, which, while it carefully admits
whatever is essential to truth, rejects all
uninteresting and superfluous details.
Don Quixote was led into a hall, and
Sancho having unarmed him, he remained
in his wide Walloon breeches, and in a
chamois doublet, stained all over with
the rust of his armour ; his band was of
the college-cut, unstarched, and without
lace; his buskins were date -coloured, and
his shoes waxed. He girt on his trusty
sword, which was hung at a belt made of a
sea-wolf's skin, on account of a weakness
he was said to have been troubled with in
his loins; and over the whole he wore a
long cloak of good grey cloth. But, first
of all, with five or six kettles of water (for
there are doubts as to the exact number) he
washed his head and face. The water still
continued of a whey- colour — thanks to
Sancho's gluttony, and his foul curds, that
had BO defiled his master's visage. Thus
accoutred, with a graceful and gallant air
Don Quixote walked into another hall,
where the student was waiting to entertain
him till the table was prepared: for the
lady Donna Christina wished to shew her
noble guest that she knew how to regale
such visitors.
While the knight was unarming, Don
Lorenzo (for that was the name df Don
Diego's son) had taken an opportunity to
question his father concerning him. *' Pray,
sir," said he, " who is this gentleman ? for
my mother and I are completely puz2led
both by his strange figure, and the title
you give him." ** I scarcely know how to
answer you, son," replied Don Diego;
" and can only say that, from what I have
witnessed, his tongue belies his actions ; for
he converses like a man of sense, and acts
like an outrageous madman. Talk you to
him, and feel the pulse of his understanding,
and exercise all the discernment yon possess,
to ascertain the real state of his intellects ;
for my own part I suspect them to be rather
in a distracted condition."
Don Lorenzo accordingly addressed him-
self to Don Quixote ; and, among other
things, in the course of their conversation,
Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, ^'Sigñor
DON QUIXOTE.
311
Don Diego de Miranda, your father, sir,
has informed me of the rare talents you
possess, and, particularly, that you are a
great poet" " Certainly not a great poet,"
replied Lorenzo. '' It is true I am fond of
poetry, and honour the works of good poets ;
but have no claim to the title my father is
pleased to confer upon me." *^ I do not dis-
like this modesty," answered Don Quixote;
^^ for poets are usually very arrogant, each
thinking himself the greatest in the world."
** There is no rule without an exception,"
answered Don Lorenzo, ^' and surely there
may be some who do not appear too conscious
of their real merits." " Very few, I believe,"
said Don Quixote ; '* but I pray, sir, tell
mc what verses are those you have now in
hand, which, your father says, engross your
thoughts ; for, if they be some gloss or para-
phrase, I should be glad to see them, as I
know something of that kind of writing. I f
they are intended for a poetical prize, I would
advise yon to endeavour to obtain the second.
The first is always determined by favour, or
the high rank of the candidate ; but the second
is bestowed according to merit : so that the
third becomes the second, and the first no
more than the third, according to the usual
practice in our universities. The first, how-
ever, I confess, makes a figure in the list of
honours." '^ Hitherto," said Don Lorenzo
to himself, '' I have no reason to judge thee
to be mad ; — but let us proceed. I presume,
sir," said he, ''you have frequented the
schools ; — what science, pray, has been your
particular study?" "That of knight-
errantry," answered Don Quixote, "which
is equal to poetry, and even somewhat
beyond it." " I am ignorant what science
that is," replied Don Lorenzo, "never
having heard of it before." "It is a
science," replied Don Quixote, " which
comprehends all, or most of, the other
sciences ; for he who professes it must be
learned in the law, and understand dis-
tributive and commutative justice, that he
may know not only how to assign to each
man what is truly his own, but what is
proper for him to possess ; he must be con-
* A Sicilian, native of Catania, who lired in tlie latter
part of the sixteenth century. He was commonlj called
Pe»3«-€ola, or the I^sh-Nicholas, and it aaid to have
versant in divinity, in order to be able to
explain, clearly and distinctly, the christian
faith which he professes ; he must be skilled
in medicine, especially in botany, that he
may know both how to cure tlie disease
with which he may be afliicted, and collect
the various remedies which Providence has
scattered in the midst of the wilderness, nor
be compelled, on every emergency, to be
running in quest of a physician to heal him ;
he must be an astronomer, that he may, if
necessary, ascertain by the stars the exact
hour of the night, and what part or climate
of the world he is in ; he must understand
mathematics, because he will have occasion
for them ,* and, taking it for granted that
he must be adorned with all the cardinal
and theological virtues, I descend to other
more minute particulars, and say that he
must know how to swim as well as 'tis
reported of Fish Nicholas ;• he must know
how to shoe a horse, and repair his saddle
and bridle ; and, to return to higher con-
cerns, he must preserve hb faith inviolable
towards God, and also to his mistress ; he
must be chaste in his thoughts, modest in
his words, liberal in good works, valiant in
exploits, patient in toils, charitable to the
needy, and stedfastly adhering to the truth,
even at the hazard of his life. — Of all these
great and small parts, a good knight-errant
is composed. Consider, then, sigñor Don
Lorenzo, whether the student of knight-
errantry hath an easy task to accomplish,
and whether such a science may not rank
with the noblest that are taught in the
schools." "If your description be just, I
maintain that it is superior to all others,"
replied Lorenzo. " How ! — If it be just ?"
cried Don Quixote. " What I mean, sir,"
said Lorenzo, " is that I question wiiether
knights -errant do, or ever did, exist ; and
especially adorned with so many virtues."
" How many are there in the world," ex-
claimed the knight, "who entertain such
doubts! and I verily believe that, unless
heaven would vouchsafe, by some miracle,
to convince them, every exertion of mine to
that end would be fruitless t I shall not,
lived so nrach in the water, from hie infancy, that he
could cleave the waves in the midst of a storm like a
marine animal. P,
r^
312
ADVENTURES OF
therefore, waste time in useless endeavours, '
but will pray heaven to enlighten you, and
lead you to know how useful and necessary
knight-errantry was in times past, and how
beneficial it would now be were it again
restored — yes, now, in tliese sinful times,
when sloth, idleness, gluttony, and luxury
triumph." " Our guest has broke loose,"
quoth Don Lorenzo to himself; ''still it
must be acknowledged he is a most extra-
ordinary madman."
Their conversation was now interrupted,
as they were summoned to the dining-hall ;
but Don Diego took an opportunity of ask-
ing his son what opinion he had formed of
his guest. ''His madness, sir, is beyond
the reach of all the doctors in the world,"
replied Don Lorenzo, " yet it is full of lucid
intervals." They now sat down to the repast,
which was such as Don Diego had said he
usually gave to his visitors : neat, plentiful,
and savoury. Don Quixote was, moreover,
particularly pleased with the marvellous
silence that prevailed throughout the
whole house, as if it had been a convent
of Carthusians.
The cloth being taken away, grace said,
and their hands washed, Don Quixote ear-
nestly entreated Don Lorenzo to repeat the
verses which he intended for the prize. " I
will do as you desire," replied he, " that I
may not seem like those poets who, when
entreated, refuse to produce their verses ;
but, if unasked, often force them upon un-
willing hearers: mine, however, were not
written with any view to obtain a prize, but
simply as an exercise." " It is the opinion
of an ingenious friend of mine," said Don
Quixote, " that these kinds of composition
are not worth the trouble they require ; be-
cause the paraphrase can never equal the
text ', — they seldom exactly agree in sense,
and often deviate widely. He says that the
rules for this species of poetry are much too
strict : suffering no interrogations, nor such
expressions as, ' said he,' ' I shall say,' and
the like ; nor changing verbs into nouns,
nor altering the sense ; with other restric-
tions which, you well know, confine the
vnriter." <* Truly, signer Don Quixote,"
said Don Lorenzo, "I would fain catch your
worship tripping in some false Latin, but I
cannot : for you slide through my fingers
like an eel." '' I do not comprehend your
meaning," said Don Quixote. " I will
explain myself another time," replied Don
Lorenzo, "and will now recite the text,
and its comment.
THE TEXT.
Could I recti deputed joy,
Though barr'd the hope* of greater gain.
Or now the future hours employ
Tliat must succeed my present pain.
THE PARAPHRAS]
All fortune's blessings disappear.
She's fickle as the wind ;
And now I find her as severe
As once I thought her kind.
How soon the fleeting pleasures past I
How long the lingering sorrows Isst I
Uncottstant goddess, in thj haste,
Do not thy prostrate slave destroy s
I'd ne'er complain, but bless my fate,
Couid I reeal departed joy.
Of all thy gifts I beg but thU,
Glut all mankind with more.
Transport them with redoubled bliss.
But only mine restore.
With thought of pleasure once possessM,
I'm now as curst as I was bless'd :
Oh would the charming hours return.
How pleas'd I'd live, how free from pain t
I ne'er would pine, I ne'er would mourn.
Though barred the hope» <^f greater gttín*
But oh, the blessing I implore
Not fate itself can give I
Since time elaps'd exists no more.
No power can bid it live.
Our days soon vanish into nought,
And have no being but in thought.
Whate'er began must end at last.
In vain we twice would youth e^joy ;
In vain would we recal the past.
Or now the future hottra emptojf.
Deceiv'd by hope, and rack'd by fear.
No longer life can please ;
I'll then no more its torments bear.
Since death so soon can ease.
This hour I'll die — ^bnt let me pause—
A rising doubt my courage awes.
Assist, ye powers that rule my fate,
Alarm my thoughts, my rage restrain.
Convince my soul there's yet a state
That muet meceed my preaent pom,"
As soon as Don Lorenzo had recited bis
verses, Don Quixote started up, and, grasp-
ing him by the liand, exclaimed in a loud
voice, " By Heaven ! noble youth, there is
not a better poet in the universe, and yop
DON QUIXOTE.
313
deserve to wear the laurel, not of Cyprus,
nor of Gaeta, as a certain poet said, whom
God forgive, but of the universities of Athens,
did they now exist, and those of Paris, Bo>
logna^ and Salamanca ! If the judges de-
prive you of the first prize, may they be
transfixed by the arrows of Apollo, and may
the rouses never cross the threshold of their
doors ! Be pleased, sir, to repeat some
other of your more lofty verses : for I would
fain have a further taste of your admirable
genius/' How diverting that the young
poet should be gratified by the praises of
one whom he believed to be a madman !
O flattery, how potent is thy sway ! How
wide are the bounds of thy pleasing jurisdic-
tion ! This was verified in Don Lorenzo,
who, yielding to the request of Don Quixote,
repeated the following sonnet on the story
of Pyramus and Thisbe :
SONNET,
The nTmph who Pyramus with lore iaspired
Pierces the wall, with equal passion flr*d :
Cupid from distant Cjprus, thither flies,
And views the secret breach with laughing eyes.
Here silence, Tocal, mutual vows conveTs,
And, whisp'ring eloquent, their love betrays :
Though chain'd hj fe«r, their voices dare not pass
Their souls, transmitted through the chink, embrace.
Ah woful story of disastrous love !
Ill-fated haste that did their ruin prove !
One death, one grave, unite the faithful pair,
And in one common fame their mem'ries share.
" Now God be thanked," exclaimed Don
Quixote, " that, among the infinite number
of rhymers now in being, I have at last met
with one who is truly a poet, which you,
sir, have undoubtedly proved yourself by
the composition of that sonnet."
Four days was Don Quixote nobly re-
galed in Don Diego's house ; at the end of
which he begged leave to depart, expressing
bis thanks for the generous hospitality he
had experienced : but, as mactivity and
repose, he said, were unbecoming knights-
errant, the duties of his function required
hira to proceed in quest of adventures, which
he was told might be expected in abundance
in those parts, and sufiicient to occupy him
until the time fixed for the tournament at
Saragossa, where it was his intention to be
present. Previously, however, he meant to
visit the cave of Montesinos, concerning
which so many extraordinary things were
reported, and at the same time to discover,
if possible, the true source of the seven
lakes, commonly called the lakes of Ruydera.
Don Diego and his son applauded his hon-
ourable resolution, desiring him to furnish
himself with whatever their house afibrded
for his accommodation : since his personal
merit and noble profession justly claimed
their services.
At length the day of his departure came,
— a day of joy to Don Quixote, but of sor-
row to Sancho Panza, who was too sensible
of the comforts and abundance that reigned
in Don Diego's house not to feel great un-
willingness to return to the hunger of forests
and wildernesses, and to the misery of ill-
provided wallets. However, these he filled
and stufied with what he thought most ne-
cessary ; and Don Quixote, on taking leave
of Don Lorenzo, said, '' I know not whether
I have mentioned it to you before, but if I
have, I repeat it, that whenever you may
feel disposed to shorten your way up the
rugged steep that leads to the temple of
fame, you have only to turn aside from the
narrow path of poetry, and follow the still
narrower one of knight-errantrj', which may
nevertheless, raise you in a trice to impe-
rial dignity." With these expressions Don
Quixote completed, as it were, the evidence
of his madness, especially when he added,
" God knows how willingly I would take
sigñor Don Lorenzo with me to teach him
how to spare the lowly, and trample the
oppressor under foot : — virtues inseparable
from my profession ; but, since your lauda-
ble exercises, as well as your youth, render
that impossible, I shall content myself with
admonishing you, in order to become emi-
nent as a poet, to be guided by other men's
opinions rather than your own: for no
parents can see the deformity of their own
children, and still stronger is this self-de-
ccy^j^with respect to the offspring of the
mincirU The father and son again wondered
at the medley of extravagance and good
sense which they observed in Don Quixote,
and the unfortunate obstinacy witli which
he persevered in the disastrous pursuit that
seemed to occupy his whole soul. After
014
ADVENTURES OF
repeating compliments and oners of service,
and taking formal leave of the lady of the
mansion, the knight and the squire — the
one mounted upon Rozinante,- the other
upon Dapple, now quitted their friends
and departed.
CHAPTER XIX.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE
OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD,
WITH OTHER TRULY PLEASANT IN-
CIDENTS,
Don Quixote had not travelled far, when
he overtook two persons like ecclesiastics or
scholars, accompanied by two country fel-
lows, all of whom were mounted upon asses.
One of the scholars carried behind him a
small bundle of linen, and two pair of thread
stockings, wrapped up in green buckram
like a portmanteau ; the other appeared to
have nothing but a pair of new black fencing
foils, with their points guarded. The coun-
trymen carried other things which shewed
that they had been making purchases in
some large town, and were returning with
them to their own village. Both the scholars
and the countrymen were astonished, as all
others had been, on first seeing Don Quixote,
and were curious to know what man this
was, so different in appearance from other
men. Don Quixote saluted them, and hear-
ing that they were travelling the same road,
he offered to bear them company, begging
them to slacken their pace, as their asses
went faster than his horse ; and, to oblige
them, he briefly told them who he was, and
that his employment and profession was that
of a knight-errant, seeking adventures over
the world. He told them his proper name
was Don Quixote de la Mancha, and his
appellative " the knight of the lions." All
this to the countrymen was Greek or gib-
berish : but not so tlie scholars, who soon
discovered the soft part of Don Quixote's
skull ; they nevertheless viewed him with
respectful attention, and one of them said,
'^ If, sir-knight, you are not fixed to one
particular road, as those in search of adven-
tures seldom are, come with us, and you will
see one of the greatest and richest weddings
that has ever been celebrated in La Mancha^
or for many leagues round." "The nuptials
of some prince, I presume?" said Don
Quixote. " No," replied the scholar, "only
that of a farmer and a country maid ; be
the wealthiest in this part of the country,
and she the most beautiful that eyes ever
beheld. The preparations are very uncom-
mon : for the wedding is to be celebrated in
a meadow near the village where the bride
lives, who is called Quiteria the fair, and
the bridegroom Caroacho the rich ; ' she is
about the age of eighteen, and he ti^'enty-
two, both equally matched : though some
nice folks, who have all the pedigrees in the
world in their heads, pretend that the family
of Quiteria the fair has the advantage over
that of Camacho ; but that is now little
regarded, for riches are able to solder np
abundance of flaws. In short, this same
Camacho is as liberal as a prince, and in-
tending to be at some cost in this wedding,
has taken it into his head to convert a whole
meadow into a kind of arbour, shading it so
that the sun itself will find some difiiculty
to visit the green grass beneath. He will
also have morice-dances, both with swords
and bells ; for there are people in the village
who jingle and clatter them with great dex-
terity. As to the number of shoe-clappers*
invited, it is impossible to count them ; but
what will give the greatest interest to this
wedding is the efiect it is expected to have
on the slighted Basilius.
" This Basilius is a swain of the same vil-
lage as Quiteria ; his house is next to tliat
of her parents, and separated only by a wall,
whence Cupid took occasion to revive the
ancient loves of Pyramus and Thisbe : for
Basilius was in love with Quiteria from his
childhood, and she returned his affection
with a thousand modest favours, insomuch
that the loves of the two children Basilios
and Quiteria became the common talk of
the village. When they were grown up,
the father of Quiteria resolved to forbid
Basilius the usual access to his family ; and
to relieve himself of all fears on his account
he determined to marry his daughter to the
* *' Zapateadores.*' Dancen that «trike the soles ct
their shoes, with the paltns of their hand», in time aoi)
meaiiure.— J. ¿
DON QUIXOTE.
815
rich Camacho : not choosing to bestow her
on Baailins, whose endowments are less the
gifts of fortune than of nature : in truth, he
is the most active youth we know ; a great
pitcher of the bar, an excellent wrestler, a
great player at cricket, runs like a buck,
leaps like a wild goat, and phiys at ninepins
as if by witchcraft ; sings like a lark, and
touches a guitar delightfully; and, above
all, he handles a sword like the most skilful
fencer." *^ For this accomplishment alone,"
said Don Quixote, ^* the youth deserves to
marry not only the fair Quiteria, but queen
Ginebra herself, were she now alive, in spite
of sir Launcelot and all opposers." '' To
my wife with that," quoth Sancho (who
had hitherto been silent and listening), ''for
she will have every body marry their equal,
according to the proverb, ' Every sheep to
its like.' I shall take the part, too, of honest
Basilius, and would have him marry the
lady Quiteria ; and heaven send them good
luck, and a blessing" — meaning the con-
trary, " light on all that would keep true
lovera asunder." " If love only were to be
considered," said Don Quixote, ''parents
would no longer have the privilege of ju-
diciously matching their children. Were
daughters left to choose for themselves, there
are those who would prefer their father's
serving-man, or throw themselves away on
some fellow they might chance to see in the
street : mistaking, perhaps, an impostor and
swaggering poltroon for a gentleman : since
passion too easily blinds the understanding,
so indispensibly necessary in deciding on
that most important point, matrimony, which
is peculiarly exposed to the danger of a mis-
take, and therefore needs all the caution that
human prudence can supply, aided by the
particular favour of heaven. A person who
proposes to take a long journey, if he is
prudent, before he sets forward will look out
for some safe and agreeable companion ; and
should not he who undertakes a journey for
life use the same precaution, especially as
his fellow traveller is to be his companion at
bed and board, and in all other situations ?
The wife is not a commodity which, when
once bought, you can exchange or return :
the marriage bargain, once struck, is irrevo-
cable. It is a noose which, once thrown
about the neck, turns to a Gordian knot,
and cannot be unloosed till cut asunder by
the scythe of death. I could say much upon
this subject, were I not prevented by ray
curiosity to hear something more from sigñor
licentiate, concerning the history of Basi-
lius." To which the bachelor — or licentiate,
as Don Quixote called him — answered, '^ I
have nothing to add but that, from the mo-
ment Basilius heard of the intended marriage
of Quiteria to Camacho the rich, he has
never been seen to smile, nor speak cohe-
rently ; he is always pensive and sad, and
talking to himself— a certain and clear proof
that he is distracted. He eats nothing but
a little fruit ; and if he sleeps, it is in the
fields, like cattle upon the hard ground.
Sometimes he casts his eyes up to Heaven ;
and then fixes them on the ground, remain-
ing motionless like a statue. In short, he
gives such indications of a love-stricken
heart that we all expect that Quiteria's fatal
' Yes '* will be the sentence of his death.
" Heaven will order it better," said San-
cho : " for God, who gives the wound, sends
the cure. Nobody knows what is to come.
A great many hours come in between this
and to-morrow ; and in one hour, yea, in
one moment, down falls the house. I have
seen rain and sun-shine at the same moment •
a man may go to bed well at night, and not
be able to stir next morning ; and tell me
who can boast of having driven a nail in
fortune's wheel ? Between the Yes and the
No of a woman I would not undertake to
thrust the point of a pin. Grant me only
that Quiteria loves Basilius with all her
heart, and I will promise him a bag-full of
good-fortune : for love, as I have heard say,
wears spectacles, through which copper look«
like gold, rags like rich apparel, and specks
in the eye like pearls." " A curse on thee,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, " what would'st
thou be at ? When once thy stringing of
proverbs begins, Judas alone, I wish he had
thee ! can have patience to the end. Tell
me, animal! what knowest thou of nails
and wheels, or of any thing else ?" " 0,
if I am not understood," replied Sancho,
" no wonder that what I say passes for non-
sense. But no mutter for that — I understand
myself; neither have I said many foolish
316
ADVENTURES OF
things, only your worship is such a cricket."
" Critic, — not cricket, fool ! Thou corruptor
of good language," said the knight. " Pray,
sir, do not be so sharp upon me," answered
Sancho, '' for I was not bred at court, nor
studied in Salamanca, to know whether ray
words have a letter short, or one too many.
As God shall save me, it is unreasonable to
expect that beggarly Sayagues* should talk
like Toledans — nay, even some of them are
not over nicely spoken." " You are in tlie
right, friend," quoth the licentiate, ^' for
how should tliey, who live among the tan-
yards, or stroll about the market of Zoco-
do ver, speak so well as those who are all day
walking up and down tlie cloisters of the
great church? Yet they are all Toledans.
Purity, propriety, and elegance of style,
will always be found among polite, well-
bred and sensible men, though bom in Ma-
jalahonda : — sensible, I say, because, though
habit and example do much, good sense is
the foundation of good language. I, gen-
tlemen, for my sins, have studied the canon
law in Salamanca, and pique myself a little
upon expressing myself in clear, plain, and
significant terms." " If you had not piqued
yourself still more upon managing those
foils," said the other scholar, ''you might by
this time have been at the head of your class,
whereas now you are at the tail."
"Look you, bachelor," answered the
licentiate, '' if you fancy dexterity in the
use of the sword of no moment, you are
grossly mistaken." " I do not only fancy so,"
replied Corchuelo, '' but, what is more, I ara
convinced of it, and, if you please, will con-
vince you also by experience; try your
foils against my nerves and bodily strength,
and you will soon confess that I am in the
right. Alight, and make use of your mea-
sured steps, your circles, and angles, and
science ; yet I hope to make you see the
stars at noon-day with my artless and vulgar
dexterity ; for, I trust, under God, that the
man is yet unborn who shall make me turn
my back, or be able to stand his ground
against me." " As to turning your back
or not, I say nothing," replied the adept,
** though it may happen that, in the first spot
• The people about Zunon, the poorest in Spain.—/.
you fix your foot on, your grave nsay be
opened, were it only for your contempt of
skill." "We sliall see that presently,"
answered Corchuelo ; and, hastily allgbtxog,
he snatched one of the foils, which the licen-
tiate carried upon his ass. " Hold, gentle-
men," cried Don Quixote at this moment,
" my interposition may be necessary here ;
let me be judge of the field, and see that this
long controverted question is decided fairly."
Then, dismounting from Rozinant^, and
grasping his lance, he planted himself in
the midst of the road, just as the licentiate
had placed himself in a graceful position
to receive his antagonist, who fiew at him
like a fury ; cut and thrust, back-stroke,
and fore-stroke, single and double : laying
it on thicker than hail, and with all the rage
of a provoked lion. But the licentiate not
only warded off the tempest, but checked
its fury, by making his adversary kiss the
button of his foil, though not with quite so
much devotion as if it had been a relic. In
short, the licentiate, by dint of clean thrust,
counted him all the buttons of a little cas-
sock he had on, and tore the skirts so that
they hung in rags like the tails of the poly-
pus. Twice he struck off his hat, and so
worried and wearied him that, through
spite, choler, and rage, he flung away the
foil into the air with such torce that one of
the country-fellows present, who happened
to be a notary, and went himself to fetch it,
roade oath that it was thrown near three
quarters of a league ; which testimony has
served, and still serves, to show and demon-
strate that strength is overcome by art.
Corchuelo sat down quite spent, and Sancho
going up to him said, " Take my advice,
master bachelor, and hencefbrward let your
challenges be only to wrestle or pitch the
bar; but as to fencing, meddle no more with
it : for I have heard it said of your fencers
that they can thrust you the point of a sword
through tlie eye of a needle." "I am
satisfied," answered Corchuelo, " and have
learned, by experience, a truth I could not
otherwise have believed." He then got up,
embraced the licentiate, and they were better
friends than ever. Being unwilling to wait
for the scrivener who was gone to fetch the
foil, they determined to go forward, thot
DON QUIXOTE.
317
they might reach betimes the village of Qui*
terifty whither they were all bound. On their
way, the licentiate explained to them the
merits of the fencing art, which he so well
defended by reason and by mathematical
demonstration, that all were convinced of
the usefolness of the science, and Corchuelo
was completely cured of his incredulity.
It now began to grow dark, and, as
they approached the village, there appeared
before them a new heaven, blazing with
innumerable stars. At the same time they
heard the sweet and mingled sounds of va-
rious instruments, such as flutes, tambou-
rins, psalters, cymbals, drams, and bells;
and, drawing still nearer, they perceived a
spacious arbour, formed near the entrance
into the town, hung round with lights, that
shone undisturbed by the breeze; for it
was so calm that not a leaf was seen to
move. The musicians, who are the life
and joy of such festivals, paraded in bands
up and down this delightful place, some
dancing, others singing, and others playing
upon their different instruments ; — in short
nothing was there to be seen but mirth and
pleasure. Several were employed in raising
scaffolds, from which they might commo-
diously behold the shows and entertainments
of the following day, that were to be dedi-
cated to the nuptial ceremony of the rich
Camacho, and the obsequies of poor Basilius.
Don Quixote refused to enter the town,
though pressed by the countryman and the
bachelor ; pleading, what appeared to him
a sufficient excuse, the practice of knights-
errant to sleep in fields and forests, rather
than in towns, though under gilded roo& :
he therefore turned a little out of the road,
much against Sancho's will, who had not
yet forgotten the good lodging he had met
with in the hospitable mansion of Don
Diego.
♦
CHAPTER XX.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OP THB MARRIAGE
OF CAMACHO THB RICH, AND ALSO
THB ADVBNTÜRB OF BASILIUS THB
POOR.
Scarcely had the beautiful Aurora retired,
and given bright Phcebus time, by the
warmth of his early rays, to exhale tlie
liquid pearls that hung glittering on his
golden hair, when Don Quixote, shaking
off sloth from his drowsy members, rose
up, and proceeded to call his squire Sancho
Panza ; but, finding him still snoring, he
paused and said, <^ O happy thou above all
that live on the face of the earth, who,
neither envying nor envied, can'st take thy
needful rest with tranquillity of soul ; neither
persecuted by enchanters, nor affrighted by
their machinations ! Sleep on — a hundred
times I say, sleep on ! No jealousies on
thy lady's account keep thee in perpetual
watchings, nor do anxious thoughts of debts
unpaid awake thee ; nor care how on the
morrow thou and tliy little straitened family
shall be provided for. Ambition disquiets
thee not, nor docs the vain pomp of the
world disturb thee ; for thy chief concern
is the care of thy ass ; since to me is com-
mitted the comfort and protection of thine
own person: a burthen imposed on the
master by nature and custom. The servant
sleeps, and the master lies awake, con-
sidering how he is to maintain, assist, and
do him kindness. The pain of seeing
the heavens obdurate in withholding the
moisture necessary to refresh the earth,
touches only the master, who is bound to
provide, in times of sterility and famine,
for those who served him in the season
of fertility and abundance." To all this
Sancho answered not a word, for he was
asleep ; nor would he have soon awaked
had not Don Quixote jogged him with the
butt-end of his lance. At last he awoke,
drowsy and yawning ; and, after turning
his face on all sides, he said, *^ From yonder
bower, if I mistake not, there comes a
steam and smell tliat savours more of broiled
rashers than of herbs and rushes : — by my
faith, a wedding that smells so well in the
beginning must needs be a dainty one !"
" Peace, glutton," quoth Don Quixote,
'^ and let us go and see this marriage, and
what becomes of the disdained Basilius."
" Hang him," quoth Sancho, " it matters
not what becomes of him : if he is poor he
cannot think to wed Quiteria. A pleasant
fancy, forsooth, for a fellow who has not a
groat in his pocket to look for a yoke-mate
318
ADVENTURES OF
above the clouds. Faith, sir, in my opinion
a poor man should be contented with what
he finds, and not be seekmg for truffles at the
bottom of the sea. I dare wager an arm
that Caroacho can cover Basilius with reals
fr4»m head to foot ; and if so, Quiteria would
be a pretty jade, truly, to leave the fine
clothes and jewels that Camacho can give
her for the bar -pitching and fencing of
Basilius ! The bravest pitch of the bar, or
cleverest push of the foil, will not fetch me
a pint of wine from the vintner's: such
talents and graces are not marketable wares
— let Count Dirlos have them for me ; but
should they light on a man that has where-
withal, — may my life shew as well as they
do when so coupled ! Upon a good founda-
tion a good building may be raised ; and
the best bottom and foundation in the world
is money." ** For the love of God, Sancho,"
quoth Don Quixote, <^ put an end to thy
harangue. I verily believe, wert thou
suffered to go on, thy prating would leave
thee no time either to eat or sleep." '^ Be
pleased to remember, sir," said Sancho, " the
articles of our agreement before we sallied
from home this last time ; one of which
was that you were to let me talk as much
as I pleased, so it were not anything against
my neighbour, nor against your worship's
authority ; and, to my thinking, I have
made no breach yet in the bargain." " I
do not remember any such article, Sancho,"
answered Don Quixote ; '' and, though it
were so, it is my pleasure that thou should'st
now hold thy peace, and come along ; for
already the musical instruments which we
heard last night begin again to cheer the
valleys, and, doubtiess, the espousals will
be celebrated in the cool of the morning."
Sancho obeyed his master's commands;
and, saddling and pannelUng their steeds,
they both mounted, and at a slow pace en-
tered the artificial shade. The first thing
that presented itself to Sancho's sight was
a whole bullock, spitted upon a large elm.
The fire by which it was roasted was com-
posed of a mountain of wood, and round it
were placed six huge pots — not cast in
common moulds, but each large enough to
contain a whole shamble of flesh. Entire
sheep were swallowed up in them, and
floated like so many pigeons. The hares
ready flayed, and the fowls plucked, that
hung about upon the branches, in order to
be buried in these cauldrons, were without
number. Infinite was the wild -fowl and
venison hanging about the trees to receive
the cool ur. Sancho counted above three-
score skins, each holding above twenty -four
quarts, and all, as appeared afterwards,
full of generous wines. Hillocks, too, he
saw, of the whitest bread, ranged like heaps
of wheat on the threshing-floor, and cheeses,
piled up in the manner of bricks, formed a
kind of wall. Two cauldrons of oil, larger
than dyers' vats, stood ready for frying all
sorts of batter- ware ; and, with a couple of
stout peels, they shovelled them up, when
fried, and forthwith immersed them in a
ketde of prepared honey that stood near.
The men and women cooks were above
fifty in number, all clean, all active, and
all in good humour. In the bullock's dis-
tended belly were sewed up a dozen sucking-
pigs, to make it savoury and tender. The
spices of various kind, which seemed to
have been bought, not by the pound, but
by the hundred weight, were deposited in
a great chest, and open to every hand. In
short the preparation for the wedding was
all rustic, but in sufficient abundance to
have feasted an army.
Sancho beheld all with wonder and
delight. The first that captivated and sub-
dued his inclinations were the flesh-pots,
out of which he would have been glad to
have filled a moderate pipkin; next, the
Avine- skins drew his affections ; and lastiy,
the products of the frying-pans, — if such
capacious vessels might be so called ; and,
being unable any longer to abstain, he
ventured to approach one of the busy cooks,
and, in persuasive and hungry terms, begged
leave to sop a luncheon of bread in one of
the pots. To which the cook answered,
" This, firiend, is not a day for hunger to be
abroad — thanks to rich Camacho. Alight,
and look about you for a ladle to skim out
a fowl or two, and much good may they do
you." " I see no ladle," answered Sancho.
'' Stay," quoth the cook : <* God save me,
what a helpless varlet!" So saying, he
laid hold of a kettie, and, sowsing it into
DON QUIXOTE.
310
one of the half jars, he fished out three
pullets and a couple of geese, and said to
Sancho, *^ Eat, friend, and make a breakfast
of this scum, to stay your stomach till dinner
time." " I have nothing to put it in,''
answered Sancho. ''Then take ladle and
all," quoth the cook ; '' for Camacho's
riches and joy supply every thing."
While Sancho was thus employed, Don
Quixote stood observing the entrance of a
dozen peasants at one side of the spacious
arbour, each mounted upon beautiful mares,
in rich and gay caparisons, hung round
with little bells. They were clad in holyday
apparel, and, in a regular troop, made
sundry careers about the meadow, with a
joyful Moorish cry of '' Long live Camacho
and Quiteria ! he as rich as she fair, and
she the fairest of the world !" Don Quixote
hearing this, said to himself, ''These people,
it is plain, have never seen my Dulcinea del
Toboso; otherwise they would have been
less extravagant in the praise of their Qui-
teria." Soon after there entered, on different
sides of the arbour, various sets of dancers,
among which was one consisting of four-
and - twenty sword - dancers ; handsome,
sprightly swains, all arrayed in fine white
linen, and handkerchiefs wrought with
several colours of fine silk. One of those
mounted on horseback enquired of a young
man who led the sword-dance, whether any
of his comrades were hurt. " No," replied
the youth ; " thank God as yet we are all
well ;" and instantly he twined himself in
among his companions with so many turns,
and so dexterously, that, though Don
Quixote had often seen such dances before,
none had ever pleased him so well. Another
dance, also, delighted him much, performed
by twelve damsels, young and beautiful,
all clad in green stuff of Cuenza, having
their hair partly plaited and partly flowing,
all of golden hue, rivalling the sun itself,
and covered with garlands of jessamine,
roses, and woodbine. They were led up by
a venerable old man and an ancient matron,
to whom the occasion had given more
agility than might have been expected from
their years. A Zamora bag -pipe regulated
their motions, which, being no less sprightly
and graceful than their looks were modest
and maidenly, more lovely dancers were
never seen in the world.
A pantomimic dance now succeeded, by
eight nymphs, divided into two ranks, —
Cupid leading the one, and Intebbst the
other; the former equipped with wings,
bow, quiver, and arrows; the latter gor-
geously apparelled with rich and various
coloured silks, embroidered with gold.
The nymphs in Cupid's band displayed
their names, written in large letters on
their backs. Pobtby was the first ; then
succeeded Disobbtiok, Good Linbagb,
and Valoub. The followers of Intebbst
were Libbbauty, Bounty, Wealth,
and Secubity. This band was preceded
by a wooden castle, dra^^'n by savages, clad
so naturally in ivy and green cloth, coarse
and shaggy, that Sancho v^as startled. On
the front and sides of the edifice was written,
"The Castle of Reserve." Four skilful
musicians played on the tabor and pipe;
Cupid began the dance, and, after two
movements, he raised his eyes, and, bending
his bow, pointed an arrow towards a damsel
that stood on the battlements of the castle ;
at the same time addressing to her the
following verses:
I am the god whose power extends
Thnmgh the wide ocean, earth, and skj;
To my soft swaj all nature bends.
Compelled bj beaut j to comply.
Feariess I rule, in calm and storm.
Indulge mj pleasure to the full.
Things deemed impossible perform,
Bestow, resume, ordain, annul.
Cupid, having finished his address, shot
an arrow over the castle, and retired to his
station ; upon which Interest stepped forth,
and, after two similar movements, the music
ceasing, he said, —
My power exceeds the might of lore ;
For Cupid bows to me alone.
Of all things framed by hearen above,
The most respected, sought, and known.
My name is Interest ; mme aid
But few obtain, though aU desire ;
Tet shall thy Tirtue, beauteous maid.
My constant services acquire.
Interest then withdrew, and Poetry
advanced ; and, fixing her eyes on the
damsel of the castle, she said, —
Let poetry, whose strain divine
The wond'rous power of song displays,
His heart to thee, fur njrmph, consign,
Tiansported in melodious lays:
820
ADVENTURES OF
Ir' haply thou wilt not refiiae
To grant inj supplicated boon.
Thy fame shall, wafted by the muse.
Surmount the drda of the moon.
Poetry having retired from the side of
Interest, Liberality advanced; and, after
making her movements, said, —
My name is libenlitr,
Alike beneficent and wise.
To shun mid prodig^ity,
And sordid avarice despise.
Yet, for thy favour lavish grown,
A prodigal I mean to prove —
An honourable vice, I own.
But giving is the test of love.
In tliis manner each personage of the two
parties advanced and retreated, performing
a movement and reciting verses, some ele-
gant and some ridiculous ; of which Don
Quixote, though he had a very good me-
mory, only treasured up the foregoing.
Afterwards the groups mingled together in
a lively and graceful dance ; and when
Cupid passed before the castle, he shot his
arrows aloft, but Interest flung gilded balls
against it. Aflei having danced for some
time, Interest diew out a large pnrse of
Roman cat-skin, which seemed to be full
of money, and throwing it at the castle,
it separated and fell to pieces, leaving the
damsel exposed and without defence. Where-
upon Interest with his followers casting a
large golden chain about her neck, seemed to
take her prisoner and lead her away captive,
while love and his party endeavoured to
rescue her: all their motions, during this
contest, being regulated by the musical ac-
companiments. The contending parties were
at length separated by the savages, who
with great dexterity repaired the shattered
castle, wherein the damsel was again enclosed
as before ; and thus the piece ended, to the
great satisfaction of the spectators.
Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs
who had composed and arranged the show ?
She told him that it was a clergyman of
that village, who had a notable head-piece
for such a kind of inventions. " I would
venture a wager," said Don Quixote, ** that
this bachelor, or clergyman, is more a friend
to Camacho than to Basilius, and under-
stands satire better than vespers ; for in his
dance he has ingeniously opposed the talents
of Basilius to the riches of Camacho." " I
hold with Camacho," quoth Sancho, who
stood listening, ** the king is my cock."
''It is plain," said Don Quixote, ''that
thou art an arrant bumpkin, and one of those
who always cry, * Long live the conqueror !* "
" I know not who I am one of," answered
Sancho, " but this I know, I shall never
get such elegant scum from Basilius's pots
as I have done from Camacho's." And
shewing his kettle full of geese and hens, he
laid hold of one and began to eat with not-
able good-will and appetite j "A fig for the
talents of Basilius !" said he, " for so much
thou art worth as thou hast, and so much
thou hast as thou art worth. There are bat
two lineages in the world, as my grand-
mother used to say : ' the Have's and the
Have-not's,' and she stuck to the Haves,
Now-a-days, master Don Quixote, people
are more inclined to feel the pulse of Have
than of Know. An ass with golden {uraitore
makes a better figure than a horse with a
pack - saddle : so that I tell you again, I
hold with Camacho, for the plentiful scum
of his kettles are geese and bens, hares and
coneys; whilst that of Basilius's, if he
has any, must be mere dish-water." '* Is
thy speech finished, Sancho ?" quoth Don
Quixote. "I nlust have done,'' replied
Sancho, " because I see your worship is
about to be angry at what I am saying ;
were it not for that, I have work cut oat
for three days." " Heaven grant that I may
see thee dumb before I die !" said Don
Quixote. " At the rate we go on," quoth
Sancho, " before you die, I shall be mum-
bling clay ; in which case I may not speak
a word till the end of the world, or at least
till doomsday." "Though it be so ordered/'
said Don Quixote, " thy silence, O Sancho,
will never balance thy past, present, and
future prating. Besides, according to the
course of nature, I must die before thee,
and therefore it will never be my fate to see
thy tongue at rest, not even when drinking
or sleeping." " Faith, sir," quoth Sancho,
" there is no trusting to good-man Death,
who devours lambs as well as sheep ; and I
have heard our vicar say, * he tramples just
the same upon the «high towers of kings,
and the low cottages of the poor. Vm
<^
DON QUIXOTE.
d21
Mmf ghastly gentleman is more powerful
than dainty : far from being squeamish, he
eats of every thing, and snatches at all;
stuiiing his wallets with people of all ages
and degrees. He is not a reaper that sleeps
away the raid-day heat ; for he cuts down
and mows, at all hours, the dry grass as
well as the green. Nor does he stand to
chew, but devours and swallows down all
that comes in his way : having a wolfish
appetite that is never satisfied ; and, though
he has no belly, he seems to have a per-
petual dropsy, and a raging thirst for the
lives of all that live, whom he gulps down
just as one would drink a jug of cold water.''
*' Hold, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "while
thou art well, and do not spoil thy work by
over-doing : for, in truth, what thou hast
said of death, in thy rustic phrase, might
become the mouth of a good preacher. If
thou had'st but discretion, Sancho, equal to
thy natural abilities, thou mightest take to
the pulpit, and go preaching about the
world." "A good liver is the best preacher,"
replied Sancho, " and that is all the divinity
I know." "Or need know," said Don
Quijcote ; *' but I can in no wise compre-
hend how, since the fear of God is the
beginning of wisdom, thou, who art more
afraid of a lizard than of him, shouldst know
50 much as thou dost." ** Good your wor-
ship, judge of your own chivalries, I beseech
you," answered Sancho, *' and meddle not
-with other men's fears or valours ; for I am
as pretty a fearer of God as any of my neigh-
bours ; so pray let me whip off this scum,
for all besides is idle talk, which one day or
otlier we must give an account of in the next
world." Whereupon he began a fresh assault
npoQ his kettle, with so long-winded an
appetite as to awaken that of Don Quixote,
who doubtless would have assisted him, had
he not been prevented by that which must
forthwith be related.
CHAPTER XXII.
IK WHICH IS CONTINUED THB HISTORY
OP CA macho's WBDDINQ, WITH OTHEA
BBLIQHTFUL INCIDENTS.
* To |MMs the bank of Flanden U aphnae commonly
feimt CO czpreaa the attempt or executioa of an arduous
While Don Quixote and Sancho were en-
gaged in the conversation mentioned in tlie
preceding chapter, they suddenly heard a
great outcry and noise, raised by those
mounted on the mares, shouting as they
galloped to meet the bride and bridegroom,
• who were entering the bower, saluted by a
thousand musical instruments of all kinds
and inventions, accompanied by the parish
priest and the kindred on both sides, and by
a number of the better class of people from
the neighbouring towns, all in their holy-
day apparel. When Sancho espied the bride
he said, '* In good iaith, she is not clad like
a country- girl, but like any court-lady ! By
the mass ! her breast-piece seems to me at
this distance to be of rich coral, and her
gown, instead of green stuff of Cuenza, is
po less then a thirty-piled velvet ! Besides,
the trimming, I vow, is of satin ! Do but
observe her hands — instead of rings of jet,
let me never thrive but they are of gold,
aye, and of real gold, with pearls as white
as a curd, every one of them worth an eye
of one's head. Ah whoreson jade ! and what
fine hair she has ! If it be not false, I never
saw longer nor fairer in all my life. Then
her sprightliness and mien ! why, she is a
very moving palm-tree, loaden with branches
of dates : for just so look the trinkets hang-
ing at her hair and about her neck ; by my
soul, the girl is so covered with plate that
she might pass the banks of Flanders."*
Don Quixote smiled at Sancho's homely
praises ; at the same time he thought that,
excepting the mistress of his soul, he had
never seen a more beautiful woman. The
fair Qui teria looked a little pale, occasioned,
perhaps, by a want of rest the preceding
night, which brides usually employ in pre-
paring their wedding finery.
The bridal pair proceeded towards a
theatre on one side of the arbour, decorated
with tapestry and garlands, where the
nuptial ceremony was to be performed, and
whence they were to view the dances and
shows prepared for the occasion. Imme-
diately on their arrival at that place, a
loud noise was heard at a distance, amidst
enterprise. They are dangerous sand-banks foimed b/
th« wayes «f the sea.— P.
823
ADVENTURES OF
which a voice was distinguished ci^IÜflg
aloudy " Hold a little, rash and thoughtless
people !" On turning their heads they saw
that these words were uttered hy a man
who was advancing towards them, clad in
a black doublet, welted with flaming
crimson. He was crowned with a garland
of mournful cypress, and held in his hand
a large truncheon ; and, as he drew near,
all recognised the gallant Basilius, and
waited in fearful expectation of some dis-
astrous result from this unseasonable visit
At length he came up, tired and out of
breath, and placed himself just before the
betrothed couple 3 then, pressing his stafij
which was pointed with steel, into the
ground, he fixed his eyes on Qniteria, and,
in a broken and tremulous voice, thus
addressed her : *^ Ah, false and forgetful
Quiteria, well thou knowest that, by the
laws of our holy religion, thou can'st not
marry another man whilst I am living;
neither art thou ignorant that, while waiting
till time and my own industry should im-
prove my fortune, I have never failed in the
respect due to thy honour. But thou hast
cast aside every obligation due to my lawful
love, and art going to make another man
master of what is mine : a man who is not
only enriched, but rendered eminently happy
by his wealth; and, in obedience to the
will of heaven, the only impediment to his
supreme felicity I will remove, by with-
drawing this wretched being. Long live the
rich Camachowith the ungrateful Quiteria!
Long and happily may they live, and let
poor Basilius die, who would have risen to
good fortune had not poverty clipped his
wings and laid him in an early grave!''
So saying, he plucked his stafi^ from the
ground, and, drawing out a short tuck, to
which it had served as a scabbard, he fixed
what might be called the hilt into the
ground, and, with a nimble spring and
resolute air, he threw himself on the point,
which, instantly appearing at his back, the
poor wretch lay stretched on the ground,
pierced through and through, and weltering
in his blood.
His friends, struck with horror and grief,
rushed forward to help him, and Don
Quixote, dismounting, hastened also to
lend his aid, and, taking the dying man in
his arms, found that he was still aliye.
They would have drawn out the tuck, but
the priest who was present thought that it
should not be done till he had made liis
confession; as, the moment it was taken
out of his body, he would certainly expire.
But Basilius, not having quite lost the
power of utterance, in a &int and doleful
voice, said, <' If, cruel Quiteria, in this my
last and fatal agony, thou would'st give
me thy hand, as my spouse, I should hope
my rashness might find pardon in heaveo,
since it procured me the blessing of being
thine." Upon which the priest advised
him to attend rather to the salvation of his
soul than to his bodily appetites, and seri-
ously implore pardon of God for his sinsj
especially for this last desperate action.
Basilius replied that he could not make any
confession till Quiteria had given him her
hand in marriage, as that would be a aolace
to his mind, and enable him to confess his
sins. Don Quixote, hearing the wounded
man's request, said, in a loud voice, that
Basilius had made a very just and reason-
able request, and, moreover, a very practi-
cable one ; and that it would be equally
honourable for sigñor Camacho to take
Quiteria a widow of the brave Basilius, as
if he received her at her father's hands;
nothing being required but the simple word
" Yes," which could be of no consequence,
since, in these espousals, the nuptial bed
must be the grave. Camacho heard all
this, and was perplexed and undecided
what to do or say ; but so much was be
importuned by the friends of Basilius to
permit Quiteria to give him her hand, and
thereby save his soul from perdition, that
they at length moved, nay forced, him to
say that, if it pleased Quiteria to give it
to him, he should not object, since it was
only delaying for a moment the accomplish-
ment of his wishes. They all immediately
applied to Quiteria, and, with entreaties,
tears, and persuasive arguments, pressed
and importuned her to give her hand to
Basilius; but she, harder than marble, and
more immoveable than a statue, returned
no answer, until the priest told her that she
must decide promptiy, as the soul of Basilius
<^
DON QUIXOTE.
823
was already between his teetb/and there
was no time for hesitation.
Then the beautiful Quiteria, in silence,
and to all appearance troubled and sad, ap-
proached Basilius, whose eyes were already
turned in his head, and he breathed short
and quick, muttering the name of Quiteria,
and giving tokens of dying more like a
heatlien than a christian. At last Quiteria,
kneeling down by hira, made signs to him
for his band. Basilius unclosed his eyes,
and, fijiing tíiem stedfastly upon her, said,
" O Quiteria, thou relentest at a time when
thy pity is a sword to put a final period to
this wretched life : for now I have not
strength to bear the glory thou conferrest
upon me in making me thine, nor will it
suspend the pain which shortly will veil
my eyes with the dreadful shadow of death.
What I beg of thee, O fatal star of mine !
is that thou give not thy hand out of com*
pliment, or again to deceive me, but to
declare that thou bestow'st it upon me as
thy lawful husband, without any compulsion
on tby will, -^ for it would be cruel, in this
extremity, to deal falsely or impose on him
who has been so true to thee.'' Here he
fainted, and the bystanders thought his
soni was just departing. Quiteria, all
modesty and bashfulness, taking Basilius's
right hand in hers, said, '^ No force would
be sufficient to bias my will ; and therefore,
with all the freedom I have, I give thee
my hand to be thy lawful wife, and receive
thine, if it be as freely given, and if the
anguish caused by thy rash act doth not
trouble and prevent thee." " Yes, I give
it thee," answered Basilius, '^ neither dis-
composed nor confused, but with the clearest
understanding that heaven was ever pleased
to bestow on me ; and so I give and engage
myself to be thy husband." ^'And I to
be thy wife," answered Quiteria, " whether
thou livest many years, or art carried from
my arras to the grave." " For one so much
wounded," observed Sancho, ^* this young
man talks a great deal. Advise him to
leave off his courtship, and mind the business
of his soul: though, to my thinking, he
has it more on his tongue than between
Lis teeth."
Basilius and Quiteria being thus, with
hands joined, the tender - hearted priest,
with tears in his eyes, pronounced the bene-
diction upon them, and prayed to God for
the repose of the bridegroom's soul ; who,
as soon as he had received the benediction,
suddenly started up, and nimbly drew out
the tuck which was sheathed in his body.
All the spectators were astonished, and some
more simple than the rest cried out, " A
miracle, a miracle !" But Basilius replied,
^^No miracle, no miracle, but a stratagem,
a stratagem !" The priest, astonished and
confounded, ran to feel, with both his hands,
the wound, and found that the sword had
passed, not through Basilius's flesh and
ribs, but through a hollow iron pipe, cun-
ningly fitted to the place, and filled with
blood, so prepared as not to congeal. In
short, the priest, Camacho, and the rest of
the spectators, found they were imposed
upon, and completely duped. The bride
shewed no signs of regret at tlie artifice :
on the contrary, hearing it said the marriage,
as being fraudulent, was not valid, she said
that she confirmed it anew : it was, there-
fore, generally supposed that the matter
had been concerted with the privity and
concurrence of both parties ¡ which so en-
raged Camacho and bis friends tliat they
immediately had recourse to vengeance,
and, unsheathing abundance of swonls,
they fell upon Basilius, in whose behalf as
many more were instantly drawn ; and Don
Quixote, leading the van on horseback, his
lance couched, and well covered with his
shield, made them all give way. Sancho,
who took no pleasure in such kind of frays,
retired to tlie jars out of which he had
gotten his charming skimmings ; regarding
that place as a sanctuary which none would
dare to violate.
Don Quixote cried aloud, '^ Hold, sirs,
hold t It is not right to avenge the injuries
committed against us by love. Eemcmber
that the arts of warfare and courtship are
in some points alike; in war, stratagems
are lawful, so likewise are they in the con-
flicts and rivalsbips of loye, if the means
employed be not dishonourable. Quiteria
and Basilius were destined for each othor
by the just and favouring will of heaven.
Camacho is rich, and may purchase his
©'=
324
ADVENTURES OF
pleasure when, where, and how he pleases :
Basilius has but this one ewe - lamb, and
no one, however powerful, has a right to
take it from him : for those whom God
hath joined, let no man sunder; and who-
ever shall attempt it must first pass the
point of this lance." Then he brandished
it with such vigour and dexterity that he
struck terror into all those who did not
know him.
Quiteria's disdain made such an impression
upon Camacho tliat he instantly banished
her from his heart. The persuasions, there-
fore, of the priest, who was a prudent
and well-meaning man, had their effect ;
Camacho and his party sheathed their
weapons, and remained satisfied; blaming
rather the fickleness of Quiteria than the
cunning of Basilius. With much reason,
Camacbo thought within himself that, if
Quiteria loved Basilius when a virgin, she
would love him also when married ; and
that he had more cause to thank heaven for
so fortunate an escape than to repine at
the loss he had sustained. The disappointed
bridegroom and his followers, being thus
consoled and appeased, those of Basilius
were so likewise; and the rich Camacho,
to shew that his mind was free from resent-
ment, would have the diversions and enter-
tainments go on as if he had been really
married. The happy pair, however, not
choosing to share in them, retired to their
own dwelling, accompanied by their joyful
adherents : for, if the rich man can draw
after him his attendants and flatterers, the
poor man who is virtuous and deserving, is
followed by friends who honour and support
him. Don Quixote joined the party of
Basilius, having been invited by them as a
person of worth and bravery; while Sancho,
finding it Impossible to remain and share
the relishing delights of Camacho's festival,
which continued till night, with a heavy
heart accompanied his master, leaving behind
the flesh-pots of Egypt, the skimmings of
which, though now almost consumed, still
reminded him of the glorious abundance
he had lost ; pensive and sorrowful, there-
fore, though not hungry, without alighting
from Dapple, he followed the track of
Rozinante.
CHAPTER XXII.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ORARD AD-
VENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS,
SITUATED IN THE HEART OF LA
MANCHA, WHICH THE VALOROUS DOK
QUIXOTE HAPPILY ACCOMPLISHED.
The new -married couple made much of
Don Quixote, feeling themselves obliged by
the readiness he had shewn in defending
their cause ; and^ judging of his wisdom by
his valour, they accounted him a Cid in
arms, and a Cicero in eloquence; and,
during three days, honest Sancho solaced
himself at their expense. The bridegroom
explained to them his stratagem of the
feigned wound, and told them that it was
a device of his own, and had been concerted
witli the fair Quiteria. He confessed, too,
that he had let some of his friends into
the secret, that they might support his de-
'ieption. ''That ought not to be called
deception which aims at a virtuous end,''
said Don Quixote ; " and no end is more
excellent than the marriage of true lovers;
though love^'' added he, '' has its enemies,
and none greater than hunger and poverty,
for love is all gaiety, joy, and content."
This he intended as a hint to Basilius, whom
he wished to draw from the pursuit of his
favourite exercises ; for, though they pro-
cured him fame, they were unprofitable;
and it was now his duty to exert himself
for the improvement of his clreumslaDces,
by lawful and praiseworthy means, which
are never wanting to the prudent and active.
" The poor, yet honourable, man," said he,
'' admitting that honour and poverty can
be united in a beautiful wife, possesses a
precious jewel, and whoever deprives him
of her despoils him of his honour. The
chaste and beautiful wife of an indigent
man deserves the palm and laurel crowns
of victory and triumph. Beauty of itself
attracts admiration and love, and the royal
eagles and other towering birds stoop to
the tempting lure ; but if iv is found unpro-
tected and exposed to poverty, kites and |
vultures are continually hovering round
it, and watching it as tlieir natural prey.
Well, therefore, may she be called the
crown of her husband who maintains her
DON QUIXOTE.
d25
groand in so perilous a situation. It was
the opinion of a certain sage, O discreet
Baalius, that the world contained only one
good woman, and he advised every man to
persuade himself that she was fallen to his
lot, and he would then live contented.
Although unmarried myself, I would ven-
ture to offer my counsel to one who should
require it in the choice of a wife. In the
first place I would advise him to consider
the purity of her fame more than her
fortune: a virtuous woman seeks a fair
reputation not only hy being good, but by
appearing to be so; for a woman suffers
more in the world's opinion by public inde-
corum than secret wantonness. If the
woman you bring to your house be virtuous,
it is an easy matter to keep her so, and
even to improve her good qualities; but
if she be otherwise, you will have much
trouble to correct her ; for it is not easy to
pass firom one extreme to the other : it may
not be impossible, but certainly it is very
difficult."
To all this Sancho listened, and said to
himself, ''This master of mine tells me when
I speak of things of marrow and substance,
that I might take a pulpit in my hand, and go
about the world preaching ; and well may
I say to him that, whenever he begins to
string sentences and give out his advice, he
may not only take a pulpit in his hand, but
t^vo upon each finger, and stroll abont your
market-places, crying out, 'Mouth, what
would you have?' The devil take thee for
a knight-errant that knows every thing ! I
verily thought that he only knew what be-
longed to his chivalries, but he pecks at
every thing, and thrusts his spoon into every
dish." Sancho muttered this so loud that
he was overheard by his master, who said,
" Sancho, what art thou muttering?" "No-
thing at all," answered Sancho, "I was
only saying to myself that I wished I had
heard your worship preach in this way
before I was married ; then perhaps I should
have been able to say now, ' The ox that is
loose is best licked.' " " Is thy Teresa, then,
8o bad, Sancho?" quoth Don Quixote. "She
is not very bad," answered Sancho ; "neither
18 she very good, at least not quite so good
as I would have her." " Thou art in the
wrong, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to
speak ill of thy wife, who is the mother of
tliy children." "We owe each other nothing
upon that score," answered Sancho ; " foí
she speaks as ill of me, whenever the fancy
takes her — especially when she is jealous ;
and then Satan himself cannot bear with
her."
Three days they remained with the new-
married couple, where they were served and
treated like kings; at the end of which
time, Don Quixote requested the student,
who was so dexterous a fencer, to procure
him a guide to the cave of Montesinos ; for
he had a great desire to descend into it, in
order to see, with his own eyes, if tlie won-
ders reported of it were really true. The
student told him he would introduce him to
a young Relation of his, a good scholar and
much given to reading books of chivalry,
who would very gladly accompany him to
the very mouth of the cave, and also shew
him the lakes of Ruydera, so famous in La
Mancha, and even all over Spain ; adding
that he would find him a very entertaining
companion, as he knew how to write books
and dedicate them to princes. In short, the
cousin appeared, mounted on an ass with
foal, whose pack-saddle was covered with a
doubled piece of an old carpet or sacking.
Sancho saddled Kozinante, pannelled Dap-
pie, and replenished his wallets : those of
the scholar being also well provided ; and
thus, after taking leave of their friends,
and commending themselves to God, they set
out, bending their course directly towards
the famous cave of Montesinos.
Upon the road, Don Quixote asked the
scholar what were his exercises, his profes-
sion, and his studies. He replied that his
studies and profession were literary, and
his employment, composing books for the
press, on useful and entertaining subjects.
Among others, he said he had published
one that was entitled, ^" A Treatise on
Liveries," wherein he had described seven
hundred and three liveries, with theircolours,
mottos, and cyphers ; forming a collection,
from which gentlemen, witliout the trouble
of inventing, might select, according to tiieir
fancy ; for being adapted to all occasions,
the jealous, tlie disdained, the forsaken, snd
U-
82^
ADVENTURES OF
the absent, might all there be suited. " I
have likewise/' said he, ''just produced
another book, which I intend to call, ' The
Metamorphoses ; or, Spanish Orid/ The
idea is perfectly novel ; for, in a burlesque
imitation of Ovid, I have given the origin
and history of the Giralda of Seville, the
Angel of La Magdalena, the Conduit of
Yecinguerra of Cordova, the bulls of Gui-
sando, the Sierra Morena, the fountains of
Leganitos, and the Lavapies in Madrid, not
forgetting the Piojo, the golden pipe, and
the Priory ; and all these with their several
transformations, allegories, and metaphors,
in such a manner as at once to surprise, in-
struct and entertain. Another book of mine
I call, ' A Supplement to Poly dore Virgil,'
which treats of the invention of things : a
work of vast erudition and study ; because
I have there supplied many important mat-
ters, omitted by Polydore, and explained
them in a superior style. Virgil, for instance,
forgot to tell us who was the first in the
world that caught a cold, and who was first
anointed for the French disease. These
points I settle with the utmost precision,
on the testimony of above ñye and twenty
authors, whom I have cited ; so that your
worship may judge whether I have not la-
boured well, and whether the whole world is
not likely to profit by such a performance."
Sancho, who had been attentive to the
student's discourse, said, '' Tell me, sir, —
so may God send you good luck with your
books, can you resolve me — but I know yon
can, since you know every thing, who was
the first man that scratched hb head ? I,
for my part, am of opinion, it must be our
father Adam." '' Certainly," answered the
scholar ; "for there is no doubt but Adam
had a head and hair $ and, this being granted,
he, being the first man of the world, must
needs have been the first who scratched his
head." << That is what I think," said San-
cho : '' but tell me now, who was the first
tumbler in the world ?" " Truly, brother,"
answered the scholar, '' I cannot determine
that point till I have given it some consider-
ation, which I will surely do when I return
to my books, and will satisfy you when we
see each other again : for I hope this will
not be the last time." " Look, ye, sir,"
replied Sancho, " be at no trouble about the
matter, for I have already hit upon the an-
swer to my question. Know then, that the
first tumbler was Lucifer, when he was cast
or thrown headlong from Heaven, and came
tumbling down to the lowest abyss." '^ You
arc in the right, friend," quoth the scholar.
" That question and answer are not thine,
Sancho," said Don Quixote } '' thou bast
heard them before." '' Say no more, sir/'
replied Sancho, '' for, in good faith, if we
fall to questioning and answering, we shall
not have done before to* morrow moniio|:;
besides, for foolish questions and foolish
answers, I need not be obliged to any of
my neighbours." " Sancho," qnoth Don
Quixote, '' thou hast said more than thou
art aware of; for some there are who
bestow much labour in examining and ex-
plaining things which, when known, are
not worth recollecting."
In such conversation^ they pleasantly
passed that day, and at night took up tbdr
lodging in a small village, which the scholar
told Don Quixote waa distant but two
leagues from the cave of Montesinos, and
tliat if he persevered in his rcsoluCioa to ¡
enter into it, it was necessary to be pro- j
vided with rope, by which be might let i
himself down. Don Quixote declared that,
if it reached to the abyss, he would see the ¡
bottom. They procured therefore near a
hundred fathom of cord, and about two in
the afternoon of the following day, arrived
at the mouth of the cave, which they found
to be wide and spacious, but so much over-
grown with briars, thorns, and wild fig-trees,
as to be almost concealed. On perceiving
the cave, they alighted, and the s^ar and
Sancho proceeded to bind the cord fast round
Don Quixote, and, while they were thus en:-
ployed, Sancho said, " Have a care, dear
sir, what yon are about ; do not bury your-
self alive, nor hang yourself dangling like
a flask of wine let down to cool in a well :
for it is no business of your worship's to
pry into that hole, which must needs be
worse than any dungeon." "Tie on," re-
plied Don Quixote, "and hold thy peace;
for such an enterprise as this, friend Sancho,
was reserved for me alone." The guide
then said, " I beseech your worship, sigfior
e^
--^
DON QUIXOTE.
827
Don Quixote, to be observant, and with a
hundred eyes see, explore, and examine
what is below ; perhaps many things may
there be discovered worthy of being inserted
in my book of Metamorphoses/' " The
dmni," qnoth Sancho, " is in a hand that
knows full well how to rattle it.''
The knight being well bonnd — not over
bis armour, but his doublet, he said, '^ We
have been careless in neglecting to provide
a bell, to be tied to me with this rope, by
the tinkling of which you might have
heard me still descending, and thereby
known that I was alive : but, since that is
now impossible, be the hand of God my
guide!" Kneeling down, he first suppli-
cated heaven for protection and success in
an adventure so new and seemingly so
perilous ; then, raising his voice, he said,
*^ O mistress of every act and movement of
my life, most illustrious and peerless Dul-
cinea del Toboso ! if the prayers and re-
quests of this thy adventurous lover reach
thy ears, by the power of thy unparalleled
beauty, I conjure thee to listen to them,
and grant me thy favour and protection in
this moment of fearful necessity, when I
am on the point of plunging, ingulphing,
and precipitating myself into the profound
abyss before me, solely to prove to the
world that, if thou fevourest me, there is
no impossibility I will not attempt and
overcome/' So saying, he drew near to
the cavity, and, observing that the entrance
was so choked with vegetation as to be
almost impenetrable, he drew his sword, and
began to cut and hew down the brambles
and bushes with which it was covered;
whereupon, disturbed at the noise and
rustling which he made, presently out
rushed such a flight of huge daws and
ravens, as well as bats and other night
birds, that he was thrown down, and had
he been as superstitious as he was catholic,
he would have taken it for an ill omen, and
relinquished the enterprise. Rising again
upon his legs, and seeing no more creatures
fly out, the scholar and Sancho let him
down into the fearful cavern ; and, as he
entered, Sancho gave him his blessing, and
making a thousand crosses over him, said,
''God, and the rock of France, together
with the trinity of Gaeta, speed thee, thou
flower, and cream, and skimming of
knights-errant ! There thou goest, Hector
of the world, heart of steel, and arms of
brass ! Once more, God guide thee, and
send thee back safe and sound to the light
of this world, which thou art now forsak-
ing for that horrible den of darkness !''
The scholar also added his prayers to those
of Sancho, for the knight's success and
happy return.
Don Quixote went down, still calling, as
he descended, for more rope, which they
gave him by little and little ; and when the
voice, owing to the windings of the cave,
could be heard no longer, and the hundred
fathom of cordage was all let down, they
thought that they should pull him up again,
since they could give him no more rope.
However, after waiting about half an hour,
they began to gather up the rope, whidi
they did so easily that it appeared to have
no weight attached to it, whence tliey con-
jectured that Don Quixote remained in the
cave ; and Sancho, in this belief, wept
bitterly, and pulled up the rope in great
haste, to know the truth ; but, having
drawn it to a little above eight fathoms,
they had the satisfaction again to feel the
weight. In short, after raising it up to
about the tenth fathom, they could see the
knight very distinctly ; upon which Sancho
immediately called to him, saying, " Wel-
come back again to us, dear sir, for we be-
gan to fear you meant to stay below to
breed.'' But Don Quixote answered not a
word ; and being now drawn entirely out,
they perceived that his eyes were shut, as
if he were asleep. They then laid him
along on the ground, and unbound him ;
but as he still did not awake, they turned,
pulled, and shook him so much that at last
he came to himself, stretching and yawning,
just as if he had awaked out of a deep and
heavy sleep ; and, looking wildly about him,
he said, " God forgive ye, my friends, for
having brought me away from the most
delicious and charming state that ever
mortal enjoyed ! — In truth, I am now
thoroughly satisfied that all the pleasures
of tliis life pass away like a shadow or a
dream, or fade like the flower of the field.
328
ADVENTURES OF
O unhappy Montesinos! O desperately
woanded Durandarte ! O unhappy Be-
lerma! O weeping Guadiana! And ye
unfortunate daughters of Ruydera, whose
waters shew what floods of tears have
streamed from your fair eyes !" The scholar
and Sancho listened to Don Quixote's words,
which he uttered as if drawn with exces-
sive pain from his entrails. They intreated
him to explain, and to tell them what he
had seen in tliat hell below. " Hell, do
you call it ?" said Don Quixote, *^ call it
so no more, for it deserves not that name,
as you shall presently hear. He then told
them that he wanted food extremely, and
desired they would give him something to
cat. The scholar's carpet was accordingly
spread upon the grass^ and they immedi-
ately applied to the pantry of his wallets,
and being all three seated in loving and
social fellowsliip, they made their dinner
and supper at one meal. When all were
satisfied, and the carpet removed, Don
Quixote de la Mancha said, "Remain
wiiere you are, my sons, and listen to me
with attention."
CHAPTER XXIII,
OF THR WONDERFUL THINGS WHICH
THB ACCOMPLISHED DOW QUIXOTE
DE LA MANCHA DECLARED HE HAD
SEEN IN THE CAVE OP MONTESINOS,
FROM THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE
OF WHICH THIS ADVENTURE IS HELD
TO BE APOCRYPHAL.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon,
when the sun being covered by clouds, its
temperate rays gave Don Quixote an op-
portunity, without heat or fatigue, of re-
lating to his two illustrious hearers what
he had seen in the cave of Montesinos;
and he began in the following manner :
*' About twelve or fourteen fathom deep,
¡u this dungeon, there is on the right hand
a hollow space, wide enough to contain a
large wagon, togetlier with its mules, and
faintly lighted by some distant apertures
above. This cavity I happened to see, as
I journeyed on through tlie dark, without
knowing whither I was going ; and, as I
was just then beginning to be weary of
hanging by the rope, I determined to enter
it, in order to rest a little. I called out to
you aloud, and desired you not to let down
more rope till I bid you ; but it seems you
heard me not. I then collected the cord
you had let down, and coiling it up into
a heap, or bundle, I sat down upon it, full
of thought, meditating how I might descend
to the bottom, having nothing to support
my weight. In this situation, pensive and
embarrassed, a deep sleep suddenly came
over me, from which, I know not how, I
as suddenly awoke, and found that I had
been transported into a verdant lawn, the
most delightful that nature could create,
or the liveliest iancy imagine. I rubbed
my eyes, wiped them, and perceived that I
was not asleep, but really awake. Never-
theless I felt my head and breast, to be
assured that it was I myself, and not so*ne
empty and counterfeit illusion ; but sen-
sation, feeling, and the coherent discourse
I held with myself, convinced me that I
was the identical person which I am at
this moment. I soon discovered a royal
and splendid palace or castle, whereof the
walls and battlements seemed to be com-
posed of bright and transparent crystal;
and, as I gazed upon it, the great gates of
the portal opened, and a venerable old man
issued forth and advanced towards me. He
was clad in a long mourning cloak of
purple bays, which trailed upon the ground ;
over his shoulders and breast he wore a
kind of collegiate tippet of green satin ; he
had a black Milan cap on his head, and his
hoary beard reached below his girdle. He
carried no weapons, but held a rosary of
beads in his hand, as large as walnuts, and
every tenth bead the size of an ordinary
ostrich egg. His mien, his gait, his gra-
vity, and his goodly presence, each singly
and conjointly, filled me with surprise and
admiration. On coming up, he embraced
me, and said, ' The day is at length arrived,
most renowned and valiant Don Quixote
de la Mancha, that we who are enclosed in
this enchanted solitude have long hoi>eá
would bring thee hither, that thou ^lav'^l
proclaim to the world the things, proiii^i-
ous and incredible, that lie concealed in
:^jf iT^crr
:^.
^'M-
DON QUIXOTE.
899
thia subterranean place, commonly called
the cave of Montesinos — an exploit re-
serred for your invincible heart and stu-
pendous courage ! Come with me, illustri-
oas sir, that I may shew you the wonders
contained in this transparent castle, of
which I am warder and perpetual guard :
for I am Montesinos himself, from whom
this cave derives its name/ He had no
sooner told me that he was Montesinos than
I asked him whether it was true what was
reported in the world above, that with a
little dagger he had taken out the heart of
his great friend Durandarte, and conveyed it
to the lady Belerma, agreeable to his dying
request. He replied that the whole was
true, ezo^pting as to the dagger ; for, it was
not a small dagger, but a bright poniard,
sharper than an awl.''
*' That poniard," internipted Sancho,
^* must have been made by Raymond de
Hozes of Seville." " I know not who was
the maker," said Don Quixote, ^'but on
reflection, it could not have been Raymond
de Hozes, who lived but the other day,
whereas the battle of Roncesvalles, where
this misfortune happened, was fought some
ages ago. But that question is of no impor-
tance, and does not affect the truth and
connection of the storj^." " True," an-
swered the scholar ; '< pray go on, sigñor
Don Quixote, for I listen to your account
with the greatest pleasure imaginable.''
'* And I relate it with no less," answered
Don Quixote, "and so to proceed — the
venerable Montesinos conducted me to the
crystalline palace, where, in a lower hall,
formed of alabaster and extremely cool,
there stood a marble tomb of exquisite work-
manship, whereon I saw extended a knight,
not of brass, or marble, or jasper, as is usual
with other monuments, but of pure flesh and
bones. His right hand, which seemed to
roe somewhat hairy and nervous (a token
of great strength), was laid on the region
of his heart ; and before I could ask any
question. Montesinos, perceiving my atten-
tion fixed on the sepulchre, said, ^ This is
my friend Durandarte, the flower and model
of all the enamoured and valiant knights-
errant of his time. He is kept here enchanted
as well as myself and many others of both
sexes, by that French enchanter Mfrim,
said to be the devil's son, which, however,
I do not credit : though indeed I believe he
knows one point more than the devil him-
self. How, or why, we are thus enchanted
no one can tell ; but time will explain it,
and that, too, I imagine, at no distant pe-
riod. What astonishes me is that I am
certain, as it is now day, that Durandarte
expired in my arms, and that, afUr he was
dead, with these hands I pulled out his heart,
which could not have weighed less than two
pounds: confirming the opinion of natu-
ralists, that a man's valour is in proportion
to the size of his heart. Yet, certain as it is
that this cavalier is really dead, how comes
it to pass that, ever and anon, he sighs and
moans as if he were alive V~— Scarcely were
these words uttered, than the wretched Du-
randarte, crying out aloud, said, ' O my
cousin Montesinos ! at the moment my soul
was departing, my last request of you was
that, after ripping my heart out of my
breast with either a poinard or dagger, you
should carry it to Belerma.' The vene-
rable Montesinos, hearing this, threw him-
self on his knees before the complaining
knight, and with tears in his eyes said to
him, ^Long, long since, O Durandarte,
dearest cousin ! long since did I fulfil what
you enjoined on that sad day when you
expired. I took out your heart with all
imaginable care, not leaving the smallest
particle of it within your breast ; I then
wiped it with a lace - handkerchief, and set
off full speed with it for France, having first
laid your dear remains in the earth, shed-
ding as many tears as sufficed to wash
my hands, and clean away the blood with
which they were smeared by raking into
your entrails ; and furthermore, dear cousin
of my soul, at the first place I stopped,
after leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled a
little salt over your heart, and thereby kept
it, if not fresh, at least from stinking, until
it was presented to the lady Belerma ; who,
together with yon and myself, and your
squire Guadiana, and the duenna Ruydera
with her seven daughters, and two nieocs,
as well as several others of your friends and
acquaintance, have been long confined here
enchanted by the sage Merlin ; and though
380
ADVENTURES OP
it is now above five hundred years since, we
are still alive. It is true, Ruydera and her
daughters and nieces have left us, having so
far moved the compassion of Merlin, by their
incessant weeping, that he turned them into
as many lakes, which at this time, in the
world of the living, and in the province of
La Mancha, are called the lakes of Ruydera.
The seven sisters belong to the kings of
Spain, and the two nieces to the most holy
order of Saint John. Guadiana also, your
squire, bewailing your misfortune, was in
like manner changed into a river, still re-
taining his name ; but when he reached the
surface of the earth and saw the sun of ano-
ther sky, he was so grieved at the thought
of forsaking you tliat he plunged again into
the boweb of the earth ; nevertheless, he
was compelled by the laws of nature to rise
again, and occasionally show himself to the
eyes of men and the light of Heaven. The
lakes which I have mentioned supply him
with their waters, and with them, joined by
several others, he makes his majestic en-
trance into the kingdom of Portugal. Yet,
wherever he flows, his grief and melancholy
still continue, breeding only coarse and un-
savoury fish, very difiecent from those of the
golden Tagus. All this, O my dearest con-
sin ! I have often told you before, and since
you make me no answer, I fancy you either
do not believe, or do not hear me, which.
Heaven knows, afflicts me very much. But
now I have other tidings to communicate,
which if they do not alleviate, will in no
wise increase, your sorrow. Open your eyes
and behold here, in your presence, that great
knight, of whom the sage Merlin has foretold
so many wonders — ^^that same Don Quixote
de la Mancha, I say, who has revived with
new splendour the long neglected order of
knight-errantry, and by whose prowess and
favour, it may, perhaps, be our good fortune
to be released from the spells by which we
are here held in confinement : for great ex-
ploits are reserved for great men.' 'And
though it should not be so,' answered the
wretched Dnrandarte in a faint and low
voice — * though it should prove otherwise, O
cousin ! I can only say — patience and shuffle
the cards.' Then turning himself on one
aide, he relapsed into his accustomed silence.
'< At that moment, hearing loud cries and
lamentations, with other sounds of dit^tre»,
I turned my head, and saw, through the
crystal walls of the palace, a procession in
two lines of beautiful damsels^ all attired in
mourning, and with white turbans in the
Turkish fashion. These were Ibllowed by
a lady — for so she seemed by the gravity of
her air, clad also in black, with a white veil,
so long that it reached the ground. Her
turban was twice the size of the largest of
the others ; she was beetle-browed, her nose
somewhat flattish, her month wide, but her
lips red ; her teeth, which she sometimes dis-
played, were thin set and uneven, thoagh
as white as blanched almonds. She carried
in her hand a fine linen handkerchief in
which I could discern a human heart,
withered and dry, like that of a mummy.
Montesinos told me that the damsels Tvbom
I saw were the attendants of Durandarte
and Belerma— all enchanted like their mas*
ter and mistress — and that the female who
closed the procession was the lady Belenna
herself, who, four days in the week, walked
in that manner with her damsels, singing,
or rather weeping, dirges over the body and
piteous heart of his cousin ; and that, if she
appeared to me less beautiful than hme re-
ported, it was occasioned by the bad nights
and worse days she passed in that state of
enchantment: as might be seen by her sal-
low complexion, and the deep furrows in
her face. Nor is the hoUowness of her eyes
and pallid skin to be attributed to any dis-
orders incident to women, since with these,
she has not for months and years been visited,
but merely to that deep affliction which in-
cessantly preys on her heart for the nntimfily
death of her lover, still renewed and kept
alive by what she continually carries in her
hands : indeed, had it not been for this, the
great Dulcinea del Toboso herself, so mnch
celebrated here and over the whole world,
would scarcely have equaUed her in beanty
of person or sweetness of manner.' * Softly/
said I, ^ good signer Montesinos ; compari-
sons you know are odious, and tíierefore let
them be spared, I beseech you. The peer-
less Dulcinea is what she is, and tlie lady
Donna Belerma is what she is, and what she
has been, and there let it rest.' ' Pardon
DON QUIXOTE.
331
me, Rgfior Don Quixote/ said Montesi-
nos, ' I might have guessed that your
wonhip was the lady Dalcinea's knight,
and ought to have bit my tongue off rather
than it should have compared her to any
thing less than Heaven itself.' This satis-
faction being given me by the gteat Mon-
tesinosy my heart recovered from the shock
it had sustained on hearing my mistress
compared with Belerma." "I wonder,"
quoth Sancho, " that your worship did not
give the old fellow a hearty kicking, and
pluck his beard for him, till you had not
left a single hair on his chin/' '< No, friend
Sancho," answered Don Quixote, *< it did
not become me to do so ; for, we are all
bound to respect the aged, although not of
the order of knighthood ; still more those
who are so, and wno besides arc enchanted ;
but trust me, Sancho, in other discourse
which we held together, I fairly matched
him."
Here the scholar said, '^I cannot imagine,
signer Don Quixote, how it was possible,
having been so short a space of time below,
that your worship should have seen so many
things, and have heard and said so much."
'' How long, then, may it be since I de-
scended?" quoth Don Quixote. *^ A little
above an hour," answered Sancho. *^ That
cannot be," replied Don Quixote, ''for
night came on, and was followed by morning
three times successively ; so that I must have
sojourned three days in these remote and
bidden parts." '' My master," said Sancho,
" must needs be in the right ; for, as every
thing has. happened to him in the way of
enchantment, what seems to us but an hour
may there seem full three days and three
nights." '' Doubtless it must be so," an-
swered Don Quixote. *' I hope," said the
scholar, ''your worship was not without
food all this time ?" " Not one mouthful
did I taste," answered the knight, "nor
was I sensible of hunger." " What, then,
do not the enchanted eat ?" said the scholar.
" No," answered Don Quixote, " nor are
they troubled with voiding the greater ex-
crements; although some think that their
nails and beards still continue to grow."
" And pray, sir," said Sancho, •* do they
never sleep ?" '* Certainly never," said
Don Quixote ; — "at least, during the three
days that I have been amongst them nofr
one of them has closed an eye, nor have I
slept myself." " Here," said Sancho, " the
proverb hits right : ' tell me thy company,
and I will tell thee what thou art.' If your
worship keeps company with those who
ikst and watch, no wonder that you neither
eat nor sleep yourself. But pardon me,
good master of mine, if I tell your worship
that, of all you have been saying, God — I
was going to say the devil — take me if
I believe one word." " How !" said the
scholar, "do you think that sigfior Don
Quixote would lie 7 — But were he so
disposed, he has not had time to invent and
ihbricate such a tale." "I do not think
my master lies," answered Sancho. " What,
then, dost thou think ?" said Don Quixote.
"I think," answered Sancho, "that the
necromancers, or that same Merlin who
enchanted all those whom your worship
says you saw and talked with there below,
have crammed into your head all the stuff
you have told us, and all that you have
yet to say."
" All that is possible," said Don Quixote,
"only that it happens not to be so: for
what I have related I saw with my own
eyes and touched with my own hands. But
what wilt thou say when t tell thee that,
among an infinite number of wonderful
and surprising things shewn to me by
Montesinos, whereof I will give an account
hereafter (for this is not the time or place
to speak of them), he pointed out to me
three country wenches, dancing and caper-
ing like kids about those charming fields,
and no sooner did I behold them than I
recognized, in one of the three, the peerless
Dulcinea herself, and, in the other two, the
very same wenches who attended her, and
vnth whom we held some parley on the
road from Toboso 1 Upon my asking Mon-
tesinos whether he knew them, he said they
were strangers to him, though he believed
them to be some ladies of quality lately
enchanted ; having made their appearance
there but a few days before. Nor should
that excite my wonder, he said, for many
distinguished ladies, both of the past and
preisent times, were enchanted there under
^-=r-
332
ADVENTURES OF
yarioas forms ; among whom he had dis-
covered queen Ginebra, ana her duenna
Quintannona, cup-bearer to Lancelot when
he came from Britain.'' When Sancho
heard his master say all this, he was ready
to run distracted, or to die with laughter ;
for, knowing that he was himself Dulcinea's
enchanter, he now made no doubt but that
his master had lost his senses, and was
raving mad. '^ In an evil hour and a woeful
day, dear master of mine,'' said he, " did
you go down to the other world ; and in a
luckless moment did you meet with sigñor
Montesinos, who has sent you back to us
in this plight. Your worship ]eíí us in your
right senses, such as God had given you,
speaking sentences, and giving advice at
every turn ; — but now — Lord bless us, how
you talk !" " As I know thee, Sancho,"
answered Don Quixote, ** I heed not thy
words." " Nor I your worship's," replied
Sancho : ** you may kill or strike me, if
you please, for all those I have said or shall
say, without you correct and mend your
own. But tell me, sir, now we are at
peace, how, or by what token, did you
know the lady our mistress ; and, if you
spoke to her, what said you, and what did
she answer?" "I knew her," answered
Don Quixote, '^because her apparel was
the same that she wore when you shewed
her to me. I spoke to her, but she answered
me not a word ; on the contrary, she turned
her back upon me, and fled with the speed
of an arrow* I would have followed her,
but Montesinos dissuaded me from the
attempt, as I should certainly lose my
labour ; and, besides, the hour approached
when I must quit the cave and return to
the upper world ; he assured me, however,
that in due time I should be informed of the
means of disenchanting himself, Belerma,
Durandarte, and all the rest who were there.
While we were thus talking, a circumstance
occurred that gave me much concern. Sud-
denly one of the two companions of the
unfortunate Dulcinea came up to my side,
all in tears, and, in a low and troubled
voice, said to me, * My lady Dulcinea del
Toboso kisses your worship's hands, and
* A rich German fomilj of the name of Fugger, enno-
bled by Charlea V. Wonderful atoriea arc told of their
desires to know how you do ; and, being
at this time a little straitened for money,
she earnestly entreats your worship would
be pleased to lend her, upon this new cotton
petticoat that I have brought here, six
reals, or what you can spare, which she
promises to return very shortly.' This
message astonished me, and, turning to
Montesinos, I said to him, * Is it possible,
sigñor Montesinos, that persons of quality
under enchantment are exposed to neces-
sity V To which he answered, * Believe,
sigñor Don Quixote de la Mancha, tliat
what is called necessity prevails every
where, and extends to all, not sparing even
those who are enchanted : and, since the
lady Dulcinea sends to request a loan of
six reals, and the pledge seems to be unex-
ceptionable, give them to her, for without
doubt she is in great need.' ^ I will take
no pawn,' answered I ; * nor can I send her
what she desires, for I have but four reals
in my pocket. I therefore send her those
four reals, being the same thou gav'st me
the other day, Sancho, to bestow in alms
on the poor we should meet with upon the
road ; and I said to the damsel, ^ Tell your
lady, friend, tliat I am grieved to the soul
at her distresses, and wish I were rich as a
Fucar,* to remedy them. But pray let her be
toid that I neither can, nor will, have health
while deprived of her amiable presence and
discreet conversation ; and that I earnestly
beseech that she will vouchsafe to let her-
self be seen and convened with by this her
captive and way-worn knight; tell her,
also, that, when she least expects it, she
will hear that I have made a vow like that
made by the marquis of Mantua, when he
found his nephew Yaldovinos ready to expire
on the mountain ; which was, not to eat
bread upon a table-cloth, and other matters
of tlie same kind, till he had revenged his
death. In like manner will I take no rest,
but traverse the seven parts of the universe
with more diligence than did the infant
Don Pedro of Portugal, until her disen-
chantment be accomplished.' * AH this, and
more, your worship owes my lady,' answered
the damsel ; and, taking the four reals, in-
richca : the greatest part of the money expended in that
prince's wars having passed through their hands.— J.
^-
=<pft
DON QUIXOTE.
3S3
stead of making me a cartsey, she cut a
caper full two yards high in the air, and
fled."
** Now heaven defend us!" cried Sancho ;
^* is it possible tliere should be any thing
like this in the world, and that enchanters
and enchantments should so bewitch and
change my master's good understanding!
— O sir! sir! for God's sake, look to
yourself, — take care of your good name,
and give no credit to these vanities which
have robbed you of your senses." " Thou
lovest me, Sancho, I know," said Don
Quixote, ''and therefore I am induced U>
pardon thy prattle. To thy inexperienced
mind whatever is uncommon appears impos-
sible ; but, as I have said before, a time may
come when I will tell thee of some things
which I have seen below, whereof the truth
cannot be doubted, and that will make thee
give credit to what I have already related."
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN WHICH ARE RECOUNTED A THOUSAND
TRIFLING MATTERS, EQUALLY IMPER-
TINENT AND NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT
UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GRAND HIS-
Toav.
The translator of this great work from the
original of its first author, Cid Hamete
Benengeli, says that, when he came to tlie
chapter that records the adventure of the
cave of Montesinos, he found on the margin
these words in Hamete's own hand- writing :
'' I cannot persuade myself that the whole
of what is related in this chapter, as having
happened to Don Quixote in the cave of
Montesinos, is really true : because the ad-
ventures in which he has hitherto been en-
gaged are all natural and probable, whereas
this of the cave is neither one nor the other,
but exceeds all reasonable bounds, and there-
fore cannot be credited. On the other hand,
if we recollect the honour and scrupulous
veracity of the noble Don Quixote, it seems
utterly impossible that he should be capable
of telling a lie : sooner, indeed, would he
nbmit to be transfixed with arrows than be
guilty of a deviation from truth. Besides,
if we consider the minute and circumstantial
details that he entered into, it seems a still
greater impossibility that he could, in so
short a time, have invented such a mass of
extravagance. Should this adventure, how-
ever, be considered as apocryphal, let it be
remembered that the fault is not mine. I
write it without affirming either its truth
or falsehood ; therefore, discerning and ju-
dicious Reader, judge for thyself, as I neither
can nor ought to do more — unless it be just
to apprise thee that Don Quixote, on his
death -bed, is said to have acknowledged
that this adventure was all a fiction, in-
vented only because it accorded and squared
with the tales he had been accustomed to read
in his favourite books." — But to proceed
with our history.
The scholar was astonished no less at
the boldness of Sancho Panza than at the
patience of his master, but attributed his
present mildness to the satisfaction he had
just received in beholding his mistress Dul-
cinea del Toboso, though enchanted; for,
had it not been so, he conceived that
Sancho's freedom of speech would have had
what it richly deserved — a manual chas-
tisement. In truth he thought him much too
presuming with the knight, to whom, now
addressing himself, he said, ** For my own
part, signer Don Quixote, I account myself
most fortunate in having undertaken this
journey, as I have thereby made four im-
portant acquisitions. The first is the honour
of your worship's acquaintance, which I
esteem a great happiness ; the second is a
knowledge of the secrets enclosed in this
wonderful cave, the metamorphoses of Gua-
diana, and the lakes of Ruydera, which will
be of notable use in my Spanish Ovid now
in hand. My third advantage is the dis-
covery of the antiquity of cards, which, it
now appears, were in use at least in the
days of the emperor Charlemagne, as may
be gathered from the words that tell from
Durandarte, when, after that long speech
of Montesinos, he awaked, and said,
* Patience, and shuffle the cards/ Now,
as he could not have learnt this phrase
during his enchantment, he must have
learnt it in France, in the days of Charle-
magne ; and this discovery also comes in
opportunely for my ^ Supplement to Poly-
=©
334
ADVENTURES OF
dore Virgil on Antiquities;' for I believe
that, in bis treatise, be bas wbolly neglected
the subject of cards — a defect tbat ^ill now
be supplied by me, wbicb will be of great
importance, especially as I sball be able to
quote an authority so grave and authentic
as that of signer Durandarte. And finally
it has, in the fourth place, been my good
fortune thus to come at the knowledge of
the true source of the river Guadiana, which
has hitherto remained unknown."
'' There is much reason in what you say,''
quoth the knight ; ^* but if, by God's will,
you should obtain a license for printing
your books, which I much doubt, to whom
would you inscribe them 7" '^ O sir," said
the scholar, *' we have lords and grandees
in abundance, and are therefore in no want
of patrons." '^ Not so many as you may
imagine," said Don Quixote; ''for all those
who are worthy of such a token of respect
are not equally disposed to make that
generous return which seems due to the
labour, as well as the politeness, of the
author. It is my happiness to know of
one exalted personage* who makes ample
amends for what is wanting in the rest, and
with so liberal a measure that, if I might
presume to make it known, I should infal-
libly stir up envy in many a noble breast.
But let this rest till a more convenient
season ; for it is now time to consider where
we shall lodge to-night." " Not far hence,"
said the scholar, " is a hermitage, the
dwelling of a recluse, who, tliey say, was
once a soldier, and is now accounted a pious
christian, wise and charitable. Near his
hermitage he has built, at his own cost,
a small house, which, however, is large
enough to accommodate the strangers who
visit him." " Does that same hermit keep
poultry 7" said Sancho. '' Few hermits are
without them," answered Don Quixote;
'' for such holy men now are not like the
hermits of old in the deserts of Egypt, who
were clad with leaves of the palm-tree, and
fed on roots of the earth. By commending
these, however, I do not mean to reflect
upon the hermits of our own times; I would
only infer that the penances of these days
do not equal the austerities and strictness of
former times; but this is no reason why
they may not be good ; — at least I account
them so ; and, at the worst, he who only
wears the garb of piety does less harm than
the audacious and open sinner."
While they were thus discoursing they
perceived a man coming towards them,
walking very fast, and switching on a mule
laden with lances and halberds. When he
came up to them he saluted them, and
passed on. '' Hold, honest friend," said Don
Quixote to him ; '' methinks yon go faster
than is convenient for that mule." '' I
cannot stay," answered the man ; '' as the
weapons which I am carrying are to be made
use of to-morrow ; I have no time to lose,
and so adieu. But, if you would know for
what use they are intended, I shall lodge
to-night at the inn beyond the hermitage,
and, should you be travelling on the same
road, you will find me there, where I will
tell you wonders ; and, once more, God be
with you." He tlien pricked on his mule
at such a rate that Don Quixote had no
time to enquire after the wonders which
he had to tell ; but, as he was not a little
curious, and eager for any thing new, he
determined inimediateJy to hasten forwards
to the inn, and pass the night there, without
touching at the hermitage. They accord-
ingly mounted, and took tlie direct road to
the inn, at which they arrived a little before
night- fall. The scholar proposed calling
at the hermitage just to allay their thirst ;
upon which Sancho Panza instantly steered
Dapple in that direction, and Don Quixote
and the scholar followed his example ; but,
as Sancho's ilUluck would have it, the
hospitable sage was not at home, as they
were told by the under -hermit, of whom
they requested some wine. He told them
that his master had no wine, but, if they
would like water, he would give them some
with great pleasure. " If I had wanted
water," quoth Sancho, " there are welb in
abundance on the road— O the wedding of
Camacho, and the plenty of Don Diego's
house ! When shall I meet with your like
again!"
* The Count d« Lemo*, Don Pedro Fenandei de Caetco. /.
(p;=
DON QUIXOTE.
Quitting the hermitage they sparred on
towards the inn, and soon overtook a ]ad
who was walking leisurely before them.
He carried a sword upon his shoulder and
upon it a roll or bundle that seemed to con-
tain his apparel, such as breeches, a cloak,
and a shirt or two ; for he had on an old
velvet jerkin, with some tatters of a satin
lining, below which his shirt-tail hung out
at large, his stockings were silk, and his
shoes square-toed, after the court fashion.
He seemed to be aboat eighteen or nineteen
years of age, his countenance was lively,
and his body active. He went on gaily
singing, to cheer him on his way ; and just
as they overtook him, they heard the fol-
lowing lines, which the scholar failed not
to commit to memory ;
" For trant of the pence to the wan I mutt go :
Ah ! had I but monej, it would not be so."
'* You travel very airily, sir," said Don
Quixote to him, " pray, may I ask whither
you are bound ?" " Heat and poverty,"
replied the youth, ^' make me travel in this
way ; and my intention, sir, is to join the
army." *' From heat it may well be ; but
why poverty ?" said Don Quixote. " Sir,"
replied the youth, '< I carry in this bundle
a pair of velvet trowsers fellows to my
jacket ; if I wear them out upon the road,
they will do me no credit in the city, and
I have no money to buy others ; for this
reason, sir, as well as for coolness, I go thus
till I overtake some companies of infantry,
which are not twelve leagues hence, where
I mean to enlist myself, and then shall be
sure to meet with some baggage •« waggon
to convey me to the place of embarkation,
which, they say, is Carthagena : for I had
rather serve the king in his wars abroad
than be the lacquey of any beggarly courtier
at home." " And pray, sir, have you no
appointi]).ent ?" said the scholar. '* Had I
served some grandee or other person of dis-
tinction," answered the youth, " possibly I
might have been so rewarded : for, in the
service of such masters, it is no uncommon
thing to rise into ensigns or captains, from
the servan ts'-hall; but it was always ray
scurvy fate to be dangling upon foreigners
or fellows without a home> who allow so
pitiful a salary that half of it goes in starch-
ing a ruff; and it would be a miracle indeed
for a poor page to meet with preferment In
SDch situations." '* But tell me, friend,"
quoth Don Quixote, *^ is it possible that,
during all the time you have been in service,
you could not procure yourself a livery ?"
<< I have had two," answered the page \
'^ but, as he who quits a monastery before he
confesses is stripped of his habit and his old
clothes are returned to him, just so did my
masters treat me, for when the business for
which they came to court was done, they
harried back into the country taking away I
the liveries which they had only given to
make a flourish in the town."
^^ A notable Espiiorcheria,* as the Italians
say," quoth Don Quixote ; " however, con-
sider yourself as fortunate in having quitted
your former life, with so laudable an inten-
tion ; for there is notliing more honourable,
next to the service which you owe to God,
than to serve your king and natural lord,
especially in the profession of arms, which,
if less profitable than learning, far exceeds
it in glory. More great families, it is true,
have been established by learning, yet there
is in the martial character a certain splen-
dour which seems to exalt it far above all
other pursuits. But allow me, sir, to offer
you a piece of advice, which, believe me, you
will find worth your attention. Never su^
fer your mind to dwell on the adverse events
of your life ; for the worst that can befal
you is death, and when attended with honour
there is no event so glorious. Julius Caesar,
that valorous Roman, being asked which
was the kind of death to be preferred, 'That,'
said he, ' which is sudden and unforeseen.'
Though he answered like a heathen, who
knew not the true God, yet, considering hu-
man infirmity, it was well said. For, sup-
posing you should be cut off in the very first
encounter either by cannon-shot or tlie
springing of a mine, what does it signify ?
it is but dying, which is inevitable, and,
being over, there it ends. Terence observes
that the corpse of the man who is slain in
battle looks better than the living soldier
who has saved himself by flight ; and the
• A mean and sordid action.
C^-=
=®
ADVENTURES OF
{tood soldier rises in estimation, according to
tne measure of his obedience to those who
command him. Observe, moreover, my
son, that a soldier had better smell of gun-
powder than of musk ; and if old age over-
takes you in this noble profession, though
lame and maimed, and covered with wounds,
it will find you also covered with honour ;
and of such honour as poverty itself can-
not deprive you» From poverty, indeed,
you are secure ; for care is now taken that
veteran and disabled soldiers shall not be
exposed to want, nor be treated, as many
do their negro slaves, when old and past
service, turning them out of their houses,
and, under pretence of giving them freedom,
leave them slaves to hunger, from which
they can have no relief but in death. I will
not say more to you at present ; — but, get
up behind me and go with us to the inn,
where yon shall sup with me, and to-morrow
morning pursue your journey ; and may
Heaven prosper and reward your good in-
tentions/' The page declined Don Quixote's
offer of riding behind him, but readily ac-
cepted his invitation to suppen Sancho
now muttered to himself, '' The Lord bless
theo for a master ¡" said he, *' who would
believe that one who can say so many good
things should tell us such nonsense and rid-
dles about that cave ! Well, we shall see
what will come of it."
They reached the inn just at the close of
day, and Sancho was pleased that his master
<Ud not, as usual, mistake it for a castle.
Don Quixote immediately enquired for the
roan with the lances and halberds, and was
told by the landlord that he was in the
stable attending his mule. There also the
scholar and Sancho disposed of their beasts,
failing not to honour Rozinante with the
best manger and best stall in the stable.
CHAPTEll XXV.
«7HBRBIN 18 BEGUN THE BRAYINO AD-
VBNTÜEB, AND THE DIVERTING ONE
OP THE PUPPBT-SHOW, WITH THE
MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS ¿P THE
WONDERFUL APE.
Don Quixote being all impatience to hear
the wonders which had been pronusea bjoi
by the arms -carrier, immediately went ni
search of him, and having found him in tti«
stable he begged him to relate, without
delay, what he had promised on the road.
"My wonders," said the man, ** must be
told more at leisure, and not on the wing.
Wait, good sir, till I have done with my
mule, and then I will tell yoa things that
will amaze you." " It shall not be delayed
on that account," answered Don Quixote ;
*' for I will help you." And so in truth he
did, winnowing the barley, and cleaning
the manger ; which condescension induced
the man the more willingly to tell his tale.
Seating himself therefore on a stone*bench,
at the outside of the door, and having Don
Quixote (who sat next to him), and the
scholar, the page, Sancho Panza, and the
inn-keeper, for his senate and auditors, he |
began in the following manner :
" You must know, gentlemen, that in a
town four leagues and a half from this pkco,
a certain alderman happened to lose bis ass,
all through the artful contrivance (too long
to be told) of a wench, his maid - servant ;
and though he tried every means to recover
his beast it was to no purpose. Fifteen days '
passed, as public fame reports, after the ass
was missing, while the unlucky alderman
was standing in the market-place, another ^
alderman of the same town came up to him
and said, — * Pay me for my good news,
gossip, for your ass has made its appear-
ance.' * Most willingly, neighbour,' answerd
the other ; ' but tell roe — where has he been
seen?' 'On the mountain,' answered the
other ; * I saw him there this morning, with
no pannel or furniture upon him of any kind,
and so lank that it was grievous to behold
him. I would have driven him before me
and brought him to you ; but he is already
become so shy that when I went near him
he took to his heels and fled to ft distance
from me. Now, if you like it, we will both
go seek him, — but first let me put np this
ass of mine at home, and I will return in-
stantly.' ' You will do me a great fevour,'
said the owner of the lost ass, ' and I shall
be happy at any time to do as much foryou,^
" With all these particulars and in these
very words is the story told by all who are
(p;-
DON QUIXOTE.
837
thoroughly acquainted with the truth of the
affair. In short, the two aldermen, hand in
hand and side by side, trudged together up
the hill, and on coming to the place where
they expected to find the ass, they found
him not, nor was he any where to be seen,
though they made diligent search. Being
thas disappointed, the alderman who had
seen him said to the other, *• Hark you, friend,
I have thought of a stratagem by which we
shall certainly discover this animal, even
though he had crept into the bowels of the
earth, instead of the mountain ; and it is
this : I can bray marveUously well, and if you
can do a little in that way the business is
done.' *A little, say you, neighbour?'
quoth the other, ' before God, in braying, I
yield to none — no, not to asses themselves.'
' We shall soon see that,' answered the
second alderman ; ^ go you on one side of
the mountain, while I take the other, and
let us walk round it, and every now and
then you shall bray, and I will bray ; and
the ass will certainly hear and answer us, if
he still remains in these parts.' ^Verily,
neighbour,' your device is excellent, and
worthy your good parts,' said the owner of
the ass. They then separated, according to
agreement, and both began braying at the
same instant, with such marvellous truth of
imitation that, mutually deceived, each ran
towasds the other, not doubting but that the
ass was found ; and, on meeting, the loser
said, ' Is it possible, friend, that it was not
my ass that brayed ?' ^ No, it was I,' an-
swered the other. ' I declare, then,' said
the owner, ' that, as far as regards braying,
there is not the least difference between you
and an ass ; for in my life I never heard
any thing more natural.' * These praises
and compliments,' answered the author of
the stratagem, ' belong rather to yon than
to me, friend ; for, by Him that made me,
yon could give the odds of two brays to
the greatest and most skilful brayer in the
world ; for your tones are rich, your time
oorrect, your notes well sustained, and ca-
dences abrupt and beautiful, — in short, I
own myself vanquished, and yield te you the
palm in this rare talent.' ' Truly,' answered
toe ass-owner, ' I shall value and esteem
myself the more henceforth, since I am not
without some endowment. It is true, I
ñtncied that I brayed indifferentiy well, yet
never flattered myself that I excelled so
much as you are pleased to say.' ^ I tell
you,' answered the second, ' there are rare
abilities often lost to the world, and they
are ill - bestowed on those who know not
how to employ them to advantage.' ^ Right,
brother,' quoth the owner, * though, except
in cases like the present, ours may not turn
to much account, and even in this business,
God grant it may prove of service.'
"This said, they separated again to resume
their braying ; and each time were deceived
as before, and met again, till they at length
agreed, as a signal to distinguish their own
voices from that of the ass, that they should
bray twice together, one immediately after
the other. Thus, doubling their brayings,
they made the tour of the whole mountain ^
witiiout having any answer frt>m the stray
ass, not even by signs. How, indeed, could
the poor creature answer, whom at last they
found in a thicket, half devoured by wolves?
On seeing the body, the owner said, 'Truly,
I wondered at his silence ; for, had he not
been dead, he certainly would have answered
us, or he were no true ass ; nevertheless,
neighbour, though I have found him dead
my trouble in the search has been well re-
paid in listening to your exqubite braying.'
' It is in good hands, friend,' answered the
other; 'for, if the abbot sings well, the
novice comes not far behind him.'
"Hereupon they returned home hoarse
and disconsolate, and told their friends and
neighbours all that happened to them in
their search after the ass ; each of them ex-
tolling the other for his excellence in braying.
The story spread all over the adjacent vil-
lages, and the devil, who sleeps not, as he
loves to sow discord wherever he can, raising
a bustle in the wind, and mischief out of
nothing, so ordered it that all the neighbour-
ing villagers, at the sight of any of our
town's-people, would immediately begin to
bray, as it were, hitting us in the teeth with
the notable talent of our alderman. The
boys fell to it, which was the same as fUling
into the hands and mouths of a legion of
devils; and thus braying spread hi and
wide, insomuch that the natives of the town
330
ADVENTURES OF
of Bray are as well known and distinguished
as the negroes from white men. And this
unhappy jest has been carried so far that
our people have often sallied out in arms
against their scoffers, and given them battle :
neither king or rook, or fear or shame, being
able to restrain them. To-morrow, I believe,
or next day, those of our town will take the
ñeld against the people of another village,
about two leagues from us, being one of those
which persecute us most; and I have brought
the lances and halberds which you saw, that
we may be well prepared for them. Now
these are the wonders I promised you ; and
if yon do not think tliem such, I have no
better for you." And here the honest man
ended his story.
At this juncture a man entered the inn,
dad from head to foot in chamois-skin, hose,
doublet and breeches, and calling with a
loud voice, '^ Master host, have you any
lodging? for here come the divining ape
and the puppet-show of ' Melisendra's de-
liverance.' " *' What, master Peter !"
quoth the inn-keeper, '* Body of me ! then
we shall have a rare night of it" This same
master Peter, it should be observed, had his
left eye, and almost half his cheek, covered
with a patch of green taffeta, a sign that
something was wrong on that side of his
fiw3e. ^'Welcome, master Peter," continued
the landlord, ^' where is the ape and the
puppet-show? I do not see them." "They
are hard by," answered the man in leather,
" I came before, to see if we could find
lodging here." "I would turn out the
duke of Alva himself to make room for
master Peter," answered the inn-keeper —
'' let the ape and the puppets come ; for
there are guests this evening in the inn who
will be good customers to you, I warrant."
" Be it so, in God's name," answered he of
the patch ; " and I will lower the price, and
reckon myself well paid with only bearing
my charges. I shall now go back and bring
on the cart with my ape and puppets ;" for
which purpose he immediately hastened
away.
Don Quixote now enquired of the land-
lord concerning this master Peter. " He
is,'' said the landlord, "a famous puppet
player who has been some time past travel-
ling about these parts, with a show of the
deliverance of Melisendra, by the famous
Don Gayferos : one of the best stori^ and
the best performance that has been saen for
many a day. He has also an ape whose
talents go beyond all other apes, and even
those of men : for, if a question be put to
him he listens attentively, then leaps upon
his master's shoulder, and, putting his mouth
to his ear, whispers the answer to the ques-
tion he has been asked, which master Peter
repeats aloud. He can teU both what is to
come and what is past, and though in fore-
telling things to come he does not alwap
hit the mark exactly, yet for the most part
he is not much out ; so that we are inclined
to believe the devil must be in him. His
fee is two reals for every question the ape
answers, or his master answers for him,
which is all the same : so tuat master
Peter is thought to be rich. He is a rare
fellow, too, and lives the merriest life in
the world ; talks more than six, and drinks
more than a dozen, and all by the help of
his tongue, his ape, and his puppets."
By this time master Peter had returned
with a cart, in which he carried his puppets,
and also his ape, which was large and witli-
out a tail, with posteriors bare as felt, and
a countenance not ugly. Don Quixote im-
mediately began to question him, saying :
^' Signer diviner, pray tell me what fish do
we catch, and what will be our fortune ?
See, here are my two reals," bidding San-
cho to give them to master Peter, who,
answering for the ape, said, " My ape,
sigfior, gives no reply nor information re-
garding the future: he knows something
of the past, and a little of the present."
" Bodikins," quoth Sancho, " I would not
give a brass farthing to be told what has
happened to me ; for who can tell that bet-
ter than myself? and I am not such a fool
as to pay for hearing what I already know.
But since he knows what is now passing,
here are my two reals — and now, good
master ape, tell me what my wife Teresa is
doing at this OEioment — I say what is she
busied about?" Master Peter would not
take the money, saying, " I will not be
paid before-hand, nor take your reward
before tlie service b performed." Then
=®
DON QUIXOTE.
giving, with his right hand, two or three
c]&p8 upon his left shoulder, at one spring,
the ape jumped upon it, and laying its mouth
to his ear, chattered and grated his teeth ;
haying made these grimaces for the space of
a Credo, at another skip down it jumped on
the ground, and straightway master Peter
ran and threw himself on his knees before
Don Quixote, and embracing his legs, said,
^' These legs I embrace, just as I would em-
brace the two piUars of Hercules, O illus-
trious reviver of the long-forgotten order
of chivalry ! O never sufficiently extolled
knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha ! Thou
reviver of drooping hearts, the prop and
stay of the falling, the raiser of the fallen,
the staff and comfort to all who are unfor-
tunate !"
Don Quixote was thunderstruck, Sancho
confounded, the scholar surprised, in short,
the page, the braying-man, the inn-keeper,
and every one present were astonished at this
harangue of the puppet-player, who pro-
ceeded, saying, '^ And thou, O good Sancho
Panza, the best squire to the best knight
in the world, rejoice, for thy good wife
Teresa is well, and at this instant is dress-
ing a pound of flax. Moreover, by her left
side stands a broken-mouthed pitcher, which
holds a very pretty scantling of wine, with
which, ever and anon, she cheers her spirits
at her work." "Egad, I verily believe
it V* answered Sancho, " for she is a blessed
one ; and, were she not a little jealous, I
would not swap her for the giantess Andan-
dona, who, in my master's opinion, was a
brave lady, and a special house-wife ; and
my Teresa, I warrant, is one of those who
take care of themselves, though others whis-
tle for it." "Well," quoth Don Quixote,
."he who reads and travels much sees and
learns much. What testimony but that of
my own eyes could have persuaded me that
there are apes in the world which have the
power of divination ? Yes, I am indeed
Don Quixote de la Mancha, as this good
animal has declared, though he has rather
exaggerated in regard to my merits ; but,
whatever I may be, I thank Heaven for
endowing me with a tender and compassi-
onate heart, inclined to do good to all, and
iiarm to none." " If I had money," said
the page, " I would ask master ape what is
to befal me in my intended expedition.'*
To which master Peter, who had now risen
from Don Quixote's feet, answered, "I
have already told you that this little beast
gives no answers concerning things to come ;
otherwise your being without money should
have been no hindrance : for to serve sigñor
Don Quixote here present I willingly give
up all views of profit. And now, as in duty
bound to give pleasure, I intend to put my
puppet-show in order, and entertain all tlie
company in the inn gratis." The inn-
keeper rejoiced at hearing this, and pointed
out a convenient place for setting up the
show ; which was done in an instant.
Don Quixote was not entirely satisfied
with the ape*s divinations, thinking it very
improbable that such a creature should, of
itself, know any thing either of future or
past; therefore, while master Peter was
preparing his show, he drew Sancho aside
to a comer of the stable, where, in a low
voice, he said to him, " I have been con-
sidering, Sancho, the strange power of this
ape, and am convinced that master Peter,
his owner, must have made a tacit or express
pact witli the devil." " Nay," quoth Sancho,
" if the pack be express from the devil, it
must needs be a very sooty pack; but what
advantage would it be to tliis same master
Peter to have such a pack ?" " Thou dost
not comprehend me, Sancho," said Don
Quixote : " I only mean that he must cer-
tainly have made some agreement with the
devil to infuse this power into the ape,
whereby he gains much worldly wealth,
and, in return for the favour, he gives up
his soul, which is the chief aim of that great
enemy of mankind. What induces me to
this belief is finding that the ape answers
only questions relative to things past or
present, which is exactly what is known
by the devil, who knows nothing of the
future, except by conjecture, wherein he
must be often mistaken ; for it is the pre-
rogative of God alone truly to comprehend
all things; to Him nothing is past or future,
every thing is present. This bemg the fact,
it is plain the ape is inspired by the devil ;
and I marvel much he has not been ques-
tioned by our holy Inquisition, and examined
@
©^
340
ADVENTURES OF
by torture till he acknowledges the authority
under which he acts. It is certain that
this ape is no astrologer: neither he nor his
master know how to raise one of those
figures called judical, although now so
much in fashion that there is scarcely a
maid-servant, page, or labouring mechanic,
who does not pretend to raise a figure, and
draw conclusions from the stars as if it
were no more than a trick at cards ; thus
degrading, by ignorance and imposture, a
science no less wonderful than true. I know
a lady who asked one of these pretenders
whether her little lap-dog would breed, and,
if so, what would be the number and colour
of its ofispring. To which master astrologer,
ai^r raising his figure, answered that the
bitch would certainly have three whelps,
one green, one carnation, and the other
mottled, upon condition she should receive
the dog between the hours of eleven and
twelve at noon or night, either on a Monday
or a Saturday. It happened that the bitch
died some two days after, of a surfeit ; yet
was master figure- raiser still accounted,
like the rest of his brethren, an infallible
astrologer."
"But for all that," quoth Sancho, "I
should like your worship to desire master
Peter to ask his ape whether all that was
true which you told about the cave of Mon-
tesinos ; because, for my own part, begging
your worship's pardon, I take it to be all
fibs and nonsense, or at least only a dream."
" Thou may'st think what thou wilt," an-
swered Don Quixote : " however, I will do
as thou advisest, although I feel some
scruples on the subject."
Here they were interrupted by master
Peter, who came to inform Don Quixote
that the show was ready, and to request he
v/ould come to see it, assuring him that he
would find it worthy of his attention. The
knight told him that he had a question to
put to the ape first, as he desired to be in-
formed, by it, whether the things which
happened to him in the cave of Montesinos
were realities, or only sleeping fancies;
though he had a suspicion himself that they
were a mixture of both. Master Peter im-
mediately brought his ape, and, placing
him before Don Quixote and Sancho, said,
" Look you, master ape, this worthy knight
would know whether certain things which
befel him in the cave of Montesinos were
real or visionary." Then making the usnal
signal, the ape leaped upon his left shoolder,
and, after seeming to whisper in his ear,
master Peter said, "Tlie ape tells me that
some of the things your worship saw, or
which befel you, in the said cave, are not
true, and some probable; which is all he
now knows concerning this matter — for his
virtue has just left him ; but, if your worship
desires to hear more, on Friday next, when
his faculty will return, he will answer to
your heart's content." "There now," quoth
Sancho, " did not I say you would never
make me believe all yon told us about that
same cave ? — no, nor half of it." " That will
hereafter appear," answered Don Quixote ;
" for time brings all things to light, though
hidden within the bowels of the earth ; and
now we will drop the subject for the present,
and see the puppet-play, for I am of opinion
there must be some novelty in it." " Some !"
exclúmed master Peter: "sixty thousand
novelties shall you see in this play of mine !
I assure you, sigñor Don Quixote, is one
of the rarest sights that the world affords
this day ; ' Operibus credite et non verbis ;'
so let US to work, for it grows late, and
we have a great deal to do, to say, and to
shew."
Don Quixote and Sancho complied with
his request, and repaired to the place where
the show was set out, filled in every part
with small wax -candles, so that it made a
gay and brilliant appearance. Master Peter,
who was to manage the figures, placed him-
self behind the show, and in the firont of
the scene stood his boy, whose office it was
to relate the story and expound the mystery
of the piece ; holding a wand in his hand
to point to the several figures as they en-
tered.
All the people of the inn being fixed,
some standing opposite to the show, and
Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and the
scholar seated in the best places, the young
interpreter began to say what will be heard
or seen by those who may choose to read or
listen to what is recorded in the following
chapter.
-@
@=
DON QUIXOTE.
341
CHAPTER XXVI.
WHEREIN 18 CONTAINED THE PLB.M}ANT
ADYENTUKB OP THE PUPPET - PLAYER,
WITH SUNDRY OTHER MATTERS, ALL,
IN TRUTH, SUPFICIENTLY GOOD.
Tyrians and Trojans were all silent :* —
that is, all the spectators of the show hung
npon the lipsf of the expounder of its
wonders^ when, from hehind the scene, their
ears were saluted with the sound of drums
and trumpets, and dischaiges of artillery.
These flourishes being over, the boy raised
his voice and said, *' Gentlemen, we here
present you with a true story, taken out of
the French chronicles and Spanish ballads,
which are in every body's mouth, and sung
by the boys about the streets. It tells you
how Don Gayferos delivers his spouse Meli-
sendra, who was imprisoned, by the Moors,
in the city of Sansuenna, now called Sara-
gossa; and there you may see how Don
Gayferos is playbg at tables, according to
the ballad,—
* GmTferot now at tablet plays,
Forsetfnl of hit Udj dear.'
That personage whom you see with a crown
on his head and a sceptre in his hands is the
emperor Charlemagne, the &ir Melisendra's
reputed father, .who, vexed at the idleness
and negligence of his son-in-law, comes
forth to chide him : and pray mark with
what passion and vehemence he rates him —
one would think he had a mind to give him
half-a-dozen raps over the pate with his
sceptre ; indeed there are some authors who
say he actually gave them, and sound ones
too, and, afler having laid it on roundly
about the injury his honour sustained in not
delivering his spouse, it is reported that he
made use of these very words — * I have said
enough — look to it.' Pray observe, gentle-
men, how the emperor turns his back, and
leaves Don Gayferos in a fret.
*' See him now in a rage, tossing the table-
board one way, and pieces another ! Now
calling hastily for his armour, and now
• ** Conticvere omnet/* Virg. JEn. 1, 2.— J.
t " Narrantii cocguz,pcndet ab ore virL" Ovid, Epitt.
. ▼. 80.—/.
asking Don Orlando, his cousin, to lend
him his sword Durindana, which Don Or-
lando refuses, though he offers to bear him
company in his perilous undertaking ; hut
the furious knight will not accept of his
help, saying that he is able alone to deliver
his spouse, though she were thrust down to
the centre of the earth. Hereupon he goes
out to arm himself, in order to set forward
immediately. Now, gentlemen, turn your
eyes towards that tower which appears
yonder, which you are to suppose to be one
of the Moorish towers of Saragossa, now
called the Aljaferia; and that lady in a
Moorish habit, who appears in the balcony,
is the peerless Melisendra, who, from that
window, has cast many a wistful look to-
wards the road that leads to France, and
soothed her captivity by thinking of the
city of Paris and her dear husband. Now
behold a strange incident, the like perhaps
you never heard of before. Do you not see
that Moor stealing along softly, and how,
step by step, with his finger on his mouth,
he comes behind Melisendra ? Hear what
a smack he gives on her sweet lips, and see
how she spits and wipes her mouth with
her white smock-sleeves, and how she frets,
and tears her beauteous hair from pure
vexation ! — as if that was to blame for the
indignity. Observe, also, the grave Moor
who stands in that open gallery — he is Mar-
silius, king of Sansuenna, who, seeing the
insolence of the Moor, though he is a kins-
man, and a great favourite, orders him
to be seized immediately, and two hundred
stripes given him, and to be led through
the principal streets of the city, with criers
before, to proclaim his crime, followed by
the public whippers with their rods; and
see now how all this is put in execution,
almost as soon as the fault is committed ;
for, among the Moors, there are no citations
nor indictments, nor other delays of the
law, as among us." " Boy, boy," said Don
Quixote, " on with your story in a straight
line, and leave your curves and trans-
versals : I can tell you there is often much
need of formal process and deliberate trial
to come at the truth." Master Peter also,
from behind, said, " None of your flourishes,
boy, but do what the gentleman bids you, and
(T^
.©
342
ADVENTURES OF
then you cannot be wrong ; sing your song
plainly, and meddle not with counterpoints,
for they will only put you out." " Very
well," quoth the boy; and proceeded,
saying : —
*' The figure you see there on horseback,
muffled up in a Gascoigne cloak, is Don
Gayferos himself, whom his lady (after
being revenged on the impertinence of the
Moor) sees from the battlements of the
tower, and, taking him for a stranger, holds
that discourse with him which is recorded
in the ballad : —
' If towards France your course you bend.
Let me entreat you, gentle niend,
Make diligent enquiry there
For Gayferos, my husband dear/
The rest I omit, because length begets
loathing. It is sufficient that Don Gayferos
makes himself known to her, as you may
perceive by the signs of joy she discovers,
and especially now that you see how nimbly
she lets herself down from the balcony, to
get on horseback behind her loving spouse.
But alas, poor lady! the border of her
under -petticoat has caught one of the iron
rails of the balcony, and there she hangs
dangling in the air, without being able to
reach the ground. But see how heaven is
merciful, and sends relief in the greatest
distress ! For now comes Don Gayferos,
and, without caring for the richness of her
petticoat, see how he lays hold of her,
and, tearing her from the hooks, brings her
at once to the ground, and then, at a spring,
sets her behind him on the crupper, astride
like a man, bidding her hold very fast, and
clasp her arms about him till they cross and
meet over his breast, that she may not fall ;
because the lady Melisendra was not accus-
tomed to that way of riding.
" Now, gentlemen, observe ; hear how
the horse neighs and shows how proud he is
of the burthen of his valiant master and his
fair mistress. See how they now wheel
about and, turning their backs upon the city,
scamper away merrily and joyfully to Paris.
Peace be with ye, O ye matchless pair of
faithful lovers ! Safe and sound may you
reach your desired country, without impedi-
ment, accident, or ill-luck on your journey !
May you live as long as Nestor, among
©^
friends and relations rejoicing in your hap-
piness, and " " Stay, stay, boy," swd
master Peter, " none of your flights, I be-
seech you ; for affectation is the devil."
The boy, making no reply, went on with his
story. " Now, sirs," said he, " quickly as
this was done, idle and evil eyes, that pry
into everything, are not wanting to mark
the descent and mounting of the fair Melis-
endra, and to givo notice to king Maisilius,
who immediately ordered an alarm to be
sounded ; and now observe the harry and
tumult which follow ! See how the whole city
shakes with the ringing of bells in the steeples
of the mosques," — "Not so," quoth Don
Quixote," master Peter is very much out as to
tlie ringing of bells, which were not used by
the Moors, but kettle-drums and a kind
of dulcimer, like our waits ; and, therefore,
to introduce the ringing of bells in Sansu-
enna is a gross absurdity." Upon which,
master Peter left off ringing, and said,
" Sigfior Don Quixote, if you stand upon
these trifles we shall never please you ; do
not be so severe a critic. Have we not
thousands of comedies full of such mistakes
and blunders, and yet are they not every
where listened to, not only with applause,
but admiration ? — Go on, boy, and let these
folks talk ; for, so that my bags are filled,
I care not if there be as many absurdities
as there are motes in the sun." " You are
in the right," quoth Don Quixote ; and the
boy proceeded :
" See, gentlemen, the squadrons of glit-
tering cavalry that now rush out of the city,
in pursuit of the two catholic lovers ! How
many trumpets sound, how many dulcimers
play, and how many drums and kettle-drums
rattle ! Alack, I fear the fugitives will be
overtaken and brought back tied to their
own horse's tail, which would be a lament-
able spectacle." Don Quixote, roused at
the din, and seeing such a number of Moors,
thought it incumbent on him to succour the
flying pair ; and rising up, said in a load
voice, " It shall never be said while I live
that I suffered such a wrong to be committed
against so famous a knight and so daring a
lover as Don Gayferos. Hold, base -bom
rabble ! — follow him not, or expect to feel
the fury of my resentment!'' ^Twas no
DON QUIXOTE.
343
sooner said than done ; he unsheathed his
sword, and, at one spring, he phinted himself |
close to the show, and with the utmost fury
began to rain hacks and slashes on the
Moorish puppets, overthrowing some, and
beheading others, laming this, and demolish-
ing that ; and among other mighty strokes
one fell with mortal force in such a direc-
tion that, had not master Peter dexterously
slipped aside, he would have taken off his
head as clean as if it had been made of sugar
paste. '* Hold, sigñor Don Quixote V cried
oat the show-man, '* hold, for pity's sake !
— these are not real Moors that you are
catting and destroying, but puppets of paste-
board ! Think of what you are doing, sinner
that I am ! you will ruin me for ever."
These remonstrances were lost upon the ex-
asperated knight, who still laid about him,
showering down and redoubling his blows,
fore-stroke and back-stroke, with such fury
that, in less than the saying of two Credos,
he demolished the whole machine, hacking
to pieces all the tackling and figures. King
Marsilius was in a grievous condition, and
the emperor Charlemagne's head, as well as
crown, cleft in twain ! The whole audience
was in a consternation ; the ape flew to
the top of the house, the scholar and the
page were panic-struck, and Sancho trembled
exceedingly ; for, as be afterwards declared
^7hen the storm was over, he had never seen
his master in such a rage before.
After this chastisement of the Moors, and
the general destruction which accompanied
it, Don Quixote's fury began to abate, and
he calmly said, '^ I wish all those were at
this moment present who obstinately re-
fuse to be convinced of the infinite benefit
that knights-errant are to the world : for,
had I not been fortunately at hand, what
would have become of good Don Gayferos
and the fair Melisendra ? No doubt these
infidel dogs would have overtaken them by
this time, and treated them with their wonted
cruelty. — Long live knight-errantry, above
all things in the world!" " In God's
name let it live, and let me die !" replied
master Peter, in a dolorous tone, " for such
is my wretched fate that I can say, with
king Roderigo, ' Yesterday I was a sovereign
of Spain, and to-day I have not a foot of
land to call my own V It is not half an hour
ago, nor scarcely half a minute, since I was
master of kings and emperors, my stalls full
of horses, and my trunks and sacks full of
fine things ; — now, I am destitute and
wretched, poor and a beggar ! and, to ag-
gravate my grief, I have lost my ape, who
!n truth, will make me sweat for it before I
catch him again ; and all this through the
rash fury of this doughty knight, who is
said to protect orphans, redress wrongs, and
do other charitable deeds ; but. Heaven be
praised ! he has failed in all these good offices
towards my wretched self. Well may he be
called the knight of the sorrowful figure,
for, alas ! I am undone for ever by the sor-
rowful disfigurement I see before me*"
Sancho Panza was moved to compassion
by master Peter's lamentations, and said to
him, " Come, do not weep, master Peter ;
for it breaks my heart to see you grieve and
take on so. I can assure you my master
Don Quixote is too catholic and scrupulous
a christian to let any poor man come to
loss by him : when he finds out that he has
done you wrong he will certainly make you
amends with interest." " Truly," said mas-
ter Peter, ^* if his worship would but make
good part of the damage he has done me
I should be satisfied, and he would acquit
his conscience : for he that takes from his
neighbour, and does not make restitution,
can never be saved, thaf s certain." '^ I
allow it," said Don Quixote ; *' but as yet
I am not aware that I have any thing of
yours, master Peter." " How !" answered
Peter : '^ see the relics that lie on this hard
and barren ground ! How were they scat-
tered and annihilated but by the invincible
force of your powerful arm ? To whom did
their bodies belong but to me? How did I
maintain myself but my them ?" " Here,"
said Don Quixote, *' is a fresh confirmation
of what I have often thought, and can now
no longer doubt, that those enchanters who
persecute me are continually leading me
into error by first allowing me to see things
as they really are, and then transforming
them, to my eyes, into whatever shape they
please. I protest to you, gentlemen, that
the spectacle we have just beheld seemed to
me a real occurrence, and I doubted not the
©
344
ADVENTURES OF
ideutity of Melisendra, Don Gayferos, Mar-
silias, and Charlemagne ; I inras therefore
moved with indignation at what I conceived
to be injustice, and, in compliance with the
duty of my profession as a knight-errant, I
wished to assist and succour the fugitives ;
and with this good intention I did what you
have witnessed. If I have been deceived"
and things have fallen out unhappily, it is
not I who am to blame, but my wicked per-
secutors. Nevertheless, though this error of
mine proceeded not from malice, yet will I
condemn myself in costs — consider, master
Peter, your demand for the damaged figures,
and I wUl pay it you down in current and
lawful money of Castile." Master Peter
made him a low bow, saying, " I expected
no less from the unexampled Christianity of
the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha,
the true protector of all needy and distressed
wanderers, and let master inn -keeper and
the great Sancho be umpires and appraisers
between your worship and me, of what the
demolished figures are, or might be, worth.''
Tlie inn-keeper and Sancho consented,
whereupon master Peter, taking up Marsi-
lius, king of Saragossa, without a head,
'* You see," said he, *^ how impossible it is
to restore this king to his former state, and
therefore I think, with submission to better
judgment, that you must award me for his
death and destruction four reals and a half."
" Proceed," quoth Don Quixote. " Then
for thb gash from top to bottom," continued
master Peter, taking up the emperor Charle-
magne, '* I think five reals and a quartillo
would not be too much." *•' Nor too little,"
quoth Sancho. "Nor yet too much," added
the inn -keeper; '<but split the difference
and set him down five reals." " Give him
the whole of his demand," quoth Don
Quixote : " for a quartillo more or less is
immaterial on this disastrous occasion ; but,
be quick, master Peter, for supper-time ap-
proaches, and I fee] symptoms of hunger."
*' For this figure," quoth master Peter,
*^ wanting a nose and an eye, which is the
fair Melisendra, I must have and can abate
nothing of two reals and twelve maravedis."
'* Nay," said Don Quixote, " the devil is in
it, if Melisendra, with her husband, be not
bv this time, at least, upon the borders of
France : for the horse they rode seemed to
me to fly rather than gallop ; and therefore
do not pretend to sell me a cat for a coney,
shewing me here Melisendra withou^t a nose,
whereas, Ht this very instant, the happy
pair are probably solacing themselves at their
ease, far out of the reach of their enemies.
God help every one to what is their just
due ; proceed, master Peter, but let us have
plain-dealing." Master Peter finding that
Don Quixote began to waver, and was re-
turning to his old theme, and not choosing^
that he should escape, he changed his ground
and said, '^ No, now I recollect, this cannot
be Melisendra, but one of her waiting-maids,
and so with sixty maravedis I shall be con-
tent and well enough paid."
Thus he went on, setting his price upon
the dead and wounded, which the arbitrators
moderated to the satisfaction of both parties ;
and the whole amounted to forty reals and
three quartillos, which Sancho having paid
down, master Peter demanded two reals
more for the trouble he should have in catchin g*
his ape. " Give him the two reals, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote ; " and now would I give
two hundred more to be assured that the
lady Melisendra and sigfior Don Gayferos
are at this time in France and among their
friends." " Nobody can tell us that oetter
than my ape," said master Peter ; " but the
devil himself cannot catch him now ; though
perhaps, either his love for me, or hunger,
will force him to return at night. However,
to-morrow is a new day, and we shall then
see each other again."
The busde of the puppet-show being quite
over, they all supped together in peace and
good fellowship, at the expense of Don
Quixote, whose liberality was boundless.
The man who carried the lances and hal-
berds left the inn before day-break, and
after the sun had risen, the scholar and the
page came to take leave of Don Quixote :
the former to return home, and the latter to
pursue his intended journey : Don Quixote
having given him a dozen reals to assist in
defraying his expenses. Master Peter had
no mind for any farther intercourse with
Don Quixote, whom he knew perfectiy well,
and therefore he also arose before the sun,
and, collecting the fragments of his show.
:0
DON QUIXOTE.
345
he set off with his ape in quest of adven-
tures of his own; while the inn -keeper,
who was not so well acquainted with Don
Quixote, was equally surprised at his mad-
ness and liberality. In short, Sancho, by
order of his master, payed him well, and
about' eight in the morning, having taken
leave of him, they left the inn and proceeded
on their journey, where we will leave them,
to relate other things necessary to the elu-
cidation of this famous history.
CHAPTER XXVII.
WHEREIN IS BELATED WHO MASTER
PETER AITD HIS APE WERE j WITH
DON QUIXOTE'S ILL- SUCCESS IN THE
BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH TER-
MINATED NEITHER AS HE WISHED
NOR INTENDED.
CiD Hamete the author of this great work
begins the present chapter with these words,
" I swear as a catholic christian." On which
his translator observes that Cid Hamete's
swearing as a catholic christian, although
he was a Moor, meant only that as a catholic
christian, when he swears, utters nothing but
the truth, so he, with equal veracity, will
set down nothing in writing of Don Quixote
but what is strictly true ; especially in the
account that is now to be given of the per-
son hitherto called master Peter, and of the
divining ape, whose answers created such
amazement throughout all that part of the
country. He says, then, that whoever has
read the former part of this history must
well remember Gines de Passamonte, who,
among other galley-slaves, was liberated by
Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena: — a
benefit for which he was but ill requited by
that mischievous and disorderly crew. This
Gines de Passamonte, whom Don Quixote
called Ginesillo de Parapilla, was the per-
son who stole Sancho Panza's Dapple ; and
the time and manner of that theft not
having been inserted in the former part of
this history, through the neglect of the
printers, many have ascribed the omission ta
want of memory in the author. But in fact
Gines stole the animal while Sancho Panza
was asleep upon his back, by the same
artifice which Brunello practised when he
carried off Sacripante's horse from between
his legs, at the siege of Albraca ; although
Sancho afterwards recovered his Dapple, as
hath already been related. This Gines then
(whose rogueries and crimes were so numer-
ous and flagrant as to fill a large volume,
which he compiled himself), being afraid
of falling into the hands of justice, passed
over into the kingdom of Arragon, and
there, after covering his left eye, he set up
the trade of show-man, in which, as well
as the art of legerdemain, he was a skilful
practitioner. From a party of christians just
Redeemed from slavery, whom he chanced to
meet with, he purchased his ape, which he
forthwith instructed to leap upon his shoulder
and mutter in his ear, as before described.
Thus prepared, he commenced his avocation ;
and his practice was, before he entered any
town, to make enquiries in the neighbour-
hood concerning its inhabitants and passing
events, and, bearing them carefully in his
memory, he first exhibited his show, which
represented sometimes one story and some-
times another, but all pleasant, gay, and
popular. After this he propounded to his
auditors the rare talentp of his ape, assuring
them of his knowledge of the past and pre-
sent, at the same time confessing his igno-
rance of the future. Though his regular fee
was two reals, he was always disposed to
accommodate his customers ; and if he found
people unwilling to pay the expense of his
oracle, he sometimes poured forth his know-
ledge gratuitously, which gained him un-
speakable credit and numerous followers.
Even when perfectly ignorant of the queries
proposed to him, he contrived so to adapt ¡
his ansu'ers that, as people were seldom
troublesome in their scruples, he was able
to deceive all, and fill his pockets.
No sooner had master Peter Passamonte
entered the inn than he recognised the
knight and squire, and therefore had no
difficulty in exciting their astonishment;
but the adventure would have cost him
dear had he not been so lucky as to elude
the sword of Don Quixote, when he sliced
off the head of king Marsilius and demo-
lished his cavalry, as related in the foregoing
chapter. This may suffice concerning master
Peter and his ape.
-^
346
ADVENTURES OF
Let us now return to our illustrious knight
of La Mancha, who, after quitting the inn,
determined to visit the banks of the river
Ebro and the neighbouring country : find-
ing that he would have time sufficient for
that purpose, before the tournaments at
Saragossa began. With this intention he
pursued his journey, and travelled two days
without encountering any thing worth re-
cording, till, on the third day, as he was
ascending a hill, he heard a distant sound
of drums, trumpets, and other martial in-
struments, which at first he imagined to pro-
ceed from a body of military on the march ;
and, spurring Rozinante, he ascended a
rising ground, whence he perceived, as he
thought, in the valley beneath, above two
hundred men, armed with various weapons,
as spears, cross-bows, partisans, halberds,
and spikes, with some fire-arms. He then
descended, and advanced so near the troop
that he could distinguish their banners with
the devices they bore : especially one upon
a banner or pennant of white satin, on which
an ass was painted to the life, of the small
Sardinian breed, with its head raised, its
mouth open, in tlie very posture of braying,
and over it, written in large characters,
'* The bailiffs twain
Bray'd not in vain."
From this motto Don Quixote concluded
that these were the inhabitants of the bray-
ing town, which opinion he communicated
to Sancho, and told him also what was
written on the banner. He likewise said
that the person who had given them an ac-
count of this afiair was mistaken in calling
the two brayers aldermen, since, according
to the motto, it appeared they, were not
aldermen, but bailifis. ''That breaks no
squares, sir," answered Sancho Panza, " for
it might happen that the aldermen who
brayed, have, in process of time, become
bailiffs of their town, and therefore, may
properly be called by both titles ; though it
signifies nothing to the truth of the history
whether they were bailiffs or aldermen : for
one h as likely to bray as the other.**
Tliey soon ascertained that it was the
derided town sallying forth to attack ano-
tlier, which had ridiculed them more than
was reasonable or becoming in good neigh-
bours. Don Quixote advanced towards them,
to the no small concern of Sancho, who never
had any liking to meddle in such matters,
and he was presently surrounded by the
motley band, who supposed him to be some
friend to their cause. Don Quixote then
raising his vizor, with an easy and graceful
deportment, approached the ass -banner,
and all the chiefs of the army collected
around him, being struck with the same
astonishment which the first sight of him
usually excited. Don Quixote, seeing them
gaze so earnestly at liim, without being
spoken to by any of the party, took advan.'-
tage of this silence, and addressed them in
the following manner:
''It is my intention, worthy gentlemen,
to address you, and I earnestly intreat you
not to interrupt my di'scourse, unless you
find it offensive or tiresome ; for, in that
case, upon the least sign from you, I will
put a seal on my lips and a bridle on my
tongue." They all desired him to say what
he pleased, and promised to hear him witli
attention. With this license, Don Quixote
proceeded. " Gentlemen," said he, "I am
a knight-errant ; arms are my exercise, and
my profession is that of relieving the dis-
tressed, and giving aid to the weak. I am
no stranger to the cause of your agitation,
nor to the events which have provoked
your resentment and impelled you to arms.
I have therefore often reflected on yoor
case, and find that, according to the laws
of duel, you are mistaken in thinking your-
selves insulted; for no one person can insult
a whole city, unless, when treason has been
committed within it, not knowing the guilty
person, he should accuse the whole body.
Of this we have an example in Don Diego
Ordonnez de Lara, who chaUenged tlie
whole people of Zamora, because he did not
know that Vellido Dolfos alone had mur-
dered his king ; and, therefore, every indi-
vidual being charged with that crime, it
belonged to the whole to answer and to
revenge the imputation. It is true that
signer Don Diego went somewhat too far,
and exceeded the just limits of challenge ;
for certainly it was not necessary to include
in it the dead and the unborn, the waters,
the bread, and several other particulars
DON QUIXOTE.
347
therein mentioned. But let that pass, for,
when choier overflows, the tongue is under
no goyemment. Since, then, it is impossible
that an individual should affront a whole
kingdom, province, or city, it is clear that
there is no reason for your marching out to
take revenge upon what cannot be con-
sidered as an offence worthy of yoor resent-
ment. It would be a fine business, truly,
if all those towns which, by the vulgar,
are nicknamed firom their trades, and called
the cheese-mongers, the coster-mongers, the
fish-mongers, the soap-boilers, and other such
appellations,* should be so absurd as to think
themselves insulted, and seek vengeance
with their swords upon this and every slight
provocation! No, no, such doings God
neither wills nor permits. In well-ordered
states men are required to unsheath their
swords, and hazard their lives and property,
upon four different accounts ; first to defend
the holy catholic faith; secondly in self-
defence, which is agreeable to natural and
divine law ; thirdly in defence of personal
honour, family, reputation, and worldly
wealth ; fourthly in obedience to the com-
mands of their sovereign, in a just war ; to
these may be added a fifth (which, indeed,
will properly rank with the second), and that
is the defence of our country. These are the
principal occasions upon which an appeal
to the sword is justifiable; but to have
recourse to it for trifles, and things rather
to excite mirth than anger, is equally wicked
and senseless. Besides, to take unjust re-
venge (and no revenge can be just) is acting
in direct opposition to our holy religion, by
which we are enjoined to forgive our enemies,
and do good to those who hate us — a pre-
cept which, though it seems difficult to obey,
yet is it only so to the worldly-minded, who
have more of the flesh than the spirit : for
the Redeemer of mankind, whose words
could never deceive, said that his yoke was
easy and his burden light ; and therefore
he would not require from as what was im-
possible to be performed. So that, gentle-
men, by every law, human and divine, you
are bound to sheathe your swords, and let
your resentment sleep."
• Tbs citua to caUed sure Valladolid, Toledo,
" The devil fetch me," quoth Sancho to
himself, *^ if this master of mine be not a
perfect priest ; or, if not, he is as like one
as one egg is like another." Don Quixote
took breath a little, and, perceiving his
auditors were still attentive, he would have
continued his harangue, had he not been
prevented by the zeal of his squire, who
seized the opportunity offered him by a
pause to make a speech in his turn. " Gen-
tlemen," said he, " my master Don Quixote
de la Mancha, once called the ' knight of
the sorrowful figure,' and now ^ the knight
of the lions,' is a choice scholar, and under-
stands Latin, and talks the vulgar tongue
like any bachelor of arts ; and, in all he
meddles or advises, proceeds like an old
soldier ; having all the laws and statues of
what is called duelling at his finders' ends ;
and so you have nothing to do but to follow
his advice, and, while you abide by that,
let the blame be mine if ever you make a
false step. And, indeed, as you have already
been told, it is mighty foolish in you to be
offended at hearing any one bray : wiien I
was a boy I well remember nobody ever
hindered me from braying as often as I
pleased ; and I could do it so rarely that
all the asses in the town answered me ; yet
for all that was I still the son of my parents,
who were very honest people ; and, though
I must say a few of the proudest of my
neighbours envied me the gift, yet I cared
not a rush ; and, to convince you that I
speak the truth, do but listen to me ; for
this art, like that of swimming, once learned,
is never forgotten." Then, putting his
hands to his nostrils, he began to bray so
strenuously that the adjaceut valleys re-
sounded again; whereupon a man who
stood near him, supposing that he was
mocking them, raised his pole, and gave
him such a blow that it brought the unlucky
squire to the ground. Don Quixote, seeing
him so ill-treated, made at the striker with
his lance, but was instantly opposed by so
many of his comrades that he saw it was
impossible for him to be revenged ; on the
contrary, feeling a shower of stones comfí
thick upon him, and seeing a thousand
Madrid, and probably Getafe. i>.
MH
ADVENTURES OF
cross-bows presented, and as many guns
levelled, at him, be turned Rozinante about,
and, as fast as he could gallop, got out from
among them, heartily recommending him-
self to God, and praying, as he fled, to be
delivered from so imminent a danger; at
the same time expecting, at every step, to
be pierced through and through with bullets,
he went on drawing his breath at every
moment to try whether or not it failed him.
The rustic battalion, however, seeing him
fly, were contented to save their ammu-
nition. As for Sancho, they set him again
upon his ass, though scarcely recovered
from the blow, and sufiered him to follow
his master; — not that he had power to
guide him, but Dapple, unwilling to be
separated from Rozinante, naturally fol-
lowed his steps. Don Quixote, having got
to a considerable distance, at length ven-
tured to look back, and, seeing only Sancho
slowly following, he stopped, and waited
till he came up. The army kept the field
till night-fall, when, no enemy coming forth
to battle, they joyfully returned home ; and,
had they known the practice of the ancient
Greeks, they would have erected a trophy
in that place.
CHAPTER XXVIIl.
CONCERNING THINGS WHICH, BENENGELI
SA.YS HE WHO READS OP THEM WILL
KNOW, IF HE READS WITH ATTENTION,
When the valiant man flies he must have
discovered foul play; and it is then the
part of the wise to reserve themselves for a
better occasion. This truth was verified in
Don Quixote, who, not choosing to expose
himself to the fury of an incensed and evil-
disposed multitude, prudently retired out of
their reach, without once recollecting his
faithful sqmre, or the perilous situation in
which he left him ; nor did he stop till he
got as far off as he deemed sufiicient for his
safety. Sancho followed the track of his
master, hanging, as before described, athwart
his ass, and, having recovered his senses, at
length came up to him ; when, unable to
support himself, he dropped from his pack-
saddle at Rozinante's feet, overcome with
the pain of the bruises and blows he had
received. Don Quixote dismounted to ex-
amine the state of Sancho's body ; but,
finding no bones broken, and the skin whole,
from head to foot, he said angrily, '* In evil
hour, Sancho, must thou needs shew thy
skill in braying; where didst thou learn
that it was proper to name a halter in the
house of a man that was hanged ? To thy
braying music what counterpoint could'st
thou expect but that of a cudgel ? Return
thanks to God, Sancho, that, instead of
crossing thy back with a cudgel, they did
not make the sign of the cross on thee with
a scimitar." ^' I am not now in a condition
to answer," replied Sancho, " for methinks
I speak through my shoulders. Let us
mount, and be gone from this place. As
for braying, I will have done with it for
ever; — but not with telling that knights-
errant can fly, and leave their faithful squires
to be beaten to powder in the midst of their
enemies." " To retire is not to fly," an-
swered Don Quixote ; " for thou must know,
Sancho, that tlie valour which has not pru-
dence for its basis is termed rashness^ and
the successful exploits of the rash are rather
to be ascribed to good fortune than to
courage. I confess I did retire, but not
fly ; and herein I imitated sundry yaliant
persons who have reserved themselves for
better purposes, whereof history furnishes
abundance of examples ; but, being of no
profit to thee, or pleasure to myself, I shall
not now mention them."
By this time Sancho had mounted again,
with the assistance of his master, who like-
wise got upon Rozinante, and they pro-
ceeded slowly towards a grove of poplars
which they discovered about a quarter-of*
a-league ofi*, Sancho, every now and then,
heaving most profound sighs, accompanied
by dolorous groans ; and, when asked the
cause of his distress, he said that, from the
nape of his neck to the lowest point of his
back-bone, he was so bruised and sons that
the pain made him mad. '^ Doubtless,"
said Don Quixote, ''this pain most have
been caused by the pole with which tliey
struck thee, and which, being long, extended
over the whole of thy back, including aU
the parts which now grieve thee so much ;
DON QUIXOTE.
349
and, had the weapon been etill larger, thy
pain would have been increased." " Before
God/' quoth Sancho, ** your worship has
relieved me from a mighty doubt, and ex-
plained it, forsooth, in notable terms ! Body
o' me ! was the cause of my pain so hidden
that it was necessary to tell me that I felt
pain in all those parts which the pole
reached ? If my ancles had ached, then might
you have tried to unriddle the cause ; but
to find out that I am pained because I was
beaten is, truly, no great matter. In iaith,
master of mine, other men's harms are easily
borne ; I descry land more and more every
day, and see plainly how little. I am to
expect from following your worship ; for,
if this time you could suffer me to be basted,
I may reckon upon returning, again and
again, to our old blanketing, and other
pranks. My back bears the mischief now,
but next it may fall on my eyes. It would be
much better for me, only that I am a beast,
and shall never in my life do anything that
is right— better, I say, would it be for me to
return home to my wife and children, and
strive to maintain and bring them up with
the little God shall be pleased to give me,
and not be following your worship through
roads without a road, and pathless paths,
drinking ill and eating worse» And, as for
sleeping, — good squire, measure out seven
foot of earth, and, if that be not suiRcient,
prithee take as many more and welcome,
\ and stretch out to your heart's content ! I
I should like to see the first who set on foot
knight-errantry burnt to ashes; or, at least,
the first that would needs be squire to such
idiots as all the knights -errant of former
times must have been; — of the present I
say nothing, for, your worship being one of
them, I am bound to pay them respect, and
because I know that, in regard to talking
and understanding, your worship knows a
point beyond the devil himself."
" I would lay a good wager with thee,
Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, '< that now
thou art talking, and without interruption,
thou feelest no pain in thy body. Go on,
my son, and say all that comes into thy
head, or to thy tongue; for, so thou art
relieved from pain, I shall take pleasure
even in the vexation thy impertinence occa-
sions me ; — nay more, if thou hast really so
great a desire to return home to thy wife
and children, God forbid I should hinder
thee. Thou hast money of mine in thy
hands ; see how long it is since we made
this third sally from our town, atfd how
much thou could'st have earned monthly,
and pay thyself." "When I served Thomas
Carrasco," replied Sancho, " father of the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, whom your
worship knows full well, I got two ducats
a mouthy besides my victuals; with your
worship I cannot tell what I may get;
but I am sure it is greater drudgery to be
squire to a knight-errant than servant to a
farmer ; for, if we work for husbandmen,
though we labour hard in the day, at night
we are sure of supper from the pot, and a
bed to sleep on, which is more than I have
found since I have been in your worship's
service, — the scum of Camacho's pots ex-
cepted, and the short time we were at the
houses of Don Diego and Basilius : all the
rest of the time I have had no other bed
than the hard ground, and no other covering
than the sky, whether foul or fair ; living
upon scraps of bad bread and worse cheese,
and drinking such water as chance put in
our way."
" I confess, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
" that all thou sayest is true ; — how much
dost thou think I ought to pay thee more
than what thou hadst from Thomas Car-
rasco?" "I think," quoth Sancho, "if
your worship adds two reals a month, I
should reckon myself well paid. This is for
the wages due for my labour ; but as to the
promise your worship made of the govern-
ment of an island, it would be fair that you
add six reals more, making thirty in dl."
" Very well," replied Don Quixote ; " it is
five and twenty days since we sallied firom
our village, and, according to the wages thou
hast allotted thyself, calculate the propor-
tion and see what I owe thee, and pay thy-
self, as I said before, with thine own hand."
** Body of me !" quoth Sancho, "your wor-
ship is clean out in the reckoning, for, as to
the promised island, we must reckon from
the day you promised me to the present
hour." " How long then is it since I pro-
mised it to thee ?" said Don Quixote. " If
350
ADVENTURES OF
I remember right,'' answered Sancho, " it
is aboat twenty years and three days, more
or less." Here Don Quixote, clapping his
forehead with the palm of his hand, began to
laugh heartily, and said,*' Why, all my sallies,
including the time I sojourned in the Sierra
Morena, have scarcely taken up more than
two months, and dost thou say, Sancho, it is
twenty years since I promised thee an island?
I perceive that thou art determined to lay
claim to all the money thou hast of mine ;
if such be thy wish, take it, and much good
may it do thee ; for to rid myself of so
worthless a squire, I will gladly be left poor
and pennyless. But tell me, thou perverter
of the squirely ordinances of knight-errantry !
where hast thou seen or read that any squire
to knight-errant ever presumed to bargain
with his master and say so much per month
you must give me to serve you ? Launch,
launch out, thou base reptile ! thou hobgob-
lin ! — for such thou art — launch out, I say,
into the mare magnum of their histories, and
if thou canst find that any squire has ever
said, or thought, as thou hast done, I will
give thee leave to nail it on my forehead,
and write fool upon my face in capitals.
Turn about the bridle, or halter, of Dapple,
and get home ! for not one single step farther
shalt thou go with me. O bread ill-bestowed !
O promises ill- placed ! Oh man, that hast
more of the beast than of the human crea-
ture ! Now, when I thought of establishing
thee, and in such a way tliat, in spite of thy
wife, thou should'st have been styled ^ your
lordship,' now dost thou leave me ? now,
when I had just taken a firm and effectual
resolution to make thee lord of the best
bland in the world ? But, as thou thyself
hast often said, ' honey is not for the mouth
of an ass.' An ass thou art, an ass thou
will continue to be, and an ass wilt thou
die; for I verily believe thou wilt never
acquire even sense enough to know that
thou art a beast I"
Sancho looked at his master with a sad
and sorrowful countenance, all the time he
thus reproached and rated him ; and when
the storm was past, with tears in his eyes
and in a faint and doleful voice, he said, '* I
confess, dear sir, that to be a complete ass I
want nothing but a tail, and if your worship
will be pleased to put roe on one, I shail
deem it well placed, and will then serve yon
as your faithful ass all the days I have yet
to live. Pardon me, sir, I entreat you ,
have pity on my ignorance, and consider
that, if my tongue runs too fast, it is more
from folly than evil-meaning : he who err&
and mends, himself to God commends."
*' I should have wondered much, Sancho,"
quoth Don Quixote, ^^ if thy proverbs had
been wanting on such an occasion. Well,
I forgive thee, on the promise of thy amend-
ment, and in the hope that henceforth thou
may'st prove less craving and selfish. I
would hope also to see tliy mind prepared
to wait with becoming patience the due ac-
complishment of my promises, which, though
deferred, are not on that account the less
certain." Sancho promised compliance,
though, to do it, he should have to draw
strength out of weakness.
They now entered the poplar grove, and
Don Quixote seated himself at the foot
of an elm, and Sancho under a beech : — for
it is admitted that such trees are always
provided with feet, but never with hands.
In that situation they passed the night:
Sancho suffering fiH)m the pain of his bnuses,
and his master indulging his wonted mcsdi-
tations ; nevertheless they both slept, and in
the morning pursued their way towards the
banks of the famous Ebro, where that befel
them which shall be related in the ensuing
chapters.
CHAPTER XXIX.
OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE
ENCHAKTED BARJC.
After travelling leisurely for two days,
Don Quixote and his squire reached the
banks of the river Ebro, and the knight
experi(*nced much pleasure, while he con-
templated the verdure of its margin, the
smoothness of its current, and the abundance
of its crystal waters. Cheered and delighted
with the scene, a thousand tender recollec-
tions rushed upon his mind, and particularly
what he had witnessed in the cave of Mon-
tesinos ; for although master Peter's ape
had pronounced a part only of those wotám
DON QUIXOTE.
851
to be true, he rather inclined to believe
the whole than allow any part to be donbt-
nil : quite the reverse of Sancho, who held
them to be all fidse.
Thus musing and sauntering along, they
observed a small vessel without oars or any
kind of tackle, fastened by a rope to the
shore. Don Quixote looked round him on
all sides, and, seeing nobody, he alighted,
and ordered Sancho to do the same and make
fast both their beasts to the trunk of a pop-
lar or willow that grew by the side of the
river. On Sancho's requesting to know
, why he was to do so, " Thou must know,"
said Don Quixote, '^ that this vessel is placed
here expressly for my reception, and in order
that I might proceed therein, to the succour
of some knight or other person of high de-
gree, who is in extreme distress : for such
is the practice of enchanters, as we learn in
the books of chivalry, when some knight
happens to be involved in a situation of ex-
traordinary peril, from which he can only
be delivered by the hand of another knight.
Then, although distant from each other two
or three thousand leagues, and even more,
they either snatch him up in a cloud, or, as
thus, provide him with a boat, and, in less
than the twinkling of an eye, convey him
tlirough the air, or over the surface of the
ocean, wherever they list, or where his aid
is required. This bark, therefore, O Sancho,
must be placed here for that sole purpose, as
certainly as it is now day ; haste then, be-
fore it is spent, tie Dapple and Rozinante
together, and the hand of providence be our
guide ! for embark I will, although holy
friars themselves should entreat me to de-
sist." *' Since it must be so," said Sancho,
^^ and that your worship is determined to be
always running into these vagaries, there is
nothing left for me but to obey : following
the proverb, * do your master's bidding, and
sit down with him at his table.' But for all
that to discharge my conscience, I am bound
to tell your worship that, to my mind, this
same boat belongs to no enchanter, but to
some fisherman on this part of the river: for
here, it is said, they catch the best shads in
the world."
This caution Sancho ventured to give,
while, with much grief of soul, he was
tying the cattle, where they were to be left
under the protection of enchanters. Don
Quixote told him to be under no concern
about forsaking those animals ; for he, by
whom they were themselves to be trans-
ported to far distant longitudes, would take
care that they should not want food." " I
do not understand your logitudes," said
Sancho, nor have I ever heard such a word
in all my life." " Longitude," replied Don
Quixote, " means length ; — but no wonder
thou dost not understand it, for thou art
not bound to know Latin : though some
there are who pretend to know it, and are
as ignorant as thyself." " Now they are
tied," quoth Sancho, <' what is next to be
done ?" " What?" answered Don Quixote ;
"why cross ourselves, and weigh anchor —
I mean embark, and cut the rope with
which the vessel is now tied." Then, leap-
ing into it, followed by Sancho, he cut the
cord and the boat floated gently from the
shore ; and when Sancho saw himself a few
yards from the bank, he began to quake
with fear ; but on hearing his friend Dapple
bray, and seeing Rozinante struggle to get
loose he was quite overcome. " The poor
ass," said he, " brays for pure grief at being
deserted, and Rozinante is endeavouring to
get loose, that he may plunge into the river
and follow us. O, dearest friends ! abide
where you are in peace, and may the mad
freak, which is the cause of our doleful part-
ing, be quickly followed by a repentance
that will bring us back again to your sweet
company !" Here he began to weep so bit-
terly that Don Quixote lost all patience.
" Of what art thou afraid, cowardly wretch !"
cried he, " heart of butter ! Why weepest
thou ? Who pursues, who annoys, thee, —
soul of a house-rat? Or what dost thou
want, poor wretch, in the very bowels of
abundance ? Perad venture, thou art trudg-
ing bare-foot over the Ripliean mountains ?
— No, seated like an archduke, thou art
gently gliding down the stream of this
charming river, whence in a short space
we shall issue out into the boundless ocean,
which doubtless we have already entered,
and must have gone at least seven or eight
hundred leagues. If I had but an astrolabe
here to take the elevation of the pole, I
352
ADVENTURES OF
would tell thee what distance we have gone;
though, if I am not much mistaken, we are
already past, or shall presently pass, the
equinoctial line, which divides and cuts the
world in equal halves." '^ And when we
come to that line your worship speaks of,"
quoth Sancho, " how far shall we have
travelled V* "A mighty distance," replied
Don Quixote, " for, of the three hundred
and sixty degrees, into which the terraqueous
globe is divided, according to the system and
computation of Ptolomy, the greatest of all
geographers, we shall at least have travelled
one half when we come to that line." ' By
the Lo d," quoth Sancho, ^' your worship
has hrought a pretty fellow to witness, that
same Tolmy — how d'ye call him ? with his
amputation, to vouch for the truth of what
you say !"
Don Quixote smiled at Sancho's blunders,
and said, ^' Thou must know, Sancho, that
one of the signs by which the Spaniards
and those who travel, by sea, to the East
Indies, discover they have passed the line,
of which I told thee, is that all the lice
upon every man in the ship die ; nor, after
passing it, is one to be found in the vessel,
though they would give its weight in gold
for it; and, therefore, Sancho, pass thy
hand over thy body, and if thou findest any
live thing we shall have no doubts upon
that score, and if not, we shall then know
that we have certainly passed the line."
*^ Not a word of that do I believe," <|uoth
Sancho ; *' however, I will do as your wor-
ship bids me, though I know not what
occasion there is for making this experiment,
since I see, with mine own eyes, that we
have not got five yards from the bank, for
yonder stand Rozinante and Dapple in the
very place where we left them ; and, from
points which I now mark, I vow to God we
do not move an ant's pace." " Sancho,"
said Don Quixote, " make the trial I bid
thee, and take no further care ; thou knowest
not what colours are, nor the lines, parallels,
zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoc-
tials, planets, signs, and other points, and
measures, of which the celestial and terres-
trial globes are composed, for, if thou
knewest all these things, or but a part of
them, thou would'st plainly perceive what
parallels we have cut, what signs we have
seen, and what constellations we have
left behind us, and are just now leaving.
Once more, then, I bid thee feel thyself all
over, and fish ; for I, for my part, am of
opinion that thou art as clean as a sheet of
smooth white paper." Accordingly Sancho
passed his hand lightly over his left ham ;
then lifting up his head and looking signifi-
cantly at his master, he said, '^ Either the
experiment is false, or we are not yet arrived
where your worship says, — no, not by many
leagues." " Why," said Don Quixote,
''hast thou met with something then?"
''Aye, sir, several sometliings," replied
Sancho, and, shaking his fingers, he washed
his whole hand in the river, on the sorfiu^
of which the boat was gently gliding, —
not moved by the secret influence of en-
chantment, but by the current, which was
then gentle, and the whole sur&ce smooth
and calm.
At this time several corn-mills appeared
before them in the midst of the stream,
which Don Quixote no sooner espied than
he exclaimed in a loud voice, " Behold, O
Sancho ! see'st thou yon city, castle, or
fortress? — there lies some knight under
oppression, or some queen, infanta, or prin-
cess, confined in evil plight; to whose
relief I am brought hither." " What the
devil of a city, fortress, or castle do 3'ou
talk of, sir?" quoth Sancho ; "do you not
see that they are mills standing in the river
for the grinding of com ?" " Peace, San-
cho," quoth Don Quixote; "for, though
they seem to be mills, they are not so. How
often must I tell thee that enchanters have
the power to transform whatever they
please ? I do not say that things are really
changed by them, but to our eyes they are
made to appear so ; whereof we have had
a woeful proof in the transformation of
Dulcinea, the sole refuge of my hopes."
The boat, having now got into the current
of the river, was carried on with more cele-
rity than before ; and, as it approached the
mill, the labourers within, seeing it drifting
towards them, and just entering the mill-
stream, several of them ran out in haste with
long poles to stop it ; and, their faces and
clothes being all covered with meal-dust.
DON QUIXOTE.
853
they bad a ghostly appearance. '* Devils of
men !" said they, bawling aloud, " what do
you there ? Are you mad, or do you intend
to drown yourselves, or be torn to pieces by
the wheels?"
<'Did I not tell thee, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, 'Hhat we should certainly
arrive where it would be necessary for me
to display the valour of my arm? Look,
what assassins and hobgoblins come out to
oppose us ! See their horrible visages with
which they think to scare us I — Now, rascals,
have at you !" Then, standing tap in the
boat, he began to threaten the millers aloud :
" Ill-advised scoundrels V said he, " set at
liberty the person ye keep under oppression
in that castle or fortress of yours, whether
he be of high or low degree : for I am Don
Qnizote de la Mancha, otherwise called the
knight of the lions, for whom, by heaven's
high destiny, the happy accomplishment of
this adventuse is reserved." So saying, he
drew his sword, and began to flourish with
it in the air, as if he would smite the millers,
who, not understanding his menaces, en-
deavoured to stop the boat, now on the
point of entering into the swift current that
rnshed under the wheels. Sancho fell upon
his knees and prayed devoutly to heaven for
his deliverance, which was accomplished by
the agility and adroitness of the millers with
their poles, — but not without oversetting
the boat, whereby the knight and squire
were plunged into the water. Although
Don Quixote could swim like a goose, the
weight of his armour now carried him twice
to the bottom ; and, had it not been for the
millers, who leaped into the river, and hauled
them both out, they must have inevitably
perished.*
After having been dragged on shore,
much more wet than thirsty, Sancho again
fell on his knees, and long and devoutly
prayed that God would thenceforward pro-
tect him from the dangers to which he was
likely to be exposed through the rash enter-
prises of his master. Now came the fisher-
men, owners of the boat, which had been
< Litenllj, " there hed been Troj for them both."
" Here atood Troy/' U a Spanuh proverb denoting
something ruined or destroyed.-^/.
entirely destroyed by the mill-wheels, and
loudly demanded reparation for the loss
they had sustained, and for that purpose
began to strip Sancho, when Don Quixote,
with as much unconcern as if nothing had
happened, gravely told the millers and fish-
ermen that he would willingly pay for the
boat on condition of their delivering up,
free and without ransom, the person, or
persons, whom they unjustly detained in
their castle. *' What persons, or what
castles, madmen ! do you mean V said one
of the millers; " would you carry off those
who come to have their com ground at our
mills ?" " There let it rest," thought Don
Quixote to himself; ^Mt is only preaching to
the desert to endeavour, either by argument
or entreaty, to incite these dregs of human
kind to a generous action ! In this adven-
ture it is manifest that two poweifbl en-
chanters must have engaged, the one frus-
trating what the other attempts ; the one
providing me a bark, and the other over-
setting it. God help me! in this world
there is nothing but plots and counter-plots,
mines and counter-mines! — I can do no
more." Then, casting a look of melancholy
towards the mills, "Friends," he said,
"whoever ye are that live immured in that
prison, pardon me, I beseech you, for not
having delivered you from affliction ; by
your ill &te and mine it b ordained that
this adventure should be reserved f)r some
more fortunate knight I" He then com-
pounded with the fishermen, and agreed to
give them fifty reals for the boat, which sum
Sancho, with much reluctance, paid down,
saying, " A couple more of such embarka-
tions as this will sink our whole capital."
The fishermen and millers stood gazing, with
astonishment, at two figures, so &r out of
the &shion and semblance of other men,
and were quite at a loss to find out the
meaning of Don Quixote's speeches; but,
conceiving their intellects to be disordered,
they left them ; the millers retiring to their
mills, and the fishermen to their cabins;
whereupon Don Quixote and Sancho, like
a pair of senseless animals themselves, re-
turned to the animals they had left; and
thus ended the adventure of the enchanted
bark.
2a.
'i
354
ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER XXX.
OP WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE WITH A
FAIR HUNTHESS.
Melancholy, wet, and out of humour,
the knight and squire reached their cattle ;
Sancho, more especially, was grieved to the
very soul to have encroached so much upon
their stock of money : all that was taken
thence seeming to him as so much taken
from the apples of his eyes. In short, they
mounted, without exchanging a word, and
silently quitted the banks of that famous
river ; Don Quixote buried iu amorous me-
ditations, and Sancho in those of his prefer-
ment, which seemed, at that moment, to be
very dim and remote : for, dull as he was,
he saw, clearly enough, that his master's
actions were, for the most part, little better
than crazy, and he only waited for an op-
portunity, without coming to accounts and
reckonings, to steal off, and march home.
But fortune was kinder to him than he
expected.
It happened on the following day, near
sun-set, as they were issuing from a forest,
that Don Quixote espied sundry persons at
a distance, who, it appeared, as he drew
nearer to them, were taking the diversion
of hawking; and among them he remarked
a gay lady mounted on a palfrey, or milk-
white pad, with green furniture and a side-
saddle of the cloth of silver. Her own attire
was also green, and so rich and beautiful
that she was elegance itself. On her left
hand she carried a hawk ; whence Úon
Quixote conjectured that she must be a lady
of high rank and mistress of the sporting
party (as in truth she was), and therefore
he said to his squire, ^' Hasten, Sancho, and
make known to the lady of the palfrey and
the hawk that I, ' the knight of the lions,'
humbly salute her highness, and, with her
gracious leave, would be proud to kiss her
fair hands, and serve her to the utmost of
my power, and her highness's commands ;
but take especial care, Sancho, how thou
deliverest my message, and be mindful not
to interlard thy embassy with any of thy
proverbs." " So then," quoth Sancho, "you
must twit the interlarder !— but why this to
me? as if this, forsooth, were the first time
I had carried messages to high and mighty I
ladies !" " Excepting that to the lady Dul- '
cinea," replied Don Quixote, " I know of
none thou hast carried, — at least none from
me." " That is tnie," answered Sancho ;
"but a good pay- master needs no surety ;
and where there is plenty, dinner is soon
dressed : I mean, tliere is no need of school-
ing me; for I am prepared for all, and
know something of every thing." "I
believe it, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote;
<<go then, and Heaven direct thee."
Sancho set off at a good rate, fordng
Dapple out of his usual pace, and went up '
to the fair huntress; then alighting, and
kneeling before her, he said, "Beauteous '
lady, that knight yonder, called * the knight
of the lions,' is my master, and I am fab <
squire, Sancho Panza by name. That same
knight of the lions, lately called knight of
the sorrowful figure, sends me to beg your
grandeur would be pleased to give leave
that, with your liking and good-will, he
may approach and accomplish his wishes,
which, as he says, and I believe, are no
other than to serve your exalted beauty,
which, if your ladyship grant, you will do
a thing that will redound to the great benefit
of your highness and to him ; it will be a
mighty favour and satisfaction."
" Truly, good squire," answered the lady,
" yon have delivered your message with all
the circumstances which such embassies
require ; rise up, I pray ; for it is not fit the
squire of so renowned a knight as he of the
sorrowful figure, of whom we have already
heard much in these parts, should remain
upon his knees; — rise, friend, and desire
your master, by all means, to honour us
with his company, that my lord duke and I
may pay him our respects at a rural man-
sion we have here, hard by." Sancho rose
up, no less amazed at the lady's beauty than
at her afiability and courteous deportment,
and yet more tiiat her ladyship should have
any knowledge of his master, the knight of
the sorrowful figure! and, if she did not
give him his true title, he concluded it
was because he had assumed it so lately.
"Pray," said the Duchess (whose title is
yet unknown), " is not your master llie
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
865
^-
persoD of whom there is a history in print,
called, 'The ingeniouB gentleman Don
Quixote de la Mancha/ and who has for the
mistress of his affections a certain lady
named Dulcinea del Toboso V " The very
same/' answered Sancho ; *' and that squire
of his, called Sancho Panza, who is, or
ought to be, spoken of in the same history,
am I, unless I was changed in the cradle, —
I mean in the printing." '^ I am much de>
lighted by what you lell me," quoth the
duchess ; '^ go to your master, good Panza,
and give him my invitation and hearty
welcome to my house ; and tell him that
nothing could happen to me which would
afford me greater pleasure." Sancho, over-
joyed at this gracious answer, hastened back
to his master, and repeated to him all that
the great lady had said to him ; extolling to
the skies, in his rustic phrase, her extraor-
dinary beauty and courteous behaviour.
Don Quixote seated himself, handsomely,
in his saddle, adjusted his vizor, enlivened
Ilozinante's mettle, and, assuming a polite
and stately deportment, advanced to kiss the
hand of the Duchess. Her Grace, in the
meantime, having called the Duke, her hus-
band, had already given him an account of
tlie embassy she had just received ; and, as
tliey had read the first part of this history,
and were, therefore, aware of the extrava-
gant humour of Don Quixote, they waited
for him with infinite pleasure and the mi/st
eager desire to be acquainted with him:
determined to indulge his humour to the
utmost, and, while he remained with them,
treat him as a knight -errant, with all the
ceremonies described in books of chivalry,
which they took pleasure in reading.
Don Quixote now arrived witli his bever
up ; and, signifying his intention to alight,
Sancho was hastening to hold his stirrup,
bat, unfortunately, in dismounting from
Dapple, his foot caught in one of the rope-
stirrups in such manner that it was im-
possible for him to disentangle himself; and
be hung by it, with liis face and breast on the
ground. Don Quixote, who was not ac-
customed to alight without having his stirrup
held, thinking that Sancho was already there
to do his office, threw his body off with a
swing of his right leg, that brought down
Hozinante's saddle ; and, the girth giving
way, both he and the saddle, to his great
shame and mortification, came to the ground,
where he lay, muttering between his teeth
many a heavy execration against the unfor-
tunate Sancho, who was still hanging by
the leg. The duke having commanded some
of his attendants to relieve the knight and
squire, they raised up Don Quixote, who,
though much discomposed by his &11, and
limping, made an effort to approach and
kneel before the lord and lady. The duke,
however, would by no means suffer it ; on
the contrary, alighting from his horse he
immediately went up and embraced him,
saying, " I am very sorry, sir -knight, that
such a mischance should happen to you on
your first arrival on my domains : but the
negligence of squhres is oflten the occasion
of even greater disasters." <' The moment
cannot be unfortunate that introduces me
to your highness," replied Don Quixote,
" and, had my fall been to the centre of the
deep abyss, the glory of seeing your high-
ness would have raised me thence. My
squire, whom God confound, is better at
letting loose his tongue to utter impertinence
than at securing a saddle ; but, whether
down or up, on horsebackor on foot, I shall
always be at the service of your highness,
and that of my lady duchess your worthy
consort— the sovereign lady of beauty, and
universal princess of all courtesy." "Softly,
dear sigñor Don Quixote de la Mancha,"
quoth the duke, '^for, while the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso exists, no other beauty
can be named."
Sancho Panza had now got freed from
the noose, and being near, before his master
could answer, he said, "It cannot be denied
— ^nay, it must be declared, that my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso is a rare beauty : but,
' where we are least aware, there starts the
hare.' I hav||- heard say that what they
call nature is like a potter who makes
earthen vessels, and he who makes one
handsome vessel may also make two, and
three, and a hundred. This I say because,
by my faith, her highness there comes not
a whit behind my mistress the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso." Don Quixote here turned to
the duchess, and said, " I assure your grace
i!
856
ADVENTURES OF
never any knight-errant in the world had a
more conceited and troublesome prater for
his squire than I have ; of this he will give
ample proof, if it please your highness to
accept of my service for some days." ** I
am glad to hear that my friend Sancho is
conceited," replied the duchess, ''it is a
sign he has good sense : for wit and gay
conceits, as you well know, sigñor Don
Quixote, proceed not from dull h^s ; and,
since you acknowledge that Sancho has wit
and pleasantry, I shall henceforth pronounce
him to be wise " " and a prater," added
Don Quixote. " So much the better," said
the duke, '' for many good things cannot
be expressed in a few words ; and, that we
may not throw away all our time upon them,
come on, sir-knight of the sorrowful figure."
'' Of the lions, your highness should say,"
quoth Sancho ; '' the sorrowful figure is no
more." ** Of the lions then let it be," con-
tinued the duke, '' I say, come on, sir-knight
of the lions, to a castle of mine hard by,
where you shall be received in a manner
suitable to a person of your distinction, and
as the duchess and I are accustomed to
receive all knights-errant who honour us
with their society."
By this time Sancho having adjusted and
well girted Rozinante's saddle, Don Quixote
remounted, and thus he and the duke, who
rode a stately courser, with the duchess be-
tween them, proceeded towards the castle.
The duchess requested Sancho to be near
her, being mightily pleased with his arch
observations ; nor did Sancho require much
entreaty, but, joining the other three, made
a fourth in the conversation, to the great
satisfaction of the duke and duchess, who
looked upon themselves as highly fortunate
in having to introduce such guests to their
castle, and the prospect of enjoying the
company of such a knight-errant, and such
an errant squire.
CHAPTER XXXI.
WHICH TREATS OP MANY GREAT THINGS.
ExcBSSTVBwas the joy of Sancho on seeing
himself, as he thought, a favourite with the
duchess : not doubting but that he should
find in her castle the same abundance that
prevailed in the mansions of Don Diego
and Basilius : for good cheer was the de-
light of his heart, and therefore he always
took care to seize by the forelock every
opportunity to indulge that passion. Now
the history relates that, before they came
to the rural mansion, or castle, of the duke,
his highness rode on before and gave direc-
tions to his servants in what manner they
were to behave to Don Quixote ; therefore,
when he arrived with the duchess at the
castle gate, there immediately issued out
two lacqueys or grooms, clad in a kind of
robe or gown of fine crimson satin reaching
to their feet $ and, taking Don Quixote in
their arms, they privately said to him, ** Go,
great sir, and assist our lady the duchess to
alight." The knight accordingly hastened
to offer his services, which, after much cere-
mony and many compliments, her grace
positively declined, saying that she would
not alight from her palfrey, but into the
duke's arms, as she did not think herself
worthy to charge so great a knight with so
unprofitable a burthen. At length the duke
came out and lifted her from her horse ;
and, on their entering into a large inner-
court of the castle, two beautiful damsels
advanced and threw over Don Quixote's
shoulders a large mantle of the finest scarlet,
and in an instant all the galleries of the
court -yard were crowded with men and
women — the domestic household of his grace
crying aloud, '^ Welcome the flower aud
cream of knights - errant !" Then they
sprinkled whole bottles of sweet-scented
waters upon the knight, and also on tlie
duke and duchess ; all which Don Quixote
observed with surprise and pleasure : being
now, for the first time, thoroughly convinced
that he was a true knight, and no imaginary
one, since he was treated just like the
knights -errant of former times.
Sancho, abandoning Dapple, attached
himself closely to the duchess, and entered
with her into the castle : but his conscience
soon reproached him with having left his
ass alone, and unprovided for ; he therefore
approached a reverend duenna, who, among
others, came out to receive the duchess^ and
Kq,=
a
DON QUIXOTE.
857
said to her, in a low voice^ '^ Mistress Gon-
zalez, or, pray madam, what may yonr name
be ?" " Donna Rodriguez de Grijalva,"
answered the duenna : '* what would you
have with me, friend ?" " I wish, madam
Donna Rodriguez," replied Sancho, " you
would be so good as to step to the castle-
gate, where you will find a dapple ass of
mine ; and be so kind as to order him to
be put into the stable, or put him there
yourself; for the poor thing is a little
timorous, and cannot abide to be alone/'
'' If the master be of the same web as the
man,'' answered the duenna, ''we are finely
thriven ! Go, brother, in an evil hour for
you and him that brought you hither, and
look after your beast yourself, for the du-
ennas of this house are not accustomed to
do such offices." " How now I" answered
Sancho ; " I have heard my master say —
and he is a notable hand at history — that
when Lancelot came from Britain ladies
took care of his person, and duennas of his
horse ; and, as for my ass, whatever you
may think, &ith^ I would not swap him for
sigñor Lancelot's steed." '' Hark ye, friend^
if you are a dealer in jests, take your wares
to another market : here they will not pass
— a fig, say I, for your whole budget!"
** I thank you for that," quoth Sancho,
'' for I am sure it will be a ripe one: — if
sixty's the game, you will not lose it for
want of a trick." '' You whoreson beast!"
cried the duenna, foaming with rage;
** whether I am old or not, to God I ac-
count, and not to thee, — rascal, garlic-
eating stinkard !" This she uttered so loud
that the duchess turned towards them, and,
seeing the duenna in such agitation, and
her face and eyes in it fiame, asked her
with whom she was so angry. " With this
man here," answered the duenna, ''who
has desired me, in good earnest, to go and
pat into the stable an ass of his that stands
at the castle -gate; raking up, as an ex-
ample, the tale of one Lancelot, whose steed
was attended by ladies ; and, to complete
his impertinence, he coolly tells me that I
am old !" " That indeed," said the duchess,
" is an affront which cannot be endured."
Then, turning to Sancho, " Be assured,
fiiend Sancho," said she, "you are mistaken
on that point ; the veil which Donna Ro*
driguez wears is more for authority and
fashion than on account of her years."
" May I never again know a prosperous
one," quoth Sancho, " if I meant her any
offence ! I only spoke because of the great
love I bear to my ass, and I thought that
I could not do better than recommend him
to the charitable care of the good sigñora
Donna Rodriguez." Don Quixote, hearing
this altercation, now interfered. ^'Sancho^"
said he, "is this a fit place for such dis-
course ?" " Sir," answered Sancho, " every
one must speak of his wants, let him be
where he will. Here I bethought me of
Dapple, and here I spoke of him ; and, if
I had thought of him in the stable I should
have spoken of him there." To which the
duke said, " Sancho is very much in the
right, and deserves no censure. Dapple
shall have provender to his heart's content ;
and let Sancho take no further care, for he
shall be treated like his own person."
Witli this conversation — pleasing to all
but Don Quixote — they ascended the great
stairs, and conducted the knight into a
spacious hall, sumptuously hung with cloth
of gold and rich brocade. Six damsels at-
tended to take off his armour and serve as
pages, all tutored by the duke and ducless
in their behaviour towards him, in order to
confirm his delusion. Don Quixote, being
now unarmed, remained in his straight
breeches and chamois doublet, lean, tall,
and stiff, with his cheeks shrunk into his
head ; making such a figure that the dam-
saJs who waited on him had much difficulty
to restrain their mirth, and observe, in his
presence, that decorum which had been
strictly enjoined by their lord and lady.
They begged he would suffer himself to be
undressed, for the purpose of changing hb
linen ; but he would by no means consent,
saying that modesty was as becoming a
knight -errant as courage. However, he
bade them give the shirt to Sancho ; and,
retiring with him to an apartment where
there was a rich bed, he pulled off his
clothes, and there put it on. Being thus
alone with Sancho, he said to him, "Tell
me, buffoon and blockhead! dost tLou
imagine it a becoming thing to abuse and
-^
358
ADVENTURES OF
insult a duenna so venerable and so worthy
of respect ? Was that a time to* think of
Dapple ? Or is it probable that these noble
persons would suflfer our beasts to fare
poorly, when they treat their owners so
honourably? — For the love of God, Sancho,
restrain thyself, and discover not the grain,
lest it should be seen how coarse the web is
of which thou art spun. Remember, sinner,
the master is esteemed in proportion as his
servants are respectable and well-behaved ;
and one of the greatest advantages which
the great enjoy over other men is that they
are served by domestics of a superior mould.
Dost thou not consider — plague to thyself,
and torment to me ! — that, if it is perceived
that thou art a rude clown or a conceited
fool, they will be apt to think that I am an
impostor, or some knight of the sharping
order ? Avoid, friend Sancho, pray avoid,
these impertinences, for whoever sets up
for a talker and a wit sinks, at the first
trip, into a contemptible buffoon. Bridle
thy tongue : consider and deliberate upon
thy wotds before they quit thy lips ; and
recollect that we are now in a place whence,
by the help of God and the valour of my
arm, we may depart bettered by three, or,
perhaps, five- fold in fortune and reputa-
tion." Sancho promised him faithfully to
sew up his mouth, or bite his tongue, before
he spoke a word that was not duly con-
sidered, and to the purpose ; and assured
him that he need be under no fear of his
saying anything that would tend to his
worship's discredit.
Don Quixote then dressed himself, girt
on his sword, threw the scarlet mantle over
his shoulders, put on a green satin cap
which the damsels had given him, and,
thus equipped, marched out into the great
saloon, where he found the damsels drawn
up on each side in two equal ranks, and all
of them provided with an equipage for wash-
ing his hands, which they administered with
many reverences and much ceremony. Then
came twelve pages, with the major-domo,
to conduct him to dinner, the lord and lady
being now waiting for him; and, having
placed him in the midst of them with great
pomp and majesty, they proceeded to another
hall, where a rich table was spread with
four covers only. The duke and duchess
came to the door to receive him, accom-
panied by a grave ecclesiastic— one of tliosc
who govern great men's houses: one of
those who, not being nobly bom them-
selves, are unable to direct the conduct of
those who are so; who would have the
liberality of the great measured by tlie
narrowness of their own souls: making
those whom they govern penurious, under
the pretence of teaching them to be prudent
One of this species was the grave eccJesias^
tic who came out with the duke to receive
Don Quixote. After a thousand courtly
compliments mutually interchanged, Don
Quixote advanced towards the table, be-
tween the duke and duchess, and, on pre-
paring to seat themselves, they ofiered the
upper end to Don Quixote, who would have
declined it but for the pressing importunities
of the duke. The ecclesiastic seated him-
self opposite to the knight, and the duke
and duchess on each side. Sancho xi'us
present all the while, in amazement to see
the honour paid by those great people to
his master, and, whilst the numerous en-
treaties and ceremonies were passing be-
tween the duke and Don Quixote, before
he would sit down at the head of the tabic,
he said, " With your honour's leave I will
tell you a story of what happened in oar
town about seats." Don Quixote imme-
diately began to tremble, not doubting bat
that he was going to say something absurd.
Sancho observed him, and, understanding
his looks, he said, '^ Be not afraid, sir, of
my breaking loose, or saying anything that
is not pat to the purpose. I have not for-
gotten the advice your worship gave me a
while ago, about talking much or little, well
or ill." " I remember nothing, Sancho,*'
answered Don Quixote ; " say what thon
wilt, BO thou say'st it quickly.'* " What I
would say," quoth Sancho, " is very true,
for my master Don Quixote, who is present,
will not suffer me to lie." ^' Lie as much
as thon wilt for me, Sancho," replied Don
Quixote; ''I shall not hinder thee; bat
take heed what thou art going to say.'*
*^ I have heeded it over and over again,
so that all is as safe as if I had the game
in my hand, as you shall presently see."
f5)=
= ^
DON QUIXOTE.
859
** Your graces will do well/' said Don
Quixote, ** to order this blockhead to retire^
that you may get rid of his troublesome
folly." " By the life of the duke," quoth
the duchess, ^' Saucho shall not stir a jot
from me : I have a great regard for him,
and am assured of his discretion." '^ Many
happy years may your holiness live," quoth
Sancho, ^* for the good opinion you have of
me, little as I deserve it. — But the talc I
would tell is tbis :
« A certain gentleman of our town, very
rich, and of a good family ^for he was
descended from the Alamos of Medina del
Campo, and married Donna Mencia de
Quinnones, who was daughter of Don
Alonzo de Marannon, knight of the order
of St. James, the same that was drowned in
the Herradura, about whom that quarrel
happened in our town, in which it was said
my master Don Quixote had a hand, and
Tommy the mad -cap, son of Balvastro the
blacksmith, was hurt pray^ good master
of mine, is not all this true? Speak, I
beseech you, that their worships may not
take me for some lying prater." " As yet,"
said the ecclesiastic, " I take you rather
for a prater than for a liar ; but I know
not what I shall next take yon for."
''Thou hast produced so many witnesses
and so many proofs," said Don Quixote,
'< that I cannot but say thou may'st pro-
bably be speaking truth; but, for heaven's
sake, shorten thy story, or it will last these
two days." " He shall shorten nothing,"
quoth the duchess ; '' and, to please me, he
shall tell it his own way, aldiough he were
not to finish these six days ; and, should it
last so long, they would be to me days of
delight."
"I must tell you, then," proceeded
Sancho, *^ that this same gentleman — whom
I know as well as I do my right hand from
my left, for it is not a bow -shot from my
bouse to his — invited a husbandman to dine
with him — a poor man, but mainly honest."
— '' On, friend," said the chaplain, " for,
at the rate you proceed, your tale will not
reach its end till you reach the other world."
** I shall stop," replied Sancho, ** before I
get half way thither, if it please God !—
This same farmer, coming to the house of
the gentleman his inviter God rest his
soul ; for he is dead and gone ; and, more-
over, died like an angel, as it is said— for I
was not by myself, being, at that time,
gone a reaping to Tembleque." " Prithee,
son," said the ecclesiastic, ''come back
quickly from Tembleque, and stay not to
bury the gentleman, unless you are deter-
mined upon more burials ; — pray make an
end of your tale." " The business, then,"
quoth Sancho, " was this, that, they being
ready to sit down to table roethinks I
see them now plainer than ever." The
duke and duchess were highly diverted at
the impatience of the good ecclesiastic at
the length and pauses of Sancho's tale ; but
Don Quixote was almost suffocated with
rage and vexation. " I say then," quoth
Sancho, " that, as they were both standing
before the dinner- table, just ready to sit
down, the farmer insisted that the gentle-
man should take the upper-end of the table,
and the gentleman as positively pressed the
fanner to take it, saying he ought to be
master in his own house. But the country-
man, piqueing himself upon his good breed-
ing, still refused to comply, till the gentle-
man, losing all patience, laid both his hands
upon the fanner's shoulders, and made him
sit down by main force, saying, ^Sit
thee down, clod -pole I for, in whatever
place I am seated, that is the upper end
to thee.' This is my tale, and truly I
think it comes in here pretty much to the
purpose."
The natural brown of Don Quixote's
face was flushed with anger and shame at
Sancho's insinuations, so that the duke and
duchess, seeing his distress, endeavoured
to restrain their laughter ; and, to prevent
further impertinence from Sancho, the
duchess asked Don Quixote what news he
had last reoeived of the lady Dulcinea, and
whether he had lately sent her any presents
of giants or caitiffs, since he must certainly
have vanquished many. " Alas, madam !"
answered he, " my misfortunes have had a
beginning, but they will never have an end.
Giants I have conquered, and robbers, and
wicked caitifls ; and many have I sent to
the mistress of my soul ; but where should
they find her, transformed as she now is
3G0
ADVENTURES OF
into the homeliest rustic wench that the
imaginatíon ever conceived?" "I know
rot, sir, how that can be," qaoth Sancho,
*«- for to me she appeared the most beautiful
creature in the world : at least for nimble-
ness, or in a kind of spring she has with
her, I am sure no stage -tumbler can go
beyond her. In good faith, my lady duchess,
she springs from the ground upon an ass
as if she were a cat." ''Have you seen
her enchanted, Sancho ?" quoth the duke.
** Seen her !" answered Sancho ; " who the
devil was it but I that first hit upon the
business of her enchantment 7 Yes, she b
as much enchanted as my father."
The ecclesiastic, when he heard talk of
giants, caitiffs, and enchantments, began to
suspect that this must be the Don Quixote
de la Mancha whose history the duke was
often reading ; and he had as frequently re-
proved him for so doing ; telling him it was
idle to read such fooleries. Being assured
of the truth of his suspicion, with much
indignation, he said to the duke, ''Your
excellency will be accountable to God for
the actions of this poor man — this Don
Quixote, or Don Coxcomb, or whatever you
are pleased to call him, cannot be quite so
mad as your excellency would make him by
thus encouraging his extravagant fancies."
Then, turning to Don Quixote, he said, —
'*And you, signer addle-pate, — who has
thrust it into your brain that you are a
knight-errant, and that you vanquish giants
and robbers ? Go, get you home in a good
hour, and in such are you now admonished ;
return to your &mily, and look to your
children, if you have any; mind your
affairs, and cease to be a vagabond about
the world, sucking the wind, and drawing
on yourself the derision of all that know
you, or know you not. Where, with a
murrain, have you ever found that there
are, or ever were, in the world such creatures
as knights-errant 7 Where are there giants
in Spain, or caitiffs in La Mancha, or en-
chanted Dulcineas, or all the rabble rout
of follies that are told of you?" Don
Quixote was very attentive to the words of
the reverend gentleman, and, finding that
he was now silent, regardless of the respect
due to the duke and duchess, up he started.
with indignation and fury in his looks, and
said but his answer deserves a chapter
to itself.
CHAPTER XXXII.
OP THE ANSWER DON QUIXOTE GAVE TO
HIS REPROVER ; WITH OTHER IHPOB-
TANT AND PLEASING EVENTS.
Don Quixote, then, rising up, and trem-
bling like quicksilver from head to foot, in
an agitated voice he said: <*The place
where I am, and the presence of the noble
personages before whom I stand, as well
as the respect which I have ever enter-
tained for your profession, restrain my jnst
indignation ; for these reasons, and because
I know, as all the world knows, that tbe
weapons of gownsmen, like tjiose of womeq,
are their tongues, with the same weapon,
in equal combat, I will engage with your
reverence, from whom good counsel might
have been expected, rather than scurrility.
Charitable and wholesome reproof requires
a different language ; at least it most be
owned that reproach so public, as well as
rude, exceeds the bounds of decent repre-
hension. Mildness, sir, would have been
better than asperity ; but was it eitíier
just or decent, at once, and without know-
ledge of the fault, plainly to proclaim the
offender — roadman and idiot ? Tell me, I
beseech your reverence, for which of the
follies you have observed in me do yon
thus condemn and revile me, desiring me
to go home and take care of my house, and
of my wife and children, without knowing
whether I have either? What! there is
nothing more to do, then, but boldly enter
into other men's houses, and govern the
masters, for a poor pedagogue, who never
saw more of the world than twenty or
thirty leagues around him, rashly to pre-
sume to give laws to chivalry, and pass
judgment upon knights-errant ! Is it, for-
sooth, idleness, or time mis-spent, to range
the world, not seeking its pleasures, but its
hardships, through which good men aspire
to toe seat of immortality ?--If men, high-
born, and of liberal minds, were to proclaim
me a madman, I should regard it as an
irreparable affront ; but to be esteemed a
p;=
=3
DON QUIXOTE.
361
fool by pedants who never trod the paths
of chivalry^ I value it not a rush. A knight
I am, and a knight I will die, if it be
heaven's good -will. Some choose the
spacious field of proud ambition ; others the
mean path of servile and base flattery ; some
seek die way of deceitful hypocrisy, and
others that of true religion : but I, directed
by the star that rules my fate, take the
narrow path of knight-errantry ; despising
wealth, but thirsting for honour. I have
redressed grievances, righted wrongs, chas-
tised insolence, vanquished giants, and
trampled upon hobgoblins: I am enamoured
— for knights -errant must be so ; but I am
conscious of no licentious passion — my love
is of the chaste Platonic kind. My inten-
tions are always directed to virtuous ends
— to do good to all, and injury to none.
Whether he who thus means, thus acts, and
thus lives, deserves to be called fool, let
your highnesses judge, most excellent duke
and duchess."
" WeU said, i'faith!" quoth Sancho, «say
no more for yourself, good lord and master ;
for there is nothing more in the world to be
said, thought or done. And, besides, this
gentleman denying, as he has denied, that
there neither are, nor ever were, knights-
errant, no wonder if he knows nothing of
what he has been talking about." *' So
then," said the ecclesiastic, *' you, I suppose,
are that same Sancho Panza they talk of, to
whom, it is said, your master has promised
an island ?" «I am that Sancho," replied
the squire, " and deserve it too, as well as
any other he whatever. Of such as me, it
is said, * Keep company with the good, and
thou wilt be one of them ;' and ' Not with
whom thou wert bred, but with whom thou
hast fed ;' and, ^ He that leaneth against a
good tree, a good shelter findeth he.' I
have leaned and stuck close to a good
master these many months, and shall be
such another as he, if it be God's good
pleasure ; and if he lives, and I live, neither
shall he want kingdoms to rule, nor I islands
to govern." ** That you shall not, friend
Sancho," said the duke, « for, in the name
of signer Don Quixote, I promise you the
government of one of mine now vacant,
and of no inconsiderable value." « Kneel,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, « and kiss his
excellency's feet for the favour he has
done thee." Sancho did so; upon which
the ecclesiastic got up from table in great
wrath, saying, « By the habit I wear, I
could find in my heart to say that your
excellency is as simple as these sinners ; no
wonder they are mad, since wise men
authorise their follies! Your excellency
may stay with them, if you please ; but,
while they are in this house, 1 will remain
in my own, and save myself the trouble of
reproving where I cannot amend." Then,
without saying another word, and leaving
his meal unfinished, away he went, in spite
of the entreaties of the duke and duchess :
though, indeed, the duke could not say
much, through laughter at his foolish
petulance.
As soon as his laughter would allow him,
the duke said to Don Quixote, « Sir knight
of the lions, you have answered so well for
yourself and' your profession, that you can
require no further satis&ction of the angry
clergyman ; especially if you consider that,
whatever he might say, it was impossible
for him, as you well know, to affront a
person of your character." «It is true,
my lord," answered Don Quixote, « who-
ever cannot receive an afiront cannot give
one. Women, children, and churchmen, as
they cannot defend themselves if attacked,
so they cannot be afironted, because, as
your excellency better knows, there is this
difference between an injury and an affront:
an affront must come from a person who
not only gives it, but who can maintain it
when it is given : an injury may come from
any hand. A man, for example, walking
in the street, is unexpectedly set upon by
ten armed men, who beat him ; he draws
his sword to avenge the injury, but, the
assailants overpowering him by numbers,
he is compelled to forego the satisfaction he
desired: this person is injured, but not
affronted. Again, let us suppose one man
to come secretly behind another, and strike
him with a cudgel, then run away ; the
man pursues him, but the offender escapes :
he who received the blow is injured, it is
true, but has received no affront, because
the violence offered is not maintained* If
303
ADVENTURES OF
he who gave the blow^ though it was
done basely, stands his ground to answer
for the deed, then he who was stmck is
both injured and affronted : injured because
he was struck in a secret and cowardly
manner, and afironted because he who gave
tlie blow stood his ground to maintain what
he had none. According to the laws of duel,
therefore, I may be injured, but not afironted ;
for, as women and children can neither
resent nor maintain opposition, so it is with
the clergy, who carry no weapons, either
offensive or defensive; and, though they
have a right to ward off all violence offered
to themselves, they can offer no affront that
demands honourable satisfaction. Upon
consideration, therefore, although I before
said I was injured, I now afRrm that it
could not be; for he who can receive no
affront can give none ; and, consequently,
I neither ought, nor do, feel any resentment
for what that good man said to me — only I
could have wished he had staid a little
longer, that I might have convinced him of
his error in supposing that knights- errant
never existed in the world. Indeed, had
Amadis, or any of his numerous descend-
ants, heard so strange an assertion, I am
persuaded it would have gone hard with
his reverence." "That I will swear,"
quoth Sancho ; 'f at one slash they would
have cleft him from top to bottom like a
pomegpranate : they were not folks to be
so jested with. Odds life ! had Reynaldos
of Montalvan heard the little gentleman
talk at that rate, he would have given him
such a gag as would have stopped his mouth
for three years at least. Ay, ay, let him
fall into their clutches, and see how he
will get out again !" The duchess was
overcome with laughter at Sancho's zeal,
and thought him more diverting and mad
than his master; indeed many others at
that time were of the ^amc opinion.
At length, Don Quixote being pacified and
calm, and the dinner ended, the cloth was
removed ; whereupon four damsels entered,
one with a silver ewer, anotlicr with a
bason, also of silver, a third with two fine
clean towels over her shoulder, and the
fourth with nor sleeves tucked up to her
elbows, and, in her white hands (for doubt-
less they were white), a wash-ball of Naples
soap. The damsel who held the bason now
respectfully approached the knight, and
placed it under his beard, while he, wonder-
ing at the ceremony, yet believing it to be
the custom of that country to wash beards
instead of hands, obediently thrust out his
chin as far as he could; whereupon the
ewer began to rain upon his face, while the
damsel of the wash -ball lathered his beard
with great dexterity, covering, with a snow-
white froth, not only the beard, but the
whole face, of the submissive knight, even
over his eyes, which he was compelled to
close. The duke and duchess, who were
not in the secret, were eager to know the
issue of this extraordinary ablution. The
barber - damsel, having raised a lather a
span high, pretended that the water was
all used, and ordered the girl with the ewer
to fetch more, telling her that sigñor Don
Quixote would stay till she came back.
Thus he was left, the strangest and most
ridiculous figure imaginable, to the gaze of
all that were present ; and, seeing him with
his neck half-an-ell long, more than mode-
rately swarthy, his eyes half shut, and his
whole visage under a covering of white
foam, it was marvellous, and a sigu of great
discretion, that they were able to preserve
their gravity. The damsels concerned in
the jest hung down their eyes, not daring
to look at their lord and lady, who were
divided between anger and mirth, not
knowing whether to chastise the girls for
their boldness, or reward them for the
amusement their device had afforded. The
water-nymph returned, and the beard-
washing was finished, when she who was
charged with the towels performed the
office of wiping and drying with much de-
liberation ; and thus the ceremony being
concluded, the four damsels at once, making
him a profound reverence, were retiring,
when the duke, to prevent Don Quixote
from suspecting the jest, called the damsel
with the bason, and said, " Come and do
your duty, and take care that you have
water enough." The girl, who was shrewd
and active, went up, and applied the hsknon
to the duke's chin in tlie same manner she
had done to that of Don Quixote, and with
=fíl
DON QUIXOTE.
equal adroitness, but more celerity, repeated
the ceremony of lathering, washing, and
wiping, and, the whole being done, they
made their curtsies, and retired. The duke,
however, had declared, as it afterwards
appeared, that he would have chastised them
for their pertness, if they had refused to
serve him in the same manner. Sancho
was very attentive to this washing cere-
mony. ^' Heaven guide me !'' said he,
muttering to himself, ''is it the custom, I
wonder, of this place to wash the beards
of squires, as well as of knights ? On my
conscience and soul I need it much ; and,
if they should give me a stroke of a razor
I should take it for a still greater favour.''
"What are you saying to yourself, Sancho?"
quoth the duchess. " I say, madam," an-
swered Sancho, " that, in other houses of
the great, I have always heard that, when
the cloth is taken away, the custom* is to
bring water to wash hands, but not suds to
scour beards ; ond therefore one must live
long to see much. It is also said he who
lives long must suffer much ; though, if I
am not mistaken, to be so scoured must be
rather a pleasure tlian a pain." " Be under
no concern, friend Sancho," quoth the
duchess ; " for I will order my damsels to
see to your washing, and to lay you a
bucking too, if needful." " For the pre-
sent, if my beard get a scouring I shall be
content," said Sancho ; " for the rest God
will provide hereafter." *• Here, steward,"
said the duchess, " attend to the tnshea of
good Sancho, and do precisely as he would
have you." He answered that sigfior
Sancho should, in all things, be punctuidly
obeyed ; and he then went to dinner, and
took Sancho along with him.
Meantime, Don Quixote remained with
the duke and duchess, discoursing on divers
matters relating to arms and knight-errantry.
The duchess intreated Don Quixote, since
he seemed to have so happy a memory, that
he would delineate and describe the beauty
and accomplishments of the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso : for, if fame spoke the truth,
she must needs be the fairest creature in the
world, and, consequently, in La Mancha.
*' Madam," said Don Quixote, heaving a
deep sigh, " if I could pluck out my heart
and place it before you, on this table, your
highness would there behold her painted to
the life, and I might save my tongue the
ÍTuitless labour of describing that which
can scarcely be conceived : for how am I to
delineate or describe the perfections of that
paragon of excellence? — My shoulders are
unequal to so mighty a burthen ; it is a
task worthy of the pencils of Parrhasius,
Timantes, and Apelles, and the chisel of
Lysippus, to produce, in speaking pictures,
or statues of bronze, or marble, a copy of
her beauties, and Ciceronian and Demosthe-
nian eloquence to describe them." " Pray,
signer Don Quixote," said the duchess,
" what do you mean by Demosthenian — a
word I do not recollect ever hearing?"
" Demosthenian eloquence," answered Don
Quixote, '^ means the eloquence of Demos-
thenes, as Ciceronian is that of Cicero, who
were the two greatest orators and rhetori-
cians in the world." " That is true," said
the duke, " and you betrayed your igno-
rance in asking such a question; never-
theless, sigñor Don Quixote would give us
great pleasure by endeavouring to paint her
to us : for, though it be only a rough sketch,
doubtless she will appear such as the most
beautiful may envy." "Ah I my lord, so she
certainly would," answered Don Quixote,
" had not the misfortune, which lately befel
her, blurred and defaced the lovely idea,
and razed it from my memory: — such a
misfortune that I ought rather to bewail
what she suffers than describe what she is ;
for your excellencies must know that, going
not many days since, to kiss her hands, and
receive her benediction, with her commands
and license for this third saUy, I found her
quite another person than her I sought for. I
found her enchanted and transformed from
a princess into a country wench, from beau-
tiful to ugly, from an angel to a fiend, from
fragrant to pestiferous, from courtly to rustic,
from light to darkness, from a dignified lady
to a jumping Joan, — in fine, from Dulcinea
del Toboso to an unsightly bumpkin of
Sayago." "Heaven defend me!" ex-
claimed the duke, elevating his voice,
" what villain can have done th^ world so
much injury 7 Who has deprived it of the
beauty that delighted it, the grace that
'^-^^-
(©.=
864
ADVENTURES OF
charmed, and the modesty that did it
honour?" " Who ?" answered Don Quixote,
" Who could it he but some malicious en-
chanter, of the many that persecute me : —
that wicked brood that was sent into the
world only to obscure and annihilate the
exploits of the good, and to blazon forth
and magnify the actions of the wicked?
Enchanters have hitherto persecuted me;
enchanters now persecute me, and so they
will continue to do, until they have over-
whelmed me and my lofty chivalries into
the profound abyss of oblivion I Yes, even
in the most sensible part, they injure and
wound me : well knowing that to deprive a
knight-errant of his mistress is to deprive
him of the eyes he sees with, the sun that
enlightens him, and the food that sustains
him ; for, as 1 have often said, and now
repeat it, a knight-errant, without a mis-
tress, is like a tree without leaves, an edifice
without cement, and a shadow without the
material substance, by which it should be
cast."
<' All this," said the duchess, << is not to be
denied : yet if the published history of Don
Quixote, so much applauded by all nations,
be worthy of credit, we are bound by that
authority, if I am not mistaken, to think
that there is no such lady in the world, she
being only an imaginary lady, begotten and
bom of your own brain, and dressed out
with all the graces and perfections of your
fiincyl" "There is much to be said
upon this point," answered Don Quixote ;
"heaven knows whether there be a Dul-
cinea in the world or not ; and whether she
be imaginary or not imaginary : these are
things not to be too nicely enquired into.
I neither begot, nor brought forth, my mis-
tress, though I contemplate her as a lady
endowed with all those qualifications which
may spread the glory of her name over the
whole world : — such as possessing beauty
witliout blemish, dignity without pride,
love with modesty, politeness springing
from courtesy, and courtesy from good-
breeding, and, finally, of illustrious descent;
for the beauty that is of a noble race shines
with more splendour than that which is
meanly bom." " That cannot be doubted,"
qnoth the duke ; *' but signer Don Quixote
must here give me leave to speak on tJie
authority of the history of his exploits ; for
there, although it be allowed that, either
in or out of Toboso, there is actually a Dul-
cinea, and that she is no less beautiful and
accomplished than your worship has dc
scribed her, it does not appear that, in
respect to high descent, she is upon a level
with the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, Ma-
dasimas, and many others whose names, as
you well know, are celebrated in history/'
"The lady Dulcinea," replied Don Quixote
" is the daughter of her own works ; and
your grace will acknowledge that virtue
ennobles blood, and that a virtuous person
of humble birth is more estimable than a
vicious person of rank. Besides, that incom-
parable lady has endowments which may
raise her to a crown and sceptre : for still
greater miracles are within the power of a
beautiful and virtuous woman, and, though
she may not, in form, possess the advantage
you question, the want is more than compen-
sated by that mine of intrinsic worth which
is her true inheritance." " Certainly, sigñor
Don Quixote," cried the duchess, "you tread
with great caution, and, as the saying is,
with the plummet in hand ; nevertheless, I
am determined to believe, and make all my
family, and even my lord duke, if necessary,
believe, that there is a Dulcinea del Toboso,
and that she is at this moment living,
beautiful, highly -bora, and well deserving
that such a knight as sigñor Don Quixote
should be her servant—which is tiie highest
commendation I can bestow upon her. But
there yet remains a small matter on my
mind, conceming which I cannot entirely
excuse my friend Sancho ; and it is this :
in the history of your deeds we are told
that, when Sancho Panza took your wor-
ship's letter to the lady Dulcinea, he found
her winnowing a sack of wheat, and that,
too, of the coarsest kind — a circumstance
that seems incompatible with ^ her high
birth." To tiiis Don Quixote replied,
" Your grace must know that, whether di-
rected by the inscrutable will of fate, or
contrived by the malice of envious enchant-
ers, it is certain that all, or the greater
part, of what has befallen me, is of a more
extraordinary nature than what usually
=fS)
DON QUIXOTE.
365
happens to other knights-errant ; and it is
well known that the most famous of that
order had their privileges : one was exempt
from the power of enchantment ; the flesh
of another was impenetrable to wounds, as
was the case with the reno wed Orlando,
one of the twelve peers of France, who, it
is said, was invulnerable excepting in the
heel of the left foot, and that, too, accessible
to no weapon but the point of a large pin ;
so that Bernardo del Carpió (who killed him
at Honcesvalles), perceiving that he could
not wound him with steel, snatched him
from the ground, and squeezed him to
death betwixt his arms ; recollecting, pro-
bably, that the giant Antseus was so de-
stroyed by Hercules. It may fairly be pre-
sumed, therefore, that I have some of those
privileges — not that of being invulnerable,
for experience has often shewn me that I
am made of tender flesh, and by no means
impenetrable: nor that of being exempt
from the power of enchantment, for I have
already been confined in a cage, into which,
but for that power, the whole world could
never have forced me. However, since I
freed myself thence, I am inclined to believe
no other can reach me ; and therefore these
enchanters, seeing they cannot practise their
wicked artifices upon my person, wreak
their vengeance upon the object of my
aflections ; hoping, by their evil treatment
of her in whom I exist, to take that life
which was, otherwise, proof against their
incantations. I am convinced, therefore,
that, when Sancho delivered my message
to the lady Dulcinea, they presented her to
him in the form of a country wench engaged
in the mean employment of winnowing
wheat. But, as I have said before, what
she seemed to winnow was not red, neither
was it wheat, but grains of oriental pearl ;
and, in confirmation of this^ I must tell your
excellences that, passing lately through
Toboso, I could nowhere find the palace of
Dulcinea; — nay more, not many days ago
she was seen, by my squire, in her proper
figure, the most beautiful that can be ima-
gined, while at the same moment she ap-
peared to me a coarse, ugly country wench,
and her language, instead of being discretion
itself, was no less offensive. Thus, then, it
appears that, since I am not, and probably
cannot be, enchanted, she is made to suffer;
she is the enchanted, the injured, the me-
tamorphosed and transformed ; in her my
enemies have revenged themselves on me,
and for her I shall live in perpetual tears
till I see her restored to her pristine state.
'^ All this I say that nothing injurious to
my lady may be inferred from what Sancho
has related of her sifting and winnowing ;
for, if she appeared so changed to me at one
time, no wonder that she should seem trans-
formed to him at another. Assuredly the
peerless Dulcinea is highly-born, and allied
in blood to the best and most ancient fami-
lies of Toboso, which town will, from her
name, be no less famous, in after ages, than
Troy is for its Helen, and Spain for its Cava ;
though on a more honourable account. And
in regard to my squire Sancho Panza, I beg
your highnesses will do him the justice to
believe that never was knight-errant served
by a squire of more pleasantry. His shrewd-
ness and simplicity appear, at times, so
curiously mingled that it is amusing to
consider which of the two prevails : he has
cunning enough to be suspected of knavery^
and absurdity enough to be thought a fool.
He doubts everything, yet he believes every-
thing ; and, when I imagine him about to
sink into a downright idiot, out comes some
observation so pithy and sagacious that I
know not where to stop in my admiration.
In short I would not exchange him for any
other squire, though a city were offered me
in addition ; and, therefore, I am in doubt
whether I shall do well to send him to the
government your highness has conferred on
him, though I perceive in him a capacity
so well suited to such an office that, with
but a moderate addition of polish to his un-
derstanding, he will be a perfect master in
the art of governing. Besides, we know,
by sundry proofe, that neither great talents
nor much learning are necessary to such
appointments; for there are hundreds of
governors who, though they can scarcely
read, yet, in their duty, are as sharp as
hawks. The chief requisite is a good inten-
tion : those who have no other desire than
to act uprightly will always find able
and virtuous counsellors to instruct them.
=©
®=
366
ADVENTURES OF
Governors, being soldiers, and therefore pro-
bably unlearned, have often need of an
assistant to be ready with advice. My
counsel to Sancho would be, ' All bribes to
refuse, but insist on his dues ;' with some
otlier little matters which lie in my breast,
and which shall come forth in proper time
for Sancbo's benefit, and the welfare of the
island he is to govern.'/
In this manner were the duke, the duchess,
and Don Quixote conversing, when sud-
denly a great noise of many voices was
heard in another part of the palace, and
presently Sancho rushed into the saloon,
with a terrified countenance, and a dish-
clout under his chin, followed by a number
of kitchen -helpers, and other inferior ser-
vants ; one of whom carried a trough full
of something that seemed to be dish-water,
with which he followed close upon Sancho,
and made many efibrts to place it under his
chin, while another scullion seemed equally
eager to wash his beard with it. " What
is the matter, fellows 1" quoth the duchess ;
"what would you do with this good man ?
Do you not know that he is a governor
elect V* " This gentleman," said the roguish
beard- washer, " will not suffer himself to be
washed, according to custom, and as our
lord the duke and his master have been."
** Yes, I will," answered Sancho, in great
wratli, " but I would have cleaner towels
and clearer suds, and not such filthy hands,
for there is no such difference between me
and my master, that he should be washed
with angel -water, and I with the devil's
ley. The customs of countries or of great
men's houses are good as far as they are
agreeable ; but this of beard-scouring, here,
is worse than the friar's scourge. My beard
is clean, and I have no need of such refresh-
ings; and he who offers to scour me, or
touch a hair of my head — my beard I should
say — with due reverence be it spoken, shall
feel the full weight of my fist upon his
skull ; for such ceremonies and soapings, to
my thinking, look more like jokes and jibes
than a civil welcome." The duchess was
convulsed with laughter at Sancho's re-
monstrances and rage, but Don Quixote
could not endure to behold his squire so
accoutred with a filthy towel, and baited
by a kitchen rabble. Making, therefore,
a low bow to the duke and duchess, as if
requesting their permission to speak, he
said to the greasy tribe, in a solemn voice :
" Hork ye, good people, be pleased to let
the young man alone, and jKtum whence
ye came, or whither ye list ; for my squire is
as clean as another man, and these troughs
are as odious to him as a narrow-necked
jug. Take my advice, and leave him ; for
neither he nor I understand this kind of
jesting." " No, no," quoth Sancho (inter-
rupting his master), " let them go on with
their sport, and see whether I will bear it
or no ! Let them bring hither a comb, or
what else they please, and curry this beard,
and if they find anything tliere that should
not be there I will give them leave to
shear me cross-wise."
" Sancho Panza is perfectly right," said
the duchess, " and will be so in whatever
he shall say : he is clean, and, as he truly
says, needs no. washing ; and, if he be not
pleased with our custom, he is master of his
own will. Besides, unmannerly scourers,
you, who are so forward to purify others,
are, yourselves, shamefully idle — in truth I
should say impudent, to bring your troughs
and greasy dish -clouts to such a personage
and such a beard, instead of ewers and
basons of pure gold, and towels of Dutch
diaper. Out of my sight, barbarians ! low-
bom wretches, who cannot help shewing
the spite and envy you bear to the squires
of knights -errant!" The roguish crew,
and even the major-domo, who accompanied
them, thought the duchess was in earnest,
and, hastily removing the foul doth from
Sancho's neck, they slunk away in confusion.
The squire, on being thus delivered from
what he tliought imminent danger, threw
himself on his knees before the duchess, —
" Heaven bless your highness !" quoth he,
" great persons are able to do great kind-
nesses. For my part I know not how to
repay your ladyship for that you have just
done me, and can only wish myself dubbed
a knight -errant, that I may employ all the
days of my life in the service of so high
a lady. A peasant I am, Sancho Panza my
name ; I am married, I have children, and
I serve as a squire ; if with any one of
i!
Co=
^17^.-- ^^^-"^1%-
J.WALMSI EY S»
p. 967.
=<?^
DON QUIXOTE.
3C7
these I can be serviceable to your grandeur,
I shall be nimbler in obeying than your
ladyship in commanding.'' '^ It plainly
appears, Sancho/' answered the duchess,
^* that you have learned to be courteous in
the school of courtesy itself. — I mean it is
evident that you have been bred under the
wing of sigñor Don Quixote, who is the
very cream of complaisance, and the flower
of ceremony. Well may it fare with such
a master and such a man ! — the one the
polar star of knight-errantry, and the other
the bright luminary of squire -like fidelity !
Rise up, friend Sancho, and be assured I
will reward your courtesy by prevaling
with my lord duke to hasten the perform-
ance of tlie promise be has made you of
a government,"
Here the conversation ceased, and Don
Quixote went to repose during the heat of
the day ; and the duchess desired Sancho,
if he had no inclination to sleep, to pass the
ai^moon with her and her damsels in a
very cool apartment. Sancho said, in reply,
that, though he was wont to sleep four or
five hours a day, during the afternoon heats
of the summer, yet, to wait upon her good-
ness, he would endeavour, with all his might,
not to sleep at all that day, and would
be at her service. He accordingly retired
with the duchess; while the duke made
further arrangements concerning the treat-
ment of Don Quixote : being desirous that
it should, in all things, be strictly conform-
able to the style in which it is recorded the
knights of former times were treated.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
OPTHE RELISHING CONVERSATION WHICH
PASSED BETWEEN THE DUCHESS, HER
DAMSELS, AND SANCHO PANZA I —
WORTHY TO BE READ AND NOTED.
The history then relates that Sancho
Panza did not take his afternoon sleep,
but, in compliance with his promise, went
immediately after his dinner to see the
duchess, who, being delighted to hear him
talk, desired him to sit down by her on a
stool, although Sancho, out of pure good
manners, would have declined it ; but the
duchess told him that he must be seated as
a governor, and talk as a squire, since in
both those capacities he deserved the very
seat of the famous champion Cid Ruy Dias.
Sancho therefore submitted, and placed
himself close by the duchess, while all her
damsels and duennas drew near and stood
in silent attention to hear the conversation.
'^ Now that we are alone," said the duchess,
" where nobody can overhear us, I wish
signer governor would satisfy me as to
certain doubts that have arisen from the
printed history of the great Don Quixote ;
one of which is that, as honest Sancho
never saw Dulcinea — I mean the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso — nor delivered to her
the letter of Don Quixote, which was left
in the pocket-book in the Sierra Morena, I
would be glad to know how he could pre-
sume to feign an answer to that letter, or
assert that he found her winnowing wheat,
which he must have known to be altogether
iaise, and much to the prejudice of the
peerless Dulcinea's character, as well as
inconsistent with the duty and fidelity of a
trusty squire."
At these words, without making any
reply, Sancho got up from his. stool, and
with his body bent, and the tip of his fore-
finger on his lips, he stepped softly round
the room, lifting up the hangings ; and this
done, he sat himself down again and said :
^' Now, madam, that I am sure nobody but
the company present can hear us, I will
answer, without fear, to aH you ask of me ;
and the first thing I tell you is that I take my
master Don Quixote for a downright mad-
man ; and tliough sometimes he will talk in
a way which, to my thinking, and in the opi-
nion of all who hear him, is so much to the
purpose that Satan himself could not speak
better, yet for all that I believe him to be
really and truly mad. Now this being so,
as in my mind it is, nothing is more easy
than to make him believe anything, though
it has neither head nor tail : like that aflair
of the answer to the letter, and another
matter of some six or eight days' standing,
which is not yet in print — I mean the en-
chantment of my mistress Donna Dulcinea ;
for you must know I made him believe she
was enchanted, though it was no more true
=©
ADVENTURES OF
than that the moon is a horn lanteni."
The duchess desired him to tell her the par-
ticulars of that enchantment or jest; and
Sancho recounted the whole, exactly as it
had passed, very much to the entertainment
of his hearers. " From what honest Sancho
has told me/' said the duchess, ^' a certain
scruple troubles me, and something whispers
in my ear, saying, ' Since Don Quixote de
la Mancha is such a lunatic and simpleton,
surely Sancho Panza his squire, who knows
it, and yet follows and serves him, relying
on his vain promises, must be more mad
than his master ! Now this being the case,
it will surely turn to bad account, lady
duchess, if to such a Sancho Panza thou
givest an island to govern : for how should
he who rules himself so ill be able to govern
others V* " Faith, madam," quoth Sancho,
'' that same scruple is an honest scruple,
and need not speak in a whisper, but plain
out, or as it Ibts ; for I know it says true,
and, had I been wise, I should long since
have left my master ; — ^but such is my lot,
or such my evil-errantry. I cannot help
it, — follow him I must: we are both of
the same town, I have eaten his bread, I
love him, and he returns my love ; he gave
me his ass-colts : — above all, I am faithful,
so that nothing in the world can part us but
the sexton's spade and shovel ; and if your
highness does not choose to give me the
government you promised, God made me
without it, and perhaps it may be all the
better for my conscience if I do not get it ;
for, fool as I am, I understand the proverb,
* The pismire had wings to her sorrow ;'
and perhaps it may be easier for Sancho
the squire to get to heaven than for Sancho
the governor. They make as good bread
here as in France ; and by night all cats
are grey ; unhappy is he who has not
breakfasted at three ; and no stomach is a
span bigger than another, and may be
filled, as they say, with straw or with hay.
Of the little birds in the air God himself
takes the care ; and four yards of coarse
cloth of Cuenza are warmer than as many
of ñne Segovia serge ; and, in travelling
from this world to the next, the road is no
wider for the prince than the peasant. The
pope's body takes up no more room tlian
that of the sexton, though a loftier person ;
for in the grave we must pack close together,
whether we like it or not : so good night
to all. And let me tell yon again that, if
your highness will not give me the island,
because I am a fool, I will be wise enough
not to care a fig for it. I have heard say
the devil lurks behind the cross ; all is not
gold that glitters. From the plough-tail
Bamba was raised to the throne of Spain,
and from his riches and revels was Roderigo
cast down to be devoured by serpents, — if
ancient ballads tell the truth." " And bow
should they lie ?" said the duenna Rodri-
guez, who was among the attendants. ^* I
remember one that relates how a king named
Roderigo was shut up all alive in a tomb
full of toads, snakes, and lizards ; and how,
añer two days' imprisonment, his voice was
heard from the tomb, crying in a low and
dolorous tone, ' Now they gnaw me, now
they gnaw me, in the part by which I sinned
most !' and according to this, the gentleman
has much reason to say he would rather be
a poor labourer than a king, to be devoored
by such vermin,"
The duchess was highly amused with
Sancho's proverbs and philosophy, as well
as the simplicity of her duenna. ' ' My good
Sancho knows full well," said she, '^ that
the promise of a knight is held so sacred by
him that he will perform it even at the ex-
pense of life. The duke, my lord and hus-
band, though he is not of the errant order,
is nevertheless a knight, and therefore will
infallibly keep his word as to the promised
government. Let Sancho then be of good
cheer ; for, in spite of the envy and malice
of the world, before he is aware of it, he
may find himself seated in the state chair of
his island and territory, and in full posses-
sion of a government for which he would
refuse one of brocade three stories high.
What I charge him is to take heed how he
governs his vassals, and forget not that they
are well bom and of approved loyalty."
" As to the matter of governing," answered
Sancho, " let me alone for that. I am
naturally charitable and good to the poor,
and ' None shall dare the loaf to steal from
him that sifts and kneads the meal ;' — by
my beads ! they shall put no false dice upoa
<Py=
DON QUIXOTE.
369
me. An old dog is not to be coaxed with
a cra8t, and I know how to snufP my eyes
and keep the cobwebs from them ; for I
can tell where the shoe pinches. All this I
say to assure your highness that the good
shall have me both hand and heart, while
the bad shall find neither the one nor
f other. And, as to governing well, the
mun point in my mind is to make a good
beginning; and, that being done, who
knows bat that by the time I have been
fifteen days a governor my fingers may get
so nimble in the office that they will tickle
it off better than the drudgery I was bred
to in the field !" " You are in the right,
Sancho," quoth the duchess, " for every
thing wants time : men are not scholars at
their birth, and bishops are made of men,
not of stones. But, to return to the subject
we were just now upon, concerning the
transformation of the lady Dulcinea ; I have
reason to think that Sancho's artifice to
deceive his master, and make him believe
the peasant girl to be Dulcinea enchanted,
was, in fact, all a contrivance of some one
of the magicians who persecute Don Quix-
ote ; for really, and in truth, I know from
very good authority that the country-wench
who so lightly sprung upon her ass was
verily Dulcinea del Toboso herself; and
that my good Sancho, in thinking he had
deceived his master, was himself much more
deceived ; and there is no more doubt of
this than of any other things that we never
saw. For sigñor Sancho Panza must know
that here also we have our enchanters, who
favour né and tell us faithfully all that passes
in the world ; and believe me, Sancho, the
jnmping-wench was really Dulcinea, and is
as certainly enchanted as the mother that
bore her ; and, when we least expect it, we
shall see her again in her own true shape :
then will Sancho discover that it was he
who has been imposed upon, and not his
master."
" All that might well be," quoth Sancho,
**and now I begin to believe what my
master told of Montesinos' cave, where he
saw my lady Dulcinea del Toboso in ex-
actly the same figure and dress as when it
came into my head to enchant her, with my
own will, as I fancied, though, as your
ladyship says, it must have been quite
otherwise. Lord bless us ! How can it be
supposed that my poor head-piece could, in
an instant, have contrived so cunning a
device, or who could think my master such
a goose as to believe so unlikely a matter,
upon no better voucher than myself ! But,
madam, your goodness will know better
than to think the worse of me for all that.
Lack-a-day ! it cannot be expected that an
ignorant lout, as I am, should be able to
smell out the tricks and wiles of wicked
magicians. I contrived the thing with no
intention to offend my master, but only to
escape his chiding ; and, if it has happened
otherwise, God is in heaven, and he is the
judge of hearts." '^That is honestly
spoken," quoth the duchess ; <' but, Sancho,
did you not mention something of Monte-
sinos' cave? I should be glad to know
what you meant." Sancho then gave her
highness an account of that adventure,
with all its circumstances, and when he had
done, "See now," quoth the duchess, "if
this does not confirm what I have just said !
for, since the great Don Quixote afiirms
that he saw the very same country wench
whom Sancho met coming firom Toboso,
she certainly must be Dulcinea, and it shews
that the enchanters hereabouts are very
busy and excessively officious." " Well,"
quoth Sancho Panza, " if my lady be en-
chanted, so much the worse for her ; I do
not think myself bound to quarrel with my
master's enemies, for they must needs be
many and very wicked ones too. Still I
must saVy and it cannot be denied, that she
I saw was a country wench: a country
wench, at least I took her to be, and such
I thought her; and, if that same lass really
happened to be Dulcinea, I am not to be
called to account for it, nor ought it to be
laid at my door. Sancho, truly, would
have enough to do if he must answer for
all, and at every turn be told that Sancho
said it, Sancho did it, Sancho came back,
and Sancho returned : as if Sancho were
any body they pleased, and not that very
Sancho Panza handed about in print all the
world over, as Samson Carrasco told me,
who, at least, has been bachelonzed at
Salamanca, and such persons cannot lie,
2 B
'S
870
ADVENTURES OF
.1
unless when they have a mind to do bo, or
when it may turn to good account : so that
there is no reason to meddle nor make with
me, since I have a good name, and, as I
have heard my master say, a good name is
better than bags of gold. Case me but in
that same government, and you shall see
wonders: for a good squire will make a
good governor."
" Sancho speaks like an oracle,'' quoth
the duchess ; ''all that he has now said are so
many sentences of Cato, or, at least, ex-
tracted from the very marrow of Michael
Verino himself—' florentibus occidit annis :'
in short, to speak in his own way, a bad
cloak often covers a good drinker." " Truly,
madam," answered Sancho,. ''I never in
my life drank for any bad purpose: for
thirst, perhaps, I have, as I am no hypocrite ;
I drink when I want it, and if it is offered
to me, rather than be thought ill-mannered :
for, when a friend drinks one's health, who
can be so hard-hearted as not to pledge
him ? But though I put on the shoes they
are no dirtier for me. And, truly, there is
no fear of that ; for water is your common
drink of squires-errant, who are always
wandering about woods, forests, meadows,
mountains, and craggy rocks, where not
one merciful drop of wine is to be got,
though they would give an eye for it."
" In truth, I believe it," said the duchess :
''but, as it grows late, go, friend Sancho,
and repose yourself, and we will talk of
these matters again hereafter, and orders
shall speedily be given about casing you,
as you call it, in the government."
Sancho again kissed the duchess's hand,
and begged of her, as a favour, that good
care might be taken of his Dapple, for he
was the light of his eyes. " What mean
you by Dapple?" quoth the duchess. "I
mean my ass, please your highness," replied
Sancho ; " for, not to give him that name,
I commonly call him Dapple ; and I desired
this good mistress here, when I first came
into the castle to take care of him, which
made her as angry as if I had called her
old and ugly : yet in my mind it would be
more proper and natural for duennas to take
charge of asses than strut about like ladies
in rooms of state. Heaven save me ! what
a deadly grudge a certain gentleman in oni
town had for tiiese madams." '' Some filtby
clown, I make no question," quoth Donna
Rodriguez, " for, had he been a gentleman
and known what good breeding was, he
would have placed them under the horns of
the moon." " Enough," quoth the duchess
" let us have no more of this ; peace. Donna
Rodriguez ; and you, sigñor Panza, be quiet,
and leave the care of making much of year
Dapple to me : for, being a jewel of Sancho's,
I will lay him upon the apple of my eye."
" Let him lie in the stable, my good lady,"
answered Sancho, " for upon the apple of
your grandeur's eye neither he nor I are
worthy to lie one single moment, — 'slife !
they should stick me like sheep sooner than
I would consent to such a thing ; for though
my master says that, in respect to good
manners, we should rather lose the game by
a card too much than too little, yet, when
the business in hand is about asses and eyes,
we should step warily with compass in hand."
'^ Carry him, Sancho," quoth the duchess,
<' to your government, and there you may
regale him as you please and set him fh«
from further labour." "Think not, my
lady duchess," quoth Sancho, "that yon
have said much ; for I have seen more asses
than one go to governments, and therefore,
if I should carry mine it would be nothing
new." The relish of Sancfao's conversa-
tion was not lost upon the duchess, who,
after dismissing him to his repose, went to
give the duke an account of all that had
passed between them. They afterwards con-
sulted together how they should practise
some jest upon Don Quixote, to humour his
knight-errantry ; and indeed, they devised
many of that kind so ingenious and appro-
priate as to be accounted among the prime
adventures that occur in this great history.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THB MBTHOD
PRESCRIBED FOR DI8ENCHANTINO
THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBO-
SO ; WHICH IS ONE OF THB MOST
FAMOUS ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK.
The duke and duchess were extremely di-
verted with the humours of their two guests;
DON QUIXOTE,
371
and, resolving to improve their sport by prac-
tising some pleasantries that should have the
appearance of a romantic adventure, they
contrived to dress up a very choice enter-
tainment from Don Quixote's account of the
cave of Montesinos : taking that subject
because the duchess had observed, with asto-
nishment, that Sancho now believed his lady
Dulcinea was really enchanted, although he
himself had been her sole enchanter! Ac-
cordingly, aft§r the servants had been well
instructed as to their deportment towards
Don Quixote, a boar-hunting was proposed,
and it was determined to set out in five or
six days with a princely train of huntsmen.
The knight was presented with a hunting
suit proper for the occasion, which, however^
he declined, saying that he must soon return
to the severe duties of his profession, when,
having no sumpters nor wardrobes, such
things would be superfluous. But Sancho
readily accepted a suit of fine green doth
which was ofiered to him, intending to sell
it the first opportunity.
The appointed day being come, Don
Quixote armed himself, and Sancho in his
new suit mounted Dapple (which he pre-
fe«Ted to a horse that was offered him) and
joined the troop of hunters. The duchess
issued forth magnificently attired, and Don
Quixote^ out of pure politeness, would hold
the reins of the palfrey, though the duke
vas unwilling to allow it. Having arrived
at the proposed scene of their diversion,
which was in a wood between two lofty
mountains, they posted themselves in places
where the toils were to be pitched ; and all
the party having taken their different sta-
tions, the sport began with prodigious noise
and clamour, insomuch that, between the
shouts of the huntsmen, the cry of the
hounds, and the sound of the horns, they
could not hear each other. The duchess
alighted, and, with a boar-spear in her hand,
took her stand in a place where she ex-
pected the boars would pass. The duke and
I>on Quixote dismounted also, and placed
themselves by her side ; while Sancho took
hifi station behind them all, with his Dapple,
-whom he would not quit lest some mischance
should befal him. Scarcely had they ranged
themselves in order^ when a hideous boar of
É¿>_^
monstrous size rushed out of cover, pursued
by the dogs and hunters, and made directly
towards them, gnashing his teeth and tossing
foam from his mouth. Don Quixote, on
seeing his approach braced his shield, and
drawing his sword stepped before the rest to
meet him. The duke joined him with his
boar-spear ; and the duchess would have been
the foremost had not the duke prevented
her. Sancho alone stood aghast, and, at
the sight of the fierce animal, leaving even
his Dapple, ran in terror towards a lofty
oak, in which he hoped to be secure^ but
his hopes were vain, for, as he was strug-
gling to reach the top and had got half
way up, unfortunately, a branch to which he
clung gave way, and^ falling with it, he
was caught by the stump of another and
there left suspended in the air, so that he
could neither get up nor down. Finding
himself in this situation, with his new
green coat tearing^ and almost within reach
of the terrible creature, should it chance to
come that way, he began to bawl so loud
and to call for help so vehemently that all
who heard him and did not see him thought
verily he was between the teeth of some
wild beast. The tusked boar, however^ was
soon laid at length by the numerous spears
that were levelled at him from all sides ;
at which time Sancho's cries and lamenta-
tions reached the ears of Don Quixote, who,
turning round, beheld him hanging from
the oak with his head downward, and close
by him stood Dapple, who never forsook
him in adversity ; — indeed it was remarked
by Cid Hamete, that he seldom saw Sancho
Panza without Dapple, or Dapple without
Sancho Panza: such was the amity and
cordial love that subsisted between them !
Don Quixote hastened to the assistance of
his squire, who was no sooner released than
he began to examine the rent in his hunting
suit, which grieved him to the soul : for he
looked upon that suit as a rich inheritance.
The huge animal they had slain was laid
across a sumpter-mule^ and, afler covering it
with branches of rosemary and myrtle, they
carried it, as the spoib of victory, to a large
field-tent, erected in the midst of the wood,
where a sumptuous entertainment was pre-
pared, worthy of the magnificence of the
372
ADVENTURES OF
donor. Sancho, shewing the wounds of the
torn garments to the duchess, said, " Had
hares or birds been our game, I sliould not
have had this misfortune. For my part, I
cannot think what pleasure there can be in
beating about for a monster that, if it reaches
you with a tusk, may be the death of you.
There is an old ballad which says,
"Bfay fate of FabUa be thine,
And make thee food for bean or swine."
"That Fabila," said Don Quixote, "was a
king of the Goths, who, going to the chase,
was devoured by a bear." " What I mean,*'
quoth Sancho, " is, that I would not have
kings and other great folks run into such
dangers merely for pleasure; and indeed,
methinks it ought to be none to kill poor
beasts that never meant any harm." " You
are mistaken, Sancho, " said the duke ;
"hunting wild beasts is the most proper
exercise for knights and princes. The chase
is an image of war ; there you have strata-
gemsy artifices, and ambuscades to be em-
ployed, in order to overcome your enemy
with safety to yourself; there, too, you are
often exposed to the extremes of cold and
heat ; idleness and ease are despised ; the
body acquires health and vigorous activity ;
— in short, it is an exercise which may be
beneficial to many and injurious to none.
Besides, it is not a vulgar amusement, but,
like hawking, is the peculiar sport of the
great. Therefore, Sancho, change your opi-
nion before you become a governor ; for then
you will find your account in these diver-
sions." " Not so, i'iaith," replied Sancho ;
"the good governor and the broken leg
should keep at home. It would be fine
indeed for people to come after him about
business, and find him gadding in the moun-
tains for his pleasure. At that rate what
would become of his government? — In good
truth, sir, hunting, and such like pastimes,
are rather for your idle companions than for
governors. The way I mean to divert my-
self shall be with brag at Easter, and at
bowls on Sundays and holidays : as for your
hunting, it befits neither my condition nor
conscience." " Heaven grant you prove as
good as you promise," said the duke, " but
saying and doing are often wide apart."
"Be that as itwill," replied Sancho: "the '
good paymaster wants no pawn ; and God'c
help is better than early nsnng ; and, the
belly carries the legs and not the legs the ;
belly: — I mean that, with the help of God
and a good intention, I warrant I shall
govern better than a goss-hawk. Ay, ay, ,
let them put their finger in my mouth and try '
whether or not I can bite." " Acnrse npon
thy proverbs !" said Don Quixote, " when
will the day come that I shall hear thee '
utter one coherent sentence without that
base intermixture? — Let this Uockhead '
alone, I beseech your excellences ; he will
grind your souls to death, not between two, \
but two thousand proverbs — all timed as
well, and as much to the purpose, as I wish
God may grant him health, or roe, if I
desire to hear them." " Sancho Panza's
proverbs," said the duchess, " though more
numerous than those of the Greek conunen-
tator, are equally admirable for their sen-
tentious brevity. For my own part, I must
confess, they give me more pleasure than
many others, more aptly suited and better
timed."
After this, and such like pleasant conver-
sation, they left the tent, and retired into
the wood to examine their nets and snares.
The day passed, and night came on, not
clear and calm, like the usual evening in
summer, but in a kind of murky twilight,
extremely favourable to the projecta of the
duke and duchess. Soon after the dose of
day the wood suddenly seemed to be in
flaines on all sides, and from every qnarter
was heard the sound of numerous frampets,
and other martial instruments, as if great
bodies of cavalry were passing through the
wood. All present seemed petrified with as-
tonishment at what they heard and saw. To
these noises others succeeded, like the Moor-
ish yells at the onset of battle. Trumpets,
clarions, drums, and fifes, were heard all at
once, so loud and incessant that he most
have been without sense who did not lose it
in the midst of so discordant and horrible a
din. The duke and duchess were alarmed,
Don Quixote in amazement, and Sancho
Panza trembled : — in short, even those who
were in the secret were terrified, and con-
sternation held them all in silence. A post-
DON QUIXOTE.
378
©^
Doy^ habited like a fiend, now made his
appearance, blowing, as he passed onward,
a monstrous horn, whieh produced a hoarse
and frightful sound. " Ho, courier \" cried
the duke, ** who are you ? Whither go you?
And what soldiers are tho^e who seem to be
crossing this wood V To which the courier
answered in a terrific voice, " I am the devil,
and am going in quest of Don Quixote de
la Mancha. Those you enquire about are
six troops of enchanters, conducting the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, accompanied
by the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, who
comes to inform her knight by what means
she is to be released finom the power of en-
chantment." *' If you were the devil, a»
you say, and, indeed, appear to be," quoth
the knight, " you would have known that
I who now stand before you am that same
Don Quixote de la Mancha." "Before
Grod, and on my conscience," replied the
devil, " in my hurry and distraction I did
not see him." " This devil," quoth Sancho,
" must needs be an honest fellow, and a
good christian, else he would not have sworn
by God and his conscience ; for my part I
verily believe there are some good folks
even in hell." The devil now, without
alighting, directed his eyes to Don Quixote,
and said, '* To thee, knight of the lions, —
and may I see thee between their paws ! —
I am sent by the valiant but unfortunate
Montesinos, by whom I am directed to
command thee to wait his arrival on the
very spot wherever I should find thee.
With him comes the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, in order to inform thee by what
means thou may'st deliver her from the
thraldom of enchantment. Thou hast heard
my message ; I now return ; — devils like
myself have thee in their keeping! and
good angels that noble pair !" All were in
perplexity, but especially the knight and
squire : Sancho to see how Dulcinea must
be enchanted in spite of plain truth, and
Don Quixote irom certain qualms respecting
the truth of his adventures in the cave of
Montesinos. While he stood musing on this
subject, the duke said to him, " Do you
mean to wait, sigfior Don Quixote ?" "Why
not ?" answered he ; " here will I wait, in-
trepid and firm, though all hell should come
to assault me." " By my faith !" quoth
Sancho, " if I should see another devil, and
hear another such horn, I will no more stay
here than in Flanders."
The night now grew darker, and numerous
lights were seen glancing through the wood,
like those exhalations which, in the air,
appear like shooting stars* A dreadful noise
was likewise heard, like that caused by the
ponderous wheels of an ox -waggon, from
whose harsh and continued creaking, it is
said, wolves and bears fly away in terror.
The turmoil, however, still increased, for,
at the four quarters of the wood, hostile
armies seemed to be engaged: — here was
heard the dreadful thunder of artillery ;
there volleys of innumerable musqueteers ;
the clashing of arms, and shouts of nearer
combatants^ joined with the Moorish war-
whoop at a distance ; — in short, the horns,
clarions, trumpets, drums, cannon, muskets,
and, above all, the frightful creaking of the
waggons, formed, altogether, so tremendous
a din that Don Quixote had need of all his
courage to stand firm, and wait the issue.
But Sancho's heart quite failed him, and
he fell down in a swoon at the duchess's
feet. Cold water being brought at her
grace's command, it was sprinkled upon his
&ce, and his senses returned just in time to
witness the arrival of one of the creaking
waggons. It was drawn by four heavy
oxen, all covered with black palls, having
also a large flaming torch fastened to each
horn. On the floor of the waggon was
placed a seat, much elevated, on which sat
a venerable old man, with a beard whitei
than snow, that reached below his girdle.
His vestment was a long gown of black
buckram (for the carriage was so illu-
minated that everything might easily be
distinguished), and the drivers were two
demons, clothed also in black, and of such
hideous aspect that Sanebo, having once
seen them, shut his eyes, and would not
venture upon a second look. When the
waggon had arrived opposite to the party,
the 'venerable person within it arose from
his seat, and, standing erect, with a solemn
voice, he said, " I am the sage Lirgandeo."
He tiien sat down, and the waggon went
forward. After that another waggon passed
=©
374
ADVENTURES OF
in the same manner, with another old man
enthroned, who, when the carriage stopped,
arose, and, in a voice no less solemn, said,
'^ I am the sage Alquife, the great friend of
Ur ganda the unknown.'' He passed on,
and a third waggon advanced at the same
pace ; but the person seated on the throne
was not an old man, like the two former,
but a man of robust form and ill -favoured
countenance, who, when he came near,
stood up, as the others had done, and said,
with a voice hoarse and diabolical, '^ I am
Arcalaus the enchanter, mortal enemy of
Amadis de Gkiul, and all his race," and
immediately proceeded onward. The three
waggons, halting at a little distance, the
painful noise of their wheels ceased, and it
was followed by the sweet and harmonious
sounds of music, delightful to Sancho's
ears, who, taking it for a favourable omen,
said to the duchess (from whose side he had
not stirred an inch), " Where there is music,
madam, there can be no mischief." " No,
nor where there is light and splendour,"
answered the duchess, <' Flame may give
light," replied Sancho, " and bonfires may
illuminate ; yet we may easily be burnt by
chem ; but music is always a sign of feasting
and merriment" " That will be seen
presently," quoth Don Quixote, who was
listening ; and he said right, for it will be
found in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT
OF THE METHOD PRESCRIBED TO DON
QUIXOTE FOR DISENCHANTING DUL-
CINEA; WITH OTHER WONDERFUL
EVENTS.
As the agreeable music approached they
observed that it attended a stately trium-
phal car, drawn by six grey mules, covered
with white linen ; and upon each of them
rode a penitent of light,* clothed also in
white, and holding a Ughted torch in his
hand. The car was more than double the
* In En^and airo to be clothed in a white aheet, and
bear a caadle or torch in the hand, ia a penance ; and in
size of the others which had passed, and
twelve penitents were ranged in order within
it, all carrying lighted torches ; a sight
which at once caused surprise and terror.
Upon an elevated throne sat a nymph,
covered with a tiiousand veils of silver
tissue, bespangled with innumerable flowers
of gold, BO that her dress, if not rich, was
gay and glittering. Over her head was
thrown a transparent gauze, so thin that
through its folds might be seen a most
beautiful face ; and from the multitude of
lights, it was easy to discern that she was
young as well as beautiful ; for she was
evidently under twenty years of age, though
not less than seventeen. Close by her sat
a figure, clad in a magnificent robe, reaching
to the feet, having his head covered with p
black veil. The moment this vast machine
arrived opposite to where the duke and
duchess and Don Quixote stood the attend-
ing music ceased, as well as the harps and
lutes within the car. The figure in the
gown then stood up, and, throwing open
the robe and uncovering his face, displayed
the ghastly countenance of death, looking
so terrific that Don Quixote started, Sancho
was struck with terror, and even the duke
and duchess seemed to betray some symptoms
of fear. This living death, standing eicct,
in a dull and drowsy tone, and with a
sleepy articulation, spoke as follows : —
" Merlin I am, miscalled the devil's aoc
In lying annala, authoriaed by time ;
Monarch supreme and great depositary
Of magic art and Zoroastric skill ;
Rival of envions ages, that would hide
The glorious deeds of errant cavaliers,
Favour'd by me and my peculiar charge.
Though vile enchanters, still on mischief bent.
To plague mankind their baleful art employ.
Merlin's soft nature, ever prone to good.
His power inclines to bless the human race.
. In hell's dark chambers, where my boaied ghost
Was forming spells and mystic characters,
Dulcinea's voice, peerless Toboean maid I
With mournful accents reach'd my pityii^ ears.
I knew her woe, her metamorphos'd form.
From high-bom beauty in a palace graced.
To the loathed features of a cottage wendú
With sympathising grief L straight rev(dv«d
The numerous tomes of my detested art.
And, in the hollow of this skeletoa
My soul inclosing, hither am I oome.
To tell the cure of such uncommon ills.
the same manner the " amende honorable" is perfonaed
in Prance.— J.
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
376
O glory thoa of all that caae their limbt
In polUhcd iteel and fenceful adamant 1
light, beacon, polar «tar, and glorioiu guide
Of all who, starting from the laij down,
Banlah ignoble sleep for the rude toil
And hardy ezerciie of errant anna I
Spain's boasted pride, La If ancha's matchless knight,
Whose valiant deeds outstrip pursuing fume I
Would*st thou to beauty's pristine state restore
Th* enchanted dame, Sancho, thy faithful squire,
If nst to his brawny buttocks, bare ezpos'd.
Three thousand and three hundred stripes apply.
Such as may sting and give him smarting pain :
The authors of her change have thus decreed.
And this is Merlin's errand from the shades."
"What!" quoth Sancho, " three thousand
lashes! OddVflesh! I will as soon give
myself three stabs as three single lashes —
much less three thousand I The devil take
this way of disenchanting! I cannot see
what my buttocks have to do with enchant-
ments. Before God ! if sigñor Merlin can
find out no other way to disenchant the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, enchanted she
may go to her grave for me !" " Not lash
thyself! thou garlic-eating wretch !" quoth
Don Quixote ; ^' I shall take thee to a
tree, and tie thee naked as thou wert bom,
and there, not three thousand and three
hundred, but six thousand six hundred lashes
will I give thee, and those so well laid on
that three thousand three hundred hard
tugs shall not tug them off. So answer me
not a word, scoundrel, for I will tear thy
very soul out !" " It must not be so," said
Merlin ; " ihe lashes that honest Sancho is
to receive must not be applied by force, but
with his good will, and at whatever time he
pleases, for no term is fixed ; and further-
more, he is allowed, if he please, to save
himself half the trouble of applying so many
lashes, by having half the number laid on
by another hand, provided that hand be
somewhat heavier than his own." " Neither
another hand nor my own," quoth Sancho,
" no hand, either heavy or light, shall
touch my flesh. Was the lady Dulcinea
brought forth by me, that my posteriors
must pay for the trangressions of her eyes?
My master, indeed, who is part of her,
since at every step he is calling her his life,
his soul, his support, and stay,~he it is
who ought to lash himself for her, and do
all that is needful for her delivery : but for
me to whip myself—- no, I pronounce it !"
No sooner had Sancho thus declared him-
self, than the spangled nymph, who sat by
the shade of Merlin, arose, and, throwing
aside her veil, discovered a face of extra-
ordinary beauty ; and with a masculine air,
and no very amiable voice, addressed her-
self to Sancho : " O wretched squire, — with
no more soul than a pitcher ! thou heart of
cork and bowels of flint ! Hadst thou been
required, nose-slitting thief ! to throw thy-
self headlong from some high tower ; hadst
thou been desired, enemy of human kind !
to eat a dozen of toads, two dozen of lizards,
and three dozen of snakes ; hadst thou been
requested to kill thy wife and children with
some bloody and sharp scimitar, — no wonder
if thou hadst betrayed some squeamishness :
but to hesitate about three thousand three
hundred lashes, which there is not a wretched
school-boy but receives every month, it
amazes, stupifies, and aflrights the tender
bowels of all who hear it, and even of all
who shall hereafter be told it. Cast, thou
marble-hearted wretch ! — cast, I say, those
huge goggle eyes upon these lovely balls of
mine, that shine like glittering stars, and
thou wilt see them weep, drop by drop, and
stream after stream, making furrows, tracks,
and paths, down these beauteous cheeks!
Relent, malicious and evil-minded monster!
be moved by my blooming youth, which,
though yet in its teens, is pining and wither-
ing beneath the vile bark of a peasant-
wench ; and if at this moment I appear
otherwise, it is by the special favour of
sigñor Merlin here present, hoping that
these charms may soften that iron heart:
for the tears of afflicted beauty turn rocks
into cotton, and tigers into lambs. Lash,
untamed beast ! lash away on that brawny
flesh of thine, and rouse from that base
sloth which only inclines thee to eat and eat
again ; and restore to me the delicacy of
my skin, the sweetness of my temper, and
aU the charms of beauty ; and if, for my
sake, thou wilt not be mollified into reason-
able compliance, let the anguish of that
miserable knight stir thee to compassion —
thy master, I mean, whose soul I see sticking
crosswise in his throat, not ten inches from
his lips, waiting only thy cruel or kind
answer either to fly out of his mouth, or
return joyfully into his bosom."
(oi
®=
376
ADVENTURES OF
Don Quixote here putting his finger to
his throat, " Before God !" said he, " Dul-
cinea is right, for I here feel my soul stick-
ing in my throat, like the stopper of a cross-
bow !" " What say you to that, Sancho ?"
quoth the duchess. " I say, madam," an-
swered Sancho, " what I have already said,
that, as to the lashes, I pronounce them."
" Renounce, you should say, Sancho,"
quoth the duke, " and not * pronounce.' "
" Please your grandeur to let me alone,"
replied Sancho, *' for I cannot stand now to
a letter more or less : these lashes so tor-
ment me that I know not what I say or do.
But I would fain know one thing from
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and that is,
where she learnt her manner of asking a
favour? She comes to desire me to tear my
flesh with stripes, and at the same time lays
upon me such a bead-roll of ill names that
the devil may bear them for me. What !
does she think my flesh is made of brass ?
Or that I care a rush whether she is en-
chanted or not? Where are the presents
she has brought to soften me ? Instead of
a basket of fine linen, shirts, night- caps,
and socks (though I wear none), here is
nothing but abuse. . Every one knows that
' the golden load is a burthen light ;' that
^ gifts will make their way through stone
walls ;' * pray devoutly and hammer on
stoutly;' and one * take' is worth two * I'll
give thee's.' There's his worship my master,
too, instead of wheedling and coaxing me
to make myself wool and carded cotton,
threatens to tie me stark naked to a tree and
double the dose of stripes ! These tender-
hearted gentlefolks ought to remember too
that they not only desire to have a squire
whipped, but a governor, making no more
of it than saying,* drink with your cherries,'
Let them learn — plague take them ! let them
learn how to ask and intreat and mind their
breeding. All times are not alike, nor are
men always in a humour for all things. At
tliis moment, my heart is ready to burst with
grief to see this rent in my jacket, and peo-
ple come to desire that I would also tear
my flesh, and that, too, of my own good-
will : I having just as much mind to the
thing as to turn Turk." " In truth, friend
Sancho," said the duke, ^< if you do not
©■ =
relent and become softer than a ripe fig, yon
finger no government of mine. It would be
a fine^thing indeed, were I to send my good
islanders a cruel, flinty - hearted tyrant,
whom neither the tears of afllicted damsels
nor the admonitions of wise, reverend, and
ancient enchanters can move to compassion!
Really, Sancho, 1 am compelled to say— no
stripes no government." *^ May I not be
allowed two days, my lord," replied Sancho,
'* to consider what is best for me to do ?"
"In no wise can that be," cried Merlin ;
" on this spot and at this instant yon mast
determine; for Dulcinea must either re-
turn to Montesinos' cave and to her rustic
shape, or in her present form be caxried to
the Elyaian fields, there to wait until the
penance be completed." " Come, fiiend
Sancho," said the duchess, "be of good
cheer, and shew yourself grateful to your
master, whose bread you have eaten, and to
whose generous nature and noble feats of
chivalry we are all so much beholden.
Come, my son, give your consent, and let
the devil go to the devil ; leave fóar to the
cowardly : a good heart breaks bad fortune,
as you well know."
" Hark you, sigfior Merlin," quoth San-
cho, addressing himself to the sage, " pray
will you tell me one thing — how comes it
about that the devil courier just now brought
a message to my master from sigñor Mon-
tesinos, saying that he would be here anon,
to give directions about this disenchantment,
and yet we have seen nothing of him all
this while?" " Pshah !" replied MerUn, « the
devil is an ass, and a lying rascal ; he was
sent from me and not from Montesinos, who
is still in his cave contriving or rather wait-
ing the end of his enchantment : for the tail
is yet unflayed. If he owes yon money, or
you have any other business with him, he
shall be forthcoming in a trice, when and
where you think fit ; and therefore come to
a decision, and consent to this small penance,
from which both your soul and body will
receive marvellous benefit : your soul by an
act of charity, and your body by a whole-
some and timely blood - letting." "How
the world swarms with doctors," quoth
Sancho, " the very enchanters seem to be of
the trade ! Well, since every body tells me
DON QUIXOTE.
377
so> though the thing is out of all reason, I
promise to give myself the three thousand
three hundred lashes, upon condition that I
may lay them on whenever I please, with-
out being tied to days or times ; and I will
endeavour to get out of debt as soon as I
possibly can, that the beauty of my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso may shine forth to all
the world ; as it seems she is really beautiñil,
which I much doubted. Another condition
isy that I will not be bound to draw blood,
and if some lashes happen only to fly-flap,
they shall aU go into the account Moreover,
if I should mistake in the reckoning, sigfior
Merlin here, who knows every thing, shall
give me notice how many I want or have
exceeded.^' ''As for the exceedings, there
is no need of keeping account of them,"
answered Merlin, '' for, when the number is
completed, that instant will the lady Dul-
cinea del Toboso be disenchanted, and come
full of gratitude in search of good Sancho,
to thank, and even reward, him for the
generous deed. So that no scruples are
necessary about surplus and deficiency; and
Heaven forbid that I should allow any body
to be cheated of a single hair of their head.''
'' Go to then, in God's name," quoth San-
cho ; '' I submit to my ill fortune ; I say, I
consent to the penance upon the conditions
I have mentioned."
No sooner had Sancho pronounced his
consent than the innumerable instruments
poured forth their music, and voUep of
musquetry were discharged, while Don
Quixote clung about Sancho's neck, giving
him, on his forehead and brawny cheeks, a
thousand kisses; the duke and duchess, and
aU who were present, likewise testified their
satisñeustion. The car now moved on, and
in departing, the fair Dulcinea bowed her
head to the duke and duchess, and made a
low curtsey to Sancho.
By this time the cheerful and joyous dawn
began to appear, the flowerets of the field
expanded their fragrant beauties to the
light, and brooks and streams, in gentle
murmurs, ran to pay expecting rivers their
crystal tribute. The earth rejoiced, the sky
was clear, and the air serene and calm ; all
combined, and separately, giving manifest
tokens that the day, which followed fast upon
Aurora's heels» would be bright and fair.
The duke and duchess, having happily ex-
ecuted their ingenious project, returned
highly gratified to their castle, and deter-
minea on the continuation of fictions, which
afforded more pleasures than realities.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
WHERBIN IS BSCORDED THB WONDER'
FUL AND INOONCBIVABLB ADVENTURE
OF THB AFFLICTED DUENNA, OR THE
COUNTESS OF TRIFALDI ; AND LIKE-
WISE SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO
BIS WIFE TERESA PANZA.
The whole contrivance of the last adven-
ture was the work of the duke's steward :
a man of a humorous and facetious turn of
mind. He it was who composed the venes,
instructed a page to perform the part of
Dulcinea, and personated himself the shade
of Merlin. Assisted by the duke and duchess,
he now prepared another scene still more
entertaining than the former.
The next day the duchess enquired of
Sancho if he had begun his penance for the
relief of his unhappy lady. *< By my faith,
I have," said he, '* for last night I gave
myself ñve lashes." The duchess desired
to know how he had given them. " With
the palm of my hand," said he. '' That,"
replied the duchess, " is rather clapping
than whipping, and I am of opinion sigñor
Merlin vdll not be so easiljr satisfied. My
good Sancho must get a rod of briars, or ot
whipcord, that the strokes may be followed
by sufficient smarting : for, letters written
in blood cannot be disputed, and the deli-
venmce of a great lady, like Dulcinea, is
not to be purchased with a song." " Give
me then, madam, some rod or bough," quoth
Sancho, '' and I will use it, if it does not
smart too much ; for I would have your
ladyship know that, though I am a clown,
my flesh has more of the cotton than of the
rush, and there is no reason why I should
flay myself for other folks' gain." " Fear
not," answered the duchess, *' it shall be my
care to provide you with a whip that shall
suit you exactly, and agree with the tender-
ness of your flesh as if it were its owr
■®
878
ADVENTURES OF
brother." " But now, my dear lady/'
quoth Sancho^ ^'yon must know that I
have written a letter to my wife Teresa
Panza, giving her aji account of all that has
befallen me since I parted from her ; — here
it is in my bosom, and it wants nothing but
the name on the outside. I wish your dis-
cretion would read it, for methinks it is
written like a governor — I mean in the man-
ner that governors ought to write." " And
who indited it?" demanded the duchess.
" Who should indite it but 1 myself, sinner
as I am ?" replied Sancho. " And did you
write it too ?" said the duchess. " No, in-
deed," answered Sancho, " for I can neither
read nor write, though I can set my mark."
''Let us see it," said the duchess, "for I
dare say it shews the quality and extent
of your genius." Sancho took the letter out
of his bosom, unsealed, and the duchess,
having taken it, read as follows.
Sancho Panza' 8 letter to his toife Teresa
Panza,
"If I have been finely lashed, I have
been finely mounted up ; if I have got a
good government it has cost me many good
lashes. This, my dear Teresa, thou canst not
understand at present ; another time thou
wilt. Thou must know, Teresa, that I am
determined that tliou shalt ride in thy coach,
which is somewhat to the purpose ; for all
other ways of going are no better than creep-
ing upon all fours, like a cat. Thou shalt
be a governor's wife : see then whether any
body will dare to tread on thy heels. I
here send thee a green hunting-suit, which
my lady duchess gave me ; fit it up so that
it may serve our daughter for a jacket and
petticoat. They say, in this country, that
my master Don Quixote is a sensible mad-
man and a pleasant fool, and that I am not
a whit behind him. We have been in Mon-
tesinos's cave, and the sage Merlin, the
wizard, has pitched upon me to disenchant
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, among
you, is called Aldonza Lorenzo. When I
have given myself three thousand and three
hundred lashes, lacking five, she will be as
free from enchantment as the mother that
bore her. Say nothing of this to any body ;
II
for, bring your afiairs into council, and one
will cry it is white, another, it is black. A
few days hence I shall go to the govern-
ment, whither I go with a huge desire to
get money ; and I am told it is the same
with all new governors. I will first see
how matters stand, and send thee word
whether or not thou shalt come to me.
Dapple is well and sends thee his hearty
service ; part with him I will not, though I
were to be made the great Turk. The
duchess, my mistress, kisses thy hands a
thousand times over ; return her two thou-
sand; for, as my master says, nothing is
cheaper than civil words. God has not
been pleased to throw in my way another
portmanteau, and another hundred crowns,
as once before ; but take no heed, my dear
Teresa, for he that has the game in his hand
need not mind the loss of a trick — the go-
vernment will make up for all. One thing !
only troubles me ! I am told if I once try it
I shall eat my very fingers after it ; and if i '
so, it will not be much of a bargain : though • .
indeed, the crippled and maimed enjoy a ,
petty-canonry in the alms they receive ; so
that, one way or another, thou art sure to
be rich and happy. God send it may be
so — as he easily can, and keep me for
thy sake.
Thy husband, the governor,
Sancho Pakza."
" From thia eutle, the SOth
of July, 16U."
The duchess, having read the letter, said to
Sancho : ^' In two things the good governor
is a little out of the way : the one in saying,
or insinuating, that this government is con-
ferred on him on account of the lashes he
is to give himself; whereas he cannot deny, !
for he knows it well, that, when my lord '
duke promised it to him, nobody dreamt of
lashes : the other is that he appears to be
covetous, and I hope no harm may come
of it ; for avarice bursts the bag, and the
covetous governor doeth ungovemed jus-
tice." ''Truly, madam, that is not my
meaning," replied. Sancho ; '' and, if your
hi^ness does not like this letter, it is but
tearing it, and writing a new one, which,
mayhap, may prove worse, if left to thy
DON QUIXOTE.
379
mending." " No, no," replied the duchess,
** this is a very good one, and ¿he dnke shall
see it"
They then repaired to a garden where
they were to dine that day; and there
Sancho's letter was shewn to the duke, who
read it with great pleasure. After dinner,
as Sancho was entertaining the company
with some of his relishing conversation,
they suddenly heard the dismal sound of an
unbraced drum, accompanied by a fife. All
were surprised at this martial and doleful
harmony, especially Don Quixote, who was
so agitated that he could scarcely keep his
seat. As for Sancho, it is enough to say
that fear carried him to his usual refuge,
which was the duchess's side, or the skirts
of her petticoat ; for the sounds which they
heard were truly dismal and melancholy.
While they were thus held in suspense, two
young men clad in mourning robes, trailing
upon the ground, entered the garden, each
of them beating a great drum, covered also
with black; and, with these, a third, playing
on the fife, in mourning like the rest. These
were followed by a personage of gigantic
stature, not dressed, but rather enveloped,
in a robe of the blackest dye, the train
whereof was of immoderate length, and
over it he wore a broad black belt, in
which was slung a mighty scimitar, en-
closed within a sable scabbard. His fiice
was covered by a thin black veil, through
which might be discovered a long beard,
white as snow. He marched forward, regu-
lating his steps to the sound of the drums,
with much gravity and stateliness. In short,
his dark robe, his enormous bulk, his solemn
deportment, and the funereal gloom of his
figure, together with his attendants, might
well produce the surprise that appeared on
every countenance. - With all imaginable
respect and formality he approached and
knelt down before the duke, who received
him standing, and would in no wise suffer
him to speak till he rose up. The monstrous
apparition, then rising, lifted up his veil,
and exposed to view his fearful length of
beard — the longest, whitest, and most lux-
uriant that ever human eyes beheld ; when,
fixing his eyes on the duke, in a voice
grave and sonorous, he said, '* Most high
and potent lord, my name is Trifaldin of the
white beard, and I am squire to the countess
Trifaldi, otherwise called the Afflicted Du-
enna, from whom I bear a message to your
highness, requesting that you will be pleased
to give her ladyship permission to approach,
and relate to your magnificence the unhappy
and wonderful circumstances of her misfor-
tune. But, first, she desires to know whether
the valorous and invincible knight Don
Quixote de la Mancha resides, at this time,
in your castle; for, in quest of him, she
has travelled on foot, and fasting, firom the
kingdom of Gandaya to this your territory ;
an exertion miraculous and incredible, were
it not wrought by enchantment. She is
now at the outward gate of this castle, and
only waits your highness's invitation to
enter." Having said this, he hemmed,
stroked his beard from top to bottom, and,
with much gravity and composure, stood
expecting the duke's answer, which was to
this effect : " Worthy Trifeldin of the white
beard, long since have we been apprised of
the afflictions of ray lady the countess Tri-
faldi, who, through the malice of enchanters,
is too truly called the Dolorous Duenna :
tell her, therefore, stupendous squire, that
she may enter, and that the valiant knight
Don Quixote de la Mancha is here present,
from whose generous assistance she may
safely promise herself all the redress she
requires. ' Tell her also that, if my aid be
necessary, she may command my services,
since, as a knight, I am bound to protect
all women, more especially injured and
afflicted matrons like her ladyship." Tri-
faldin, on receiving the duke's answei', bent
one knee to the ground, then, giving a
signal to his musical attendants, he retired
with the same solemnity as he entered,
leaving all in astonishment at the majesty
of his figure and deportment.
The duke, then turning to Don Quixote,
said, ^' It is evident, sir knight, that neither
the clouds of malice nor of ignorance can
obscure the light of your valour and virtue :
six days have scarcely elapsed since you have
honoured this castle with your presence,
and, behold, the afflicted and oppressed
flock hither in quest of you from far distant
countries ; not in coaches, or upon drome-
380
ADVENTURES OF
I
daries, but on foot, and fiístíng ! — snch is
^eir confidence in the strength of that ann
the fame whereof spreads over the whole
face of the earth !" <^ I wish, my lord
duke/' answered Don Quixote, " that holy
person who, but a few days since, expressed
himself with so much acrimony against
knights -errant were now here, that he
might have ascertained, with his own eyes,
whether or not such knights were necessary
in the world : at least he would be forced
to acknowledge that the afflicted and dis-
consolate, in extraordinary cases and in
overwhelming calamities, fly not fhr relief
to the houses of scholars, nor to village
priests, nor to the country gentleman, who
never travels out of sight of his own domain,
nor to the lazy courtier, who rather en-
quires after news to tell again than endea-
vours to perform deeds worthy of being
related by others. No, — ^remedy for the in-
jured, support for the distressed, protection
for damsels, and consolation for widows,
are nowhere so readily to be found as among
knights-errant ; and, that I am one, I give
infinite thanks to heaven, and shall not
repine at any hardships or evils that I may
endure in so honourable a vocation. Let
the afflicted lady come forward and make
known her request, and, be it whatever it
may, she may rely on the strength of this
arm, and the resolute courage of my soul."
O-
CHAPTER XXXVII.
IN WHICH IS OONTINUBD THB FAMOUS
ADVRNTURB OF THB AFFLICTBD DU*
BNNA.
Thb duke and duchess were extremely de*
lighted to find Don Quixote wrought up
into a mood so favourable to thdr design ;
but Sancho was not so well satisfied. <' I
should be sorry," said he, ''that this madam
duenna should lay any stumbling-block in
the way of my promised government ; for
I have heard an apothecary of Toledo, who
talked like any goldfinch, say that no good
ever comes of meddUng with duennas. —
Odds my life ! what an enemy to them was
that apothecary! — If, then, duennas of
* Ailnding to the nune Trifaldi u
every quality and condition are trouble-
some and impertinent, what must those be
who come in the doldrums? which seems
to be the case with this same countess Three-
skirts,* or Three-tails — for skirts and tails,
in my country, are all one." " Hold thy
peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; '' ibr,
as this lady duenna comes in qnest of me
from so remote a country, she cannot be
one of those who fkll under that apothe-
cary's displeasure. Besides, thou must have
noticed that this lady is a countess ; and
when countesses serve as duennas, it must
be as attendants upon queens and empresses ;
having houses of their own, where they
command, and are served by, other du-
ennas." ''Yes, in sooth, so it is," said
Donna Rodriguez (who was present); "and
my lady duchess has duennas in her service
who might have been countesses themselves
had it pleased fortune; but 'Laws go on
kings' errands ;' and let no one speak ill of
duennas, especially of ancient maiden ones ;
for, though I am not of that number, yet I
can easily conceive the advantage a maiden
duenna has over one that is a widow. But
let them take heed, for he who attempts to
clip us will be left with the shears in his
hand." "For all that," replied Sancho,
" there is still so much to be sheared about
your duennas, as my barber tells me, that
it is better not to stir the rice though it bum
to the pot." "These squires," quoth Donna
Rodriguez, " are our sworn enemies ; and
being, as it were, evil spirits that prowl
about anti- chambers, continually watching
us the hours they are not at their beads —
which are not a few — they can find no
other pastime than reviling us; and will
dig up our bones only to give another
death-blow to our reputations. But let me
tell these jesters that, in spite of their flouts,
we shall live in the world — aye, and in the
best families too, though we starve for it,
and cover our delicate, or not delicate,
bodies with black weeds, as dunghills are
sometimes covered with tapestry on a pro-
cession day. Foul slanderers! — by my
faith, if I were allowed, and the occasion
required it, I would prove to all here present,
and to the whole worid besides, that there
if it were "Tras faldas. 'w[ — —
it
p. S8I.
DON QUIXOTE.
381
is BO yirtae that ie not contained in a du-
enna." "I am of opinion/' quoth the
duchess, " that my good Donna Rodriguez
¡s very much in the right; but she must
wait for a more proper opportunity to
finish the debate, and confute and confound
tl)e calumnies of that wicked apothecary,
and also to root out the ill opinion which
the great Sancho fosters in his breast.'' " I
care not to dispute with her," quoth Sancho,
'^ for, ever since the fumes of gorernment
have got into my head, I have given up all
my squireahip notions, and care not a fig
for all the duennas in the world."
This dialogue about duennas would have
continued, had not the sound of the drum
and fife announced the approach of the
afflicted lady. The duchess asked the duke
whether it would not be proper for him to
go and meet her, since she was a countess,
and a person of quality. ''Look you,"
quoth Sancho, before the duke could answer,
''in regard to her being a countess, it is
fitting your highness should go to receive
her ; but, inasmuch as she is a duenna, I
am of opinion yxm should not stir a step."
" Who desires thee to intermeddle in this
matter, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Who,
sir," answered Sancho, " but I myself? Have
I not a right to intermeddle, being a squiiv,
who has learned the rules of good manners
in the school of your worship ? Have I not
had the fiower of courtesy for my master,
who has often told me that one may as weU
lose the game by a card too much as a card
too little; and a word is enough to the
wise." " Sancho is right," quoth the duke,
" but let us see what kind of a countess this
is, and then we shall judge what courtesy is
due to her." The drums and fife now ad"
vanced as before but here the author
ended this short chapter, and began another
with the continuation of the same adven-
ture, which is one of the most remarkable
in the history.
♦
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WHICH CONTAINS THE ACCOUNT OIVBN
BT THE APPLICTBD DUENNA OP HBR
VISPOETUNEB.
* *' Lobof," being Üm Spuiisfa for wolret.
The doleful musicians were followed by
twelve duennas, in two ranks, dad in large
mourning robes, seemingly of milled serge,
and covered with white veils of thin muslin
that almost reached to their feet. Then came
the countess Trifaldi hersdf, led by her
squire Trifaldin of the white beard. She
was clad in a robe of the finest serge, which,
had it been napped, each grain would have
been of the size of a good ronceval-pea.
The train, or tail (call it by either name),
was divided into three separate portions,
and supported by three pages, and spread
out, making « regular mathematical figure
with three angles ; whence it was conjec-
tured she obtained the name of Trifaldi, or
Three-skirts. Indeed Benengeli says that
was the ñict ; her real title being countess
of Lobuna, or Wolf- land, from the multi-
tude of wolves* produced in that earldom ;
and, had they been foxesf instead of wolves,
she would have been styled countess Zor-
runa, according to the custom in those
nations, for the great to take their titles
fiH>m the things with which their country
most abounded. This great countess, how-
ever, was induced, firom the singular form
of her garment, to exchange her original
title of Lobuna, for that of Trifaldi. The
twelve duennas, with the lady, advanced
slowly in procession, having their faces
covered with black veils, — not transparent,
like that of the squire TrifiJdin, but so
thick that nothing could be seen through
them. On the approach of this battalion of
duennas, the duke, duchess, Don Quixote,
and all the other spectators, rose from
their seats ; and now the attendant duennas
halted, and, separating, opened a passage
through which their afilicted lady, still led
by the squire Triftildin, advanced towards
the noble party, who stepped some dozen
paces forward to receive her. She then
cast herself on her knees, and, with a voice
rather harsh and coarse, than clear and
delicate, said : " I entreat your graces will
not condescend to so much courtesy to this
your valet — I mean your handmaid ; for
my mind, already bewildered with afflic-
tion, will only be still more confounded.
t **ZoirM," faxM.
382
ADVENTURES OF
Alas! my unparalleled misfortune has seized
and carried off my understanding, I know
not whither; hut surely it must be to a
great distance, for the more I seek it, the
larther it seems from me.'' ^' He must be
wholly destitute of understanding, lady
countess/' quoth the duke, ^^who could
not discern your merit by your person,
which, alone, claims all the cream of cour-
tesy, and all the flower of well-bred cere-
mony." Then, raising her by the hand,
he led her to a chair close by the duchess,
who also received her with much politeness.
During the ceremony, Don Quixote was
silent, and Sancho, dying wih impatience
to see the face of the Triialdi, or of some
one of her many duennas ; but it was im-
possible, till they chose to unveil themselves.
All was expectation, and not a whisper was
heard, till, at length, the afflicted lady
began in these words: ^'Confident I am,
roost potent lord, most beautiful lady,
and most discreet spectators, that my most
unfortunate miserableness will find, in your
generous and compassionate bowels, a most
merciful sanctuary ; for so doleful and
dolorous is my wretched state that it is
suflicient to mollify marble, to soften ada-
mant, and melt down the steel of the hardest
hearts. But, before the rehearsal of my
misfortunes is commenced on the public
stage of your hearing faculties, I earnestly
desire to be informed whether this noble
circle be adorned by the presence of that
renownedissimo knight, Don Quixote de la
Manchissima, and his squirissimo Panza."
''That same Panza," said Sancho, before
any other could answer, ''stands here before
you, and also Don Quixotissimo ; and there-
fore, most dolorous duennissima, say what
: you willissima ; for we are all ready to be
your most humble servantissimos." Upon
this Don Quixote stood up, and, addressing
himself to the doleful countess, he said:
I "If your misfortunes, afflicted lady, can
admit of remedy from the valour or forti-
tude of a knight-errant, the little all that
I possess shall be employed in your service.
I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose
function it is to relieve every species of
distress ; you need not, therefore, madam,
implore benevolence^ nor have recourse to
preambles, but plainly, and without circum-
locution, declare your grievances, for you
have auditors who will bestow commisera-
tion, if not redress." On heaxing tliis the
afflicted duenna attempted to throw herself
at Don Quixote's feet — in truth she did so,
and, struggling to kiss them, said : ^' I
prostrate myself, 0 invincible knight, before
these feet and legs, which are the bases and
pillars of knight-errantry, and will kiss
these feet, whose steps lead to the end and
termination of my misfortunes ! O valorous
errant, whose true exploits surpass and ob-
scure the fabulous feats of the Amadiaes,
Esplandians, and Belianises of old !" Then,
leaving Don Quixote, she turned to Sancho
Panza, and, taking him by the hand, said :
" O thou, the most trusty squire that ever
served knight-errant in present or past ages,
whose goodness is of greater extent than
that beard of my usher Trifaldin ! well
mayest thou boast that, in serving Don
Quixote, thou dost serve, in epitome, all
the knights -errant that ever shone in the
annals of chivalry ! I conjure thee, by thy
natural benevolence and inviolable fidelity,
to intercede with my lord in my behalf,
that the light of his favour may forthwith
shine upon the humblest and unhappiest of
countesses." To which Sancho answered :
" Whether my goodness, madam countess,
be, or be not, as long and as broad as your
squire's beard, is no concern of mine; so
that my soul be well bearded and whiskered
when it departs thb life, I care little or
nothing for beards here below ; but, without
all this coaxing and beseeching, I will put
in a word for you to my master, who I
know has a kindness for me ; besides, just
now he stands in need of me about a oertam
business, — so take my word for it, he shall
do what he can for you. Now pray unload
your griefs, madam; let us hear all you
have to say, and leave us to manage the
matter."
The duke and duchess could scarcely pre-
serve their gravity on seeing this adventure
take so pleasant a turn, and were highly
pleased with the ingenuity and good manage-
ment of the countess Triialdi, who, returning
to her seat, thus began her tale of sorrow:
" The &mou8 kingdom of Gandaya, wliich
DON QUIXOTE.
333
lies between the great Taprobana and the
South Sea, two leagues beyond Cape
Camonn, had for its queen the lady Donna
Maguncia, widow of king Archipiela, who
died leaving the Infanta Antonomasia, their
only child, heiress to the crown. This
princess was brought up and educated under
I my care and instruction ; I being the eldest
and chief of the duennas in the household
of her royal mother. Now, in process of
time the young Antonomasia arrived at the
age of fourteen, with such a perfection of
beauty that nature could not raise it a pitch
higher ; and, what is more, discretion itself
was but a child to her ; for she was as dis-
creet as fair, and she was the fairest creature
living ; and so she still remains, if the en-
vious fates and hard-hearted destinies have
not cut short her thread of life. But sure
they have not done it ; for heaven would
never permit that so much injury should
be done to the earth as to lop off prema-
turely tlie loveliest branch that ever adorned
the garden of the world. Her wondrous
beauty, which my feeble tongue can never
sufficiently extol, attracted innumerable
adorers, and princes 6t her own, and every
other, nation became her slaves. Among
the rest a private cavalier, of the court had
the audacity to aspire to that earthly
heaven ; confiding in his youth, his gal-
lantry, his sprightly and happy wit, with
numerous other graces and qualifications.
Indeed I must confess to your highnesses —
though with reverence be it spoken — he
could touch the guitar to a miracle. He
was, besides, a poet, and a fine dancer, and
had so rare a talent for making bird-cages
that he might have gained his living by it,
in case of need. So many parts and elegant
endowments were sufficient to have moved
a mountain, much more the tender heart of
a virgin. But all his graces and accom-
plishments would have proved ineffectual
against the virtue of my beautiful charge,
had not the robber and ruffian first artfully
contrived to make a conquest of me. The
assassin and barbarous vagabond began
with endeavouring to obtain my good will,
and suborn my inclination, that I might
betray my trust, and deliver up to him the
keys of the fortress I guarded. — In short
he so plied me with toys and trinkets, and
so Insinuated himself into my soul, that I
was bewitched. But that which chiefly
brought me down, and levelled me with the
ground, was a copy of verses which I heard
him sing one night under my window; and,
if I remember right, the words were these :
The t^raat fair whose beautj lent
The throbbing mischief to my heart.
The more my angiush to augment,
Forbida me to reveal the imart.
*' The words of his song were to me so many
pearls and his voice was sweeter than honey ;
and many a time since have I thought, re-
flecting on the evils I incurred, that poets—
at least your amorous poets, should be
banished from all good and well-regulated
commonwealths ; for, instead of composing
pathetic verses like those of the marquis of
Mantua, which make women and children
weep, they exercise their skill in soft strokes
and tender touches, which pierce the soul,
and, entering the body, like lightning, con-
sume all within, while the garment is left
unsinged. Another time he sung :
Come death, with gently stealing pace,
And take me unperceiyed away,
Nor let me see thy wish*d-for face,
Lest joy my fleeting life should stay.
Thus was I assailed with these and such like
couplets, that astonish, and when chaunted,
are bewitching. But when our poets deign
to compose a kind of verses much in fashion
with us, called roundelays — good Heaven !
they are no sooner heard than the whole
frame is in a state of emotion : the soul is
seized with a kind of quaking, a titillation
of the fancy, a pleasing delirium of all the
senses ! I therefore say again, most noble
auditors, that such versifiers deserve to be
banished to the isle of Lizards : though in
truth, the blame lies chiefly with the sim-
pletons who commend, and the idiots who
suffer themselves to be deluded by, such
things ; and, had I been a wise and discreet
duenna, the nightly charting of his filthy
verses would not have moved me, nor should
I have lent an ear to such expressions as,
' Dying I live ; in ice I bum ; I shiver in
flames ; in despair I hope ; I fly, yet stay ;'
with other flim-flams of the like stamp, of
which such kind of writings are full. Then
884
ADVENTURES OF
again y whien they promise to bestow on us
the Phoenix of Arabia, the crown of Ari-
adne, the ringlets of Apollo, the pearls of
the Sooth -sea, the gold of Tiber, and the
balsam of Pencaya, how bountiful are tlieir
pens ! how liberal in promises which they
cannot perform ! But, woe is me, unhappy
wretch ! Whither do I stray ? What mad-
ness impels me to dwell on the faults of
others, who have so many of mine own to
answer for ? Woe is me again, miserable
creature ! No, it was not his verses tiiat
vanquished me; but my own weakness;
music did not subdue me ; no, it was my
own levity, my ignorance and lack of cau-
tion that melted me down, that opened the
way and smoothed the passage for Don
Clavijo : — for that is the name of the trea-
oherous cavalier. Thus being made the go-
between, the wicked man was often in the
chamber of the — not by him, but by me, be-
trayed Antonomasia, as her lawful spouse :
for, sinner as I am, never would I have
consented unless he had been her true hus-
band, that he should have come within the
shadow of her shoe-string ! No, no, mar-
riage must be the forerunner of any business
of this kind undertaken by me ; the only
mischief in the afiair was that they were ill-
sorted : Don Clavijo being but a private gen-
tleman, and the infanta Antonomasia, as I
have already said, heiress of the kingdom.
*^ For some time this intercourse^ enveloped
in the sagacity of my circumspection, was
concealed from every eye* At length I per-
ceived a certain change in the bodily shape
of the princess, and, apprehending it might
lead to a discovery, we laid our three heads
together and determined that, before the un-
happy slip should come to light, Don Clavijo
should demand Antonomasia in marriage be-
fore the vicar, in virtue of a contract signed
and given him by the in&nta herself, to be
his wife, and so worded, by my wit« that the
force of Samson could not have broken
through it. Our plan was immediately car-
ried into execution ; the vicar examined the
contract, took the lady's confession, and she
was placed in the custody of an honest algu-
azil.'^ <' Bless me \" said Sancho, " alguazils
too, and poets, and songs, and roundelays,
in Gandaya ! I swear the world is the same
every where ! But pray get on, good madam
Trííaldi, for it grows late, and I am on thorns
till I know the end of this long story/' *' I
shall be brief," answered the countesi.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
WHERBIN TRIFALDI COIfTIlfUES HER
STUPENDOUS AND HEtfORABLB HIS-
TORY.
Evert word uttered by Sancho was the
cause of much delight to the duchess, and
disgust to Don Quixote, who having com-
manded him to hold his peace, the Afflicted
went on. '' After many questions and an-
swers,'' said she, '^ the infanta stood firm \o
her engagement, without varying a tittle
from her first declaration ; the vicar there-
fore, confirmed their union as lawful man
and wife, which so affected the queen Donna
Maguncia, mother to the infanta Antono-
masia, that three days after we buried her.*'
'^ She died then, I suppose," quoth Sancho.
" Assuredly," replied the squire Trifaldin ;
" in Candaya we do not bury the living,
but the dead." " Nevertheless, master
squire," said Sancho, *' it has happened
before now, that people only in a swoon have
been buried for dead ; and methinks queen
Maguncia ought rather to have swooned
than died in good earnest ; for while there
is life there is hope ; and the young lady's
offence was not so much out of the way that
her mother should have taken it so to heart.
Had she married one of her pages, or
some serving-man of the family, as I have
been told many have done, it would ha\'e
been a bad business and past cure ; but as
she made choice of a well-bred young cava-
lier of such good parts, faith and troth,
though mayhap it was foolish, it was no
such mighty matter: for, as my master says,
who is here present and will not let me lie,
bishopsare made out of learned men, and why
may not kings and emperors be made out
of cavaliers,--especially if they be errant V*
<'Thou art in the right, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; ^'for a knight- errant, with bat
two grains of good luck, is next in the
Older of promotion to the greatest lord in
the world. But let the afflicted lady pro-
ceed: for I fancy the bitter part of this
DON QUIXOTE.
385
hitherto sweet story is still behind." '' Bit-
ter T' answered the countess, ''aye, and so
bitter that, in comparison, wormwood is
«weet and rue savoury I
"The queen being really dead, and not in
a swoon, we buried her ; and scarcely had
we covered her with earth and pronounced
the last farewell, when, ' Quis talia fando
temperet a lacrymis V — lo ! upon the queen's
sepalchre, who should appear, mounted on
a wooden horse, but her cousin-german the
giant Malambruno ! Yet that cruel necro-
mancer came expressly to revenge the death
of his cousin, and to chastise the presump-
tuous Don Clavijo and the foolish Antono-
masia, both of whom, by his cursed art, he
instantly transformed, — she into a monkey
of brass, and him into a frightful crocodile
of some strange metal ; fixing upon them,
at the same time, a plate of metal, engraven
with Synac characters ; which being first
rendered into the Candayan, and now into
the Castilian, language, have this meaning :
' These two presumptuous lovers shall not
regain their pristine form till the valorous
Manchegan engages with me in single com-
bat : since for his mighty arm alone have
the destinies reserved the achievement of
that stupendous adventure.' No sooner was
the wicked deed performed than out he
drew, from its scabbard, a dreadful scimitar,
and, taking me by the hair of my head, he
seemed preparing to cut my throat, or whip
off my head at a blow ! Though struck with
horror and almost speechless, trembling and
weeping I begged for mercy in such a mov-
ing tone and melting words that I at last
prevailed on him to stop the cruel execution
which he meditated . In short, he ordered into
his presence all the duennas of the palace ;
being those you see here present, — and, after
having expatiated on our fimlt, inveighed
against duennas, their wicked plots, and
worse intrigues, and reviled all for the crime
of which I alone was guilty, he said, though
he would vouchsafe to spare our lives, he
would inflict on ua a punishment that should
be a lasting shame. — At the same instant,
we all felt the pores of our faces open, and a
aharp pain all over them, like the pricking
of needle points ; upon which we clapped
oar hands to our faces and found them in
the condition you shall now behold. Here-
upon the afiiicted lady and the rest of the
duennas lifted up the veils which had hi-
therto concealed them, and discovered theii
faces planted with beards of all colours,
black, brown, white, and pye-bald I The
duke and duchess viewed the spectacle with
surprise, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and the
rest, were all lost in amazement. '' Thus,"
continued the Trifaldi, " hath that wicked
and evil-minded felon Malambruno punished
us! covering our soft and dehcate facep
with these rugged bristles — would to Hea-
ven he had struck off our heads witli his
huge scimitar, rather than have obscured
the light of our countenances with such an
odious cloud! Whither, noble lords and
lady, — O, that I could utter what I have
now to say with rivers of tears I but alas I
the torrent is spent, and excess of grief has
left our eyes without moisture and dry as
beards of com! — Whither, I say, can a
duenna go, whose chin is covered with a
beard ? What relation will own her ? Wha»
charitable person will shew her compassion,
or afford her relief? Even at the best, when
the grain of her skin is the smoothest, and
her face tortured and set off with a thousand
different washes and ointments — with all
this, how seldom does she meet with good-
will from either man or woman I What
then will become of her when her face is be-
come a forest ? O duennas ! my dear partners
in misfortune and companions in grief ! In
an evil hour were we begotten ! in an evil
hour were we brought into the world ! Oh"
Here, being overcome with the strong
sense of her calamity, she fell into a swoon.
CHAPTER XL.
WHICH TREATS OF MATTERS RELATING
AND APPERTAINING TO THIS ADVEN-
TURE, AND TO THIS MEMORABLE
HISTORY.
All who delight in histories of this kind
ought to be grateful to the original author
of the present work. Cid Hamete, for his
punctilious regard for truth, in allowing no
circumstance to escape his pen; and the
2c
ADVENTURES OF
curious exactness with which he notes and
sets down every thing just as it happened :
nothing, however minute, being omitted!
He lays open the inmost thoughts, speaks
for the silent, clears up doubts, resolves ar-
guments ; in fine, satisfies, to the smallest
particle, the most acute and inquisitive minds.
0 most incomparable author! O happy
Don Quixote! O famous Dulcinea! O
facetious Sancho Panza ! Jointly and se-
verally may ye live through endless ages
for the delight and recreation of mankind!
The history then proceeds to relate that
when Sancho saw the afflicted lady fidnt
away, he said, ''Upon the word of an honest
man, and by the blood of all my ancestors,
the Panzas, I swear, I never heard or saw,
nor has my master ever told me, nor did
such an adventure as this ever enter into
his thoughts ! A thousand devils take thee
— not to say curse thee, Malambruno, for a
whoreson enchanter and giant! Could'st
thou, beast ! hit upon no other punishment
for these poor sinners than clapping beards
upon them ? Had it not been better (for
them I am sure it would) to have whipt off
half their noses, though they had snuffled
for it, than to have covered their faces with
scrubbing-brushes ? And, what is worse, I'll
wager a trifle they have not wherewithal to
pay for shaving.'' '' That is true indeed,
sir,'' answered one of the twelve ; '' we have
not wherewithal to satisfy the barber, and
therefore, as a saving shift, some of us lay
on plaisters of pitch, which being pulled off
with a jerk, take up roots and all, and
thereby free us of this stubble for a while.
As for the women who, in Gandaya, go
about from house to house to take off the
superfluous hairs of the body, and trim the
eye-brows, and do other private jobs for
ladies, we, the duennas of her ladyship,
would never have any thing to do with them ;
for they are most of them no better than
they should be; and therefore, if we are
not relieved by sigfior Don Quixote, with
beards we shall live, and with beards be
carried to our graves." '* I would pluck
off my own in the land of the Moors," said
Don Quixote, '' if I failed to deliver you
from yours."
^ Ah, valorous knight !" cried the Tri-
va>=
fiddi, at that moment recovering from her
fainting-fit, ''the sweet tinkling of that
promise reached my hearing faculty and
restored me to life. Once again then, illu»-
trions errant, and invincible hero ! let me
beseech and pray that your gracious pro-
mises may be converted into deeds." '* The
business shall not sleep with me," answered
Don Quixote, "therefore say, madam, what
I am to do, and you shall soon be convinced
of my readiness to serve you." "Be it
known then to you, sir," replied the af-
flicted dame, " that from this place to the
kingdom of Gandaya by land, is computed
to be about ñve thousand leagues, one or
two more or less ; but, through the air in a
direct line, it is three thousand two hundred
and twenty-seven. You are likewise to
understand that Malambruno told me that,
whenever fortune should direct me to the
knight who was to be our deliverer, be
would send him a steed — ^not like the vicious
jades let out for hire, for it should be that
very wooden horse upon which Peter of
Provence carried off the fair Magalona.
This horse is governed by a peg in his fore-
head, which serves instead of a bridle, and
he flies as swiftly through the air as if the
devil himself was switching him. This fa-
mous steed tradition reports to have been
formed by the cunning hand of Merlin the
enchanter, who sometimes allowed him to
be used by his particular fnends, or those
who paid him handsomely ; and be it was
who lent him to his friend the valiant Peter,
when, as I said before, he stole the fair
Magalona : whisking her through the air,
behind him on the crupper, and leaving all
that beheld him from the earth, gaping with
astonishment. Since the time of Peter, to
the present moment, we know of none that
mounted him ; but tiiis we know, tliat
Malambruno, by his art, has now got poeses-
sion of him, and by his means, posts about
to every part of the world. To-day he is
here, to-morrow in France, and the no^t
day in Potosi ; and the best of it is that
this same horse neither eats nor sleeps, nor
wants shoeing ; and, without wings, he
ambles so smoothly that, in his most rapid
flight, the rider may carry in his hand a
cup full of water without q>illing a drop ! —
DON QUIXOTE.
387
No wonder then, that the fair Magalona
took such delight in riding him/'
" As for easy going," quoth Sancho,
*' commend rae to my Dapple, though he is
no high-flyer ; but, hy land, I will match
liim against all the amblers in the world."
The gravity of the company was disturbed
for a moment by Sancho's observation ; but
the unhappy lady proceeded : " Now this
horse," said she, "if it be Malambruno's
intention that our misfortune should have an
end, will be here this very evening ; for he
told me that the sign by which I should be
assured of my having arrived in the pre-
sence of my deliverer, would be his sending
me the horse thither with all convenient
despatch." "And pray," quoth Sancho,
" how many will that same horse carry ?"
**Two persons," answered the lady, "one
in the saddle and the other on the crupper ;
and generally these two persons are the
knight and his squire, when there is no
stolen damsel in the case." " I would fain
know," quoth Sancho, " by what name he
is called." " His name," aúswered the
Trifaldi, " is not the same as the horse of
Bellerophon, which was called Pegasus;
nor ¡8 he called Bucephalus, like that of
Alexander the great ; nor Brilladore, like
tbat of Orlando Furioso -, nor is it Bayarte,
which belonged to Reynaldos of Montalvan ;
nor Frontino, which was the steed of Ro-
g'ero ; nor is it Bootes, nor Pyrois — names
^ivcn, it is said, to horses of the sun ; nei-
ther is he called Orelia, like the horse which
the unfortunate Roderigo, the last king of
the Goths in Spain, mounted in that battle
Tv^herein he lost his kingdom and his life."
** I will venture a wager," quoth Sancho,
<^ since they have given him none of these
famous and well-known names, neither have
they given him that of my master's horse
Rozinante, which in fitness goes beyond all
the names you have mentioned." "It is
very true," answered the bearded lady,
** yet the name he bears is correct and sig-
nificant, for he is called Clavileno el Ali-
gero ; * whereby his miraculous peg, his
-wooden frame, and extraordinary speed,
sire all curiously expressed : so that, in
* Wooden-peg, the wio^d ; compounded
respect of his name, he may vie with the
renowned Rozinante." " I dislike not his
name," replied Sancho ; " but with what
bridle or with what halter is he guided V*
" I have already told you," answered the
Trifaldi, " that he is guided by a peg, which
the rider turning this way and that, makes
him go, either aloft in the air, or else sweep-
ing, and, as it were, brushing the earth ; or
in the middle region : — a course which the
discreet and wise generally endeavour to
keep." " 1 have a mighty desire to see
him," quoth Sancho, " but to think I will
get upon him, either in the saddle or behind
upon the crupper, is to look for pears upon
an elm-tree. It were a good jest, indeed,
for me, who can hardly sit my own Dapple,
though upon a pannel softer than silk, to
think of bestriding a wooden crupper, with-
out either pillow or cushion ! In faith, I
do not intend to flay myself, to unheard the
best lady in the land. Let every one shave
or shear as he likes best ; I have no mind
for so long a journey : my master may travel
by himself. Besides, I have nothing to do
with it — I am not wanted for the taking off
these beards, as well as the business of my
lady Dulcinea." " Indeed, my friend, you
are," said the Trifaldi, " and so much need
is there of your kind help that, without it,
nothing can be done." " In tlie name of
all the saints in Heaven !" quoth Sancho,
" what have squires to do with their mas-
ters' adventures ? Are we always to share
the trouble and they to reap all the glory ?—
Body o' me ! it might be something if the
writers who recount their adventures would
but set down in their books, ' such a knight
achieved such an adventure, with the help
of such an one, his squire, without whom
the devil a bit could he have done it.' — I
say it would be something if wc had our
due ; but, instead of this, they coollv tell us
that ' Don Paralipomenon of the three stars
finished the notable adventure of the six
goblins,' and the like, without once men-
tioning his squire, any more than if he had
been a thousand miles off, though mayhap,
he, poor devil, was in the thick of it all the
while ! In truth, my good lord and lady,
of "Clave," a nail, " Leno," wood.
sas
ADVENTURES OF
I say again, my master may manage this
adventure by himself, and much good may it
do him. I will stay with my lady duchess
here, and perhaps, when he comes back, he
may find madam Dulcinea's business pretty
forward : for I intend at my leisure whiles
to lay it on to some purpose, so that I shall
not have a hair to shelter me.''
'' Nevertheless, honest Sancho," qnoth
the duchess, *^ if your company be really
necessary, you will not refuse to g» ; indeed
all good people will make it their business
to entreat you ; for piteous, truly, would it
be that, through your groundless fears, these
poor ladies should remain in this unseemly
plight" " Ods my life !" exclaimed San-
cho, " were this piece of charity undertaken
for modest maidens, or poor charity girls, a
man might engage to undergo something ;
but, to take all this trouble to rid duennas
of their beards ! — ^plague take them I I had
rather see the whole finical and squeamish
tribe bearded from the highest to the lowest
of them !" '' You seem to be upon bad
terms with duennas, friend Sancho," said
the duchess, ^' and are of the same mind as
the Toledan apothecary ; but, in truth, you
are in the wrong : for I have duennas in
my family who might serve as models to all
duennas; and here is my Donna Rodriguez,
who will not allow me to «ay otherwise."
"Your excellency juay say what you please,"
said Rodriguez ; <'but God knows the truth
of every thing, and, good or bad, bearded or
smooth, such as we are, our mothers brought
us forth like other women ; and, since God
has cast us into the world. He knows why
and wherefore ; and upon his mercy I rely,
and not upon any body's beard whatever."
"Enough, sigñora Rodriguez," quoth Don
Quixote ; " as for you, lady TrifiJdi and
your persecuted friends, I trust that Heaven
will speedily look with a pitying eye upon
your sorrows, and that Sancho will do his
duty, in obedience to my wishes. — Would
that Clavileno were here, and on his back
Malambruno himself ! for I am confident,
no razor would more easily shave your lady-
ships' beards than my sword shall shave off
Malumbruno's head from his shoulders. If
Heaven in its wisdom permits the wicked to
prosper, it is but for a time." "Ah ! valorous
knight !" exclaimed the afflicted lady, *'may
all the stars of the celestial regions regard
your excellency with eyes of benignity,
and impart strength to your arm and coo-
rage to your heart, to be the shield and
refuge of the reviled and oppressed duennian
order, abominated by apothecaries, calum-
niated by squires, and scoffed at by pages ! —
Scorn betake the wretch who, in the flower
of her age, doth not rather profess herself a
nun than a duenna ! Forlorn and despised
as we are, although our descent were to be
traced in a direct line from Hector of Troy
himself, our ladies would not cease to thee
and thou us were they to be made queens
for their condescension. O giant Malam-
bruno ! who, though enchanter, art punctnal
in thy promises, send us the incomparable
Clavileno, that our misfortune may cease ;
for if the heats come on, and these beards of
ours remain, woe be to us !" The Tri&Idi
uttered this with so much pathos that she
drew tears firom the eyes of all present ; and
so much was the heart of Sancho moved
that he secretly resolved to accompany his
master to the farthest part of the world, if
that would contribute to remove the bristles
which deformed those venerable faces.
CHAPTER XLII.
OP THB ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO, WITH
THE CONCLUSION OP THIS PROLIX
ADVENTURE.
Evening now came on, which was the time
when the famous horse Clavileno was ex-
pected to arrive, whose delay troubled Don
Quixote much, being apprehensive that, by
its not arriving, either he was not the knight
for whom this adventure was reserved, or
that Malambruno had not the courage to
meet him in single combat. But, lo, on a
sudden, four savages entered the garden, all
clad in green ivy, and bearing on their
shoulders a large wooden horse ! They set
him upon his legs on the ground, and one of
the savages said, " Let the knight mount
who has the courage to bestride thb won-
derous machine." " Not I," quoth Sancho ;
" for neither have I courage nor am I
knight:" "and let the squúe, if he has
©=
DON QUIXOTE.
380
one/' continued the savage, "monnt the
crupper, and trust to valorous Malamhrnno;
for no other shall do him harm. Turn but
the pin on his forehead, and he will rush
through the air to the spot where Malam-
bruno waits ; and to shun the danger of
a lofty flight, let the eyes of the riders be
covered till the neighing of the horse shall
give the signal of his completed journey.''
Having thus spoken, he left Clavileno, and
with courteous demeanour departed with
his companions.
The afflicted lady no sooner perceived the
horse than, almost with tears, addressing
herself to Don Quixote, '^ Valorous knight,"
said she, ''Malambruno has kept his word;
here is the horse ; our beards are increasing,
and every one of us, with every hair of them,
intreat and conjure you to shave and shear
us. Mount, therefore, with your squire
behind you, and give a happy beginning
to your journey." "Madam," said Don
Quixote, " I will do it with all my heart,
without waiting for either cushion or spurs :
so great is my desire to see your ladyship
and these your unfortunate firiends shaven
and clean." "That will not I," quoth
Sancho, " either with a bad or a good will,
or any wise ; and, if this shaving cannot be
done without my mounting that crupper,
let my master seek some other squire, or
these madams some other barber : for, being
no wizard, I have no stomach for these jour-
neys. What will my islanders say when
they hear that their governor goes riding
upon the wind ? — Besides, it is three thou-
sand leagues from here to Gandaya, — what
if the horse should tire upon the road, or the
giant be fickle and change his mind ? Seven
years, at least, it would take us to travel
home, and by that time I should have nei-
ther island nor islanders that would own me !
No, no, I know better things ; I know, too,
that delay breeds danger ; and when they
bring you a heifer be ready with a rope.
These gentlewomen's beards must excuse
me : — faith ! Saint Peter is well at Rome ;
and so am I too, in this house where I am
made much of, and, through the noble master
thereof, hope to see myself a governor."
"Friend Sancho," said the duke, "your
island neither floats nor stirs, and therefore.
it will keep till your return ; indeed, so ñaist
is it rooted in the earth, that three good
pulls would not tear it from its place ; and,
as you know that all ofBces of any value
are obtained by some service or other con-
sideration, what I expect, in return for this
government I have conferred upon you, is
only that you attend your master on this
memorable occasion ; and, whether you re-
turn upon Clavileno with the expedition his
speed promises, or be it your fortune to re-
turn on foot, like a pilgrim, from house to
house, and from inn to inn, — however it
may be, you will And your island where you
left it, and your islanders with the same
desbre to receive you for their governor. My
good-will is equally unchangeable ; and to
doubt that truth, signer Sancho, would be
a notorious injury to the inclination I have
to serve you." " Good, your worship, say
no more," quoth Sancho; "I am a poor
squire, and my shoulders cannot bear the
weight of so much kindness. Let my
master mount ; let my eyes be covered, and
good luck go with us. But, tell me, when
we are aloft, may I not say my prayers and
intreat the saints and angels to help me ?"
" Yes, surely," answered the Trifaldi, "you
may invoke whomsoever you please : for
Malambruno is a christian, and performs
his enchantments with great discretion and
much precaution." " Well, let us away,"
quoth Sancho, " and Heaven prosper us !"
" Since the memorable business of the full-
ing-mills," said Don Quixote, "I have
never seen thee, Sancho, in such trepida-
tion, and, were I as superstitious as some
people, this extraordinary fear of thine
would a little discourage me. But come
hither, friend, for, with the leave of these
nobles, I would speak a word or two with
thee in private."
Don Quixote then drew aside Sancho
among some trees out of hearing, and taking
hold of both his hands said to him, "Thou
seest, my good Sancho, the long journey we
are about to undertake ; the period of our
return is uncertain, and heaven alone knows
what leisure or convenience our aflairs may
admit during our absence ; I earnestly beg,
therefore, now that opportunity serves, thou
wilt retire to thy chamber, as if to fetch
^^)
(^=
8no
ADVENTURES OF
@=
something necessary for the journey, and
there, in a trice, give thyself, if it be but
ñve hundred lashes, in part of the three
thousand and three hundred for which thou
art pledged : for work well begun is half
ended." " By my soul," quoth Sancho,
'^ your worship is stark mad ! This b just
as they say, — *Your maidenhead— be quick,
you see I am in haste.' I am just going to
gallop a thousand leagues upon a bare board,
and you would have me first flay my pos-
teriors ! — ^verily, verily, your worship is out
of all reason. Let us go and shave these
duennas, and on my return, I promise to
make such dispatch in getting out of debt
that your worship shall be contented,— can
I say more ?" " With that promise," said
Don Quixote, '^ I feel somewhat comforted,
and believe thou wilt perform it : for, though
thou art not over wise, thou art true blue
in thy integrity." "I am not blue, but
brown," quoth Sancho; ''but, though I
were a mixture of both, I would make good
ray promise."
The knight and squire now returned to
the company ; and, as they were preparing
to mount Clavileno, Don Quixote said :
''Hood- wink thyself, Sancho, and get up :
he that sends for us from countries so remote
cannot, surely, intend to betray us, for he
would gain little glory by deceiving those
who confide in him. And, supposing the
success of the adveuture should not be equal
to our hopes, yet of the glory of so brave
an attempt, no malice can deprive us."
" Let us be gone, sir," quoth Sancho, " for
tlie beards and tears of these ladies have
pierced my heart, and I shall not eat to
do me good till I see them smooth again.
Mount, sir, and hood-wink first, for, if I
am to have the crupper, your worship, who
sits in the saddle, must get up first" " That
is true," replied Don Quixote ; and, pulling
a handkerchief out of his pocket, he re-
quested the afilicted lady to place the
bandage over his eyes; but it was no sooner
done than he uncovered them again, saying,
" I remember to havo read, in the ^neid
of Virgil, that the fatal wooden horse dedi-
cated, by the Greeks, to their tutelary
goddess ' Minerva, was filled with armed
knights, who, by that stratagem, got ad-
mittance into Troy, and wrought its down-
fall. WiU it not, therefore, be prudent,
before I trust myself upon Clavileno, to
examine what may be in his belly ?" " There
is no need of that," said the Trifaldi ; " for
I am confident Malumbruno has nothing in
him of the traitor : your worship may mount
him without fear, and, should any harm
ensue, let the blame fall on me alone." Den
Quixote, now considering that to betray
any further doubts would be a reflection
on his courage, vaulted at once into his
saddle. He then tried the pin, which he
found would turn very easily ; stirrups he
had none, so that, with his legs dangling,
he looked like a figure in some Roman
triumph, woven in Flemish tapestry.
Very slowly, and much against his will,
Sancho then got up behind, fixing himself
as well as he could upon the crupper ; and,
finding it very deficient in softness, he
humbly begged the duke to accommodate
him, if possible, with some pillow or cushion,
though it were from the duchess's state
sofa, or from one of the page's beds : as the
horse's crupper seemed rather to be of
marble than of wood ; but the Trifiildi, in-
terfering, assured him that Clavileno would
not endure any more furniture upon him,
but that, by sitting sideways, as women
ride, he would find himself greatly relieved.
Sancho followed her advice, and, after
taking leave of the company, he suffered
his eyes to be covered. But, soon idler,
he raised the bandage, and, looking sorrow-
fully at his friends, begged them, with a
countenance of woe, to assist hun at that
perilous crisis, with a few Paternosters and
Ave-marias, as they hoped for the same
charity from others when in the like ex-
tremity. "What, then 1" said Don Quixote,
" art thou a thief in the hands of the exe-
cutioner, and at the point of death, that
thou hast recourse to such prayers? Das-
tardly wretch, without a soul ! dost thoo
not know that the fair Magalona sat in the
same place, and, if there be truth in history,
alighted from it, not into the grave, but
into the throne of France ? And do not I
sit by thee — I that may vie with the valoróos
Peter, who pressed this very seat that I now
press? Cover, cover thine eyes, heartless
DON QUIXOTE.
891
animal, and publish not thy shame — at least
in my presence." " Hood-wink me, then/'
answered Sancho; '' bat, since I must
neither pray myself, nor beg others to do it
for me, no wonder if I am afiraid that we
may be followed by a legion of deyils, who
may watch their opportunity to fly away
with us."
They were now blindfolded, and Don
Quixote, feeling himself firmly seated, put
his hand to the peg, upon which all the
duennas, and the whole company, raised
their voices at once, calling out, '^ Speed
you well, yalorous knight ! Heaven guide
thee, undaunted squire! Now you fly
aloft! — See how they cut the air more
swiftly than an arrow ! Now they mount
and soar, and astonbh the world below!
Steady, steady, valorous Sancho! you seem
to reel and totter in your seat — beware of
falling; for, should you drop from that
tremendous height, your fall will be more
terrible than that of Phseton!" Sancho,
hearing all this, pressed closer to his master,
and, grasping him fast, he said, '* How can
they say, sir, that we are got so high, when
we hear them as plain as if they were close
by us ?" " Take no heed of that, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote, " for, in these extraor-
dinary flights, to see or hear a thousand
leagues is nothing — but squeeze me not quite
so hard, good Sancho, or thou wilt unhorse
me. In truth I see not why thou should'st
be so alarmed, for I can safely swear an
easier-paced steed I never rode in all my
life : — faith, it goes as glibly as if it did
not move at all ! Banish fear, my friend,
the business goes on swimmingly, with a
gale fresh and fair behind us." '^ Oad, I
think so too !" quoth Sancho, '' for I feel
the wind here, upon my hinder quarter, as
if a thousand pafr of bellows were pufiing
at my tail." And, indeed, this was the
fact, as sundry large bellows were just then
pouring upon them an artificial storm : in
truth, so well was this adventure managed
and contrived that nothing was wanting
to make it complete. Don Quixote now
feeling the wind, '^Without doubt," said he,
*^ we have now reached the second region
of the air, where the hail and snow are
formed : thunder and lightning are engen-
dered in the third region ; and, if we go on
mounting at this rate, we shall soon be in
the region of ñre ; and how to manage this
peg I know not, so as to avoid mounting
where we shall be burnt alive." Just at that
time some flax, set on fire at the end of a
long cane, was held near their faces ; the
warmth of which being felt, '' May I be
hanged," said Sancho, '^if we are not
already there, or very near it, for half my
beard is singed off— I have a huge mind,
sir, to peep out, and see whereabouts we
are." " Heaven forbid such rashness !"
said Don Quixote: ''remember the true
story of the licentiate Torralvo, who was
carried by devils, hood-winked, riding on
a cane, with his eyes shut, and in twelve
hours reached Rome, where, lighting on
the tower of Nona, he saw the tumult,
witnessed the assault and death of tlie con-
stable of Bourbon, and the next morning
returned to Madrid, where he gave an
account of all that he had seen. Daring
his passage through the air, he said that a
devil told him to open his eyes, which he
did, and found himself, as he thought, so
near the body of the moon that he could
have laid hold of it with his hand; but
that he durst not look downwards to the
earth lest his brain should turn. Therefore,
Sancho, let us not run the risk of uncovering
in such a place, but rather trust to him who
has taken charge of us, as he will be re-
sponsible: perhaps we are just now soaring
aloft to a certain height, in order to come
souse down upon the kingdom of Gandaya,
like a hawk upon a heron ; and, though it
seems not more than half-an-hour since we
left the garden, doubtless we have travelled
through an amazing space." ''As to that
I can say nothing," quoth Sancho Panza ;
" I can only say that, if madam Magalona
was content to ride upon this crupper
without a cashion, her flesh could not have
been the tenderest in the world."
This conversation between the two heroes
was overheard by the duke and duchess,
and all who were in their garden, to their
great diversion ; and, being now disposed
to finish the adventure, they applied some
lighted flax to Clavileno's tail ; upon which
his body being full of combustibles, he in-
=&
ADVENTURES OF
stantly blew up with a prodigioas report,
and threw his riders to the ground. The Tri-
faldi, with the whole bearded squadron of
duennas, vanished, and all that remained in
the garden were laid stretched on the ground
as if in a trance. Don Quixote and Sancho
got upon their legs in but an indifferent
plight, and, looking round, were amazed to
find themselves in the same garden with
such a number of people strewed about
them on all sides ; but their wonder was
increased when, on a huge lance sticking
in the earth, they beheld a sheet of white
parchment attached to it by silken strings,
whereon was written, in letters of gold, the
fullüwing words :
** The renowned knight Don Quixote de
la Mancha has achieved the stupendous
adventure of Trifaldi the Afflicted, and her
companions in grief, only by attempting it.
Malumbruno is satisfied, his wrath is ap-
pease<l, the beards of the unhappy are van-
ished, and Don Clavijo and Antonomasia
have recovered their pristine state. When
the squirely penance shall be completed,
then shall the white dove, delivered iirom the
cpuel talons of the pursuing hawks, be en-
folded i.n the arms of her beloved turtle : —
such is the will of Merlin, prince of en-
chanters."
Don Quixote having read the prophetic
decree, and perceiving at once that it referred
to tlie disenchantment of Dulcinea, he ex-
pressed his gratitude to heaven for having,
with so much ease, performed so great an
exploit, whereby many venerable females
had been happily rescued from disgrace.
He then went to the spot where the duke
and duchess laid on the ground, and, taking
the duke by the arm, he said, *^ Ck>urage,
courage, my good lord; the adventure is
over without damage to the bars, as you will
find by that record." The duke gradually,
as if awaking from a sound sleep, seemed
to recover his senses, as did the duchess and
the rest of the party ; expressing, at the
same time, so much wonder and affright
that what they feigned so well seemed
almost reality to themselves. Though
v.arcely awake, the duke eagerly looked
for the scroll, and, having read it, with
open arms embraced Don Quixote, de-
claring him to be the bravest of knigbts.
Sancho looked all about for the afflicted
dame, to see what kind of face she had
when beardless, and whether she wsui now
as goodly to the sight as her stately presence
seemed to promise ; but he was told that,
when Clavileno came tumbling down in
the flames through she air, the Trifaldi,
with her whole train, vanished, with not a
beard to be seen among them — every hair
was gone, root and branch !
The duchess enquired of Sancho how he
had fared during that long voyage? ^' Why
truly, madam," answered he, ''I have seen
wonders ; for, as we were passing through
the region of fire, as my master called it, I
had, you must know, a mighty mind to take
a peep, and, though my master would not
consent to it, I, who have an itch to know
everything, and a hankering after whatever
is forbidden, could not help, softly and un-
perceived, shoving the cloth a little aside,
when, through a crevice, I looked down,
and there I saw (heaven bless us !) the earth
so far off that it looked to me no biggei
than a grain of mustard-seed, and the men
that walked upon it little bigger than hazel-
nuts!— only tliink, then, what a height we
must have been !" *^ Take care what yon
say, friend," said the duchess ; *' had it
been so, you could not have seen the earth
for the people upon it : — a hazel-nut, g^ood
man, would have covered the whole earth."
" Like enough," said Sancho, " but, for all
that, I had a side-view of it, and saw it
all." '<Take heed, Sancho," said the
duchess ; ''for one cannot see the whole of
anything by a side-view." '' I know nothing
about views," replied Sancho ; " I only
know that your ladjrship should retnember
that, since we Hew by enchantment, by en-
chantment I might see the whole earth, and
all the men upon it, in whatever way I
looked ; and, if your ladyship will not credit
that, neither will you believe me when I tell
you that, thrusting up the kerchief dose
to my eye-brows, I found myself so near to
heaven that it was not above a span and
half from me (bless us all ! what a place it
is for bigness !) and it so fell out that we
=©
DON QUIXOTE.
393
passed close by the place where the seven
little she-goats* are kept; and, by my faith,
having been a goatherd in my youth, I no
sooner saw them but I longed to play with
them awhile; and, had I not done it, I
verily think I should have died ; so what
does me I but, without saying a word,
softly slide down from Clavileno, and play
with the sweet little creatures, which are
like so many violets, for almost three
quarters of an hour; and all the while
Clavileno seemed not to move from the
the place, nor stir a foot." '' And, while
honest Sancho was diverting himself witli
the goats," quoth the duke, ''how did
sigñor Don Quixote amuse himself?" To
which the knight answered: ''As these
and such like concerns are out of the order
of nature, I do not wonder at Sancho's
assertions ; for my own part, I can truly
say I neither looked up nor down, and saw
neither heaven nor earth, nor sea nor sands.
It is, nevertheless, certain that I was sen-
sible of our passing through the region of
the air, and even touched upon that of fire ;
but, that we passed beyond it, I cannot
believe : for, the fiery region lying between
the sphere of the moon and the uppermost
region of the air, we could not reach that
heaven where the seven goats are which
Sancho speaks of without being burnt;
aud, since we were not burnt, either Sancho
lies, or Sancho dreams." "I neither lie
nor dream," answered Sancho : " only ask
me the marks of these same goats, and by
them you may guess whether I speak the
truth or not." " Tell us what they were,
Sancho," quoth the duchess. "Two of
them," replied Sancho, "are green, two car-
nation, two blue, and one motley-coloured."
" A new kind of goats are those," said the
duke : " in our region of the earth we have
none of such colours." "The reason is
plain," quoth Sancho, " your highness will
allow that there must be some difference
between the goats of heaven and those of
I earth." " Pr'ythee, Sancho," said the
I duke, " was there a he-goatf among them ?"
[ •* Not one, sir," answered Sancho ; "and
I was told that none are suffered to pass
beyond the horns of the moon." They did
not choose to question Sancho any more
concerning his journey, perceiving him to
be in the humour to ramble all over the
heavens, and tell them all that was passing
there, without having stirred a foot from
the place where he mounted.
Thus concluded the adventure of the af-
flicted duenna, which furnished the duke
and duchess with a subject of nurth, not
only at the time, but for the rest of their
lives, and Sancho something to relate had
he lived for ages. "Sancho," said Don
Quixote (whispering him in the ear) "if
thou would'st have us credit all thou hast
told us of heaven, I expect thee to believe
what I saw in Montesinos* cave — I say
no more."
• Th»; PlcSadn arc nilptrly called, in Spain, '
•even little ahe-goata."— J.
the
CHAPTER XLIII.
COWTAININO THB IWSTRUCTIOWS H «ICfl
DON QUIXOTE OAYB TO BANGHO PANZA,
BEFORE HE WENT TO HIS GOVERN-
MENT ; WITH OTHER WELL-DIGESTED
MATTER.
The duke and duchess being so well pleased
with the adventure of the a£9icted duenna
were encouraged to proceed with other pro-
jects, seeing that there was nothing too ex-
travagant for the credulity of the knight
and the squire. The necessary orders were
accordingly issued to their servants and vas-
sals with regard to their behaviour towards
Sancho in his government of the promised
island. The day after the flight of Clavil-
eno, the duke bid Sancho prepare and get
himself in readiness to assume his ofliice, for
his islanders were already wishing for him,
as for rain in May. Sancho made a low
bow, and said, " Ever since my journey to
heaven, when I looked down and saw the
earth so very small, my desire to be a go-
vernor has partly cooled : for what mighty
matter is it to command on a spot no bigger
than a grain of mustard seed ? Where is
the majesty and pomp of governing half a
t " Cabrón.*'-— A ject on the double meaning of that
word, which aignifiea both he-goat and cuckold.—/.
(5=
^
394
ADVENTÜRBS OF
dozen creatures no higgex than hazel-nuts ?
If your lordship will be pleased to offer me
some small portion of heaven, though it were
but half a league, I would jump at it sooner
than for the largest island in the world."
*^ Look you, friend Sancho," answered the
duke, " I can give away no part of heaven,
not even a nail's breadth : for God has re-
served to himself the disposal of such favours ;
but, what it is in my power to give, I give
you with all my heart; and the island I
now present to you is ready made, round
and sound, well proportioned, and, above
measure, fruitful, and where, by good man-
agement, you may yourself, with the riches
of the earth, purchase an inheritance in
heaven." ** Well then," answered Sancho,
''let this island be forthcoming, and it shall
go hard with me but I will be such a go-
vernor that, in spite of rogues, heaven will
take me in. Nor is it out of covetousness
that I forsake my humble cottage and aspire
to greater things, but the desire I have to
taste what it is to be a governor." " If
once you taste it, Sancho," quoth the duke,
« you will lick your fingers after it : — so
sweet is it to command and be obeyed. And
certain I am, when your master becomes an
emperor, of which there is no doubt, as
matters proceed so well, it would be impos-
sible to wrest his power from him, and his
only regret will be that he had it not sooner."
« Faith, sir, you are in the right," quoth
Sancho, 'Mt is pleasant to govern though it
be but a flock of sheep." ''Let me be
buried with you, Sancho," replied the duke,
" if you know not something of every thing,
and I doubt not you will prove a pearl of a
governor. But enough of this for the pre-
sent : to-morrow you surely depart for your
island, and this evening you shall be fitted
with suitable apparel and with all things
necessary for your appointment." " Clothe
me as you will," said Sancho, "I shall still
be Sancho Panza." "That is true," said
the duke ; " but the garb should always be
suitable to the offíce and rank of the wearer :
for a lawyer to be habited like a soldier, or
a soldier like a priest, would be preposter-
terous ; and you, Sancho, must be clad
partly like a scholar, and partly a soldier ;
as, in the ofiice you will hold, arms and
learning are united." '< As for learnings"
replied Sancho, " I have not much of that,
for I hardly know my A. B. C. : but to be
a good governor it will be enough that I
am able to make my Christ-cross : and as to
arms, I shall handle such as are g^iven me
till I fall, and so God help me." " With
so good an intention," quoth the duke,
" Sancho cannot do wrong." At this time
Don Quixote came np to them, and hear
ing how soon Sancho was to depart to his
government, he took him by the hand,
and, with the duke's leave, led him to liis
chamber, in order to give him some advice,
respecting his conduct in office : and, hav-
ing entered, he shut the door, and, almost
by, force made Sancho sit down by him,
and, with much solemnity, addressed him
in these words :
" I am thankful to heaven, friend Sancho,
that, even before fortune has crowned my
hopes, prosperity has gone forth to meet
thee. I, who had trusted in my own suc-
cess for the reward of thy services, am still
but on the road to advancement, whilst
thou, prematurely and before all reasonable
expectation, art come into full possession of
thy wishes. Some must bribe, importune,
solicit, attend early, pray, persist, and yet
do not obtain what they desire : whilst
another comes, and, without knowing how,
jumps at once into the preferment for which
so many had sued in vain. It is truly said
that ' merit does much, but fortune more.'
Thou, who in respect to me, art but a very
simpleton, without either early rising or late
watching, without labour of body or mind,
by the air alone of knight-errantry breathing
on thee, findest thyself the governor of an
island, as if it were a trifle, a thing of no
account !
" All this I say, friend Sancho, that
thou may'st not ascribe the favour done
thee to thine own merit, but give thanks,
first to heaven, which disposeth things so
kindly ; and in the next place, acknowledge
with gratitude the inherent grandeur of the
profession of knight-errantry. Thy heart
being disposed to believe what I have now
said to ti)ee, be attentive, son, to me thy
Cato, who will be thy counsellor, thy north-
star, and guide, to conduct and steer thee
(3)=
€)=
=í9>
DON QUIXOTE.
305
safe into port, out of that tempestuous sea
on which thou art going to embark, and
where thou wilt be in danger of being swal-
lowed up in a gulph of confusion.
'^ First, my son, fear God : for, to fear
Lim is wisdom ; and being wise, thou can'st
not err.
'^ Secondly, consider what thou art, and
endeavour to know thyself, which is the
most difficult study of all others. The
knowledge of thyself will preserve thee
from vanity, and the &te of the frog
that foolishly vied with the ox, will serve
thee as a caution ; the recollection, too, of
having been formerly a swine-herd in thine
own country will be to thee, in the loftiness
of thy pride, like the ugly feet of the pea-
cock.*' << It is true," said Sancho, '' that I
once did keep swine, but I was only a boy
then ; when I grew towards man I looked
after geese, and not hogs. But this, me-
thinks, is nothing to the purpose ; for all
governors are not descended from kings."
'<Tbat I grant," replied Don Quixote: '<and
therefore, those who have not the advantage
of noble descent should fail not to grace the
dignity of the office they bear with gentle-
ness and modesty, which, when accompanied
with discretion, will silence those murmurs
which few situations in life can escape.
'^ Conceal not the meanness of thy family,
nor think it disgraceful to be descended from
peasants : for, when it is seen that thou art
not thyself ashamed, none will endeavour
to make thee so ; and deem it more merito-
rious to be a virtuous humble man than a
lofty sinner. Infinite is the number of
those who, born low of extraction, have
risen to the highest dignities, both in church
and state \ and of this truth I could tire
thee with examples.
^'Bemember, Sancho, if thou takest
virtue for the rule of life, and vainest thy-
self upon acting in all things conformable
thereto, thou wilt have no cause to envy
lords and princes; for blood is inherited,
but virtue is a common property and may
De acquired by all ; it has, moreover, an
intrinsic worth which blood has not. This
* An allamon to tbe proTerb, " No quiero, mas echád-
melo en mi capilla/' that is, " I will not, but throw it
ioto my bood." It is applied to the begging friars who
being so, if peradventure any one of thy
kindred visit thee in thy government, do
not slight nor afiront him, but receive, che-
rish and make much of him \ for in so doing
thou wilt please God, who allows none of
his creatures to be despised ; and thou wilt
also manifest therein a well-disposed nature.
'' If thou takest thy wife with thee (and
it is not well for those who are appointed to
governments to be long separated from their
families) teach, instruct, and polish her from
her natural rudeness : for it often happens
that all the consideration a wise governor
can acquire is lost by an ill-bred and foolish
woman.
'< If thou should'st become a widower (an
event which is possible) and thy station en-
titles thee to a better match, seek not one to
serve thee for a hook and angling - rod, or
a friar's hood to receive alms in : * for, be-
lieve me, whatever the judge's wife receives
the husband must account for at the general
judgment, and shall be made to pay four-
fold for all that of which he has rendered
no account during hb life.
^< Be not under the dominion of thine
own will : it is the vice of the ignorant,
who vainly presume on their own under-
standing.
'< Let the tears of the poor find more
compassion, but not more justice, from thee
than the applications of the wealthy.
*' Be equally solicitous to sift out the truth
amidst the presents and promises of the rich
and the sighs and entreaties of the poor.
'' Whenever equity may justly temper the
rigour of the law, let not the whole force of
it bear upon the delinquent : for it is better
that a judge should lean on the side of
compassion than severity.
'* If perchance the scales of justice be
not correctly balanced, let the error be im-
putable to pity, not to gold.
'* If, perchance, the cause of thine enemy
come before thee, forget thy injuries, and
think only on the merits of the case.
<* Let not private affection blind thee in
another man's cause; for the errors thou
shalt thereby commit are often without
refuse to take money, but suffer It to be thro'Am into
their hoods.—/.
(5=
=?
396
ADVENTURES OF
remedy, and at the expense both of thy
reputation and fortune.
" When a beautiful woman comes before
thee to demand justice, consider maturely
tlie nature of her claim, without regarding
either her tears or her sighs, unless thou
would'st expose thy judgement to the danger
of being lost in the one, and thy integrity
in the other.
" Revile not with words him whom thou
hast to correct with deeds : the punishment
which the unhappy wretch is doomed to
suffer is sufficient, without the addition of
abusive language.
" When the criminal stands before thee,
recollect the frail and depraved nature of
roan, and, as much as thou can'st, without
injustice to the suffering party, shew pity
and clemency ; for, though the attributes of
God are all equally adorable, yet his mercy
is more shining and attractive in our eyes
than his justice.
"If, Sancho, thou observest these pre-
cepts, thy days will be long and thy fame
eternal ; thy recompense full, and thy felicity
unspeakable. Thou shalt marry thy children
to thy heart's content, and they and tliy
grand-children shall want neither honours
nor titles. Beloved by all men, thy days
shall pass in peace and tranquillity; and
when the inevitable period comes, death
shall steal on thee in a good and venerable
old age, and thy grand-children's children,
with their tender and pious hands, shall
close thine eyes.
"The advice I have just given thee,
Sancho, regards the good and ornament
of thy mind ; now listen to the directions
I have to give concerning thy person and
deportment."
CHAPTER XLIII. -
OP THK SECOND INSTRUCTION DON
QUIXOTE GATE TO SANCHO PANZA.
Who that has duly considered Don Quixote's
instructions to his squire would not have
taken him for a person of singular intelli-
gence and discretion? But, in truth, as
it has often been said in the progress of this
great history, he raved only on the subject
^z
of chivalry ; on all others he manifested a
sound and discriminating understanding,
wherefore his judgment and his actions
appeared continually at variance. But, in
these second instructions given to Sancho,
which shewed much ingenuity, his wiadom
and frenzy are both singularly conspicuoas.
During the whole of this private confer-
ence, Sancho listened to his master widi
great attention, and endeavoured so to
register his counsel in his mind that he
might thereby be enabled to bear the bur-
then of government, and acquit himself
honourably. Don Quixote now proceeded.
" As to the regulation of thy own person
and domestic concerns," said he, 'Mn the
first place, Sancho, I enjoin thee to be
cleanly in all things. Keep the nails of thy
fingers constantly neatly pared, nor suffer
them to grow as some do, who ignorantly
imagine that long nails beautify the hand,
and account the excess of that excrement,
simply a finger nail, whereas it is rather the
talon of the lizard -hunting kestrel — a foul
and unsightly object.
" Go not loose and unbuttoned, Sancho :
for a slovenly dress betokens a careless mind ;
or, as in the case of Julius Csesar, it may be
attributed to cunning.
" Examine prudently the income of thy
office, and, if it will afford thee to give
liveries to thy servants, give them such as
are decent and lasting, rather than gaudy
and modish ; and what thou shalt thus save
in thy servants bestow on the poor : so shalt
thou have attendants both in heaven and
earth : — a provision which our vain-glorious
great never think of.
" Eat neither garlic nor onions, lest the
smell betray thy rusticity. Walk with gra-
vity, and speak deliberately ; but not so as
seem to be listening to thyself; for affecta-
tion is odious.
" Eat little at dinner and less at supper :
for the health of the whole body is tempered
in the laboratory of the stomach.
" Drink with moderation : for inebri-
ety neither keeps a secret, nor performs a
promise.
"Take heed, Sancho, not to chew on
both sides of thy mouth at once, and by no
means to eruct before company." " I know
:i
DON QUIXOTE.
d07
not what you mean by eract," quoth Sancho.
'' To enict," said Don Quixote^ '' means to
belch : — a filthy, though very significant,
word ; and therefore the polite, instead of
saying belch, make use of the word eruct,
which is borrowed from the Latin; and
for belchings they say * eructations ;' and
though it is true that some do not yet un-
derstand these terms, it matters not much,
for in time, by use and custom, their mean-
ing will be known to all ; and it is by such
innovations that languages are enriched.''
'' By my faith, sir,'' quoth Sancho, " I shall
bear in mind this counsel about not belch-
ing, for, in truth, I am hugely given to it."
'^Eructing, Sancho, and not belching," said
Don Quixote. ' ' Eructing it shall be, hence-
forward," quoth Sancho, '' and egad, I shall
never forget it."
" In the next place, Sancho, do not inter-
mix in thy discourse such a multitude of
proverbs as thou wert wont to do ; for,
though proverbs are concise and pithy sen-
tences, thou dost often so drag them in by
the head and shoulders that they seem ra-
ther the maxims of folly than of wisdom."
« God alone can remedy that," quoth San-
cho ; '' for I know more than a bookful of
proverbs, and when I talk, they crowd so
thick into my mouth that they quarrel
which shall get out first ; so out they come
hap hazard, and no wonder if they should
sometimes not be very pat to the purpose.
But I will take heed in future to utter only
such as become the gravity of my place : ' for,
in a plentiful house supper is soon dressed -/
' he that cuts does not deal ;' and, * with
die repique in hand the game is sure ;'• ' he
is no fool who can both spend and spare.' "
'* So, so, theTe, out with them, Sancho,"
quoth Don Quixote, '' spare them not : —
my mother whips me and I still tear on.
While I am warning thee from the prodigal
use of proverbs, thou pourest upon me a
whole litany of them, as fitting to the pre-
sent purpose as if thou hadst sung, 'hey
down deny !' Attend to me, Sancho, I do
not say a proverb is amiss when aptly and
seasonably applied ; but to be for ever dis-
charging them, right or wrong, hit or miss,
renders conversation insipid and vulgar.
"When thou art on horseback do not
throw thy body backward over the crupper,
nor stretch thy legs out stiff and straddling
from the horse's belly; neither let them
hang dangling as if thou wert still upon
Dapple ; for, by their deportment and air
on horseback, gentiemen are distinguished
from grooms.
«Let thy sleep be moderate; for he
who rises not with the sun enjoys not the
day; and remember, Sancho, that diligence
is the mother of good -fortune, and that
slotii, her adversary, never arrived at the
attainment of a good widh.
'< At this time I have but one more ad-
monition to give thee, which, though it
concerns not thy person, is well worthy of
thy careful remembrance. It is tiiis, —
never undertake to decide contests concern-
ing lineage, or the pre-eminence of families ;
since, in the comparison, one must of neces-
sity have the advantage, and he whom thou
hast humbled will hate thee, and he who
is preferred will not reward thee.
"As for thy dress, wear breeches and
hose, a long coat, and a cloak somewhat
longer; but for trowsers or trunk- hose,
think not of them : they are not becoming
either gentiemen or governors.
"This is all the advice, firiend Sancho,
that occurs to me at present ; hereafter, as
occasions offer, my instructions will be
ready, provided thou art mindful to inform
me of the state of thy afiairs." "Sh-,"
answered Sancho, " I see very well that all
your worship has told me is wholesome and
profitable ; but what shall I be the better
for it if I cannot keep it in my head ? It
is true I shall not easily forget what you
said about paring my nails, and marrying
again if the opportunity offered : but for
your other quirks and quillets, I protest
they have already gone out of my head as
clean as last year's clouds; and therefore
let me have them in writing ; for, though I
cannot read them myself, I will give them
to my confessor, that he may repeat and
drive them into me in time of need,"
^' Heaven defend me !" said Don Quixote,
" how scurvy doth it look in a governor to
be unable to read or write! Indeed, Sancho,
I must needs tell thee that when a man has
not been taught to read, or is left-handed,
'^=
-^
(SF-
r.-^
908
ADVENTURES OF
it argues that his parentage was very low,
OE that, in early life, he was so indocile and
perverse that his teachers could beat nothing
good into him. Truly this is a great defect
in thee, and therefore I would have thee
learn to write, if it were only thy name."
'' That I can do already," quoth Sancho ;
" for, when I was steward of the brother-
hood in our village, I learned to make
certain marks like those upon wool -packs,
which, they told me, stood for my name.
But, at the worst, I can feign a lameness
in my right hand, and get another to sig^
for me : there is a remedy for everything
but death; and, having the staff in my
hand, I can do what I please. Besides, as
your worship knows, he whose father is
mayor* and I, being governor, am, I
trow, something more than mayor. Aye,
aye, let them come that list, and play at
bo-peep, — aye^ fleer and backbite me ; but
they may come for wool, and go back
shorn: 'his home is savoury whom God
loves;' — besides, 'the rich man's blunders
pass current for wise maxims,' so that I,
being a governor, and therefore wealthy,
and bountiful to boot — as I intend to be —
nobody will see any blemish in me. So,
no, let the clown daub himself with honey,
and he will never want flies. As much you
have, just so much you are worth, said my
grannam ; revenge yourself upon the rich
who can." — " Heaven confound thee 1'
exclaimed Don Quixote ; '' sixty thousand
devils take thee and thy proverbs: This
hour, or more, thou hast been stringing thy
musty "^^res, poisoning and torturing me
without mercy. Take my word for it, these
proverbs will one day bring thee to the
gallows ; — they will surely provoke thy
people to rebellion ! Where dost thou find
them 7 How should'st thou apply them —
idiot? for I toil and sweat as if I were
delving the ground to utter but one, and
apply it properly." " Before God, master
of mine," replied Sancho, '' your worship
complains of very trifles. Why, in the
devil's name, are you angry that I make
use of my own goods? for other stock I
• TIm entire prorerb if" Qaien |mdre tiene alcalde
■eguro va al judicin. — He whose father it mayor goea
■afe to hi» trial."—/.
have none, nor any stock but proverbs upon
proverbs ; and just now I have four ready
to pop out, all pat and fitting as pears in a
pannier — but I am dumb; Silence is my
name."t '' Then art thou vilely miscalled,"
quoth Don Quixote, ''being an eternal
babbler. Nevertheless I would Ma know
these four proverbs that come so pat to the
purpose ; for I have been rummaging my
own memory, which is no bad one, but,
for the soul of me, can find none." " Can
there be better," quoth Sancho, "than —
'never venture your fingers between two
eye-teeth;' and, with ' get out of my
house — what would you have with my
wife V there is no arguing ; and, ' whether
the pitcher hits the stone, or the stone hits
the pitcher, it goes ill with the pitcher.'
All these, your worship must see, fit to a
hair. Let no one meddle with the governor
or his deputy, or he will come off the
worst, like him who claps his finger between
two eye-teeth ; and, though they were not
eye-teeth, 'tis enough if they be but teeth.
To what a governor says there is no reply-
ing; any more than to 'get out of my
house, what business have you with my
wife?' Then, as to the stone and the
pitcher, — a blind man may see that So
he who points to the mote in another man's
eye should first look to tlie beam in hb
own, that it may not be said of him, the
dead woman was afraid of her that was
flayed. Besides, your worship knows well
that the fool knows more in his own house
than the wise in that of another." " Not
so, Sancho," answered Don Quixote ; " the
fool knows nothing either in his own or
any other house ; for knowledge is not to
be erected upon so bad a foundation as
folly. Bqt here let it rest, Sancho, for, if
thou govemest ill, though the &ult will be
thine, the shame will be mine. However,
I am comforted in having given thee the
best counsel in my power; and therein,
having done my duty, I am acquitted both
of my obligation and my promise : so God
speed thee, Sancho, and govern thee in thy
govern ment| and deliver me firom the fears
tThe
Santo.**'
prorerb ia, "To keep aUeiice «ell la taiimA
<*S!-
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
390
I eDtertain that thou wilt turn the whole
island topsy - tunry ! — which, indeed, I
might prevent, by letting the duke know
what thou art, and telling him that all that
paunch -gut and little carcase of thine is
nothing but a sackful of proverbs and
impertinence." " Look you, sir," replied
Sancho, ** if your worship thinks I am not
fit for this government, I renounce it from
this time; for I have more regard for a
single nail's -breadth of my soul than for
my whole body ; and plain Sancho can live
as weU upon bread and onions as governor
Sancho upon capon and partridge. Besides,
sleep makes us all alike, great and small,
rich and poor. Call to mind, too, who first
put this whim of governing into my head —
who was it but yourself? for, alack, I
know no more about governing islands than
a bustard ; and if you fancy that, in case I
should be a governor, the devil will have
me — in God's name let me rather go to
heaven plain Sancho, than a governor to
hell." " Before God, Sancho," quoth Don
Quixote, '' for those last words of thine I
think that thou deservest to be governor of
a thousand islands. Thou hast a good dis-
position, without which knowledge is of
no value. Pray to God, and endeavour not
to err in thy intention ; I mean, let it ever
be thy unshaken purpose and design to
do right in whatever business occurs ; for
heaven constantly favours a good intention.
And now let us go to dinner ; for I believe
their highnesses wait for us."
ta
CHAPTER XLIV.
HOW BANGHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED
TO HIS OOVBBNMBNT, AND OP THE
STKANOB ADVBNTUBE WHICH BEPBL
DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE.
We have been told that there is a manifest
difference between the translation and the
original, in the beginning of this chapter :
the translator having entirely omitted what
the historian. Cid Hametc, here took occa-
sion to say of himself, where he laments
his ever having engaged in a work like the
present, of so dry and so limited a subject, I
wherein he was confined to a dull narrative
of the transactions of the crazy knight and
his squire : not daring to launch out into
episodes and digressions, that would have
yielded both pleasure and profit in abun-
dance. To have his invention, his hand,
and his pen, thus tied down to a single
subject, and confined to so scanty a list of
eharacters, he thought an insupportable
hardship, as it gave him endless trouble,
and promised him nothing for his pains. In
the first part he had endeavoured, he said,
to make amends for the defect here com-
plained of, by introducing such tales as The
Curious Impertinent, and The Captive; and
though these, it is true, did not, strictly,
make a part of the history, the same ob-
jection could not apply to other stories
which are there brought in, and appear so
naturally connected with Don Quixote's
afiairs that they could not well be omitted.
But finding, he said, the attention of his
readers so engrossed by the exploits of his
mad hero that they have none to bestow on
his novels, and that, being run over in
haste, their reception is not proportioned to
their merit, which would have been suffi-
ciently obvious if they had been published
separately, and unmixed with the extrava-
gancies of Don Quixote, and the simplicities
of his squire* Finding this to be the case
he has, in this second part, admitted no
unconnected tales, and only such episodes
as arose out of the events that actually
occurred ; and even these with all possible
brevity. But although he has thus con-
sented to restrain his genius, and to keep
within the narrow limits of a simple nar-
rative—thereby suppressing knowledge and
talents sufiicient to treat of the whole uni-
verse— ^he hopes his book will not do him
any discredit, but that he may be applauded
for what he has written, and yet more for
what he has omitted in obedience to the
restrictions imposed upon him. He then,
goes on with his history, where the trans-
lator has taken it up, as follows :
Don Quixote, in the evening of the day
on which Sancho had received his admo-
nitions, gave him a copy of them in writing,
that he might get them read to him occa-
sionally ; but they were no sooner delivered
=^i
400
ADVENTURES OF
to Sancho than he dropped them, and
they fell into the duke's hands, who com-
municated them to the duchess, and both
were again surprised at the good sense
and madness of Don Quixote. That very
evening, in prosecution of their merry pro-
ject, they dispatched Sancho, with a large
retinue, to the place which, to him, was
to be an island. The person who had the
management of the business was steward to
the duke; a man of much humour, and
had, besides, a good understanding — indeed,
without which there can be no true plea-
santry. He it was who had already per-
sonated the countess Trifaldi in the manner
before related ; and, being so well qualified,
and likewise so well tutored by his lord and
lady as to his behaviour towards Sancho,
no wonder he performed his part to admi-
ration. Now it so happened that the moment
Sancho cast his eyes upon this same steward,
he fancied he saw the very &ce of the Tri-
faldi, and, turning to his master, '< The
devil fetch me for an honest man and a true
believer," said he, "if your worship will
not own that the face of this steward is the
very same as that of the afflicted lady V
Don Quixote looked at the steward very
earnestly, and, having viewed him from
head to foot, he said^ " There is no need,
Sancho, of giving thyself to the devil, either
for thy honesty or faith; for, though I
know not thy meaning, I plainly see
the steward's face is similar to that of
the afflicted lady : yet is the steward not
the afflicted lady, for that would imply a
palpable contradiction, which, were we now
to examine and enquire into, would only
involve us in doubts and difficulties that
might be still more inexplicable. Believe
me, friend, it is our duty earnestly to pray
that we may be protected from the wicked
wizards and enchanters that infest us."
" Egad, sir, it is no jesting matter," quoth
Sancho, " for I heard him speak just now^
and methought the very voice of madam
Trifaldi sounded in my ears! — But I say
nothing — only I shall keep my eye upon
him, and time will shew whether I am
right or wrong." " Do so, Sancho," quoth
Don Quixote, "and fail not to give me
advice of all thou may'st discover in this
affiiir, and of all that happens to thee Ib
thy government."
At length Sancho set out with a numeróos
train. He was dressed like one of the long
robe, wearing a loose gown of sad-coloured
camlet, and a cap of the same. He was
mounted upon a mule, which he rode gineta*
fashion, and behind him, by the duke's order,
was led his Dapple, adorned with shiniDg
trappings of silk ; which so delighted Sancho
that every now and then he turned his head
to look upon him, and thought himself 90
happy that he would not have changed
conditions with the emperor of Germany.
On taking leave of the duke and duchess
he kissed their hands ; at the same time be
received his master's blessing, not without
tears on both sides.
Now, loving reader, let honest Sancho
depart in peace, and in a happy hour ; the
accounts hereafter given of his conduct in
office may, perchance, excite thy mirth;
but, in the mean time, let us attend to what
befel his master on the same night, at which,
if thou dost not laugh outright, at least
thou wilt shew thy teeth, and grin like a
monkey ; for it is the property of all the
noble knight's adventures to produce either
surprise or merriment.
It is related, then, that immediately after
Sancho's departure Don Quixote began to
feel the solitary state in which he was now
left, and, had it been possible for him to
have revoked the commission, and deprived
Sancho of his government, he would cer-
tainly have done it The duchess, perceiving
this change, enquired the cause of his sad-
ness ; adding that, if it was on account of
Sancho's absence, her home contained aban-
dance of squires, duennas and damsels, all
ready to serve him to his heart's desire. ** It
is true, madam," answered Don Quixote,
" that Sancho*s absence somewhat weighs
upon my heart, but that is not the principal
cause of my apparent sadness ; and, of all
your excellences kind offers I accept only
of the good will with which they are ten-
dered : saving that I humbly entreat that
your excellency will be pleased to permit me
to wait upon myself in my own apartment."
" By my faith I sigfior Don Quixote," quoth
the duchess, " that must not be ; you shall
DON QUIXOTE.
401
be served by four of my damsels, all beau-
tiful as roses." "To me," answered Don
Quixote, " they will not be roses, but even
as thorns pricking me to the soul : — they must
in no wise enter my chamber. If your grace
would continue your favours to me, unme-
rited as they are, suffer me to be alone, and
leave me without .attendants in my chamber
that I may still keep a wall betwixt my pas-
sions and my modesty: a practice I would
not forego for all your bighness's liberality
towards me ; — in truth, I would rather sleep
in my garments than consent that others
should undress me." " Enough, enough,
sigñor Don Quixote," replied the duchess,
" I will surely give orders that not so much
as a fly shall enter your chamber, much less
a damsel. * I would by no means be acces-
sary to the violation of sigfior Don Quixote's
delicacy ; for, by what I can perceive, the
most conspicuous of his virtues is modesty.
You shall undress and dress by yourself,
your own way, when, and how you please ;
for no intruders shaU invade the privacy of
your chamber, in which you will find all
the accommodation proper for those who
sleep with thebr doors closed, that there may
be no necessity for opening them. May the
great Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand
ages, and may her name be extended over
the whole circumference of the earth, for
meriting the love of so valiant and so chaste
a knight ! And may indulgent heaven in-
fuse into the heart of Sancho Panza, our
governor, a disposition to finish his penance
speedily, that the world may again enjoy
the beauty of so exalted a lady." " Madam,"
returned Don Quixote, ^^ your highness has
spoken like yourself. From the mouth of
so excellent a lady nothing but what is good
and generous can proceed ; and Dulcinea
will be more happy and more renowned by
the praises your grace bestows on her than
by all the applause lavished by the most
eloquent orators upon earth." " Sir knight,"
said the duchess, " I must now remind you
that the hour of refreshment draws near, —
let us to supper, for the duke, perhaps, is
waiting for us, and we will retire early, for
you must needs be weary after your long
journey yesterday to Gandaya." " Not in
the least, madam," answered Don Quixote,
'* I can assure your grace that, in all my
life, I never bestrode a horse of an easier
or better paóe than Clavileno ; and I cannot
imagine what should induce Malambruno to
deprive himself of so swift and so gentle a
steed, and, without scruple, thus rashly to
destroy him." " It is not impossible," said
the duchess, " that, repenting of the mis-
chief he had done to the Trifaldi and her
attendants, as well as to many other persons,
and of the iniquities he had committed as a
wizard and an enchanter, he was determined
to destroy all the implements of his art, and
accordingly he burnt Clavileno, as the prin-
cipal : being the engine which enabled him
to rove all over the world ; and thus by
his memorable destruction, and the record
which he has caused to be set up, has he
eternized the memory of great Don Quixote
de la Mancha."
Don Quixote repeated his thanks to the
duchess, and after supper he retired to his
chamber, where, conformable to his deter-
mination, he remained alone : suffering no
attendants to approach him, lest he should
be moved to transgress those bounds of vir-
tuous decorum which he had ever observed
towards his lady Dulcinea, and always bear-
ing in mind the chastity of Amadis, that
flower and mirror of knights-errant. He
closed his door after him, and undressed
himself by the light of two wax candles :
but, on pulling off his stockings — O direful
mishap, unworthy of such a personage !
forth bursts — not sighs, nor anything else
unbecoming the purity of his manners, but
some two dozen stitches in one of his stock-
ings, which gave it the resemblance of a
lattice window ! The good knight was ex-
tremely afilicted, and would have given an
ounce of silver to have had just then a
drachm of green silk — I say green, because
his stockings were of that colour.
Here Benengeli exclaims, "O poverty,
poverty 1 I cannot imagine what could have
induced the great Cordovan poet to call
thee ^ a holy, thankless gift !' I, though a
Moor, have learnt, by the intercourse I have
had with the Christians, that holiness con-
sists in charity, humility, faith, obedience,
and poverty. Yet I maintain that a man
must be much indebted tc Qod's grace who
<d
402
ADVENTURES OP
can be contented in poverty : — unless in-
deed it be of that kind to which one of their
greatest saints alludes, sayings ' possess all
things as not possessing them/ — which is no
other than poverty in spirit. But thou, I
mean, O second poverty, accursed indigence !
It is of thee I would now speak — ^why dost
thou intrude upon gentlemen, and delight
in persecuting the well-born, in preference
to all others? Why dost thou force them
to cobble their own shoes; and, on the
same thread-bare garments, wear buttons of
every kind and colour ? Why must their
rufis be, for the most part, ill-plaited and
worse starched?" (By the way, this shews
the antiquity both of starch and ruffs.)
" Wretched is the poor gentleman who,
while he pampers his honour, starves his
body; dining scurvily or lasting unseen
with his door locked ; then out in the street
he marches making a hypocrite of his tooth-
pick, and picking where, alas ! there was
nothing to pick! Wretched he, I say,
whose honour is in a state of continual
alarm ; who thinks that, at the distance of
a league, every one discovers the patch
upon his shoe, the greasiness of his hat,
the threadbareness of his cloak, and even
the cravings of his stomach!''
All these melancholy reflections must have
passed through Don Quixote's mind, as he
surveyed the fracture in his stocking; never-
theless he was much comforted on finding
that Sancho had left him a pair of travelling
boots, in which he immediately resolved to
make his appearance the next day. He
now laid himself down, pensive and heavy-
hearted, not more for lack of Sancho than
for the misfortune of his stocking, which he
would gladly have darned, even with silk
of another colour: — that most expressive
token of gentlemanly poverty ! His lights
were now extinguished, but the weather
was sultry, and he could not compose liim-
self to sleep ; he therefore got out of bed
and opened a casement which looked into
the garden, which he had no sooner done
than he heard the voices of some persons
who were walking on the terrace below.
He listened and could distinctly hear these
words : " Press me not to sing, dear Eme-
rcncia, for you know ever sibce this stranger
entered our castle and my eyes beheld hinij
I cannot sing, I can only weep. Besides,
my lady does not sleep sound, and I would
not, for the world, she should find us here
But though she should not awake, whst
will my singing avail, if this new iBneai
who comes hither only to leave me forlorn,
awakes not to hear it?" '^Do not fancy
so, dear Altisidora," answered the otiier,
" for I doubt not but the duchess is asleep,
and every body else in the house, except the
master of your heart and disturber of your
repose : he, I am sure, is awake, for even
now I heard his casement open. Sing, my
unhappy friend, in a low and sweet voice
to the sound of your lute, and, if my hidy
should hear us, we will plead in excuse the
excessive heat of the weather." " My fean
are not on that account, my Emerencis/'
answered Altisidora, "but I fear lest my
song should betray my heart, and that, by
those who know not the mighty force of
love, I might be taken for a light and wan-
ton damsel ; but come what may, I will
venture : better a blush in the face than
a blot in the heart" And presently she
began to touch a lute so sweetly that Don
Quixote was delighted and surprised; at
the same time an infinite number of similar
adventures rushed into his mind, of case-
ments, grates, and gardens, serenades, court-
ships, and swoonings, with which his memory
was well stored, and he forthwith imagined
that some damsel belonging to the duches
had become enamoured of him. Although
somewhat fearful of the beautiful foe, he
resolved to fortify his heart and on no
account to yield ; so, commending himsel/
with fervent devotion to his mistress Dul-
cinea del Toboso, he determined to listen to
the music; and, to let the damsel know that
he was there, he gave a feigned sneeze, at
which they were not a little pleased, as they
desired above all things that he should hear
them. The harp being now tuned^ Altisidora
began this song.
so NO.
Wake, sir knigfaC, now lofe*i iaradby»
Sleep In Holland dieeti no won |
When K nymph i« ■erenading,
TU an errant ahune to i
■^i
rfd)
DON QUIXOTE.
403
Hnur a damsel tall and tander,
MwDiBg in moat nioful g:uiie,
With h«aA almoaC burned to einder,
By the ett&'beama of thy eyea.
To free damieU from diaaatcr
la, they eay, your daily caret
Can you then deny a plaister
To a «oonded virgin here 7
TeU me, doughty youth, who eureed thee
With each humours and Ul-Iuck ?
Was 't some sullen bear dry-nurs'd thee.
Or she-dragon gave thee suck 7
Dulcinea, that virago,
Well may brag of aueh a kid ;
Nov her fame is up, and may go
From Toledo to Madrid.
Would she but her priae surrender,
(Judge how on thy face I doat !)
In exchange I'd gladly send her
Uy best gown and petticoat.
Happy I, would fortune doom thee
But to have me near thy bed.
Stroke thee, pat thee, curry-comb thee,
And hunt o'er thy solid head.
But I ask too much, sincerely.
And I doubt I ne'er must do't,
I'd but kiss your toe, and fairly
Get the length thus of your foot.
How I'd rig thee, and what riches
Should be heaped ufmn thy bonea f
Caps and socks, and cloaks and breeches,
matchless pearls and predons stones.
Do not from above, like Nero,
See me bum and slight my woe,
But to quench my flres, my hero,
Caat a pitying eye below.
I'm a virgin-pullet, truly ;
One more tender ne'er vrae seen t
A mere chicken fledg'd but newly i —
Bang me, if I'm yet fifteen.
Wind and limb, all's tight about me.
My hair dangles to my feet;
I 'm rtrai^t too :— if you doubt me.
Trust your eyes, come down and aee't
I've a bob nose, has no fellow.
And a sparrow's mouth aa rare t
Teeth like bright topazes yellow;
Tet I'm deemed a beanty here.
Tou know what a rare musician
(If you hearken) courts your choice ;
I dare say my disposition
Is as taking as my voice.
These and such like charma I'm plenty |
I 'm a damsel of this place :
Let Altísidora tempt ye ;
Or ahe'a in a woeful case.
Here the sore-woanded Altísidora ended
her song, and the courted Don Quixote
began his expostulation. " Why,'* said he.
\vith a sigh heaved from the bottom of his
heart, '^ why am I so unhappy a knight
that no damsel can see me without instantly
falling in love with me ? Why is the peer-
less Dulcinea so unfortunate that she must
not be suffered singly to enjoy this my
transcendant fidelity? Queens, why do
you envy her? Empresses, why do ye
persecute her? Damsels of fifteen, why
would you deprive her of her right? Leave,
Oh leave^ the unfortunate fair; let her
triumph, glory, and exult in the full and
entire possession of that heart which love
has assigned her, and in the absolute sway
which she bears over my soul. Away, en-
amoured tribe! To Dulcinea alone I am
honey; to all others bitterness itself. In
my eyes she alone is beautiful, discreet,
lively, modest, and noble ; all other women
appear to me deformed, silly, wanton, fickle,
and base-bom. To be hers, and hers alone,
nature cast me into the world. Let Aitisi-
dora weep or sing ; let the lady for whom
I suffered so much in the castle of the en-
chanted Moor pine and despair. Boiled or
roasted, still I am Dulcinea's; body and
soul I am hers alone, dutiful, unspotted,
and unchanged, in spite of all the necro-
mantic powers on earth.'* This said, he
instantly closed the window, and flung
himself upon his bed, as full of trouble and
vexation as if some serious calamity had be-
fallen him. There we will leave him for the
present, to attend the great Sancho Panza
on the commencement of his memorable
administration.
CHAPTER XLV.
HOW THB ORBAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK
POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND THB
MANNER IN WHICH HE BEGAN TO
GOVERN.
O THOÜ perpetual discoverer of the anti-
podes, torch of the world, eye of heaven,
sweet motive for the use of wine-cooling
vessels ! Thymbrsus here, there Phcebus ;
archer in one place, phjrsician in anotlier;
father of poesy, inventor of music ; thou
who, although sometimes appearing to set,
art for ever rising — to thee I address myself,
=^
404
ADVENTURES OP
O san ! by whose aflsistance man produces
man ; thee I invoke, to invigorate and en-
lighten my imagination, so that my language
may keep pace with its subject, and faith-
fully describe the government of the great
Sancho Panza : for, without thy powerful
influence, I am confused, benumbed, and
dispirited !
After having travelled a certain distance,
governor Sancho, with all his attendants,
arrived at a town which contained not less
than a thousand inhabitants, and was one
of the most considerable in the duke's
territories. He was informed that it was
called the ishmd of Baratarla, either because
Barataría was really its name, or on account
of the easy rate* at which he had come into
possession of it. On his arrival near the
gates of the town — for it was surrounded
by a wall — the magistrates came out to
receive him, the bells rung, and the people
gave demonstrations of general joy, and,
with much pomp, conducted him to the
great church to give thanks to God. The
keys of the town were then delivered to him
with certain ceremonies, and he was formally
declared perpetual governor of the island
of Baratarla. The short thick figure, the
garb, and deportment of the new governor
held in admiration all who were not in the
secret history of his appointment — nay,
even those who were so, and they were not
a few. As soon as they had brought him
out of the church they conducted him to
the tribunal of justice, and, having placed
him in the chair, the duke's steward said
to him, '' It is an ancient custom here, my
lord governor, that he who is appointed to
the command oC this for-ftimed island shall,
on his first taking possession, give answer
to some intricate and difficult question, by
which the people are enabled to judge of
the capacity of their new governor, and
thereby determine whether to rejoice or
grieve at his arrival.''
While the steward was speaking, Sancho's
eyes were fixed upon some large letters
written on the wall opposite to his chair ;
and, when the steward had done, he asked
bmi the meaning of those marks on the
wall. " Sir," said he, " it is there written
on what day your honour took poseessioD
of this island ; and these are the words ol
the inscription : ' This day (naming the day
of the month and year) sigfior Don Saccho
Panza took possession of tíiís island:— long
may he enjoy it!'" "And pray," quoth
he, "who is it they call Don Sancho
Panza?" " Your lordship," answered the
steward ; " for no other Panza except him in
the chair ever came into this island." "Take
notice, brother," quoth Sancho, " Don does
not belong to me, nor ever did to any of
my family. I am called plain Sancho Panza;
my father was a Sancho, and my grandfather
a Sancho, and they were all Panzas, without
any addition of Dons or Donnas. I take it
there must be more Dons than pebbles in
this island ; but enough, — God knows my
meaning ; if my government lasts four days,
it shall go hard but I will clear the island
of these vermin which, by their numbers,
must needs be as troublesome as gnats.
Now for your question, master steward, and
I will answer the best I can, let the people
grieve or not grieve."
At this instant two men came into the
court ; the one appeared to be a country-
fellow, and the other a tailor, having a pair
of shears in his hand. " My lord governor,"
said the tailor, " we come before yoor
worship by reason this honest man came
yesterday to my shop — for, saving your
presence, I am a tailor, and, praised be
heaven, have passed my examination,— and,
putting a piece of cloth into my hands,
' Sir,' said he, ' is there cloth enough here
to make me a cap ?' Whereupon I, after
measuring the piece, answered, 'Yes.' Nov
he, supposing, as I supposed (and indeed I
was right), that doubtless I had a mind to
cabbage some of his cloth — grounding his
suspicion upon his own knavery, and the
bad character of tailors — bid me look at it
again, and see if there was not enough for
two. I guessed his drift, and told him there
was. He, firm in his knavish conception,
went on increasing the number of capsy üD
we came to ñve caps. Well, the caps I
made, and just now he came for them. I
' Barato," in Sp«nish, ngnifln cheap.— /i
DON QUIXOTE.
405
offered them to him, but be refused to pay
me for my work, and now wants me either
to return him his cloth, or pay him for it!''
*' Is all this so, friend ?" demanded Sancho.
" Yes !" answered the other man ; " but
pray, my lord, make him shew the ñve
caps he has made me.'' ''With all my
heart," answered the tailor; and, pulling
his hand from under his cloak, he shewed
the five caps on the ends of his fingers and
thumb, saying, ''Here are the ñve caps
this honest man would have me make, and,
on my soul and conscience, not a shred of
the cloth is left ; and, as to the workman-
ship, I am ready to submit it to the view of
any inspectors of the trade." All present
laughed at the number of the caps, and
the novelty of the suit. The governor
mused upon the case, and, after a little
consideration, he said, "This matter, to
my thinking, need not keep us long, but
may be settled off hand ; and therefore I
pronounce that the tailor lose his labour,
and the countryman his clotli, and that the
caps be given among the poor prisoners —
so there is an end of that." If his sentence*
on the purse of the herdsman excited the
admiration of the bystanders, this provoked
their laughter. . The commands of the
governor were, nevertheless, duly executed.
Two old men next presented themselves
before him, the one holding a cane staff in
his hand. " My lord," said he who had no
staff, " some time ago I lent this man ten
crowns of gold to oblige and serve him, upon
condition he should return them on demand.
I let some time pass without asking for them,
being loth to put him to a greater strait to
pay me than he was in when I lent them.
But at lengthy tliinking it full time to be re-
paid, I asked him for my money more than
once, but to no purpose ; he not only refuses
payment, but denies the debt, and says I
never lent him any such sum, or, if I did,
that he had already paid me. I have no
witnesses of the loan, nor has he of the pay-
ment which he pretends to have made, but
which I deny ; yet if he will swear before
your worship that he has returned the money,
* Here it will be perceived that the author has com-
mitted a trifling error, a« the sentence of the herdaman
was solMeqnent to that of the tailor.
I from this minute acquit him before God
and the world." " What say you to this,
old gentleman ?" quoth Sancho. "I con-
fess, my lord," replied the old fellow, "that
he did lend me the money, and, if your
worship pleases to hold down your wand of
justice, since he leaves it to my oath, I will
swear I have really and truly returned it
to him." The governor accordingly held
down his wand, and the old fellow, seeming
encumbered with his staff, gave it to his
creditor to hold, while he was swearing,
and then^ taking hold of the cross of the
wand, he said it was true indeed the other
had lent him ten crowns, but that he had
restored them to him into his own hand ;
but having, he supposed, forgotten it, he was
continually dunning him for them. Upon
which, his lordship, the governor, demanded
of the creditor what he had to say in reply^
to the solemn declaration he had heard. He
said that he submitted and could not doubt
but that his debtor had said the truth : for he
believed him to be a honest man and a good
christian ; and that, as the fault must have
been in his own memory, he would thence-
forward ask him no more for his money.
The debtor now took his staff again, and,
bowing to the governor, went out of court.
Sancho having observed the defendant
take his staff and walk away, and noticing
also the resignation of the plaintiff, he be-
gan to meditate, and, laying the fore-finger
of his right hand upon his forehead, he con-
tinued a short time apparently full of thought,
and then, raising his head, he ordered the
old man with the staff to be called back ;
and when he had returned, " Honest friend,"
said the governor, " give me that staff, for
I have occasion for it." " With all my
heart," answered the old fellow ; and de-
livered it into his hand. Sancho took it,
and, immediately giving it to the other old
man, he said, " There, take that, and go
about your business, in God's name, for you
are now paid." " I paid, my lord !" an-
swered the old man, " what ! Is this cane
worth ten golden crowns ?" " Yes," quoth
the governor, " or I am the greatest dunoe
in the world ; and it shall now appear whe-^
ther or not I have a head to govern a whole
kingdom." He then ordered the cane to be
«$
409
ADVENTURES OP
broken in court ; which being done, ten
crowns of gold were found within it. All the
spectators were struck with admiration, and
began to look upon their new governor as
a second Solomon. They asked him how he
had discovered that the ten crowns were in
the cane. He told them that, having observed
the defendant give it to the plaintiff to hold,
while he took his oath that he had truly
restored the money into his own hands, and
that being done, he took his staff again, it
came into his head that the money in dispute
must be enclosed within it. From this, he
added, they might see that it sometimes
pleased God to direct the judgments of
those who govern, though otherwise little
better than blockheads. Besides, he had
heard the curate of his parish tell of such
another business, which was still in his mind
— indeed, he had so special a memory that,
were it not that he was so unlucky as to
forget all that he chiefly wanted to remem-
ber, there would not have been a better in
the whole island. The cause being ended,
the two old men went away : the one abashed
and the other satisfied ; and the secretary,
who minuted down the words, actions, and
behaviour of Sancho Panza, could not yet
determine in his own mind whether he
should set him down for wise or simple.*
No sooner was the trial finished than a
woman came into court t holding ñist a man,
who looked like a wealthy herdsman, and
crying aloud, *' Justice, my lord governor,
justice !— if I cannot find it on earth, I will
seek it in heaven ! Sweet lord governor,
this wicked man surprised roe in the mid-
dle of a field, and made use of my body, as
if it had been a dishclout, and, woe is me !
has robbed me of what I have kept above
* Thii incident was not the invention of Cervantes,
bat taken from the " Legenda Anrea " of Fr. Jacobo de
Vorágine, though altered and improved from the original,
which is as follows : — A Jew lent a Rum of mon^ to a
certain man, and as there was no other witness he swore
apon the altar of St. Nicholas to return it in a short
time. The payment, however, being delayed, the Jew
demanded it, and was told by the man that he had al-
ready returned the loan ', upon which he was summoned
before the judge. When called ap to take oath he reached
out his staff to the Jew to hold for him ; which staff,
though he pretended to use it for his support, was hol-
low, and the cavity filled with gold coin ; he then swore
that he had returned even more than was due to his
creditor, and having taken the oath he claimed his staff
again aad left the tribunal. On his way he was over-
these three and twenty years, defending it
against Moon and Christians, natives and
foreigners I I have been hard as a oork-tree,
and preserved myself as entire as a Sala-
mander in the fire, or as wool among briam,
only to fall under the filthy hands of this
vile man !" " We shall soon see," quoth
Sancho, '^ whether this gallant* s hands are
filthy or clean.'' Then turning to the man,
he asked him what he had to say, and what
answer to make to the woman's complamt
The man, all in confusion, replied, " Sir, I
am a poor herdsman, and deal in swine, and
this morning I sold— with reverence be it
spoken — four hogs, but what between the
duties and the fees of die officers, I bardlj
cleared anything by my beasts ; and as I
was returning home, I happened to light
upon this good dame here, and it so fell out
that the devil, the author of all mischief,
yoked us together. I paid her handsomely;
but she was not satisfied, and demanded more
money, nor would she leave me till she had
dragged me hither. She says I forced her;
but, by the oath I have taken, or am to take,
she lies ; and this, please yon, my lord, is
the whole truth." '* Hast thou any money
about thee, fellow ?" said the governor.
" Yes," answered the man," I have aonic
twenty ducats in silver, in a leathern parse
here ia my bosom." ** Give thy bag^, then,
money and all, to the plaintiff." The man,
viritb a trembling hand, did as he was com-
manded, and the woman took it well pleased,
dropping a thousand curtsies to every body
around her, and praying to God for the life
and health of the lord governor, who took such
care of poor orphans and abused maidens.
She then left the court, holding the purse
ftist in both hands : but first looking into
powered by sleep, and he laid himself down in the hi^
road, where a carriage passing over him as he slept, he
was trampled to death, his staff broken, and the geld
scattered about. The Jew hearing of this dreimstance
hastened to the spot and perceived the artifiee that had
been practised ; yet, notwithstanding the persnasioisa ci
many, he would not take possession of his tanatf, oaJcas
the deceased, through the merits of St. Nicholas, were
to revive ; in which case he declared he would reeeive
baptism and adopt the Christian faith. The deceased
immediately returned to life, and the Jew was b^-
tued.— J».
t A similar case is mentioned by Francisco de Oanss.
in his " Norte de los Estados, fol. xüL, published ia tbe
year 1*50.~P.
-: 7"-"^
p. 406.
6
DON QUIXOTE.
407
it to be convinced that the money was really
silyer. She was no sooner gone out than
Sancho taming to the herdsman, whose eyes
and heart were gone after his pnrse, " Honest
man," said he, '^follow that woman, and
take away the purse from her, whether she
will or no, and come back hither with it."
This command was not given to the deaf
nor the stupid ; for he instantly flew after
her like lightning, to do as he was ordered.
All the spectators were in eager expectation
of the issue of this suit ; and they had not
long to wait before the man and the woman
returned, struggling and clinging together,
she with her petticoat tucked up, and the
purse wrapped up in it, and the man in vain
striving to take it from her : so lustily did
she defend it ! — crying at the same time,
' ^ Justice from God and the world ! See,
my lord governor, the impudence and pre-
sumption of this varlet, who, in the public
street, would take from me the purse your
worship commanded him to give me !"
''And has he got it?" demanded the go-
vernor. " Got it !" answered the woman,
" he should sooner take away my life ! A
pretty baby I should be, indeed : — other-
guise cats must claw my beard, and not
such pitiful sneaking tools; pincers and
hammers, mallets and chisels, shall not get
it out of my clutches, no, nor even the claws
of a lion ; they shall sooner have the soul
out of my body." " Faith, my lord, she
has spoken truly,'' said the man, '' for I am
quite spent : I own the jade is too strong
for me." Sancho then called the woman,
"Here," quoth he, *' brave and valiant
mistress, give that purse to me." She im-
mediately complied, and the governor re-
turned it to the man. '' Hark ye, good
woman," said he to her, " had you shewn
yourself but half as stout and valiant in
defence of your body as you have done in
defending your purse, the strength of Her-
cules could not have forced you. Out of
my sight, impudence! Begone, — plague
take ye ! and be not found in all this island,
nor within six leagues round it, on pain
of two hundred stripes. Away instantly,
I say, — thou prating, cheating, shameless,
hussy !" The woman was confounded and
went away, hanging down her head and
not very well pleased. " Now, friend."
said the governor to the man, " in God's
name, get you home with your money, and
henceforward, if you would avoid worse luck,
yoke not with such cattle." The country-
man thanked him in the best manner he
could, and went his way, leaving all the
court in admiration at the acuteness and
wisdom of their new governor : all whose
sentences and decrees, being noted down by
the appointed historiographer, were immedi-
ately transmitted to the duke, who waited
for these accounts with the utmost impa-
tience. Here let us leave honest Sancho
and return to his master, who earnestly re-
quires our attendance — Altisidora's serenade
having strangely discomposed his mind.
CHAPTER XLVI.
OF THE DREADFUL BELL-RINGING, AND
CATTISH CONSTERNATION INTO WHICH
DON QUIXOTE WAS THROWN IN THE
COURSE OP THE ENAMOURED ALTISI-
DORA'S AMOUR.
We left the great Don Quixote in bed, har-
rassed with reflections on the conduct of the
love - stricken Altisidora; not to mention
others, which arose from the disaster of his
stocking. He carried them with him to his
couch, and had they been fleas they could
not more effectually have disturbed his rest.
But time is ever moving ; nothing can im-
pede his course, and on he came prancing,
leading up, at a brisk pace, the welcome
mom ; which was no sooner perceived by
Don Quixote than, forsaking his piUow, he
hastily put on his chamois doublet, and also
his travelling boots, to conceal the misfor-
tune of his stocking. He then threw over
his shoulders his scarlet mantle, and put on
his head a green velvet cap trimmed with
silver lace ; his sharp and trusty blade be
next slung over his shoulder by its belt, and
now, taking up a large rosary, which he
always carried about him, he marched with
great state and solemnity towards the anti-
chamber, where the duke and duchess ex-
pected him ; and, as he passed through the
gallery, he encountered Altisidora and her
damsel friend, who had placed themselves
in his way. The moment Altisidora caught
rU
408
ADVENTURES OF
&
sight of him, she pretended to fall into a
swoon, and dropped into the arms of her
companion, who in haste began to unclasp
her bosom. Don Quixote, observing this,
appproached them, and turning to the dam-
sel, '< I well know the meaning of this,''
said he, *' and whence these faintings pro-
ceed." " It is more than I do," replied her
friend, "for this I am sure of, that no dam-
sel in all this fieimily had better health than
Altisidora ; I have never heard so much as
a sigh from her since I have known her : —
ill betide all the knights-errant in the world,
say I, if they are all so ungrateful. Prsiy,
my lord Don Quixote, for pity's sake leave
this place; for this poor young creature will
not. come to herself while you are near."
** Madam," said the knight, " be pleased to
order a lute to be left in my chamber to-
night, and I will comfort this poor damsel
as far as I am able : for love in the begin-
ning is most easily cured." He then re-
treated, to avoid observation ; and Altisidora,
immediately recovering from her swoon, said
to her companion, " by all means let him
have the lute : for doubtless he intends to
give us some music, which, being his, cannot
but be precious." When they gave the
duchess an aceount of their jest, and of
Don Quixote's desire to have a lute in his
apartment, she was exceedingly diverted,
and seized the occasion, in concert with the
duke and her women, to plot new schemes
of harmless merriment; with great glee,
therefore, they waited for night, which, not-
withstanding their impatience, did not seem
tardy in its approach, since the day was
spent in relishing conversation with Don
Quixote. On the same day the duchess had
also dispatched a page of hers (one who had
personated Dulcinea in the wood) to Teresa
Panza, with her husband's letter, and the
bundle he had left to be sent : charging him
to bring back an exact account of all that
should pass. At the hour of eleven Don
Quixote retired to his chamber, yvhere he
found a lute, as he had desired. After touch-
ing the instrument lightly, he opened his
casement, and, on listening, heard footsteps
in the garden ; whereupon, he again ran
over the strings of his instrument, and, after
tuning it as nicely as he could, he hemmed, i
cleared his throat, and then, with a boane
though not unmusical voice, sung the follow-
ing song, which he had himself composed
that day :
Love, with idlenen iti friend.
O'er a maiden gains its end :
But let business and emplojinent
Fill up ev'ry careful momeot ;
These an antidote will prove
'Gainst the pois'nous arts of love.
Maidens, that aspire to marrj.
In their looks reserve should cany :
Modesty their price should raise,
And be the herald of their praise.
Knights/ whom toils of arms employ,
With the free may laugh and toy;
But the modest only choose
When they tie the nuptial noose.
Love that rises with the sun.
With his setting beams is gone :
Lore that, guest-like, visits hearts.
When the banquet's o'er, departs;
And the love that comes to-day.
And lo-morrow wings its way,
Leaves no traces on the soul,
Its affections to eontroul.
Where a sovereign beauty reigns.
Fruitless are a rival's pains.
O'er a finish'd picture who
E'er a second picture drew T
Fair Dulcinea, queen of beauty.
Rules my heart, and claims iu duty.
Nothing there can take her place.
Nought her image can erase.
Whether fortune smile or frown.
Constancy 's the lover's crown ;
And, its force divine to prove,
Mirades performs in love.
Thus far had Don Quixote proceeded in
his song, which was heard by the duke
and duchess, Altisidora, and almost all the
inmates of the castle ; when suddenly, from
an open gallery directly over Don Quixote's
window, a rope was let down, to which
above an hundred little tinkling bells were
fastened ; and, immediately after, a bnge
sackful of cats, each furnished with similar
bells, tied to their tails, was also let down
to the window. The noise made by these
cats and bells was so great and strange that
the duke and duchess, though the inventors
of the jest, were alarmed, and Don Quixote
himself was panic -struck. Two or three
of the cats made their way into his rooni)
where, scouring about from side to side, it
seemed as if a legion of devib had broken
loose, and were flying about the room.
They soon extinguished the lights in the
chamber, and endeavoured to make their
escape ; in the mean time the rope to which
the bells were fastened was playing its part, ^
=ía>
DON QUIXOTE.
400
und added to the discord, insomuch that all
those who were not in the secret of the plot
were amazed and confounded. Don Quixote
seized his sword, and made thrusts at the
casement, crying out aloud, ^'Avaunt, ye
malicious enchanters; avaunt, ye wizard
trihe ! for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha,
against whom your wicked arts ayail not."
Then, assailing the cats in the room, they fled
to the window, where they all escaped except
one, which, being hard pressed by the knight,
sprung at his face, and, fixing his claws in
his nose, made him roar so loud that the
duke and duchess, hearing, and guessing the
cause, ran up in haste to his chamber, which
they opened with a master-key, and there
they found the poor gentleman endeavouring
to disengage the creature from his face.
On observing the unequal combat, the duke
hastened to relieve Don Quixote, but he
cried out, " Let no one take him off ; leave
me to battle with this demon, this wizard,
this enchanter ! I will teach him what it
is to deal with Don Quixote de la Mancha T'
The cat, however, not regarding these
menaces, kept her hold till the duke hap-
pily disengaged the furious animal, and
put him out of the window.
Don Quixote's face was hideously
scratched all over, not excepting his nose,
which had iared but ill ; nevertheless he
%vas much dissatisfied by the interference
which had prevented him from chastising
that villanous enchanter. Oil of Aparicio
was brought for him, and Altisidora herself,
with her lily-white hands, bound up his
wounds ; and, while she was so employed,
she said to him, in a low voice, '* All these
misadventures befal thee, hard-hearted
knight ! as a punishment for your stubborn
disdain; and heaven gprant that Sancho,
yoar squire, may forget to whip him himself,
that your darling Dulcinea may never be
released from her enchantment, nor you
ever be blest with her embraces — at least
so long as I, your unhappy adorer, shall
live y To all this Don Quixote answered
only with a profound sigh, and then stretched
himself at full length upon his bed ; thanking
the duke and duchess, not for their assist-
ance against that cattish, bell-ringing, crew
of rascally enchanters, which he despised,
but for their kind intention in coming to
his succour. His noble friends then loft
him to repose, not a little concerned at the
event of their jest, on which they had not
calculated ;. for it was far from their inten-
tion that it should prove so severe to the
worthy knight as to cost him ñye days'
confinement to his chamber. During that
period, however, an adventure befel him
more relishing than the former, but which
cannot, in this place, be recorded, as the
historian must now turn to Sancho Panza,
who had, hitherto, proceeded very smoothly
in his government.
CHAPTER XLVIJ.
GIVING ▲ FARTHER AOOOÜNT OF SANCHO'S
BEHAVIOUR IV HIS GOVERNMENT.
The history relates that Sancho Panza was
conducted from the court of justice to a
sumptuous palace, where, in a great hall,
he found a magnificent entertainment pre-
pared. He no sooner entered than his ears
were saluted by the sound of instruments,
and four pages served him with water to
wash his hands, which the governor received
with becoming gravity. The music having
ceased, Sancho now sat down to dinner in
a chair of state, placed at the upper end of
the table ; for there was "but one seat, and
only one plate and napkin. A personage
who, as it afterwards appeared, whs a
physician, took his stand at one side of his
chair, with a whalebone rod in his hand.
They then removed the beautiful white
cloth, which covered a variety of fruits and
other eatables. Grace was said by one in
a student's dress, and a laced bib was placed,
by a page, under Sancho's chin. Another,
who performed the ofiice of sewer, now set
a plate of firuit before him, but he had
scarcely tasted it when, on being touched
by the wand-bearer, it was snatched away,
and another containing meat instantly sup-
plied its place. Yet, t)efore Sancho coald
make a beginning, it vanished, like the
former, on the signal of the wand. The
governor was surprised at this proceeding,
and, looking around him, asked if thii
-(&
(5=
410
ADVENTURES OF
dinner was only to shew off their sleight of
hand. " My lord/' said the wand-bearer,
*^ your lordship's food must here be watched
with the same care as is customary with
the governors of other islands. I am a
doctor of physic, sir, and my duty, for
which I receive a salary, is to attend the
governor's health, whereof I am more careful
than of my own. I study his constitution
night and day, that I may know how to
restore him when sick ; and therefore think
it incumbent on me to pay especial regard
to his meals, at which I constantly preside,
to see that he eats what is good and salu-
tary, and prevent his touching whatever I
imagine may be prejudicial to his health,
or offensive to his stomach. It was for
that reason, my lord," continued he, '' I
ordered the dish of fruit to be taken away,
as being too watery, and that other dish as
being too hot, and overseasoned with spices,
which are apt to provoke thirst; and he
that drinks much destroys and consumes
the radical moisture, which is the fuel of
life." «Well, then," quoth Sancho, "that
plate of roasted partridges, which seem to
me to be very well seasoned, I suppose will
do me no manner of harm?" "Hold,"
said the doctor ; " my lord governor shall
not eat them while I live to prevent it."
"Pray, why not?" quoth Sancho. "Be-
cause," answered the doctor, "our great
master Hippocrates, the north-star and lu-
minary of medicine, says, in one of his
aphorisms, ^ Omnis saturatio mala, perdicis
autem pessima ;' which means, ' All reple-
tion is bad, but that from partridges the
worst.'" "If it be so," quoth Sancho,
"pray cast your eye, siguor doctor, over
all these dishes here on the table, and see
which will do me the most good, or the
least harm, and let me eat of it, without
whisking it away with your conjuring-
stick ; for, by my soul, and as God shall
give me life to enjoy this government, I am
dying with hunger ; and to deny me food —
let sigfior doctor say what he will — is not
the way to lengthen my life, but to cut it
short." " Your worship is in the right, my
lord governor," answered the physician^
" and therefore I am of opinion you should
not eat of those stewed rabbits, as being a
food that is tough and acute ; of that veal,
indeed, you might have taken a little, had
it been neither roasted nor stewed ; but as
it is, not a morsel." " What think yoo,
then," said Sancho, "of that huge dish
there, smoking hot, which I take to be an
olla-podrida? — for, among the many things
contained in it, I sorely may light upon
something both wholesome and toothsome."
" Absit," quoth the doctor ; "far be such a
thought from us. Olla-podrida! there is
no worse dish in the world : — cleave them
to prebends and rectors of colleges, or lasty
feeders at country weddings ; but let them
not be seen on the tables of governors,
where nothing contrary to health and deli-
cacy should be tolerated. Simple medicines
are always more estimable and safe, for in
them there can be no mistake ; whereas, in
such as are compounded, all k baasard and
uncertainty. Therefore, what I would at
present advise my lord governor to eat, in
order to corroborate and preserve his health,
is about a hundred small rolled-up wafers,
with some thin slices of marmalade, that
may sit easy upon the stomach, and help
digestion." Sancho, hearing this, threw
himself backward in his chair, and, looking
at the doctor from head to foot very seri-
ously, asked him his name, and where be
had studied. To which he answered, "My
lord governor, my name is doctor Pedro
Rczio de Agüero ; I am a native of a place
called Tirteafuera, lying between Caraquel
and Almoddobar del Campo, on the right
hand, and I have taken my doctor's degree
in the university of Ossuna." " Then hark
you," said Sancho, in a rage, " signer doctor
Pedro Rezio de AfinoTo, native of Tirtea-
fuera, lying on the right hand as we go
from Caraquel to Almoddobar del Campo,
graduate in Ossuna, get out of my sight
this instant— or, by the light of heaven, I
will take a cudgel, and, beginning with
your carcase, will so belabour all the physic-
mongers in the island that not one of the
tribe shall be left!— I mean of those like
yourself, who are ignorant quacks; for
those who are learned and wise I shall
make much of, and honour as so many
angels. I say again, sigfior Pedro Rciio,
begone ! or I shall take the chair I sit on,
DON QUIXOTE.
411
and comb your head with it, to some tune ;
andy if I am called to an account for it
when I give np my office, I will prove
that I have done a good service, in ridding
the world of a bad physician, who is a public
executioner. Body of me ! Give me some-
thing to eat, or let them take back their
government : for an office that will not find
a man in victuals is not worth two beans.''
On seeing the governor in snch a fnry,
the doctor would have ñed out of the hall,
had not the sound of a courier's horn at
that instant been heard in the street. <* A
courier fiom my lord duke," said the sewer
(who had looked out of the window) ''and
he must certainly have brought dispatches
of importance." The courier entered hastil}*',
foaming with sweat, and in great agitation,
and, pulling a packet out of his bosom, he
delivered it into the governor's hands, and
by him it was given to the steward, telling
him to read the superscription, which was
this: ''To Don Sancho Panza, governor
of the island of Barataría, to be delivered
only to himself, or to his secretary."
"Who is my secretary?" said Sancho. "It
is I, my lord," answered one who was
present ; " for I can read and write, and
am, besides, a Biscainer." "With that
addition," quoth Sancho> " you may very
well be secretary to the emperor himself; —
open the packet, and see what it holds."
The new secretary did so, and, having run
his eye over the contents, he said it was a
business which required privacy. Accord-
ingly Sancho commanded all to retire,
excepting the steward and the sewer ; and
when the hall was cleared, the secretary
read the following letter :
"It has just come to my knowledge,
signer Don Sancho Panza, that certain ene-
mies of mine intend very soon to make a
desperate attack, by night, upon the island
under your command ; it is necessary, there-
fore, to be vigilant and alert, that you may
not be taken by surprise. I have also re-
ceived intelligence, from trusty spies, that
four persons in disguise are now in your
town, sent thither by tlie enemy, who, fear-
ful of your great talents, have a design upon
I your life. Keep a strict watch ; be careful
who are admitted to you, and eat nothing
sent you as a present. I will not fail to
send you assistance if you are in want of it.
Whatever may be attempted, I have full
reliance on your activity and judgment.
Your friend^ the Duke."
* From this place, the 1 6th of August,
at four in the morning."
Sancho was astonished at this informa-
tion, and the others appeared to be no less
so ; at length, turning to the steward, " I
will tell you," said he, " the first thing to be
done, which is to clap doctor Rezio into a
dungeon ; for if any body has a design to
kill me, it is he, and that by the lingering
and worst of all death»— starvation." " Be
that as it may," said the steward, " it is my
opinion your honour would do well to eat
none of the meat here upon the table, for it
was presented by some nuns, and it is a
saying, 'The devil lurks behind the cross.'"
"You are in the right," quoth Sancho,
" and, for the present, give me only a piece
of bread and some four pounds of grapes : —
there can be no poison in them ; for, in
truth, I cannot live without food, and, if
we must keep in readiness for these battles
that threaten us, it is fit that we should be
well fed ; for the guts uphold the heart, and
the heart the belly. Do you, Mr. Secre-
tary, answer the letter of my lord duke,
and tell him his commands shall be obeyed
throughout most ñiithfully : and present my
dutiful respects to my lady duchess, and beg
her not to forget to send a special messenger
with my letter and bundle to my wife Teresa
Panza, which I shall take as a particular
favour, and will be her humble servant to
the utmost of my power. And, by the way,
you may put in my hearty service to my
master Don Quixote de la Mancha, that he
may see that I am neither forgetful nor
ungrateful ; and as to the rest, I leave it
to you, as a good secretary and a true Bis-
cainer, to add whatever you please, or that
may turn to the best accoxmt. Now away
with this doth, and bring me something
that may be eaten, and then let these spies,
murderers, and enchanters, see how they
meddle with me, or my island."
©=
=5^
412
ADVENTURES OP
A page now entered, saying, " Here is a
countryman who would speak with your
lordship on business, as he says, of great
importance." " It is very strange/' quoth
Sancho, '^ that these men of business should
be so silly as not to see that this is not a
time for such matters. What ! we who go-
vern and are judges, belike, are not made
of flesh and bones like other men ? We are
made of marble-stone, forsooth, and have
iio need of rest and refreshment ! — Before
God, and upon my conscience, if my go-
vernments lasts, as I have a glimmering it
will not, I sliail hamper more than one of
these men of business I Well, for this once,
tell the fellow to come in : — but, first see
that he is no spy nor one of my murderers."
'' He looks, my lord," answered the page,
'^ like a simple fellow ; and I am much mis-
taken if he be not as harmless as a crust of
bread." "Your worship need not fear,"
quoth the steward, ''since we are with you."
" But now that doctor Pedro Hezio is gone,"
quoth Sancho, '' may I not have something
to eat of substance and weight, though it
were but a luncheon of bread and an onion ?"
" At night your honour shall have no cause
to complain," quoth the sewer, ''supper
shall make up for the want of dinner."
" Grod grant it may," replied Sancho.
The countryman, who was of a goodly
presence, then came in, and it might be
seen a thousand leagues off that he. was
an honest, good soul. " Which among
you here is the lord governor?" said he.
" Who should it be," answered the secre-
tary, " but he who is seated in the chair ?"
" I humble myself in his presence," quoth
the countryman, and, kneeling down, he
begged for his hand to kiss. Sancho re-
fused it, and commanded him to rise and
tell his business. The countryman did so,
and said, " My lord, I am a husbandman,
a native of Miguel Turra, two leagues from
Ciudad Real." " What ! another Tirtea-
fuera ?" quoth Sancho, — " say on, brother,
for, let me tell you, I know Miguel Turra
very well; it is not far very from ray own
village." "The business is this, sir," conti-
nued the peasant. " By the mercy of God, I
was married in peace and in the face of the
holy catholic Roman church. I have two
^'-
sons, bred scholars ; the younger istadies for
bachelor and the elder for licentiate. 1 am
a widower, — for my wife died, or rather, a
wicked physician killed her, by purging
her when she was with chUd ; and, if it hiMl
been God's will that the child had been
born and had proved a son, I would have
put him to study for doctor, that be might
not envy his two brothers, the bachelor and
licentiate." " So that if your wife," quoth
Sancho, "had not died, or had not been
killed, you had not now been a widower !"
" No, certainly, my lord," answered the
peasant. " We are much the nearer," re-
plied Sancho, — "go on, friend ; for this
is an hour rather for bed than business."
" I say then," quoth the countryman, " that
my son, who is to be the bachelor, fell in
love with a damsel in the same village,
called Clara Perlerina, daughter of Andres
Perlerino, a very rich farmer, which name of
Perlerino came not to them by lineal or any
other descent, but because all of that race
are paralytic ; and to mend the name, they
call them Perlerinos: — indeed, to say the
truth, the damsel is like any oriental pearl,
and, looked at on the right side, seems a
very flower of the field ; but, on the left,
not quite so fair, for on that side she wants
an eye, which she lost by the small poz ;
and, though the pits in her &ce are many
and deep, her admirers say they are not pits
but graves, wherein the hearts of her lovers
are buried. So clean and delicate, too, is
she that, to prevent defiling her face, she
carries her nose so hooked up that it seems
to fly from her mouth ; yet for all that she
looks charmingly ; for she has a large mouth ;
and, did she not lack half a score or a dozeu
front teeth and grinders, she might pass and
make a figure among the fiiirest. I say
nothing of her lips, for they are so thin that
were it the fashion to reel lips one might
make a skein of them ; but, being of a differ-
ent colour from what is usual in lips, they
have a marvellous appearance, for they arc
streaked with blue, green, and orangc-
tawney. Pardon me, good my lord gover-
nor, if I paint so minutely the parts of her
who is about to become my daughter ; for,
in truth, I love and admire her more than I
can tell." " Paint what you will," qiioth
-^=^
DON QUIXOTE.
418
Sandio^ " for I am mightily taken with the
picture ; and had I but dined, I would have
desired no better desserf '^It shall be
always at your service," replied the pea-
sant, '' and the time may come when we
may be acquainted, though we are not so
now ; and I assure you, my lord, if I could
but paint her genteel air, and the tallness of
her person, you would be amazed, but that
cannot be, because she is doubled and folded
up together in such wise that her knees
touch her mouth ; yet you may see plainly
that, could she but stand upright, her head,
for certain, would touch the ceiling. In
fine, long ere now would she have given her
hand to my bachelor in marriage, but that
she cannot stretch it out it is so shrunk :
nevertheless, her long guttered nails shew
the goodness of its make."
" So far, so good," quoth Sancho ; " and
now, brother, that yon have painted her
from head to foot, what is it you would be at ?
come to the point without so many windings
and turnings." ** What I desire, my lord,"
answered the countryman, <Ms that your
lordship would do me the favour to give me
a letter of recommendation to her father,
begging his consent to the match, since we
are pretty equal in the gifts of fortune and
of nature : for, to say the truth, my lord
governor, my son is possessed, and scarcely
a day passes in which the evil spirits do not
torment him three or four times ; and, hav-
ing thereby once fallen into the fire his face
is as shrivelled as a piece of scorched parch-
ment, and his eyes are somewhat bleared and
running; but, bless him ! he has the temper
of an angel ; and did he not buffet and be-
labour himself, he would be a very saint for
gentleness." " Would you have anything
else, honest friend?" replied Sancho. ''One
thing more I would ask," quoth the peasant,
but that I dare not : — yet out it shall : —
come what may, it shall not rot in my
breast. I say then, my lord, I could wish
your worship to give me three or six hun-
dred ducats towards mending the fortune
of my bachelor, — I mean to assist in fur-
nishing his house; for it is agreed they shall
live by themselves, without being subject to
the impertinences of their fathers-in-law."
«'Well," quoth Sancho, "see if there is
anything else you would have, and be not
squeamish in asking." " No, nothing more,"
answered the peasant. The governor then
rising, and seizing the chair on which he
had been seated, exclaimed, " I vow to God,
Don lubberly, saucy bumpkin, if you do not
instantly get out of my sight, I will break
your head with this chair !— Son of a whore,
rascal, and the devirs own painter! At
this time of day to come and ask me for
six hundred ducats ! Where should I have
them, stinkard ? And if I had them, jibbing
fool! why should I give them to thee?
What care I for Miguel Turra, or for th<
whole race of fhe Feríennos ? Begone, 1
say, or by the life of my lord duke, I will
be as good as my word. Thou art no native
of Miguel Turra, but some scoffer sent from
hell to tempt me. Impudent scoundrel ! 1
have not yet had the government a day and
half, send you expect I should have six hun-
dred ducats!" The sewer made signs to
the countryman to go out of the hall, which
he did, hanging down his head, and seem-
ingly much afraid lest the governor should
put his threat into execution : for the knave
knew very well how to play his part.
But let us leave Sancho in his passion, —
peace be with him ! and turn to Don Quixote,
whom we left with his fiice bound up, and
under cure of his cattish wounds, which
were eight days in healing ; in the course
of that time circumstances occurred to him
which Cid Hamete promises to relate with
the same truth and precision which he has
observed in every thing, however minute,
appertaining to this history.
^:
CHAPTER XLVIII.
OF WHAT BEFBL DON QUIXOTB WITH
DONNA RODBIGÜEZ, THE DUOHESS'S
DÜBNNA ; TOGETHER WITH OTHER
ACCIDENTS WORTHY TO BB WBITTEN
AND HELD IN ETERNAL REMEM-
BRANCE.
Exceedingly discontented and melan-
choly was the sore -wounded Don Quixote,
with his face bound up and marked, not by
the hand of God, but by the claws of a cat : .
such are the misfortunes incident to knight*
(S.=
414
ADVENTURES OF
errantry I Daring six days he appeared
not in public. One night in the coarse of
that time, lying stretched on his bed, awake
and meditating on his misfortanes, and the
persecution he had suffered from Altisidora,
he heard a key applied to his chamber-door,
and immediately concluded that the ena-
moured damsel herself waa ooming with a
determination to aManlt his chastity and
overcome, by temptation, the fidelity he
owed to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso.
" No," said he, not doubting the truth of
what he fancied, and speaking so load as to
be over -heard, " no, not the greatest beauty
upon earth shall prevail upon me to cease
adoring her whose image is engraven and
stamped in the bottom of my heart, and in
the inmost recesses of my bowels ! Whether
— my dearest lady ! thou be now transformed
into a garlic-eating wench, or into one of
the nymphs of the golden Tagus, who
weave in silk and gold their glittering webs;
or whether thou art detained by Merlin or
Montesinos : — wherever thou art, mine thou
shalt be, and wherever I am, thine I have
been and thine I will remain V As he con-
cluded these words, the door opened, and
he rose up in the bed, wrapped from top to
toe in a quilt of yellow satin, a woollen cap
on his head, and his face and mustachios
bound up : his face, on account of its
scratches, and his mustachios, to keep them
from flagging; in which guise a more
extraordinary phantom imagination never
conceived. He ri vetted his eyes on the door
and, when he expected to see the captivated
and sorrowful Altisidora enter, he perceived
something that resembled a most reverend
duenna gliding in, covered with a long white
veil, that reached from head to foot. Be-
tween the fore-finger and thumb of her left
hand she carried half a lighted candle, and
held her right hand over it to keep the glare
from her eyes, which were hidden behind a
huge pair of spectacles. She advanced very
slowly and with cautious tread, and as Don
Quixote gazed at her form and face from
his watch-tower, he was convinced that
flome witch or sorceress was come in that
disguise to do him secret mischief, and there-
fore began to cross himself with much dili-
^noe. The apparition kept moving forward,
and, having reached the middle of the room,
it paused and raised its eyes as if remarking
how devoutly the knight was crossing him-
self ; and if he was alarmed «t seeing sacii
a figure, she was no less dismayed at the
sight of him,— -80 lank, so yellow ! enveloped
in the quilt, and disfigured witli bandages !
<< Jesus! what do I see?" she exclaimed,
and in her fright the candle fell out of her
hand. Finding herself in the dark she en-
deavoured to regain the door, but her feet
entangling in the skirts of her garment, she
stumbled and fell. Don Quixote was in the
utmost consternation. ^'Phantom !" he cried,
''or whatever thou be'st, say, I conjure thee,
what art thou and what requirest thou of
me ? If thou art a soul in torment, tell me,
and I will do all I can to help thee : for I
am a catholic christian and love to do good
to all mankind. It was for that purpose I
took upon me the profession of knight-
errantry, which engages me to relieve even
the souls in purgatory." The fallen duenna
hearing herself thus exorcised guessed at
Don Quixote's fear by her own, and, in a
low and doleful voice answered, '' Sigfior
Don Quixote (if peradvcnture yonr worship
be Don Quixote) I am no phantom, nor
apparition, nor soul in purgatory, as your
worship seems to think, but Donna Bodri-
guez, duenna of honour to my lady dochess,
and am come to your worship with one of
those cases of distress which your worship
is wont to remedy." ''Tell mc then, sigfiora
Donna Rodriguez," quoth Don Quixote,
" if it happens that your ladyship comes in
quality of love-messenger? becanse, if so, I
would have you understand that yonr labour
will be fruitless: — thanks to the peerless
beauty of my nustress Dulcinea del Toboso.
To be plain, sigfiora Donna Rodrigues, on
condition you wave all amorous mesnges,
you may go and light your candle and re-
turn hither, and we will discourse on what-
ever you please to command, — with that
exception." " I bring messages, good sir!"
answered the duenna, " you worship mis-
takes me much : it is not so late in life with
mc yet as to be compelled to take snch base
employment ; for, heaven be praised ! my
soul is still in my body, and all my teeth in
my head, excepting a few snatched fit>m me
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
415
by this cold proyince of Arragon. But
waity sir, till I have lighted my candle
when I will return and commnmcate my
griefs to your worship, who art the redresser
of all the grievances in the world." There-
upon she quitted the room without waiting
for a reply from the knight, whom she left
in a state of great suspense.
A thousand thoughts now crowded into
his mind touching this new adventure, and
he was of opinion that he had judged and
acted improperly, to expose himself to the
hazard of breaking his plighted troth to his
lady, and he said to himself, '< Who knows
but the devil, that father of mischief, means
to deceive me now with a duenna, though
be could not effect it with empresses, queens,
duchesses, and ladies of high decree ? For
I have often heard wise men say, ' the devil
finds a better bait in a flat-nosed, than a
hawk-nosed, woman ;' and who can tell but
this solitude, this opportunity, and this si-
lence, may awaken my desires, and make
me, now at these years, fall where I never
yet stumbled ? In such cases, better it were
to fly than hazard a battle. But why do I
talk so idly 7 Surely I have lost my senses
to imagine that an antiquated, white-veiled,
lank, and spectacled duenna should awaken
a single unchaste thought in the most aban-
doned libertine in the world. Is there a
duenna upon earth who can boast of whole-
some flesh and blood? Is there a duenna
upon the globe that is not impertinent,
affected and loathsome? Avaunt then, ye
rabble of duennas ! useless, disgusting, and
unprofitable! Wisely did that good lady
act who placed near her sofii a couple of
painted images, accoutred like those ancient
waiting-women as if at their work : finding
the state and decorum of her rank quite as
well supported by these dumb imitations V*
So saying, he jumped off the bed, intending
to lock the door so as to prevent the duenna's
return ; but before he could effect his pur-
pose, sigfiora Bodrignez entered with a
lighted ti^^er of white wax ; and coming
at once upon Don Quixote, wrapped up in
his quilt, with his bandages and night-cap,
she was again alarmed, and, retreating two
3r three steps, she said, '< Sir knight, am I
safe 7 for I take it to be no sign of modesty
that your worship has got out of bed/' *' 1
should rather ask you that question, madam,"
answered Don Quixote, ^' and therefore tell
me if I am secure from assault and ravish-
ment?" "Of whom, or from whom, sir
knight, do you demand that security 7" an-
swered the duenna. " From you, madam,"
replied Don Quixote : " for I am not made
of marble, nor are you, I suppose, of brass ;
nor is it noonday, but midnight, and even
later if I am not mistaken ; and moreover,
we are in a room retired and more secret
than the cave in which the bold and traitor^
ous iBneas enjoyed the beautiful and tender-
hearted Dido. But, madam, give me your
hand ; for I desire no greater security than
my own continence and reserve, and what
that most reverend veil inspires." So saying,
he kissed his right hand, and with it took
hold of hers, which she gave him with the
same ceremony.
Here Cid Hamete makes a parenthesis,
and swears, by Mahomet, he would have
given the better of his two vests to have
seen the knight and matron walking from
the chamber door to the bed side. He then
proceeds to inform us that Don Quixote
resumed his situation in bed, and Donna
Rodriguez sat down in a chair at some little
distance from it, without taking off her
spectacles or setting down her candle. Don
Quixote covered himself up cIdso, all but
his face ; and, after a short pause, the first
who broke silence was the knight, <^ Now,
sigñora Donna Rodriguez," said he, *^ you
may unbosom all that is in your oppressed
heart and afflicted bowels ; for you shall be
listened to by me with chaste ears, and as-
sisted with compassionate deeds." '^That
I verily believe," said the duenna ; " and
no other than so christian an answer could
be expected from a person of your wor-
ship's courtly and seemly presence. The
case, then, is this, noble signer, that though
you see me sitting in this chair, and in the
midst of the kingdom of Arragon, and in
the fi;arb of a poor persecuted duenna, I was
bom in the Asturias of Oviedo, and of a
family allied to some of the best of that pro-
vince. But my hard fate and the neglect
of my parents, who fell, I know not how,
into a state of poverty, carried me to Madrid,
^^-=
=^
418
ADVENTURES OF
where, from prudence and the fear of what
might be worse, they placed me in the ser-
vice of a court lady ; and I can assure your
worship that, in making needle-cases and
plain-work, I was never in my life outdone.
My parents left me in service and returned
to their own country, where, in a few years
after, they died, and I doubt not went to
heaven, for they were very good and catho-
lic christians. Then was I lefl an orphan
and reduced to the sorrowful condition of
such court-servants — wretched wages, and
slender allowance. About the same time —
heaven knows, without my giving him the
least cause for it ! the gentleman usher of
the iamily fell in love with me. He was
somewhat stricken in years, with a fine
beard, a comely person, and, what is more,
as good a gentleman as the king himself:
for he was a mountaineer. We did not
carry on our amour so secretly but that it
came to the notice of my lady, who, without
more ado, and to prevent slander, had us
duly married in the face of our holy mother
the catholic Roman church; from which
marriage sprung a daughter, to complete
my good fortune, if fortune had been mine :
— not that I died in childbed, for in due
time I was safely delivered ; but alas I my
husband died soon affcer of fright ; and had
I but time to tell you how it was, your wor-
ship, I am sure, would be all astonishment.''
Here Donna Rodriguez shed many tears
of tender recollection. '< Pardon me, good
sigfior Don Quixote," said she, '< for I
cannot command myself: as often as I call
to mind my poor ill-fated spouse, these
tears will flow. God be my aid ! With
what stateliness was he wont to carry my
lady behind him on a princely mule as
black as jet itself: for in those times coaches
and side-saddles were not in fashion, as it
is said they now are— ladies rode behind
their squires. Pardon me, but I cannot
help telling you at least this one circum-
stance, because it proves the good breeding
and punctilio of my worthy husband. It hap-
pened that, on entering the street of Santiago,
which is very narrow, a judge of one of the
courts, with two of bis officers before him,
appeared, and, as soon as my good squire saw
him, he turned his mule about, as if be would
follow him. My lady, who was behind
him, said to him in a low voice, * What are
you doing, blockhead? am not I here?' '
The judge civilly stopped his horse, and
said, * Proceed on your way, sir ; for it is
rather my duty to attend my lady Donna
Casilda' — my mistress's name; hot my
husband persisted, cap in hand, in his in-
tion to follow the judge. On which my
lady, full of rage and indignation, polled
out a great pin, or rather, I believe, a
bodkin, and stuck it into his back ; where-
upon my husband bawled out, and, writhing
with the smart, down he came, with bis
lady, to the ground. Two of her footmen
ran to assist her, as well as the judge and
his officers ; and the gate of Guadalajara—
I mean the idle people that stood there,
were all in an uproar. My mistress was
forced to walk home on foot, and my i
husband repaired to a barber- surgeon'»,
declaring he was quite run through and '
through the bowels. The courtesy and good
breeding of my spouse was soon in every
body's mouth, so that the very boys in tbe
street gathered about him and teazed him
with tlieir jibes when he walked abroad. On
this account, and becansehe was a little short-
sighted, my lady dismissed him from her
service, which he took so to heart, poor man !
that I verily believe it brought him to the
grave. Thus, sir, I was left a poor helpless
widow, and with a daughter to keep, iair
as a flower, and who went on increasing in
beauty like the foam of the sea. At length,
as I had the reputation of an excellent
workwoman at my needle, my lady duchess,
who was then newly married to my lord
duke, took me to live with her here in
Arragon, and also my daughter, who grew
up with a world of accomplishments. She |
sings like any lark, dances like a &iry,
capers like any wild thing, reads and writes <
like a schoolmaster, and casts accounts as
exact as a miser. I say nothing of her
cleanliness, for surely the running brook is i
not more pure ; and she is now, if I re-
member right, just sixteen years of age, five
months and three days, one more or less.
To make short, sir, the son of a very rich I
farmer, who lives here on my lord duke's
land, was smitten with my daughter; and ■
DON QUIXOTE.
417
how he managed matters I cannot tell, but
the truth is they got together, and, under
promise of being her husband, he has fooled
my daughter, and now refuses to make
good his word. The duke is no stranger
to this business, for I have complained to
him again and again, and begged he would
be so gracious as to command this same
young man to wed my daughter ; but he
turns a deaf ear to my complaints, and will
hardly vouchsafe to listen to me ; and the
reason is that the cozening -knave's father
is rich, and lends his grace money, and is
bound for him on all occasions; therefore
he would not in any wise disoblige him.
N0W9 good sir, my humble deshre is that
your worship would kindly take upon you
to redress this wrong, either by entreaty,
or by force of arms ; since all the world
says your worship was bom to redress
grievances, to right the injured, and succour
the wretched. Be pleased, sir, I entreat
you, to take pity on a fatherless daughter,
and let her youth, her beauty, and all her
other good parts, move you to compassion:
for, on ray conscience, among all my lady's
damsels, there is not one that comes up to
the sole of her shoe, — no, not she who is
cried up as the liveliest and finest of them
all, whom they call Altisidora — she is not
to be named with my daughter ; for let me
tell you, dear sir, that all is not gold that
glitters, and that same little Altisidora,
after all, has more self-conceit than beauty;
besides, she is none of tlie soundest, for her
breath is so foul that nobody can stand
near her for a moment. Nay, indeed, as
for that, even my lady duchess but,
mum, for they say walls have ears." "What
of my lady duchess V* quoth Don Quixote.
''Tell me, madam Rodriguez, I conjure
you." "Your entreaties," said the duenna,
" cannot be resisted ; and I must tell you
the truth. Has not your worship observed
the beauty of my lady duchess ?— that soft-
ness, that clearness, of complexion, smooth
and shining like any polished sword ; those
cheeks of milk and crimson, with the sun
in the one, and the moon in the other ; and
that stateliness with which she treads, as
it she disdained the very ground she walks
on» that one would think her the goddess
of health dispensing the blessing wherever
she goes? Let me tell you, sir, she may
thank God for it, in the first place, and in
the next, two issues, one in each leg, that
carry off all the bad humours, in which,
the physicians say, her ladyship abounds."
" Holy Virgin !" quoth Don Quixote, " is
it possible that my lady duchess should have
such drains ! I should never have credited
such a thing, though bare -footed friars
themselves had sworn it ; but, since madam
Donna Rodriguez says it, so it must
needs be. Yet, assuredly, ürom such per-
fection no ill humours can flow, but rather
liquid amber. Well, I am now convinced
that such conduits may be of importance
to health."
Scarcely had Don Quixote said this»
when tlie chamber door suddenly burst
open, which so startled Donna Rodriguez
that the candle fell out of her hand, leaving
the room as dark as a wolfs mouth ; when
instantly the poor duenna felt her throat
griped by two hands, and so hard that she
had not power to cry out, while other two
hands whipped up her petticoats, and, with
a slipper, as it seemed, so unmercifully be-
slapped her nethermost parts that she was
presently in woeful plight. Yet, notwith-
standing the compassion which Don Quixote
felt for her, he remained quietly in bed;
being at a great loss what to think of the
matter, and doubtful whether the same
calamity might not fall upon himself. Nor
were his apprehensions groundless, for, after
having well curried the duenna, who durst
not cry out, the silent executioners then
came to Don Quixote, and, turning up the
bed-clothes, they so pinched and tweaked
him all over that he could not forbear
laying about him with his fists, in his own
defence ; till at last, after a scuffle of almost
half-an-hour^ the silent and invisible phan-
toms vanished. Donna Rodriguez then ad-
justed her disordered garments, and^ bewail-
ing her misfortune, hastened out of the
chamber without speaking a word to the
knight, who, vexed with the pinching he
had received, remained in deep though t,
utterly at a loss to conceive who the ma-
licious enchanter could be that had treated
him so rudelv. This will be explained in
2e
=^
«^=-=
il8
ADVENTURES OF
its proper place ; at present the order of the
history requires that our attention should
be turned to Sancho Panza.
CHAPTER XLIX.
OF WHAT BBFEL SAflCHO PANZA IN
GOING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND.
Wb left the great governor much out of
humour from the provocation he had re-
ceived from the picture-drawing knave of
a peasant, who was one of the steward's
instruments for executing the duke's pro-
jects upon Sancho. Nevertheless, simple,
rough, and round as he was, he held out
toughly against them all ; and, addressing
himself to those about him, among others
the doctor Pedro Rezio (who had returned
after the private dispatch had been read),
*' I now plainly perceive," said he, ** that
judges and governors must, or ought to, be
made of brass, to endure the importunities
of your men of business, who, intent upon
their own afiairs alone, will take no denial,
but must needs be heard at all hours and
all times ; and if his poor lordship does not
think fit to attend to them, either because
he cannot, or because it is not a time for
business, then, forsooth, they murmur and
peck at him, rake up the ashes of his grand-
father, and gnaw the very flesh from their
bones. Men of business ! — out upon them !
— meddling, troublesome fools! take the
proper times and seasons for your afiairs,
and come not when men should eat and
sleep ! for judges are made of flesh and
blood, and must give to their nature what
nature requires; except, indeed, miserable
I, who am forbidden to do so by mine —
thanks to sigñor Pedro Rezio Tirteafuera,
here present, who would have me die of
hunger, and swears that this kind of dying
is the only way to live ! — God grant the
same life to him, and all those of his tribe !
— I mean quacks and impostors ; for good
physicians deserve palms and laurels." All
who knew Sancho Panza were in admira-
tion at his improved oratory, which they
could not account for, unless it be that
ofiices and weighty employments quicken j
and polish some men's minds, as they
perplex and stupify othen.
At length the bowels of doctor Pedro
Rezio de Tirteñiera relented, and he pro-
mised the govenor he should sop that
night, although it were in direct oppoátion
to all the aphorisms of Hippocrates. With
this promise his excelleney was satisfied,
and looked forward with great impatienoe
to the hour of supper ; and though time, as
he thought, stood stock still, yet the wished-
for moment came at last, when messes of
cow -beef, hashed with onions, and boiled
calves' feet, somewhat of the stalest, were
set before him. Nevertheless he laid about
him with more relish than if they had giren
him Milan godwits, Roman pheasants, veal
of Sorento, partridges of Moron, or geese
of Lavajos ; and, in the midst of sapper,
turning to the doctor, " Look you, master
doctor," said he, *^ never trouble yooiself
again to provide me your delicacies, or
your tit-bits ; for they will only unhinge
my stomach, which is accustomed to goafs-
flesh, cow-beef, and bacon, widi turnips
and onions } and if you ply me with court
kickshaws, it will only make ray stomach
queasy and loathing. However, if master
sewer will now and then set before me one
of those — how do you call them— oUa
podridas, which are a jumble of all sorts
of good things, and, to my thinking, the
stronger they are the better they smack-
but stuff them as you will, so it be but an
eatable, — I shall take it kindly, and will
one day make you amends. So let nobody
play their jests upon me : for either we are,
or we are not ; and let us all live and eat
together in peace and good friendship ; for
when God sends daylight, it is morning to
all. I will govern this island withoat
either waiving right, or pocketing bribe.
So let every one keep a good look-out, and
each mind his own business : for I wonld
have them to know the devil is in the wind,
and, if they put me upon it, they shall see
wonders. Aye, aye, make yoursdves honey,
and the wasps will devour you.'* " Indeed,
my lord governor," quoth the sewer, **yoar
lordship is much in the right in all you hare
said, and I dare engage, in the name of all
the inhabitants of this island, that they
*jj—
DON QUIXOTE.
419
\7ill serve your worship with all punctuality,
love, and good will ; for your gentle way
of governing, from the very first, leaves us
no room to do, or think, anything to the
disadvantage of your worship." " I believe
as much," replied Sancho, '' and they would
be little better than fools if they did, or
thought, othen\'ise ; therefore I tell you once
again it is my pleasure that you look well to
me and my Dapple in the article of food ; for
that is the main point : and when the hour
oomes, we will go the round, as my inten-
tion is to clear this island of all manner of
filth and rubbish; especially vagabonds,
1 1 idlers, and sharpers : for I would have you
I to know, friends, that your idle and lazy
' people in a commonwealth are like drones
I in a bee-hive, which devour the honey that
I I the labouring bees gather. My design is
jj to protect the peasants, maintain the gentry
i; in their privileges, reward virtue, and,
j above all, to have a special regard to re-
ligion, and the reverence due to holy men.
What think you of tbis, my good friends ?
Do I say something, or do I crack my
brains to no purpose V " My lord governor
speaks so well," replied the steward, " that
I am all admiration to hear one devoid of
learning, like your worship, utter so many
notable things, so far beyond the expecta-
tion of your subjects, or those who appointed
you. But every day produces something
new in the world ; jests turn into earnest,
and the biters are bit."
The governor having supped by license of
signor Doctor Rezio, they prepared for going
the round, and he set out with the secre-
tary, the steward, the sewer, and the his-
toriographer, who had the charge of record-
ing his actions, together with Serjeants and
notaries; altogether, forming a little bat-
talion. Sancho, with his rod of ofiSce,
marched in the midst of them, making a
goodly show. After traveraing a few
streets, they heard the clashing of swords,
and, hastening to the place, they found two
men fighting. On seeing the officers coming,
they desisted, and one of them said, ^'Help
in the name of God and the king ! Are
people to be attacked here, and robbed in
the open streets ?" " Hold, honest ihan,"
quoth Sancho, ^' and tel) me what is the
occasion of this fray ; for I am the governor."
His antagonist, interposing, said, ''My lord
governor, I will briefly relate the matter : —
your honour must know that this gentleman
is jast come from the gaming-house over
the way, where he has been winning above
a thousand reals, and God knows how,
except that I, happening to be present,
was induced, even against my conscience,
to give judgment in his favour in many a
doubtful point; and, when I expected he
would have given me something, though it
were but the small matter of a crown, by
way of present, as it is usual with gentlemen
of character like myself, who stand by,
ready to back unreasonable demands, and
to prevent quarrels, up he got, with his
pockets filled, and marched out of the
house. Surprised and vexed at such con-
duct, I followed him, and civilly reminded
him that he could not refuse me the small
sum of eight reals, as he knew me to be a
man of honour, without either ofiüce or
pension ; my parents having brought me
up to nothing : yet this knave, who is as
great a thief as Cacns, and as arrant a
sharper as Andradilla, would give me but
four reals ! Think, my lord governor, what
a shameless and unconscionaUe fellow he
isl But, as I live, had it not been for
your worship coming, I would have made
him disgorge his winnings, and taught him
how to balance accounts." "What say
you to this, friend ?" quoth Sancho to the
other. He acknowledged that what his
adversary had said was true ; he meant to
give him no more than four reals, for he
was continually giving him something;
and they who expect snacks should be
modest, and take cheerfully whatever is
given them, and not haggle with the win-
ners ; unless they know them to be sharpers,
and their gains unfairly gotten ; and that
he was no such person was evident from
his resisting an unreasonable demand : for
cheats are always at the mercy of their
accomplices." " That is true," quoth the
steward : "be pleased, my lord governor,
to say what shall be done with these men."
"What shall be done," replied Sancho,
" is this : you, master winner, whether by
fair play or foul, instantly give your hack-
420
ADVENTURES OF
Bter here a hundred reals, and pay down
thirty more for the poor prisoners; and yon,
sir, who have neither office nor pension, nor
honest employment, take the hundred reals,
and, some time to-morrow, be sure you get
out of this island, nor set foot in it again
these ten years, — unless you would finish
your banishment in the next life ; for if I
find you here I will make you swing on a
gibbet, — at least the hangman shall do it
for me ; so let no man reply, or he shall
repent it." The decree was immediately
executed : the one disbursed, the other re-
ceived ; the one quitted the island, the other
went home, and the governor said, *' Either
my power is small, or I will demolish these
gaming-houses ; for I strongly suspect that
much harm comes of them." " The house
here before us," said one of the officers, " I
fear your honour cannot put down ; being
kept by a person of quality, whose losses
far exceed his gains. Your worship may
exert your authority against petty gaming-
houses, which do more harm, and shelter
more abuses, than those of the gentry,
where notorious cheats dare not shew their
faces ; and, since the vice of play is become
so common, it is better that it should be
permitted in the houses of the great than
in those of low condition, where, night
after night, unfortunate gulls are taken in,
and stripped of their very skins." " Well,
master notary," quoth Sancho, " I know
there is much to be said on the subject."
Just at that moment a serjeant came up
to him holding fast a young man : " My
lord governor," said he, this youth was
coming towards us, but, as soon as he per-
ceived us to be the officers of justice, he turned
about and ran off like a deer — a sure sign
that he is after some mischief. I pursued
him, and, had he not stumbled and fallen,
I should never have overtaken him." " Why
did you fly from the officer, young man ?"
quoth Sancho. "My lord," said the youth,
" it was to avoid the many questions that
officers of justice usually ask." " What is
your trade ?" quoth Sancho. " A weaver,"
answered the youth. " And what do you
weave ?" quoth Sancho. " Iron heads for
spears, an it please your worship." " So
then," quoth Sancho, " you are pleased to
be jocose with me, and set up for a wit !
'tis mighty well. And pray may I ask
whither were you going ?" ** To take the
air, sir," replied the lad. ** And pray
where do people take the air in this island ?"
said Sancho. '* Where it blows," answ^ered
the youth. "Good," quoth Sancho ; **yott
answer to the purpose : — a notable youth,
truly ! but hark you, sir, I am the air which
you seek, and will blow in your poop,
and drive you into safe custody. Here,
secure him, and carry him straight to pri-
son : I will make him sleep there to-night,
without air." " Not so, by my faith," said
the youth ; ^' your worship shall as soon
make the king, as make me, sleep there."
" I not make you sleep in prison !" cried
Sancho, " have I not power to confine or
or release you as I please?" "Whatever
your worship's power may be, you shall
not force me to sleep in prison." *' We
shall see that," replied Sancho, — ^'away
with him immediately, and let him be con-
vinced to his cost ; and should the gaoler
be found to practise in his favour, and allow
him to slip out of his custody, I will sconce
him in the penalty of two thousand dncats."
*' All this is very pleasant," answered the
youth ; " but no man living shall make me
sleep to-night in prison : — in that I am
fixed." " Tell me, devil incarnate," quoth
Sancho, " hast thou some angel at thy beck
to come and break the fetters with which
I mean to tether thee ?" " Good, my lord,"
said the youngster, with a smile, '*let us
not trifle, but come to the point. Youi
worship, I own, may clap me in a dungeon,
and load me with chains and fetter», and lay
what commands you please upon the gaoler,
yet if I choose not to sleep, can your wor-
ship, with all your power, force me to sleep ?"
" No, certamly," said the secretary, '* and
the young man has made out his meaning."
" Well then," quoth Sancho, "if you keep
awake it is from your own liking, and not
to cross my will ?" " Certainly not, my
lord," said the youth. " Then go, get thee
home and sleep," quoth Sancho, " and hea-
ven send thee a good night's rest, for I wüi
not be thy hindrance. But have a care
another time how you sport with justice *
for you may chance to meet with some man ,
®=
DON QUIXOTE.
421
in office who will not relish your jokes, but
crack your noddle in return/' The youth
went his way, and the governor continued
Lis round.
Soon after two seijeants came up, saying,
" We have brought you, my lord governor,
one in disguise who seems to be a man, but is,
in fact, a woman, and no ugly one neither.''
Two or three lanthorns were immediately
held up to her face, by the light of which
they indeed perceived it to be that of a
female, seemingly about sixteen years of
age ; she was beautiful as a thousand pearls,
with her hair enclosed under a net of gold
and green silk. They viewed her from head
to foot, and observed that her stockings
were flesh-coloured, her garters of white
taffeta, with tassels of gold and seed-pearl ;
her breeches were of green and gold tissue,
her cloak of the same, under which she
wore a very fine waistcoat of white and gold
staff, and her shoes were white like those
worn by men. She had no sword, but a
very rich dagger ; and on her fingers were
many valuable rings. All were struck with
admiration of the maiden, but nobody knew
her, not even the inhabitants of the town.
Indeed, those who were in the secret of
these jests were as much interested as the rest,
for this circumstance was not of their con-
triving, and being therefore unexpected, their
surprise and curiosity were more strongly
excited. The governor admired the young
lady's beauty, and asked her who she was,
whither she was going, and what had induced
her to dress herself in that habit. With
downcast eyes, she modestly answered, '^ I
hope, sir, you will excuse my answering so
publicly what I wish so much to be kept
secret: — of one thing be assured, gentle-
men, I am no thief, nor a criminal, but an
unhappy maiden, who, from a jealous and
rigorous confinement, has been tempted to
transgress the roles of decorum." The
steward, on hearing this, said, " Be pleased,
my lord governor, to order your attendants
to retire, that this lady may speak more
freely." The governor did so, and they all
removed to a distance, excepting the stew-
ard, the sewer, and the secretary; upon
which the damsel proceeded thus : '^ I am
the daughter, gentlemen, of Pedro Perez
Mazorca, who farms the wool of this town,
and often comes to my father's house."
''This will not pass, madam," said the
steward ; " for I know Pedro Perez very
well, and I am sure he has neither sons nor
daughters; besides, after telling us he is
your father, you immediately say that he
comes often to your father's house." ^*1
took notice of that," quoth Sancho. ** In-
deed, gentlemen," said she, *^ I am in such
confusion that I know not what I say ; but
the truth is I am daughter to Diego de la
Liana, whom you must all know." *^ That
may be true," answered the steward, " for
I know Diego de la Liana ; he is a gentle-
man of birth and fortune, and has a son
and a daughter ; and, since he has been a
widower, nobody in this town can say they
have seen the face of his daughter, for he
keeps her so confined that he hardly suffers
the sun to look upon her; the common
report, too, is that, she is extremely hand-
some." "What you say, is true, sir," said
the damsel, *' and whether fame lies or not,
as to my beauty, you, gentlemen, who have
seen me, may judge." She then began to
weep most bitterly ; upon which the secre-
tary whispered the sewer, " Something of
importance surely must have caused a person
of so much consequence as this young lady
to leave her own house in such a dress, and
at this unseasonable hour." ^< No doubt
of that," replied the sewer; besides, this
suspicion is confirmed by her tears." Sancho
comforted her as well as he could, and de-
sired her to tell them the whole matter
without fear : for they would be her friends
and serve her in the best manner they were
able."
''The truth is, gentlemen, replied she,
'' that since my mother died, which is now
ten years ago, my father has kept roe close
confined. We have a chapel in the house,
where we hear mass, and in all that time,
I have seen nothing but the sun in the
heavens by day, and the moon and stars by
night ; nor do I know what streets, squares,
or churches are ; nor even men, excepting
my fkther and brother, and Pedro Perez
the wool fkrmer, whose constant visits to
our house led me to say he was my father,
to conceal the truth. This close confinement»
^z
-'&
432
ADVENTURES OF
r
and being forbidden to set my foot out of
doors, though it were but to church, has for
many days and months past disquieted me
very much, and gave me a constant longing
to see the world, or at least the town where
I was born j and I persuaded myself that
this desire was neither unlawful nor unbe-
coming. When I heard talk of bull-fights,
running at the ring, and theatrical shows,
I asked my brother, who is a year younger
than myself, to tell me what those things
were, and several others that I had never
seen ; he described them all as well as he
could, but it only inflamed my curiosity to
see them myself. In a word, to shorten the
story of my ruin, I prayed and entreated my
brother — O that I had never so prayed nor
^ entreated !" — and here a flood of tears inter-
rupted her narrative. ** Pray» madam,''
said the steward, " be comforted and pro-
ceed ; for your words < and tears keep us
all in anxious suspense.'' '^ I have but
few more words," answered the damsel,
<< though many tears to shed : for misplaced
desires like mine can be atoned ibr no
other way."
The beauty of the damsel had made an
impression on the soul of the sewer, and
again he held up his lanthorn, to have ano-
ther view of her, when he verily thought
her tears were orient pearls and dew-drops
of the morning, and he heartily wished her
misfortune might not be so great as her
tears and sighs seemed to indicate. But
the governor was out of all patience at the
length of her story, and therefore bid her
make an end and keep them no longer ; as
it grew late, and they had much ground
yet to pass over. As well as the frequent
interruption of sobs and sighs would let ber,
she continued, saying, ** My misfortune and
misery is no other than this, that I desired
my brother to -let me put on his clothes, and
take me out some night when my fatlier was
asleep, to see the town. Yielding to my
frequent entreaties, he at length gave me
this habit, and dressed himself in a suit of
mine, which fits him exactly, and he looks
like a beautiful girl, — for he has yet no
beard, and this night about an hour ago,
we contrived to get out of the bouse ; and
with no other ^uide than a foot-boy and our
own unruly fancies, we have walked through
the whole town ; and as we were returning
home, we saw a great company of people
before us, which my brother said was the
round, and that we must run, or rather fly,
for if we should be discovered it would be
worse for us. Upon which he set off at full
speed, leaving me to follow him, but I had
not gone many paces before I stumbled and
fell, and that instant a man seized me and
brought me hither, where my indiscreet
longing has covered me with shame." " Has
nothing, then," quoth Sancho, '^ befallen you
but this ? you mentioned at first something
of jealousy, I think, which had brought
you from home." " Nothing," said she,
'^ has befallen me, but what I have said, nor
has any thing brought me out but a desire
to see the world, which went no farther than
seeing the streets of this town."
The truth of the damsel's story was now
confirmed by the arrival of two seijeants,
who had overtaken and seized the brother
as he fled from the sister. The female dress
of the youth was only a rich petticoat, and
a blue damask mantle bordered with gold ;
on his head he had no other ornament or
cover than his own hair, which appeared
like so many ringlets of gold. The gover-
nor, the steward, and the sewer, examined
him apart, and out of the hearing of his
sister, asked him why he had disguised him-
self in that manner ? With no less bashful-
ness and distress, he repeated the same story
they had heard from his sister, to the great
satisfaction of the enamoured sewer. ** Really,
young gentlefolks," said the governor, ^* this
seems only a piece of childish folly, and all
these sobs and teaxs might well have been
spared in giving an account of your frolic.
Had you but told us your names and said
you had got out of your father's house only
to satisfy your curiosity, there would have
been an end of the story." '< That is true,"
answered the damsel ; " but my confusion
was so great that I knew not what I said.
or how to behave myself." ^' Well, OMMlam,"
said Sancho, '^ there is no harm done ; we
will see you safe to your fiitber's house,
who, perhaps, has not missed you; and
henceforward be not so childish, nor so
eager to get abroad ; for * the modest maiden
DON QUIXOTE.
423
and the broken leg should keep ac i ouie ;'
* the woman and the hen are lost by gad-
ding ;' and ^ she who wishes to see wishes
BO less to be seen,' — I say no more.'' The
yonng man thanked the governor for the
&voar he intended them, in seeing them
safe home, whither they all went; and,
having reached the house, the youth threw
a pebble up at a grated window, which im-
mediately brought down one of the domes-
tics, who opened the door, and they went
in, leaving every one in admiration of their
beauty and graceful demeanour, and much
entertained by their desire of seeing the
world by night. The sewer finding that
his heart was pierced through and through,
secretly resolved to demand the young lady
in marriage of her father the next day, and
he flattered himself that, being a servant
of the dnke, he should not be refused. San-
cho, too, had some thoughts of matching
the yoong man with his daughter Sanchica,
and determined to bring it about the first
opportunity : feeling assured that no man's
son would think himself too good for a
governor's daughter. Thus ended the night's
round of the great Sancho : two days after,
also ended his government, which put an
end to all his great designs and expectations,
as shall hereafter be shewn.
CHAPTER L.
WHICH DECLARES WHO THE BNCHAKT-
BR8 AND EXECUTIONERS WERE THAT
WHIPPED THE DUENNA, AND PINCHED
AND SCRATCHED DON QUIXOTE; AND
ALSO THE SUCCESS OF THE PAGE WHO
CARRIED SANOHO'S LETTER TO HIS
WIPE, TERESA PANZA.
Cid Ha METE, the most laborious and
careful investigator into the minutest par-
ticles of this true history, says that, when
Donna Rodriguez went out of her chamber
to go to that of Bon Quixote, another du-
enna, who hnd slept with her, observed her,
and, as all duennas are addicted to listening,
prying into, and smelling out, everything,
she followed her, and with so light a foot
that the good Rodriguez did not hear it ;
and no sooner had she entered Don Quixote's
chamber, than the other, that she might
not be deficient in the laudable practice of
tale -bearing, in which duennas usually
excel, hastened to acquaint the duchess
that Donna Rodriguez was then actually
in Don Quixote's chamber. The duchess
immediately told the duke, and, having
gained his permission to go with Altisidora
to satisfy her curiosity respecting this night-
visit of her duenna, they silently posted
themselves at the door of the knight's apart-
ment, where they stood listening to all that
was said within : but when the duchess
heard her secret imperfections exposed,
neither she nor Altisidora could bear it,
and so, brimful of rage, and eager for re-
venge, they bonnced into the chamber, and,
seizing the offenders, inflicted the whipping
and pinching before mentioned, and in
the manner already related : for nothing
awakens the wrath of women, and inflames
them with a desire of vengeance, more
effectually than affronts levelled at their
beauty, or other objects of their vanity.
The duke was much diverted with his
lady's account of this night-adventure ; and
the duchess, being still merrily disposed,
now dispatched a messenger extraordinary
to Teresa Panza, with her husband's letter
(for Sancho, having his head so full of the
great concerns of his government, had quite
forgotten it), and with another from herself,
to which she added, as a inresent, a large
string of rich coral beads.
Now the history tells us that the mes-
senger employed on this occasion was a
shrewd fellow, and the same page who
personated Dulcinea in the wood, and,
being desirous to please his lord and lady,
he set off, with much glee, for Sancho's
village. Having arrived near it, he en-
quired, of some women whom he saw
washing in a brook, if then lived not in
that town one Teresa Panza, wife of one
Sancho Panza, squire to a knight called
Don Quixote de la Mancha. *^ That Teresa
Panza is my mother," said a young lass
who was washing among tlie rest, ''and
that Sancho my own father, and that
knight our master." " Are they so ?"
quoth the page; ''come then, my good
girl, and lead me to your mother ; for I
424
ADVENTURES OF
&
have a letter and a token for her from that
same father of yours." " That I will, with
all my heart, sir/' answered the girl (who
seemed to he ahout fourteen years of age),
and, leaving the linen she was washing to
one of her companions, without stopping to
cover either her head or her feet, away she
ran skipping along before the page's horse,
bare -legged, and her hair dishevelled.
" Come along, sir, an 't please you," quoth
she, '^ for our house stands hard by, and
you will find my mother in trouble enough
for being so long without tidings of my
father." " Well," said the page, " I now
bring her news that will cheer her heart, I
warrant her." So on he went, with his
guide running, skipping, and capering
before him, till they reached the village,
and, before she got up to the house, she
called out aloud, ^* Mother, mother, come
out ! here's a gentleman who brings letters
and other things from my good father."
At these words out came her mother Teresa
Panza, with a distaff in her hand — for she
was spinning flax. She was clad in a russet
petticoat, so short that it looked as if it had
been docked at the placket, with a jacket
of the same, and her smock-sleeves hanging
about it She appeared to be about forty
years of age, and was strong, hale, sinewy,
and hard as a hazel-nut. ^< What is the
matter, girl ?" quoth she, seeing her daughter
with the page, '^ what gentleman is that ?"
^' It is an humble servant of my lady Donna
Teresa Panza," answered the page ; and,
throwing himself from his horse, with great
respect he went and kneeled before the lady
Teresa, saying, <' Be pleased, sigñora Donna
Teresa, to give me your ladyship's hand
to kiss, as the lawful wife of signer Don
Sancho Panza, sole governor of the island
Barataria." " Alack-a^-day, good sir, how
you talk !" she replied : " I am no court-
dame, but a poor countrywoman, danghter
of a ploughman, and wife indeed of a
squire-errant, but no governor." "Your
ladyship," answered the page, '^ is the roost
worthy wife of a thrice-worthy governor ;
and, to confirm the truth of what I say,
be pleased, madam, to receive what I here
bring you." He then drew the letter from
his pocket, and a string of corals, each
bead set in gold, and, putting it about her ¡
neck, he said, '^ This letter is from my lord
governor, and another that I have here
and those corals are from my lady duchess, |
who sends me to your ladyship." Teresa
and her daughter were all astonishment.
" May I die," said the girl, " if our master
Don Quixote be not at the bottom of this !
— as sure as day he has given my &tber
the government, or earldom, he has so oñen i
promised him." <^ It is even so," answered
the page ; '' and, for sigfior Don Quixote's
sake, my lord Sancho is now governor of
the island of Barataria, as the letter will
inform you." " Pray, young gentleman," ,
quoth Teresa, '^ be pleased to read it,* for,
though I can spin, I cannot read a jot." '
'* Nor I neither, i' faith," cried Sancbica;
^' but stay a little, and I will fetch one who
can, either the bachelor Samson Carrasco,
or the priest himself, who will come with
all their hearts to hear news of my father."
*' You need not take that trouble," said the
page ; *^ for I can read, though I cannot ,
spin, and will read it to you." Which he
accordingly did ; but, as its contents hare
already been given, it is not here repeated.
He then produced the letter from the duchess,
and read as follows :
" Friend Teresa, I
^' Finding your husband Sancho worthy
of my esteem for his honesty and good un-
derstanding, I prevailed upon the duke, my
spouse, to make him governor of one of the
many islands in his possession. I am in-
formed he governs like any hawk; at which
I and my lord duke are mightily pleased,
and I give many thanks to heaven that I
have not been deceived in my choice ; for
madam Teresa may be assured that it is no
easy matter to find a good governor,— and
God make me as good as Sancho govexns ¡
well. I have sent you, my dear friend, a
string of corals set in gold— I wish they
were oriental pearls; but, whoever gives
thee a bone has no mind to see thee dead :
the time will come when we shall be better
acquainted and converse with eaeh other,
and then God knows what may happen.
Commend me to your daughter Sanchica.
and tell her from me to get herself ready : :,
DON QUIXOTE.
425
for I mean to have her highly married \irhen
fihe least expects it. I am told the acorns
near your town are very large — pray send
me some two dozen of them : for I shall
value them the more as coming from your
hand. Write to me immediately, to inform
me of your health and welfare ; and, if you
want anything, you need but open your
mouth, and it shall be measured. So God
keep you.
" Your loving friend,
' From this place.
The Duchess."
^<Ah!" quoth Teresa, at hearing the
letter, " how good, how plain, how humble
a lady ! Let me be buried with such ladies
as this, say I, and not with such proud
madams as this town affords, who think,
because they are gentlefolks, the wind must
not blow upon them ; and go flaunting to
church as if they were queens ! They seem
to think it a disgrace to look upon a peasant
woman ; and yet you see here how this good
lady, though she be a duchess, calls me
friend, and treats me as if I were her equal !
— and equal may I see her to the highest
steeple in La Mancha ! As to the acorns,
sir, I will send her ladyship a peck of them,
and such as, for their size, people shall come
from far and near to see and admire. But
for the present, Sanchica, let us make much
of this gentleman. Do thou take care of
his horse, child, and bring some new-laid
eggs out of the stable, and slice some rashers
of bacon, and let us entertain him like any
prince ; for his good news and his own good
looks deserve no less. Meanwhile I will
step and carry my neighbours the joyful
tidings, especially our good priest and
master Nicholas the barber, who are, and
have always been, such friends to your
father." " Yes, I will," answered Sanchica ;
'^ but hark you, mother, half that string of
corals comes to me ; for sure the great lady
knows better than to send it all to you."
''It is all for thee, daughter," answered
Teresa ; '' but let me wear it a few days
about my neck ; for, truly, methinks it
cheers my very heart." " You will be no
loss cheered," quoth the page, '' when you
pee the bundle I have in this portmanteau :
it is a Habit of superfine cloth, which the
governor wore only one day at a hunting-
match, and he has sent it all to sigñora
Sanchica." '' May he live a thousand
years!" answered Sanchica; ''and the
bearer neither more nor less — aye, and
two thousand, if need be !"
Teresa now went out of the house with
the letters, and the beads about her neck,
and playing, as she went along, with her
fingers upon the letters, as if they had been
a timbrel ; when, accidentally meeting the
priest and Samson Carrasco, she began
dancing and capering before them. " Faith
and troth," cried she, " we have no poor
relations now : — we have got a government !
Aye, aye, let the proudest she amongst them
all meddle with me ; I will make her know
her distance." " What is the matter, Teresa
Panza ? What madness is this ?" quoth the
priest; "and what papers have you got
there?" "No other madness," quoth she,
" but that these are letters from duchesses
and governors, and these about my neck
are true coral; the ave-maries and the
paternosters are of beaten gold, and T am
a governor's lady, — that's all." " God be
our aid !" they exclaimed ; " we know not
what you mean, Teresa." " Here," said
she, giving them the letters, " take these,
read, and believe your own eyes." The priest
having read them so that Samson Carrasco
heard the contents, they both stared at
each other in astonishment. The bachelor
asked who had brought those letters. Teresa
said if they would come home with her they
should see the messenger, who was a youth
like any golden pine-tree ; and that he had
brought her another present worth twice
as much. The priest took the string of
corals from her neck, and examined them
again and again ; and, being satisfied that
they were genuine, his wonder increased,
and he said, " By the habit I wear, I know
not what to say nor what to think of these
letters and these presents! On the one
hand I see and feel the fineness of these
corals, and on the other I read that a duchess
sends to desire a dozen or two of acorns !"
"Make these things tally, if you can,"
quoth Carrasco ; " but let us go and see the
messenger, who may explain the diificultics
which puzzle us."
426
ADVENTURES OF
They then returned ynih Teresa, and
found the page sifting a little barley for
his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasber to
fry with eggs, for the page's dinner, whose
appearance and behaviour they both liked ;
and, after the usual compliments, Samson re-
quested him to give them some intelligence
of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza ; for,
though they had read a letter from Sancho
to his wife, and another from a duchess,
still they were confounded, and could not
devise what Sancho's government could
mean, and especially of an island; well
knowing that all, or most, of them in the
Mediterranean belonged to his majesty.
'^ Gentlemen," answered the page, " that
sigñor Sancho Panza is a governor, is be-
yond all doubt ; but whether it be an island
or not that he governs I cannot say ; I only
know that it is a place containing above a
thousand inhabitants. And as to my lady
duchess sending to beg a few acorns, if you
knew how humble and afiable she is, it
would give you no surprise : she will even
send to borrow a comb of one of her neigh-
bours. The ladies of Arragon, gentlemen,
I would have you to know, though as high
in rank, are not so proud and ceremonious
as the ladies of Castile: — they are mnch
more condescending.''
Sanchica now came in with her lap full
of eggs. ^^ Pray^ sir," said she to the page,
'Moes my &ther, now he is a governor,
wear trunk- hose ?" " I never observed,"
answered the page, '' but doubtless he does."
'< God's my life !" replied Sanchica, ''what
a sight to see my father in long breeches !
Is it not strange that, ever since I was
bom, I have longed to see my father with
breeches of that fashion, laced to his girdle?"
" I M'arrant you will have that pleasure if
you live," answered the page ; " before
God, if his government lasts but two
months, he is likely to travel with a cape
to his cap." The priest and the bachelor
clearly saw that the page spoke jestingly ;
but the fineness of the corals, and also tiie
hunting-suit sent by Sancho, which Teresa
had already shewn them, again perplexed
thefn exceedingly. They could not forbear
smiling at Sanchica's longing, and still
more when they heard Teresa say, '' Master
priest, do look about, and see if anybody
be going to Madrid or Toledo, who may
buy me a farthingale, right and tight, and
fashionable, and one of the best that is to
be had; for, truly, I am resolved not to
shame my husband's government ; and, if
they vex me, I wUl get to that same court
myself, and ride in my coach as well as
the best of them there ; for she who has a
governor for her husband may very well
have a coach, and afford it too, i'faith!"
'^ Aye, marry," quoth Sanchica, '^ and
would to God it were to-day, rather than
to - morrow ; though folks that saw me
coached with my lady mother, should say,
* Do but see the bumpkin there, daoghter
of such a one, stu£fed with garlic ! — how
she flaunts it about, and lolls in her coach
like any she-pope !' But let them jeer, so
they trudge in the dirt, and I ride in my
coach with my feet above the ground. A
bad year and a worse month to all the
raurmurers in the world ! While I go
warm, let 'em laugh that like it. — Say I
well, mother?" " Aye, mighty well,
daughter," answered Teresa, '' and, indeed,
my good man Sancho foretold me all this,
and still greater, luck ; and, thou shalt see,
daughter, it will never stop till it has made
me a conntess : for luck only wants a be-
ginning ; and, as I have often heard your
father say — who, as he is yours, so is he
the father of proverbs — * When they give
yon a heifer, make haste with the halter ;
when they offer thee a governorship, lay
hold of it ; when an earldom is put before
thee, lay your claws on it ; and when they
whistle to thee with a good gift, snap at it ;
if not, sleep on, and give no answer to the
good luck that raps at your door.' " ** Aye,
indeed," quoth Sanchica, "what care I,
though they be spiteful, and say, when tfaoy
see me step it stately, and bridle it, * Look,
look there at the dog in a doublet! the
higher it mounts, the more it shews.' "
"Surely," said the priest, "the whole
race of the Panzas were bom with their
bellies stufied with proverbs, for I never
knew one of them that did not throw them
out at every turn." ** I believe so too,"
quoth the page, " even his hononr, the go-
vernor Sancho, ntters them very thick ; and,
<^=
^■^
DON QUIXOTE.
427
though often not mueh to the purpose, they
are mightily relished, and my lady duchess
and the duke commend them highly." ^* You
persist then in afiirming, sir/' quoth the
bachelor, '' that Sancho is really a goyemor,
and that these presents and letters are in
truth sent by a duchess? As for us, though
we touch the presents and hare read the let-
ters, we have no faith, and are inclined to
think it one of the adventures of our coun-
tryman Don Quixote, and take it all for
enchantment ; — indeed, friend, I would fain
touch you to be certain you are a messenger
of flesh and blood, and not an illusion." '*All
I know of myself, gentlemen," answered
the page, *^ is, that I am really a messenger,
and that sigñor Sancho Panza is actually a
governor ; and that my lord duke and his
duchess can give, and have given, him that
government ; in which I have heard that
he behaves himself in a notable manner.
Now, whether there be enchantment in this
or not, I leave you to determine ; for, by
the life of my parents, who are living, and
whom I dearly love, I know nothing more
of the matter." " It may be so," replied
the bachelor, " but * Dubitat Augustinus.' "
"Doubt who will," answered the page,
** the truth is what I tell you, and truth
will always rise uppermost, as oil does
above water ; but if you will not believe
me, 'Operibus credite et non verbis:' —
come one of you, gentlemen, along with me,
and be satisfied with your eyes of what
your ears will not convince you." ** That
jaunt is for me," quoth Sanchica : " take
me behind you, sir, upon your nag, for I
have a huge mind to see' his worship my
father." "The daughters of governors," said
the page, " must not travel unattended, but
in coaches and litters, and with a handsome
train of servants." " By the mass," quoth
Sanchica, "I can go a journey as well upon
an ass's colt as in a coach : I am none of your
tender, squeamish things, not I." "Peace,
wench," quoth Teresa, " thou know'st not
what thou say'st ; the gentleman b in the
riglit, for, ' accojding to reason, each thing in
its season.' When it was Sancho, it was
Sancha ; and when governor, my lady. — Say
1 not right, sir?" " My lady Teresa says
more than she imagines," quoth the page ;
" but pray give me something to eat, and
dispatch me quickly : for I intend to return
home this night." " Be pleased then, sir,"
said the priest, " to take a humble meal with
me, for madam Teresa has more good will
than good cheer to welcome so worthy a
guest." The page refused at first, but at
length thought it best to comply, and the
priest very willingly took him home with
him, that he might have an opportunity to
inform himself more at large concerning
Don Quixote and his exploits. The bach-
elor offered Teresa to write answers to her
letters ; but, as she looked upon him to be
somewhat of a wag, she would not let him
meddle in her concerns ; so she g^ve a
couple of eggs and a modicum of bread to
a noviciate friar who was a penman, and
he wrote two letters for her, one to her
husband and the other to the duchess, both
of her own inditing ; and they are none
of the worst things recorded in this great
history, as will be seen hereafter.
CHAPTER LI.
OF THB PROGUESS OF SANCHO PANZA's
GOYSRKMEMT, WITH OTHER SNTER-
TAIKINQ HATTERS.
Now the morning dawned that succeeded
the night of the governor's round ; the re-
mainder of which the sewer passed, not in
sleep, but in pleasing thoughts of the lovely
&ce and charming air of the disguised dam-
sel ; and the steward in writing an account
to his lord and lady of the words and actions
of the new governor, who appeared to him
a marvellous mixture of ignorance and sa-
gacity. His lordship being risen, they gave
him, by order of Dr. Pedro Bezio, a little
conserve, and four draughts of clear spring
water, which, however, he would gladly
have exchanged for a luncheon of bread
and a few grapes. But, seeing it was ra-
ther a matter of compulsion than choice,
he submitted, although with much grief of
heart and mortification of appetite : being
assured by his doctor that spare and deli-
cate food sharpened that acute judgment
which was so necessary for persons in autho-
rity and high employment, where a brawny
428
ADVENTURES OF
strength of body is much less needfal than
avigoróos understanding. By this sophistry
Sancho was induced to struggle with hunger,
while he iuwardly cursed the goyemment,
and even him that gave it.
Nevertheless, on this fasting fare did
the worthy magistrate attend to the admin-
istration of justice ; and the first business
that occurred on tliat day was an appeal
to his judgment in a case which was thus
stated by a stranger — the appellant : ^' My
lord," said he, "tliere is a river which
passes through the domains of a certain
lord, dividing it into two parts — I beseech
your honour to give roe your attention, for
it is a case of great importance, and some
difficulty. I say, then, that upon this river
there was a bridge, and, at one end of it,
a gallows, and a kind of court-house, where
four judges sit to try, and pass sentence
upon, those who are found to transgress a
certain law, enacted by the proprietor,
which runs thus: ^Whoever would pass
over this bridge must first declare, upon
oath, whence he comes, and upon wliat
business he is going ; and, if he swears the
truth, he shall pass over ; but, if he swears
to a falsehood, he shall certainly die upon
the gibbet there provided.' After tliis law
was made known, many persons ventured
over it, and, the truth of what they swore
being admitted, they were allowed freely
to pass. But a man now comes, demanding
a passage over the bridge ; and, on taking
the required oath, he swears that he is going
to be executed upon the gibbet before him,
and that he has no other business. The
judges deliberated, but would not decide.
* If we let this man pass freely,' said they,
he will have sworn falsely, and, by the
law, he ought to die ; and, if we hang him,
it will verify his oath, and he, having sworn
the truth, ought to have passed unmolested,
as the law ordains.' The case, my lord,
is yet suspended, for the judges know not
bow to act, and therefore, having heard of
your lordship's great wisdom and acute-
ness, they have sent me humbly to beseech
youp lordship, on their behalf, to give your
opinion in so intricate and perplexing a
case.*' "To deal plainly with you," said
Sancho, ^' tliese gentlemen judges who sent
"2>=
yon to me might have saved themselTa
and you the labour ; for I have more of the
blunt than the acute in me* However, let
me hear your question once more, that I may
understand it the better, and mayhap I may
chance to hit the right nail on the head."
The man accordingly told his tale once or
twice more, and when he had done, ihe go-
vernor thus delivered his opinion: "To my
thinking," said he, "this matter may be soon
settled ; and I will tell you how. Tlie mac,
you say, swears he is going to die upon
the gallows, and, if he is hanged, it would
be against the law, because he swore the
trutli ; and, if they do not hang him, why
then he swore a lie, and ought to have suf-
fered." " It is just as you say, ray lord
governor," said tlic messenger, " and nothing
more is wanting to tlie right understanding
of tlie case." "I say then," continued
Sancho, " that they must let that part of
of the man pass tliat swore the truth, and
hang the part that swore a lie, and thereby
the law will be obeyed." " If so, my lord,"
replied the stranger, "the man must be
divided into two parts ; nnd, if so, he will
certainly die, and thus the law, which we
are bound to observe, is in no respect
complied with." " Harkee, honest man,''
said Sancho, " either I have no brains, or
there is as much reason to put tliis passenger
to death as to let him live, and pass tlie
bridge ; for, if the truth saves him, the lie
also condemns him ; and, this being so, you
may tell those gentlemen who sent you to
me that, since the reasons for condemning
and acquitting him are equal, they should
let the man pass freely : for it is alwaj's more
commendable to do good than to do bann;
and this advice I would give you under my
hand, if I could write. Nor do I speak
thus of my own head, but on the authority
of my master Don Quixote, who, on the
night before the day I came to govern diis
island, told me, among many other good \
things, that, when justice was doubtful, I I
should lean to the side of mercy ; and God
has been pleased to bring it to my win^^
in the present case, in which it comes pat
to the purpose." " It does so," answered j
the steward ; "and, for my part, I think ,
Lycurgus himself, who gave laws to the ¡
DON QUIXOTE.
4S»
LaccdsBmoiiians, could not have decided
more wisely than the great Panza has just
done. And now let the busiuess of the
court cease for this morning, and I will
give orders that my lord governor shall
dine to-day much to his satisfaction."
** That," quoth Sancho, " is what I desire ;
give us fair play, feed us well, and then
let cases and questions rain upon me ever
so thick, I will dispatch them in a trice.''
The steward was as good as his word,
for it would have gone much against his
conscience to starve so excellent a governor:
besides, he intended to come to a conclusion
with him that very night, and to play off
the last trick he had in commission.
Now Sancho, having dined to his heart's
content, though against all the rules and
aphorisms of doctor Tirteafuera, when the
clotli was removed, a courier arrived with
a letter from Don Quixote to the governor.
Sancho desired the secretary to read it first
to himself, and then, if it contained nothing
that required secrecy, to read it aloud. The
secretary having done as he was commanded,
" My lord," said he, " well may it be read
aloud ; for what sigñor Don Quixote writes
to your lordship deserves to be engraven in
letters of gold. Pray listen to me.
Don Quixote de la Manclia to Sanclio
Panza, Governor of tlte island of
Barataría,
'^ When I expected, friend Sancho, to
have heard only of thy carelessness and
blunders, I have had accounts of thy vigi-
lance and discretion ; for which I return
particular thanks to heaven, that can raise
up the lowest from their poverty, and con-
vert the fool into a wise man. I am told
that, as a governor, thou art a man, yet, as
a roan, thou art scarcely above the brute
creature — such is the humility of thy de-
meanour. But I would observe to thee,
Sancho, that it is often expedient and
necessary, for the due support of authority,
to act in contradiction to the humility of
the heart. The personal adornments of one
that is raised to a high situation must cor-
respond with his present greatness, and not
with his former lowliness : let thy apparel,
therefore, be good and becoming : for the
hedge -stake, when decorated, no longer
appears what it really is. I do not mean
that thou should'st wear jewels, or finery,
nor, being a judge, would I have thee dress
like a soldier; but adorn thyself in a manner
suitable to thy employment. To gain the
good- will of thy people, two things, among
others, tliou must not fail to observe : one
is to be courteous to all — that, indeed, I
have alrearly told thee ; the other is to take
especial care that the people be exposed to
no scarcity of food ; for, with the poor,
hunger is, of all afflictions, the most insup-
portable. Publish few edicts, but let those
be good, and, above all, see that tliey are
well obserA'ed ; for edicts that are not kept
are the same as not made, and serve only
to shew that tlie prince, though he had
wisdom and autliority to make them, had
not tlie courage to insist upon their execu-
tion. Laws that threaten, and are not
enforced, become like king Log, whose
croaking subjects first feared, tlien despised,
him. Be a father to virtue, and a step-
father to vice. Be not always severe, nor
always mild ; but choose the happy mean
between them, which is the true point of
discretion. Visit the prisons, tiic shambles,
and the markets ; for there the presence of
the governor is highly necessary ; such at-
tention is a comfort to the prisoner ho]iing
for release ; it is a terror to the butchers,
who then dare not make use of false weights ;
and the same effect is produced on all other
dealers. Should'st thou unhappily be se-
cretly inclined to avarice, to gluttony, or
women, which I hope thou art not, avoid
shewing thyself guilty of these vices ; for,
when those who are concerned with thee
discover thy ruling passion, they will assault
thee on that quarter, nor leave thee till
they have effected thy destruction. View
and re-view, consider and re-consider, the
counsels and documents I gave thee in
writing before thy departure hence to thy
government, and in them thou wilt find
a choice supply to sustain thee through the
toils and difiicultics which governors must
continually encounter. Write to thy patrons,
the duke and duchess, and shew thyself
grateful : for ingratitude is the daughter of
430
ADVENTURES OF
pride, and one of the greatest sins; ivbereas
he who is grateful to those that have done
him service, thereby testifies that he will
be grateful also to God, his constant bene-
factor.
^^ My lady duchess has dispatched a mes*
senger to thy wife Teresa with thy hunting
suit, and also a present from herself. We
eirpect an answer every moment. I have
been a little out of order with a certain cat-
clawing which befel me, not much to the
advantage of my nose ; but it was nothing ;
for, if there are enchanters who persecute
me, there are others who defend me. Let
me know if the steward who is with thee
had any hand in the actions of the Trifaldi,
as thou hast suspected ; and give me advice,
from time to time, of all that happens to
thee, since the distance between us is so
short* I think of quitting this idle life very
soon ; for I was not born for luxury and
ease. A circumstance has occurred which
may, I believe, tend to deprive me of the
favour of the duke and duchess ; but, though
it afflicts me much, it affects not my deter-
mination, for I must comply with the duties
of my profession in preference to any other
claim : as it is often said. Amicus Plato, sed
magis amica, Veritas.' I write this in Latin,
being persuaded that thou hast learned that
language since thy promotion. Farewell,
and God hare thee in his keeping: so may est
thou escape the pity of the world.
Thy friend,
"Don Quixotb db la Mancha."
Sancho listened with great attention to
the letter, which was praised for its wisdom
by all who heard it ; and, rising from table,
he took his secretary with him into his pri-
vate chamber, being desirous to send an
immediate answer to his master, and he
ordered him to write, without adding or
diminishing a tittle, what he should dictate
to him. He was obeyed, and the answer
was as follows :
Sancho lianza to Don Quixote de la
Mancha,
"I am so taken up with business that I
have scarcely time either to scratch my head
nor even to pare my nails, and therefore.
God help me I I wear them very long. I
tell your worship this, that you may uot
wonder why I have given yon no acconnt
before of my well or ill being in this go-
vernment, where I suffer more hunger than
when we both wandered about tbrongfa
woods and deserts.
" My lord duke wrote to me the other
day, to tell me of certain spies that were
come into this island to take away my life ;
buty as yet, I have been able to find none,
except a certain doctor, hired by the islanders
to kill their governors. He calls himself
doctor Pedro Rezio, and is a native of Tir-
teafuera $ so your worship may see by his
name that one is in danger of dying under
his hands. This same doctor owns that he
does not cure distempers, but prevents them,
for which he prescribes nothing but fasting
and fasting, till he reduces his patient to
bare bones ; as if a consumption was not
worse than a fever. In short, by this man's
help, I am in a fair way to perish by hun-
ger and vexation ; and, instead of coming
hither, as I expected, to eat hot, and drink
cool, and lay my body at night between
Holland sheets, upon sofl beds of down,
I am come to do penance, like a hermit ;
and this goes so much against mc that, I do
believe, the devil will have me at lasL
"Hitherto, I have neither touched fee
nor bribe ; and how I am to fare hereafter,
I know not, but I have been told that it
was the custom with the governors of this
island, on taking possession, to receive a
good round Fum by way of gift or loan from
the town'$-pL'ople, and furüiermore, that it
is the same in all other governments.
" One night, as I was going the round,
I met a very comely damsel in man's clothes^
and a brother of hers in those of a woman.
My sewer fell in love with the girl, and has
dioughts of making her his wife, and I have
pitched upon the youth for my son-in-law.
To-day we both intend to disclose our uiinds
to their father, who is one Diego de la
Liana, a gentleman, and as good a christian
as one can desire.
<< I visit the markets as your wonhip ad-
vised me, and yesterday I found a huckster
woman pretending to sell new hazel-nuts,
and, finding that she had mixed with them
DON QUIXOTE.
431
^-^^r
such 08 were old and rotten, I condemned
them all to the nee of the hospital-boys, who
well knew how to pick the good from the
bad, and forbid her to appear in the market
again for fifteen days. The people say
I did well in this matter^ for it is a common
opinion in this town that there is not a worse
sort of people than your market-women : for
they are all shameless, hard-hearted, and
impadent , and I verily belieye it is so, by
those I have seen in other places.
<* I am mightily pleased that 'my lady
duchess has written to my wife Teresa Panza,
and sent her the present yonr worship men-
tions ; I hope one time or other to requite
her goodness : pray kiss her honour's hands
in my name, and tell her she has not thrown
her favours into a rent sack, as she will find.
" I should be grieved to hear that you
had any cross-reckonings with my lord and
lady ; for, if your worship quarrels with
them, 'tis I must come to the ground ; and,
since you warn me of all things not to be
ungrateful, it would ill become your worship
to be so towards those who have done you
so many kindnesses, and entertained you so
nobly in their castle.
'* The cat-business I don't understand —
one of the tricks, mayhap, of your worship's
old enemies, the enchanters : but I shall
know more about it when we meet.
*^ I would &in send your worship a token,
but I cannot tell what, unless it be some
little clyster-pipes which they make here
very curiously ; but, if I continue in ofiice,
I ^all get fees and other pickings worth
sending you. If my wife Teresa Panza
writes to me, be so kind as to pay the
postage and send me the letter ; for I have
a mighty desire to know how &res it with
her, and my house, and children. So heaven
protect your worship from evil-minded en-
chanters, and bring me safe and sound out
of this government; which I very much
doubt, seeing how I am treated by doctor
Pedro Rezio.
'* Your worship's servant,
" Sancho Panza, the governor."
* The varioiu abuMi mentioned in thii and the preood-
1115 chapter* respecting ihe monopoly of proviaions, the
insolence and diahoneety of the venden, the idleness and
The secretary scaled the letter, and it was
forthwith dispatched by the courier; and, as
it was now judged expedient to release the
governor irom the troubles of office, mea-
sures for that purpose were concerted by
those who had the management of these
jests. Sancho passed that afternoon in
making divers regulations for the benefit
of his people. Among others, he strictly
prohibited the monopoly and forestalling of
provisions ; wines he allowed to be imported
from all parts, requiring only the merchant
to declare of what growth it was, that a just
price might be set upon it ; and whoever
adulterated it, or gave it a false name, should
be punished with death. He moderated the
prices of all sorts of hose and shoes, espe*
cially the latter, the current price of which
he thought exorbitant. He limited the
wages of servants, which were mounting
fast to an extravagant height. He laid
severe penalties upon all those who should
sing lewd and immoral songs, either by day
or by night ; and prohibited the vagrant
blind from going about singing their mi-
racles in rhyme, unless they could produce
unquestionable evidence of their truth : being
persuaded that such counterfeit talcs brought
discredit upon those which were genuine.
He appointed an overseer of the poor, —
not to persecute them, but to examine their
true claims : for under the disguise of pre-
tended lameness and counterfeit sores arc
often found sturdy thieves and hale drunk-
ards. In short, he made many good and
wholesome ordinances, which are still ob-
served in that town ; and, bearing his name,
are called, '< The regulations of the great
governor Sancho Panza.* "
CHAPTER LII.
IN WHICH 18 RECORDED THE ADVEN-
TURE OF THE SECOND AFFLICTED
MATRON, OTHERWISE CALLED DONNA
RODRIGUEZ.
CiD Hamete relates that Bon Quixote,
extortion of senranta, and the niimeroui tricks of ragraat
impostors, are shewn by Pellicei to be evils reallj existing
at that period, and still the subjects of complaint.
192
ADVENTURES OF
being now properly healed of his wounds,
began to think the life he led in that castle
was against all the rules of his profession,
and therefore he determined to request his
noble host and hostess to grant him their
permission to depart for Saragossa, as the
approaching tournament drew near, wherein
he proposed to win the suit of armour which
was the prize at that festival.
But as he was dining one day with their
highnesses, and preparing to unfold his pur-
pose, lo ! two women, clad in deep mourning,
entered the great hall, and one of them,
advancing towards the table, threw herself
at Don Quixote's feet, which she embraced,
at the same time pouring forth so many
sighs and groans that all present were asto-
nished ; and though the duke and duchess
suspected it to be some jest of their domes-
tics, yet the groans and sobs of the female
appeared so much like real distress that they
were in doubt, until the compassionate Don
Quixote raised her from the ground, and
prevailed with her to remove the veil from
her weepins^ visage, when, to their surprise,
they beheld the duenna Donna Rodriguez,
accompanied by her unfortunate daughter,
who had been deluded by the rich farmer's
son. This discovery was a fresh cause of
amazement, especially to the duke and
duchess, for, though they knew the good
woman's simplicity and folly, they had not
thought her quite so absurd* At length
Donna Rodriguez, turning to her lord and
lady, "May it please your excellences,'^
said she, '^ to permit me to speak with this
gentleman, by whom I hope to be relieved
from a perplexity in which we are involved
by a cruel impudent villain.'' The duke
told her that she had his permission to
say whatever she pleased to Don Quixote.
Whereupon, addressing herself to the knight,
she said, " It is not long, valorous knight,
since I gave you an account how basely and
treacherously a wicked peasant had used my
poor dear child, this unfortunate girl here
present, and you promised me to stand up
in her defence and see her righted ; and now
I understand that yon are about to leave
this castle in search of good adventures, —
which God send you ! — my desire is that,
before you go forth again into the wide
world, you would challenge that gnceies
villain, and force him to wed my daugl^ter,
as he promised before he overcame her maiden
scruples : for to expect justice in this a&ii
from my lord duke would, for the reasons I
mentioned to you, be to look for pean in an
elm tree ; so heaven preserve your worship,
and still be our defence."
<< Worthy madam," replied Don Quixote
with much gravity and stateliness, " mode-
rate your tears— or rather dry them up, and
spare your sighs ; for I take upon me the
charge of seeing your daughter's wrongs
redressed : though it had been better if she
had not been so ready to believe the pro-
mises of lovers, who, for the most part, are
forward to make promises, and very slow to
perform them. However, I will, with my
lord duke's leave, depart immediately in
search of this ungracious youth, and will
challenge and slay him if he refuse to per-
form his contract : for the chief end and
purpose of my profession is, to spare the
humble, and chastise the proud :— I mean,
to succour the wretched, and destroy the
oppressor." ** Sir knight," said the duke,
'^ you need not trouble yourself to seek the
rustic of whom this good duenna complains;
nor need you ask my permission to challenge
him : regard him as already challenged, and
leave it to me to oblige him to answer it,
and meet you in person here in this castle,
within the lists, where all the usual cere-
monies shall be observed, and impartial
justice distributed ; conformable to the prac-
tice of all princes, who grant the lists to
combatants within the bounds of their ter- ,
ritories." "Upon that assurance," said
Don Quixote, "and with your grace's leave, i
I wave on this occasion the punctilios of my |
gentility, and degrade myself to the level
of the offender, that he may be qualified
to meet me in equal combat. Thus then,
although absent, I challenge and defy him,
upon account of the injury he has done in
deceiving this poor girl, who, through his
fault, is no longer a maiden ; and he shall ,
either perform his promise of becoming her i,
lawful husband ordie in the contest" Thcp^- '
upon pulling off his glove, he cast it into the
middle of the hall, and the duke immediately
took it up, declaring, as he had done before.
-^
DON QUIXOTE.
433
that lié accepted the challeDge in the name
of his vassal, and that the combat should
take place six days after, in the inner court
of his castle : the arms to be those customary
among knights -- namely, a lance, shield,
and laced suit of armour, and all the other
pieces, without deceit, fraud, or any super-
stition whatever, to be first viewed and
examined by the judges of the field. ''But
first it will be necessary," he further said,
''that this good duenna here, and this
naughty damsel should commit the justice
of their cause to the hand of their champion
Don Quixote : for otherwise the challenge
would become void and nothing be done."
" I do commit it," answered the duenna.
" And I too," added the daughter, all in
tears, ashamed, and confused.
The day being fixed, and the duke deter-
mined within himself what should be done,
the mourning supplicants retired; at the
same time, the duchess gave orders that they
should not be regarded as domestics, but as
ladies-errant, who came to seek justice in
her castle. A separate apartment was there-
fore allotted to them, and they were served
as strangers, — to the amazement of the rest
of the household, who could not imagine
what was to be the end of all this folly and
presumption on the part of the duenna and
her forsaken daughter.
A choice desert to their entertainment
now succeeded, and, to give it a happy com-
pletion, in came the page who had carried
the letters and presents to governor San-
cho's wife Teresa. The duke and duchess
were much pleased at his return, and eager
to learn the particulars of his journey. He
said in reply to their enquiries, that he could
not give his report so publicly, nor in few
words, and therefore intreatbd their graces
would be pleased to hear it in private, and
in the meantime accept of what amusement
the letters he had brought, might afibrd.
He thereupon delivered his packet, when
one of the letters was found to be addressed
" To my lady duchess, of 1 know not where,"
and the other, '^To my husband Sancho
Panza, governor of the island Barataría,
whom God prosper more years than me."
The duchess's cake was dough, as it is said,
till she had perused her letter, which she
eagerly opened, and, after hastily running
her eye over it, finding nothing that required
secrecy, she read it aloud to the duke and
the rest of the company, and the following
were its contents.
Teresa Panza^s letter to tlie Vudiess,
" My lad}-,
''The letter your greatness sent to me
made me right glad, and, in faith, I longed
for it mightily. The string of corals is very
good, and my husband's hunting-suit comes
not short of it. All the people in our town
talk of your ladyship's goodness in making
my husband a governor, though nobody
believes it: — especially the priest and master
Nicholas the barbee, and the bachelor
Samson Carrasco. But what care I ? for so
long as the thing is so as it is, they may say
what they list ; though, to own the truth,
I should not have believed it myself, but
for the corals and the habit: for in this
village, every body takes my husband for
a dolt, and cannot think what government
he can be good for, but over a herd of goats.
God be his guide, and speed him in what
is best for his children. As for me, dear
honey, sweet madam, I am bent upon making
hay while the sun shines, and hie me to
court, to loll in my coach, though it makes
a thousand, that I could name, stare their
eyes out to see me. So pray bid my hus-
band to send me a little money, — and let it
be enough ; for I reckon it is dear living at
court, where bread sells for sixpence, and
meat for thirty maravedís the pound, which
is a judgment; and if he is not for my going,
let him send me word in time : for my feet
tingle to be on the tramp ; and besides, my
neighbours all tell me that if I and my
daughter go stately and fine at court, my
husband will be better known by me than
I by him ; and to be sure, many will ask,
what ladies are those in that coach? and
will be told by a footman of ours that 'tis
the wife and daughter of Sancho Panza,
governor of the island Barataría: and so
shall my husband be known, and I much
looked upon : — to Rome for every thing !
^' I am sorry as sorry can be, that here
abouts there has been no gathering of acorns
2p
434
ADVBNTITRES OF
this year of any account ; but, for all that, I
send your highness about half a peck, which
I went to the hills for, and with ray own
hands, picked them one by one, and could
find no better — I wish they had been as big
as ostrich eggs.
'< Pray let not your mightiness forget to
write to me and I will take care to answer,
and send you tidings of my health, and all
the news of the village where I now remain,
praying our Lord to preserve your great-
ness, and not to forget me. My daughter
Sanchica and my son kiss your ladyship's
hands.
** She who is more minded to see than to
write to your ladyship,
** Your servant,
''Tbrbsa Panza."
Teresa's letter gave great pleasure to all
who heard it, especially the duke and
duchess, Insomuch that her grace asked
Bon Quixote if he thought her letter to the
governor might with propriety be opened,
as it must needs be admirable : to which he
replied that, to satisfy her highness's curi-
osity, he would open it. Accordingly he did
so, and found it to contain what follows.
Teresa Panzada Letter to her husband
Sancho Panza. '
*^ I received thy letter, dear husband of
my soul, and I vow and swear to thee, as
I am a catholic christian, that I was within
two fingers' breadth of running mad with
joy. Yes, indeed, when I came to hear
that thou wast a governor, methought I
should have dropped down dead for mere
gladness ; for 'tis said, thou know'st, that
sudden joy kills as soon as great sorrow.
And as for our daughter Sanchica, verily
she could not contain her water, for pure
pleasure. There I had before my eyes thy
suit, and the corals sent by my lady duchess
about my neck, and the letters in my
hands, and the young man that brought
them standing by, yet for all that I thought
it could be nothing but a dream : for who
could think that a goatherd should ever
come to be a governor of islands ! My
^á)r
mother used to say that ^ he who would see
much must live long.' I say this became,
if I live longer, I hope to see more : — no,
faith, I shall not rest till I see thee a tax-
farmer, or a collector of the customs : for,
though they be offices that send many to
the devil, there is much money to be touched
and turned. My lady duchess will tell thee
how I have a huge longing to go to court —
think of it, and let me know thy mind:
for I would fain do thee credit there by
riding in a coach.
*' Neither the priest, the barber, the
bachelor, nor even the sexton, can yet
believe thou art a governor, and will have
it that it is all a cheat, or a matter of en-
chantment, like the rest of thy master Don
Quixote's afiairs ; and Samson says he will
find thee out, and drive this gOYenunent
out of thy pate, and scour thy master's
brains. But I only laugh at them, and
look upon my string of corals, and think
how to make thy suit of green into a habit .
for our daughter. I sent my lady dnchess
a parcel of acorns : — I wish they had been
of gold. Pr'ythee send me some strings of
pearl, if they are in fashion in that same
island. The news of our town is that Ber-
rueca has married her daughter to a sorry
painter, who came here and undertook any
sort of work. The corporation employed
him to paint the king's arms over the gate
of the town -house. He asked them two
ducats for the job, which they paid before-
hand ; so he fell to it, and worked eight
days, at the end of which he had made
nothing of it, and said he could not bring
his hand to punt such trumpery, and re-
turned the money; yet, for all that, he
married with the name of a good workman.
The truth is fie has left his brushes^ and
taken up the spade, and goes to the field
like a gentieman. Pedro de Lobo's son has
taken orders, and shaven his crown, meaning
to be a priest. Minguilla, Mingo Silvato's
niece, hearing of it, is saeing him upon
a promise of marriage: — evil tongues do
not stick to say she is with child by him ;
but he denies it stiffly. We have had no
olives this year, nor is there a drop of
vinegar to be had in all the town. A
company of foot-soldiere passed through
;i
DON QUIXOTE.
435
here, and carried off with them three girls
I will not say who they are ; mayhap they
will return, and somebody or other marry
them with all their faults. Sanchica makes
bone «lace, and gets eight maravedis a-day,
which she drops into a savings- box, to help
her towards household stuff; but now that
she is a goyernor's daughter she has no
need to work, for thou wilt give her a
portion without it. The fountain in our
market* place is dried up. A thunderbolt
fell upon the pillory, and there may they
all light ! I expect an answer to this, and
about my going to court. And so God
grant thee mora years than myself, or as
many: for I would not willingly leave
thee behind me.
«Thy wife,
" Terbsa Panza.''
The letters caused much merriment, ap-
plause, and admiration; and, to complete
all, the courier now arrived, who brought
the letter sent by Sancho to his master,
which was also read aloud, and occasioned
the governor's folly to be much questioned.
The duchess retired, to hear from the page
the particulars of his journey to Sancho's
village, all of which he related very mi-
nutely, without omitting a single circum-
stance. He delivered the acorns; also a
cheese, which Teresa presented as an excel-
lent one, and better than those of Tronchon.
These the duchess received with great satis-
faction ; and here we will leave them, to
j record how the government ended of the
great Sancho Panza, the flower and mirror
of all island-governors.
CHAPTER LIII.
OF THE TOIi;SOME END AND CONCLUSION
OF 8ANC^0 FANZA'S GOVERNMENT.
Jt is vain to expect uniformity in the affairs
of this life ; the whole seems rather to be
in a course of perpetual change. The
seasons from year to year run in their
appointed circle: sprmg is succeeded by
iummer, summer by autumn, and autumn
by wmxer, which is again followed by the
. season of renovation ; and thus they per-
form their everlasting round. But roan's
mortal career has no such renewal : from
infancy .to age it hastens onward to its
end, and to the beginning of that state
which has neither change nor termination.
Such are the reflections of Cid Hamete,
the Mahometan philosopher : for many, by
a natural sense, without the light of faith,
have discovered the changeful uncertainty
of our present condition, and the eternal
duration of that which is to come. In this
place, however, our author alludes only to
the instability of Sancho's fortune, aud the
brief duration of his government, which so
suddenly expired, dissolved, and vanished
like a dream.
The governor, being in bed on the seventh
night of his administration, not sated with
bread nor wine^ but with sitting in judg-
ment, deciding causes, and making statutes
and proclamations ; and just at the moment
when sleep, in despite of hunger, was closing
his eyelids, he heard such a noise of bells
and of voices that he verily thought the
whole island had been sinking. He started
up in his bed, and listened with great at-
tention, to find out, if possible, the cause
of so alarming an uproar ; but, far from
discovering it, his confusion and terror were
only augmented by the din of an infinite
number of trumpets and drums being added
to the former noises. Quitting his bed, he
put on his slippers, on account of the damp
floor; but, without night-gown, or other
apparel, he opened his chamber door, and
saw more than twenty persons coming along
a gallery with lighted torches in their
hands, and their swords drawn, all crying
aloud, ''Arm, arm, my lord governor, arm !
— a world of enemies are got into the
island, and we are undone for ever, if your
conduct and valour do not save us." Thus
advancing with noise and disorder, they
came up to where Sancho stood, astonished
and stupified with what he heard and saw.
" Arm yourself quickly, my lord," said one
of them, "unless you would be ruined,
and the whole island with you." " What
have I to do with arming," replied Sancho,
" who know nothing of arms or fighting ?
=4
t^r=
436
ADVENTURES OF
It were better to leave these matters to my
master Don Quixote, who will dispatch
them and secure us in a trice : for, as I am
a sinner to God, I understand nothing at
all of these hurly-burlies/' ** How ! sigfior
governor?" said another; "what faint-
heartedness is this ! Here we bring you
arms and weapons — harness yourself, my
lord, and come forth to the market-place,
and be our leader and our captain, which, as
governor, you ought to be." ** Why then
arm me, in God's name," replied Sancho :
and instantly they brought two large old
targets, which they had provided for the
occasion, and, without allowing him to put
on other garments, clapped them over his
shirt, the one before, and the other behind.
They thrust his arms through holes they
had made in them, and bound them so fast
together with cords that the poor com-
mander remained cased and boarded up as
stiff and straight as a spindle, without power
to bend his knees, or stir a single step.
They then put a lance into his hand, upon
which he leaned to keep himself up; and,
thus accoutred, they desired him to lead on
and animate his people ; for, he being their
north-pole, their lanthorn, and their morn-
ing-star, their affairs could not fail to have
a prosperous issue. " How should I march
— wretch that I am !" said the governor,
" when I cannot stir a joint between these
boards, that press into my flesh? Your
only way is to carry me in your arms, and
lay me athwart, or set me upright, at some
gate, which I will maintain either with
my lance or my body." *'Fie, aigñor
governor !" said another, *'it is more fear,
than the targets, that hinders your march-
ing. Hasten and exert yourself, for time
advances, the enemy pours in upon us, and
every moment increases our danger."
The unfortunate governor, thus urged
and upbraided, made efforts to move, and
down he fell with such violence that he
thought every bone had been broken, and
there he lay, like a tortoise in his shell, or
like a flitch of bacon packed between two
boards, or like a boat on the sands, keel
upwards. Though they saw his disaster,
those jesting rogues felt no compassion ; on
the contrary, putting out their torches, they
renewed the alarm, and, with terrible iioise
and precipitation, trampling over his body,
and bestowing numerous blows upon the
targets, insomuch that, if he had not con-
trived to shelter his head between the
bucklers, it had gone hard with the poor
governor, who, pent up within his nanrow
lodging, and sweating -with fear, prayed,
from the bottom of his heart, for deliverance
from that horrible situation. Some kicked
him, others stumbled, and fell over faim,
and one among them jumped upon bis
body, and there stood as on a watch-tower,
issuing his orders to the troops. "There
boys, there ! that way the enemy charges
thickest ; defend that breach ; secure yon
gate; down with those scaling-ladders;
this way with your kettles of melted pitch,
resin, and flaming oil; quick, fly! — get
wool-packs and barricado the streets 1" In
short he called for all the instruments of
death, and every thing employed in the
defence of a city besieged and stormed.
All this while Sancho, pressed and battered,
lay and heard what was passing, and often
said to himself, ** Oh that it would please
the Lord that this island were but taken,
and I could see myself either dead or de-
livered out of this devil's den !" Heaven
at last heard his prayers, and, when least
expecting it, he was cheered with shouts
of triumphs. " Victory 1 victory !" they
cried, <' the enemy is routed ! Rise, sigñor
governor, enjoy the conquest, and divide
the spoils taken from the foe by the valour
of that invincible arm !" ** Raise me up,"
quoth Sancho, in a woeful tone ; and when
they had placed him upon his legs, he said,
" All the enemies I have routed may be
nailed to my forehead. — I will divide no
spoils ; but I beg and entreat some friend,
if I have any, to give me a draught of
wine to keep me from choaking with thirst,
and help me to dry up this sweat ; for I
am almost turned into water." They untied
the targets, wiped him, and brought him
wine ; and, when seated upon his bod, such
had been his fatigue, agony, and tenor,
that he fainted away. Those oonoemed in
the joke were now «orry they had laid it
on so heavily ; but were consoled on seeing
him recover. He asked them what time it
<»
r [N-AJUI
p. 437.
DON QUIXOTE.
437
wasy and they told him it was daybreak.
He said no more, but proceeded, in silence,
to put on his clothes ; while the rest looked
on, carious to know what were his in-
tentions.
• At length, having put on his clothes,
which he did slowly, and with much diffi-
culty, from his bruises, he bent his way to
the stable, followed by all present, and
going straight to Dapple, he embraced him,
and gave him a kiss of peace on his fore-
head. '' Come hither," said be, with tears
in his eyes, '' my friend, and the partner
of my &tigues and miseries. When I con-
sorted with thee, and had no other care
but mending thy furniture, and feeding that
little carcase of thine, happy were my hours,
my days, and my years : but, since I forsook
thee, and mounted the towers of ambition
and pride, a thousand toils, a thousand tor-
ments, and four thousand tribulations, have
seized and worried my soul." While he
thus spoke he fixed the pannel upon his
ass, without interruption from any body,
and, when he had done, with great diffi-
culty and pain he got upon him, and said
to tiie steward, the secretary, the doctor,
Pedro Rezio, and many others who were
present, ^'Make way, gentlemen, make
way, and let me return to my ancient
liberty; let me seek the life I have left,
that I may rise again from this grave. I
was not bom to be a governor, nor to de-
fend islands nor cities from enemies that
break in upon them. I understand better
how to plough and dig, to plant and prune
vines, than to make laws, and take care of
provinces or kingdoms. Saint Peter is well
at Rome : — I mean to say that nothing
becomes a man so well as ihe employment
he was bom for. In my hand a sickle is
better than a sceptre. I had rather have
my belly full of my own poor porridge, than
be mocked with dainties by an officious
doctor, who would kill me with hunger;
I had rather lay under the shade pf an oak
in summer, and wrap myself in a jerkin of
double sheep -skin in winter, at my liberty,
than lay me down, under the slavery of a
government, between Holland sheets, and
be robed in fine sables. God be with you,
gentlefolks ; tell my lord duke that naked
was I bora, and naked I am ; I neither win
nor lose ; for without a penny came I to
this government, and without a penny do
I leave it — all governors cannot say the
like. Make way, gentlemen, I beseech
you, that I may go and plaister myself,
for I verily believe all my ribs are broken
— ^thanks to the enemies who have been
trampling over me all night long."
'< It must not be so, sigfior governor,"
sud the doctor, f ^ for I will give your lord-
ship a balsamic draught, good against all
kinds of bruises, that shall presenüy restore
you to your former health and vigour ; and
as to your food, my lord, I promise to amend
that, and let you eat abundantly of what-
ever you desire." "Your promises come
too late, Mr. Doctor," quoth Sancho ; " I
will as soon tum Turk as remain here.
These tricks are not to be played twice —
'Fore God, I will no more hold this, nor
any other government, though it were
served up to me in a covered dish, than I
will fly to heaven without wings. I am of
the race of the Panzas, who are made of
stubborn stuff; and if they once cry. Odds !
— odds, it shall be, come of it what will.
Here will I leave the pismire's wings that
raised me aloft to be pecked at by martlets
and other small birds ; and be content to
walk upon plain ground, with a plain foot :
for, though it be not adon»^ with pinked
Cordovan shoes, it will not want for hempen
sandals. Every sheep with its like ; stretch
not your feet beyond your sheet ; — so let me
be gone, for it grows late." " Sigfior go-
vernor," said the steward, " we would not
presume to hinder your departure, although
we are grieved to lose you, because of yD'ur
wise and christian conduct : but your lord-
ship knows that every governor before he
lays down his authority is bound to render
an account of his administration . Be pleased,
my lord, to do so for the time which you
have been among us ; then, peace be with
you." " Nobody can require that of me,"
replied Sancho, " but my lord duke ; to him
I go, and to him I shall give a fair and
square account: though, in going away
naked, as I do, there needs nothing more to
shew that I have governed like an angel."
" Before God," said doctor Pedro Rezio,
=^^
438
ADVENTURES OF
^' the great Sancho is in the right, and I am
of opinion we should let him go : for with-
out doubt, his highness will be glad to see
him/' They all agreed, therefore, that he
should be allowed to depart, and also offered
to attend him, and provide him with what-
ever was necessary, or convenient, for his
journey. Sancho told them he wanted
only a little barley for Dapple, and half a
cheese and half a loaf for himself; that
having so short a distance to trayel, nothing
more would be needful. Hereupon, they
all embraced hira, which kindness he re-
turned with tears in his eyes, and he left
them, in admiration both of his good sense
and unalterable firmness.
CHAPTER LIV.
WHICH TREATS OF MATTERS RELATING
TO THIS PARTICULAR HISTORY, AND
TO NO OTHER.
The duke and duchess resolved that Don
Quixote's challenge of their vassal should
not be neglected ; and, though the young
man had fled into Flanders to avoid having
Donna Rodriguez for his mother-in-law,
they made choice of a Gascon lacquey named
Tosilos, to supply his place, and for that
purpose, gave him instructions how to per-
form his part ; and the duke informed Don
Quixote tliat his opponent would, in four
days, present himself in the lists, armed as
a knight, and prepared to maintain that
the damsel lyed by half his beard, and even
by the whole beard, in saying that he had
given her a promise of marriage. The infor-
mation was highly delightful to Don Quixote,
who flattered himself that the occasion would
afford him an opportunity of performing
wonders, and thought himself singularly
fortunate that he should be able in the pre-
sence of such noble spectators to give proofs
of the valour of his heart and the strength
of his arm ; and, so with infinite content,
he waited the four days, which his eager
impatience made him think were so many
ages.
Now letting them pass, as we have done
many other matters, we will turn to our
friend Sancho, who, partly glad and partly
sorrowful, was hastening as fast as his Dap-
ple would carry him, to his master, whose
society he loved better than being govemof
of all the islands in the world. He had not,
however, proceeded far from this island,
city, or town (for which of these it was, he
had never given himself the trouble to de-
termine), when he saw on the high road,
six pilgrims with their staves, being foreign-
ers of that class who are wont to sing their
supplications for alms. As they drew near,
they placed themselves in order, and began
their song in the language of their country ;
but Sancho understood nothing except the
word signifying alms: whence he condnded
that alms was the object of their chaunting;
and he being, as Cid Hamete says, extreraelj ,,
charitable, he took the half loaf and half !
cheese out of his wallet and gave it them, '
making signs, at the same time, that he had |
nothing else to give.
They received his donation eagerly, saying,
*' Guelte, guelte."* " I do not understand
you,*' answered Sancho; " what is it .
you would have, good people ?'* One of ,1
them then drew out of his bosom a purse,
and, showing it to Sancho, intimated that
it was money they wanted, upon whicl)
Sancho placing his thumb to hb throat,
and extending his hand upward gave them
to understand he had not a penny in the
world. Then, clapping heels to Dapple, he
made way through them ; but, as he pasmd
by, one of them, looking at him with pai^
ticular attention, caught hold of hira, and
throwing his arms about his waist, " God
be my aid!" said he, in good Castilian,
" what is it I see ? Is it possible I hold in
my arms my dear friend and good neigh-
bour Sancho Panza ? Yes, truly, it must ,
be so, for I am neither drunk nor sleeping/'
Sancho, much surprised to bear himself
called by his name, and to be eoiibraced hy ■
the stranger pilgrim, stared at him for some .
time, without speaking a word, but thoogh
he viewed him earnestly, he could not recol-
lect him. " How !" said the pilgrim, ob-
serving his amazement, ''have you forgotten
your neighbour Ricote, the Morisco shop-
keeper of your town ?" Sancho at length,
afler a fresh examination, recognised the
* A Dutch word, •tgnifying *' numej.*'
DON QUIXOTE.
480
face of an old acquaintance, and, without
alighting from his beast, he embraced him,
and said, << Who in the deviPs name, Ricote,
should know you in this covering? Tell
me, how you came to be thus Frenchified,
and how yon dare venture to come again
into Spain, where, if you are found out,
egad, tiiat coat of yours will not save you?"
*' If you do not discover me, Sancho,"
answered the pilgrim, ^^ I am safe enough ;
for in this habit nobody can know me. Bat
go with us to yonder poplar grove, where
my comrades mean to dine and rest them-
selves, and yon shall eat with us. They are
honest souls, I can assure you; there 1 shall
have an opportunity to tell you what has
be&llea me since I was obliged to leave the
town by the king's edict, which, as you
know, caused so much misery to our people."
Sancho consented, and after Ricote had
conferred with his comrades, they all retired
together to the poplar grove, which was far
enough out of the high road. There they
flung down their staves, and putting ofiP
their pilgrims* attire, every man appeared
in his doublet, excepling Ricote, who was
somewhat in years. They were aU good-
looking young fellows ; each had his wallet,
which, as it soon appeared, was well stored,
at least with relishing incentives to thirst,
and such as provoke it at two leagues' dis-
tance. They laid themselves along on the
ground, and, making the grass their table-
cloth, there was presently a comfortable
display of bread, salt, nuts and cheese, with
some bacon -bones, which, though they
would not bear picking, were to be sucked
with advantage. Caviare too, was produced,
a kind of black eatable, made of the roes of
flsh :— a notable awakener of thirst ; even
olives were not wanting, and, though some-
what dry, they were savoury and in good
keeping. But the glory of the feast was
six bottles of wine : each wallet being
charged with one, — even honest Ricote,
who from a Moor, had become a German,
or Hollander, and, like the rest, drew forth
his bottle, which in size might vie with the
* When the Bfoors were in possession of Spain, they
allowed the Christiana to remain in the eonntry, with the
free ezerciae of their holy religion, but subject to certain
Other five. They liow began their feast,
dwelling upon each morsel with great relish
and satisfSftction, and as if they were deter^
mined to make the most of them; then
pausing, they altogether raised their arms
and bottles aloft into the air, mouth to
mouth, and with eyes fixed upwards, as if
taking aim at the heavens; and, in this
posture, waving their heads from side to
side, in token of the pleasure they received,
they continued a long time transfusing the
precious fluid into their stomachs. Sancho
beheld all this and was nothing grieved
thereat ; but rather, in compliance with a
proverb he well knew, ' When at Rome, do
as Rome does;' he asked Ricote for his
bottle, and took his aim as the others had
done, and with equal delight. Four times
the bottles were tilted with effect, but the
fifth was to no purpose, for alas! they were
now all empty, and as dry as a rush, which
struck a damp on the spirits of the party.
Nevertheless, one or other of them would
ever and anon take Sancho by the hand,
saying, *' Spaniard and Dutchman, all one,
goot companion." '*Wcll said, i'faith!"
replied Sancho, " goot companion, I vow
to gad !" — then burst into a fit of laughing,
which held him an hour, losing at the time,
all recollection of the events of his govern-
ment:— for care has no control over the
time that is spent in eating and drinking.
In short, the finishing of the wine was the
beginning of a sound sleep, which seized
them all, upon their very board and table-
cloth,— ^Ricote and Sancho excepted : — they
having drunk less and eaten more, remained
awake, and, leaving their companions in
a deep sleep, went a little aside and sat
down under the shade of a beech tree,
where Ricote, in pure Castilian, without
once stumbling into his Morisco jai^on,
spoke as follows:
''You well know, friend Sancho, the
dread and terror which his Majesty's pro-
clamation every where produced among our
people;* at least it had that effect upon me,
and to such a degree that I almost imagined
imposta. On the reatoration of the Christian power, the
Moora were likewise suffsred to reside in aeparate quar-
tera, paying tribute, aa well aa the Jewa, to our king and
©=
=^5
440
ADVENTURES OF
its dreadful penalty had already &llen upon
my own &mily before the time limited for
our departure from Spain. I endeavoured,
liowc^'er, to provide for our safety, as the
prudent man does who, expecting to be
deprived of his habitation, looks out for
another before^ he is turned out of doors.
I quitted the town alone, in search of some
place where I might conveniently remove
my family, without that hurry and confusion
which generally prevailed : for the wisest
among us clearly saw that the proclama-
tions of his majesty were no empty threats,
but would certainly be carried into effect
at the time which had been fixed. In this
belief I was the more confirmed from
knowing the dangerous designs of our
people, so that I could not but think that
the king was inspired by heaven to adopt
so wise a measure. Not that we were all
^=
nobiM, In the year 1525, Charles the Fifth ordered, on
pain of death, all the Moor* in Spain, either to embrace
the Christian faith or leave the country. Nombers were
thue banished, but many remained and received baptism,
though not all with eqoal sincerity. Heir language, their
national danees, eonga, fetes, and nuptial ceremonies were
all prohibited. (Carta original del Cardenal Silicio a
Carlo V. Biblioteca real. est. cc. cod. 58, fol. 3.) These
descendants of the conquerers of Spain were called
Moriscas, or the new prosylites, to distinguish them from
the old Christians. They inhabited separate divisions
of the towns; but in some they formed flie whole
population, with the exception of the parish priest
and the midwife or godmother, who not only served at
the baptismal font, but «s a familiar to the Ifoly In-
quisition, «ratching over the Christian conduct of the
inhabiUnts. (Aznar. Expulsion of the Moriscos, part II.
fol. 62,€.)
They were r rud«, uncivilised people, barbarous in
their language, and peculiar in their dress, which gene-
rally consisted of coarse linen drawers, doublet or jerkin,
and a red cap. They were employed in agriculture and
trade, and many were carriers and venders of oil and
vinegar. « It is rare," says Cervantes in his " Coloquio
da los Perros," Dialogue between the Dogs, *' to find a
genuine christian among them, their only object is to get
money, for which purpose they work incessantly, and
scarcely allow themselves food. As soon as they get a real
into their power, they condemn it to perpetual imprison*
ment : thus, ever gaining and never spending, they amass
the greatest part of the money in Spain :— they are the
money-bag, the moths, the magpies, the weasels of the
country— they heap up, they hide, they devour all. They
live together without religion or morality ¡ they are not
exposed to hard labour or the dangers of war, but plun-
der us quite at their ease, and grow rich by retailing to us
the fruitt of our own inheritance ; they keep no servants,
being all slaves to themselves ; nor does the education
it iheir children cost them any thing, because their only
science is that of plunder.
These Moriscos were detected in a conspiracy with
the Grand Siguor and some of the chiefs of Barbary ;
ambassadors had been dispatched, private meetings held,
subscriptions levied among each other, to enable them
to carry the plot into execution ; and over the whole of
culpable ; some of us were steady and true
christians, but their number was so small
as to bear no proportion to those who were
otherwise. In short the country could no
longer shelter the serpent in its bosom, and
our expulsion was just and necessary : a
punishment which, though some might treat
lightly, to us is the most terrible that can
be inflicted. In whatever part of the world
we are driven, our afiections are centred
here ; this alone is our country ; here only
we find the compassion which our misery
and misfortunes demand : for in Barbary,
and other parts of Africa, where we ex-
pected to be received and cherished, it is
there we are most n^lected and maltreated.
We knew not our happiness till we lost it;
and so great is the desire that we feel to
return to Spain that most of those who,
like myself, can speak tlie language, and
Spain rulers were appointed, who already received the
homage due to their sovereignty. On the diacoToy of
this plot, various councils of Prelates and Miniiten
were held, in which opinions were divided as to the
question of expulsion ; a measure which, as the oalj
security for religion and the country, was, in die end,
wisely adopted. Edicts were issued for general banish-
ment, with the exception only of children under eight
years of age t ordering likewise that the property tbsj
were allowed to carry away with them, consisting of their
goods and chatties, or the money they might deriTe
from the sale of them, should be all registered at the
ports. On pain of death, no treasures were to be coo<
ccaled, no Morisco harboured, nor suffered to retom
to Spain ; which orders were, nevertheless, occasionaUy
transgressed.
By this memorable expulsion, Spain was delivered from
the serpent, which, as Cervantes says, had been nou-
rished in its bosom ; but the country suffered not only
from its diminished population and resources of industry,
but irom the consequent enrichment and population of
many of the cities of Barbary, such as Algien, Tripoli,
and Tunis ; the pirates of which, instructed by the
Moriscos, who were so well acquainted with the shores
of Spain, were enabled afterwards to make many more
captures. Fr. Pedro de St. Cecilio, in his ** Anales de
lo PP. Mercenarios Descalsos, P. 11, page 643," re-
marking on the decay of Ai^amasilla, aays that, from
a rich flourishing town, it had lost more than one-half
of its population ; that it had languished ever since the
expulsion of the Moriscos, who were a diligent, laborious,
and inoffensive people, and who by their example ani-
mated the old Christians to labour and to cultivate their
lands ; thence riches flowed upon all from a legitimate
source. When the Moriscos were gone, the othert
relaxed in their labours, and consequently were gradnallj
reduced to penury.
The number of Moriscos expelled upon this oeeasioB
amounted to six hundred thousand $ that of the Jeira,
under the catholic kings, was calculated at four humlred
thousand. By these two edicts (so advant^eous to our
holy faith, though highly prejudicial to the commerte,
industry, and population of the country) it was dedsred,
by the learned Jew Pineda, that Spain had been traci-
fonned from Arabia Felix to Arabia Deserta.— i>.
=5
DON QUIXOTE.
441
they are cot a few, forsake even their wives
and children to revisit the country they
love so much. Now it is we feel the truth
of the saying, * Sweet is our native land V
^'^fter quitting our village, I made the
best of my way to France ; but there,
though I was well received, my stay was
short, as I wished to examine other coun-
tries. From France, therefore, I went to
Italy, and thence to Germany, where I
thought we might live without restraint:
the inhabitants being not over scrupulous,
and, almost in every part of the country,
enjoy liberty of conscience. There I en-
gaged a house situated in a village near
Augsburgh, and soon after joined these ad-
venturers in an excursion to Spain, whither
great numbers come every year to visit the
usual resorts of devotees : regarding it as
their Indies^ to which they are certain of
making a profitable voyage. They traverse
the whole kingdom, and there is not a
village where they are not certain to get
meat and drink, and at least a real in
money: generally managing matters so
well as to amass above a hundred crowns
clear gain, which they change into gold,
and hide either in the hollow of their staves,
the patches of tlieir garments, or some other
private way ; and thus, in spite of the nu-
merous searchers and other officers, convey
it safely into their own country,
" My object, however, in coming hither,
is not to collect alms, but, if possible, to
carry off the treasure I lefl behind when I
went away, which, being buried in a place
without the town, I can do with little
danger. That being done, I intend to write
or go to my wife and daughter, who, I
know, are in Algiers, and contrive means
for their reaching some port of France,
and thence carry them into Germany,
where we will wait, and see how Provi-
dence will dispose of us. Francisca, my
wife, I know is a good Catholic Christian,
and also my daughter Ricota ; and, though
I am not entirely so, yet I am more of the
Christian than the Mahometan, and make
it my constant prayer to the Almighty to
open the eyes of my understanding, and
make me know how best to serve him.
But what surprises me much is that my
wife and daughter should havi» preferred
going to Barbary, rather than France,
where they might have lived as Christians.''
'* Mayhap, neighbour,"' said Sancho,
«that was not their choice, for John
Tiopeyo, your wife's brother, who carried
them away, being a rank Moor, would
certainly go where be liked best to stay ;
and I can tell you another thing, which
is, that it may be lost labour now to seek
for your hidden treasure, for the report was
that a power of jewels and money had been
taken from your wife and brother-in-law,
which they were carrying off without being
registered." " That may be," replied Ri-
cote ; « but I am sure, Sancho, they did
not touch my hoard: for, being afraid of
some mischance, I never told them where
I had hidden it ; and therefore, if you will
go with me, and help me to carry it off,
and conceal it, I will give you two hundred
crowns, with which you may relieve your
wants; for I know, friend, that they are
not a few." "I would do it," answered
Sancho, ''but that I am not at all covetous.
Had it been so with me, it was but this
morning I quitted an employment out of
which I could have covered the walls of
my house with beaten gold, and, in six
months, have eaten my victuals out of
silver plates. And so, for that reason, and
because, to my thinking, it would be treason
against the king to favour bis enemies, I
will not go with you, though, instead of
t^vo hundred crowns, you should lay me
down twice as much." " And pray what
employment is it you have quitted, Sancho?"
demanded Ricote. '' I have been governor
of an island," answered Sancho, ''and such
a one, in fUith, as yon would not easily
match." " Where might this island be?"
said Ricote. "Where!" replied Sancho;
"why about two leagues off, and it is called
Barataria." " Prythee, not so fast, friend
Sancho," quoth Ricote; "islands are in
the sea : there can be no islands here on
land." " No, say you !" quoth Sancho, —
" I tell you, neighbour, it was but this
very morning that I left it ; yesterday I
was there, governing at my pleasure, like
any dragon: — yet, for all that I turned
my back upon it, for that same office of
"ff^
<g=
442
ADVENTURES OF
governor, as I take it, is a ticklish and
dangerons thing." <' And what have yon
got by your governorship?" demanded
Ricote. "I have got," replied Sancho,
" experience enoagh to know that I am fit
to govern nothing but a herd of cattle, and
that the riches to be gained in such govern-
ments must be paid for in hard labour, and
toil, and watching, aye, and hunger too ; for
your island governors eat next to nothing,
especially if they have physicians to look
after their health." *' The meaning of all
this," said Ricote, '* I cannot comprehend ;
but it seems to me you talk wildly, for
who should give you islands to govern?
Are wise men now so scarce that they must
needs make you a governor? — Say no more,
man, but come along with me, as I said
before, and help me to dig up my treasure ;
for, in truth, I may give it that name, and
you shall have wherewithal to banish care."
^' Hark you, friend," said Sancho, ^'I have
already told you my mind upon that point ;
be satisfied that I will not betray you, and
so in God's name go your way, and let me
go mine : for I have heard that ' Well -got
wealth may meet disaster, but ill-got wealth
destroys its master.'"
«WeU, Sancho," said Ricote, "I will
not press you farther; but tell me, were
you in the village when my wife and
daughter, and my brother-in-law, went
away ?" " Truly I was," replied Sancho ;
*' and I can tell you too that your daughter
looked so comely that all the town went
out to see her, and every body said that
there was none to be compared with her.
Poor damsel ! she wept bitterly on leaving
us, and embraced all her friends and ac-
quaintances, and all that came to see her,
and desired them to recommend her to God
and to our Lady his mother ; and so pite-
ously that even I could not help shedding
tears, though not much of a weeper ; — in
faith, many thought of stopping her on the
road, and carrying her off, but the king's
proclamation kept them in awe. Don
Pedro Gregorio, the rich heir, was more
moved than all, for they say he was mightily
in love with her; and, since she went away,
he has never been seen in our town, so that
we all thought he followed to steal her
away ; but as yet we have heard notlung
more of the matter." " I long had a sus-
picion," quoth Ricote, ''that this gentleman
was smitten with my daughter ; but, trosting
to her virtue, it gave me no uneasiness:
for you must have heard, Sancho, that the
Moorish women seldom or ever hold amoroos
intercourse with old Christians ; and my
daughter, who, as I believe, minded re-
ligion more than love, thought but little
of his courtship." " God grant it," replied
Sancho, "for, otherwise, it would go ill
with them both ; and now let roe be gone,
friend, for to-night I intend to join my
master Don Quixote." "God be with you,
brother Sancho," said Ricote ; " my com-
rades are stirring, and it is time for us also
to be on our way." They then embraced
each other; Sancho mounted his Dapple,
and Ricote leaned on his pilgrim's staff,
and so they parted.
I
CHAPTER LV.
OF WHAT BEFEL SANCHO ON HIS WAY ;
AND OTHER MATTERS, THAN WHICH i
NOTHING CAN BB BETTER.
I
It was so late before Sancho parted with
his friend Ricote that he could not reach
the duke's castle that day, although he was
within half- a -league of it, when night,
somewhat darker than usual, overtook him:
but, as it was summer time, this gave hira
little concern, and therefore he turned out
of the road, intending to proceed no further
till the morning. But, in seeking a con-
venient shelter for the night, his ill-luck so
ordered it that he and Dapple fell together
into a cavity, among the ruins of an old
building. The hole wr<; deep, and Sancho,
in the course of his descent, devoutly re-
commended himself to God, not expecting
to stop till he came to the utmost depth of
the abyss ; but therein he was mistaken,
for he had not much exceeded three fathoms
before Dapple felt ground, with Sancho
still upon his back without having received
the smallest damage. He forthwith ex- i
amined the condition of his body, held his !,
breath, and felt all about him, and, finding
himself whole, and in catholic health, be
rc5):
BON QUIXOTE.
44$
thonght he couM never be sufficiently
grateful to heaven for his wonderful pre*-
servation ; for he veril j believed he had
been dashed into a thousand pieces. He
then groped about the pit, in the hope of
discovering some means of getting out, but
found that the sides were perpendicular,
smooth, and without either hold or footing,
which grieved him much, especially when
he heard Dapple groan most piteously : nor
did he lament without good cause, for in
truth he was in a bad plight. ** Woe is
me!" exclaimed Sancho, <^what sudden
and unlooked-for mischances perpetually
befal us poor ^-retches who live in this
miserable world I Who could have thought
that he, who, but yesterday, saw himself on
a throne, a governor of an island, with offi-
cers and servants at his call, should, to-day,
find himself buried in a pit, alone, helpless,
and cut off from all relief 7 Here must I
and my ass perish with hunger, unless we
die first, he, with bruises, and I with grief:
for I cannot reckon upon my master's luck
in the cave of Montesinos, where, it seems
he met with better entertainment than in
ills own house, and where he found the
cloth ready laid, and the bed ready made.
There he saw beautiful and pleasant visions,
and here, if I see anything, it will be toads
and snakes. Unfortunate that I am 1 what
are my follies and my ftincies come to?
Whenever it shall please God that I shall
be found, here will my bones be taken up,
clean, white, and bare, and those of my
trusty Dapple with them ; by which, per-
adventnre^ it will be guessed who we are—
at least by those who know that Sancho
Panza never left his ass, nor did his ass
ever leave Sancho Panza. Wretches that
we are ! not to have the comfort of dying
among our friends, where at least there
would be some to grieve for us, and, at our
last gasp, to close our eyes. O my dear
companion and friend ! how ill have I re-
quited thy faithful services! forgive me,
and pray to fortune, in the best manner
thou canst, to bring us out of this miserable
pickle; and I here promise thee, besides
doubling thy allowance of provender, to set
a crown of laurel upon thy head, that thou
mav'st look like any poet-laureat."
Thus did Sancho Panza bewail his mis*
fortune, and though his ass listened to all
he said, yet not a word did he answer:
such was the poor beast's anguish and dis->
tress I At length after having passed all that
night in sad complaints and bitter waitings,
day-light began to appear, whereby Sancho
was soon confirmed in what he so much
feared — that it was utterly imposible to
escape from that dungeon without help.
He therefore had recourse to his voice, and
set up a vigorous outcry in the hopes of
making somebody hear him ; but alas I it
was all in vain, for not a human creature
was within hearing, and after many trials
he gave himself up as dead and buried.
Seeing that his dear Dapple was yet lying
upon his back, with his mouth upwards, he
endeavoured to get him upon his legs, which,'
with much ado, he accomplished, though
the poor animal could scarcely stand ; he
then took a luncheon of bread out of his
\vallet (which had shared in the disaster) and
gave it to his beast, saying to him, ** Bread
is relief for all kind of grief :" all of which
the ass appeared to take very kmdly. At
last, however, Sancho perceived a crevice
on one side of the pit large enough to admit
the body of a man. He immediately thrust
himself into the hole, and creeping upon all
fours, he found it to enlarge as he proceeded,
and that it led into another cavity, which,
by a ray of light that glanced through some
cranny above, he saw was large and spa-
cious. He saw also that it led into another
vault equally capacious ; and having made
this discovery he returned for his ass, and
by removing the earth about the hole, he
soon made it large enough for Dapple to
pass* Then laying hold of his halter, he
led him along through the several cavities,
to try if he could not find a way out on the
other side. Thus he went on, sometimes in
the dusk, sometimes in the dark, but always
in fear and trembling. '^Heaven defend
me!" said he, ''what a chicken-hearted
fellow am I ! This now, which is to me
a sad mishap, to my master Don Quixote
would have been a choice adventure. These
caves and dungeons, belike, he would have
taken for beautiful gardens and stately
palaces of Galiana, and would have rec-
-<&
444
ADVENTURES OF
kooed upon their ending in some pleasant
flowery meadow; while I, poor helpless,
heartless wretch that I am, expect some
other pit still deeper to open suddenly nnder
my feet and swallow me up. O welcome
the ill-luck that comes alone V Thus he
went on lamenting and despairing, and when
he had gone, as he supposed, somewhat
more than half a league, he perceived a
kind of glimmering light, like that of day,
breaking through some aperture above, that
seemed to him an entrance to the other
world ; in which situation Cid Hamete
leaves him for awhile, and returns to Don
Quixote, who, with great pleasure, looked
forward to the day appointed for the com*
bat, by which he hoped to revenge the injury
done to the honour of Donna Rodriguez's
daughter.
O^c morning as the knight was riding out
to exercise and prepare himself for the ap-
proaching conflict, now urging, now check-
ing the mettle of his steed, it happened that
Rozinante, in one of his curvetings, pitched
his feet so near the brink of a deep cave,
that had not Don Quixote used the reins
with all his skill, he must inevitably have
fallen into it. But, having escaped that dan-
ger, he was curious to examine the chasm, and
as he was earnestly surveying it, still sitting
on his horse, he thought he heard a noise
issuing from below, like a human voice,
and listening more attentively, he distinctly
heard these words : << Ho ! above there I is
there any christian that hears me, or any
charitable gentleman to take pity of a sinner
buried alive; a poor governor without a
government?'' Don Quixote thought it
was certainly the voice of Sancho Panza ;
at which he was greatly amazed, and, rais-
ing his voice as high as he could, he cried,
" Who are you below there ? Who is it that
eomplains?" '^Who should be here, and
who complain," answered the voice, '< but
the most wretched soul alive, Sancho Panza,
governor, for his sins and evil-errantry, of
the island of Baratarla, and late squire to
the &mous knight Don Quixote de la
Mancha?" On hearing this Don Quixote's
wonder and alarm increased ; for he con-
ceived that Sancho Panza was dead, and
that his soul was there doing penance ; and
(^
in this persuasion, he said, " I conjure thee,
as far as a catliolic christian may, to tell me
who thou art ; and if thou art a soul in pur-
gatory, let me know what I can do for thee-
for since my profession obliges me to aid and
succour all that are afflicted in this world,
I shall also be ready to aid and assist the
distressed in the world below, where they
cannot help themselves." '< Surely," an-
swered the voice from below, ^^it is my
master Don Quixote de la Mancha who
speaks to me — by the sound of the voice it
can be no other !" ^' Don Quixote I am,"
replied the knight, ''he whose profissáon
and duty it is to relieve and succour the
living and the dead in their necessities» Tell
me then, who thou art, for I am amazed at
what 1 hear. If thou art really my<6qaire
Sancho Panza, and art dead, since the devils
have not got thee, and through God's mercy
thou art still in purgatory, our holy mother
the Roman Catholic church has power by
her supplications to deliver thee from the
pains which afflict thee ; and I will myself
solicit her in thy behalf, as far as my estate
and purse will go; speak, therefore, and tell
me quickly who thou art ?" " Why then.
I vow to God," said the voice, " and ivill
swear by whatever your worship pleases,
sigfior Don Quixote de la Mancha, that I
am your squire Sancho Panza, and that I
never died in the whole course of my life,
but that, having left my government for
reasons and causes that require more lei-
sure to be told, I fell last night into this
cavern, where I now am and Dapple with
me, who will not let me lie ; and, as a fur-
ther proof, here the good creature stands
by me." Now it would seem that the ass
understood what Sancho said, and willing
to add his testimony, at that instant began
to bray so lustily that the whole cave re-
sounded. '^ A credible witness !" quoth
Don Quixote ; '< that bray I know as well
as if I myself had brought it forth ; and thy
voice too, I know, my dear Sancho — wait
a little, and I will go to the duke's casde
and bring some people to get thee out of
this pit, into which thou hast certamly been
cast for thy sins." "Pray go, for the
Lord's sake," quoth Sancho, "and return
speedily ; for 1 cannot bear any longer ta
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
446
be buried alive, and am dying with fear.''
Don Quixote left him, and hastened to the
castle to tell the duke and duchess what
had happened to Sancho Panza ; at which
the J were not a little surprised, though they
readily accounted for his being there, and
conceived that he might easily have fidlen
down the pit, which was well known, and
had been there time out of mind ; but they
could not imagine how he should have left
his government without their having been
apprised of it. Hopes and pullies were,
however, immediately sent, and with much
labour, and many hands. Dapple and his
master were drawn out of that gloomy den,
to the welcome light of the sun. A certain
scholar, who was present at Sancho's deli-
verance, said, ''Thus should all bad gover-
nors quit their governments : even as this
sinner comes out of the depth of this abyss;
pale, hungry, and penniless V* ** Harkye,
brother," said Sancho, who had overheard
him, '< it is now eight or ten days since I
began to govern the island that was given
to me, and in all that time I never had my
belly-full but once. Doctors persecuted me,
enemies trampled over me and bruised my
bones, but no leisure had I either to touch
a bribe or receive my dues ; and this being
the fact, methinks I deserve not to come out
of it in this fashion. But, man proposes and
God disposes ; and He knows what is best and
fittest for every body ; and, as is the reason,
such is the season ; and, let nobody say, I
will not drink of this cup : for where one
expected to find a flitch, there may not be
even a pin to hang it on ! God knows my
mind, and that is enough. I could say
much, but I say nothing.'' " Be not angry,
Sancho, nor concerned at what may be said,"
quoth Don Quixote, '' otherwise thou wilt
never be at peace. Keep but a safe con-
science, and let people say what they will;
for as well may'st thou think to barricado
the plain, as to tie up the tongue of slander.
If a governor comes rich from his govern-
ment, they say he has plundered it ; and,
if he leaves it poor, that he has been a fool."
*' I warrant," answered Sancho, ** that, for
this bout, they will rather take me for a
fool than a thief."
In such discourse, amidst a rabblement of
boys and other followers, they arrived at
the castle, where the duke and duchess were
already in a gallery waiting for them. San-
cho would not go up to see the duke till he
had first taken the necessary care of Dapple
in the stable, because the poor creature, he
said, had but an indifferent nighfs lodging ;
and, that done, he went up to the duke and
duchess, and kneeling before them, he said,
" My lord and lady, you made me governor
of your island of Barataria ; and not from
any desert of mine, but because your gran-
deurs would have it so. Naked I entered
it, and naked have I left it. I neither win
nor lose ; whether I have governed well or
ill, there are witnesses, who may say what
they please. I have cleared up doubts, and
pronounced sentences, and tdl the while
fiimished with hunger : for so it was ordered
by Pedro Rezio, native of Tirteafuera, doc-
tor in ordinary to the island and its governor.
Enemies attacked us by night, and though
they put us in great danger, I heard many
say that the island was delivered and a vic-
tory gained by the valour of my arm ; and
according as they speak the truth so help
them God. In s^ort, I have by this time
been able to reckon up the cares and bur-
thens the trade of governing brings with it,
and find them, by my account, too heavy
for my shoulders or ribs to bear, — ^they are
not arrows for my quiver ; and so before
the government left me, I e'en resolved to
leave the government ; and yesterday morn-
ing, turning my back on the island, I left
it just as I found it, with the same streets,
the same houses, with the self-same roofs to
them as they had when I first entered it. I
have neither borrowed nor hoarded; and
though I intended to make some whole-
some laws, I made none, fearing they would
not be observed, which is the same as if
they were not made. I came away, as I
said, from the island, without any company
but my Dapple. In the dark, I fell head-
long into a pit, and crept along under
ground, till this morning by the light of the
sun I discovered a way out, though not so
easy a one, but that, if heaven had not sent
my master Don Quixote, there I might
have staid till the end of the world. So
that, my lord duke and my lady duchess
=1^
446
ADVENTURES OF
behold here your governor Sancho Panza,
Trho, in the ten days that he held his office,
found ont, by experience, that he would
not give one single farthing to be governor,
not of an island only, but even of the
whole world. This then being the case,
kissing your honours' feet, and imitating
the boys at play, who cry, leap and away,
I give a leap out of the government, and
pass over to the service of my master Don
Quixote : for, after all, though with him I
eat my bread in bodily fear, at least I have
my belly-full ; and, for my part, so I have
but that well stuffed, it is all one to me
whether it be with carrots or partridges/'
Here Sancho ended his long speech, Don
Quixote dreading all the while a thousand
absurdities, and when he had ended with so
few, he gave thanks to heaven in his heart.
The duke embraced Sancho, and said that
it grieved him to the soul he had left the
government so soon ; but that he would
take care he should have some other em-
ployment, in his territories, of less trouble
and more profit. The duchess was no less
kind, and ordered that he should be taken
good care of; for he seemed to be much
bruised, and in wretched plight.
CHAPTER LVl.
OP THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARAL-
LELED BATTLE BETWEEN DON QUIX-
OTE DE LA MANCHA AND THE LAC-
QUEY TOSILOS, IN DEFENCE OF
THE DUENNA DONNA RODRIGUEZ'S
DAUGHTER.
The duke and duchess repented not of the
jest they had practised upon Sancho Panza,
when the steward, on his return, gave them
a minute relation of almost every word and
action of the governor during that time ;
and he failed not to enlarge upon the assault
of the island, with his terror and final
abdication, which gave them not a little
entertainment.
The history then tells us that the ap-
pointed day of combat arrived ; nor had
the duke neglected to give his lacquey
Tosilos all the necessary instructions how
to vanquish his antagonist, and yet neither
kill nor wound him, for which parpóse, be
gave orders that the iron heads of their
lances should be taken off, because, as be
told Don Quixote, that Christianity, upon
which he valued himself, forbade that in
this battle their lives should be exposed to
danger ; and though contrary to the decree
of the holy council, which prohibits such
encounters, he should allow them free field-
room in his territories j he did not wish the
affair pushed to the utmost extremity. Doo
Quixote begged his excellency would ar-
range all things as he deemed best; and
assured him that he would acquiesce in
every particular.
On the dreadful day, the duke having
commanded a spacious scaffold to be erected
before the court of the castle for the judges
of the field, and the two duennas, mother
and daughter, appellants, an infinite nom-
ber of people, from all the neighboarÍDg
towns and villages, flocked to see the novd
spectacle, for, in latter times, nothing like
it had ever been seen or beard of in that
country, either by the living or the dead.
The first who entered the lists was the
master of the ceremonies, who walked over
the ground, and examined it in every part,
to guard against all foul play, and see that
there was nothing on the surfiu» to occasion
stumbling or falling. The duennas now en-
tered, and took their seats, covered with
veils even to their breasts, and betraying
much emotion. Don Quixote next pre-
sented himself in the lists, and, soon after,
the sound of trumpets announced the en-
trance of the great Tosilos, mounted on a
stately steed, making the earth shake be-
neath him; with vizor down, and stiffly
cased within a suit of strong and shining
armour. The horse seemed to be a Frise-
lander, broad -built, and flea-bitten, with
abundance of wool upon each fetlock. The
courageous Tosilos came well instructed by
the duke his lord how to behave towards
the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha,
and cautioned in no wise to hurt him, and
also tobe careful to elude his advenary at
the first onset, lest he should himself be
slain, which would be inevitable, if he met
him in full career. He traversed tbe en-
closure, and, advancing towards the do-
(E^-
DON QUIXOTE.
447
ennas, be surveyed the lady who demanded
him for her husband. The marshal of the
field, attended by Don Quixote and Tosilos,
now formally demanded of the duennas
whether they consented that Don Quixote
de la Mancha should maintain their right
Tliey answered that they did, and that
whatever he should do in their behalf they
should confirm, and hold it to be right, firm,
and valid. The duke and duchess now took
thehr seats in a balcony over the barriers,
-which were crowded by an infinite number
of people, all in full expectation of behold-
ing this terrible and extraordinary conflict.
It was stipulated, between Don Quixote
and Tosilos, that if the former should
conquer his adversary, the latter should
be obliged to marry Donna Rodriguez's
daughter; and, if he should be overcome,
his adversary should be released from his
engagement with the lady, and every other
claim on her account. And now the master
of the ceremonies divided the sun equally
between them, and fixed each in his post.
The drums beat ; the sound of the trumpets
filled the air; the earth shook beneath the
steeds of the combatants; the hearts of
the gazing multitude palpitated, some with
fear, some with hope, for the issue of this
affair : finally Don Quixote, recommending
himself to heaven, and to his lady Dulcinea
del Toboso, stood waiting the signal for the
onset. But our lacquey's thoughts were
differently employed, for it so happened
that, while he stood looking at his female
enemy, she appeared to him the most beau-
tiful woman he had ever seen in his life,
and the little blind boy called Cupid seized
the opportunity of adding a lacquey's heart
to the list of his trophies. Softly, and unper-
ceived, therefore, he approached his victim,
and, takmg aim at the left side of the de-
voted youth, with an arrow two yards long
he pierced his heart through and through :
and this the amorous archer could do with
perfect safety, for he is invisible, and goes
and comes when and where he pleases, and
to none is he accountable. So that when the
signal was given for the onset, our lacquey
stood transported, contemplating the beauty
of her who was now the mistress of his
liberty, and therefore attended not to the
trumpet's sound. It was not so with Don
Quixote, who, instantly spurring forward,
advanced towards his enemy at Rozinante's
best speed ; while his trusty squire Sancho
cried aloud, '^ God guide you, cream and
flower of knights -errant I Heaven give
you victory, for the right is on your side !"
Though Tosilos saw Doii Quixote making
towards him, he stirred not a step from the
place where he stood, but, loudly calling
the marshal of the field to him, he said,
'' Is not this combat, sir, to decide whether
I shall marry, or not marry, that young
lady?" <'It is," answered the marshal.
**Then," quoth the lacquey, "my con-
science will not let me proceed any farther;
and I declare that I yield myself vanquished,
and am ready to marry that gentlewoman
this moment." The marshal was surprised
at what Tosilos said, and, bang privy to
the contrivance, he was at a loss how to
answer him. Don Quixote, perceiving that
his adversary was not advancing, stopped
short in the midst of his career. The duke
could not conceive why the combat was
retarded ; and, when the marshal explained
the cause, he was angry at the disappoint-
ment In the mean time, however, Tosilos
approached Donna Rodriguez, and said
aloud, "I am willing, good madam, to
marry your daughter, and would not seek,
by strife and bloodshed, what I may have
peaceably, and without danger." " Since
that is the case," said the valorous Don
Quixote, '^ I am absolved from my promise ;
let them be msirried in God's name, and,
as God has given her. Saint Peter bless
her." The duke now came down into tlie
court of the castle, and, going up to Tosilos,
he said, " Is it true, knight, that you yield
yourself vanquished, and that, instigated
by your timorous conscience, you intend to
marry this damsel?" "Yes, an't please
your grace," replied Tosilos. " And, faith,
'tis the wisest course," quoth Sancho Panza.
" What you would give to the mouse give
to the cat, and yon will save trouble."
Tosilos was, in the mean time, unlacing his
helmet, to do which he begged for prompt
assistance, as his spirits and breath were
just failing him, unable to remain any
longer pent up in so strait a lodging. They
=y
®^=^
448
ADVENTURES OF
I
presently unarmed him^ and^ the fiice of
the lacquey being exposed to view, Donna
Kodnguez and her daughter cried aloud,
"A cheat! a cheat! TosUos, my lord
duke's kcquey, is put upon us instead of
our true spouse I Justice from God and
the king against so much deceit, not to
eay villany." *' Afflict not yourselves,
ladies," quoth Don Quixote, *^ for this is
neither deceit nor yillany, or, if it be so,
the duke is not to blame, but the wicked
enchanters, my persecutors, who, envying
me the glory I should have acquired by
this conquest, have transformed the coun-
tenance of your husband into that of
another, who, you say, is a lacquey be-
longing to my lord duke. Take my ad-
vice, and, in spite of the malice of my
enemies, marry him; for, without doubt,
he is the very man you desire for your
husband/' The duke, hearing this, angry
as he was, could not forbear laughing.
** Truly," said he, "so many extraordinary
things happen every day to the great Don
Quixote that I am inclined to believe this
is not my lacquey; but, for our better
satisfaction, and to detect the artifice, let
us, if you please, defer the marriage for
fifteen days, and, in the mean time, keep
this doubtful youth in safe custody; by
that time, perhaps, he may return to his
own proper form ; for doubtless the malice
of those wicked magicians against the noble
Don Quixote cannot last so long : especially
when they find these tricks and transforma-
tions avail them so little." " O sir," quoth
Sancho, *^ the wicked wretches are for ever
at this work, changing, from one shape to
another whatever my master has to do
with. It was but lately they turned a
iamous knight he had beaten, called the
knight of the mirrors, into the very shape
of the bachelor Samson Carrasco, a fellow-
townsman and special friend of ours ; and
more than that, they changed my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso from a princess into
a downright country bumpkin : so that I
verily believe this lacquey here will live
and die a lacquey all the days of his life."
" Let him be who he will," said the du-
enna's daughter, "as he demands me to
wife I take it kindly of him : for I had
rather be lawful wife to a lacquey than the l
cast mbtress of a gentleman, though indeed '
he who deluded me is not one." All these
events, in short, ended in the imprisonment
of Tosilos, where it was determined he
should remain till it was seen in what his
transformations would end ; and although
the victory was adjudged to Don Quixote
by general acclamation, the greater part of
the spectators were disappointed and out of
humour that the long-expected combatants
had not hacked each other to pieces: as
the rabble are wont to repine when the
criminal is pardoned whom they expected
to see hanged. The crowd now dispersed ;
the duke and- Don Quixote returned to the
castle, after ordering the lacquey into close
keeping ; Donna Rodriguez and her daughter
were extremely well pleased to see that, one
way or other, this business was likely to
end in matrimony, and Tosilos was consoled
with the Hke expectation.
CHAPTER LVII.
WHICH RELATES HOW DON QUIXOTE
TOOK HIS LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND
OF WHAT BEFEL HIH WITH THE
WITTY AND WANTON ALTISIDORA, ONE
OF THE duchess's DAMSELS.
Don Quixote now thought it full time to
quit so inactive a life as that which he had
led in the castle, deeming himself culpable
in living thus in indolence, amidst the lux-
uries prepared for him, as a knight -errant,
by the duke and duchess, and he believed
he should have to account to God for this
neglect of the duties of his profession.
He therefore requested permission of their
graces to depart, which they granted him,
but with every expression of regret. The
duchess gave Sancho Panza his wife's
letters, which he wept over, saying, " Who
could have thought that all the mighty
hopes which my wife puffed herself up with
on the news of my government should come
at last to this, and that it should again be
my lot to follow my master Don Quixote
in search of hungry and toilsome adven-
tures ! I am thankful, however, that my
Teresa has behaved like herself in sending
DON QUIXOTE.
44fl
the acorns to her highness, vhich if she had
not done, and proved herself ungrateful, I
should never have forgiven her; and my
comfort is that the present could not be
called a bribe, for they were not sent till
I was a governor ; and, indeed, it is fitting
that all who receive a benefit should shew
themselves grateful, though it be only a
trifle. Naked I went into the government,
and naked caroe I out of it ; so I can say
with a clear conscience, — which is no small
matter, naked I came into the world, and
naked I am ; I neither win nor lose." In
this manner Sancho communed with himself
while preparing for his departure. That
same evening Don Quixote took leave of
the duke and duchess, and early tlie next
morning he sallied forth, completely armed,
into the great court, the surrounding gal-
leries of which were crowded with the in-
mates of the castle, all eager to behold the
knight; nor were the duke and duchess
absent on that occasion. Sancho was
mounted upon Dapple, his wallets well
furnished, and himself much pleased : for
the duke's steward, who had played the part
of the Trifaldi, had given him, unknown to
Don Quixote, a little purse with two hun-
dren crowns in gold, to supply the occasions
of the journey. And now, whilst all were
gazing at Don Quixote, the arch and witty
Altisidora, who was with the other duennas
and damsels of the duchess, came forward,
and, in a doleful tone, addressed herself to
him in the following rhymes :
Stay crnel knight,
Tftke not thy flight.
Nor spur thy battcr'd jade ;
Thy haate restrain.
Draw in the rein,
And hear a love-sick maid.
Whydostthonfly?
No snake am I,
That poison those I love ?
Gentle I am
As any lamb»
And harmlcs as a dove.
Thy cruel scorn
Has left forlorn
A nymph, whose charms niay vie
With theirs who sport
In Cynthia's court,
Tho' Venus' self were by.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee I
Like ravenous kite,
That takes its flight
Soon as't has stol*n a chicken.
Thou bear'st away
My heart, thy prey,
And leav'st me here to sicken.
Three night-caps, too,
And garters blue,
That did to legs belong
Smooth to the sight
As marble white.
And, faith, almost as strong;
l^o thousand groans,
As many moans.
And sighs enough to fire
Old Priam's town,
And bum it down.
Did it again aspire.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo the,
Barabbaa's Date still pursue and undo thee I
May Sancho ne'er
HU buttocks bare
Fly-flap, as is his duty ;
And thou still want
To disenchant
Dulcinea*s injur*d beauty.
Blay still transform'd.
And still deform' d
Toboso's nymph remain.
In recompense
or thy offence.
Thy scorn and cold disdwn.
When thou dost wield
Thy sword in fleld.
In combat or in quarrel.
Ill-luck and harms
Attend ihy arms.
Instead of fame and laurel.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still punue and undo thee I
May thy disgrace
Fill ev'ry place.
Thy falsehood ne'er be kid,
But round the world
Be toss'd and hurl'd.
From Seville to Madrid.
If, brisk and gay.
Thou sitt'st to play
At Ombre or at Chess,
May ne'er HpadiU
Attend thy will,
Nor luck thy movements bless.
Though thou with care
Thy corns dost pare.
May blood the pen-knife follow ;
May thy gums rage,
And nought assuage
The pain of tooth that's hollow.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpoae I woo tliee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee !
Whilst Altisidora thus poured forth her
tuneful complaints, Don Quixote stood look-
ing at her attentively, and when she had
done, without making her any answer, he
turned to Sancho and said, " By the me-
mory of thy forefathers, dear Sancho, I
conjure thee to answer me truly — hast thou
the night-caps and garters which this love-
sick damsel speaks of?" '' I confess to the
2 G
^.=
450
ADVENTURES OF
three night-caps, sir," qaoth Sancho, *'but
as to the garters, I know nothing about
them." The duchess was astonished at Al-
tisidora's levity, for though she knew her to
be gay, easy, and free, yet she did not think
she would venture so far ; and, not being in
the secret of this jest, her surprise was the
greater. " I think, sir knight," said the
duke (meaning to carry on the joke), ^'that
it does not well beseem your worship, after
the hospitable entertainment yon have re-
ceived in thb castle, to carry off three night
caps, at least, if not ray damsel's garters ;
these are indications of a disposition that ill
becomes your character. Return her the
garters : if not, I defy yon to mortal combat,
and fear not that your knavish enchanters
should change my &ce, as they have done
that of my lacquey." ** God forbid," an-
swered Don Quixote, '* that I should unsheath
ray sword against your illustrious person,
from whom I have received so many favours.
The nigh t-caps shall be restored ; for Sancho
says that he has them : but, as for the gar-
ters, it is impossible, for neither he nor I
ever had them ; if your damsel looks well
to her hiding comers, I make no question
but she will find them. I, my lord duke,
was never a pilferer, nor, if heaven forsake
me not, shall I ever become one. This damsel
talks (as she owns) like one in love, which
is no fault of mine ; and, therefore, I have
no reason to ask pardon either of her or of
your excellency, whom I intreat to think
better of me, and again desire your permis-
sion to depart."* " Farewell, sigfior Don
Quioxte," said the duchess, ** and God send
you so prosperous a journey that we may
always hear happy tidings of your exploits.
Go, and heaven be with you ; for the longer
you stay, the more you stir up the ñames
that scorch the hearts of these tender dam-
sels while they gaze on you. As for this
wanton, take my word, I will so deal with
her that she shall not again offend either in
word or deed." " Hear me but one word
more, O valorous Don Quixote!" quoth
Altisidora, ^' pardon me for having charged
you with stealing my garters, for on my
* Oritles have censured our author for charging his
hero with petty larceny ; but he has a precedent in
Amadis de Gaul, B. II. chap. 60, where two knights,
soul and conscience, they are on my legs!
and I have blundered like ihe man who
looked about for the ass he was riding."
" Did I not tell you," quoth Sancho, "that
I am a rare hider of stolen goods ! Had I
been that way given, my government would
have offered many a fair opportunity." Don i
Quixote made his obeisance to the duke and
duchess, and to all the spectators; then,
turning Rozinante's head, be sallied out at
the castle-gate, and, followed by Sancho
upon Dapple, took the road leading to '
CHAPTER LVIII.
SHEWING HOW ADVENTURES CROWDED
SO FAST UPON DON QUIXOTE THAT
THBY TROD UPON BACH OTHEB's
HEELS.
Don Quixote no sooner found himself in
the open country, unrestrained and free from
the troublesome fondness of Altisidora, than
he felt all his cbivalric ardour revive within
him, and, turning to his squire, he said, " Li-
berty, friend Sancho, is one of the choicest
gifts that heaven hath bestowed upon man^
and exceeds in value all the treasures which
the earth contains within its bosom, or the
sea covers. Liberty, as well as honour, man
ought to preserve at the hazard of his life ;
for, without it, life is insupportable. Thou
knowest, Sancho, the luxur}' and abundance
we enjoyed in the hospiteble mansion we
have just left : yet, amidst those seasoned
banquets, those cool and delicious liquors,
I felt as if I had suffered the extremity of
hunger and thirst, because I did not enjoy
them with the same freedom as if they hod
been my own. The mind is oppressed and
enthralled by favours and benefits to which
it can make no return. — Happy the man to
whom heaven hath given a morsel of bread
without laying him under an obligation to
any but heaven itself!" "For all that,"
quoth Sancho, " we ought to feel ourselves
much bound to the duke's steward for the
two hundred crowns in gold which he gave
Barbuan and Monean, when going firom a certain caitte,
are charged with stealing aeveral ■mall parcela of lines,
which they had casually put up with their own.
r(ff)
DON QUIXOTE.
451
me in a parse I carry here^ next my heart,
as a cordial and comfort in case of need : for
we are not likely to find many castles where
we shall be made so much of, but more
likely inns, where we shall be rib-roasted."
Thus discoursing, the knight and squire -
errant proceeded on their way, when haying
travelled a little more than half a league,
they observed a dozen men, who looked like
peasants, seated on a little patch of green
near the road, with their cloaks spread
under them, eating their dinner on the
grass. Close to where they sat were spread
sundry pieces of white cloth, like sheets,
separate from each other, and which seemed
to be covers to something on the ground
beneath them. Don Quixote approached
the eating party, and, after courteously sa-
luting them, asked what they had under
those sheets ? " They are figures carved in
wood, sir," said one of them, "intended for
an altar-piece we are erecting in our village,
and we carry them covered that they may
not be soiled or broken." " With your
permission," said Don Quixote, '* I should
be glad to see them : for things of that kind
carried with so much care, must doubtless
be good." " Aye, indeed are they, sir,"
answered one of the men, " as their price
will testify ; for, in truth, there is not one
of tliem but stands us in above fifty ducats j
and of the truth of what I say your worship
shall presently be satisfied. Then rising up
and leaving hb repast, he took off the cover-
ing from the first figure, which was gilt,
and appeared to be St. George on horse-
back, piercing with his lance a serpent coiled
at the feet of his horse, and represented with
its usual fierceness. "That figure," said
Don Quixote, "represents one of the greatest
knights-errant tliat ever served the holy
cause. He was, besides, the champion of
the fair, and was called Don St. George.
Now let us see what is beneath that other
cloth." On being uncovered, it appeared
to be St Martin, mounted on horseback
also, and in the act of dividing his cloak
with the beggar. " St. Martin !" exclaimed
Don Quixote, — " he also was one of the
christian adventurers ; a knight, I believe,
more liberal than valiant, as thou may'st
perceive, Sancho, by his giving half his
cloak to that wretoh ; and doubtless it was
then winter, otherwise he would have given
the whole: — so great was his charity."
" That was not the reason," quoth Sancho;
"but he had a mind to follow the proverb,
that says, * what to give, and what to keep,
requires a head - piece wide and deep.' "
Don Quixote smiled, and desired to see
another of their figures. The patron of
Spain was now presented to him, mounted
on a fierce charger : he appeared grasping
a bloody sword, and trampling on the bodies
of slaughtered Moors. "There," said Don
Quixote, " was a knight indeed !— one of
Christ's own squadron. He was called Don
St. Diego, the Moor-killer, one of the most
valiant saints and knights of which the
world ever boasted, or that heaven now
containeth." Another cloth being removed,
the figure of St. Paul was produced, as at
the moment of his conversion, when thrown
from his horse, and with other attending
circumstances. Seeing that event repre-
sented with so much animation that St.
Paul appeared to be actually answering the
voice from heaven, Don Quixote said, "This
holy personage was at one time tlie greatest
enemy to the church of God, and afterwards
the greatest defender it will ever have ; a
knight^errant in his life, and an unshaken
martyr at his death ; an unwearied labourer
in Christ's vine-yard j an instructor of the
gentiles ; — Heaven was his school, and his
great teacher and master our Lord himself!"
Don Quixote now desired the figures might
be again covered, having seen all. " I re-
gard the sight of these things," said he, "as
a favourable omen : for these saints and
knights professed what I profess, — with this
only difference, that, being saints^ they
fought after a heavenly manner, whereas
I, a sinner, fight in the way of this world.
By the exercise of arms they gained hea-
ven — for heaven must be won by exertion,
and I cannot yet tell what will be the event
of my labours ; but could my Dulcinea del
Toboso be relieved fit>m her suffering, my
condition being in that case improved, and
my understanding wisely directed, I might,
perhaps, take a better course than I now do."
" God hear him," quoth Sancho, *' and let
sin be deaf!" The men wondered no less at
-^^
452
ADVENTURES OF
the ñgure than at the words of Don Quixote,
without understanding half what he meant
by them. They finished their repast, packed
up their images, and, taking their leave of
Don Quixote, pursued their journey. San-
cho was more than ever astonished at his
master's knowledge, and fully convinced
that there was no history nor event in the
world, which he had not at his fingers' ends,
and nailed on his memory.
" Truly, master of mine," quoth Sancho,
"if what has happened to ns to-day may
be called an adventure, it has been one of
the sweetest and most pleasant that has
ever befallen us in the whole course of our
rambles ; faith, we are clear of it without
either blows or bodily fear! We have
neither laid our hands to our weapons, nor
beaten the earth with our bodies ; neither
are we famished for want of food ! — Heaven
be praised that I have seen all this with my
own eyes!" "Thou say'st well, Sancho,"
quoth Don Quixote, " but I must tell thee
that times are wont to vary and change
their course ; and what are commonly ac-
counted omens by the vulgar, though not
within the scope of reason, the wise will,
nevertheless, regard as incidents of lucky
aspect. Your watcher of omens* rises be-
times, and, going abroad, meets a Fran-
ciscan friar, whereupon he hurries back
again as if a furious dragon had crossed
his way. Another happens to spill the salt
upon the table, and straightway his soul is
overcast with the dread of coming evil : as
if nature had willed that such trivial acci-
dents should give notice of ensuing mis-
chances ! The wise man and good Christian
will not, however, pry too curiously into
the counsels of heaven. Scipio, on arriving
in Africa, stumbled as he leaped on shore ;
* In the «eventcenth century this belief in omens,
and other superstitinus opinions, waa -very prevalent,
and not confined to the lower orders of society. Some
were of general application. For instance, it was con-
ridered unlucky to transact business from home on
Tuesrlay, or to undertake a journey without setting off
with ^he right foot foremost. There were others pecu-
liar to certain professions. The licentiate Francisco de
Luque Paxardo, in his '* Fiel Disengano contra la Oci-
osidad y los Juegos" (fol. 127), has ir^e a collection
of the evil omens of gamblers; such as letting their
money fall, and with the cross downwards ; losing on
Monday, which they account-more unlucky than Tuesday ;
turning the point of the snuffers towards you in taking
up a eandleitick ; a spectator of the game putting his
his soldiers took it for an ill omen, bat he,
embracing the ground, said, 'Africa, thou
canst not escape me — I have thee fast.*
For my own part, Sancho, I cannot but
consider as a favourable prognostic oar
meeting those holy sculptures." ** I verily
believe it," answered Sancho, "and I should
be glad if your worship would tell me wliy
the Spaniards, when they rush into battle,
call upon that saint Diego, the Moor-killer,
and cry, * Saint Jago, and close, Spain ¡' —
Is Spain, then, so open as to want closing ?
what do you make of that ceremony?"
"Sancho, thou art very shallow in these
matters," said Don Quixote : " thou must
know that heaven gave the mighty cham-
pion of the red cross to Spain, to be its
patron and protector, especially in its des-
perate conflicts with the Moors; and there-
fore it is they invoke him in all tlieir battles ;
and oft, at such times, has he been seen
overthrowing, trampling down, destroying,
and slaughtering, the infidel squadrons ; of
which I could recount to thee many ex-
amples recorded in the true histories of our
country."
" I am amazed, sir," said Sancho, sud-
denly changing the subject, " at the impu-
dcuce of Altisidora, the duchess's waiting-
woman. I warrant you that same mischief-
maker they call Love must have mauled
and mangled her full sorely. They say he
is a boy, short-sighted, or, rather, blind,
yet set a heart before him, and as sure as
death he'll whip an arrow through it. I
have heard say, too, that the weapons he
makes use of, though sharp, are blunted
and turned aside by the armour of modesty
and maidenly coyness ; but, with that same
Altisidora methiuks they are rather whetted
than blunted." " Look you, Sancho," quoth
hand to his cheek, or occupying an angle or the upper
end of the table, or restlessly changing place ; gaining
the first hand ; stumbKng over the threshold, mat, or
chair; shuffling with a tremulous hand; Ukin^ up the
pack witli the left hand; piling the money; loaiag the
first, second, and third hand. &e.
This superstition — the effect of ignorance — was a
scandal to the Holy Fúth ; and that it no longer exists
in Spain, may be chiefly attributed to the wriiinga of P.
M. Feyjoo. The present age, howerer (the eightecath
century), has fallen into the contrary extreme of incre-
dulity, which is infinitely more pernicious, since there
is no longer any faith left to be scandalised— it is mlte-
gether annihilated. — P,
|i
DON QUIXOTE.
453
Don Quixote, '^Love has no respect of
persons, and laughs at the admonitions of
reason : like Death, he pursues his game both
in tlie stately palaces of kings and the humble
huts of shepherds. When he has got a soul
fairly into his clutches, his first business is
to deprive it of all shame and fear: as you
liuve remarked in Altisidora, who, being
^vithout either, made an open declaration
of her desires, which produced in my breast
embarrassment instead of compassiou."
" Shocking cruelty ! Monstrous ingrati-
tude !" cried Sancho. " I can say, for my-
self, that the least kind word from her
would have subdued me, and made me
her slave. O whoreson ! what a heart of
marble, what bowels of brass, and what a
soul of plaister ! — But I wonder much
what the damsel saw in your worship that
so took her fancy. Where was the finery,
tlie gallantry, the gaiety, and the sweet
face, which, one by one, or altogether,
made her fall in love with you? for, in
])lain truth, if I look at your worship from
the tip of your toe to the top of your head,
I see more to be frightened at than to love.
Beauty, they say, is tlic chief thing in love
matters ; but, your worship having none,
J cannot guess what the poor thing was so
taken with." ** Hearken to me, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote ; " there are two kinds
of beauty, the one of the mind, the other
of the body. That'of the mind shines forth
in good sense and good conduct; in modesty,
liberality, and courtesy ; and all these qua-
lities may be found in one v/ho has no per-
sonal attractions ; and when that species of
beauty captivates, it produces a vehement
and superior passion. I well know, Sancho,
that I am not handsome ; but I know also
that I am not deformed; and a man of
worth, if he be not hideous, may inspire
love, provided he has those qualities of
I the mind whicii I have mentioned."
1 While tlie knight and squire were con-
I versing in this manner, they entered a wood
'; that was near the road side, but had not
penetrated far when Don Quixote found
himself entangled among some nets of green
thread, which were extended from tree to
tree: and, surprised at the incident, he
said, '^ These nets, Sancho, surely promise
some new and extraordinary adventure —
may I die this moment if it be not some
new device of the enchanters, my enemies,
to stop my way, out of revenge for having
slighted the wanton Altisidora! — But I
would have them know that, if these nets
were chains of adamant, or stronger thau
that in which the jealous god of black
smiths entangled Mars and Venus, to me
they would be «nets of rushes and yam !" —
Just as he was about to break through the
frail enclosure, two lovely shepherdesses,
issuing from the covert, suddenly presented
themselves before him ; at least their dress
resembled that of shepherdesses, excepting
that it was of fine brocade, and rich gold
tabby. Their hair, bright as sunbeams,
flowed over their shoulders, and chaplets,
composed of laurel and interwoven with
the purple amaranth, adorned their heads j
and they appeared to be from fifteen to
eighteen years of age. Sancho was dazzled,
and Don Quixote amazed, at so unexpected
a vision, which the sun himself must have
stopped in his course to admire. " Hold !
signer cavalier," said one of them,— "pray
do not break the nsts we have placed here,
not to offend you, but to divert ourselves ;
and, as you may wish to know why we
spread them, and who we are, I wil], in a
few words, tell you. About two leagues
off, sir, there is a village where many
persons of quality and wealth reside, several
of whom lately made up. a company of
friends, neighbours, and relations, to come
and take their diversion at this place, which
is accounted the most delightful in these
parts. Here we have formed among our-
selves a new Arcadia ; the young men have
put on the dress of shepherds, and the
maidens that of shepherdesses. -We have
learnt by heart two eclogues, one by our
admired Garcilaso, and the other by the
excellent Camocns, in his own Portuguese
tongue ; which, however, we have not yet
recited, as it was only yesterday that we
Game hither. Our tents are pitched among
the trees, near the side of a beautiful stream.
Last night we spread these nets to catch
such simple birds as our calls should allure
into the snare : and now, sir, if you please
to be our guest, you shall be entertained |
-rí
454
ADVENTURES OF
liberally and courteously: for we allow
neither care nor sorrow to be of our party."
" Truly, fair lady," answered Don Quixote,
^^ Acteeon was not more lost in admiration
and surprise when, unawares, he saw Diana
bathing, than am I in beholding your
beauty. I approve and admire your pro-
ject, and return thanks for your kind in-
vitation ; and, if I can do you any service,
lay your commands upon me, in full ossur*-
anee of being obeyed : for, by my profession,
I am enjoined to be grateful and useful to
all, but especially to persons of your con-
dition ; and were these nets, which probably
cover but a small space, extended over the
wliolc surface of the earth, I would seek
new worlds, by which I might pass, rather
than injure tlieni. And, that you may
afford some credit to a declaration which
may seem extravagant, know, ladies, that
he who makes it is no other than Don
Quixote de la Mancha — if, perchance, that
name has ever reached your ears." ** Bless
me !" exclaimed the other sliepherdess, ad-
dressing her companion, '^what good for-
tune, my dear friend, has befallen us ! See
yoQ this gentleman here before us? Believe
me, he is the most valiant, the most en-
amoured, and the most courteous, knight
in the whole world, if the history of his
exploits, which is in print, does not deceive
us ! I have read it, my dear, through and
through, and I will lay a wager that the
good man who attends him is that very
Sancho Panza, his squire, whose pleasantries
none can equal," "I'faith, madam, it is
very true," quoth Sancho, "I am indeed
that same jocular person, and squire, and
this gentleman is my master, the very Don
Quixote de la Mancha you have read of in
print." " Pray, my dear," said the other,
*' let us entreat him to stay, for our fathers
and brothers will be infinitely pleased to
have him here. I also have heard what you
say of his valour and great merit, and,
above all, that he is the most true and con-
stant of lovers, and that his mistress, who
is called Dulcinea del Toboso, bears away
the palm from all tlie beauties in Spain."
" And with great justice," quoth Don
Quixote, '^unless your wondrous charms
should make it questionable. But do not,
I beseech you, ladies, endeavour to detaiu
me ; for the indispensable duties of my pro-
fession allow me no intermission of labour."
At this moment a brother of one of the
fair damsels came up to them, dressed as
a shepherd, and with the same richness
and gaiety. They instantly told him that
the persons he saw were the valoróos Don
Quixote de la Mancha, and his squire San-
cho Panza, whom he also knew by their
history. The gay shepherd saluted the
knight, and so urgently importuned him to
honour thehr party with his presence that,
unable to refuse, he at length accepted their
invitation. Just at that time, the nets were
drawn, and a great number of small birds,
deceived by their artifices, were taken. The
gallant party assembled on that occa^on,
being not less than thirty in number, all in
pastoral habits, received Don Quixote and
his squire in a manner very much to their
satisfaction : for none were strangers to tlie
knight's history. They now repaired alto-
gether to the tents, where they found the
table spread with elegance and plenty. The
place of honour was given to Don Quixote,
and all gazed on him with admiration.
When the cloth was removed, the knight
with much gravity and in an audible voice,
thus addressed the company : ** Of all the
sins that men commit, though some say
pride, in my opinion, ingratitude is the
worst ; it is truly said that hell is full of
the ungrateful. From that foul crime, I
have endeavoured to abstain, ever since I
enjoyed the use of reason ; and if I cannot
return the good offices done me by equal
benefits, I substitute my desire to repay
them ; and if this be not enough, I publish
them : for he who proclaims the favours he
has received would return them if he could :
and generally the power of the receiver is
unequal to that of the giver: like the bounty
of heaven, to which no man can make an
equal return. But, though utterly unable
to repay the unspeakable beneficence of
God, gratitude affords a humble compensa-
tion suited to our limited powers. This, I
fear, is my present situation ; and, my ability
not reaching the measure of your kindness,
I can only shew my gratitude by doing that
little which is in my power. I therefore.
DON QUIXOTE.
455
engage to maintain, for two whole days,
in the middle of the king's high way,
leading to Saragossa, that these lady^shep-
herdesses in di^aise are the most beautiful
and most courteous damsels in the world : —
excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso, the sole mistress of my thoughts —
without offence to any present be it spoken."
Here Sancho, who had been listening
to him with great attention, could no longer
bridle his tongue. *' Is it possible," cried he,
** that any one should have the boldness to
say and swear that this master of mine is a
madman? Tell me, gentlemen shepherds,
is there a village priest living, though ever
so wise, or ever so good a scholar, who
could speak as he has spoken ? Or is there
a knight-errant, though ever so renowned
for valour, who could make such an ofier
as he has done V Don Quixote turned to
Sancho, and, with a wrathful countenance,
said, ** Is it possible, O Sancho, that there
should be a single person on the globe who
would not say that all over thou art an idiot,
lined with the same, and bordered with I know
not what of mischief and knavery ? Who
gave thee authority to meddle with what
belongs to me, or to busy tliyself with my
folly or my discretion? Be silent, brute,
make no reply, but go and saddle Rozinante,
if he be unsaddled, and let us depart, that
I may perform what I have engaged : for,
relying on the justice of my cause, I con-
sider all those who shall presume to dispute
the point with me as already vanquished."
Then in great haste and with marks of
furious indignation in his countenance,
he arose from his seat and rushed forth,
leaving the company in amazement, and
doubtful whether to regard him as a lunatic
or a man of sense.
They nevertheless endeavoured to disstiadc
him from his challenge, telling him that they
were sufficiently assured of his grateful na-
ture as well as his valour, by the true history
of his exploits. Determined, however, in
his purpose, the knight was not to be moved ;
and, being now mounted upon Rozinante,
bracing his shield, and grasping his lance,
he planted himself in the middle of the
highway, not far from the Arcadian tents.
Sancho followed upon his Dapple, with all
the pastoral company, who were curious to
see the event of so arrogant and extraor-
dinary a defiance.
Don Quixote, being thus posted, he
wounded the air with such words as these :
"Oye passengers, whoever ye are, knights,
squires, travellers, on foot and on horseback,
who now pass this way, or shall pass, in the
course of these two successive days ! — know
that Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-
errant, is posted here, ready to maintain
that the nymphs who inhabit these meadows
and groves excel in beauty and courtesy
all the rest of the world, excepting only
the mistress of my soul, Dulcinea del Toboso*,
let him, therefore, who dares to uphold the
contrary, forthwith shew himself, for here
I stand ready to receive him." Twice he
repeated the same words, and twice they
were repeated in vain. But better fortune
soon followed, for it so happened that a
number of horsemen appeared, -- several of
them armed with lances, hastily advancing in
tt body. Those who had accompanied Don
Quixote no sooner saw them than they re-
tired to a distance, thinking it might be dan-
gerous to remain . Don Quixote alone, with an
intrepid heart, stood firm, and Sancho Panza
sheltered himself close under Hozinantc's
crupper. When the troop of horsemen came
up, one of the foremost called aloud to Don
Quixote, ** Get out of the way, devil of a
man ! or these bulls will trample you to
dust." "Caitifis!" replied Don Quixote,
" I fear not your bulls, though they were
the fiercest that ever bellowed on the banks
of Xarama. Confess, ye scoundrels! unsight,
unseen, that what I have here proclaimed is
true ; if not, I challenge ye to battle." The
herdsmen had no time to answer, nor Don
Quixote to get out of the way, had he been
willing ; and now a herd of fierce bulls, to-
gether with some tame kine, hurried past
with a multitude of herdsmen and others,
driving them to a neighbouring town, where
they were to be baited. Don Quixote,
Sancho, Rozinante, and Dapple, were in
a moment overturned, and, after being
trampled upon without mercy, were left
sprawling on the ground. After the whole
had passed, — here lay Sancho mauled, there
Don Quixote stunned. Dapple bruised, and
r -- " — r r^ rrT=<Q
456
ADVENTURES OF
Itozinante in no enviable plight ! Never-
theless, they all contrived to recover the use
of their legs, and the knight, in great haste,
stumbling and reeling, began to pursue the
herd, crying aloud, ^' Hold ! stop ! scoun-
drels ! a single knight defies ye all, who
scorns the coward maxim, ^ make a bridge
of silver for a flying enemy !' " — But the
drovers had no time to attend to him, and
made no more account of his threats than
of last year's clouds. Fatigue obliged Don
Quixote to desist from the pursuit, and,
more enraged than revenged, he sat down
in the road, to wait for Sancho, Hozinante,
and Dapple. On their coming up, the
knight and squire mounted again, and, with
more shame than satisfaction, pursued their
journey, without taking leave of the shep-
herds of new Arcadia.
CHAPTER LIX.
WHEREIN IS RELATED AN EXTRAORDI-
NARY ACCIDENT WHICH BKFEL DON
QUIXOTE, AND WHICH MAY PASS FOR
AN ADVENTURE.
The fatigue, the dust, and other effects
caused by the rude encounter of the bulls
Don Quixote and Sancho removed, by
immersion in the waters of a clear fountain,
which they found in a cool and shady grove.
Here the way-worn pair seated themselves,
and, after giving liberty to Rozinante and
Dapple, Sancho had recourse to the store
of his wallet, and speedily drew out what
he was wont to call his sauce. He rinced
his mouth, and Don Quixote washed his
face, by which they were in some degree
refreshed ; but the knight from purechargin
refused to eat, and Sancho abstained from
pure good manners : though waiting and
wishing for his master to begin. At .length
seeing his master so wrapped in thought, as
to forget to convey a morsel to his mouth,
he opened his own, and, banishing all kind
of ceremony, made a fierce attack upon the
bread and cheese before him. *^ Eat, friend
Sancho," said Don Quixote, '' and support
life, which to thee is of more importance
than to me ; and leave me to expire under
my reflections, and the severity of my mis-
fortunes. I, Sancho, was bom to live dyisg,
and thou, to die eating; and thou wilt
allow that I speak truth when thou con-
siderest that I, who am recorded in history
renowned in arms, courteous in deeds, re-
spected by princes, and courted by damsels,
should after all, instead of psalms, triumpb,
and crowns, earned and merited by my va-
lorous exploits, have this morning seen my-
self trod upon, kicked, and bruised under
the feet of filthy and impure beasts !— the
thought thereof dulls the edge of my teetb,
unhinges my jaws, sickens my appetite, and
benumbs my hands, so that I am now await-
ing death in its crudest form — hunger.'*
"If so," quoth Sancho, (still chewing as
he spoke,) " your worship does not approve
the proverb, which says, * Let Martha die,
so that she die well fed.' For my part,
I have no mind to kill myself, but rather
like the shoe-maker^ who, with his teeth,
stretches his leather to make it fit his pur-
pose, I will by eating, try all I can to
stretch out my life, till it reaches as far as
it may please heaven ; and let me tell you,
sir, that there is no greater folly than to
give way to despair. Believe what I say,
and when you have eaten, try to sleep a
little upon this green mattrass, and I war-
rant, on waking, you will find yourself
another man !" Don Quixote followed
Sancho's advice, thinking he reasoned more
like a philosopher than a fool ; at the same
time, he said, " Ah, Sancho, if thou
wouldst but do for me what I am going to
propose, my sorrow would be diminished
and my relief more certain ; it is only this:
whilst I endeavour by thy advice to com-
pose myself to sleep, do thou step aside a
little, and exposing thy hinder parts to the
open air, give thyself, with the reins of
Rozinante's bridle, some three or four hun-
dred smart lashes, in part of the three thou-
sand and odd, which thou art bound to
give thyself for the disenchantment of Dul-
cinea : for in truth, it is a great pity the
poor lady should continue under enchant-
ment through thy carelessness and neglect.'
'' There is a great deal to be said as to thar^"
quoth Sancho ; " but for the present, let us
both sleep, and afterwards God knows what
DON QUIXOTE.
457
may happen. Besides, I would have you
remember, sir, that this lashing one's self in
cold blood is no easy matter; especially
when the strokes light upon a body so
tender without, and so ill-stored within, as
mine is. Let my lady Dulcinea have a
little patience, and mayhap, when she least
thinks of it, she shall see my body a perfect
sieve by dint of lashing. Until death all
is life : I am still alive, and with a full in-
tention to make good my promise." Don
Quixote thanked him, ate a little, and
Sancho much ; and both of them laid tliem-
selves down to sleep, leaving Rozinante and
Dapple, — those inseparable companions and
friends, — at their own discretion, cither to
repose, or feed upon the tender grass, of
which they here had abundance.
They awoke somewhat late in the day,
mounted again, and pursued their journey ;
hastening to reach what seemed to be an
inn, about a league before tliem. An inn
it is here called, because Don Quixote him-
self gave it that name : not happening, as
usual, to mistake it for a castle. Having
arrived there, they enquired of the host if
he could provide them with lodging, and
he promised as good accommodations and
entertainment as could be found in Sara-
gossa. On alighting, Sancho's first care
was to deposit his travelling larder in a
ciiamber, of which the landlord gave him
tbe key. He then led Rozinante and
Dapple to the stable, and, after seeing them
well provided for, he went to receive the
further commands of his master, whom he
found seated on a stone bench : the squire
blessing himself that the knight had not
taken the inn for a castle. Supper time
approaching, Don Quixote retired to his
apartment, and Sancho enquired of the
host what they could have to eat. The
landlord told him that his mouth should be
measured — for whatever the air, earth, and
sea produced, of birds, beasts, or fishes,
i that inn was abundantly provided. ^^ There
is no need of all that," quoth Sancho :
*^ roast us but a couple of chickens, and we
shall be satisfied ; for my master has a deli-
cate stomachy and I am no glutton." '^ As
for chickens," said the inn-keeper, " truly
we have none, for the kites have devoured
them." "Then let a pullet be roasted,"
said Sancho, " only see that it be tender."
"A pullet? — my fiather!" answered the
host, " faith and troth, I sent above fifty
yesterday to the city to be sold ; but, ex-
cepting pullets, ask for whatever you will."
"Why then," quoth Sancho, "e'en give
us a good joint of veal or kid, for they can-
not be wanting." " Veal or kid !" replied
the host, " ah, now I remember we have none
in the house at present ; for it is all eaten :
but next week there will be enough, and
to spare," " We are much the better for
that," answered Sancho ; " but I dare say
all these deficiencies will be made up with
plenty of eggs and bacon." "'Fore God,"
answered tlie host, " my customer is a
choice guesser! I told him I had neither
pullets nor hens, and he expects me to have
eggs ', talk of other delicacies, but ask no
more for hens." " Body of me !" quoth
Sancho, "let us come to something— tell
me, in short, what you have, master host,
and let us have done with your flourishes."
" Then," quoth the inn-keeper, " what I
really and truly have is a pair of cow-
heels, that may be taken for cal ves- feet ; or
a pair of calves-feet, that are like cow-heel.
They are stewed with pease, onions, and
bacon, and at this very minute are crying
out, ' Come eat me, come eat me.'" " From
this moment, 1 mark them for my own,*'
quoth Sancho, " and let nobody lay finger
on them. I will pay you well, for there is
nothing like them — give me but cow-heel,
and I care not a fig for calves-feet." " They
are yours," said the host, "nobody shall
touch them ; for my other guests, merely
for gentility sake, bring their cook, their
sewer, and provisions along with them."
"As to the matter of gentility," quoth
Sancho, "nobody is more a gentleman than
my master : but his calling allows of no
cooking nor butlering as we travel. No,
faith, we clap us down in the midst of a
green field, and fill our bellies with acorns,
or medlars." Such was the conversation
Sancho held with the inn-keeper, and he
now chose to break it off, without answer-
ing the enquiries which the host made
respecting his master's calling.
Supper being prepared, and Don Quixote
45ft
ADVENTURES OF
I In his chamber, the hodt carried in his dish
I of cow-heel, and, without ceremony, sat
I himself down to sapper. The adjoining
I room being separated from that occupied
I by Don Quixote only by a thin partition,
I lie could distinctly hear the voices of persons
i within. " Don Jerónimo," said one of
them, ''I entreat you, till sapper is brought
' in, to let us have another chapter of Don
Quixote de la Mancha.'' The knight,
hearing himself named, got up, and, lis-
I tening attentively, he heard another person
i Huswer, "Why, signer Don John, would
i you have us read such absurdities ? Who-
ever has read the first part of the history
of Don Quixote de la Mancha cannot be
pleased with the second." " But (or all
tliat," said Don John, " let us read it ; for
there is no book so bad as not to have
something good in it. What displeases me
the most in this second part is that the
author describes Don Quixote as no longer
enamoured of Dulcinea del Toboso." On
hearing this Don Quixote, full of wrath
and indignation, raised his voice, and said,
" Whoever shall say that Don Quixote de
la Mancha has forgotten, or ever can forget,
Dulcinea del Toboso, I will make him know,
with equal arms, that he asserts what is not
true : for neither can the peerless Dulcinea
be forgotten, nor Don Quixote ever cease to
remember her. His motto is Constancy ;
and, to maintain it, his pleasure and his
duty." "Who is it that speaks to us?"
replied one in the other room. " Who
should it be," quoth Sancho, "but Don
Quixote de la Mancha himself, who will
make good all he says, and all he shall
say ? for a good paymaster is in no want
of a pawn," At these words two gentlemen
rushed into the room, and one of them,
throwing his arras about Don Quixote's
neck, said, "Your person belies not your
name, nor can your name do otherwise
than give credit to your person. I cannot
doubt, signer, of your being the true Don
Quixote de la Mancha, the north and
morning-star of knight-errantry, in despite
of him who would usurp your name, and
* That 'ji, with a deputed or tubrndinate power.
** Hcrum imperiom/' accoiding to the Civiliuis, is that
reoiding in the sovereign: " Alerum mixtuiti imocrium" I
annihilate your exploits, as the anthorof
this book has vainly attempted." Don
Quixote, without making any reply, took
up the book, and, after turning over some
of the leaves, he laid it down again, saying,
** In the little I have seen of this volóme, .
three things I have noticed for which the
author deserves reprehension. The first b
some expressions in the preface; the next
that his language is Arragonian, for he
sometimes omits the articles ; and the third
is a much more serious objection, inasmuch
as he shews his ignorance and disregard of
truth in a material point of tlie history : for
he says that the wife of my squire Sancho '
Panza is called Mary Gutierre?., whereas
her name is Teresa Panza; and be who
errs in a circumstance of such importance
may well be suspected of inaccuracy in tlie
rest of the history." Here Sancho put in
his word : " Pretty work, indeed, of that
same history-maker ! Sure he knows much '
of our concerns to call my wife, Teresa
Panza, Mary Gutierrez ! Pray, your wor-
ship, look into it again, and see whether
I am there, and if my name be changed •
too." " By what you say, friend," quoth
Don Jerónimo, " I presume you are Sancho
Panza, squire to sigfior Don Quixote."
"Tliat I am," replied Sancho, **and value
myself upon it." " In faith, then," said
the gentleman, " this last author treats you
but scurvily^ and not as you seem to de-
serve. He describes yon as a dull ibol,
and a glutton, without pleasantry— in short,
quite a different Sancho from him repre-
sented in the first part of your master's
history." "God forgive him!" quoth
Sancho: "he might as well have let roe
alone : for ^ he who knows the instrument
should play on it,* and * Saint Peter is well
at Rome.'" The two gentlemen entreatetl
Don Quixote to go to their chamber and
sup with them, as they well knew the inn
had nothing fit for his entertainment. Don ;
Quixote, who was always courteous, con- >
sented to their request, and Sancho re- ,
mained with the flesh-pot, " cum mero
mixto imperio ;" * placing himself at the
Is that delei^ated to nunals or maflstrttee m eames
civil or criminid. — J.
DON QUIXOTE.
459
bead of the table^ vfith the inn -keeper for
hid messmate, whose love for cow-heel was
eqaal to that of the squire.
While they were at supper, Don John
asked Don Quixote when he had heard
from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso j whether
she was married; whether she was yet a
mother, or likely to be so ; or whether, if
still a virgin, she retained, with modest
reserve and maidenly decoram, a grateful
sense of the love and constancy of sigñor
Don Quixote. " Dulcinea," said the knight,
<< is still a maiden, and my devotion to her
more fixed than ever: our correspondence
as heretofore ; but alas ! her own beautiful
person is transformed into that of a coarse
country -wench." He then related every
particular concerning the enchantment of
the lady Dulcinea. He also gave them an
account of his descent into the cave of
Montesinos, and informed them of the in-
structions given by the sage Merlin for
the deliverance of his mistress. Great was
the satis&ction the two gentlemen received
at hearing Don Quixote relate his strange
adventures, and they were equally surprised
at his extravagances, and the elegance of
his narrative. One moment they thought
him a man of extraordinary judgment, and
the next that he was totally bereaved of
his senses; nor could they decide what
degree to assign him between wisdom and
folly.
Sancho, having finished his supper, left
the inn -keeper full dosed with liquor, and
joined his muster's party in the next
chamber. Immediately on entering, he
said, " May I die, gentlemen, if the writer
of that book which you have got has any
mind that he and I should eat a friendly
meal together; he calls me glutton, you
say — egad ! I wish he may not set me down
a drunkard too." ^^In faith, he does,"
quoth Don Jerónimo ; " though I do not
remember his words; only this I know,
that they are scandalous, and false into the
bargain, as I see plainly by the countenance
of honest Sancho here before me." '^ Take
my word for it, gentlemen," quoth the
squire, " the Sancho and Don Quixote of
that history are in no wise Hke the men
tliat are so called in the book made by Cid
Hamete Benengeli, for they are truly we
two: — my master, valiant, discreet, and
a true lover; and I, a plain, merry-con-
ceited, fellow ; but neither a glutton nor a
drunkard/' "I believe it," quoth Don
John, '<and, were such a thing possible
I would have it ordered that none should
dare to record the deeds of the great Don
Quixote but Cid Hamete himself, his first
historian ; as Alexander commanded that
none but Apelles should presume to draw
his portrait; being a subject too lofty to
be treated by inferior talents." "Treat
me who will," said Don Quixote, " so that
they do not maltreat me : for patience itself
will not submit to be overladen with in-
juries." ** No injury," quoth Don John,
" can be ofiered to sigfior Don Quixote that
he is not able to revenge, should he fail to
ward it oiF with the buckler of his patience,
which seems to me both ample and strong."
In such conversation they passed the
greater part of the night ; and though Don
John would fain have had Don Quixote
read more of the book, he declined it,
saying he deemed it read, and, by the
sample he had seen, he pronounced it foolish
throughout. He was unwilling, also, to
indulge the scribbler's vanity so far as to
let him tliink he had read his book, should
he happen to learn that it had been put into
his hands: ''and, besides, ft is proper,"
he added, '< that the eyes, as well as the
thoughts, should be turned from everything
filthy and obscene."
They then asked him which way he was
travelling, and he told them that he should
go to Saragossa, to be present at the justs
of that city, for the annual prize of a suit
of armour. Don John told him that, in the
new history, Don Quixote is said to have
been there, running at the ring, of which
the author gives a wretched account ; dull
in the contrivance, mean in style, miserably
poor in devices, and rich only in absurdity.
" For that very reason," answered Don
Quixote, *' I will not set foot in Saragossa,
and thus I shall expose the falsity of this
new historian, and all the world will be
convinced that I am not the Don Quixote
of whom he speaks." " In that yon will
do wisely," said Don Jerónimo, ''and at
460
ADVENTURES OF
Barcelona there are other josts where sígfíor
Don Quixote may have a full opportunity
to display his valour.'' ''To Barcelona I
will go, gentlemen," replied the knight;
''and now permit me take my leave, for it is
time to retire to rest, and be pleased to rank
me among the number of your best firiends
and faithful servants." "And me too,"
quoth Sancho, " for, mayhap, you may find
me good for something." Don Quixote and
Sancho then retired to their chamber, leaving
the two strangers surprised at the medley of
sense and madness they had witnessed, and
in a fall conviction that these were the ge-
nuine Don Quixote and Sancho, and those
of tlie Arragonese author certainly spurious.
Don Quixote arose early, and, tapping at
the partition of the other room, he again
bid his new friends adieu. Sancho paid
the inn-keeper most magnificently, and at
the same time advised him either to boast
less of the provision of his inn, or to supply
it better.
CHAPTER LX.
OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS
WAY TO BARCELONA.
The morning was cool, and promised a
temperate day, when Don Quixote left the
inn, having first informed himself which
was the most direct road to Barcelona,
avoiding Saragossa : for he was determined
to prove the felsehood of the new history,
which, he understood, had so grossly mis-
represented him. Six days he pursued his
course without meeting with any adven-
ture worth recording ; at the end of which
time, leaving the high road, night overtook
them among some shady trees, but whether
of cork or oak, it does not appear: Cid
líamete, in this instance, not observing his
wonted punctuality. Master and man hav-
ing alighted, they laid themselves down at
the foot of these trees. Sancho had already
taken his afternoon's collation, and, there-
fore, he rushed at once into the arms of
sleep ; but Don Quixote, not from hunger,
but his restless imagination, could not close
lus eyes. Agitated by a thousand fancies,
now he thought himself in the cave of Mon-
tesinos ; now be saw his Dulcinea, in ber
odious disguise, spring upon her ass ; the
next moment he heard the words of the sage
Merlin, declaring the means of her deliver-
ance; then again he was in despair when he
recollected the unfeeling negligence of his
squire, who, he believed, had given himself
only ñve lashes ! — a number so small com-
pared with those yet remaining that, over-
whelmed with grief and indignation, he thus
argued with himself: " If Alexander the
Great cut the Gordian knot, saying, ' to
cut is the same as - to untie,' and became
thereby tlie universal lord of all Asia, ex-
actly the same may happen now in the dis-
enchantment of Dulcinea, if the lashes be
applied by force : for if the virtue of this
remedy consist in Sancho's receiving three
thousand lashes, what is it to me whether
they are applied by himself or another, since
the essence lies in his receiving them, from
whatever hand they may come ?"
Under this conviction Don Quixote ap-
proached his sleeping squire, having first
taken Rozinante's reins, and adjusted them
so that he might use them with effect. He
then began to untmss his points ; — though
it is generally thought that he had only that
one in the front, which kept up bis breeches.
Sancho was soon roused and cried out,
" What is the matter ? Who is nntnisstng
me ?" " It is I," answered Don Quixote,
" who am come to atone for thy neglect,
and to remedy my own troubles. I am
come to whip thee, Sancho, and to dis-
charge, at least in part, the debt for which
thou art bound. Dulcinea is perishing;
thou livest unconcerned ; I am dying
with desire, and therefore untmss of Uiine
own accord, for it is my intention to give
thee, in this convenient solitude, at least
two thousand lashes." " No, indeed," quoth
Sancho, — " Body o' me ! keep off, or tlie
dead shall hear of it. The strokes I am
bound to give myself must be with my own
will, and when I please. At present I am
not in the humour. Let your worship be
content that I promise to flog and flav
myself as soon as ever I am so inclined.''
"There is no trusting to tliy courtesy,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, " for thou art
-;=
DON QUIXOTE.
461
Lard-Iicarted, and though a peasant, of very
tender flesh." He then struggled with
Sancho, and endeavoured, by force, to un-
cover his posteriors. Upon which Sancho
jumped up, then closing with his master, he
threw his arms about him, tripped up his
heels, and laid him flat on his back, where-
upon, setting his right knee upon his breast,
he held his hands down so fast that he could
not stir and scarcely could breathe. ** How,
traitor !" exclaimed the knight, " dost thou
rebel against thy master and natural lord ?
Dost thou raise thy hand against him who
feeds thee V* "I neither raise up nor pull
down," answerered Sancho : " I only defend
myself, who am my own lord. If your wor-
ship will promise me to let roe alone, and
not talk about whipping at present, I will
set you at liberty : if not * here thou diest,
traitor, enemy to Donna Sancha.' "* Don
Quixote gave him the promise he desired,
and swore, by the life of his best thoughts,
he would not touch a hair of üis garment,
but leave the whipping entirely to his own
discretion.
Sancho now removed to another place,
and, as he was going to lay himself under
another tree, he thought something touched
his head ; and, reacliing up his hands, he
felt a couple of dangling feet, with hose and
shoes. Trembling witli fear, he moved on
a little further, but was incommoded by
other legs; upon which he called to bis
master for help. Don Quixote went up to
him, and asked him what was the matter ;
when Sancho told him that all the trees were
full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt
them, and immediately guessed the cause,
he said, " Be not afraid, Sancho ; doubtless
these are the legs of robbers and banditti,
who have been punished for their crimes :
fur here the officers of justice hang them by
scores at a time, when they can lay hold of
them ; and, from this circuumstance, I con-
clude we are not fur from Barcelona." In
truth, Don Quixote was right in his con-
jecture, for when day began to dawn, they
plainly saw that the legs they had felt in
the dark belonged to the bodies of thieves.
But if they were alarmed at these dead
* Sancho here quotes the last line of an old ballad.— P.
banditti, bow much more were they dis- ¡
turbed at being suddenly surrounded by I
more than forty of their living comrades,
who commanded them to stand, and not •
to move till their captain came up. Don ;
Quixote was on foot, his horse unbridled,
his lance leaning against a tree at some dis-
tance, in short, being defenceless, he thought
it best to cross his hands, hang down his
head, and reserve himself for better occa-
sions. The robbers, however, were not idle,
but immediately fell to work upon Dapple,
and, in a trice, emptied both wallet and
cloak-bag. Fortunately for Sancho, he had
secured the crowns given him by tlie duke,
with his other money, in a belt which he
wore about his waist; nevertheless tliey
would not have escaped the searching eyes
of these good people, who spare not even
what is hid between the flesh and the skin,
had they not been checked by the arrival
of their captain. His age seemed to be
about four and thirty, his body was robust,
his stature tall, his visage austere, and his
complexion swarthy; he was mounted upon
a powerful steed, clad in a coat of steel, and
his belt was stuck round with pistols. Ob-
serving that his squires (for so they call men
of their vocation) were about to rifle Sancho,
he commanded them to forbear, and was
instantly obeyed, and thus the girdle escaped.
He wondered to see a lance standing against
a tree, a target on the ground, and Don
Quixote in armour and pensive, with tlie
most sad and melancholy countenance that
sadness itself could frame. Going up to the
knight, he said, " Be not so dejected, good
sir, for you are not fallen into the hands
of a cruel Osiris, but into those of Hoque
Guinart, who has more of compassion in
his nature than cruelty." " My dejection,"
answered Don Quixote, '' is not on account
of having fallen into your hands, O valorous
Roque, whose fame extends over the whole
earth, but for my negligence in having suf-
fered myself to be surprised by your soldiers,
contrary to the bounden duty of a knight-
errant, which requires that I should be con-
tinually on the alert, and, at all hours, my
own sentinel : for, let me tell you, illustrious
Roque, had they met me on horseback, with
my lance and my target, they would have
^
4(52
ADVENTURES OF
found it no very easy task to make me yield.
Know, sir, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha,
he with whose exploits tlie whole globe
resounds." Roque Guinart presently per-
ceived Don Quixote's infirmity, and that it
had in it more of madness than valour;
and, though he had sometimes heard his
name mentioned, he always thought that
what had been said of him was a fiction ;
conceiving that such a character could not
exist : he was therefore delighted with this
meeting, as he might now know, from his
own observations, what degree of credit was
really due to the reports in circulation. " Be
not concerned," said Roque, addressing him-
self to Don Quixote, "nor tax fortune with
unkindness ; by thus stumbling, you may
chance to stand more firmly than ever : for
heaven, by strange and circuitous ways, in-
comprehensible to men, is wont to raise the
fallen, and enrich the needy."
Don Quixote was about to return his
thanks for this courteous reception, when
suddenly a noise was heard near them, like
the trampling of many horses ; but it was
caused by one only, upon which came, at
full speed, a youth, seemingly about twenty
years of age, clad in green damask edged
with gold lace, trowsers, and a loose coat ;
his hat cocked in the Walloon fashion, with
strait waxed-leather boots, spurs, dagger,
and gold-hilted sword ; a small carabine in
his hand, and a brace of pistols by his side.
Roque, hearing the noise of a horse, turned
his head and observed this handsome youth
advancing towards him : " Valiant Roque,"
said the cavalier, " you are the person I
have been seeking ; for with you I hope to
find some comfort, though not a remedy, in
my afflictions. Not to keep you in suspense,
because I perceive that you do not know
me, I will tell you who I am. I am Claudia
Jcronima, daughter of Simon Forte, your
intimate friend, and the particular enemy
of Clauquel Torellas, who is also yours, be-
ing of the faction which is adverse to you.
You know, too, that Torellas has a son,
called Don Vincente de Torellas, — at least
so he was called not two hours ago. That
son of his — to shorten the story of my mis-
fortune,— Ah, what sorrow he has brought
upon me! that son, I say, saw me, and
courted me ; I listened to him, and loved
him, unknown to my father : for there is
no woman, however retired or secloded.
but finds opportunity to gratify her unruly
desires. In short, he promised to be my
spouse, and I pledged myself to become Lis,
without proceeding any farther. Yesterday
I was informed that, forgetting his engage-
ment to me, he was going to be married to
another, and that this morning the ceremony
was to be performed. The news confounded
me, and I lost all patience. — My father
being out of town, I took the opportunity
of equipping myself as you now see me,
and by the speed of this horse, I overtook
Don Vincente about a league hence, and,
without stopping to reproach him, or hear
his excuses, I fired at him not only with
this piece, but with both my pistols, and
lodged, I believe, not a few balls in his
body : thus washing away with blood the
stains of my honour. I left him to his ser-
vants, who either dared not, or could not
prevent the execution of my purpose ; and
am come to seek your assistance to get to
Franco, where I have relations, with whom
I may live ; and to entreat you likewise to
protect my father from any cruel revenge
on the part of Don Vincente's numerous
kindred."
Roque was struck with the gallantry,
bravery, figure, and also the adventure of
the beautiful Claudia, and said to her,
" Come, madam, and let us first be assured
of your enemy's death, and then we will
consider what is proper to be done for you."
Don Quixote, who had listened attentively
to Claudia's narration, and the reply of
Roque Guinart, now interposed, saying,
" Let no one trouble himself with the defence
of this lady, for I take it upon myself. Give
me my horse and my arms, and wait for me
here while I go in quest of the perjured
knight, and, whether living or dead, make
him fulfil his promise to so much beauty."
"Aye, aye, let nobody doubt that," quoth
Sancho : " my master is a special hand at
match-making. 'Twas but the other day,
he made a young rogue consent to marry
a damsel, he would fain have left in the
lurch, after he had given her his word ;
and, had not the enchanters, who always
I
I
DON QUIXOTE.
163
tormcDt his worship, changed the bridegroom
ÍDto a lacquey, that same maid by this time
would have been a maid no more."
Roque, who was more intent upon Clau-
dia's business than the discourse of master
and man, heard them not ; and, after com-
manding his squires to restore to Sancho all
they had taken from Dapple, and likewise
to retire to the place where they had lodged
the night before, he went off immediately
with Claudia, at full speed, in quest of the
wounded, or dead, Don Vincente. They
presently arrived at the place where Clau-
dia had overtaken him, and found nothing
there except the blood which had been
newly spilt ; but, looking round, at a con-
siderable distance, they saw some persons
ascending a hill, and concluded (as indeed
it proved) that it was Don Vincente, being
conveyed by his servants, either to a doctor
or his grave. They instantly pushed for-
ward to overtake them, which they soon
effected, and found Don Vincente in the
arms of his servants, entreating them, in a
low and feeble voice, to let him die in tliat
place, for he could no longer endure tlie
pain of his wounds. Claudia and Hoque,
throwing themselves from their horses, drew
near; the servants were startled at the
appearance of Roque, and Claudia was^
troubled at the sight of Don Vincente ;
when, divided between tenderness and re-
sentment, she approached him, and, taking
hold of his hand, said, *' Had you but given
me this hand, according to our contract,
you would not have been reduced to this
extremity." The wounded cavalier opened
his almost closed eyes, and, recognising
Claudia, he said, " I perceive, fair and mis-
taken lady, that it is to your hand I owe
my death : — a punishment unmerited by
me, for neither in thought nor deed could I
offend you." '' Is it not true then," said
Claudia, " that, this very morning, you
were going to be married to Leonora,
daughter of the rich Balvastro?" "No,
certainly," answered Don Vincente ; " my
evil fortune must have borne you tliat news,
to excite your jealousy to bereave me of
life, but since I leave it in your arms, I es-
teem myself happy ; and, to assure you of
this truth, take my hand, and, if you are
willing, receive me for your husband ; for
I can now give you no other satisfaction
for the injury which you imagine you have
received."
Claudia pressed his hand, and such was
the anguish of her heart that she swooned
away upon the bloody bosom of Don
Vincente, and at the same moment he was
seized with a mortal paroxysm. Roque
was confounded, and knew not what to do ;
the servants ran for water, with which they
sprinkled their faces; Claudia recovered,
but Don Vincente was left in the sleep of
death. When Claudia was convinced that
her beloved husband no longer breathed,
she rent the air with her groans, and pierced
the skies with her lamentations. She tore
her hair, scattered it in the wind, and, with
her own merciless hands, wounded and
disfigured her face, with every other de-
monstration of grief, distraction, and des-
pair. " O rash and cruel woman !" she
exclaimed, '' with what facility wert thou
moved to this evil deed ! O maddening
sting of jealousy, how deadly thy effect- !
O my dear husband ! AVhose love for me
hath given thee, for thy bridal bed, a cold
grave !" So piteous indeed were tlie lamen-
tations of Claudia that they forced tears
even from the eyes of Roque, where they
were seldom or never seen before. The
servants wept and lamented ; Claudia was
recovered from one fainting fit, only to fall
into another, and all around was a scene
of sorrow. At length Roque Guinart or-
dered the attendants to take up the body of
Don Vincente, and convey it to the town
where his fatlier dwelt, which was not far
distant, tliat it might be there interred.
Claudia told Roque that it was her deter-
mination to retire to a nunnery, of which
her aunt was abbess ; there to spend what
remained of her wretched life, looking to
heavenly nuptials and an eternal spouse.
Roque applauded her good design, offering
to conduct her wherever it was her desire
to go, and to defend her father against the
relatives of Don Vincente, or any one who
should offer violence to him. Claudia ex-
pressed her thanks in the best manner she
could, but declined his company, and, over-
whelmed with affliction, took her leave of
<¿r
(?=-
4G4
ADVENTURES OF
him. At Üie same time, Don Vinceiite's ser-
vants carried off his dead body, and Roque
returned to his companions. Thus ended
the amour of Claudia Jeronima; and no
wonder that it was so calamitous, since it
was brought about by the cruel and irre-
sistible power of jealousy.
Roque Guinart found his band of des-
peradoes in the place he had appointed to
meet them, and Don Quixote in the midst
of them, endeavouring, in a formal speech,
to persuade them to quit that kind of life,
so prejudicial both to soul and body. But
his auditors were chiefly Gascons, a wild
and ungovernable race, and therefore his
harangue made but little impression upon
them. Roque having asked Sancho Panza
whether they had restored to him all the
property which had been taken from Dapple,
he said they had returned all but three night-
caps, which were worth three cities. " What
does the fellow say?" quoth one of the
party : *^ I have got them, and they are
not worth three reals." " That is true,"
quotli Don Quixote ; '' but my squire justly
values the gift for the sake of the giver."
Roque Guinart insisted upon their being
immediately restored ; then, after command-
ing his men to draw up in a line before him,
he caused all the clothes, jewels, and money,
and, in short, all they had plundered since
the last division to be brought out and
spread before them ; which being done, he
made a sliort appraisement, reducing what
could not be divided into money, and shared
the whole among his company with the
utmost exactness and impartiality. After
sharing the booty in this manner, by which
all were satisfied, Roque said to Don Quix-
ote, " If I were not thus exact in deahng
with these fellows, there would be no living
with them." " Well," quoth Sancho, "jus-
tice must needs be a good thing, for it is
necessary, I see, even among thieves." On
hearing this, one of the squires raised the
butt- end of his piece, and would surely
have split poor Sancho's head, if Roque
had not called out to him to forbear. Ter-
rified at his narrow escape, Sancho resolved
to seal up his lips while he remained in
such company.
Just at this time intelligence was brought
by the scouts that, not far distant, on tlie
Barcelona road, a large body of people
were seen coming that way. " Can you
discover," said Roque, " whether they are
such as we look for, or such as look for
us." "Such as we look for, sir." — ** Away
then," said Roque, "and bring them hither
straight — and see that none escape.'' The
command was instantly obeyed ; the band
sallied forth, while Don Quixote and Sancho
remained with the chief, anxious to see
what would follow. In the mean time
Roque conversed with the knight on hi'
own way of living. "This life of ours
must appear strange to you, sigñor Dop
Quixote, — new accidents, new adventures,
in constant succession, and all full of danger
and disquiet: it is a state, I confess, in which
there is no repose either for body or mind.
Injuries which I could not brook, and a
thirst of revenge, first led me into it, con-
trary to my nature ; for the savage asperity
of my present behaviour is a disguise to my
heart, which is gentle and humane. Vet,
unnatural as it is, having plunged into it,
I persevere ; and, as one sin is followed by
another, and mischief is added to mischief,
my own resentments are now so linked with
those of others, and I am so involved in
a wrongs, and factions, and engagements,
that nothing but the hand of Providence
can snatch me out of this entangled maze.
Nevertheless, I despair not of coming, at
last, into a safe and quiet harbour."
Don Quixote was surprised at thesse
sober reflections, so different from what he
should have expected from a banditti chief,
whose occupation was robbery and murder.
" Sigfior Roque," said he, " the beginning
of a cure consists in the knowledge of the
distemper, and in the patient's willingness
to take the medicines prescribed to him by
his physician. You are sick; you know
your malady ; and God, our physician, is
ready with medicines that, in time, will
certainly effect a care. Besides, sinners of
good understanding are nearer to amend-
ment than tliose who are devoid of it ; and,
as your superior sense is manifest, be of
good cheer, and hope for your entire re-
covery. If, in this desirable work, yoa
would take the shortest way, and at obcc
DON QUIXOTE.
465
enter that of your salvation, come with me,
and I will teach you to be a knight-errant,
— a profession, it is true, full of labours and
disasters, but which, being placed to the
account of penance, will not fail to lead
you to honour and felicity." Roque smiled
at Don Quixote's counsel, but, changing
the discourse, he related to him the tra-
gical adventure of Claudia Jeronima, which
grieved Sancho to the heart; for he had
been much captivated by the beauty, grace,
and sprightliness of the young lady.
The party which had been dispatched by
Roque now returned with their captives,
who consisted of two gentlemen on horse-
back, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach
fall of women, attended by six servants,
some on foot, and some on horseback, and
also two muleteers belonging to the gentle-
men. They were surrounded by the victors,
who, as well as the vanquished, waited in
profound silence till the great Roque should
declare his will. He first asked the gen-
tlemen who they were, whither they were
going, and what money they had ? " We
are captains of iniantry, sir," said one of
them ; ^* and are going to join our compa-
nies, which are at Naples, and, for that
purpose, intend to embark at Barcelona,
where, it is said, four gallies are about to
sail for Sicily. Two or three hundred crowns
is somewhere about the amount of our cash,
and with that sum we accounted ourselves
rich, considering that we are soldiers, whose
purses are seldom overladen." The pilgrims,
being questioned in the same manner, said
their intention was to embark for Rome,
and that they had about them some three
score reals. The coach now came under
examination, and Roque was informed, by
one of the attendants, that the persons
within were the lady Donna Guiomar de
Quiñones, wife of the Regent of the vicar-
ship of Naples, her young daughter, a
waiting- maid, and a duenna; that six ser-
vants accompanied them, and their money
amounted to six hundred crowns." " It ap-
pears, then," said Roque Guinart, " that we
have here nine hundred crowns, and sixty
reals : my soldiers are sixty in number; see
how much falls to the share of each ; for I
am myself but an indifferent accomptant."
His armed ruffians, on hearing this, cried
out, " Long live Roque Guinart ! in spite
of the dogs that seek his ruin." But the
officers looked chop- fallen, the lady-regent
much dejected, and the pilgrims nothing
pleased at witnessing this confiscation of
their efiTects. Roque held them awhile in
suspense, but would not long protract their
sufiTering, which was visible a bo^-shot ofi^,
and therefore, turning to the captains, he
said, " Pray, gentlemen, do me the favour
to lend we sixty crowns ; and you, lady-
regent, fourscore, as a slight perquisite
which these honest gentlemen of mine ex-
pect: for 'the abbot must eat that sings
for his meat ;' and you may then depart,
and prosecute your journey without moles-
tation ; being secured by a pass which I
will give you, in case of your meeting with
any other of my people, who are dispersed
about this part of the country: for it is
not a practice with me to molest soldiers,
and I should be loth, madam, to be found
wanting in respect to the fair sex— especially
to ladies of your quality."
The captains were liberal in their ac-
knowledgments to Roque for his courtesy
and moderation in having generously left
them a part of tlieir money ; and Donna
Guiomar de Quiñones would have thrown
herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and
hands of the great Roque, but he would
not suffer it, and entreated her pardon for
the injury he was forced to do them, in
compliance with the duties of an office
which his evil fortune had imposed on him.
The lady then ordered the fourscore crowns
to be immediately paid to him, as her share
of the assessment ; the captains had already
disbursed their quota, and the pilgrims were
proceeding to offer their little all, when
Roque told them to wait ; then, turning to
his men, he said, " Of these crowns two
fall to each man's share, and twenty remain :
let ten be given to these pilgrims, and the
other ten to this honest squire, that, in re-
lating his travels, he may have cause to
speak well of us. Then, producing his
writing implements, with which he was
always provided, he gave them a pass,
directed to the chiefs of his several parties ;
and, taking his leave, he dismissed them,
2 11
^
466
ADVENTURES OF
all admiring hh generosity, his gallan try ,
and extraordinary conduct, and looking
upon him rather as an Alexander the Great
than a notorioos robber.*
On the departure of the travellers, one
of Hoque's men seemed disposed to murmur,
saying, in his Catalonian dialect, ''This
captain of ours is wondrous charitable, and
would do better among friars than with
those of our trade ; but, if he must be
giving, let it be with his own." The wretch
spoke not so low but that Roque overheard
him, and, drawing his sword, he almost
cleft his head in two, saying, '' Thus I
chastise the mutinous." The rest were
silent and overawed, such was their obedi-
ence to his authority. Roque then with-
drew a little, and wrote a letter to a friend
at Barcelona, to inform him tliat he had
with him the famous Don Quixote de la
Mancha, of whom so much had been re-
ported, and that, being on his way to Bar-
celona, he might be sure to see him there
on the approaching festival of St. John the
Baptist, parading the strand, armed at all
points, mounted on his steed Rozinante,
and attended by his squire Sancho Panza,
upon an ass ; adding that he had found
him wonderfully sagacious and entertaining.
He also desired him to give notice of this
to his friends the Niarra, that they might
be diverted with the knight, and enjoy a
pleasure, which he diought too good for
his enemies the Cadells ; though he feared
it was impossible to prevent their coming
in for a share of what all the world must
* Pellicer proves that this robber Guinut, properlj
named Pedro Rocha Guinarda, waa a perdón actaallj
existing in the time of Cervantes, and the captain of a
band of freebooters. About the same period there were,
likewise, other Andalusian robbers in Sierra Cabrilla,
who were no less equitable, and even more scrupulous,
than the great Roque himself. Their garb was that of
good reformed people, and thej took from travellers but
half their propcrtj.
The licentiate Luque j Fazardo, in his " Fiel Disen-
gaño contra la Ociosidad 7 los Juegos," fol. 291, relates,
as a well-known fact, their encountering with a peasant,
who had fifteen reals ; having reckoned the half, he
found he had not change for a real, to give them the
8eveo-and<a-half, and therefore politely offered them the
eight reals, contenting himself with seven. But thej
declined his offer, saying, *' Oh no I by no means ; with
what is our own the Lord prosper us!" They were
railed the " Sainta of Cabrilla," from their apparel, and
the place they frequented.
It U probable that the story of Roque Guinart had
much interest attached to it when the Quixore was first
know and be delighted with. He dis-
patched this epistle by one of his troop,
who, changing the habit of his vocation
for that of a peasant, entered the city, and
delivered it as directed.
CHAPTER LXI.
OF WHAT BEFRL DON QUIXOTE AT HIS
ENTRANCE INTO BARCELONA, WITH
OTHER EVENTS MORE TRUE THAN
INGENIOUS.
Three days and three nights Don Quixote
sojourned with the great Roque ; and, had
he remained with him three hundred years,
in such a mode of life, he might still have
found new matter for observation and won-
der. Here they sleep, there they eat, some-
times flying from they know not what, at
others laying in wait for they know not
whom ; often forced to steal their nap stand-
ing, and every moment liable to be roused.
Now they appear on this side of the country,
now on that; always on the watch, sending
out spies, posting sentinels, blowing the
matches of their muskets, — though they
had but few, — being chiefly armed with
pistols. Roque passed the nights apart finom
his followers, making no man privy to his
lodgings: for the numerous proclamations
which the viceroy of Barcelona had pub-
lished against him, setting a price upon his
head, kept him in continual apprehension
of surprise, and even of the treachery of his
published, and that its readers then fouad an amuse-
ment in it which it will not afford at the present tíme.
There are few countries which, at some period of tlfeeir
history, have not aeoonnts of these gallant freriMwtcrs,
and where, in spite of their pernicious ocett]iation. they
have been always objects of popular favour. Great
courage, even in a thief, is applauded, and if he is also
reported to be generous, aud £svourable to the poor. Ua
atrocity, to the vulgar eye, disappears ; for the thief who
is said to plunder only the rick, will always find envy
and baseness enough in the multitude to oúain from it
a free license to practise depredations to any extent ; al-
though it be to tiie disgrace of those laws the chief ¿ory
of which lies in the protection they afford to cvtrj clan
of citiaens. The triumph of these deaperadoea indicates
both a loose state of society, and degraded numls. in-
compatible with national prosperity ; and the poor man
littie thinlis, when he allows himself to be pJeaaed at
his rich neighbour's suffering under such violatioiic of
their common safeguard, that a country where ÚM
wealthy cannot live in lawful security, offers Uttla clu
but wretchedness to those of his own class.
DON QUIXOTE.
467
own follower»: making hit life irksome and
wretched beyond measure.
Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, attended
by six squires, set out for Barcelona, and
taking the most secret and unfrequented
ways, at night reached the strand on the
eve of St. John. Roque now embraced the
knight and squire, giving to Sancho the
promised ten crowns, and thus they parted,
with many friendly expressions and a thou-
sand offers of service on both sides.
Roque returned back, and Don Quixote
remained there on horseback, waiting for
daybreak ; and it was not long before the
beautiful Aurora appeared in the golden
balconies of the east, cheering the flowery
fields, while at the same time the ears were
regaled with the sound of numerous kettle
drums and jingling morrice bells, mixed
with the noise of horsemen coming out of
die city. Aurora now retired, and the glo-
rious sun gradually rising at length appeared
broad as an ample shield on the verge of
the horizon. Don Quixote and Sancho
now beheld the sea, which, to them, was
a wonderous novelty, and seemed so bound-
less and BO vast that the lakes of Ruydera,
which they had seen in La Mancha, could
not be compared to it. They saw the
gallies too, lying at anchor near the shore,
which, on removing their awnings, appeared
covered with flags and pennants all flicker-
ing in the wind, and kissing tlie surface of
the water. Within them was heard the
sound of trumpets, hautboys, and other
martial instruments, that filled the air with
sweet and cheering harmony. Presently
the veascb were put in motion, and on the
calm sea began a counterfeit engagement ;
at the same time a numerous body of cava-
liers in gorgeous liveries and nobly mounted,
issued from the city and performed corres-
ponding movements on shore. Cannon were
discharged on board the gallies, which were
answered by those on the ramparts ; and
thus the ahr was rent by mimic thunder.
The cheerful sea, the serene sky, only now
and then obscursd by the smoke of the
artillery, seemed to exhilirate and gladden
every heart.
Sa cho wondered that the bulky monsters
which he saw moving on the water, should
have so many legs ; and, while his master
stood in silent astonishment at the marvel-
lous scene before him, the body of gay
cavaliers came galloping up towards him,
shouting in the Moorish manner, and one
of them, — the person to whom Roque had
written, came for\vard, and said, '^ Welcome,
to our city, the mirror, the beacon, and
polar star of knight-errantry ! Welcome, I
say, O valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha,
not the spurious, the fictitious, the apocry-
phal one, lately sent amongst us in lying
histories, but the true, the legitimate, the
genuine Quixote of- Cid Hamete Benengeli,
the flower of historians!" Don Quixote
answered not a word, nor did the cava-
liers wait for any answer, but, wheeling
round with all thehr followers, they began to
curvet in a circle, about Don Quixote, who,
turning to Sancho, said, ''These people
seem to know us well, Sancho, I dare
engage they have read our history, and
even that of tlie Arragonese, lately printed.''
The gentleman who spoke to Don Quixote,
again addressed him, saying, '' Be pleased
sigñor Don Quixote to accompany us, for
we are all the intimate and devoted friends
of Roque Guinart." To which Don Quix-
ote replied, ''If courtesy beget courtesy,
yours, good sir, springs from that of the
great Roque ; conduct me whither you
please, for 1 am wholly at your disposal.''
The gentleman answered in expressions no
less polite, and, enclosing him in the midst
of them, they all proceeded, to the sound
of martial music, towards the city, at the
entrance of which, the father of mischief
so ordered it that, among the boys, all of
whom are his willing instruments, two, more
audacious than the rest, contrived to insin-
uate themselves within the crowd of horse-
men, and one lifting up Dapple's tail, and
the other of Rozinante, they lodged under
each a handful of briars, the stings whereof
being soon felt by the poor animals, they
clapped their tails only the closer, whidi
so augmented their suffering that, plunging
and kicking from excess of pain, they
quickly brought their riders to the ground.
Don Quixote, abashed and indignant at the
afiront, hastened to relieve his tormented
steed, while Sancho performed the same
468
ADVENTURES OF
kind office for Dapple. Their cavalier es-
cort would have chastised the offenders, but
the young rogues presently found shelter in
the rabble that followed. The knight and
the squire then mounted again, and accom-
panied by the same music and acclamations,
proceeded until they reached their conduc-
tor's house, which was large and handsome,
declaring the owner to be a man of wealth
and consideration ; and there we will leave
them ;— for such is the will and pleasure
of the author of this history. Cid Hamete
Denengeli.
CHAPTER LXTI.
WHICH TREATS OP THB ADVENTURE OP
THE ENCHANTED HEAD, WITH OTHER
TRIFLING MATTERS THAT MUST NOT
BR OMITTED.
The name of Don Quixote's present host
was Don Antonio Moreno ; be was rich,
sensible and good-humoured, and, being
cheerfully disposed, with such an inmate
he soon began to consider how he might
extract amusement from his whimsical in-
firmity ; but withoui offence to his guest :
— for the jest that gives pain is no jest,
nor is that lawful pastime which inflicts
an injury. Having prevailed upon the
knight to take off his armour, he led him
to a balcony at the front of his house, and
there in his straight chamois doublet (which
has already been mentioned), exposed him
to the populace, who stood gazing at him
as if he had been some strange baboon. The
gay cavaliers again appeared and paraded
before him, as in compliment to him alone,
and not in honour of that day's festival.
Sancho was highly delighted to find so un-
expectedly what he fancied to be another
Camacho's wedding; another house like
that of Don Diego de Miranda, and another
dnke^i castle.
On that day several of Don Antonio's
friends dined with him, all paying homage
and respect to Don Quixote as a knight-
errant ; with which his vanity was so flat-
tered that he could scarcely conceal the
delight which it gave him. And such was
the power of Sancho's wit that every ser-
vant of the house, and indeed all who heard
him, hung, as it were, upon his lips. While
sitting at table, Don Antonio said to him,
" We are told here, honest Sancho, that yen I
are so great a lover of capons and sausages
that, when you have crammed your belly,
you stuff your pockets with the fragmento
for another day." "'Tis not tme, an't
please your worship ; I am not so fiitby, '
nor am I a glutton, as my master Don
Quixote here present can bear witness : for
he knows we have often lived day after day,
aye, a whole week together, upon a handful j
of acorns or hazel nuts. It is true, I own, !
that if they give me a heifer, I make haste >
with a halter; — my way is to take things
as I find them, and eat what comes to hand, j
and whoever has said that I am given tc» !
greediness, take my word for it, he is very '
much out ; and I would tell my mind in
another manner, but for the respect due to
the honourable beards here at table.'' ''In .
truth, gentlemen," said Don Quixote, ^^tlie |
frugality of my squire and his cleanliness iti
eating deserve to be recorded on plates ot ,
brass, to remain an eternal memorial for j
ages to come. I confess that, when in great
want of food, he may appear somewhat
ravenous, eating fast and chewing on both
sides of his mouth ; but, as for cleanliness,
he is therein most punctilious ; and, when
be was a governor, such was his nicety in
eating that he would take up grapes, and
even the grains of a pomegranate, with the
point of a fork." "How!" quoth Don
Antonio, " has Sancho been a governor ?"
"Yes, i'faith, I have," replied Sancho,
" and of an island called Barataría. Ten
days I governed it at my own will and plea-
sure ; but I paid for it in sleepless nights,
and learned to hate, with all my heart, the
trade of governing, and made such haste
to leave it that I fell into a pit, which I
thought would be my grave, but I escaped
alive out of it, by a miracle." Hereupon
Don Quixote related minutely all the cir-
cumstances of Sancho's government ; to the
great entertainment of the hearers.
The dinner being ended, Don Quixote
was led by his host into a distant apartment,
in which there was no other fumitore than
a small table, apparently of jasper, supported
by a pillar of the same ; and npon it was
ziPii
DON QUIXOTE.
40D
placed a bast, seemingly of bronze, the
effigy of some high personage. After
taking a turn or two in the room, Don
Antonio said, " Sigfior Don Quixote, now
that we are alone, I will make known to
you one of the most extraordinary circum-
stances, or rather I should say, one of tlie
greatest wonders, imaginable, upon condi-
tion, that what I shall communicate be de-
posited in the inmost recesses of secrecy.^'
''It shall be there buried," answered Don
Quixote ; " and, to be more secure, I will
cover it with a tomb -stone; besides, I
would have you know, sigñor Don Anto-
nio," (for by this time he had learned his
name,) '' that you are addressing one who,
though he has ears to hear has no tongue to
betray : so that if it please you to deposit
it in my breast, be assured it is plunged
into the abyss of silence." '' I am satis-
fied," said Don Antonio, '* and, confiding
in your promise, I will at once raise your
astonishment, and disburthen my own breast
of a secret which I have long borne with
pain, from the want of some person worthy
to be made a confidant in matters which are
not to be revealed to every body." Thus
having, by his long preamble, strongly ex-
cited Don Quixote's curiosity, Don Antonio
made him examiné carefully the brazen head,
the table, and the jasper pedestal upon which
it stood ; he then said, '' Know, signer Don
Quixote, that this extraordinary bust is the
production of one of the greatest enchanters
or wizards that ever existed. He was, I
believe, a Polander and a disciple of the fa-
mous Escotillo,* of whom so many wonders
are related. He was here in my house and,
for the reward of a thousand crowns, fabri-
cated this head for me, which has the virtue
and property of answering to every question
that is put to it. After much study and la-
bour, drawing figures, erecting schemes, and
frequent observation of the stars, he com-
pleted his work. To day being Friday, it
is mute, but to-morrow, sigñor, you shall
surely witness its marvellous powers. In
the mean time you may prepare your ques-
tions, for you may rely on hearing the truth.
Don Quixote was much astonished at what
« Michael Scotiu.
he heard, and could scarcely credit Don
Antonio's relation ; but, considering how
soon he should be satisfied, he was content
to suspend his opinion, and expressed his
acknowledgments to Don Antonio for so
great a proof of his favour. Then leaving
the chamber, and carefully locking the door,
they both returned to the saloon, where the
rest of the company were diverting them-
selves with Sancho's account of his master's
adventures.
The same evening ¿hey carried Don Quix-
ote abroad, to take the air, mounted on a
large easy-paced mule with handsome furni-
ture, himself unarmed and with a long wrap-
ping coat of tawny-coloured cloth, so warm
that it would have put even frost into a
sweat. They had given private orders to
the servants to find amusement for Sancho,
so as to prevent his leaving the house, as
they had secretly fixed on the back of Don
Quixote's coat a parchment, on which was
written in capital letters ; '' This' is Don
Quixote de la Mancha." They had no
sooner set out than the parchment attracted
the eyes of the passengers, and the inscrip-
tion being read aloud, Don Quixote heard
his name so frequently repeated that, turn-
ing to Don Antonio with much complacency,
he said, ''How great the prerogative of
knight - errantry, since its professors are
known and renowned over the whole earth !
Observe, sigñor Don Antonio, — even tlie
very boys of tliis city know me, although
they never could have seen me before !"
"It is very true, sigñor Don Quixote,"
answered Don Antonio; "for, as fire is
discovered by its own light, so is virtue by
its own excellence, and no renown equals in
splendour that which is acquired by the
profession of arms."
As Don Quixote thus rode along amidst
the applause of the people, a Castilian, who
had read the label on his back, exclaimed,
"What! Don Quixote de la Mancha! Now
the devil take thee ! How hast thou got
here alive after the many drubbings and
bastings thou hast received ? Mad indeed
thou art ! Had thy folly been confined to
thyself, the mischief had been less; but
thou hast the property of converting into
fools and madmen all that keep thee com-
470
ADVENTURES OF
pany — witness these gentlemen here, thy
present associates. — Get home, blockhead,
to thy wife and children; look after thy
house and leave these fooleries that eat into
thy brain, and skim off the cream of thy
understanding !" " Go, friend," said Don
Antonio, 'Mook after your own business,
and give your advice where it is required ;
signer Don Quixote is wise, and we his
friends know what we are doing. Virtue
demands our homage wherever it is found ;
be gone, therefore, in an evil hour, nor med-
dle where you are not called." "Truly,"
answered the Castilian, '^your worship is
in the right ; for to give that lunatic advice,
is to kick against the pricks. Yet am I
grieved that the good sense, which he is
said to have, should run to waste, and be
lost in tlie mire of knight-errantry. And
may the evil hour, as your worship said,
overtake me and all my generation, if ever
you catch me giving advice again to any
body, asked or not asked, though I were to
live to the age of Methusalem." So saying,
the adviser went his way, but the rabble
still pressing upon them to read the inscrip-
tion, Don Antonio contrived to have it re-
moved, that they might proceed without
interruption.
On the approach of night, the cavalcade
returned home, where preparations were
made for a ball by the wife of Don Anto-
nio, an accomplished and beautiful lady,
who had invited other friends, both to do
honour to her guest, and to entertain them
witli his singular humour. The ball, which
was preceded by a splendid repast, began
about ten o'clock at night. Among the
ladies, there were two of an arch and jocose
disposition, who, though they were modest,
behaved with more freedom than usual;
and, to divert themselves and the rest, so
plied Don Quixote with dancing that they
worried both his soul and body. A sight it
was indeed to behold hb figure, long, lank,
lean, and swarthy, straitened in his clothes,
so awkward, and with so little agility.
These roguish ladies took occasion privately
to pay their court to him, and he as often
repelled them ; till, at last, finding himself
so pressed by their amorous attentions, —
** Fugite, partes ad vers® !" cried he, aloud,
" avaunt, ladies ! your desires are poison to
my soul ! — Leave me to repose, ye unwel-
come thoughts, for the peerless Dulcinea
del Toboso is the sole queen of my heart !"
He then threw himself on the floor, where
he laid quite shattered by the violence of
his exertions. Don Antonio ordered that
the wearied knight should be taken up and
carried to bed. Sancho was among the
first to lend a helping hand; and as he
raised him up, " What, in God's same,
sir," said he, '* put you upon this business '
Think you that all who are valiant must be
caperers, or all knights - errant dancing-
masters? If so, you are much mistaken, I
can tell you. — Body of me ! some that I
know would rather cut a gianf s weesand
than a caper. Had you been for the shoe-
jig,* 1 could have done your business for
you, for I can frisk it away like any jer-
folcon ; but as for your fine dancing, I can-
not work a stitch at it." The company
were much diverted by Sancho's remark5,
who now led his master to bed, where
he left him well covered up, to sweat aAvay
the ill effects of his dancing.
The next day, Don Antonio determined
to make experiment of the enchanted head ;
and for that purpose, the knight and squire,
the two mischievous ladies (who had been
invited by Don Antonio's lady to sleep
there that night), and two other friends,
were conducted to the chamber in which
the head was placed. After locking the
door, Don Antonio proceeded to explain to
them the properties of the miraculous bust,
of which, he said, he should now for the
first time make trial, but laid them all under
an injunction of secrecy. Tlie artifice was
known only to the two gentlemen, who,
had they not been apprised of it, would
have been no less astonished than the rest,
at so ingenious a contrivance. The first
who approached the head was Don Antonio
himself, who whispered in its ear, not so low
but he was overheard by all, '' Tell me,"
said he, " thou wond'rous head, by the vir-
tue inherent in thee, what are my present
* *' Zapatear;" when the dancen tlap the eoleof
their shoe, with the palm of their hand, in timt and
J.
p. 470.
DON QUIXOTE.
471
thoughts V In a clear and distinct Toice,
without any perceptible motion of its lips,
the head replied, '< I have no knowledge of
thoughts.'^ All were astonished to hear
articulate sounds proceed from the head,
being convinced that no human creature
present had uttered them. ** Then tell me,"
said Don Antonio, '^ how many persons are
here assembled V '< Thou and thy wife,
with two of thy friends, and two of hers ;
and also a famous knight, called Don
Quixote de la Mancha, with his squire,
Sancho Panza." At these words, the hair
on every head stood erect with amazement
and fear. '* Miraculous head I" exclaimed
Don Antonio (retiring a little from the
bust), '^ I am now convinced he was no
impostor from whose hands I received thee,
O wise, oracular, and eloquent head ! — Let
the experiment be now repeated by some
other." As women are commonly impa-
tient and inquisitive, one of the two ladies
next approached the oracle. ''Tell me,
head," said she, '^ what means shall I take
to improve my beauty V ^* Be modest,"
replied the head. ** 1 have done," said the
lady. Her companion then went np and
said, *^ I would be glad to know, wondrous
head, whether I am beloved by my husband."
'< That thou may'st discover by his conduct
towards thee," said the oracle. '^ That is
true," said the married lady, '' and the ques-
tion was needless, for surely, by a man's
actions may be seen the true disposition of
his mind." One of the gentlemen now ap-
proached the bust, and said, *' who am I?"
" Thou knowest," was the answer. " That
is not an answer to my question — tell me,
head, knowest thou who I am ?" " Don
Pedro Noriz," replied the head. "Tis
enough — amazing bust I" exclaimed the
gentleman, 'Hbou knowest every thing."
The other gentleman then put his question.
'' Tell me, head, I beseech thee," said he,
'' what are the chief wishes of my son and
heir?" *^ Thou hast already heard that I
speak not of thoughts," answered the head,
'< yet be assured thy son wishes to see thee
entombed." "Truly, I believe it," said the
gentleman ; "it is but too plain. I have
done." Then came the lady of Don Anto-
nio, and said, " I know not what to ask
thee, yet I would fain know if I shall I
enjoy my dear husband many years." Then
listening, she heard these words: "Yes,
surely, from temperance and a sound body
thou mayest expect no less." Now came
the flower of chivalry. "Tell me, thou
oracle of truth," said tiie knight, " was it a
reality or only an illusion that I beheld in
the cave of Montesinos ? Will the penance
imposed on my squire, Sancho Panza, ever
be performed ? Will Dulcinea ever be dis-
enchanted ?" " What thou sawest in the
cave," replied the bust, " partakes both of
truth and ñdsehood. Sancho's penance will
be slow in performance, and in due time
the disenchantment of Dulcinea will be ac-
complished." " I am satisfied," said Don
Quixote ; " when I shall see the lady of
my soul released from her present thraldom,
fortune will have nothing more to give me."
The last querist was Sancho, — " Shall
I," quoth he, " have another government ?
Shal\ I quit this hungry life of squireship ?
Shall I see again my Avife and children ?"
" If thou retumest home," said the oracle,
"there shalt thou be a govenor, and see
again thy wife and children ; and should'st
thuu quit service, thou wilt cease to be a
squire." " Ods life !" quoth Sancho Panza :
"I could have told myself as much, and
the prophet Perogrullo could have told me
no more." " Beast !" quoth Don Quixote,
" what answer would'st thou have ? Is it
not enough that the answers given thee
should correspond with the questions ?"
" Yes, truly, sir, quite enough, only I
wish it had not been so sparing of its
knowledge." •
Thus ended the examination of the en-
chanted head, which left the whole company
in amazement, excepting Don Antonio's two
friends. Cid Haroete Benengeli, however,
was determined to divulge the secret of tliis
mystt'rious head, that the world might not
ascribe its extraordinary properties to witch-
craft or necromancy. He declares, there-
fore, that Don Antonio caused it to be made
in imitation of one which he had seen at
Madrid, intending it for his own amuse-
ment, and to surprise the ignorant ; and he
thus describes the machine : the table, in-
I eluding its leg and four eagle claws, was
=(0L
©>=
472
ADVENTURES OF
made of wood, and coloured in imitation
of jasper. The head, being a resemblance
of one of the Ceesars, and painted like
bronze, was hollow, with an opening below
corresponding with another in the middle
of the table, which passed through the leg,
and was continued, by means of a metal
tube, through the floor of the chamber into
another beneath, where a person stood ready
to receive the questions, and return answers
to the same ; the voice ascending and de-
scending as clear and articulate as through
a speaking-trumpet; and, as no marks of
the passage of communication were visible,
*t was impossible to detect the cheat. A
shrewd, sensible, youth, nephew to Don
Antonio, was, on this occasion, the respond-
ent ; having been previously instructed, by
his uncle, in what concerned the several
persons with whom he was to communicate.
Tiie first question he readily answered, and to
the rest he replied as his judgment directed.
Cid Hamete farther observes that this
oracular machine* continued to afford amuse-
ment to its owner during eight days ; but
when it got abroad that Don Antonio was in
possession of an enchanted head that could
speak and give answers to all questions, ap-
prehensive that it might come to the ears
of the watchful sentinels of our faith, he
thought it prudent to acquaint the officers of
the Inquisition with the particulars ; upon
which they commanded him to destroy the
bust, in order to avert the rage of the igno-
rant populace, who might think the posses-
sion of it scandalous and proiline. Never-
theless, in the opinion of Don Quixote and
Sancho it remained still an enchanted head,*
and a true solver of questions; more, indeed,
to the satisfaction of the knight than of his
squire. The gentlemen of the city, out of
complaisance to Don Antonio, and for the
entertainment of Don Quixote — or, rather.
* Bj the importance given to the Enchanted Head, it
would seem that, in the time of Cervantet, it was a
novelty in Spain, where the people, being accustomed
to hear much of miracles wrought by the aid of good or
bad agents, were likely to view it with extraordinary in-
terest, and perhaps give full credit to its oracular powers ;
for which reason, no doubt, the grave historian, Cid
líamete, has here thought it necessary to set the world
right, and shew that it was all a trick, having really
nothing in it cither magical or supernatural.
It Mseiiis whimsical, however, in these days of general
for their own amusement — appointed a publif
running at the ring, which should takt
place in six days; but they were disap-
pointed by an accident, that will be here-
after told.
Don Quixote, being now desirous to view
the city, thought he should be able to do
it on foot with less molestation firom the
boys than if he rode ; he therefore set out,
with Sancho, to perambulate the streets,
attended by two servants assigned him by
Don Antonio. Now it happened that, as
they passed through a certain street, Don
Quixote saw, in large letters, written over
a door, '^ Here books are printed ;".at which
he was much pleased; for, never having
seen the operation of printing, he was
curious to know how it was performed.
He entered it, with his foUowen, and saw
workmen drawing off tlie sheets in one
place, correcting in another, composing in
this, revising in that — in short, all that was
to be seen in a great printing-house. The
knight enquired successively of several
workmen what they were employed upon,
and was gratified by their ready informa-
tion. Making the same enquiry of one
man, he answered, *' I am composing, for
the press, sir, a work which that gentleman
there" — pointing to a person of grave ap-
pearance— '' has translated from the Italian
into our Castilian." << What title does it
bear?" said Don Quixote. "The book,
in Italian, sir," answered the author, '< is
called Le Bagatelle." *' And what answers
to Bagatelle in our language ?" said Don
Quixote. ^'Le Bagatelle," said the author,
'^ signifies trifles; but, though its title pro-
mises little, it contains much good and sub-
stantial matter." '' I know a litüe," quoth
Don Quixote, "of the Tuscan language,
and pique myself upon my recitation of
some of Ariosto's stanzas. — But, good sir.
scepticism, when the magician baa ceased to practiae
his art, and miracles of any kind are extremely rare,
that stich a writer should, with a serious ñwe, have
taken so much pMns to describe a uuseraUa eontri-
vanee which would now scarcely afford amoaement in
one of our village-fairs, where a large proportioB <rf all
that remains of ignorance and credulity in the ceuotiy
is sure to be found,— at least, whatever entertainment it
might afford, it would there excite no suspicion that tbe
fdthcr of darkness, or some of hi» imps, must have had
a hand in the work.
=3
DON QUIXOTE.
478
tell me, 1 beeeech you (and I ask not to
ascertain your skill, but merely out of cu*
riofflty), have you ever, in the course of
your studies, met with the word Pignata?"
"Yes, frequently," replied the author.
"And how do you translate it into Cas-
tiiian ?" quoth Don Quixote. '^ How should
I translate it," replied the author, " but
by the word Olla?" " Body of me," said
Don Quixote, '' what a progress you have
made, sigñor, in the Tuscan language ! I
would venture a good wager that, where
the Tascan says Piace, you say, in Gas-
tilian, Plaze ; and where it says Piu, you
say Mas; and Su, you translate by the
word Arriba ; and Giu, by Abaxo." " I
do so, most certainly," quoth the author;
" for such are the corresponding words."
" And yet, I dare say, sir," quoth Don
Quixote, " that you are scarcely known in
the world : — but it is the &te of all inge-
nioas men. What abilities are lost, what
genius obscured, and what talents despised !
Nevertheless, I cannot but think that trans-
lation from one language into another, un-
less it be from the noblest of all languages,
Greek and Latin, is like presenting the
back of a piece of tapestry, where, though
the figures are seen, they are obscured by
innumerable knots and ends of thread ; very
different from the smooth and agreeable
texture of the proper face of the work;
and to translate easy languages of a similar
construction requires no more talent than
transcribing one paper from another. But
I would not hence infer tliat translating is
not a laudable exercise ; for a man may
be worse and more unprofitably employed.
Nor can my observation apply to the two
celebrated translators, doctor Christopher de
Figueroa, in his Pastor Fido, and Don John
de Xaurigui, in his Aminta; who, with
singular felicity, have made it difficult to
decide which is the translation, and which
the original. But tell me, signer, is this
book printed at your charge, or have you
sold the copy to some bookseller 7" " I
print it, sir, on my own account," answered
the author, " and expect a thousand ducats
by thb first impression of two thousand
• The feMt of St. Martin was the time
copies : at six reals each copy they will go
off in a trice." '* 'Tis mighty well," quoth
Don Quixote ; '* though I fear you know
but little of the tricks of booksellers, and the
juggling there is amongst them. Take my
word for it, you will find a burthen of
two thousand volumes upon your back no
trifling matter — especially if the book be
deficient in sprightliness." '* What, sir ?"
cried the author, "would you have me
give my labour to a bookseller, who, if he
paid me three maravedís for it, would think
it abundant, and say I was favoured ? No,
sir, fame is not my object : of that I am
already secure ; profit is what I now seek,
without which fame is nothing." ** Well,
heaven prosper you, sir 1" said the knight,
who, passing on, observed a man correcting
a sheet of a book entitled "The Light of
the Soul." On seeing the title he said,
"Books of this kind, numerous as they
already are, ought still to be encouraged ;
for numerous are the benighted sinners that
require to be enlightened." He then went
forward, and saw another book under the
corector's hand, and, on enquiring the title,
they told him it was the second part of the
ingenious gentleman Don Quixote de la
Mancha, written by such a one, of Torde-
sillas. " I know something of that book,"
quoth Don Quixote ; ** and, on my con-
science, I thought it had been burnt long
before now for its stupidity : but its Mar-
tinmas* will come, as it does to every hog.
Works of invention are only so far good
as they come near to truth and probability :
as genuine history is valuable in proportion
as it is authentic." So saying, he went
out of the printing-house, apparently in
disgust. On the same day Don Antonio
proposed to shew him the gallies at that
time laying in the road ; which delighted
Sancho, as the sight was new to him. Don
Antonio gave notice to the commodore of
the four gallies of his intention to visit him
that afternoon, with his guest, the renowned
Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose name
by this time was well known in the city ;
and what befel him there shall be told in
the following chapter.
for killing hogs for bacon.— J.
474
ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER LXIIL
OF SANCHO PANZA's MISFORTUNE ON
BOARD THE GALLIBS ; AND THE
EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF THE
BEAUTIFUL MOOR
Profound were the reflections which Don
Quixote made on the answers of the en-
chanted head, none giving him the slightest
hint of any imposition practised upon him
and all centering in the promise, on which
he relied, of the disenchantment of Dulcinea ;
and he exulted at tlie prospect of its speedy
accomplishment. As for Sancho, though
he abhorred being a governor, he still felt
some desire to command again, and be
obeyed : — such, unfortunately, is the effect
of power once enjoyed, though it were only
the shadow of it ! In the afternoon Don
Antonio Moreno, and his two friends, with
Don Quixote aud Sancho, sallied forth, with
an intention to go on board the gallies ; and
the commodore, who was already apprised
of their coming, no sooner perceived them
approach the shore than he ordered all die
gallies to strike their awnings, and the mu-
sicians to play ; at the same time he sent
out the pinnace, spread with rich carpets,
and crimson velvet cushions, to convey them
on board. The moment Don Quixote en-
tered the boat, he was' saluted by a dis-
charge of artillery from the fore-castle guns
of the captain galley, which was repeated
by the rest ; and as he ascended the side
of the vessel, the crew gave him three
cheers, agreeable to the custom of receiving
persons of rank and distinction. When on
deck, the commander, who was a nobleman
of Valencia, gave him his hand, and em-
bracing him, said, ''This day, sir knight,
will I mark with white, as one of the most
fortunate of my life, in having been intro-
duced to sigñor Don Quixote de la Mancha,
in whom is combined and centered all that
is valuable in knight-errantry." Don
Quixote replied to him in terms no less
courteous : exceedingly elated to find him-
self so honoured. The visitors were then
conducted to the quarter-deck, which was
richly adorned, and there seated themselves.
Presently the signal was given for the
rowers to strip, when instantly a vast range
of naked bodies were exposed to view, that
filled Sancho with terror ; and when, in a
moment after, the whole deck was covered
with its awning, he thought all the devils in
hell were let loose. But this prelude was
sugar-cake and honey compared with what
followed.
Sancho had seated himself on the right
side of the deck, and close to the stem-most
rower, who, being instructed what he was
to do, seized upon Üie squire, and lining
him up, tossed him to the next man, and he
to a third, and so on, passing from bank to
bank through the whole range of slaves,
with such astonishing celerity that he lost his
sight with the motion, and fancied that the
devils themselves were carrying him away ;
nor did he stop till he had made the circuit
of the vessel and was again replaced on the
quarter-deck, where they left the poor m^n
bruised, breathless, and in a cold sweat,
scarcely knowing what had befallen him.
Don Quixote, who beheld Sancho's flight
without wings, asked the general if that
was a ceremony commonly practised upon
persons first coming aboard the gallies : for
if so, he added, he must claim an exemption,
having no inclination to perform the like
exercise ; then, rising up and gracing his
sword, he vowed to God that if any one
persumed to lay hold of him to toes him in
that manner, he would kick their soub oat.
At that instant they stuck the awning, and
with a great noise, lowered the main-yard
from the top of the mast to the bottom.
Sancho thought the sky was falling off its
hinges and tumbling upon his head ; and
stooping down, he clapped it in terror be-
tween his legs. Nor was Don Quixote
without alarm, as plainly appeared by his
countenance and manner. With the same
swiftness and noise, the yard was again
hoisted, and during all these operations not
a word was heard. The boatswain now
made the signal for weighing anchor, and
at the same time, with his whip, he laid
about him on the shoulders of the slaves,
while the vessel gradually moved from the
shore. Sancho seeing so many red feet (for
such they appeared to him) in motion all at
at once, said to himself, ''Aye, these indeed
•>tí>^
--^
(p)=
=^
DON QUIXOTE.
476
are real enchantments 1 and not the things
we have seen before ! — I wonder what these
unhappy wretches have done to be flogged
at this rate. And how does that whistling
fbllow dare to whip so many ? — Surely, this
mast be hell, or purgatory at least''
Don Quixote seeing with what attention
Sancho observed all that passed, "Ah,
friend Sancho," said he, " if tliou would'st
now but strip to the waist, and place thyself
among these gentlemen, how easily and
expeditiously mightest thou put an end to
the enchantment of Dulcinea ! For, having
so many companions in pain, thou would'st
feci but little of thine own ; besides, the sage
Merlin would perhaps reckon every lash of
theirs, coming from so good a hand, for ten
of tlioee which, sooner or later, thou must
give thyself." The commander would have
asked what lashes he spoke of, and what he
meant by the disenchantment of Dulcinea,
but was prevented by information that a
signal was perceived on the fort of Montjny,
of a vessel with oars being in sight to the
westward. On hearing this, he leaped upon
tlie middle gangway and cheered the rowers,
saying, <* Pull away, my lads, let her not
escape us; she must be some Moorish thief!"
llie other gallies now coming up to the
commodore for orders, two were commanded
to push out to sea immediately, while he
attacked them on the land side, and thus
they would be more certain of their prey.
The crew of the different gallies plied the
oars with such diligence that they seemed
to fiy. A vessel was soon descried about
two miles off, which they judged to be one
of fourteen or fifteen banks of oars ; but, on
discovering the gallies in chase, she imme-
diately made off, in the hopes of escaping
by her swiftness. Unfortunately, however,
for her, the captain-galley was a remarkable
fast sailer and gained upon her so quickly
that the corsairs seeing they could not escape
a superior force, dropped their oars, in order
to yield themselves prisoners, and not ex-
asperate the commander of the gallies by
their obstinacy. But fortune ordained
otherwise, for, just as the captain-galley
had nearly closed with her, and she was
summoned to surrender, two drunken Turks,
who with twelve others were on board.
i?=r-r^=r-
discharged their muskets, with which tiiey
killed two of our soldiers upon the prow ;
whereupon the commander swore he would
not leave a man of them alive ; and, coming
up with all fury to board her, she slipped away
under the oars of the galley. The galley
ran a-head some distance; in the mean
time the corsairs, as their case was despe-
rate, endeavoured to make off; but their
presumption only aggravated their misfor-
tune : for the captain-galley presently over-
took them again, when, clapping her oars
on the vessel, she was instantly taken
possession of, without more bloodied.
By this time the two other gallies had
come up, and all four returned, with tlie
captured vessel, to their former station near
the shore, where a multitude of people had
assembled to see what had been taKen. On
coming to anchor, the commander seat the
pinnace on shore for the viceroy, whom he
saw waiting to be conveyed on board, and
at the same time ordered the main -yard to
be lowered, intending, without delay, to
hang the master of Uie vessel, and the rest
of the Turks he had taken in her, about
six-and-thirty in number, ail stout fellows,
and most of them musqueteers. The com-
mander enquired which was their master,
when one of the captives (who was after-
wards discovered to be a Spanish renegado),
answering him in Castilian, ''That young
man, sir, is our captain," said he, pointing
to a youth of singular grace and beauty,
seemingly under twenty years of age. ''Tell
me, ill-advised dog," said the commodore,
''what moved you to kill my soldiers, when
you saw it was impossible to escape ? Is
this the respect due to captain -gallies 7
Know you not that temerity is not valour,
and that doubtful hopes should make men
bold, but not rash 7" The youth would
have replied, but the commodore left him
to receive the viceroy, who was at that
moment entering the galley, with a nume-
rous train of servants and others. '' You
have had a fine chase, commodore," said
the viceroy. " So fine," answered the
other, " that the sport is not yet over, as
your excellency shall see." "How so 7"
replied the viceroy. "Because," replied
the commodore, " these dogs, against all
476
APVENTURES OF
law and reason, and the custom of war,
have killed two of my best soldiers, I have
sworn to hang every man I took prisoner,
especially that beardless rogue there, master
of the bngantine :" — pointing to one who
had his hands tied, and a rope about his
neck, standing in expectation of immediate
death. The viceroy was much struck with
his youth, his handsome person, and re-
signed behaviour, and felt a great desire
to save him. ^* Tell me, corsair," said he,
*'' what art thou ? — a Turk, Moor, or rene-
gado V* " I am neither Turk, Moor, nor
renegado," replied the youth, in the Cas-
tilian tongue. " What, tfien, art thou V de-
manded the viceroy. ^^ A Christian woman,
sir," answered the youth. ** A woman and
a Christian, in this garb, and in such a post !"
said the viceroy : '^ this is indeed more won-
derful than credible." ^* Gentlemen," said
the youth, ** allow me to tell you the brief
story of my life : it will not long delay
your revenge." The request was urged so
piteously that it was impossible to deny it,
and the commodore told him to proceed,
but not to expect pardon for an offence like
his. The youth then spoke as follows :
"I am of that unhappy nation whose
miseries are fresh in your memories. My
parents being of Moorish race, I was hur-
ried into Barbary by the current of their
misfortunes, but more especially by the
obstinacy of two of my uncles, with whom
I in vain pleaded that I was a Christian.
True as my declaration was, it had no in-
fluence either on them or the officers charged
with our expulsion, who believed it to be
only a pretext for remaining in the country
where I was born. My father, a prudent
mau, was a true Christian, and my mother
also, from whom, with a mother's early
nourishment, I imbibed the Catholic faith.
I was virtuously reared and educated, and
neither in language nor behaviour gave
indication of my Moorish descent. AVith
Uiese endowments, as I grew up, what
little beauty I have began to appear, and,
in spite of my reserve and seclusion, I was
seen by a youth called Don Gaspar Gre-
gorio, eldest son of a gentleman whose estate
was close to the town in which we lived.
How we met, and conversed together, how
he was distracted for me, and bow 1 was i
little less so for him, would be tedious to ,
relate, especially at a time when I am under
apprehensions that the cruel cord which
threatens me may cut short my narrative.
I will therefore only say that Don Gre-
gorio resolved to bear me company in our
banishment ; and accordingly he joined the
Moorish exiles, whose language he under-
stood, and, getting acquainted with my two
uncles, who had the charge of me, we all
went together to Barbary, and took up our
residence at Algiers, or, I should rather say,
hell itself. My father, on the first notice
of our banishment, had prudently retired to
a place of refuge in some other Christian
country, leaving much valuable property
in pearls and jewels secreted in a certain
place, which he discovered to me alone,
with strict orders not to touch it until his
retarn.
'^ On arriving at Algiers the king under-
standing that I was beautiful and rich— a
report which afterwards turned to my ad-
vantage, sent for me and asked me many
questions concerning my country, and the
wealth I had brought with me.. I told him
where we had resided and also of the money
and jewels which had been left concealed,
and said that if I might be permitted to
return, the treasures could be easily brought
away. This I told him in the hope that his
avarice would protect me from his violence.
^MVhile the king was making these
enquiries, information was brought to him
that a youth of extraordinary beauty had
accompanied me from Spain. I knew that
they could mean no other than Don Gaspar
Gregorio, for he indeed is most beautiful,
and I was alarmed to think of the danger
to which he was exposed among barbarians,
where, as I was told, a handsome youth is
more valued than the most beau tiñil woman.
The king ordered him to be brought into
his presence, asking me, at the same time»
if what had been said of him was true.
Inspired, as I believe, by some good angel,
I told him that the person they so com- ;
mended was not a young man, but one of
my own sex, and begged his permission
to have her dressed in her proper attire, '
whereby her full beauty would be seen, |{
DON QUIXOTE.
477
and she would be spared the confusion of
appearing before his majesty in that unbe-
coming habit. He consented, and said that
the next day he would speak with me about
my returning to Spain for the treasure which
had been left behind. I then repaired to
Don Gaspar, and having informed him of
his danger, dressed him like a Moorish lady,
and the same day introduced him as a fe-
male to the king. His majesty was struck
with admiration, and determined to reserve
the supposed lady as a present to the Grand
Sigfior ; and in the mean time, to avoid the
temptation of so great a beauty among his
own women, he gave him in charge to a
Moorish lady of distinction, to whose house
he was immediately conveyed.
The grief which this separation caused, —
for I will not deny that I love him, can only
be imagined by those who have felt the
pangs of parting love. By the king's order
I presently embarked in this vessel, accom-
panied by the two Turks — the same that
killed your soldiers; and this man also,
who spoke to you first, and whom, though
a renegado, I know to be a christian in his
heart, and more inclined to stay in Spain
than return to Barbary. The rest are Moors
and Turks employed as rowers ; their orders
were to set me and the renegado on shore,
in the habits of christians, on the nearest
coast of Spain, but these insolent Turks,
regardless of their duty, must needs cruise
along the coast, in tlie hope of taking some
prize before they had landed us : tearing if we
bad been first set on shore, we might be in-
duced to give information that such a vessel
was at sea, and thereby expose her to be
taken. Last night we made this shore, not
suspecting that any gallies were so near us,
but, being discovered, we are now in your
bands. Don Gregorio remains among the
Moors as a woman, and in danger of perdi-
tion, and here am I, with my hands bound,
expecting, or ratlier fearing, to lose that life
which, indeed, is now scarcely worth pre-
serving. This, sir, is my lamentable story :
equally true and wretched. All I entreat of
you is to let me die like a Christian, since,
as I have told you, I have no share in the
guilt of my nation." Here she ceased, and
tbe tears tliat filled her lovely eyes drew
^---- -— — =
many from those of her auditors. The vice-
roy himself was much affected, being a hu-
mane and compassionate man, and he went
up to her to untie the cord with which her
beautiful hands were listened.
While the christian Moor was relating her
story, an old pilgrim, who came aboard the
galley with the viceroy's attendants, fixed his
eyes on her, and, scarcely had she finished,
when, rushing towards her, he cried, '' O
Anna Felix ! my dear unfortunate daughter !
I am thy father Ricote, and was returning
to seek thee, being unable to live without
thee, who art my very soul." At these
words Sancho raised his head, which he
had hitherto held down, ruminating on
what he had lately suffered, and, staring
at the pilgrim, recognised the same Ricote
whom he met with upon the day he
had quitted his government ; he was also
satisfied that the damsel was indeed his
daughter, who, being now unbound, was
embracing her father, mingling her tears
with his. *< This, gentlemen," said he, *' is
my daughter, happy in her name alone :
Anna Felix she is called, with tbe surname
of Ricote, as famous for her own beauty, as
for her father's riches. I left my native
country to seek, in foreign kingdoms, a safe
retreat; and, having found one in Germany,
I returned in this pilgrim's habit to seek my
daughter and take away the property I had
left. My daughter was gone, but the trea-
sure I have in my possession ; and now, by
a strange turn of fortune, I have found even
her, who is my greatest treasure. If our
innocence, and our united tears, througli
the uprightness of your justice, can open the
gates of mercy, let it be extended to us,
who never in thought offended you, nor in
any wise conspired with those of our nation,
who have been justly banished." Sancho
now putting in his word, said, ''I know
Ricote well, and answer for the truth of
what he says of Anna Felix being his
daughter ; but, as for the story of going and
coming, and of his good or bad intentions,
I meddle not with them."
An incident so remarkable could not fail to
make a strong impression upon all who were
present; so that the commodore, sharing in
the common feeling, said to the fair cap-
='Ú
478
ADVENTURES OF
tive, " My oath, madam, is washed away
with your tears : — live, fair Anna Felix,
all the years beayen has allotted you, and
let puttbhment fall on the slaves who alone
are guilty." Upon which he gave orders
that the two Turks, who had killed his sol-
diers, should be hanged at the yard-arm.
But the viceroy earnestly pleaded for their
pardon, as the crime they had committed
was rather the effect of frenzy than design,
and the commander, whose rage had now
subsided, yielded, not unwillingly, to his
request.
They now consulted on the means of
Don Gregorio's deliverance. Ricote offered
jewels, then in his possession, to the amount
of more than two thousand ducats, to-
wards effecting it; but the expedient most
approved was the proposal of the renegado,
who offered to return to Algiers in a small
bark of six banks, manned with christians,
for he knew when and where he might
land, and was, moreover, acquainted with
the house, in which Don Gregorio was kept.
Same doubts were expressed whether the
christian sailors could be safely trusted with
the renegado j but they were removed by
the confidence in him expressed by Anna
Felix, and the promise of her father to ran-
som them in case they should be taken.
The viceroy then returned on shore,
charging Don Antonio Moreno with the
care of Ricote and his daughter ; desiring
him at the same time to command any
thing that, in his own house, might con-
duce to their entertainment : such was the
kindness and good- will inspired by beauty
and misfortune.
CHAPTER LXIV.
TREATING OP THE ADVENTURE WHICH
GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE VEXATION
THAN ANY WHICH HAD HITHERTO
BEFALLEN HIM.
The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, as the
history relates, received Anna Felix with
extreme pleasure, and was equally delighted
with her beauty and good sense : — for the
yonng lady excelled in both ; and, from all
parts of the city, people came in crowds to
see her, as if they had been brought toge-
ther by the sound of bell. Don Quixote
took occasion to inform Don Antonio thai
he could by no means approve of the expe-
dient they had adopted ibr the redemption
of Don Gregorio, as being more dangerous
than promising ; a much surer way he
added, would be to land him, with his
horse and arms, in Barbery, and they would
see that he would fetch the young gentle-
man off, in spite of the whole Mooorish
race, — as Don Gayferos had done by his
spouse Melisendra. ^' Remember, sir, "
quoth Sancho, ^'that when signer Don
Gayferos rescued his wife and carried her
into France, it was all done on dry land ;
but here, if we chance to rescue Don Gre-
gorio, our road lies directly over the sea."
" For all things except death there is a
remedy," replied Don Quixote ; ^' let a vessel
be ready on the shore to receive us, and the
whole world shall not prevent our embark-
ation." ^' O master of mine, you are a rare
contriver," said Sancho,^' but, saying is one
thing, and doing another ; for my part, I
stick to the renegado, who seems an honest,
good sort of man." ^' If the renegado
should fail," said Don Antonio, ** it will
then be time for us to accept the offer of
the great Don Quixote." Two days after,
the renegado sailed in a small bark of twelve
oars, witii a crew of stout and resolute fel-
lows, and in two days after that, the gallies
departed for the Levant, the viceroy having
promised the commodore an account of the
fortunes of Don Gregorio, and Anna Felix.
One morning, Don Quixote having sallied
forth to take the air on the strand, armed at
all points — ^his favourite costume : for arms,
he said, were his ornament, and fighting his
recreation, he observed a knight advancing
towards him, armed also like himself, and
bearing a shield, on which was pourtrayed
a resplendent moon; and, when near «aongh
to be heard, in an elevated voice, he ad-
dressed himself to Don Quixote, saying,
<< Illustrious knight, and never enough re-
nowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, I am
the knight of the White Moon, of whose
incredible achievements, peradventure, you
have heard. I come to engage in combat witn
you, and to try the strength of your ami,
in order to make you confess that my i
DON QUIXOTE.
479
tress, wLo ever she may be, is, beyond com-
])arÍ8on, more beantiful than your Dulcinea
del Toboso: — a truth, which if you fairly
confess, you will spare your own life, and
me the trouble of taking it. The terms of
combat I require, are, that if the victory be
mine, you relinquish arms and the search of
adventures for the space of one year ; and
that, returning forthwith to your own dwell-
ing, you there live during that period in a
state of profound quiet, which will tend
both to your temporal and spiritual welfare ;
but if, on the contrary, my head shall lie at
your mercy, then shall the spoils of my
horse and arras be yours, and the fame of
my exploits transferred to you. Consider,
which is best for you, and determine quickly,
for this very day must decide our fate."
Don Quixote was no less surprised at the
arrogance of the knight of the White Moon
than the reason he gave for challenging
him ; and, with much gravity and com-
posure, he answered, ** Knight of the White
Moon, whose achievements have not as yet
reached my ears, I dare swear you have
never seen the illustrious Dulcinea ; for, if
so, I am confident you would have taken
care not to engage in this trial, since the
sight of her must have convinced you that
there never was, nor ever can be, beauty
comparable to hers ; and therefore, without
giving you the lie, I only affirm that you
are mistaken, and accept your challenge ;
and that too upon the spot, even now this
very day, as you desire. Of your conditions
I accept all but the transfer of your exploits,
wliicb being unknown to me, I shall remain
contented with my own, such as they are.
Choose then your ground, and expect to
meet me, and he whom God fevours may
St. Peter bless!"
In the mean time, the viceroy, who had
been informed of the appearance of the
stranger knight and that he was holding
parley with Don Quixote, hastened to the
Bcene of action, accompanied by Don An-
tonio and several others : not doubting but
that it was some new device of theirs to
amuse themselves with the knight He
arrived just as Don Quixote had wheeled
Rozinante about, to take the necessary
ground for his career, and, perceiving that
they were ready for the onset, he went up
and enquired the cause of so sudden an en-
counter. The knight of the White Moon
told him it was a question of pre-eminence
in beauty ; and then briefly repeated what
he hod said to Don Quixote, mentioning
the conditions of the combat. The viceroy,
in a whisper to Don Antonio, asked him if
he knew the stranger knight, and whether
it was some jest upon Don Quixote. Don
Antonio assured him, in reply, that he
neither knew who he was, nor whether this
challenge was in jest or earnest. Puzzled
with this answer, the viceroy was in doubt
whether or not he should interpose, and
prevent the encounter; but, being assured
it could only be some pleasantry, he with-
drew, saying, '^ Valorous knights, if there
be no choice between confession and death ;
if signer Don Quixote persists in denying,
and you, sir knight of the White Moon, in
affirming, — to it, gentlemen, in God's
name V The knights made their acknow-
ledgements to the viceroy for his gracious
permission ; and now Don Quixote, recom-
mending himself to heaven, and (as usual
on such occasions,) to his lady Dulcinea,
retired again to take a larger compass,
seeing his adversary do the like ; and with-
out sound of trumpet or other warlike
instrument, to give signal for the onset, they
both turned their horses about at the same
instant ; but he of the White Moon, being
mounted on the fleetest steed, met Don
Quixote before he had run half his career,
and then, without touching him with his
lance, which he seemed purposely to raise,
he encountered him with such impetuosity
that both horse and rider came to the
ground ; he then sprang upon him, and,
clapping his lance to his vizor, he said,
'^ Knight, you are vanquished, and a dead
man, if you confess not, according to tlie
conditions of our challenge." Don Quixote,
bruised and stunned, without Hfting up his
vizor, and as if speaking from a tomb, said,
in a feeble and low voice, '^ Dulcinea del
Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the
world, and I am the most unfortunaie
knight on earth, nor is it just that my
weakness should discredit this truth ; knight,
push on your lance, and take away my life.
480
ADVENTURES OF
since yoa have despoiled me of my honour."
^' Not 00, by my life !" quoth he of the
White Moon : " long may the beauty and
fame of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso flou-
rish ! — all I demand of the great Don
Quixote is that he submit to one - year's
domestic repose and respite from the exer-
cise of arms." The viceroy, Don Antonio,
with many other», were witnesses to all that
passed, and now heard Don Quixote promise
that, since he required nothing of him to
the prejudice of his lady Dulcinea, he should
fulfil the terms of their engagement with
the punctuality of a true knight.
This declaration being made, he of tlie
White Moon turned about his horse, and,
bowing to the viceroy, at half a gallop en-
tered the city, whither the viceroy ordered
Don Antonio to follow him, and, by all
means, to learn who he was. They now
raised Don Quixote from the ground, and,
uncovering his face, found him pale, and
bedewed with cold sweat, and Rozinante
in such a plight that he was unable to stir.
Sancho, quite sorrowful and cast down,
knew not what to do or say ; sometimes he
fancied he was dreaming; at others, that
the whole was an affair of witchcraft and
enchantment. He saw his master discom-
fited, and bound, by his oath, to lay aside
arms during a whole year! His glory,
therefore, he thought was for ever extin-
guished, and his hopes of greatness scat-
tered, like smoke, to the wind. Indeed he
was afraid that both horse and rider were
crippled, and hoped that it would prove no
worse.
Finally the vanquished knight was con-
veyed to the city in a chair, which had
been ordered by the viceroy, who returned
thither himself, impatient for some informa-
tion concerning the knight who had left
Don Quixote in such evil plight.
CHAPTER LXV.
in which an account is given who
the knight of the white moon
was; and of the deliverance of
don gregorio: with other events.
Don Antonio Moreno rode into the city
after the knight of the White Moon, who
was also pursued to his inn by a swarm of
boys; and he had no sooner entered the
chamber where his squire waited to disarm
him, than he was greeted by the inquisitÍTe
Don Antonio. Conjecturing the object of
his visit, he said, '* I doubt not, sigñor, but
that your design is to learn who I am ; and,
as there is no cause for concealment, while
my servant is unarming me, I will inform
you without reserve. My name, signor, is
the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and I am
of the same town with Don Quixote de la
Mancha, whose madness and folly have
excited the pity of all who knew him. I
have felt, for my own part, particularly
concerned, and, believing his recovery to
depend upon his remaining quietly at home,
my projects have been solely directed to
that end. About three months ago I sallied
forth on the highway like a knight -errant,
styling myself knight of the Mirrois, in-
tending to fight, and conquer my irieod,
without doing him harm, and making his
submission to my will the condition of oor
combat. Never doubting of success^ I ex-
pected to send him home for twelve months,
and hoped that, during that time, he might
be restored to his senses. But fortane or-
dained it otherwise, for he was the victor :
he tumbled me from my horse, and thereby
defeated my design. He pursued his joomey,
and I returned home vanquished, ashamed,
and hurt by my fall. However, I did not
relinquish my project, as you have seen this
day ; and, as he is so exact and punctual
in observing the laws of knight-errantry,
he will doubtless observe my injonctions.
And now, sir, I have only to beg that yoa
will not discover me to Don Quixote, that
my good intentions may take effect, and
his understanding be restored to him, which,
when freed from the follies of chivalry, a
excellent." " O, sir!" exclaimed Don
Antonio, " what have you to answer for in
robbing the world of so diverting a mad-
man ? Is it not plain, sir, that no benefit
to be derived from his recovery can be set
against the pleasure which his extrava-
gances afford ? But I fancy, sir, his case is
beyond the reach of your art ; and, heaven
forgive me I I cannot forbear wishing vou
may fail in your endeavours : for, by bi5
(g=
DON QUIXOTE.
481
cure, we should lose not only the pleasan-
tries of the knight, but those of his
squire^ which are enough to transform
melancholy herself into mirth. Neverthe-
less^ I will be silent, and wait in the full
expectation that siguor Carrasco will lose
his labour." " Yet, all things considered/'
said the baclielor, ''the business is in a
promising way, — I have no doubt of suc-
cess." Don Antonio then politely took his
leave ; and that same day the bachelor, after
having his armour tied upon the back of a
mule, mounted his charger, and quitted the
city, directing his course homewards, where
he arrived without meeting with any ad-
venture on the road worthy of a place in
this faithful history. Don Antonio reported
his conversation with the bachelor Carrasco
to the viceroy, who regretted that such
conditions should have been imposed upon
Don Quixote, as they might put an end to
that diversion which he had so liberally
supplied to all who were acquainted with
his whimsical turn of mind.
During six days Don Quixote kept his
l>ed, melancholy, thoughtful, and out of
humour, still dwelling upon his unfortunate
overthrow. Sancho strove hard to comfort
him : '' Cheer up, my dear master," said
lie, '' pluck up a good heart, sir, and be
thankful you have come oiF without a broken
rib. Remember, sir, ' they that give must
take ;' and * every hook has not its flitch.'
Come, come, sir,— a fig for the doctor ! you
have no need of him. Let us pack up and
be jogging homeward, and leave this ram-
bling up and down to seek adventures the
Lord knows where 'sboddikins ! after all
/ am the greatest loser, though mayhap
your worship suffers the most; for though,
after a taste of governing, I now loathe it,
I have never lost my longing for an earl-
dom or countship, which I may whistle for,
if your worship refuses to be a king, by
giving up knight-errantry." " Peace, friend
Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, "and re-
member that my retirement is not to exceed
a year, and then I will resume my honour-
able profession, and shall not want a king-
dom for myself, nor an earldom for thee."
" Heaven grant it, and sin be df»af !" quoth
lancho ; " for I have always beer told
©^
that good expectation is better than bad
possession."
Here their conversation was interrupted
by Don Antonio, who entered the chamber
with signs of great joy. " Reward me,
signer Don Quixote," said he, "for my
good news : — Don Gregorio and the rene-
gado are safe in the harbour — in the har-
bour, said I? — by this time they are at
the viceroy's palace, and will be here pre-
sently." Don Quixote seemed to revive by
this intelligence. "Truly," said he, "I
am almost sorry at what you tell me, for,
had it happened otherwise, I should have
gone over to Barbary, where, by the force
of my arm, I should have given liberty
not only to Don Gregorio, but to all the
Christian captives in that land of slavery.
But what do I say ? wretch that I am ! —
Am I not vanquished? Am I not over-
thrown ? Am I not forbidden to unsheathe
my sword for twelve whole months ? Why,
then, do I promise and vaunt? A distaff
better becomes my hand than a sword !"
" No more, sir," quoth Sancho, " let the
hen live, though she have the pip ; to - day
for you, and to - morrow for me ; and, as
for these matters of encounters and bangs,
never trouble your head about them ; he
that falls to-day may rise to-morrow j un-
less he chooses to lie in bed and groan,
instead of getting into heart and spirits,
ready for fresh encounters. Rise, dear sir,
and welcome Don Gregorio ; for, by the
bustle in the house, I reckon he is come."
And this was the fact. Don Gregorio,
after giving the viceroy an account of the
expedition, impatient to see his Anna Felix,
hastened, with his deliverer, the renegado,
to Don Antonio's house. The female dress,
in which he had escaped, he uad exchanged
for that of a captive who had come off with
them ; yet, even in that disguise, his hand-
some exterior commanded respect and ad-
miration. He was young, too, for he seemed
to be not more than seventeen or eighteen
years of age. Ricote and his daughter went
out to meet him, — the father with tears,
and the daughter with modest joy. The
young couple did not embrace; for true
and ardent love shrinks from public freedom
of behaviour. Their beauty was universally
2 I
(^
48i
ADVENTURES OF
ftdmired^ and, though they spoke not to
each other, their eyes modestly revealed
their joyful and pure emotions. The rene-
gado gave a short account of his voyage,
and the means he had employed to accom-
plish the purpose of the expedition ; and
Don Gregorio told the story of his diffi-
culties and embarrassments, during his con-
finement, with good sense and discretion
above his years. Ricote fully satisfied the
boatmen, as well as the renegado, who was
forthwith restored to the bosom of the
church, and, from a rotten member, became,
through penance and true repentance, clean
and sound.
A few days after, the viceroy and Don
Antonio consulted together how permission
might be obtained for Anna Felix and her
father to reside in Spain ; being convinced
there was nothing improper in such an in-
dulgence to so Christian a daughter, and
so well disposed a father. Don Antonio
offered to negotiate the affair himself at
court, having occasion to go thither upon
other business; and intimated that much
might be done there by favour or gold.
" No," said Ricote, who was present;
*' there is nothing to be expected from such
means ; neither prayers, promises, nor gold,
avail with the great Bernardino de Yelasco,
count of Salazar, who was charged by the
king with our expulsion ; and, though dis-
posed to temper justice with mercy> yet,
seeing the whole body of our nation corrupt,
instead of emollients, he has applied caus-
tics, as the only remedy : thus, by his pru-
dence, sagacity, and vigilance, as well as
by his threats, he has successfully accom-
plished the great work, in spite of the nu-
merous artificias of our people to evade his
commands, or elude his Argus' eyes, which
are ever on the watch lest any noxious roots
should still lurk in the soil, to shoot up
again, and poison the wholesome vegetation
of the country : a heroic determination of
the great Philip the Third, and only to
be equalled by his wisdom in placing the
mighty task in such hands." '^ Neverthe-
less," said Don Antonio, "when I arrive
at court, I will make every exertion pos-
sible, and leave the rest to Providence.
Don Gregorio shall go with me, to console
his parents for the afliiction they miLst have
suffered in his absence ; Anna Felix shall
stay at my house with my wife, or in a
monastery ; and I know my lord the vice-
roy will be pleased to entertain honest Ri-
cote until the success of my negotiation
be seen. The viceroy consented to all tli%,
was proposed ; but Don Gregorio, on being
informed of what had passed, expressed
great unwillingness to leave his fair mis-
tress. At length, however, considering that
he might return to her after he had seen
his parents, he acquiesced ; so Anna Felix
remained with Don Antonio's lady, and
Ricote in the mansion of the viceroy.
The time fixed for Don Antonio's dcpar»
ture now arrived, and many sighs, teara,
and other expressions of passionate sorrow,
attended the separation of the lovers. Ri-
cote offered Don Gregorio a thousand
crowns, but he declined them, and accepted
only the loan of ñve from Don Antonio.
Two days afterwards, Don Quixote, who
had hitherto been unable to travel, on
account of his bruises, set forward on his
journey home : Sancho trudging after fajm
on foot — ^because Dapple was now employed
in bearing his master's armour.
CHAPTER LXVI.
TIIBATING OF MATTERS WHICH HB
WHO RBÁDS WILL 8RB, AND HB WHO
LISTENS TO THEH, WHEN READ, WILL
HBAR.
When Don Quixote was leaving the city •
of Barcelona, he cast his eyes towards the
spot where he had been overthrown ; and
pausing, he exclaimed, ''There stood Troy*.
There my evil destiny, not cowardice, de-
spoiled roe of my glory ;— there I experienc-
ed the fickleness of fortune ; — there the
lustre of my exploits was obscured ; and
lastly, there fell my happiness, never more
to rise !" Upon which Sancho said to him,
'' Great hearts, dear sir, should be patient
under misfortunes, as well as joyful when
all goes well ; and in that I judge by my-
self: for when I was made a governor, I
was blithe and merry, and now that I am a
poor squire on foot, I am not sad. I have
DON QUIXOTE.
483
hedrd say, that she, they call fortune, is a
drunken, freakish dame, and withal so blind
that she does not see what she is about ;
neither whom she raises, nor whom she
pulls down." " Thou art much of a phi-
losopher, Sancho,'' said Don Quixote, " and
hast spoken very judiciously. Where thou
hast learnt it, I know not ; but one thing I
must tell thee, which is, that there is no
such thing in the world as fortune, nor do
the events which fall out, whether good or
evil, proceed from chance, but by the par-
ticular appointment of heaven ; and hence
comes the saying that every man is the
maker of his own fortune. I have been so
of mine ; but, not acting with all the pru-
dence necessary, my presumption has un-
done me. I ought to have recollected that
the feeble Rozinante was not a match for
the powerful steed of the knight of the
White Moon. However, I ventured ; I did
my best ; I was overthrown ; and, though
I lost my glory, I still retain my integrity,
and therefore shall not fail in my promise.
When I was a knight, daring and valiant,
my arms gave credit to my exploits ; and,
now that I am only a dismounted squire,
tuy word at least shall be respected. March
on Üien, friend Sancho, and let us pass at
home the year of our noviciate, by which
retreat we shall acquire fresh vigour, to re-
turn to the never-by-me-forgotten exercise
Df arms.*' "Sir," replied Sancho, as he
trotted by his side, " this way of marching
is not so pleasant that I must needs be in
such liaste ; let us hang this armour upon
some tree, like the thieves we see there
dangling, and, when I am mounted again
upon Dapple, with my feet from the
ground, we will travel at any pace your
worship pleases : but to think that I can
foot it all the way at this rate is to expect
what cannot be." " I approve thy advice,
Sancho," answered Don Quixote: "my
armour shall be suspended as a trophy;
and beneath, or round it, we will carve on
the tree that which was written on the
trophy of Orlando's arms :
" Let none presóme these anna to move
Who Roldan*! fury dare not prove."
" That is just as I would have it," quoth
Sancho, " and, were it not for the want of
Rozinante on the road, it would not be
amiss to leave him dangling too." " Now I
think of it," said Don Quixote, "neither
him, nor the armour will I suffer to be
hanged, that it may not be said, < For good
service, bad recompense.' " " Faith, that is
well too," said Sancho, " for 'tis a saying
among the wise, that the fault of the ass
should not be laid on the pack-saddle ; and,
since your worship is alone to blame in this
business, punish yourself, and let not your
rage fall upon the poor armour, battered
and bruised in your service ; nor upon your
meek and gentle beast that carries you,
nor yet upon my tender feet : making them
suffer more than feet can bear."
In such like discourse they passed all
that day, and even four more, without
meeting any thing to impede their journey ;
but on the fifth, it being a holiday, as they
entered a village, they observed a great
number of people regaling themselves at
the door of an inn. When Don Quixote
and Sancho drew near to them, a peasant
said aloud to the rest, " One of these two
gentlemen who are coming this way, and
who know not the parties, shall decide our
wager." "That I will do with all ray
heart," answered Don Quixote, " and most
impartially, when I am made acquainted
with it." "Why the business, good sir,
is this," quoth the peasant: "an inhabitant
of our village, who is so corpulent that he
weighs eleven arrobas, has challenged a
neighbour, who weighs not above ñve, to
run with him a hundred yards, upon con-
dition of carrying equal weight. Now he
that gave the challenge, being asked how
the weight should be made equal, says that
the other, who weiglis but five arrobas,
should carry a weight of six more, and then
both lean and fat will be equal." " Not
so," quoth Sancho, before Don Quixote
could return an answer; "and it is my
business, who was so lately a governor and
judge, as all the world knows, to set this
matter right, and give my opinion in all
disputes." " In God's name, do so," said
Don Quixote ; " for I am unfit to throw
crumbs to a cat, my brain is so troubled
and out of order." With this license,
Sancho, addressing the country-fellows who
^=
484
ADVENTURES OF
crowded about him, "Brothers," said he, "I
must tell you the fat man is wrong : there
is no manner of reason in what he asks; for,
if the custom is fair for him that is challenged
to choose his weapons, it must be unjust for
the other to make him take such as will
be sure to hinder him from gaining the
victory ; and therefore my sentence is that
the fat man, who gave the challenge, should
cut, pare, slice, and shave away the flesh
from such parts of his body as he can best
spare it, and when be has brought it down
to the weight of five anobas, then will he
be a fair match for the other, and they may
race it upon even terras." " I vow," quoth
one of the peasants, " this gentleman has
spoke like a saint, and given sentence like
a canon ; but I warrant the fat fellow loves
his flesh too well to part with a sliver of it,
much less with the weight of six arrobas."
"Then tlie best way," quoth another of
the countrymen, "will be not to run at all:
for then neither lean will break his back
with the weight, nor fat lose flesh ; but let us
spend half the wager in wine, and take these
gentlemen to share it with us in the tavern
that has the best ; so ' give me the cloak
when it rains.'" "I return you thanks,
gentlemen, for your kind proposal," an-
swered Don Quixote, " but I cannot accept
it ; for melancholy thoughts, and disastrous
events, oblige me to travel in haste, and to
appear thus uncivil." Whereupon, clapping
spurs to Rozinante, he departed, leaving
tliem in surprise both at the strangeness of
his figure, and the acuteness of him whom
they took to be his servant. " If the man
be so wise," said one of them, " heaven
bless us ! what must his master be ? If
they go to study at Salamanca, my life for
it, they will become judges at court in a
trice ! — Nothing more easy — it wants only
hard study, good luck, and favour, and,
when a man least thinks of it, he finds
himself with a white rod in his hand, or
a mitre on his head."
That night the master and man took up
their lodging in the middle of a field, under
the spangled roof of heaven ; and the next
day, while pursuing their journey, they
saw a man coming towards them on foot,
with a wallet about his neck, and a javelin,
or half-pike in his band — the proper equip-
ment of a foot-post ; who, when he had got
near to them, quickened his pace, and, ran- I
ning up to Don Quixote, embraced his right
thigh, — for he could reach no higher, — ^and, !
testifying great joy, he said, " Oh ! sigñor
Don Quixote dc la Mancha ! how rgoiced j
will my lord duke be when he hears that i
your worship is returning to his castle, where
he still remains with my lady duchess!''
" I know you not, friend," answered Don
Quixote; "nor can I conceive who you
are, unless you tell me." " Sigñor Don
Quixote," answered the courier, " I am
Tosilos, the duke's lacquey ; the same who
would not fight with your worship about
Donna Rodriguez's daughter." ** God de-
fend me !" exclaimed Don Quixote, " are
you he whom the enchanters, my enemies,
transformed into the lacquey, to defraud
me of the glory of that combat ?" " Softly,
good sir," replied the messenger ; " there
was neither enchantment nor change in
the case. Tosilos, tlie lacquey, I entered the
lists, and the same I came out. I refused
fighting, because I had a mind to marry tlie
girl : but it turned out quite otherwise ; for
your worship had no sooner left the castle
than, instead of a wife, I got a sound bang-
ing» ^y "y lord duke's order, for not doing
as he would have had me in that aflkir j
and the end of it all is that the girl is
turned nun, and Donna Rodriguez packed
off to Castile ; and I am now going to
Barcelona with a packet of letters from my
lord to the viceroy ; and, if your worship
will please to take a little of tlie dear crea-
ture, I have here a calabash full at your
service, with a slice of good cheese, that will
awaken thirst, if it be sleepmg." "I take you
at your word," quoth Sancho ; " and, with-
out more ado, let us be at it, good Tosilos,
in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies."
" In truth, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote,
" thou art a very glutton, and, moreover,
the greatest simpleton on earth, to doubt
that this courier is enchanted, and a coun-
terfeit Tosilos. But, if thou art bent upon
it, stay, in God's name, and eat thy fill,
while I go on slowly, and wait thy coming."
The lacquey laughed, unsheathed his ca-
labash, and nnwalleted his cheese; and.
DON QUIXOTE.
485
taking out a little loaf, he and Sancho sat
down upon the grass, and in peace and
good fellowship quickly dispatched the con-
ten t?, and got to the bottom, of the pro-
vision - bag, with so good an appetite that
they licked the very packet of letters,
because it smell of cheese. While they
were thus employed, "Hang me, friend
Sancho^" said Tosilos, '* if I know what to
make of that master of yours — he must
needs be a madman." " Need !" quoth
Sancho ; '* faith, he has no need ! for, if
madness pass current, he has plenty to pay
every man his own. That I can see full
well, and full oflen I tell him of it : but
what boots it! — especially now that it is
all over with him ; for he has been worsted
by the knight of the White Moon." Tosilos
begged him to relate what had happened
to him ; but Sancho excused himself, say-
it would be unmannerly to keep his master
waiting, but that, another time, if they
should meet again, he would tell him the
whole affair. He then rose up, shook the
crumbs from his beard and apparel, and
took leave of Tosilos ; then, driving Dapple
before him, he set off to overtake his master,
whom he found waiting for him under the
shade of a tree."
CHAPTER LXVII.
OF THE RESOLUTION WHIOH DON QUIXOTE
TOOK TO TURN SHEPHERD, AND LEAD
A PASTORAL LIFE, TILL THE PROMISED
TERM SHOULD BE EXPIRED ; WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS TRULY DIVERTING
AND GOOD.
If the mind of Don Quixote had been
afflicted and disturbed before his defeat,
bow greatly were his sufferings encreased
after that misfortune ! While waiting for
Sancho, as before mentioned, a tliousand
thoaghts rushed into his head, buzzing
about like Üics in a honey-pot; some dwell-
ing on the disenchantment of Dulcinea, and
others on the life he should lead during his
forced retirement. On Sancho's coming
up, and commending Tosilos as .the civilest
lacquey in the world, '* Is it possible,
Sancho," said he, ''that thou should'st
still persist in his being really a lacquey ?
It seems to have quite escaped thy memory
that thou hast seen Dulcinea transformed
into a country wench, and the knight of
the Mirrors into the bachelor Samson Car-
rasco:— all the work of enchanters who
persecute me ! But, tell me, didst tliou
enquire of that man touching the fate of
Altisidora ? Doth she still bewail my ab-
sence; or hath she already consigned to
oblivion the amorous thoughts that tor-
mented her whilst I was present?" "Troth,
sir," quoth Sancho, " I was too well em-
ployed to think of such fooleries. Body of
me ! is your worship now in a condition to
be enquiring after other folks' thoughts —
especially on love matters ?" " Observe,
Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, " there is a
great deal of difference between love and
gratitude. It is very possible for a gentle-
man not to be in love ; but, strictly speak-
ing, it is impossible he should be ungrateful.
Altisidora, to all appearance, loved me ; she
gave me three night-caps, as thou knowest ;
she also wept at my departure ; she cursed
roe, vilified roe, and, in spite of shame,
complained publicly of me : certain proofs
that she adored me ; for in such maledic-
tions the anger of lovers usually vents
itself. I had neither hopes to give her, nor
treasures to offer her : for mine are all en-
gaged to Dulcinea; and the treasures of
knights-errant, like those of fairies, are de-
lusory, not real, and, therefore, to retain
her in remembrance is all I can do for her,
without prejudice to tlie fidelity I owe to
the mistress of my soul, who every moment
suffers under thy cruelty in neglecting to
discipline that flesh of thine — would to God
the wolves had it! since thou would'st
rather keep it for the worms, than apply it
to the relief of that poor lady." " Sir,"
answered Sancho, "to deal plainly with
yon, I cannot see what the lashing of my
posteriors has to do with disenchanting the
enchanted ; it is just as if you should say,
' When your head aches, anoint your knee-
pans ;' at least, I dare be sworn that, of all
the histories your worship has ever read of
knight-errantry, none ever told you of any
body being unbewitched by flogging. How-
ever, be that as it will, when the humour
h:o:
a
486
ADVENTURES OF
takes me, and time fits, I'll set about it,
and lay it on to some tone." ** Heaven
grant it," said Don Quixote, ''and give
thee grace to understand how much it is
thy duty to relieve my lady, who is also
thine, since thou belongest to me."
Thus conversing, they travelled on till
they arrived at the very spot where they
had been trampled upon by the bulls. Don
Quixote recollecting it, "There, Sancho,"
said he, '' is the meadow where we met
the gay shepherdesses and gallant shep-
herds who proposed to revive, in this place,
another pastoral Arcadia. The project was
equally new and ingenious, and, if thou
thinkest well of it, Sancho, we will follow
their example, and turn shepherds ; at least
for the term of my retirement. I will buy
sheep, and whatever is necessary for a
pastoral life ; and I, assuming the name
of the shepherd Quixotiz, and thou that of
the shepherd Panzino, we will range the
woods, the hilk, and the vallies, singing
here, and sighing there ; drinking from the
clear springs, or limpid brooks, or the
mighty rivers ; while the oaks, with liberal
hand, shall give us their sweetest fruit — the
hollow corkotrees, lodging — willows, their
shade — and the roses, their delightful per-
fume. The spacious meads shall be our
carpets of a thousand colours; and, ever
breathing the clear, pure air, the moon and
stars shall be our tapers of the night, and
light our evening walk ] and thus, while
singing will be our pleasure, and complain-
ing our delight, the god of song will pro-
vide harmonious verse, and love a never-
failing theme : — so shall our fame be eter-
nal as our song !" " 'Fore Grad !" quojth
Sancho, ''tliat kind of life squares and
comers with me exactly ; and I warrant if
once the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and
master Nicholas the barber, catch a glimpse
of it, they will follow us, and turn shep-
herds too ; and God grant that the priest
have not an inclination to make one in the
fold, — he is so gay and merrily inclined."
"Thou say'st well," quoth Don Quixote,
"and, if the bachelor Samson Carrasco will
make one amongst us, as I doubt not he
will, he may call himsdf the shepherd
Samsonino, or Carrascon. Master Nicholas
the barber may be called Niculoso, as old
Boscan called himself Nemoroso. As for
the curate, I know not what name to be-
stow upon him, unless it be one derived
from his profession, calling him the shep-
herd Curiambro. As to the shepherdesses
who are to be the objects of our love, wc
may pick and choose their names, as we do
pears ; and, since that of my lady accords
alike with a shepherdess and a princess, I
need not be at the pains of selecting one to
suit her better. Thou, Sancho, may'at give
to thine whatever name pleaseth thee best."
" I do not intend," answered Sancho, " to
give mine any other than Teresona, which
will fit her fat sides well ; and is so near
her own too, that, when I come to pot it
in my verses, every body will know her to
be my own wife, and commend me for not
coveting other men's goods, and seeking
for better bread than wheaten. As ibr the
priest, he must be content without a rots-
tress, for good example's sake ; and, if the
bachelor Samson wants one, his soul is his
own."
" Heaven defend me ! " quoth Don
Quixote, " what a life shall we lead, friend
Sancho ! what a melody shall we have of
bagpipes and rebecks, and pipes of Zamora!
And, if to all these we add the albogues,
our pastoral band will be nearly complete."
" Albogues !" quoth Sancho, " what may
that be ? — I never heard of such a thing."
" Albogues," answered Don Quixote, ** are
concave plates of brass, like candlesticks,
which, being struck against each other,
produce a sound, not very agreeable, it is
true, yet not 'offensive, and it accords well
enough with the rusticity of the pipe and
tabor. Albogues, Sancho, is a Moorish
word, as are all those which in Spanish
begin with oZ ; as Almoaza, Almorzar, Al-
hombra, Alguacil, Aluzema, Almacén, Al-
rancia, with some others ; our language has
only three Moorish words ending in t,
which are, Borzegui, Zaquizamí, and Ma-
ravedí ; ^Iheli and Al&qui, botii by theo-
beginning and ending, are known to be
Arabic. This I just observe by the way,
as the mention of albogues brought it to
my mind. One circumstance will contri-
bute much to make us perfect in our new
DON QUIXOTE.
487
profession, which is my being, as thou well
knowest, somewhat of a poet, and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco an excellent one.
Of the priest I say nothing; yet will I
venture a wager that he too has the points
of a poet ; and master Nicholas the barber
also, I make no doubt : for most or all of
that faculty are players on the guitar and
song-makers. I will complain of absence ;
thou sbalt extol thyself for constancy ; the
shepherd Carraflcon shall complain of dis-
dain, and the priest Curiambro may say or
sing whatever he pleaseth : and so we shall
go on to our heart's content.'' '' Alas 1
sir," quoth Sancho, *' I am so unlucky that
I shall never see those blessed days! O
what neat wooden spoons shall I make
when I am a shepherd ! What curds and
cream ! what garlands 1 what pretty nick-
nacks I An old dog am I at these trinkums,
which, though they may not set me up for
one of the seven wise men, will get me the
name of a clever fellow. My daughter San-
chica shall bring our dinner to us in the
field — but hold' there : she's a sightly wench,
and shepherds are sometimes roguishly given;
and I would not have my girl go out for
wool and come back shorn. Your love*
doings and wanton tricks are as common in
the open fields as in crowded cities ; in the
shepherd's cot as in the palaces of lords and
princes. Take away the opportunity, and
you take away the sin ; what the eye views
not the heart rues not ; a leap from behind
a bush may do more than the prayer of a
good man." ^* Enough, Sancho, no more
proverbs," quoth Don Quixote, *' for any
one of those thou hast dfed would have
been sufiicient to express thy meaning. I
have often advised thee not to be so prodigal
of these sentences, and to keep a strict hand
over them ; but it is preaching in the desert:
* the more my mother whips me, the more
I rend and tear.' " *' Faith and troth, sir,"
cried Sancho, *' is not that the pot calling
the kettle black-arse? You chide me for
speaking proverbs, and you string them
yourself by scores !" " Observe, Sancho,"
answered Don Quixote, '^ this important
(jiifierence between thy proverbs and mine :
when I make use of them, they fit like a
ring to the finger; whereas by thee they
are aragged in by head and shoulders. I
have already told thee, if I mistake not,
that proverbs are short maxims of human
wisdom, the result of experience and obser-
vation, and are the gifts of ancient sages :
yet the proverb which is not aptly applied,
instead of wisdom, is stark nonsense. But
enough of this at present; as night ap-
proaches, let us retire a little way out of
the high-road, to pass the night, and God
knows what to-morrow may bring us."
They accordingly retired, and made a late
and scanty supper, much against Sancho's
inclination, for it brought the hardships of
knight-errantry fresh upon his thoughts,
and he grieved to think how seldom he en-
countered the plenty thai reigned in the
house of Don Diego de Miranda, at the
wedding of the rich Camacho, and at Don
Antonio Moreno's : but again reflecting that
it could not be always day, nor always
night, he betook himself to sleep, leaving
his master thoughtful and awake.
i
CHAPTER LXVIII.
OP THE BRISTLET ADVENTURE, WHICH
BEFBL DON QUIXOTE.
The night was rather dark, for though the
moon was in the heavens, it was not visible :
madam Diana is wont sometimes to take a
trip to the antipodes, and leave the moun-
tains and the valleys in the dark.
Don Quixote followed nature, and being
satisfied with his first sleep, did not solicit
more. As for Sancho, he never wanted a
second, for the first lasted him from night
to morning ; indicating a sound body and
a mind free from care: but his master,
being unable to sleep himself, awakened
him, saying, " I am amazed, Sancho, at
the torpor of thy soul ; it seems as if thou
wert made of marble or brass, insensible of
emotion or sentiment ! I wake whilst thou
sleepest, I mourn whilst thou art singing,
I faint with long fasting, whilst thou canst
hardly move or breathe from pure gluttony !
It is the part of a good servant to share his
master's pains, and, were it but for decency,
to be touched with what affects him. Be-
hold the serenity of the night, and the
©
488
ADVENTURES OF
solitude of the place, inviting us to inter-
mingle some watching with our sleep : get
ap, good Sancho, I conjure thee, and retire
a short distance hence, and, with a willing
heart and grateful courage, inflict on thy-
self three or four hundred lashes, upon the
score of Dulcinea's disenchantment ; and
this I ask as a favour. I will not come to
wrestling with thee again, for I know thou
hast a heavy hand ; and, that being done,
we will pass the remainder of the night in
singing, — I of absence, thou of constancy :
oommencing from this moment the pastoral
occupation, which we are hereafter to fol-
low." " Sir," answered Sancho, " I am
neither monk nor friar, to start up in the
middle of the night and discipline myself
at that rate; neither do I think it would
be an easy matter to be under the rod one
moment, and the next to begin singing.
Talk not of whipping, I beseech you, sir,
and let me sleep, or you will make me
swear never to touch a hair of my coat^
much less of my flesh." " O thou soul of
flint !" cried Don Quixote I " O remorse-
less squire ! O bread ill bestowed ! A poor
requital for favours already conferred and
those intended ! Through me thou hast
been a governor ; through me art thou
in a fair way to have the title of an earl,
or some other equally honourable, and
which will be delayed no longer than this
year of obscurity ; for ^ Post tenebras spero
lucem.' " " I know not what that means,"
replied Sancho ; ** I only know that while
( am asleep I have neither fear nor hope,
nor trouble nor glory ; — blessings light on
him who first invented sleep ! It covers a
man all over, body and mind, like a cloak :
it is meat to the hungry, drink to the
thirsty, heat to the cold, and cold to the
hot: it is the coin that can purchase all
things : the balance that equals the shep-
herd with the king, the fool with the wise
man. It has only one fault, as I have
heard say, which is, that it looks like
death : for between the sleeper and the
corpse there is but little to choose." " I
neyer heard thee talk so eloquently, San-
cho," quoth Don Quixote, ** which proves
to me the truth of that proverb thou often
hast cited : Not with whom thou art bred.
but with whom thou art fed." " Odds
my life, sir !" replied Sancho, '^ it is not
I alone that am a stringer of proverl» —
they come pouring from your worship's
mouth faster than from mine. Your wor-
ship's, I own, may be more pat than mine,
which tumble out at random : yet no mat-
ter—they are all proverbs."
Thus were they engaged, when they
heard a strange, dull kind of noise, with
harsh sounds, issuing from every part of
the valley. Don Quixote started up, and
laid his hand to his sword; and Sancho
squatted down under Dapple, and fortified
himself with the bundle of armour on one
side of him, and the ass's pannel on the
other, trembling no less with fear than Don
Quixote with surprise. Every moment the
noise increased as the cause of it approached,
to the great terror of one at least — for the
courage of the other is too well known to
be suspected. Now the cause of this fearful
din was this : — some hog-dealers, eager to
reach the market, happened at that early
hour to be driving above six hundred of
these creatures along the road to a fair,
where they were to be sold ; which filthy
herd, with their grunting and squeaking,
mad<? such a horrible noise that both the
knight and squire were stunned and con-
founded, and utterly at a loss how to ac-
count for it.
The wide-spreading host of grunters cane
crowding on, and, without shewing the
smallest deppree of respect to the lofty cha-
racter of Don Quixote, or of Sancho bis
squire, threw down both roaster and man, —
demolishing ^ancho's intrenchment, and
laying even Rozinante in the dust! On
they went, and bore down all before them,
overthrowing pack-saddle, armour, knight,
' squire, horse, and all ; treading and tram-
pling over everything without remorse.
Sancho with some difliculty recovered his
legs, and desired hb mast^ to lend him his
sword, that he might slay half-a-dozen at
least of those unmannerly swine : — for he
had now discovered what they were ; but
Don Quixote admonished him not to hurt
them. " Heaven," said he, " has inflicted
this disgrace upon my guilty head : it is
no more than a just punishment that dogs
DON QUIXOTE.
489
Bboold devour, hornets sting, and hogs
trample on a vanquished knight-errant/'
'^ And heaven, I suppose," quoth Sancho,
'' has sent fleas to sting, and lice to bite,
and hunger to famish us poor squires, for
keeping such knights company. If we
squires were the sons of the knights we
serve, or their kinsmen, it would be no
wonder that we should share in their punish-
ments, even to the third and fourth gene-
ration : but what have the Panzas to do
with the Quixotes? — Well, let us to our
litter again, and try to sleep out the little
that is left of the night, and God will send
day -light and, mayhap, better luck."
^* Sleep thou, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
" who wert born to sleep, whilst I, who
was bom to watch, allow my thoughts, till
day-break, to range, and give a tuneful
vent to my sorrow in a little madrigal,
which I have just composed." *' M ethinks,"
quoth Sancho, *' that a man cannot be suf-
fering much when he can turn his brain
to verse-making. However, madrigal it as
much as your worship pleases, and I will
sleep as much as I can." Then, measuring
off what ground he wanted, he rolled him-
self up and fell into a sound sleep : neither
debts, bails, nor troubles of any kind, dis-
turbing him. Don Quixote, leaning against
a beech or cork-tree (for Cid Hamcte Be-
nengeli does not specify the tree), to the
music of his own sighs sung as follows :
O, lore, when, sick of heart- felt grief,
I sigh, and drag thy cruel chain.
To death I fly, the sure relief
Of those who groan in ling'ring pun.
But, coming to the fatal gates.
The port in this my sea of woe.
The joy I feel new life creates,
And bids my spirits brisker flow.
Thus, dying, every hova I live.
And, living, I resign my breath : —
Strange pow'r of love, that thus ean gire
A dying life and living death !
The many sighs and tears that accompa-
nied this tuneful lamentation proved how
deeply the knight was affected by his late
disaster and the absence of his lady. Day-
light now appeared, and the sun darting his
beams full on Sancho's face, at last awaked
him ; whereupon rubbing his eyes, yawning,
and stretching his limbs, he perceived the
swinish havoc made in his cupboard, and
heartily wished the drove at the devil, and
even went further than that in his wishes.
The knight and squire now started again,
and journied on through the whole of that
day, when towards evening they saw about
half a score of men on horseback, and four
or five on foot, making directly towards
them. Don Quixote was much agitated by
the sight of these men, and Sancho trembled
with fear : for they were armed with lances
and shields, and other warlike implements.
" Ah, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " had I
my hands at liberty, I would make no more
of that hostile squadron than if it were com-
posed of gingerbread. However, matters
may not turn out so bad as they promise."
The horsemen soon came up, and instantly
surrounded the knight and squire, and in a
threatening manner presented the points of
their lances at their prisoners. One of those
on foot putting his finger to his lips, as if
commanding Don Quixote to be mute, seized
on Rozinante's bridle, and drew him out of
the road ; while the others, in like manner,
took possession of Dapple and his rider, and
the whole then moved on in silence. Don
Quixote several times would have enquired
whither they meant to take him, but scarcely
had hti moved his lips to speak, when they
were ready to close them with the points of
their spears. And so it was with Sancho ;
no sooner did he shew an inclination to
speak than one of those on foot pricked him
with a goad, driving Dapple in the same
manner, as if he also wished to speak. Night
advancing they quickened their pace, and
the fear of the prisoners likewise increased ;
especially when they heard the fellows ever
and anon say to them, " On, on, ye Troglo-
dytes ! Peace, ye barbarian slaves ! Pay,
ye Anthropophagi ! Complain not, ye Scy-
thians ! Open not your eyes, ye murderous
Polyphemuses — ye butcherly lions I" WitJj
these and other such names they tormented
the ears of the unhappy master and man.
Sancho went along, muttering to himself—
" What ! call us ortolans ! barbers ! slaves !
Andrew poppinjays ! and Polly famouses ! —
I don't like the sound of such names — a bad
wind this to winnow our com ; mischief has
been lowering upon us of late, and now it
falls thick, like kicks to a cur. It looks ill,
-(?)
490
ADVENTURES OF
II
God send it may not end worse I Don
Quixote proceeded onwards, quite con-
founded at the reproachful names that were
given to hira, and he could only conclude
that no good was to be expected, and much
harm to be feared. In this perplexing situ-
ation, about an hour after night-fall, they
arrived at a castle, which Don Quixote
presently recollected to be that belonging to
the duke, where be had lately been. '' God
defend me V said ha, as soon as he knew the
place, '^ what can this mean ? In this house
all is courtesy and kindness ! — but, to the
vanquished, good is converted into bad, and
bad into worse." On entering the principal
court, they saw it decorated and set out in a
manner that added still more to their fears,
as well as their astonbhment, as will be seen
in the following chapter.
CHAPTER LXIX.
OF THE NEWEST AND STRANGEST ADVEN-
TURE THAT EVER BEFEL DON QUIXOTE
IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT
HISTORY.
No sooner had the horsemen alighted, than,
assisted by those on foot, they seized Don
Quixote and Sancho in their arms, and placed
them in the midst of the court; where a
hundred torches, and above five hundred
other lights, dispersed in the galleries around,
set the whole in a blaze ; insomuch that, in
spite of the darkness of the night, it ap-
peared like day. In the middle of the court
was erected a tomb, six feet from the ground,
and over it was spread a large canopy of
black velvet ; round which, upon its steps,
were burning above a hundred wax tapers
in silver candlesticks. On the tomb was
risible the corpse of a damsel, so beautiful
as to make death itself appear lovely. Her
head was laid upon a cushion of gold bro-
cade, crowned with a garland of fragrant
flowers, and in her hands, which were
laid cross-wise upon her breast, was placed
a green branch of victorious palm. On one
side of the court was erected a theatre,
where two personages were seated, whose
crowns on their heads, and sceptres in their
hands, denoted them to be kings, either real
or feigned. On the side of the theatre, ||
which was ascended by steps, were two
other seats, upon whirb Don Quixote and i
Sancho were placed. This was performed
in profound silence, and, by signs, giving i
them both to undeivtand they were to hold i
their peace : thongn the caution was need-
less, for astonbhment had tied op their .
tongues.
Two great persons now ascended the
theatre with a numerous retinue, and seated
themselves in two chairs of state, close to
those who seemed to be monarchs. These
Don Quixote immediately knew to be the
duke and duchess who had so nobly enter-
tained him. Every thing he saw filled him
with wonder, and nothing more than hb
discovery that the corpse lying extended
on the tomb was that of the fair Altisidora !
When tlie duke and duchess had taken their
places, Don Quixote and Sancho rose up,
and made them a profound reverence, which
their highnesses returned by a slight incli-
nation of the head. Immediately after, an
officer crossed the area, and, going up to
Sancho, threw over him a robe of black ;
buckram, painted over with flames, and, '
taking off his cap, he put on his head a '
pasteboard mitre, three feet high, like those
used by the penitents of the Inquisition ;
bidding him, in a whisper, not to open ha
lips, otherwise he would be either gagged
or slain. Sancho viewed himself from top
to toe, and saw his body covered with
flames: but, finding they did not bum him,
lie cared not two straws. He took off his ,
mitre, and saw it painted all over with \
devils: but he replaced it again on his .'
head, saying within himself, " All b well ;
enough yet ; these flames do not burs, nor
do these imps fly away with me.*' Don |
Quixote also surveyed him, and, in spite
of his perturbation, he could not forbear
smiling at his strange appearance.
And now, in the midst of that profbaod
silence (for not a breath was heard), a soft
and pleasing sound of flutes stole upon the
ear, seeming to proceed from the tomb. |
Then, on a sudden, near the conch of the |
dead body, appeared a beautiful youth, is <
a Roman habit, who, in a sweet and clear ,.
voice, to the sound of a harp, which he f
DON QUIXOTE.
491
touched himself, sung the two following
«tanzas :
Till he»T*n, in pity to the weeping world.
Shall give Altiaidora bmck to day,
Bj Quixote's acorn to realms of Pluto hurl'd.
Her ev'ry charm to cruel death a prey;
"While matrons throw their gorgeous robes away,
To mourn a nymph by cold disdain betray'd ;
To the complaining l>re*s enchanting lay,
1*11 sing the praises of this hapless maid.
In sweeter notes than Thiacian Orpheus ever play*d.
Nor shall my numbers with my life expire,
Or this world's light confine the boundless song :
To thee, bright maid, in death Til touch the lyre.
And to my soul the theme shall still belong.
When, freed from clay, the flitting ghosts among,
My spirit glides the dtygian shores around,
Though the cold hand of death has seal'd my tongue.
Thy praise th' infernal caverns shall rebound.
And Lethe's sluggish waves move slower to the sound.
" Enough/' said one of the kings,
*^ enough, divine musician I it were an
endless task to describe the graces of the
peerless Altisidora, — dead, as the ignorant
world believes, but still living in the breath
of fame, and through the penance which
Sancho Panza, here present, must undergo,
in order to restore her to light : and there-
fore, O Rhadamanthus ! who, with me,
judgest in the dark caverns of Pluto, since
thou knowest all that destiny has decreed
touching the restoration of this damsel,
speak, — declare it immediately; nor delay
the promised felicity of her return to the
world." Scarcely had Minos ceased, when
Rhadamanthus, starting up, cried, "Ho,
there! ye minbters and officers of the
household, high and low, great and small !
I Proceed ye, one after another, and mark
me Sancho's face with four -and -twenty
twitches, and let his arms and sides have
twelve, and thrust therein six times the
pin's sharp point : for in the due perform-
ance of this ceremony depends the restora-
tion of that lifeless corse." Sancho, hearing
this, could hold out no longer. " I vow to
God," cried he, " I will sooner turn Turk
than let my flesh be so handled ! — Body of
Qie ! how is the mauling of my visage to
give life to the dead? ^The old woman
has had a taste, and now her mouth waters.'
Dulcinea is enchanted, and, to unbewitch her,
I must be whipped ! and now here Altisidora
dies of some disease that God has sent her,
and, to bring her to life again, my flesh
must be tweaked and pinched, and corking-
pins thrust into my body ! — No, put thesis
tricks upon a brother-in law : I am an old
dog, and am not to be coaxed with a crust."
" Relent I" said Rhadamanthus, in a loud
voice, " relent, tiger, or thou diest ! Sub-
mit, proud Nimrod I suffer, and be silent,
monster ! Impossibilities are not required of
thee ; then talk not of difficulties. Twitched
thon shalt be ; pricked thou shalt feel thy-
self, and pinched even to groanhag.— Ho,
there! officers, to your duty— or, on the
word of an honest man, thy destiny shall
be fulfilled !"
Immediately six duennas were seen advan-
cing in procession along the court, four of them
with spectacles, and ail of them with their
right hands raised, and four fingers' breadth
of their wrists bared, to make their hands
seem the longer, according to the present
fashion. No sooner had Sancho got a glimpse
of his executioners than, bellowing aloud,
he cried, *' Do with me whatever you please ;
pour over me a sackful of mad cats to bite
and claw me, as my master was served in
this castle ; pierce and drill me through with
sharp daggers ; tear off my flesh with red-
hot pincers, and I will bear it all with
patience to oblige your worships : but the
devil may fly away with me at once before
a duenna shall put a finger upon my flesh !"
Don Quixote could no longer keep silence :
" Have patience, my son," said he, " yield
to the command of these noble persons, and
give thanks to heaven for having imparted to
thy body a virtue so wonderful that, by a
little torture, thou shouldst be able to break
the spells of enchanters, and restore the dead
to life." By this time Sancho was surrounded
by the duennas, and, being softened and
persuaded by his master's entreaties, he fixed
himself firmly in his chair, and held out his
face and beard to the executioners. The
first gave him a dexterous twitch, and then
made him a low curtsey. '' Spare me your
complaisance, good madam, and give less of
your slabber-sauce ; for, God take me ! your
fingers stink of vinegar." In short, all the
duennas successively performed their office,
and after them divers other persons repeated
the same ceremony of tweaking and pinch-
ing, to all of which he submitted ; but when
492
ADVENTURES OF
they came to pierce his flesh with pins, he
could contain himself no longer, and starting
up in a fury, he caught hold of a lighted
torch and began to lay about him with such
agility that all his executioners were put to
flight. " Away !" he cried, " scamper, ye
imps of the devil ! do you take me to be
made of brass, and suppose I cannot feel
your infernal torments 1"
At this moment Altisidora (who roust
have been tired with lying so long upon her
back,) turned herself on one side ; upon
which the whole assembly cried out with
one voice, " She lives ! she lives I Altisidora
lives !" Rhadamanthus then told Sancho
to calm his rage, for the work was accom*
pushed. The moment Don Quixote per-
ceived Altisidora move, he went to Sancho,
and, kneeling before him, said, " Now is the
time, — dear son of my bowels, rather than
my squire ! to inflict on thyself some of those
lashes for which thou art pledged, in order
to effect the disenchantment of Dulcinea ;
this, I say, is the time, now that thy virtue
is seasoned, and of efficacy to operate the
good expected from thee." " Why this,"
replied Sancho, '^ is tangle upon tangle, and
not honey upon fritters ! A good jest, in-
deed, that pinches and prickings must be
followed by lashes ! Do, sir, take at once
a great stone and tie it about my neck, and
tumble me into a well : better kill me out-
right than break my back with other men's
burthens. — Look ye, if you meddle any more
with me, as I have a living soul, all shall
out!"
Altisidora had now raised herself, and sat
upright on her tomb, whereupon the music
immediately struck up, and the court re-
sounded with the cries of " Live, live Altisi-
dora! Altisidora, live!" The duke and
duchess arose, and with Minos, Rhada-
manthus, Don Quixote, and Sancho, went
to receive the restored damsel, and assist her
to descend from the tomb. Apparently near
fainting, she bowed to the duke and duchess
and the two kings ; then, casting a side
glance at Don Quixote, she said, <' God
forgive thee, unrelenting knight ! by whose
cruelty I have been imprisoned in the other
world above a thousand years, as it seems
to me, and where I must have for ever re-
mained had it not been for thee, O Sancho! jj
Thanks, thou kindest and bestof squires, for •'
the life I now enjoy ! and, in recompense ,:
for thy goodness, six of my smocks are at
thy service, to be made into as many shirts
for thyself; and, if they are not all whole,
at least they are all clean." Sancho, with i
his mitre in his hand, and his knee on the
ground, kissed her hand. The duke ordered
him to be disrobed and his own garments to
be returned to him ; but Sancho begged his
grace to allow him to keep the frock and
mitre, that he might carry them to his own
village, in token and memory of this unheard- ;
of adventure. Whereupon the duchess as-
sured him of her regard, and proaiised him ,
that the frock and the mitre should certainly I
be his. The court was now cleared by the
duke*s command ; all the company retired,
and Don Quixote and Sancho were con-
ducted to the apartments which they had
before occupied.
CHAPTER LXX.
WHICH FOLLOWS THE SIXTY -KINTH,
AND TREATS OF MATTERS INDISPEN-
SABLE TO THE PERSPICUITY OP THIS
HISTORY.
Sancho slept that night on a truckle-bed,
in the same chamber with Don Quixote,—
an honour he would gladly have avoided :
well knowing that he should be disturbed
by his master's ill-timed questions, which
he was then in no mood to answer. Still
smarting from the penance he had under-
gone, he was sullen and silent, and at that
time would rather have lain in a hovel alone
than in that rich apartment, so accompanied.
His fears were w^ell founded, for no sooner
was his master in bed than he opened upon
the squire. "What thinkest thou, Sancho,"
said he, " of this night's adventure? — Great
and terrible are the effects of love rejected,
as thine own eyes can testify, which beheld j
Altisidora dead, not by sword or dagger, or
other mortal weapon ; no, nor poisonous
draught, but simply my disregard of ber
passion !" " She might have died how and |
when she pleased," answered Sancho, "so |
that she had left me alone, for I neithei ,
p.:^
DON QUIXOTE.
493
loved nor slighted her. In truth, I can-
not see what the recovery of Altisidora, a
damsel more light-headed than discreet,
should have to do with the tweaking and
pinching of Sancho Panza's flesh ! Now
indeed I plainly see that there are en-
chanters and enchantments in the world,
from which good Lord deliver me ! since I
know not how to deliver myself. But all I
wish for now is that your worship would
let me sleep, and not talk to me, unless you
would have me jump out of the window.''
" Sleep, friend Sancho," answered Don
Quixote, " if the prickings and pinchings
thou hast endured will give thee leave."
" No smart, sir," replied Sancho, " is equal
to the disgrace of being fingered by duennas,
— confound them 1 — but I would fain sleep
it off, if your worship would let me ; for
sleep is the best cure for waking troubles."
" Then do so," quoth Don Quixote, " and
God be with thee !"
Both master and man were soon asleep,
and Cid U ámete, the author of this grand
history, took that opportunity to inform the
world what had moved the duke and
duchess to think of contriving the solemn
farce which had just been enacted. Ac-
cordingly he says that the bachelor Sam-
son Carrasco, not forgetting his overthrow
when knight of the Mirrors, by which all
his designs had been baffled, was inclined
to try his hand again, in the hope of better
fortune ; and, gaining intelligence of Don
Quixote's rout, from the page, who was
charged with the letter and presents to
Teresa Panza, he procured a better steed
and ffesh armour, with a shield displaying
a AVhite Moon. Then placing his arms
upon a mule, which was led by a peasant
(not choosing to trust his former squire, lest
he should be discovered by Sancho Panza),
he set off, and arrived at the duke's castle,
where he was informed by his grace of the
knight's departure, the road he had taken,
and his intention to be present at the tourna-
ments of Saragossa. He related to him also
the jests which had been put upon him, with
the project for disenchanting Dulcinea, at
the expense of Sancho's posteriors. The
bachelor was also told of the imposition
which Sancho practised upon his master, in
making him believe that the lady Dulcinea
was transformed into a country wench ; and
also that the duchess afterwards made
Sancho believe his own lie. The bachelor
was much diverted at what he heard, and
wondered afresh at the extraordinary mad-
ness of the knight, and the shrewdness and
simplicity of his squire. The duke requested
him, whether he was victorious or not, to
call at the castle on his return, to acquaint
him with the event. This the bachelor
promised, and, departing, he proceeded
straight to Saragossa, where not finding
the knight, he continued the pursuit, and
at length overtook him ; the result of which
meeting has been already told. On the
bachelor's return, he stopped at the castle,
agreeable to his promise, and informed the
duke of what had passed, and also that
Don Quixote, intending honourably to fulfil
the conditions of the combat, was now ac-
tually on his return home, where he was
bound to remain twelve months, in which
time, he hoped the poor gentleman would
recover his senses; declaring, moreover,
that nothing but the concern he felt on see
ing the distracted state of so excellent an
understanding could have induced him to
make the attempt. He then took leave of
the duke, expecting to be shortly followed
by the vanquished knight.
The duke, who was never tired with the
humours of Don Quixote and his squire,
had been tempted to amuse himself, in the
manner which has been described ; and to
make sure of meeting them on their return,
he dispatched ser^'ants on horseback, in
different directions, with orders to convey
them, whether willing or not, to the castle ;
and the party whose chance it was to fall in
with them, having given the duke timely
notice of tlieir success before they appeared,
every thing was prepared so as to give the
best effect possible to the fiction. And here
Cid Hamete observes that, in his opinion,
the deceivers and the deceived, in these jests,
were all mad alike, and that even the duke
and duchess themselves were within two
fingers' breadth of appearing so, for taking
such pains to make sport with these two
wandering lunatics : one of whom was then
happily sleeping at full swing, and the othei,
©-
@=
494
ADVENTURES OF
as Qsual, indulging his waking fancies ; in
which state they were found when day first
peeped into their chamber, giving Don
Quixote an inclination to rise : for whether
vanquished or victorious, he took no plea-
sure in the bed of sloth.
About this time Altisidora — so lately, in
Don Quixote's opinion, risen from the dead —
entered his chamber, her head still crowned
with the funereal garland, her hair dis-
hevelled, clad in a robe of white taffeta,
flowered with gold ; and supporting herself
by a staff of polished ebony, she stood
before him. The knight was so amazed
and confounded at this unexpected sight
Uiat he was struck dumb ; but, being deter-
mined to shew her no courtesy, he covered
himself well over with the sheets. Altisi-
dora then sat down in a chair at his bed-
side, and, heaving a profound sigh, in a
soft and feeble voice, she said: *<When
women of virtue, and of a superior order,
in contempt of all the rules of honour and
virgin decency, can allow their tongues
openly to declare the secret wishes of their
heart, they must indeed be reduced to great
extremities. I, sigfior Don Quixote de la
Mancha, am one of those unhappy persons,
distressed, vanquished, and enamoured, but,
withal, patient, long-suffering, and modest,
to such a degree that my heart burst in
silence, and silently I quitted this life, it
is now two days since, O flinty knight !
harder than marble to my complaints ! that
the sense of your unfeeling cruelty brought
death upon me, or something so like it that
all who saw me concluded my soul was fled
to another world ; and had not love, in
pity, placed my recovery in the sufferings
of this good squire, there it must for ever
have remained V* " Truly," quoth Sancho,
*^ if love had given that business to my
Dapple, I should have taken it as kindly.
But pray tell me, sigñora, — so may heaven
provide you with a more tender-hearted
lover than my master,— what saw you in
the other world? What did you find in
hell? For whoever dies in despair must
needs go thither, whether they like it or
not." "To tell you the truth," quoth
Altisidora, '< I did not quite die, and there-
fore I did not go so far; for, had I once
set foot in hell, nothing could have got me
out again, however much I might have
wished it. The fact is I got to the gate,
where I observed about a dozen devils play-
ing at tennis, in theirwaistcoats and drawers,
their shirt collars ornamented with Flanders
lace, and ruffles of the same, with fuur
inches of their wrists bare, to make tbeii
hands seem the larger, in which they held
rackets of fire ; and what still more sur-
prised me was that, instead of the common
balls, they made use of books, tliat seemed
to be stuffed with wind and wool, — a mar-
vellous thing, you will allow; but what
added to my wonder was to see that, in-
stead of the winners rejoicing, and the losers
complaining, as it is usual with gamesters^
they all grumbled alike, cursing and hating
one another with all their hearts !" " There
is nothing strange in that," quoth Sancho ;
" for devils, play or not play, win or not
win, can never be contented." " That is
true," quoth Altisidora ; "but there is
another thing I wonder at — I mean, I
wondered at it then — which was that a
single toss seemed always to demolish the
ball ; so that, not being able to use it a
second time, tlie volumes were whipped np
in an astonishing manner. To one in par-
ticular that I noticed, which was spick and
span new, and neatly bound, they gave such
a smart stroke that out flew the guts, in
leaves fairly printed, which were scattered
about in all directions. ' Look,' said one
devil to the otlier, ' how it flies ! — see what
book it is.' * 'Tis the second part of Don
Quixote de la Mancha,' cried the other ;
* not that by Cid Hamete, its first author,
but by an Arragonese, who calls himself a
native of Tordesillas.' * Away with it,'
quoth the other devil, ' and down with it
to the bottomless pit, that it may never be
seen more.' ' Is it so bad then ?' said the
other. < So bad,' replied the first, ' that,
had I endeavoured to make it worse, I
should have found it beyond my skill.' So
they went on, tossing about their books ;
but having heard the name of Don Quixote,
whom I love and adore, I retained this
vision in my memory." " A vision, doubt-
less, it must have been," quoth Don Quix-
ote, " for I am the only person of that
e=
<^^
DON QUIXOTE.
495
name existing, either dead or aÜTe, and
jost 60 the book you speak of is here tossed
about from hand to hand, remaining in
none:— every one has a kick at it. Nor
am I concerned to bear that any phantom,
assaming my name, should be wandering
in darkness or in light, since I am not the
person mentioned in the book which you
saw shattered to pieces. The history that
is good, faithful, and true, will survive for
ages; but should it have none of these
qualities, its passage will be short between
the cradle and the grave."
Altisidora was then about to renew her
complaint against the obdurate knight, when
he interrupted her: ** Madam," said he,
" I have often cautioned you against fixing
your affections on a man who is utterly
incapable of making you a suitable return.
I was bom for Dulcinea del Toboso : to her
the fates, if any there be, have devoted me;
and, being the sole mistress and tenant of
my soul, it is impossible for any other beauty
to dispossess her. This, I hope, may suffice
to show the fallacy of your hopes, and recal
you to virtue and maidenly decorum ; for
it is wild to expect from roan what is
impossible." '' God's my life !" exclaimed
Altisidora, in a furious tone, *^ thou stock-
fish I Soul of marble I stone of date 1 more
stubborn and insensible than a courted
clown I Monster I I'd tear your eyes out,
if I could come at yon ! Have you the
impudence, Don cudgelled, Don beaten and
battered, to suppose that I died for love of
your lanthom jaws? No, no such matter,
believe me ; all that you have seen to-night
has been sheer counterfeit ; I am not the
woman to let the black of my nail ache,
much less to die, for such a dromedary as
thou art !" " By my faith, I believe thee,"
quoth Sancho ; '' for as to dying for love,
it is all a jest : folks may talk of it, but as
for doing it — believe it Judas."
At this time the musical poet joined them,
who had sung the stanzas composed for the
solemnities of the night ; and, approaching
jDon Quixote with a profound reverence,
he said : ^' I come, sir-knight, to request
yon will vouchsafe to number me among
your most humble servants: an honour
which I have been long ambitious to re-
ceive, both on account of your fame and
your wonderful achievements." '^ Pny»
sir," replied Don Quixote, *' inform me
who you are, that I may duly acknowledge
your merits." The young man said that
he was the musician and panegyrist of the
preceding night '* Truly, sir," quoth Don
Quixote, ''your voice is excellent; but
what you sung did not seem to me ap-
plicable to the occasion : for what have the
stanzas of Garcilasso to do with the death
of this lady ?" «' Wonder not at that, sir,"
answered the musician ; '' for, among the
green poets of our times, it is common to
write as the whim guides, whether to the pur-
pose or not : picking and stealing wherever
it suits ; and every senseless thing sung or
said is sure to find its apology in poetical
license."
Don Quixote would have replied, but was
prevented by the entrance of the duke and
duchess, who had come to visit him. Much
relishing conversation then passed between
them, in the course of which Sancho ex-
torted fresh admiration from their graces,
by his wonted shrewdness and pleasantry.
In conclusion, Don Quixote besought them
to grant him leave to depart that same day ;
for a vanquished knight like himself should
rather dwell in a sty with hogs than in a
royal palace. His request was granted, and
the duchess desired to know whether Altisi-
dora had attained any share in his favour.
" Madam," said he, " yonr ladyship should
know that the chief cause of this good dam-
sel's suffering is idleness, the remedy whereof
is honest and constant employment. Lace,
she tells me, is much worn in hell, and since
she cannot but know how to make it, let
her stick to that ; for while her fingers are
assiduously employed with her bobbins, the
images that now haunt her imagination will
keep aloof, and leave her mind tranquil and
happy. This, madam, is my opinion and
my advice. " '' And mine too, " added
•Sancho, " for I never in my life heard of a
lace-maker that died for love ; for your
damsels that bestir themselves at some
honest labour think more of their work
than of their sweethearts. I know it by
myself; when I am digging, I never think
of my Teresa, though, God bless her ! J
@=-
496
ADVENTURES OF
love her more than my very eyelids." —
<* You say right, Sancho," quoth the
duchess, " and it shall henceforth be my
care to see that Altisidora is well employed ;
she knows how to make use of her needle,
and it shall not lay idle." " There is no
need, madam, " answered Altisidora, " of
any such remedy ; the cruel treatment I
have received from that monster is quite
sufficient to blot him out of my memory,
without any other help ; and, with your
grace's leave, I will withdraw, that I may
no longer have before my eyes, I will not
say that rueful, but that abominable, liide-
ous, and horrible figure !" " I wish, "
quoth the duke, '' this may not confirm
the saying, ' A lover railing is not far
from forgiving. ' " Altisidora then, pre-
tending to wipe the tears from her eyes,
and making a low curtsey to her lord and
lady, went out of the room. " Poor dam-
sel! " quoth Sancho, " I forebode thee ill
luck, since thou hast to do with a soul of
rushes, and a heart as tough as oak ; —
i'faith, had it been me tliou hadst looked
on with kindness, thy pigs would have
been brought to a better market." Here
the conversation ceased ; Don Quixote
arose and dressed himself, dined with the
duke and duchess, and departed the same
afternoon.
->
CHAPTER LXXI.
OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
SQUIRE SANCHO, ON THE WAY TO
THEIIl VILLAGE.
The vanquished knight pursued his journey
homeward, sometimes overcome with grief,
and sometimes joyful : for if his spirits were
depressed by the recollection of his over-
throw, they were again raised by the sin-
gular virtue that seemed to be lodged in the
body of his squire, still giving him fresh
hopes of his lady's restoration ; at the same
time, he was not without some qualms
respecting Altisidora's resurrection. Even
Sancho's thoughts were unpleasant and
gloomy, for he was not at all pleased that
Altisidora should have paid no regard to
her solemn promise concerning the smocks.
Full of his disappointment, he said to his
master, " Faith and troth, sir, there never
was a more unlucky physician than I am.
Other doctors kill their patients, and are well
paid for it, though their trouble be nothing
but scrawling a piece of paper with direc-
tions to the apothecary, who does all the
work ; whilst I give life to the dead at the
expense of my blood, and the scarificatioa
of my flesh to boot : yet the devil a fee do
I touch ! But I vow to God, the next time
they catch me curing people in this way, it
shall not be for nothing. The abbot roust
eat that sings for his meat; besides, heaven,
I am sure, never gave me this wonderful
trick of curing, without meaning that I
should get something by it." " Thou art
in the -ight, friend Sancho," answered Don
Quixote, " and Altisidora behaved verj»^ ill,
in not giving thee the smocks which she
promised, although the faculty whereby
thou performest these miracles was given
tliee gratis, and costs thee nothing in the
practice but a little bodily pain. For my-
self, I can say, if thou wouldst be paid for
disenchanting Dulcinea, I should readily
satisfy thee. Yet I know not whether pay-
ment be allowed in the conditions of the
cure, and I should be grieved to cause any
obstruction to the effects of the medicine.
However, I tliink, there can be no risk in
making a trial ; therefore, Sancho, consider
of it, and fix thy demand, so that no time
may be lost. Set about the work immedi-
ately, and pay thyself in ready money,
since thou hast cash of mine in thy hands."
At these offers Sancho opened his eye:»
and ears a span wider, resolving to strike
the bargain without delay. '*Sir," said he,
'* I am ready and willing to give you satis-
faction, since your worship speaks so much
to the purpose. You know, sir, I have a
wife and children to maintain, and the love
I bear them makes me look to the main
chance : how much, then, will your woT^hip
pay for each lash ?" " Were I to pay thee,
Sancho," answered Don Quixote, <*in prr>-
portion to the magnitude of the service,
the treasure of Venice, and the mines of
Potosi would be too small a recompense:
but examine and feel the strength of my
purse, and then set thine own price upon
DON QUIXOTE.
497
each lash." "The lashes to be given,"
quoth Sancho, *^ are three thousand three
hundred, and odd ; ñve of that number I
have already given myself, — the rest re*
mains. Setting the ñve against the odd
ones, let us take the three thousand three
hundred, and reckon them at a quartil
each — and, for the world, I would not take
less, — the whole amount would be three
thousand three hundred quartils. Now the
three thousand quartils make one thousand
five hundred half reals, which comes to
seven hundred and fifty reals, and the three
hundred quartils make a hundred and fifty
half reals, or seventy-five reals, which, added
to the seven hundred and fifty, make, in all,
eijjht hundretl and twenty-five reals. That
sum, then, I will take from your worship's
money in my bands, and with it I shall
return home rich and contented, though
soundly whipped : but trouts are not to be
caught* with dry breeches." " O blessed
Sancho ! O amiable Sancho !" replied Don
Quixote, *' how much shall Dulcinea and I
be bound to serve thee as long as heaven
shall be pleased to give us life ! Should she
be restored to her former state, as she cer-
tainly will, her misfortune will prove abless-
ijii^ — my defeat a most happy triumph! —
und when, good Sancho, dost thou propose to
begin tlie discipline? I will add another hun*
(Ired reals for greater dispatch." "When ?"
replied Sancho; " even this very night,
without ikil : do you take care to give me
room enough, and open field, and I will
take care to lay my flesh open."
So impatient was Don Quixote for night,
and so slowly it seemed to approach, that
he concluded the wheels of Apollo's chariot
had been broken, and the day thereby
extended beyond its usual length ; as it is
with expecting lovers, who always fancy
time to be stationary. At length, however,
it grew dork ; when, quitting the road, they
seated themselves on the grass, under some
trees, and took their evening's repast on such
provisions as the squire's wallet afforded.
Supper being ended, Sancho made himself
a powerful whip out of Dapple's halter,
* The entire proverb it, " No se toman truchas a
bragas enxutas." — " They do not catch treats with drj
brecche«.** — J.
with which he retired about twenty paces
fronr his roaster. Don Quixote, seeing him
proceed to business with such resolution and
spirit, said to him, ^* Be carefnl, friend, not
to lash tliyself to pieces; take time, and
pause between each stroke ; hurry not thy-
self so as to be overcome in the midst of
thy task : — I mean I would not have thee
lay it on so unmercifully as to deprive thy«
self of life before the required number be
completed. And, that thou may'st not
lose by a card too much or too little, I will
stand aloof, and keep reckoning upon my
beads the kshes thou shalt give thyself: so
heaven prosper thy pious undertaking!"
"The good paymaster needs no pledge,"
quoth Sancho. " I mean to lay it on so
that it may smart without killing me : for
therein, as I take it, lies the secret of the
cure." He then stripped himself naked,
from the waist upwards, and, snatching up
the whip, began to lash it away with great
fury, and Don Quixote to keep account of
strokes. But Sancho had not given him-
self above six or eight, when, feeling tlie
jest a little too heavy, he began to think
his terms too low, and, stopping his hand,
he said to his master that he had been de-
ceived, and must appeal, for every lash was
well worth half a real, instead of a quartil."
" Proceed, ii-iend Sancho," quoth Don
Quixote, " and be not faint-hearted : thy
pay shall be doubled." "If so," quoth
Sancho, " away with it, in God's name, and
let it rain lashes." But the sly knave, in-
stead of laying them on his back, laid them
on the trees, fetching, ever and anon, such
groans that he seemed to be tearing up his
very soul by the roots. Don Quixote, be-
sides being naturally humane, was now
fearful that Sancho would destroy himself,
and thus, by his indiscreet zeal, the object
would be lost: and therefore he cried out,
" Hold, friend Sancho, — let the business
rest there, I conjure thee ; for this medicine
seems to me too violent, when so adminis-
tered ; take it, friend, more at leisure :
Zamora was not gained in one hour. Thou
hast already given thyself, if I reckon
right, above a thousand lashes: let that
sufiice at present — for the ass (to speak in
homely phrase) will carry the load, but
2 K
49S
ADVENTURES OF
not a double load." " No, no/' answered is common in coantry places.
Sancbo^ ''it shall never be said of me, ' the
money paid, the work delayed.' Pray, sir,
get a little farther off, and let me give my-
self another thousand lashes at least; for
a couple of such bouts will finish the job,
and stuff to spare." ** Since thou art in so
good a disposition," quoth Don Quixote,
^' go on, and heaven assist thee ; I will re-
tire a little." Sancho returned to his task
with the same fury as before, and with so
much effect did he apply the lash that the
trees within his reach were ali-eady dis-
barked. At length, exalting his voice, in
accompaniment to a prodigious stroke on
the body of a beech, he cried, " Down,
down, with thee, Samson, and all that are
with thee ! " The frightful exclamation
and blow were too much for the knight's
teuderness, and he ran immediately, and,
seizing hold of the twisted halter, said,
"Heaven forbid, friend Sancho, that thy
death, and the ruin of thy helpless family
should be laid at my door ! — let Dulcinea
wait for another opportunity, and I will
myself restrain my eagerness for her de-
liverance within reasonable bounds, and
stay till thou hast recovered fresh strength,
so as to be able to finish thy task with
safety." '* Since it is your worship's
pleasure that I should leave off, be it so,
in God's name : and pray fling your cloak
over my shoulders for I am all in a sweat,
and am loth to catch cold, as new disciplin-
ants are apt to do." Don Quixote took off
his cloak, and did as Sancho desired, leaving
himself in his doublet; and the crafty squiie,
being covered up warm, fell fast asleep,
and never stirred until the sun waked him.
The knight and squire now pursued their
journey, and, having travelled about three
leagues, they alighted at the door of an
inn, which, it is to be remarked, Don
Quixote did not take for a turreted castle,
with its moat and drawbridge: indeed,
since his defeat, he was observed at times
to discourse with a more steady judgment
than usual. He was introduced into a room
on the ground floor, which, instead of
tapestry, was hung with painted serge, as
• *• Whcrerer it hits.'
No
In one part
of these hangings was represented, by some
wretched dauber, the story of Helen, when
she eloped with Paris ; and in another was
painted the unfortunate Dido, upon a high
tower, making signals, with her bed -sheet,
to her fugitive lover, who was out at sea,
crowding all the sail he could to get awar
from her. Of the first the knight remarked
that Helen seemed not much averse to be
taken off, for she had a roguish smile on
her countenance ; but the beauteous Dido
seemed to let &11 fit>m her eyes tears as big
as wahauts. *' These two ladies," said he,
'* were most unfortunate in not being bom
in this age, and I above all men, unhappy
that I was not bom in theirs : for, had I
encountered those gallants, neither had Troy
been burnt, nor Carthage destroyed : — all
these calamities had been prevented simply
by ray killing Paris." "I will lay a
wager," quoth Sancho, " that, before long,
there will not be either victualling- house,
tavern, inn, or barber's shop, in which the
history of our exploits will not be painted ;
but I hope they may be done by a better
hand than the painter of these." * ' Thou art
in the right, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote ;
" for this painter is like Orbaneja of Ubeda,
who, when he was asked what he was
painting, answered, ' As it may happen ;'
and if it chanced to be a cock, he prudently
wrote under it, 'This is a cock,' lest it
should be mistaken for a fox. Just such
a one, methinks, Sancho, the painter, or
writer (for it is all one), roust be, who
wrote the history of this new Don Quixote,
lately published : whatever he painted, or
wrote, was — just as it happened. Or he
is like a poet, some years about the Court,
called Mauleon, who answered all questions
extempore; and, a person asking him the
meaning of ' Deum de Deo,' he answered,
'De donde diere.'* But, setting all this
aside, tell me, Sancho, hast thou any
thoughts of giving thyself the other brush
to-night? and would'st thon rather it should
be under a roof, or in the open air?"
''Faith, sir," quoth Sancho, "for the whip-
ping I intend to give myself, ¡t natters
affinity bat of •ound.'-/.
11
DON QUIXOTE.
49d
little to me whether it be in a house, or in
ft field ; though methinks I had rather it
were among trees, for they seem to have a
fellow feeling for me, as it were, and help me
to bear my snfiering marvellously .'' ** How-
e\er, now I think of it, friend Sancho,'^
sRid Don Quixote, '^to give you time to
recover strength, we will defer the remain-
der till we reach home, which will be the
day after to-morrow at farthest.'' " That
shall be as your worship pleases," quoth
Sancho : ** for my own part I am for making
an end of the job, out of hand, now I am
hot upon it, and while the mill is going, for
delay breeds danger. Pray to God devoutly,
and hammer away stoutly ; one take is
wortli two I'll give thee's ; and a sparrow
in hand is better than a vulture on the
wing." "No more proverbs, for God's
sake," quoth Don Quixote ; " for methinks,
Sancho, thou art losing ground, and return-
ing to 'Sicut erat' Speak plainly, as I
have often told thee, and thou wilt find it
worth a loaf per cent, to thee." *^ I know
not how I came by this unlocky trick,"
replied Sancho ; " I cannot bring you in
three words to the purpose without a pro-
verb, nor give you a proverb which, to my
thinking, is not to the purpose : — but I
will try to mend." And here the conver-
sation ended for this time.
CHAPTER LXXIL
HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO
ARRIVED AT THEIR VILLAGE.
Don Quixote and Sancho remained all
that day at the inn, waiting for night ; the
one to finish his penance in the q)en air,
and the other to witness an event which
promised the full accomplishment of all his
■wishes. While they were thus waiting, a
traveller on horseback, attended by three
or four servants, stopped at the inn. " Here,
sigñor Don Alvaro Tarfe," said one of the
attendants, to his master, " you may pass
the heat of the day ; the lodging seems to
be cool and cleanly." " If I remember
right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, on hear-
ing the gentleman's name, "when I was
turning over the book called the second part
of my history, I noticed the name of Don
Alvaro Tarfe." ** It may be so," answered
Sancho ; " let him alight, and then we will
put the question to him." The gentleman
alighted, and the landlady shewed him into
a room on the ground floor adjoining to that
of Don Quixote, and, like his, also hung
with painted serge. This newly arrived
cavalier undressed and equipped himself for
coolness, and stepping out to the porch,
which was airy and spacious, where Don
Quixote was walking backwards and for-
wards, he said to him, " Pray, sir, whither
are you bound ?" " To my native village,
sir," replied Don Quixote, " which is not
far distant. Allow me, sir, to ask yon the
same question." "I am going, sir," an-
swered the gentleman, "to Granada, the
country where I was bom." ** And a fine
country it is," replied Don Quixote, — " but
pray, sir, will you favour me with your
name ? for I believe it particularly imports
me to know it." " My name is Don Alvaro
Tarfe," answered the new guest. " Then,
I presume," said Don Quixote, " you are
that Don Alvaro Tarfe mentioned in the
second part of the history of Don Quixote
de la Mancha, lately printed, and pub-
lished ?" " The very same," answered the
gentleman, "and that Don Quixote, the
hero of the said history, was an intimate
acquaintance of mine ; and it was I indeed
who drew him from his home — I mean I
prevailed upon him to accompany me to
Saragossa, to be present at the justs and
tournaments held in that place; and, in
truth, while we were there, I did him much
service, in saving his back from being well
stroked by the hangman for being too
daring." " But pray, sir," said Don Qaix-
ote, " am I any thing like that Don Quix-
ote you speak of?" " No, truly," answered
the other, " the farthest from it in the
world." "And had he," said the knight,
" a squire named Sancho Panza ?" " Yes,
truly," answered Don Alvaro, *' one who
had the reputation of being a witty, comi-
cal fellow, but for my part, I thought him
a very dull blockhead." " Gad ! I thought
so," quoth Sancho, abruptly, " for it is not
every body that can say good things, and
■ -fCL
500
ADVENTURES OF
the Sancho you speak of must be some
pitiful ragamuffin, some idiot and knave,
ril warrant you ; for the true Sancho
Panza am I ; — 'tis I am the merry - con-
ceited squire, that have always a budget
full of wit and waggery. Do but try me,
sir,— keep me company but for a twelve-
month, and you will bless yourself at the
notable things that drop from me at every
step ; — they are so many, and so good too,
that I make every beard wag without
meaning it, or knowing why or wherefore.
And there, sir, you have the true Don
Quixote de la Mancha : the staunch, the
famous, the valiant, the wise, the loving
Don Quixote de la Mancha ; the righter
of wrongs, the defender of the weak, the
father of the fatherless, the safeguard of
widows, the murderer of damsels ; he whose
sole sweetheait and mbtress is the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso ; here he is, and here
am I, his squire : all other Don Quixotes,
and all other Sancho Panzas, are downright
phantoms and cheats." "Now, by St.
Jago ! - honest friend, I believe it," said
Don Alvaro, " for the little thou hast now
said has more of the spice of humour than
all I ever heard from the other, though it
was much. The fellow seemed to carry his
brains in his guts, for his belly supplied all
his wit, which was too dull and stupid to be
diverting ; indeed I am convinced that the
enchanters, who persecute the good Don
Quixote, have, out of spite, sent tbe bad
one to persecute me. Yet I know not what
to make of this matter, for I can take ray
oath that I left one Don Quixote under the
surgeon's hands, at the house of tbe Nuncio,
in Toledo, and now here starts up another
that has no resemblance to him V " I know
not," said Don Quixote, " whether I ought
to avow myself the good one, but I dare
venture to assert that I am not the bad one ;
and, as a proof of what I say, yon must
know, dear sigñor Alvaro Tarfe, that I
never in my life saw the city of Saragossa ;
so far from it, that, having been informed
this usurper of my name was at the touma-
inents of that city, I resolved not to go
thither, that all the world might see and be
convinced he was an impostor. Instead
therefore of going to Saragossa, I directed
f^
my course to Barcelona, — ^tliat seat of ur-
banity, that asylum of strangers, the refuse
of the distressed, birth-place of the brave,
avenger of the injured, the abode of true
friendship, and moreover the queen of cities
for beauty and situation. And though cer-
tain events occurred to me there that are
far from grateful to my thoughts — indeed,
such as excite painful recollections, yet 1
bear them the better for having had the
satisfaction of seeing that city. In plain
truth, sigñor Don Alvaro Tarfe, 1 am Don
Quixote de la Mancha ; it is I whom lame
has celebrated, and not the miserable wretch
who has taken my name, and would arro-
gate to himself tbe honour of my exploits.
I therefore hope, sir, that you, as a gentle-
man, will not refuse to make a deposition
before the magistrate of this town, that you
never saw me before in your life till this
day ; and that I am not the Don Quixote
mentioned in the second part which has
been published, nor this Sancho Panza my
squire, the same you formerly knew."
*• That I will, with all my heart," answered
Don Alvaro ; " though I own it perplexes
me to see two Don Quixotes, and two San-
cho Panzas, as different in their nature as
alike in name, insomuch that I am inclined
to believe that I have not seen what I have
seen, nor has that happened to me which I
thought had happened." ^* Past all doubt,"
quoth Sancho, " your worship is enchanted,
like my lady Dulcinea del Toboso ; and
would to heaven your disenchantment de-
pended upon my giving myself another such
three thousand and odd lashes, as I do for
her! — I would do your business, and lay
them on, without fee or reward." " I do
not understand what you mean by lashes,"
quoth Don Alvaro. Sancho said it was a
tale too long to tell at that time, but he
should hear it, if they happened to travel
the same road.
Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined
together; and as it chanced that a magis-
trate of the town called at the inn, accom-
panied by a notary, Don Quixote requested
they would take the deposition of the gentle-
man there present, Don Alvaro Tarfe, who
purposed to make oath that he did not
know another gentleman then before them.
DON QUIXOTE.
501
namely, Don Quixote de la Mancha, and
that he was not the man spoken of in a
certain book called ** The second part of
Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by
such a one de Avellaneda, a native of
Tordesillas." In short, the magistrate
complied, and a deposition was produced
according to the regular form, and ex-
pressed in the strongest terms, to the great
satisfaction of Don Quixote and Sancho, —
as if the difference between them and their
spurious imitators had not been sufficiently
manifest without any such attestation. Many
compliments and offers of service passed
between Don Alvaro and Don Quixote, in
which the great Manchegan shewed so much
good sense that Don Alvaro Tarfe was con-
vinced he had been deceived, and also that
there was certainly some enchantment in
the case, since he had touched with his
own hand two such opposite Don Quixotes.
In the evening they all quitted the inn,
and after proceeding together about half a
league the road branched into two ; the one
led to Don Quixote's village, and the other
was taken by Don Alvaro. During the
short distance they had travelled together
Don Quixote informed him of his unfor-
tunate defeat, the enchantment of Dulcinea,
und the remedy prescribed by Merlin, to
the great amusement of Don Alvaro, who,
after embrai;ing Don Quixote and Sancho,
took his leave, each pursuing his own way.
Don Quixote passed that night among
trees, to give Sancho an opportunity to
resume his penance, in the performance of
which the cunning rogue took special care,
as on the preceding night, that the beech
trees should be the sufferers ; for the lashes
he gave his back would not have brushed
off a fly from it. The cheated knight
counted the strokes with great exactness,
and, reckoning those which had been given
I before, he found the whole amount to three
thousand and twenty-nine. The sun seemed
to rise earlier than usual to witness the
important sacrifice, and to enable them to
continue their journey. They travelled
onward, discoursing together on the mis-
take of Don Alvaro, and their prudence in
having obtained his deposition before a
ma^átrate, and in so full and authentic a
form. All that day and the following night
they proceeded without meeting with any
occurrence worth recording, unless it be
that when it was dark Sancho finished his
task, to the great joy of Don Quixote, who,
when all was over, anxiously waited the
return of day, in the hope of meeting his
disenchanted lady ; and, for that purpose,
as he pursued his journey, he looked nar-
rowly at every woman he came near, to
recognise Dulcinea del Toboso ; fully relying
on the promises of the sage Merlin.
Thus hoping and expecting, the knight
and squire ascended a little eminence, whence
they discovered their village ; which Sancho
no sooner beheld than, kneeling down, he
said : '^ Open thine eyes, O my beloved
country ! and behold thy son, Sancho
Panza, returning to thee again, if not rich,
yet well whipped ! Open thine arms, and
receive thy son Don Quixote too ! who,
though worsted by another, has conquered
himself, which, as I have heard say, is tlie
best kind of victory ! Money I have gotten,
and, though I have been soundly banged, I
have come off like a gentleman." '< Leave
these fooleries, Sancho," quoth Don Quix-
ote, '' and let us go directly to our homes,
where we will give full scope to our imagi-
nation, and settle our intended scheme of
a pastoral life." They now descended the
hill, and went straight to the village.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
OF THE OMBNS WHICH DON QÜ1X0TB
MET WITH AT THE ENTUAMCR INTO
HIS VILLAGE ; WITH OTHER MATTERS
WHICH ADORN AND ILLUSTRATE THIS
GREAT HISTORY.
At the entrance of the village, as Cid
Hamete reports, Don Quixote observed two
boys standing on a threshing-floor, dis-
puting with each other. '^ You need not
trouble yourself, Perquillo," said one of
them, <' for you shall never see it again."
Don Quixote, hearing these words, said:
*' Dost thou mark that, Sancho ? Hearest
thou what he says ? you shall never see it
again!" "Well, and what then?" said
Sancho. " What !" replied Don Quixote,
502
ADVENTURES OF
*' dost tbou not perceive that, applying
these words to myself, I am to understand
that I shall never more behold my Dul-
cinea?" Sancho would have answered,
but was prevented by seeing a hare come
running across the field^ which, pursued by
a number of dogs and sportsmen, took
refuge between Dapple's feet. Sancho took
up the fugitive animal and presented it to
Don Quixote, who immediately cried out,
*^ Malum signum ! Malum signum ; — a
hare flies, dogs pursue her, and Dulcinea
appears not !" " Your worship," quoth
Sancho, " is a strange man : let us suppose
now that this hare is the lady Dulcinea,
and the dogs that pursue her those wicked
enchanters, who transformed her into a
scurvy wench : she flies, I catch her, and
put her into your worship's hands, who
have her in your arms, and pray make
much of her. Now where is the harm of
all this ?" The two boys who had been
quarrelling now came up to look at the
hare, when Sancho asked one of them the
cause of their dispute, and was told by him
who had said, *^ you shall never sec it
again," that he had taken a cage-full of
crickets from the other boy, wldch he in-
tended to keep. Sancho drew four mara-
vedís out of his pocket, and gave it the boy
for his cage, which he also delivered to Don
Quixote, and said, ** Look here, sir, all
your omens and signs of ill luck are come
to nothing ; and, to my thinking, dunce as
I am, they have no more to do with our
affairs thim last yeea's clouds; and, if I
remember right, I have heard our priest
say that good Christians, and wise people,
ought not to regard these trumperies ; and
it was but a few days since that your
worship told me yourself that people who
minded such sigpis and tokens were little
better than fools. So let us leave these
matters as we found them, and get home
as fast as we can."
The hunters then came up, and demanded
their hare, which Don Quixote gave them,
and passed on ; and, in a field adjoining
the village, they met the curate and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, repeating their
breviary. It must here be mentioned that
Sancho Panza, by way of sumpter-cloth,
had thrown the buckram roce painted with
flames, which he had worn on tne night ol
Altisidora's revival, over the armour, upon
his ass. He had likewise clapped the mitre
on Dapple's head, — in short, never was ass
so honoured and bedizened. The priest '
and bachelor, immediately recognising their
friends, ran towards them with open arms.
Don Quixote alighted, and embraced them
cordially. In the mean time, the boys,
whose keen eyes nothing can escape, came
flocking from all parts. '^ Ho !" cries one,
'' here comes Sancho Panza's ass, as gay
as a parrot, and Don Quixote's old horse,
leaner than ever!" Thus surrounded by
the children, and accompanied by the priest
and the bachelor, they proceeded through
the village till they arrived at Don Quixote's
house, where, at the door, they found the ,
housekeeper and the niece, who had already
heard of his arrival. It had likewise reached
the ears of Sancho's wife Teresa, who, half
naked, with her hair about her ears, and
dragging Sanchica after her, ran to meet
her husband ; and, seeing him not so well
equipped as she thought a governor ought
to be, she said, ^* What makes yon come
thus, dear husband? methinks you come
afoot, and foundered ! This, I trow, is not
as a governor should look." ^' Peace,
wife," quoth Sancho ; ^' for the bacon is
not so easily found as the pin to bang it on.
Let us go home, and there you shall hear
wonders. I have got money, and honestly
too, without wronging anybody." " Hast
thou got money, good husband? — nay,
then, 'tis well, however it be gotten ; for,
well or ill, it will have brought up no new
custom in the world." Sanchica dung to ,
her fiither, and asked him what he had
brought her home, for she had been, wishing
for him as they do for showers in May.
Teresa then taking him by the hand on one
side, and Sanchica laying hold of his belt
on the other, and at the same time polling <
Dapple by the halter, they went home,
leaving Don Quixote to the care of his
niece and housekeeper, and in the company
of the priest and the bachelor.
Don Quixote, without waiting for a more ,
fit occasion, immediately took the ]viest i
and bachelor aside, and briefly told tbem
(^=
DON QUIXOTE.
603
of his Laving been vanquished, and the ob-
ligation he had consequently been laid under
to abstain from the exercise of arms for the
space of twelve months, and which, he said,
it was his intention strictly to observe, as
became a true knight- errant. He also told
them of his determination to turn shepherd,
and, during the period of his recess, to pass
his time in the rural occupations appertain-
ing to that mode of life ; that, while thus in-
nocently and virtuously employed, he might
give free scope to his amorous thoughts.
He then besought them, if they were free
from engagements of greater moment, to
follow his example, and bear him company :
adding that it should be his care to provide
them with sheep, and whatever was neces-
sary to equip them as shepherds; and more-
over, that his project had been so far ma-
tured that he had already chosen names that
would suit them exactly. The priest having
enquired what they were, he informed him
that the name he proposed to take himself,
was the shepherd Quixotiz; the bachelor
should be the shepherd Carrascon ; and he
— the curate — the shepherd Curiambro; and
Sancho Panza the shepherd Panzino. This
new madness of Don Quixote astonished
iiis friends ; but, to prevent his rambling as
before, and hoping also that a cure might,
in the mean time, be found for his malady,
they entered into his new project, and ex-
pressed their entire approbation of it ; con-
senting, also, to be the companions of his
Fural life. <' This is excellent !" said the
bachelor ; 'Mt will suit me to a hair ; for,
as every body knows, I am a choice poet,
and shall be continually composing amorous
ditties and pastorals, to divert us as we
range the flowery fields. But there is one
important thing to be done, which is tliat
each of us should choose the name of the
shepherdess he intends to celebrate in his
verses, and inscribe it on the bark of every
tree he comes near, according to the custom
of enamoured swains." *' Certainly," said
the knight, 'Hhat should be done: — not
that I have occasion to look out for a name,
having the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso,
the glory of these banks, the ornament of
these meads, the flower of beauty, the cream
of gentleness, and, lastly, the worthy subject
of all praise, however excessive !" " That
is true," said the priest ; " but as for ns, we
must look out for shepherdesses of an in-
ferior stamp, and be content : if they square
not with our wishes, they may comer with
them ; and, when our invention fails us in
the choice of names, we have only to apply
to books, and there we may be accommo-
dated with Phillises, Amarillises, Dianas,
Floridas, Galateas, and Belisardas in abun-
dance, which, as they are goods ready for
every man's penny, we may pick and
choose. If my mistress, or, rather, my
shepherdess, should be called Anna, I will
celebrate her under the name of Anarda ;
and if Frances, I will call her Francesina ;
and if Lucy, Lucinda ; and so on : and if
Sancho Panza make one of our fraternity,
he may celebrate his wife, Tereza Panza,
by the name of Teresona." Don Quixote
smiled at the turn given to the names ; the
priest again commended his laudable reso-
lution, and repeated his offer to join the
party whenever the duties of his function
would permit. They then took their leave,
entreating him to take care of his health
by every means in his power.
No sooner had his friends left him than
the housekeeper and niece, who had been
listening to their conversation, came to
him. <* Bless me, uncle !" cried the niece,
** what is now^ got into your head ? When
we thought you were coming to stay at
home, and live a quiet and decent life,
yon are about to entangle yourself in new
mazes, and turn shepherd, forsooth ! — in
truth, uncle, * the straw is too hard to make
pipes of.' " Here the housekeeper put in
her word : '* Lord, sir ! how is your worship
to bear the summer's heat, and winter's
pinching cold, in the open fields? And
the howling of the wolves, — heaven bless
us ! No, good sir, don't think of it ; this
is the business of stout men who are bom
and bred to it : — why, as I live, your
worship would find it worse even than
being a knight-errant. Look you, sir, take
my advice — which is not given by one full
of bread and wine, but fasting, and with
fifty years over my head, — stay at home,
look after your estate, go often to confes-
sion, and relieve the poor ; and, if any ill
(i^=
=^
<^^
504
ADVEXTUHES OF
eomes of it, let it lie at my door." " Peace,
daughters/' answered Don Quixote, " lor
1 know my duty ; only help mc to bed,
for metliinks I am not very well ; and
assure youraelves that, wLetlier a knight-
errant or a shepherd-errant, I will not fail
to provide for you, as you shall find by ex-
perience." The two good creatures — for
tlioy really were so — then carried him to
bed, where they brought him food, and
attended upon him willi all imaginable
care.
¡I
CHAPTER LXXIV.
HOW DON QUIXOTE KKLL SICK, MADE
HIS WILL, AND DIED.
As all human things, especially the lives of
men, ape transitory, ever advancing from
their beginning to their decline and final
termination ; and as Don Quixote was
favoured by no privilege of exemption from
the common iate, the period of his dissolu-
tion came, — and when he least thought of
it. Whether that event was hastened by
the melancholy occasioned by the recollec-
tion of his defeat, or that his destined hour
was come, true it is that he was seized with
a fever, which, after six days' confinement
to his bed, terminated his mortal course.
During that time he was often visited by
bis friends the priest, the bachelor, and the
barber ; and his trusty squire Sancho Panza
never quitted his bed-side. Supposing that
the mortification of being vanqubhed, and the
disappointment of his hopes as to the resto-
ration of Dulcinea, were the causes of his
present malady, they endeavoured by all
possible means to revive his spirits. The
bachelor bid him be of good courage, and
to think soon of beginning their pastoral
life ; telling liim that he had already com-
posed an eclogue on the occasion, which
would eclipse all that Sannazarius had
written, and that he had also bought of a
shepherd of Quintanar two excellent dogs,
to guard the flock, the one called Barcino,
and the other fiutron. Nevertheless, Don
Quixote's dejection still continued ; it was,
therefore, thought necessary to send for a
physician, who, perceiving^ some unfavour-
able symptoms in his pulse, advised Lis
patient to look to his soul's health, for dni
of )iis body was in danger. Don Quixote
heard this admonition with more timnqail-
lity than those about him ; for his house-
keeper, his niece, and his sqnixe, began to
weep as bitterly as if he were already deaul,
and laid out before tlieir eyes. Grief and
other troublesome cares, tlie doctor tokl
tlieni, had brought him to this pass.
Don Quixote now feeling an incUnaticni
to sleep, desired that he might be left alone.
They complied, and he slept full six hours
at a stretch (as it is termed), so that the
niece and housekeeper thought he would
never awake more. At the end of thsu
time, however, he awaked, and immedi-
ately exclaimed, in an audible voice, —
** Praised be Almighty God, who Ims
vonchsafud me so great a blessing ! —
Boundless are his mercies; nor can the
sins of men either lessen or obstruct
them ! " The niece listened attentively to
her uncle's words ; for she thought she
had perceived in him, especially since his
illness, more consistency than nsual, and
she said to him, " What is it you say,
sir? Has any thing extraordinary hap-
pened? What mercies and what sins do
you speak of? " " My good niece," re-
plied Don Quixote, '' the mercies I mean
are those which God hath, in this instance,
been pleased to show me, though my sins
are so many. My judgment is now clear,
and freed from the dark clouds of igno-
rance, with which the continual reading of
those detestable books of chivalry had ob-
scured it. I now see their extravagance
and foUy, and am only grieved that this
discovery happens so late as to leave me no
time to profit by such books as might im-
prove ai Á enlighten my soul. I fcel myself,
niece, at the point of death, and I would
fain wash away the stain of madness firom
my character ; for though in my life I have
been deservedly accounted a lunatic, I
earnestly desire tliat the truth thereof
should not be confirmed at my deatli. —
Go, therefore, dear child, and call hither
my good friends, the priest, the bachelor
Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the
barber: for I would make my confession
j^ C^MMftOkC
p. 505.
4
) •
DON QUIXOTE.
506
I
t
and my will/' Fortunately, at that mo-
mcnt, his three friends entered. As soon
as Don Quizóte saw them, he exclaimed,
*^ Give me joy, good gentlemen, tliat I am
now no longer Don Quixote dc la Mancha,
bat Alonzo Quixano, the same whom the
world, for his fair and honest life, was
pleased to surname the Good. I am now
an utter enemy to Amadis de Gaul and all
his generation. Now the senseless and
profane histories of knight-errantry arc to
me disgusting and odious ; I now acknow-
ledge my folly, and perceive the danger
into which I was led by reading them;
and now, through tlie mercy oi God, and
my own dear-bought experience, I abhor
them." Wlien bis three friends heard bim
8|icak thus, tliey imagined that some new
phrenzy had seized him. " What ! sigfior
Don Quixote,'' said the bachelor, '* now
that we have news of the lady Dulcinea
being disenchanted, do you talk at this
rate? And, now that we are just upon the
IK>int of becoming shepherds, to shig and
live like any princes, would you turn hei^
mit? Think not of it; be yourself again,
and leave these idle stories." *^ Such, in-
deed, " replied Don Quixote, '^ were the
stories that to me have proved so baneful ;
but my death, with Heaven's assistance,
shall convert them to my good. I feel,
good sin, that death advances last upon
me; let us then be serious, and bring me
a confessor, and a notary to draw up my
will ; for a man in my state must not trifle
with his souL Let the notary be sent for,
I beseech you, while my friend here, the
priest, is taking my confession." They
looked at each other, in surprise at his
expressions, and, though still dubious, they
were inclined to believe him, and could not
but regard as a fatal symptom this sudden
change from madness to sanit^r. He then
conversed again in so rational and christian
a manner that no doubt remained of the
perfect restoration of his intellects. The
priest desired all the rest to leave the room,
and, when alone, he received his confession.
The bachelor went for the notary, and pre-
sently returned with him, followed by San-
cho Panza, who, having leanied from the
bachelor the hopeless situation of his master,
and seeing the niece and housekeeper in
tears, he also began to weep like tlie rest
The priest, having taken his dying friend's
confession, came out of the room, and told
them that the good Alonzo Quixano was
near his end, and certainly in his right
senses ; he therefore advised them to go in,
as it was ííill time tlmt his will should be
made. Thie sad intelligence opened still
wider the sluices of grief, and torrents of
tears issued from the swollen eyes of the
housekeeper, his niece, and Sancho Panza
his trusty squire, and from the bottom oi
their aggrieved hearts a thousand sighs and
groans : for, in truth, as it hath been said
before, both while he was plain Alonzo
Quixano and while lie was Don Quixote
de la Mancha, he ^vas ever of an amiable
disposition, and kind and affiible in his
behaviour; so that he was beloved, not
only by those of his own family, but by all
that knew him.
The notary now entered tlie room witti
the others, and after the preamble of the will
had been written, and Don Quixote had
disposed of his soul in the usual christiau
forms, coming to the distribution of his
worldly goods, he directed the notary to
write as follows : namely,—** Item, it is my
will that, in regard to certain monies which
Sancho Panza, whom in the wildness of my
folly 1 called my squire, has in his custody :
there being between him and me some reck-
onings, receipts, and disbursements, he shall
not be charged with them, nor called to
any account for them ; but if, after he has
paid himself, there should be any overplus,
which will be but little, it shall be his own,
and much good may it do him ; and if, as
in my distracted state I procured him the
government of an island, I could, now that
I am in my senses, procure him that of a
kingdom, I would readily do it: for the
simplknty of his heart, and the fidelity of
his dealings, well deserve it." Then turning
to Sancho, he said, " Forgive me, friend, for
perverting thy understanding, and persuad-
ing thee to believe that there were, and
still are, knights -errant in the world."
" Alas ! good sir," replied Sancho, ^* do not
die, I pray you ; but take my advice, and
live many yean ; for the greatest folly a
21
■>ua
ADVENTURES OF
I
^^
man can commit in this world is to give
himself up to death, without any good cause
tor it, but only from melancholy. Good
your worship, be not idle, but rise and let us
be going to the field, dressed like shepherds,
as we agreed to do ; and who knows but,
behind some bush or other, we may find the
lady Dulcinea disenchanted as fine as heart
can wish ? If yon pine at bebg vanquished,
lay the blame upon me, and say you were
unhorsed because I had not duly girted
Kozinante's saddle ; and your worship must
have seen in your books of chivalry that
nothing is more common than for one knight
to unhorse another, and that he who is van*
quished to-day may be the conqueror to-
morrow." "It is so, indeed," quoth the
bachelor, " honest Sancho is very much
in the right." " Gentlemen," quoth Don
Quixote, " let us proceed fair and softly ;
look not for this year's birds in last year's
nests. I was mad ; I am now sane ; I was
Don Quixote de la Mancha ; I am now, as
formerly styled, Alonzo Quixano the good,
and may my repentance and sincerity re-
store me to the esteem you once had for
me ! — now let the notary proceed."
" Item, I bequeath to Antonia Quixano,
my niece here present, all my estate real and
personal, after the payment of all my debts
and legacies ; and the first to be discharged
shall be the wages due to my housekeeper
for the time she has been in my service,
and twenty ducats besides for a suit of
mourning.
" I appoint for my executors sigñor the
priest, and signer bachelor Samson Carrasco,
here present. Item, it is also my will tliat,
if Antonia Quixano my niece should be in-
clined to marry, it shall be only with a man
who, upon the strictest enquiry, shall be
found to know nothing of books of chivalry ;
and, in case it shall appear that he is ac-
quainted with such books, and that my
niece, notwithstanding, will and doth marry
him, then shall she forfeit all I have be-
queathed her, which my executors may dis-
pose of in pious uses as they think proper.
And, finally, I beseech the said genüemen,
my executors, that if haply they should
come to the knowledge of the author of a
certain. history, dispersed abroad, entitled
< The second part of the exploits of Don
Quixote de la Mancha,' they will, in my
name, most earnestly entreat him to pardon
the occasion I have unwittingly given him
of writing 80 many and such gross absurdi-
ties as are contained in that book : for I
depart this life with a burthen upon my
oouBcience for having caused the publication
of so much folly."
The will was then closed, and being seized
with a fidn ting-fit, he stretched himself out
at length in the bed, at which all were
alarmed and hastened to his assistance ; yet
he survived three days : often fainting during
that time in the same manner, which never
^led to cause much confusion in the hou«c ;
nevertheless, the niece ate, the housekeepe?
drank, and Sancho Panza consoled himseit':
for legacies tend much to moderate the grief
that nature claims for the deceased. At Isst,
after receiving the sacrament, and making
all such pious preparations, as well ss
expressing his abhorrence, in strong and
pathetic terms, of the wicked books by which
he had been led astray, Don Quixote's last
moment arrived. The notary was present,
and protested he had never read in any book i
of chivalry of a knight-errant dying in his !
bed in so composed and christian a manner ,
as Don Quixote^ who, amidst the plaints '
and tears of all present, resigned his breath,
I mean to say, he died. When the pnest ;
saw that he was no more, he desired the
notary to draw up a certificate, stating that
Alonzo Quixano, commonly called Don ¡
Quixote de la Mancha, had departed 'Jib i
life, and died a natural death : which testi-
monial he required, lest any other aothor, j
besides Cid Hamete Benengeli, should raise
him from the dead, and impose upon the
world with their fabulous stories of his '
exploits.
This was the end of that extraordinsr]'
gentleman of La Mancha, whose birth-place |
Cid Hamete was careful to conceal, that all
the towns and villages of that provmce might
contend for the honour of having prodaceJ
him, as did the seven cities of Greece for
the glory of giving birth to Homer. Tbe
lamentations of Sancho, the niece, and the <
housekeeper, are not here given, nor the |
new epitaphs on the tomb of the deceased ^
@=
DON QUIXOTE.
507
knight, except the foUowiDg one, composed
by Samson Carrasco.
Here liei the TtHant caTilier.
Who never had a eenae of fear :
So high hie nuitehlete eowage roae,
He reckoD'd death among his vanqoiah'd foee.
Wrong! to redrcsa, hie eword he drew.
And many a caitiff giant slew {
Hie daye of life, though madnese atain'd.
In death hie aober lenaea he regain'd.
. The sagacious Cid Hamete, now address-
ing himself to his pen, said, <<Here, O my
slender quill ! whether well or ill cut— here,
by this brass wire suspended, shalt thou
hang upon this spit-rack, and live for many
long ages yet to come, unless presumptuous
or wicked scribblers take thee down to pro-
fane thee. But, before they lay their vile
hands upon thee, tell them, as well as thou
art able, to be aware of what they do ; say to
them, '^ Off— off, ye caitifis ! Approach me
not! for this enterprise, good king, was
reserved for me alone." For me alone was
Don Quixote bom, and I for him ; he knew
how to act, and I to record : we were des-
tined for each other, in despite of that
bungling impostor of Tordesillas, who has
dared, with his clumsy and ill-shaped ostrich
quill, to describe the exploits of my valorous
knight, — a burden much too weighty for his
• There can be no doubt of this fact. Ihe flrat part
of Don Quixote, which is here alluded to, it is certain
waa highly applauded, both in its own and foreign lau-
ffuagei, long before the work was completed; nor was
the author of It unknown. On this ground Spain is
reproached for its unaccountable ingratitude towards a
man who waa the admiration of all Europe ; allowing
him, eren in the midst of its plaudits, to Utc and die in
obscurity and Indigence ! Doubtless the neglect eeems
equally barbarous and inconsistent, and, had the case
txea singular, the charge would have &Ílen with more
weight; but nations, like all congregated bodice, are
seldom grateful for serrices of this kind ; and no indi-
vidual feels himself bound, in justice, to add his par-
ticular acknowledgments for what is indiscriminately
presented to all.
Cervantes, therefore, in this seeming neglect, experi-
enced only what is the common, if not the invariable,
fate of men distinguished in the departments of lite-
rature. A new work might be extremely popular, and
yet the public be far from confident that iti merits are
not of a temporary quality; especially if it be of
so novel a character that it cannot be tried by any
known standard. The reputation of a living author is
not like that which survives him, and continues unim-
paired alter his death ; for, as the noblest examples of
genini cannot eecape temporary detraction, the one is
shoulders, — an undertaking too bold for his
impotent and frozen genius. Warn him, if
perchance occasion offers, not to disturb
the wearied and mouldering bones of Don
Quixote ; nor vainly endeavour, in opposi-
tion to all the ancient laws and customs of
death, to shew him again in Old Castile,
impiously raking him out of the grave,
wherein he lies really and truly interred,
utterly unable ever to make another sally,
or attempt another expedition : for enough
has been done to expose the follies of knight-
errantry by those he has already happily
accomplished, and which in this and other
countries have gained him so much applause.*
Thus shalt thou have fulfilled thy christian
duty, in giving salutary admonition to those
who wish thee ill ; and I shall rest satisfied,
and proud also, to have been the first author
who enjoyed the felicity of witnessing the
full effects of his honest labours : for the
sole object of mine was to expose to the
contempt they deserved the extravagant
and silly tales of chivalry, which this of my
true and genuine Don Quixote de la Mancha
has nearly accomplished : their credit in the
world being now actually tottering, and will
doubtless soon sink altogether, never to rise
again. Farewell."
always accompanied with doubU, while the ochtr, which
u determined by an impartial, and generallj a wise,
tribunal, cannot be questioned.
If the eountrymen of Cervantee, while he was yet
living, could hsTc perceived the merits of hit work aa
distinctly as they are seen and felt at the present mo-
ment, it would be difficult to believe that the author of
the Quixote would have gone unhonoured and unrewarded
to his grave : but that was impossible. Perhaps, indeed,
it was fortunate for the world that the full recompense
of his genius was reeerved for posterity, and to be con-
ferred in posthumous glory : for, had it followed dose
upon the publication of the Pint Part, and given him
an opportunity to try the efficacy of " leisure, pleasant
accommodations, icrene skies, murmuring fountains,
and tranquillity of mind," it ia much to be doubted
whether, though aided by theee justly commended pro-
Toeatives, the Second Part would ever have made its
appearance. Neverthdees, there are few of his readers
who do not regret that he had not been enabled to make
the experiment, and that a man who had deserved so well
of his country should have reached the termination of
his mortal oourM without at least a moderate foretaste,
in some beneficial form, of that enthusiastic admiration
and aifectionate regard with which his memory was
destined ever afterwards to be cherished by the Spanish
a. CLAY, FRINTBR, BRIAD tTKSn BILL.
-©
*
*f
w^
y
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11