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CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 


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Cornell University 





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In compliance with current 
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2002 





CORNELE 
UNIVERSITY 
LIBRARY 











GIFT OF 





David Stang 








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ANN Sait: 
pan Es 





TAE HISTOTSY 


DON QUIXOTE 


BY CERVANTES. 





THE TEXT EDITED BY 


Y. W. CLARK, M.A. 


FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 


AND A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES, 


Ll. TLIGNMOCTH SHORE, MA. 





ILLUSTRATED BY 


GUSTAVE DORE. 


E E COlLTER 
NEW YORK. 





CONTENTS, 





PART I. 


CHAPTER I. 


id PAGE 
The quality and way of living of the renowned Don Quixote de la 


CHAPTER IT. 
Of Don Quizote’s first sallyicnnós ooiranianr rc ce 4 


CHAPTER III. 
An account of the pleasant method taken by Don Quixote to be dubbed 


O A O 8 
CHAPTER IV. 
What befell the knight after he had left the MM...ooooooo oo cooooo. 12 
CHAPTER Y. : 
A further account of our knight's misfortunes... 0.600 ee eee eee 16 
CHAPTER VI. 
Of the pleasant and curious scrutiny which the curate and the barber 
made of the library of our ingenious gentleman........... o. 20 


CHAPTER VU. 


Don Quizote's second sally in quest of adventures.............. 00s 24 


CHAPTER VII. 


Of the good success which the valorous Don Quixote had in the most 
terryfying and never-to-be-imagined adventure of the windmills, 
with other transactions worthy to be transmitted to posterity... 28 


CHAPTER IX. 


The event of the most stupendous combat between the brave Biscayan 


and the valorous Don Quite... 06.6. cece eee . .ooco .... 34 
CHAPTER X. 
What farther befell Don Quixote with the Biscayan; and of the 
danger he ran among a parcel of Yanguesians............... 37 
CHAPTER XI. 


What passed between Don Quixote and the goatherds............+ 40 


CHAPTER XII 


The story which a young goatherd told to those that were with Don 
Quito se cis cies rd ed Bhi gs Masa Sx 44 


CHAPTER XIII. 
A continuation of the story of Marcella..... 6... cc cece eee eens 47 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The unfortunate shepherd's verses, and other unexpected matters... 51 





CHAPTER XV. 
PAGE 
Giving an acconnt of Don Quizote's unfortunate rencounter with 
certain bloody-minded and wicked Yanguesian carriers...... . 55 
CHAPTER XVI. 


What happened to Don Quixote in the inn which he took for a castle 60 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Of the discourse between the knight and the squire, with other mat- 
tera worth TELALING. oo ccccccees cones eeeees Gesecaeeaees 0. 67 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Of the wise discourse between Sancho and his master; as also of the 
adventure of the dead corpse, and other famous occurrences.... 72 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Of a wonderful adventure achieved by the valorous Don Quixote de 
la Mancha; the like never compassed with less danger by any of 


the most famous knights in the world... 66. cece cece eee 76 
CHAPTER XX. 
Of the high adventure and conquest of Mambrino’s helmet, with other 
events relating to our invincible knight......-0 0. cece ccc eee eee 83 
CHAPTER XXT. 


How Don Quixote set free many miserable creatures, who were being 
taken, much against their wills, to a place they did not like.... 88 


CHAPTER XXII. 


What befell the renowned Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena (Black 
Mountain) being one of the rarest adventures in this authentic 


e vas 12 ease 644045 sacs eT eek ere eee 94 
CHAPTER XXIII. 

The adventure in the Sierra Morena (continued)............2.005 104 
CHAPTER XXIV. 


Of the strange things that happened to the valiant knight of La 
Mancha in the black mountain; and of the penance he did there, 
in imitation of Beltenebros, or the lovely obscure.......2.0..5. 109 
CHAPTER XXV. 


A continuation of the refined cxtravayances by which the gallant 
knight of La Mancha chose to express his love in the Sierra Mo- 
PEI hat arava A O .118 


CHAPTER XXVI 


¡How the curate and barber put their design in execution; with other 


things worthy to be recorded in this important history........ 121 
v 


vi CONTENTS. 
CHAPTER XXVII. CHAPTER XXXIX. 
PAGE PAGE 
The pleasant new adventure the curate and barber met with in The pleasant story of the young muleteer, with other strange adven- 
Sierra Morena, or Black MountaiM...oooommmoooccoocoo sane 126 tures that happened intheind....ooomococenconcnnnonmss ....187 
CHAPTER XX VIIT OHAPTER XL 
t of the beautiful Dorothea's discretion, with oth lea- 
EEN Rs nd es oe oe nie kanes sana ie nares A continuation of the strange adventures in the tnn....ecerseeees 192 
CHAPTER XXIX. CHAPTER XLI. 
The pleasant stratagems used to free the enamoured knight from the The controversy about Mambrino’s helmet and the pack-saddle disput- 
rigorous penance which he had undertaken....ooomooooo.. .. 143 ed and decided: with other accidents, not more strange than true.195 
The p RELE a we aes Donato Ha aqUNtS O The notable adventure of the officers of the holy brotherhood, with 
opie Obhien ARI Ur ess ei eects ri Rs Don Quizote's great ferocity and enchantment. ..........0545 198 
O CHAPTER XLII. 
What befell Don Quixote and his company at the iNN.....oooooo.. 152 k 
Prosecuting the course of Don Quizote's enchantment, with other 
CRA Th ui memorable Occurrences campera gee e ts rea a 202 
Containing an account of many surprising accidents in the inn... .156 
CHAPTER XXXI. CHAPTER ALY. 
The history of the famous Princess Micomicona continued, with Containing a continuation of the eno nes discourse upon books of 
other pleasant Adventures..ceee. cc cece ecee cececee erence se 0160 knight-errantry, and other curious matier.........++++e0-+ ++ 206 
CHAPTER XXXIV. CHAPTER XLV. 
A continuation of Don Quizote's curious discourse upon arms and A relation of the wise conference between Sancho and his master... .209 
Wear ning coo ooooncarr rca ra Se netees 163 
CHAPTER XXXV. nó 
i his lí a i ; ; ihe The notable dispute between the canon and Don Quixote; with other 
Where the captive relates his life an A hg sasstent ® DUNN alan eaten ae Reign DO pan ROSE Be IRR ERS 212 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
The story of the captive continued... ......00:ccceeeeeeeee ee ee 169 CHAPTER XLVII. 
CHAPTER XXXVIL TRE GUAM VIA a daa 218 
The adventures of the captive ContINUEd..oocoomona ooocaocoro mo” 174 ‘i CHAPTER XLVUI. 
CHAPTER XXX VIIL Of the combat between Don Quixote and the goatherd; with the rare 
An account of what happened in the inn, with several other occur- adventure of the penitentes, which the knight happily accomp- 
PENLES WOE ROCA: vc cose snag Ree as e Ai 185 lished with the sweat of his brows..... 1. cee cece cece eee eee 222 











PART II. 


CHAPTER I. 


What passed between the curate, the barber, and Don Quixote, con- 
cerning Wis indisposition.....2... seer reece eee e eee tetany 228 


CHAPTER IT. 


Of the memorable quarrel between Sancho Panza and Don Quizote's 
niece and housekeeper; with other pleasant passages.........-. 232 


CHAPTER II, 


The pleasant discourse between Don Quizote, Sancho Panza, and the 
bachelor Samson Carrasco... 00s esse cece erence eee een e ence ees 234 


CHAPTER IV. 
Sancho Panza satisfies the bachelor, Samson Carrasco, in his doubts 
and queries; with other passages fit to be known and related. . .237 
CHAPTER V. 


The wise and pleasant dialogue between Sancho Panza and Teresa 


Panza, his wife: together with other passages worthy of happy 
AD DANA CAS 240 


- CHAPTER Vl. 


What passed between Don Quixote, his niece, and the housekeeper; 
being one of the most important chapters in the whole history. ..242 


CHAPTER VII. 


An account of Don Quixote’s conference with his squire, and other 
most FAMOUS PASSAGES... 2... 66. - cece eee A Ae 244 


CHAPTER VIIL 


Don Quizote's success in his journey to visit the Lady Dulcinea del 
o A A KOE Ones ee eee R 247 


CHAPTER IX. 
That gives an account of things which you will know when you read it. 251 


CHAPTER X. 
How Sancho cunningly found out a way to enchant the Lady Dulei- 





nea, with other passages no less certain than ridiculous........ 252 


CONTENTS. vii 
CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XXVIII. 
PAGE PAGE 
Of the stupendous adventure that befell the valorous Don Quixote, Of some things which Benengeli tells us he that reads shall know, if 
with the chariot or cart of the court or parliament of death... .256 he reads them with attention. .... ccc ccc ccc ences ence en aee 323 
CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XXIX. 
The valorous Don Quizote's strange adventure with the bold knight The famous adventure of the enchanted barque..ooooomomomm.m... 825 
Of The MIT a whe Ka Ee Rider: Nemes REE eRe 260 CHAPTER XXX. 
CHAPTER XIII. What happened to Don Quixote with the fair huntres8............ 329 
The adventure with the knight of the wood continued, with the wise, OHAPTER XXXL 
rare, and pleasant discourse that passed between the two squires .263 a 
‘i Which treats uf many and great Maller8....ooooooorommmammm*.... 332 
ae CHAPTER XXXII. 
A continuation of the adventure of the knight of the wood..........265 Don Quizote'o answer to his reprover, with other grave and. merry 
CHAPTER XV. LOCUEIUG aaa ii AO SA 336 
Giving an account who the knight of the mirrorsand his squire were.269 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
The savoury conference which the duchess and her women held with 
CHAPTER AVE Sancho Panza, worth your reading and observation.......... 341 
What happened to Don Quixote with a sober gentleman of La Mancha.270 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Where you will find set forth the highest and utmost proof that great 
Don Quixote ever gave, or could give, of his incredible courage, 
with the successful issue of the adventure ofthe lions.......... 273 

CHAPTER XVII. 

How Don Quixote was entertained at the castle or house of the knight 

of the green coat, with other extravagant passages............. 278 
CHAPTER XIX. 


The adventure of the amorous shepherd, and other truly comical 


CHAPTER XX. 
An account of rich Camacho’s wedding, and what befell poor Basil. .285 


CHAPTER XXI. 
The progress of Camacho's wedding, with other delightful accidents.291 


CHAPTER XXII. 


An account of the great adventure of the cave of Montesinos, situated 
in the heart of La Mancha, which the valorous Don Quixote 
successfully achieved... 06... scree cece eect eee eee 295 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Of the wonderful things which the unparalleled Don Quixote declared 
he had seen in the deep cave of Montesinos, the greatness and 
impossibility of which makes this adventure puss for apocryphal.301 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


Which gives an account of a thousand flimflams and stories, as im- 
pertinent as necessary to the right understanding of this grand 


ee oro 807 
CHAPTER XXV. 


Where you find the grounds of the braying adventures, that of the 
puppet-player, and the memorable divining of the fortune-telling 


Mr 311 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
A pleasant account of the puppet-play, with other very good things 
ee rre os 315 
CHAPTER XX VII. 


Wherein is discovered who master Peter was, and his ape; as also 
Don Quixote’s ill success in the braying adventure, which did 
not end so happily as he desired and eapected......2....-.0055 319 





Containing ways and means for disenchanting the peerless Dulcinea 
del Toboso, being one of the most famous adventures in the whole 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


Wherein is contained the information given to Don Quixote how to 
disenchant Dulcinea with other wonderful passages.... o... 348 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


The strange and never thought-of adventure of the disconsolate ma- 
tron, alias the Countess Trifaldi, with Sancho Panza’s letter to 


his wife, Teresa Panga... 0... cece ccc c eee e nec re 351 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
The famous adventure of the disconsolate matron continued....... 354 
CHAPTER XXX VIII. 


The account which the disconsolate matron gives of her misfortune. .855 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 
Where Trifaldi continues her stupendous and memorable story.....358 
CHAPTER XL. 
Of some things that relate to this adventure, and appertain to this 
TUENIIECIOS: HU e a YAA ARA OA AAA 359 
CHAPTER XLI. 
Of Clavileno's (alias Wooden Peg's) arrival, with the conclusion of 
UNS CELLO AVENT Ci e seed 361 
CHAPTER XLII 


The instructions which Don Quixote gave Sancho Panza before he 
went to the government of his island, with other matters of moment365 


CHAPTER XLII. 


The second part of Don Quixote’s advice to Sancho Panza........ 367 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
How Sancho Panza was carried to his government, and of the 
strange adventure that befell Don Quixote in the castle ... ... 369 
CHAPTER XLV. 
How the great Sancho Panza took possession of his island, and in 
what manner he began to Govern. . 6. cece ce cee eccee ..o.ooco 374 
CHAPTER XLVI. 
Of the dreadful alarm given to Don Quixote by the bells and cats, 
during the course of Altisidora’s amour....... cececeeccceas 377 


viii 


CHAPTER XLVIT. 


PAGE 
A further account of Sancho Panza’s behavior in his government. .380 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


What happened to Don Quixote with Donna Rodriguez, the duch- 
ess’s woman; as also other passages worthy to be recorded and 
had in eternal remembrance... 2... 0... ccc cc cce eee e een ceees 385 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


What happened to Sancho Panza as he went the rounds in his is- 
land 


CHAPTER L. 


In which is declared who were the enchanters and executioners that 
whipped the duenna, and pinched and scratched Don Quixote; 
with the success of the page who carried the letter to Teresa 
Panza, Sancho's Wife ss ssp sx iaa in FS Wk Hae ares 392 


CHAPTER LI. 


A continuation of Sancho Panza's government, with other passages, 


such as they are 396 


CHAPTER LI. 
A relation of the adventures of the second disconsolate or distressed 

matron, otherwise called Donna Rodriguez... .... 0.00... eee 399 
CHAPTER LIT. 

The toilsome end and conclusion of Sancho Panza's government. ...402 
CHAPTER LIV. 

Which treats of matters that relate to this history, and no other... .406 
CHAPTER LY. 


What happened to Sancho by the way, with other matters which you 
will have no more to do than to 8€b... cece cece een cee eee 410 


CHAPTER LVI. 


Of the extraordinary and unaccountable combat between Don Quiz- 
ote dela Mancha and the lackey Tosilos, in vindication of the 
matron Donna Rodriguez's daughter 


CHAPTER LVIL. 


How Don Quixote took his tcave of the duke, and what passed be- 
tween him and the witty wanton Altisidora, the duchess's damsel.415 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


How adventures crowded so thick and threefold on Don Quixote, that 


they trod upon one another's hecls.. 0.0... ce evee eee e cere ees 418 
CHAPTER LIX. 
Of an eatraordinary accident that happened to Don Quixote, which 
may well pass for an AdVvEentUre....... cee c cree verre eee ee 424 


CHAPTER LX. 
What happened to Don Quixote going to Barcelona.....--.. +..++ 427 





CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER LX]. 


PAGE 
Don Quizote's entry into Barcelona, with other accidents that have 
less ingenuity than truth in theM..oooooomoncrrnrrncancca o 435 


CHAPTER LXIT. 
The adventure of the enchanted head, with other impertinences not 
to be oMititd.....oooocooooo... 
CHAPTER LXITI. 
Of Sancho's misfortunes on board the galleys, with the strange ad- 
venture of the beautiful Morisca (Moorish) lady..........+4+. 445 
CHAPTER LXIV. 
Of an unlucky adventure, which Don Quixote laid most to heart of 
any that had yet befallen him 
CHAPTER LXV. 
An account of the knight of the white moon, Don Gregorio’s enlarg- 
ment, and other PASSAYCE. 0.6.6. cece cree cece settee neces AOS 
CHAPTER LXVI. 


Which treats of that which shall be seen by him that reads it, and 
heard by him that listens when it is read wo... eee eee .456 


CHAPTER LXVIL 


How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd, and lead a rural life 
Jor the year's time he was obliged not to bear arms; with other 


passages truly good and Giwerting.... 0.6. cece cece cece ees 458 
CHAPTER LXVIII. 
The adventure Of the ROSS 02 sie aaa wie conics a said ae teen eee 460 
CHAPTER LXIX. 
Of the most singular and strange adventure that befell Don Quixote 
in the whole course of this famous historY....ooooomommmomoo.. 463 
CHAPTER LXX. 
Which comes after the sizty-ninth, and contains several particulars 
necessary for the illustration of this history............ pete 465 


CHAPTER LXXT. 
What happened to Don Quixote and his squire on their way home. .468 


CHAPTER LXXII. 
How Don Quixote and Sancho got home... o -+. +--+. cece eee eee 470 


CHAPTER LXXTIT. 


Of the ominous accidents that crossed Don Quixote as he entered his 
village, with other transactions that illustrate and adorn this 
GNCTMOTADE TENIA A ee nod wg eats Bee 474 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 
How Don Quizoto fell sick, made his last will, and died........... 476 


LIST OF 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 





PART I. ] 


“A world of disorderly notions, picked out of his books, crowded 
into his imagination.” 

“He travelled almost all that day.” 

““He began to walk about by the horse-trough with a graceful 
deportment.” ; 

““ By the sun that shines, I have a good mind to run thee through 
the body with my lance.” 

““In spite of his arms, he thrashed him like a wheat-sheaf.” 

“Alas! where are you, lady dear, that for my woe you do not 
moan?” 

““ He led them all towards the village, and trudged a-foot him- 
self, very pensive.” 

“The knight made him so many fair promises, that at last the 
poor silly clown consented to go along with him, and become 
his squire.” 

“Tt was yet early in the morning, at which time the sunbeams 
did not prove so offensive.” 

“The sail hurled away both knight and horse along with it.” 

“* Sancho ran as fast as his ass could drive, to help his master.” 

““ “Oh, happy age,’ cried he, ‘which our first parents called the 
age of gold!” 

“¿A meadow watered with a rivulet, invited them to alight.” 

“The Yanguesians betook themselves to their levers and pack- 
staves.” 

“Leading the ass by the halter, he took the nearest way he could 
guess to the high road.” 

¿“He verily believed his last hour was come.” 

“““T have nothing to do with all this,’ cried the innkeeper: ‘ pay 
your reckoning.’ ” 

‘The more he stormed, the more they tossed and laughed.” 

“ He charged the squadron of sheep.” 

““ Don Quixote, accompanied by his intrepid heart, leaped upon 
Rozinante.” 

“¿When they came nearer, even patient Rozinante himself started 
at the dreadful sound.” 

‘Don Quixote asked the first for what crimes he was in these 
miserable circumstances.” 

‘«Sancho, I have always heard it said, that to do a kindness to 
clowns is like throwing water into the sea.” 

‘Tt was night before our two travellers got to the most desert 
part of the mountain.” 





“* Gines, who was a stranger both to gratitude and humanity, re- 
solved to ride away with Sancho’s ass.” 

“¿Don Quixote was transported with joy to find himself where he 
might flatter his ambition with the hopes of fresh adven- 
tures.” 

“*The first thing he found was the rough draft of a sonnet; so 
he read it aloud.” 

““ He spied upon the top of a stony crag just before him a man 
that skipped from rock to rock with wonderful agility.” 

““ They came to a park, where they found a mule lying dead.” 

‘** But pray, sir,’ quote Sancho, ‘is it a good law of chivalry that 
says we shall wander up and down, over bushes and briars, 
in this rocky wilderness?” 

‘“‘He gave two or three frisks in the air, and then pitching on 
his hands, he fetched his heels over bis head twice to- 
gether.” 

““They spied a youth in a country habit sitting at the foot of a 
rock behind an ash tree.” 

** He got a number of love-letters transmitted to me, every one 
full of the tenderest expressions.” 

““I am yours this moment, beautiful Dorothea: see, I give you 
here my hand to be yours.” 

“With the little strength I had I pushed him down a precipice, 
where I left him.” 

‘Alas? answered Sancho, ‘I found him in his shirt, lean, pale, 
and almost starved, sighing for his Lady Dulcinea.’ ” 

““ They went on for about three-quarters of a league, and then 
among the rocks they spied Don Quixote, who had by this 
time put on his clothes, though not his armor.” 

“**Now, lady,’ said Don Quixote, ‘let me entreat your greatness 
to tell me which way we must go, to do you service.’ ” 

‘* Towards the kingdom of Micowmicon.” 

“¿How Don Diego Garcia with his single force defended the 
passage of a bridge against a great army.” 

“¿How Felixmarte cut off five giants by the middle.” 

“Lucinda, finding herself in his power, fell into a swoon.” 

‘They cut off his head, and brought it to the Turkish general.” 

‘At last I resolved to trust a renegade of Murcia, who had shown 
me great proofs of his kindness.” 

** Her father came hastily to us, and, seeing his daughter in this 


condition, asked her what was the matter.” 
ix 


x LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


“* Zoraida, showing trouble in her looks, went away with her 
father.” 

“* Zoraida all this while hid her face, that she might not see her 
father.” 

‘*Come back, my dear daughter, for I forgive thee all.” 

‘They being under the wind, fired two guns at us.” 

“- He had inevitably fallen to the ground, had not his wrist been 
securely fastened to the rope.” 

“ Be not impatient, O Knight of the Woful Figure, at your im- 
prisonment.” 

** Don Quixote was not so much amazed at his enchantment as at 
the manner of it.” 

““ The curate was very attentive, and believed him a man of 
a sound judgment.” 

‘\ A vast lake of boiling pitch, in which an infinite multitude of 





fierce and terrible creatures are traversing backwards and 
forwards.” 

‘The sky appears to him more transparent, and the sun seems to 
shine with a redoubled brightness.” 

‘¢ Another damsel comes into the room, and begins to inform him 
what castle that is, and how she is enchanted in it.” 

‘‘There was not that country upon the face of the earth which 
he had not seen, nor battle which he had not been engaged 
in.” 

“A party with officers is sent out, who find the poor fond 
Leandra in a cave in one of the mountains.” 

‘(Sancho Panza alone was vexed, fretted himself to death, and 
raved like a madman.” 

“The woful accents of the squire’s voice at last recalled Don 
Quixote to himself.” 








PART" E, 


““We slept as soundly as if we had four feather beds under us.” 

“** Friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I find the approaching 
night will overtake us ere we can reach Toboso.’” 

** Don Quixote gazed with dubious and disconsolate eyes on the 
creature whom Sancho called queen and lady.” 

** The fool of the play came up frisking with his morrice bells.” 

“* In such discourses they passed a great part of the night.” 

‘* He posted himself just before the door of the cage.” 

‘Oh, ye Tobosian urns! that awaken in my mind the thoughts 
of the sweet pledge of my most bitter sorrows!” 

“To all this fine expostulation Sancho answered not a word.” 

Arrival of Don Quixote at the wedding of Camacho and Quiteria. 

““ Make shift to stay your stomach with that till dinner be 
ready.” 

“They were led up by u reverend old man and a matronly 
woman.” 

“The poor virgin, trembling and dismayed, without speaking a 
word, came to poor Basil.” 

** Poor Sancho followed his master with a heavy heart.” 

“Sancho and his master tarried three days with the young 
couple, and were entertained like princes.” 

‘« An infinite number of overgrown crows and daws came rushing 
and fluttering out of the cave.” 

“They found that his eyes were closed, as if he had been fast 
asleep.” 

‘¢The venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before the afflicted 
knight.” 

““I saw a mournful procession of most beautiful damsels, all in 


black.” 
““ At these words Don Quixote stood amazed.” 


“Observe what a vast company of glittering horse comes pour- 
ing out of the city, in pursuit of the Christian lovers.” 

““* According to the laws of arms, you really injure yourselves, in 
thinking yourselves affronted.” 





‘‘They were both hauled ashore, more over-drenched than 
thirsty.” 

“¿Don Quixote descried a company, whom, upon a nearer view, 
he judged to be persons of quality.” 

‘‘*Go, great and mighty sir,’ said they, ‘and help my lady 
duchess down.” ” 

““At the duchess's request, he related the whole passage of the 
late pretended enchantment very faithfully.” 

“The figure in the gown stood up.” 

“The morn began to spread her smiling looks in the eastern 
quarters of the skies,” 

‘‘He kissed the duke and duchess's hand at parting, and received 
his master’s benediction.” 

“Here the courting damsel ended her song.” 

The lord governor Sancho Panza administering justice. 

“* Pray, my lord Don Quixote, retire, for this poor young creature 
will not come to herself while you are by.” 

“* “Absit' cried the doctor.” 

“Don Quixote, thus unhappily hurt, was extremely sullen and 
melancholy.” 

““* Bless me!’ cried she, ‘ what is this? ” 

“* “March!” quoth Sancho. 
it?” 

“* “Come hither,’ said he, ‘my friend; thou faithful companion 
and fellow-sharer in all my travels and miseries,’” 

““*Oh! my dear companion and friend,’ said he to his ass, ‘how 
ill have I requited thy faithful services.’ ” 

“* He acquainted the duke and duchess with his sentiments, and 
begged their leave to depart.” 


‘How do you think I am able to do 


** Now, sir, if you please to afford us your company, you shall 
be made very welcome.” 

‘‘They trampled them under foot at an unmerciful rate.” 

““A clear fountain, which Don Quixote and Sancho found among 
some verdant trees, served to refresh them.” 


1 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. XI 


“(He told the gentlemen the whole story of her being en- 
chanted.” 

‘*He called out to Don Quixote for help.” 

“Don Quixote, mounted on Rozinante, declaiming very copiously 
against their way of living.” 

‘¢ The squires left Don Quixote, Roque, and Sancho to wait their 
return.” 

¿“+ Thus it is I punish mutiny,’ said he.” 

“¿Don Quixote stayed there, waiting the approach of day.” 

““Enclosing him in the middle of their brigade, they conducted 
him towards the city.” 

‘Don Antonio's wife had invited several of her friends to a ball, 


to honor her gnest.” 


“¿Two ladies made their court chiefly to Don Quixote.” 

“Tell me, thou oracle,’ said he, ‘was what I reported of my 
adventures in the cave of Montesinos a dream or reality?” 

‘They found him pale, and in a cold sweat.” 

“Here fell my happiness, never to rise again.” 

‘‘They passed that day, and four more after that, in such kind 
of discourse.” 

“ “Sleep, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote; ‘sleep, for thou wert born 


to sleep.’” 
“Hold? cried he; ‘friend Sancho, stay the fury of thy arm.’” 
‘Oh, my long-wished-for home.” 
Death of Don Quixote. 











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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES. 





ON the 9th of October, 1547, Miguel de Cervantes 
Saavedra, the youngest child of Rodrigo de Cervantes 
and Leonora de Cortinos, was baptised in the church of 
St. Mary Major (Santa Maria la Mayor), in the city of 
Alcala de Henares. The exact date of his birth is un- 
certain, but it is not improbable that he was born on 
the 29th of September preceding, and that he was 
christened Miguel, after St. Michael, to whom that day 
is dedicated. Both his parents were descended of 
illustrious houses; his father was a member of a Castil- 
ian family, which had for years been renowned both in 
Spain and in the colonies, and which a century before 
Miguel's birth had formed an alliance with the Saave- 
dras. The ancient glories of the family had, however, 
well nigh departed, when, in the small city of Alcala 
de Henares, the child was born of comparatively poor 
parents, who was destined, as well by his dauntless 
heroism as by his surpassing literary genius, to eclipse 
the ancient fame of his race, and achieve a reputation 
so illustrious that the proudest cities of his fatherland 
jealously contended for the honorable reputation of 
being his birthplace.* The university of his native 
town, founded some half-century earlier by Cardinal 
Ximenes, probably afforded Miguel de Cervantes op- 
portunities for study in his youth, of which he availed 
himself, and though he later enjoyed some years’ study 
at the famous university at Salamanca, he seems to 
have ever cherished genial memories of the town where 
he spent his boyhood, which he speaks of more than 
once in his writings as “famoso Henares.”f Ata very 
early age Cervantes exhibited a thirst for knowledge, 
and a remarkable taste for poetry and dramatic compo- 
sitions. The story told in “Don Quixote“ of the pieces 
of paper picked up, and found to be inscribed with an 
Arabic version of the life of the Don, is no doubt 
founded on the habit to which he was himself addicted 
when a youth, of collecting even stray scraps of paper, 
in the hope of obtaining some information from them. 
His taste for the drama and poetry was fostered by the 
opportunities which he had of being present at the 
performance of comedies which Lope de Rueda inaugu- 


* Toledo, Seville, Madrid, and other less notable cities for long claimed the 
honor of being Cervantes’ native place. 
+ ‘‘ Galatea.” 





rated, about the middle of the sixteenth century, in the 
principal towns and cities of Castile. 

Cervantes first appeared in print as the author of six 
poems of very little merit, contributed by him to a vol- 
ume published in 1569, in commemoration of the splendid 
obsequies of Isabella de Valois, wife of Philip II, 
which had been celebrated towards the close of the 
preceding year. In this volume his friend and instruc- 
tor, Juan Lopez de Hoyos, an accomplished ecclesias- 
tic, makes mention of Miguel Cervantes as his “dear 
and beloved pupil,” { and speaks of his poems in such 
terms of praise as do more credit, however, to his kind- 
ly feelings for his disciple than to the soundness of his 
literary taste. 

About this time Cervantes became acquainted at 
Madrid with Monsignor Giulio Aquaviva,§ who had 
come as ambassador to Spain, in 1568, to offer the Pon- 
tiff’s condolence upon the death of Don Carlos. The 
monsignor, himself a young man of great accomplish- 
ments and literary taste, having doubtless found Cer- 
vantes a genial companion, offered him a post in his 
household, for in the year 1570 Cervantes was at Rome, 
in the position of chamberlain to Monsignor Aquaviva. 
The charming descriptions of Southern France, which 
are found in the “Galatea,” are evidently based upon 
the observations which Cervantes was enabled to make 
at this time, when he journeyed to Rome with his 
patron. He did not long continue in the service of the 
monsignor, as in 1571 he volunteered to join in the 
united Venetian Papal and Spanish expedition, com- 
manded by Don John of Austria, and levelled against 
the Turks. His strong religious convictions and im- 
pulsive love for his fatherland made Cervantes zealous 
to serve against the race who were alike the hated op- 
pressors of the chivalry of Spain, and the inveterate 
enemies of the religion of the Catholic Church. On 
the Tth of October, 1571, he took a brave part in the 
famous naval engagement at Lepanto, where the Ma- 
hometan power sustained a great defeat, and Western 
Europe was saved from Moslem invasion. In this bat- 
tle Cervantes lost his left hand, and was otherwise so 


$ ‘* Caro discipulo ;” ‘‘Amado discipulo.” 
§ Aquaviva was chamberlain of Pius V., and at an early age was raised to the 
dignity of cardinal. 
X11 


xiv 


severely wounded as to be compelled to remain for 
some six months in the hospital of Messina. When 
sufficiently recovered he joined the expedition to the 
Levant, commanded by Marco Antonio Colonna, Duke 
of Paliano. Here, however, he did not see much active 
service. 

It is to these events that Cervantes alludes in the 
Dedication of his “Galatea,” where he speaks of hav- 
ing served for years under the standard of Marco 
Antonio Colonna; and upon incidents which occurred 
during this campaign is based the Story of the Captive 
in “Don Quixote.” In 1575 Cervantes set out to return 
to Spain, having, during the previvus few years, joined 
in various expeditions, and borne a prominent part in 
the engagement at Tunis, where he was under the im- 
mediate command of the illustrions Marques de Santa 
Cruz. The warmest testimony to the heroism and 
bravery of Cervantes during these campaigns was 
borne by Don John and Don Carlos de Aragon, the 
viceroy of Sicily, both of whom gave him strong letters 
of commendation to the King of Spain. 

The possession of these letters, however, proved 
very unfortunate for poor Cervantes; for when El Sol, 
the ship in which he and other wounded soldiers were 
returning to Spain, was captured on September 26th, 
1575, by an Algerine squadron, the captain, Dali Mami, 
to whose lot Cervantes fell, finding these documents 
upon him, imagined he was some don of immense im- 
portance, for whose liberation a large sum would be 
offered by his friends. He was therefore loaded with 
heavy fetters, guarded with the greatest strictness, and 
subjected to cruelties of every kind, as well to hasten 
the offers of the expected ransom as to secure him 
from any attempts either at escape or release. 

During his captivity, which lasted five years, he was 
sold by the Greek captain to the Dey Azan for five 
hundred escudos. In the service of the latter his suf- 
ferings reached aclimax. The dey hated him because 
of the repeated attempts which he had made to escape, 
and for his zeal and energy in aiding his fellow-suf- 
ferers. Having endured much cruelty and hardship, 
he was at last ransomed in September, 1580. His 
brother Roderigo, who had been taken prisoner on the 
same occasion as Miguel, had obtained his liberty some 
years before, and by means of his exertions, and his 
widowed mother sacrificing the little money she and her 
daughters had, a small sum was raised for the ransom 

- of Miguel Cervantes. To this were added, to make up 
the necessary amount, the contributions of some pious 
and generous monks, who were ever foremost in their 
exertions to obtain the liberation of Christian captives. 
Chief amongst these was a friar named Juan Gil, of 
whom Cervantes speaks in terms of grateful remem- 
prance in his “Los Tratos de Argel” (“Manners in Al- 
giers”*), where he describes him as “a most Christian 
man.” + 

* This is n badly-constructed and, for the most part, indifferently-written play, in 
five acts, worthy of the wretched style of dramatic art in Spain before its regenera- 
tion by Lope de Vega. Its chief value is as a description of the miseries which 
Christian captives endured in Algiers, Its dullness is occasionally relieved with 


passages of true poetic feeling. 
+'' Christianisimo.” 


BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES. 


After his release Cervantes again entered the army, 
and joined his brother, who was then serving in Portugal 
with the Duke of Alva's army, under whom Don Lope 
de Figueroa, who had known Cervantes in former cam- 
paigns, commanded a regiment of veteran and tried 
soldiers, to which it is most probable Miguel Cervantes 
was now attached. Healso accompanied an expedition, 
commanded by the Marques de Santa Cruz, to the 
Azores. Aftera fierce engagement, and brilliant vic- 
tory at Terceira, the admiral easily reduced all the 
islands to submission, and Cervantes, who had long and 
bravely served under Santa Cruz, wrote a sonnet in 
praise of his genius and gallantry. He undoubtedly 
had the highest opinion of and esteem for his old leader, 
of whom in “Don Quixote” he speaks as “the valorous 
and invincible captain.” This sojourn in Portugal had 
a decided and marked effect upon Cervantes’ genius 
and career. He acquired a knowledge of Portuguese 
literature, and a kindly regard for the country and its 
inhabitants, which is repeatedly reflected in his writ- 
ings, and is very different, indeed, from the feelings of 
hatred and contempt with which his contemporaries 
regarded the Portuguese. 

At this time (1583) Cervantes wrote his “Galatea”— 
the first great work upon which his literary reputation 
is based. In the town of Esquivias, in the neighbor- 
hood of Madrid, lived the Donna Catalina de Palacios 
y Salazar, a young lady of apparently very limited for- 
tune and unlimited respectability. To her Cervantes 
paid his addresses, and we may fairly conclude that the 
“Galatea” was written to excite the admiration, and 
thus aid in the winning the hand of this lady. If this 
were its object, the poem was an undoubted success, 
for immediately upon the publication of the first part 
the true Elicio and Galatea were wedded, on December 
12th, 1584;{ and this satisfactory result having been 
attained, the poem remained, as it does to this day, 
unfinished. The merits and style of this poem we re- 
serve for further consideration. 

After his marriage Cervantes devoted himself to 
literature, as a means of subsistence. He resided at 
Madrid until 1588, during which time he wrote some 
thirty plays, of which only two remain—the “Tratos de 
Argel,” and the “Numancia.” This latter work, while 
utterly devoid of what are now considered the requi- 
sites of dramatic composition, is very remarkable both 
as regards the likeness which it bears in some points to 
the early Greek tragedies, and the peculiar phase of 
national character, to which the success of such a com- 
position upon the stage points. The plot is based 
upon an incident in Roman history. The city of Nu- 
mantia, having resisted the assaults of the Roman army 
for fourteen years, is at last captured. The Numan- 
tians have resolved, however, that not one of them 
shall fall into the hands of their enemies as prisoners; 
most of the inhabitants perish of famine, and the remaind- 
er, feeling resistance useless, put each other to death. 
The last survivor, a youth of great bravery, stands upon 
the walls of the desolate city, holding the keys of the 
gates in his hand, and, in the presence of the Roman army, 





j Mr. Florence M'Carthy gives the date of the marriage December 14, 1584. 








dl 








xvi BIOGRAPHICAL 
dies by throwing himself from one of the battlements. In 
the course of the play some personal incidents of indi- 
vidual devotion and suffering are brought in with great 
pathos and power. The main interest of the drama, 
however, does not depend upon any one person, nor is 
the working out of the plot intimately connected with 
individual character. The real subject of the play is 
the heroic devotion and dauntless bravery of the Nu- 
mantians. The object is to excite similar virtues in 
others, and to intensify hatred to religious and national 
enemies by a minute display of the cruel sufferings 
which a brave people endured at the hands of their 
powerful opponents. Incidents of personal love and 
devotion are introduced only so far as they tend to 
promote the wished-for effect—to kindle hatred, and 
paralyze general feelings of benevolence. To accom- 
plish the desired result, horrible details of suffering 
and ghastly incidents form the action of the play. 

In one scene a young man determines to get food at 
any risk for his mistress. He penetrates into the ene- 
my’s camp, receives his death wound, but is able to 
crawl back and give the girl the bread saturated with 
his blood. In another a starving child sucks blood in- 
stead of milk from the breast of its starving mother; 
and a poor wretch, who has once endured the agonies 
of death, is brought back again to life by a magician. 
No doubt such scenes tend to excite some compassion 
for suffering, but this feeling is overwhelmed by the 
excessive passion of hate which is awakened against 
the enemies who caused all this. Unquestionably, if 
(as it is asserted) this play was performed during the 
siege of Saragosa, it must have kindled a great patri- 
otic enthusiasm. But the effects of such representa- 
tions were not always so good. The mimic sufferings 
of the stage prepared a nation to witness with pleasure 
the more terrible realities of the auto-da fé In the 
greatuess of the theme, and the introduction of allegor- 
ical characters in this play, there is undoubtedly a re- 
semblance to the Greek model, and of the poetry of 
this composition no less a critic than Schlegel speaks 
in terms of enthusiastic praise. 

Having in vain striven to earn a respectable susten- 
ance at Madrid and Esquivias, Cervantes, maimed, 
neglected, and disappointed, went in 1588 to Seville, at 
that time one of the principal cities of Spain, and a 
great centre of commerce, where he continued to reside 
for about ten years. Here he acted as a kind of col- 
lector, or clerk, to Antonio de Guevara, who was Com- 
missary-General to the Indian and American depend- 
encies. But little is known of Cervantes during his 
sojourn at Seville, save that he was once imprisoned 
for not being able to account satisfactorily for some 
moneys entrusted to his care, and that he petitioned 
for some colonial appointment without success. Of 
this latter circumstance Mr. Ticknor, to whom every 
lover of Spanish literature is immensely indebted for 
his incomparable work upon that subject, gives the 
following interesting account :—* 

“During his residence at Seville, Cervantes made an 


* “ History of Spanish Literature,” vol. ii., p 113. 





NOTICE OF CERVANTES. 


ineffectual application to the king for an appointment 
in America, setting forth, by exact documents, which 
now constitute the most valuable materials for his bi- 
ography, a general account of his adventures, services, 

nd sufferings while a soldier in the Levant, and of the 
miseries of his life while he was a slave in Algiers. 
This was in 1590. But no other than a formal answer 
seems ever to have been returned to the application, 
and the whole affair only leaves us to infer the severity 
of that distress which could induce him to seek relief 
in exile to a colony of which he has elsewhere. spoken 
as the great resort of rogues.” Cervantes petitioned 
for one of four offices—the auditorship of New Gra- 
nada, that of the galleys of Carthagena, the governor- 
ship of the province of Soconusco, or the place of 
corregidor of the city of Paz.” 

A few sonnets, of no particular brilliancy, are the 
only literary productions of which we have any trace 
as having been written by Cervantes during this period. 
From his departure from Seville in 1598, to his settle- 
ment in Valladolid in 1608, we may conclude, in the 
absence of any reliable or accurate information, that 
Cervantes was still engaged in tax-collecting and sim- 
ilar work, as well for private individuals as for public 
and corporate functionaries. There is no reason to 
doubt that he was on one occasion employed thus by 
the Prior of the Order of St. John in La Mancha, and 
that having attempted to perform his duties in the vil- 
lage of Argamasilla, he was ill-treated by the inhab- 
itants, and finally thrown into prison. With this inci- 
dent is connected the scene of his illustrious knight 
Don Quixote de la Mancha’s early adventures. 

Early in 1603 Cervantes, in obedience to a summons 
from the Revenue authorities, arrived at Valladolid, 
whither the court had removed some eighteen months 
previously. During this period Cervantes was engaged 
upon the first part of his “Don Quixote,” which was 
licensed at Valladolid in the year after bis arrival 
there, and printed the following year (1605) at Madrid. 
In 1606 the Court went to Madrid; Cervantes returned 
there also, and resided in various parts of that capital 
until his death. There is no doubt that Cervantes was, 
during his residence here, acquainted with his illus- 
trious contemporary, Lope de Vega;* but between the 
suffering and neglected Cervantes and his prosperous 
contemporary there can scarcely be said to have existed 
a friendship. The kindly and generous nature of Cer- 
vantes was ever ready to recognize and laud the genius 
of his brother poet and dramatist. These feelings, how- 
ever, were not reciprocated by Lope, who speaks occa- 
sionally of Cervantes with a contemptuous sarcasm, 
which, we cannot avoid thinking, was the offspring of 
an ungenerous and jealous nature. 

Next to “Don Quixote,” the most remarkable works 
of Cervantes, which he published in his later years, 
were his “Espanola Inglesa,” written in 1611; his 
“Novelas Exemplares” (“Moral Tales”), which appear- 


* Lope Felix de Vega Carpio was a distinguished poet, and may be regarded as 
the real founder of the Spanish drama. He wrote 1,800 plays, and 400 sacred dramas, 
besides numerous epic and other poems. For the last five-and-twenty years of his 
life he was an ecclesiastic, but previons to his taking orders he had held offices of 
trust under the Count de Lemos, the Marquis Malpica, and the Duke of Alva. 


BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES. 


ed in 1613; his “Viage al Parnaso,” or “Journey to 
Parnassus,” a satire upon the poets of the age, which 
Made many bitter enemies when it was issued in 1614; 
his eight comedias and entremeses (farces); and “Persiles 
and Sigismunda,” the last of his writings. 

In April, 1616, Cervantes joined himself to the order 
of Franciscan friars; and not many days afterwards he 
received the last rites of his Church. On the 23d* of 
that month the spirit of this great and noble genius 
passed from a world where he had suffered much vicis- 
situde, and found little but a posthumous fame, into the 
hands of his God. 

Of the writings of Cervantes, his “Don Quixote” 
and “Galatea” are best known, and on these his literary 
fame may most securely rest. What claims have these 
works respectively to immortal popularity? The sim- 
ple eclogues of the ancients were superseded, both in 
Italy and Spain, by a style of writing more romantic 
and full of incident, which may be regarded as the 
transition stage from pure pastoral to dramatic compo- 
sition. To this class of writing belongs the “Galatea.” 
This style of pastoral romance was introduced into 
Spain by Jorge de Montemayor, a Portuguese by birth, 
whose “Diana Enamorada,” an unfinished work of con- 
siderable merit, probably suggested to Cervantes the 
style and frame-work of his “Galatea.” Thereal faults 
and great merits of this work are pointed out by Sis- 
mondi with his usual acuteness. He sayst— 

“Cervantes has been blamed for having mingled too 
many episodes with the principal tale. It is said that 
he has undertaken too many complicated histories, and 
introduced too many characters, and that he has, by 
the quantity of incidents and names, confounded the 
imagination of the reader, who is unable to follow him. 
I should also be inclined to impute it to him as a fault 
—though this accusation more properly falls upon the 
class than upon this individual work—that he is al- 
most cloying in the sweetness and languor of his love- 
scenes. When we read these pastoral romances, we 
may imagine ourselves bathing in milk and honey. 
Notwithstanding these observations, the purity of its 
morals, the interest of its situations, the richness of in- 
vention, and the poetical charms which it displays, 
must ensure to the ‘ Galatea’ an honorable place in the 
list of Spanish classics.” 

The first part of “Don Quixote,” as we have already 
stated, was printed in 1605. The second part was pub- 
lished ten years after, Cervantes having been urged 
thereto by the appearance of a spurious continuation of 
the work, purporting to have been written by Alonzo 
Fernandez de Avellaneda. The individual who adopt- 
ed this nom de plume was, not unlikely, some obscure 
writer to whom Cervantes had given offence in his 
“Viage al Parnaso,” by uncomplimentary criticism; for 
his composition is laden with personal virulence. 





* It has been remarked by some writers, as a strange coincid that Shakespeare 
and Cervantes both died upon the same day, viz., April 23d, 1616. The coincidence 
is, however. only apparent. The 23d April, 1616, in Spain was not identical with 
the same datein England. The Gregorian calendar, which was earlier adopted in 
Spain, was not accepted in England until 1751; so that April 23d in Spain was April 
13th in England. 

+ “Historical View of the Literature of the South of Europe.” vol. ii., p. 271. 








xvii 


The one continued chain of thought which pervades 
the entire of “Don Quixote” is the striking contrast 
between the prosaic and poetic—the heroic and matter- 
of-fact aspects of life. The great lesson which seems 
to me to underlie this at once most melancholy and 
most brilliant of human compositions is, that true hero- 
ism and chivalry do not consist in the pursuit of some 
exceptional mode of conduct which happens to be vul- 
garly considered in itself heroic or chivalrous. We 
have here portrayed, with surpassing power and inim- 
itable wit, a man of a noble and generous nature, going 
in quest of those adventures which a misguiding and 
corrupting literature had represented as alone afford- 
ing opportunities for the display of heroic qualities; 
and, with all his earnestness and chivalry, the knight 
turns out only a laughing-stock for the world. It is 
generally believed that the publication of “Don Quix- 
ote” was the death-blow of the so-called literature of 
chivalry which had long degraded the spirit and cor- 
rupted the morals of Christendom. I venture to think 
that it has borne no small part also in crushing out the 
false estimate of duty which the spurious heroism of 
knight-errantry had created and maintained. The in- 
tensity of our earnestness in the pursuit of what is 
good and true in any department, no matter how limit- 


ed—in any rank, no matter how humble—is now re- 
garded as the real standard of worth. Compare this 


present state of thought with the ideas gathered by 
Don Quixote from the worksof chivalry which moulded 
his character, and we shall be able to realize something 
of the change which has taken place in our estimate of 
Christian duty. If this splendid masterpiece of Cer- 
vantes has borne any share, however small, in this 
great moral revolution, the world should cherish with 
gratitude and admiration the memory of its illustrious 
author. 

Of the purely literary merits of this work it would 
be impossible to speak in terms of exaggeration. 
Montesquieu says, “ The Spaniards have but one good 
book, that one which has made all the others ridicu- 
lous.” Sir W. Temple remarks, “ The matchless 
writer of ‘Don Quixote’ is much more to be admired 
for having made up so excellent a composition of satire 
or ridicule without indecency and profaneness; it seems 
to me the best and highest strain that ever has been or 
will be reached by that vein.” M. Sismondi observes, 
“No work of any language ever exhibited a more ex- 
quisite or more sprightly satire, or a happier vein of 
invention, worked with more striking success.” In 
fact, the most eminent men of every age and country 
seem to vie with each other in the fervor of the praise 
which they bestow upon this work. 

Everything which we know of the personal character 
of Cervantes adds to our appreciation of his writings. 
He was an accomplished scholar, a brave soldier, a 
kindly gentleman, a sincere and pious Christian.§ He 


+ A writer in “Notes and Queries ” (vol. x., p: 343) insists that “Don Quixote” 
is really an attack upon the Jesuits, and that the Don himself represents Ignatius 
Loyola. Such a supposition is directly opposed to what we know of Cervantes’ 
religious feeling and strong attachment to his church. 

§Pellicer describes him as ‘‘ hombre devoto y timorato”— a pious man, and full of 
the fear of God. 


xviii 


was, as Mr. Viardot remarks, “an illustrious man before 
he became an illustrious writer—one who was the doer 
of great deeds before he produced an immortal book.”* 

According to his desire, Cervantes was buried in the 
Convent of the Nuns of the Trinity, which was situated 
in the street of the Humilladero. It is not known 
whether his remains were transferred afterwards to the 
convent in the street of Cantarranas, whither the sisters 
removed. Where the ashes of the greatest Spanish 


* “Notice sur la Vie et les Ouvrages de Cervantes.” 





BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES. 


author lie is, therefore, a matter of uncertainty. In 

1835 a splendid statue was erected to his memory at 

Madrid, in the Plaza del Estamento; but the most last- | 
ing memorial of Cervantes is his writings. “The in- 

scription shall not be effaced by time; the imagery shall 

not moulder away.” And since this brief sketch is in- 

tended as an introduction to an edition of his “Don 

Quixote,” I think I may say with truth—“ Si queris 

monumentum aspice.” 


T. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE. 


*,* The English text of ‘‘Don Quixote ” adopted in this edition is that of Jarvis, 


with occasional corrections from Motteaux’ translation. 


words and 


A few objectionable 





es, in no way 


work, have been omitted. 


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THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO 






THE READER. 





You may depend upon my bare word, reader, with- 
out any farther security, that I could wish this off- 
spring of my brain were as ingenius, sprightly, and 
accomplished as yourself could desire; but the mischief 
ou’t is, nature will have its course. Every production 
must resemble its author, and my barren and un- 
polished understanding can produce nothing but what 
is very dull, very impertinent, and extravagant beyond 
imagination. You may suppose it the child of disturb- 
ance, engendered in some dismal prison, where wretch- 
edness keeps its residence, and every dismal sound its 
habitation. Rest and ease, a convenient place, pleas- 
ant fields and groves, murmuring springs, and a sweet 
repose of mind, are helps that raise the fancy, and 
impregnate even the most barren muses with coucep- 
tions that fill the world with admiration and delight. 
Some parents are so blinded by a fatherly fondness, 
that they mistake the very imperfections of their chil- 
dren for so many beauties, and the folly and imperti- 
nence of the brave boy must pass upon their friends 
and acquaintance for wit and sense. But J, who am 
only a stepfather, disavow the authority of this modern 
and prevalent custom; nor will I earnestly beseech you, 
with tears in my eyes, which is many a poor author’s 
case, dear reader, to pardon or dissemble my child’s 
faults; for what favor can I expect from you, who are 
neither his friend nor relation? You have a soul of 
your own, and the privilege of free will, whoever you 
be, as well as the proudest he that struts in a gaudy 
outside; vou are a king by your own fireside, as much 
as any monarch on his throne; you have liberty and 
property, which set you above favor or affection; and 





you may therefore freely like or dislike this history, 
according to your humor. 

I had a great mind to have exposed it as naked as it 
was born, without the addition of a preface, or the 
numberless trumpery of commendatory sonnets, epi- 
grams, and other poems that usually usher in the con- 
ceptions of authors; for I dare boldly say, that though 
I bestowed some time in writing the book, yet it cost 
me not half so much labor as this very preface. I very 
often took wp my pen, and as often laid it down, and 
could not for my life think of anything to the purpose. 
Sitting once in a very studious posture, with my paper 
before me, my pen in my ear, my elbow on the table, 
and my cheek in my hand, considering how 1 should 
begin, a certain friend of mine, an ingenious gentle- 
man, and of a merry disposition, came in and surprised 
me. He asked me what I was so very intent and 
thonghtful upon. I was so free with him as not to 
mince the matter, but told him plainly I had been puz- 
zling my brain for a preface to Don Quixote, and had 
made myself so uneasy about it that I was now re- 
solved to trouble my head no further either with pre- 
face or book, and even to let the achievements of that 
noble knight remain unpublished; “for,” continued I, 
“why should I expose myself to the lash of the old 
legislator, the vulgar? They will say I have spent my 
youthful days very finely to have nothing to recom- 
mend my grey hairs to the world but a dry, insipid 
legend, not worth a rush, wanting good language as 
well as invention, barren of conceits or pointed wit, 
and without either quotations in the margin or annota- 


tions at the end, which other books, though never so 
XX 


THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE READER. 


fabulous or profane, have to set them off. Other 
authors can pass upon the public by stuffing their 
books from Aristotle, Plato, and the whole company of 
ancient philosophers, thus amusing their readers into 
a great opinion of their prodigious reading. Plutarch 
and Cicero are slurred on the public for as ortho- 
dox doctors as St. Thomas, or any of the fathers. 
And then the method of these moderns is so wonder- 
fully agreeable and full of variety, that they cannot 
fail to please. In one line they will describe you a 
whining, amorous coxcomb, and the next shall be some 
dry scrap of a homily, with such ingenious turns as 
cannot choose but ravish the reader. Now I want all 
these embellishments and graces; I have neither mar- 
ginal notes nor critical remarks; I do not so much as 
know what authors I follow, and consequently can have 
no formal index, as it is the fashion now, methodically 
strung on the letters.of the alphabet, beginning with 


Aristotle and ending with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or| 


Zeuxis, which last two are commonly crammed into the 
the same piece, though one of them was a famous 
painter, and the other a saucy critic. I shall want also 
the pompous preliminaries of commendatory verses sent 
to me by the right honorable my Lord such a one, by 
the honorable the lady such a one, or the most ingeni- 
ous master such a one; though I knowI might have 
them at an easy rate from two or three brothers of the 
quill of my acquaintance, and better, I am sure, than 
the best quality in Spain can compose. In short, my 
friend,” said I, “the great Don Quixote may lie buried 
in the musty records of La Mancha until Providence 
has ordered some better hand to fit him out as he ought 
to be, for I must own myself altogether incapable of 
the task. Besides, I am naturally lazy, and love my 
ease to well to take the pains of turning over authors 
for those things which I can express as well without it. 
And these are the considerations that made me so 
thoughtful when you came in.” 

The gentleman, after a long and loud fit of laughing, 
rubbing his forehead, “O” my conscience, friend,” said 
he, “your discourse has freed me from a mistake that 
has a great while imposed upon me. I always took you 
for a man of sense, but now I am sufficiently convinced 
to the contrary. What! puzzled at so inconsiderable a 
trifle! a business of so little difficulty confound a man 
of such deep Sénse and searching thought, as once you 
seemed to be! I am sorry, sir, that your lazy humor 
and poog, understanding should need the advice I am 
about to give you, which will presently solve all your 
objections and fears concerning the publishing of the 
renowned Don Quixote, the luminary and mirror of all 
knight-errantry.” 

“Pray, sir,” said I, “beg pleased to instruct me in 
whatever you think may remove my fears or solve my 
doubts.” A 

“The first thing. you object,” replied he, “is your 
want of commendatory copies from persons of figure 
and quality. There is nothing sooner helped; itis but 
taking a little pains in writing them yourself, and clap- 
ping whose name you please to them. You may father 
them on Prester John of que Indies, or on the Emperor 


eo . 





xxi 


‘Trapizonde, whom I know to be most celebrated poets. 
But suppose they were not, and that some presuming 
pedantic critics might snarl, and deny this notorious 
truth, value it not two farthings; and though they 
should convict you of forgery, you are in no danger of. 
losing the hand with which you wrote them. 

“As to marginal notes and quotations of authors for 
your history, it is but dropping here and there some 
scattered latin sentences that you: have already by rote, 
or may have with little or no pains. For example, in 
treating of liberty and slavery, clap me in 


« Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;” 


and, at the same time, make Horace, or some other 
author, vouch it in the margin. If you treat of the 
power of death, come round with this close: 


‘Pallida mors equo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, 
Regumque turres. 


If of loving our enemies, as Heaven enjoins, you may, 
if you have the least curiosity, presently turn to the 
divine precept and say, “Ego autum dico vobis, diligite 
inimicos vestros;’ or if you discourse of bad thoughts, 
bring in this passage, * De corde exeunt cogitations mala.’ 
If the uncertainty of friendship be your theme, Cato 
offers you his old couplet with all his heart: 


‘Donec eris feliz multos numerabis amicos, 
Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris.’ 


And so proceed. These scraps of Latin will at least 
gain you the credit of a great grammarian which, I 
assure you, is no small accomplishment in this age. As 
to annotations or remarks at the end of your book, you 
may safely take this course: if you have occasion for 
a giant in your piece, be sure you bring in Goliath, and 
on this very Goliath (who will not cost you one far- 
thing) you may spin outa capital annotation. You may 
say, ‘The giant Goliath, or Goliat, was a Philistine, 
whom David the shepherd slew with the thundering 
stroke of a pebble in the valley of Terebinthus; vide 
Kings, in such a chapter and such a verse, where you 
may find it written.’ If, not satisfied with this, you 
would appear a great humanist, and would show your 
knowledge in geography, take some occasion to draw 
the river Tagus into your discourse, out of which you 
may fish a most notable remark. ‘The river Tagus,’ 
say you, ‘ was so called from a certain king of Spain. 
It takes its rise from such a place, and buries its waters 
in the ocean, kissing first the wall of the famous city of 
Lisbon: and some are of opinion that the sands of this 
river are gold,’ &c. If you have occasion to talk of 
robbers, I can presently give you the history of Cacus, 
for I have it by heart. If you would descant upon 
cruelty, Ovid’s Medea can afford you a very good ex- 
ample. Calypso from Homer, and Circe out of Virgil, 
are famous instances of witchcraft or enchantment. 
Would you treat of valiant commanders? Julius Cesar 
has writ his commentaries on purpose; and Plutarch can 
furnish you with athousand Alexanders. Ifyou would 
mention love, and have but three grains of Italian, you 
may find Leon the Jew ready to serve you most abun- 


y 


xxi! 


dantly. Bntif you would keep nearer home, it is but 
examining Fonseca on divine love, which you have 
here in your study, and you need go no farther for all 
that can be said on that copious subject. 

“In short, it is but quoting these authors in your 
book, and let me alone to make annotations. 1'11 en- 
gage to crowd your margin sufficiently, and scribble 
you four or five sheets to hoot at the endof your book; 
and for the citation of so many authors, it is the easiest 
thing in nature. Find out one of these books with an 
alphabetical index, and without any farther ceremony, 
remove it verbatim into your own; and though the 
world won’t believe you have occasion for such lumber, 
yet there are fools enough to be thus drawn into an 
opinion of the work; at least, such a flourishing train 
of attendants will give your book a fashionable air, 
and recommend it to sale; for few chapmen will stand 
toexamine it and compare the authorities upon the 
counter, since they can expect nothing but their labor 
for the pains. 

“But, after all, sir, if I know anything at all of the 
matter, you have no occasion for any of these things; 
for your subject, being a satire on knight-errantry, is 
so absolutely.new, that neither Aristotle, St. Basil, nor 
Cicero ever dreamt or heard of it. Those fabulous ex- 
travagances have nothing to do with the impartial 
punctuality of true history; nor do I find any business 
you can have either with astrology, geometry, or logic, 
and I hope you are too good u man to mix sacred 
things with profane. Nothing but pure nature is your 
business; her you must consult, and the closer you can 
imitate, your picture is the better. And since this 
writing of yours aims at no more than to destroy the 
authority and acceptance the books of chivalry have 
had in the world, and among the vulgar, you have no 
need to go begging sentences of philosophers, pas- 
sages out of Holy Writ, poetical fables, rhetorical ora- 
tions, or miracles of saints. Do but take care to 
express yourself in a plain, easy manner, in well-chosen, 





THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE READER. 


significant, and decent terms, and to give an harmonious 
and pleasing turn to your periods; study to explain 
your thoughts, and set them in the truest light, labor- 
ing, as much as possible, not to leave them dark nor 
intricate, but clear and intelligible; let your diverting 
stories be expressed in diverting terms, to kindle 
mirth in the melancholic, and heighten it in the gay; 
let mirth and humor be your superficial design, though 
laid on a solid foundation, to challenge attention from 
the ignorant, and admiration from the judicious; to se- 
cure your work from the contempt of the graver sort, 
and deserve the praises of men of sense; keeping your 
eye still fixed on the principal end of your project, the 
fall and destruction of that monstrous heap of ill-con- 
trived romances, which, though abhorred by many, 
have so strangely infatuated the greater part of man- 
kind—mind this, and your business is done.” 

I listened very attentively to my friend’s discourse, 
and found it so reasonable and convincing, that with- 
out any reply, I took his advice, and have told you the 
story by way of preface; wherein you may see, gentle- 
men, how happy I am in so ingenious « friend, to whose 
seasonable counsel you are all obliged for the omission 
of all this pedantic garniture in the history of the re- 
nowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose character 
among all the neighbors about Montiel is, that he was 
the most chaste lover and the most valiant knight that 
has been known in these parts these many years. I 
will not urge the service I have done you by intro- 
ducing you into so considerable and noble a knight’s 
acquaintance, but only beg the favor of some small 
acknowledgment for recommending you to the familiar- 
ity of the famons Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, 
in my opinion, you will find united and described all 
the squire-like graces which are scattered up and down 
in the whole bead-roll of books of chivalry. And now 
I take my leave, entreating you not to forget your 
humble servant. 


























DON 


QUIXOTE. 





PART L 





CHAPTER I. 


THE QUALITY AND WAY OF LIVING OF THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


AT a certain village in La Mancha, of which 1 can- 
not remember the name, there lived not long ago one 
of those old fashioned gentlemen who are never with- 
out a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and 
a greyhound. Soup, more frequently of mutton than 
of beef, minced meats on most nights, lentiles on Fri- 
days, griefs and groans on Saturdays, and a pigeon 
extraordinary on Sundays, consumed three-quarters of 
his revenue; the rest was laid out in a doublet of fine 
cloth, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same for 
holidays; and a suit of the very best homespun, which 
he bestowed on himself for working days. His whole 
family was a housekeeper something turned of forty, a 
niece not twenty, and a man that served him in the 
house and in the field, and could saddle a horse and 
handle the pruning-hook. The master himself was 





lean-bodied, and thin-faced, an early riser and a lover 
of hunting. Some say his surname was Quixada, or 
Quesada (for authors differ in this particular); however, 
we may reasonably conjecture he was called Quixada 
(1. e., lantern-jaws), though this concerns us but little, 
provided we keep strictly to the truth in every point 
of this history. 

You musé know, then, that when our gentleman had 
nothing to do (which was almost all the year round), 
he passed his time in reading books of knight-erranty, 
which he did with that application and delight, that at 
last he in a manner wholly left off his country sports, 
and even the care of his estate; nay, he grew so 
strangely besotted with these amusements, that he sold 
many acres of arable land to purchase books of that 
kind, by which means he collected as many of them as 


nigh fifty years of age, of a hale and strong complexion, ' were to be had; but, among them all, none pleased him 


2 


like the works of the famous Feliciano de Sylva; for 
the clearness of his prose, and those intricate expres- 
sions with which it is interlaced, seemed to him so many 
pearls of eloquence, especially when he came to read 
the challenges, and the amorous addresses, many of 
them in this extraordinary style: “The reason of your 
unreasonable usage of my reason, dues so enfeeble my 
reason, that I have reason to expostulate with your 
beauty.” And this, “The sublime heavens, which 
with your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, 
and fix you the deserver of the desert that is deserved 
by your grandeur.” These and such like expressions, 
strangely puzzled the poor gentleman's understanding, 
while he was breaking his brain to unravel their mean- 
ing, which Aristotle himself could never have found, 
though he should have been rais:d from the dead for 
that very purpose. 

He did not so well like those dreadful wounds which 
Don Belianis gave and received; for he considered that 
all the art of surgery could never secure his face and 
body from being strangely disfigured with scars. How- 
ever, he highly commended the author for concluding 
his book with a promise to finish that unfinishable ad- 
venture; and many times he had a desire to put pen to 
paper, and faithfully and literally finish it himself; 
which he certainly had done, and doubtless with good 
success, had not his thoughts been wholly engrossed in 
much more important designs. 

He would often dispute with the curate of the parish, 
a man of learning, that had taken his degrees at 
Siguenza, who was the better knight, Palmerin of Eng- 
land, or Amadis de Gaul; but Master Nicholas, the 
barber of the same town, would say that none of them 
could compare with the Knight of the Sun; and that 
if any one came near him, it was certainly Don Galaor, 
the brother of Amadis de Gaul; for he was a man of a 
most commodious temper, neither was he so finical, nor 
such w puling, whining lover as his brother; and as for 
courage, he was not a jot behind him. 

In fine, he gave himself up so wholly to the reading 
of romances, that a-nights he would pore on until it 
was day, and a-days he would read on until it was night; 
and thus by sleeping little, and reading much, the 
moisture of his brain was exhausted to that degree that 
at last he lost the use of his reason. .A world of dis- 
orderly notions, picked out of his books, crowded into 
his imagination ; and now his head was full of nothing 
but enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, 
complaints, amours, torments, und abundance of stuff 
and impossibilities ; insomuch that all the fables and 
fantastical tales which he read seemed to him now as 
true as the most authentic histories. He would say 
that the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very brave knight, but not 
worthy to stand in competition with the Knight of the 
Burning Sword, who, with a single back-stroke, had cut 
in sunder two fierce and mighty giants. He liked yet 
better Bernardo del Carpio, who, at Roncesvalles, de- 
prived of life the enchanted Orlando having lifted him 
from the ground, and choked him in the air, as Hercules 
did Antzeus, the son of the earth. 

As for the giant Morgante, he always spoke very civil 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHa. 


things of him; for though he was one of that mousous 
brood who ever were intolerably proud and brutish, he 
still behaved himself like a civil and well-bred person. 

But of all men in the world he admired Rinaldo of 
Montalban, and particularly his sallying out of his cas- 
tle to rob all he met; and then again his carrying away 
the idol of Mahomet, which was all massy gold, as the 
history says; but he so hated that traitor Galadon, that 
for the pleasure of kicking him handsomely, he would 
have given up his housekeeper; nay, and his niece into 
the bargain. 

Having thus lost his understanding, he unluckily 
stumbled upon the oddest fancy that ever entered into 
a madman’s brain; for now he thought it convenient 
and necessary, us well for the increase of his own hon- 
or, as the service of the public, to turn knight-errant, 
and roam through the whole world, armed cap-a-pie, 
and mounted on his steed, in quest of adventures; that 
thus imitating those knight-errants of whom he had 
read, and following their course of life, redressing all 
manner of grievances, and exposing himself to danger 
on all occasions, at last, after a happy conclusion of his 
enterprises, he might purchase everlasting honor and 
renown. Transported with these agreeable delusions, 
the poor gentleman already grasped in imagination the 
imperial sceptre of Trebizonde, and hurried away by 
his mighty expectations, he prepares with all expedi- 
tion to take the field. 

The first thing he did was to scour a suit of armour 
that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had 
lain time out of mind carelessly rusting in a corner; 
but when he had cleaned and repaired it as well as he 
could, he perceived there was a material piece wanting ; 
for, instead of a complete helmet, there was only a sin- 
gle head-piece. However, his industry supplied that 
defect; for with some pasteboard he made a kind of 
half-beaver, or vizor, which, being fitted to the head- 
piece, made it lovk like an entire helmet. Then, to 
know whether it were cutlass-proof, he drew his sword, 
and tried its edge upon the pasteboard vizor; but with 
the very first stroke he unluckily undid in a moment 
what he had been a whole week a-doing. He did not 
like its being broke with so much ease, and therefore, 
to secure it from the like accident, he made it anew, 
and fenced it with thin plates of iron, which he fixed 
on the inside of it so artificially that at last he had 
reason to be satisfied with the solidity of the work; 
and so, without any farther experiment, he resolved it 
should pass to all intents and purposes for a full and 
sufficient helmet. 

In the next place, he went to view his horse, and 
though the animal had more blemishes than limbs, be- 
ing a worse jade than Gonela’s, gut tentum pellis et vssa 
fuit, his master thought that neither Alexander’s Bu- 
cephalus, nor the Cid’s Babieca, could be compared 
with him. He was four days considering what name to 
give him; for, as he argued with himself, there was no 
reason that a horse bestrid by so famous a knight, and 
withal so excellent in himself, should not be distin- 
guished by a particular name; and therefore he studied 





to give him such a one as showd demonstrate as well 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 3 


what kind of horse he nad been before his master was 
a knight-errant, as what he was now; thinking it but 
just, since the owner changed his profession, that the 
horse should also change his title, and be dignified with 
another; a good big word, such a one as should fill the 
mouth, and seem consonant with the quality and pro- 
fession of his master. And thus after many names 
which he devised, rejected, changed, liked, disliked, 
and pitched upon again, he concluded to call him Rozi- 
nante; a name, in his opinion, lofty, sounding, and sig- 
nificant of what he had been before, and also of what 
he was now: ,in a word, a horse before, or above, all the 
vulgar breed of horses in the world. 

When he had thus given his horse a name so much to 
his satisfaction, he thought of choosing one for himself ; 
and having seriously pondered on the matter eight 
whole days more, at last he determined to call himself 
Don Quixote. Whence the author of this most authentic 
history draws this inference, that his right name was 
Quixada, and not Quesada, as others obstinately pre- 
tend. And observing that the valiant Amadis, not sat- 
isfied with the bare appellation of Amadis, added to it 
the name of his country, that it might grow more famous 
by his exploits, and so styled himself Amadis de Gaul; 
so he, like a true lover of his native soil, resolved to 
call himself Don Quixote dela Mancha; which addition, 
to his thinking, denoted very plainly his parentage and 
country, and consequently would fix a lasting honor on 
that part of the world. 

And now, his armor being scoured, his headpiece im- 
proved to a helmet, his horse and himself new named, 
he perceived he wanted nothing but a lady, on whom he 
might bestow the empire of his heart; for he was sen- 
sible that a knight-errant without a mistress was a tree 








without either fruit or leaves, and a body without a 
soul. “Should I,” he said to himself, “by good or ill 
fortune, chance to encounter some giant, as is common 
in knight-errantry, and happen to lay him prostrate on 
the ground, transfixed with my lance, or cleft in two, 
or, in short, overcome him, and have him at my mercy, 
would it not be proper to have some lady to whom I 
may send him as a trophy of my valor? Then when he 
comes into her presence, throwing himself at her feet, 
he may thus make his humble submission :—‘ Lady, I am 
the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Talin- 
drania, vanquished in single combat by that never- 
deservedly-enough-extolled knight-errant Don Quixote 
de la Mancha, who has commanded me to cast myself 
most humbly at your feet, that it may please your honor 
to dispose of me according to your will.” Oh! how 
elevated was the knight with the conceit of this imagi- 
nary submission of the giant; especially having withal 
bethought himself of a person on whom he might confer 
the title of his mistress! which, itis believed, happened 
thus:—Near the place where he lived, dwelt a good, 
likely country lass, for whom he had formerly had a sort 
of an inclination, though, it is believed, she never heard 
of it, nor regarded it in the least. Her name was Al- 
donza Lorenzo, and this was she whom he thought he 
might entitle to the sovereignty of his heart; upon 
which he studied to find her out a new name, that might 
have some affinity with her old one, and yet at the same 
time sound somewhat like that of a princess, or lady of 
quality; so at last he resolved to call her Dulcinea, 
with the addition of del Toboso, from the place where 
she was born; aname, in his opinion, sweet, harmonious, 
extraordinary, and no less significative than the others 
which he had devised. 


5 


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CHAPTER II 


OF DON QUIXOTE’S FIRST SALLY. 


THESE preparations being made, he found his designs 
ripe for action, and thought it now a crime to deny him- 
self any longer to the injured world, that wanted such 
a deliverer; the more when he considered what griev- 
ances he was to redress, what wrongs and injuries to 
remove, what abuses to correct, and what duties to dis- 
charge. So one morning before day, in the greatest 
heat of July, without acquainting any one of his design, 
with all the secresy imaginable, he armed himself cap- 
a-pie, laced on his ill-contrived helmet, braced on his 
target, grasped his lance, mounted Rozinante, and at the 
private door of his back-yard sallied out into the fields, 
wonderfully pleased to see with how much ease he had 
succeeded in the beginning of his enterprise. But he 
had not gone far ere a terrible thought alarmed him, a 
thought that had like to have made him renounce his 
great undertaking; for now it came into his mind that 
the honour of knighthood had not yet been conferred 
upon him, and therefore, according to the laws of 
chivalry, he neither could nor ought to appear in 
arms against any professed knight; nay, he also con- 
sidered that though he were already knighted, it would 
become him to wear white armor, and not to adorn his 
shield with any device until he had deserved one by 
some extraordinary demonstration of his valor. 

These thoughts staggered his resolution ; but his folly 
prevailing more than any reason, he resolved to be 
dubbed a knight by the first he should meet, after the 
example of several others, who, as his distracting ro- 
mances informed him, had formerly done the like. As 
for the ‘other difficulty about wearing white armor, he 
proposed to overcome it by scouring his own at leisure 
until it should look whiter than ermine. And having 
thus dismissed these busy scruples, he very calmly rode 
on, leaving it to his horse’s discretion to go which way 
he pleased; firmly believing, that in this consisted the 





very being of adventures. And thus he went on, “1 
cannot but believe,” said he to himself, “that when the 
history of my famous achievements shall be given to 
the world, the learned author will begin it in this very 
manner, when he comes to give an account of this my 
early setting out:—‘Scarce had [the ruddy-colored 
Pheebus begun to spread the golden tresses of his love- 
ly hair over the vast surface of the earthly globe, and 
scarce had those feathered poets of the grove, the 
pretty painted birds, tuned their little pipes, to sing 
their early welcomes in soft melodious strains to the 
beautiful Aurora, who, having left her jealous husband’s 
hed, displayed her rosy graves to mortal eyes from the 
gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when 
the renowned knight Don Quixote dela Mancha, dis- 
daining soft repose, forsook the voluptuous down, and, 
mounting his famons steed Rozinante, entered the an- 
cient and celebrated plains of Montiel.” This was in- 
deed the very road he took ; and then proceeding, “Oh, 
happy age! Oh, fortunate times!” cried he, “decreed 
to usher into the world my famous achievements; 
achievements worthy to be engraven on brass, carved 
on marble, and delineated in some masterpiece of paint- 
ing, as monuments of my glory, and examples for pos- 
terity! And thou, venerable sage, wise enchanter, 
whatever be thy name; thou whom fate has ordained to 
be the compiler of this rare history, forget not, I be- 
seech thee, my trusty Rozinante, the eternal companion 
of all my adventures!” After this, asif he had been 
really in love, “ Oh, Princess Dulcinea,” cried he, “lady 
of this captive heart, much sorrow and woe you have 
doomed me to in banishing me thus, and imposing on 
me your rigorous commands, never to appear before 
your beauteons face! Remember, lady, that loyal heart 
your slave, who for your love submits to so many miser- 
les.”? To these extravagant conceits he added a world 
4 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 5 


of others, all in imitation and in the very style of those 
which the reading of romances had furnished him with; 
and all this while he rode so softly, and the sun’s heat 
increased so fast, and was so violent, that it would have 
been sufficient to have melted his brains, had he had 
any left, 

He travelled almost all that day without meeting any 
adventure worth the trouble of relating, which put him 
into a kind of despair; for he desired nothing more 
than to encounter immediately some person on whom 
he might try the vigor of his arm. 

Some authors say that his first adventure was that of 
the pass called Puerto Lapice; others that of the Wind- 
mills; but all that I could discover of certainty in this 
matter, and that I met with in the annals of La Mancha, 
is that he travelled all that day; and towards the even- 
ing, he and his horse being heartily tired, and almost 
famished, Don Quixote looking about him, in hopes to 
discover some castle, or at least some shepherd's cot- 
tage, there to reposé and refresh himself, at last, near 
the road which he kept, he espied an inn, as welcome a 
sight to his longing eyes as if he had discovered a star 
directing him to the gate, nay, to the palace of his re- 
demption. Thereupon hastening towards the inn with 
all the speed he could, he got thither just at the close 
of the evening. There stood by chance at the inn-door 
two young country females, who were going to Seville 
with some carriers, that happened to take up their 
lodgings there that very evening; and as whatever our 
knight- errant saw, thought, or imagined, was all of a 
romantic cast, and appeared to him altogether after the 
manner of books that had perverted his imagination, he 


no sooner saw the inn, but he fancied it to be a castle] ' 


fenced with four towers, and lofty pinnacles glittering 
with silver, together with a deep moat, drawbridge, and 
all those other appurtenances peculiar to such kind of 
places. 

Therefore, when he came near it, he ataeal awhile 
at a distance from the gate, expecting that some dwarf 
would appear on the battlements, and sound his trumpet 
to give notice of the arrival of a knight; but finding 
that nobody came, and that Rozinante was for making 
the best of his way to the stable, he advanced to'the 
inn-door, where spying the two girls, they seemed to 
him two beautiful damsels or graceful ladies, taking 
the benefit of the fresh air at the gate of the castle. 
It happened also, at the very moment, that a swineherd 
getting together his hogs (for, without begging pardon, 
so they are called) from the stubble-field, winded his 
horn; and Don Quixote presently imagined this was 
the wished-for signal, which some dwarf gave to notify 
his approach; therefore, with the greatest joy in the 

world, he rode. up to the inn. The girls, affirighted at 
the approach of a man cased in iron, and armed with 
a lance and target, were for running into their lodg- 
ing; but Don Quixote, perceiving their fear by: their 
flight, lifted up the pasteboard beaver of his helmet, 
and discovering his withered, dusty face, with comely 
grace and grave delivery, accosted them in this man- 
ner— 

“YI beseech ye, ladies, do not fly, nor fear the least 


1 


l 





offence ; the order of knighthood, which I profess, does 
not permit me to countenance or offer injuries to any 
one in the universe, and least of all to ladies of such 
high rank as your presence denotes.” 

They looked earnestly upon him, endeavoring to get 
a glimpse of his face, which his ill-contrived beaver 
partly hid; but when they heard themselves styled 
ladies of high rank they could not forbear laughing 
outright, which Don Quixote resented as a great affront. 

“Give me leave to tell ye, ladies,” cried he, “that 
modesty and civilty are very becoming in the fair sex ; 
whereas laughter without ground is the highest piece 
of indiscretion ; however,” added he, “I do not presume 
to say this to offend you, or incur your displeasure ; 
no, ladies, I assure you, I have no other design but to 
do you service.” 

This uncommon way of expression, joined to the 
knight’s scurvy figure, increased their mirth, which 
incensed him to that degree, that this might have car- 
ried things to an extremity, had not the innkeeper 
luckily appeared at that juncture. He was a man 
whose burden of fat inclined him to peace and quiet- 
ness, yet when he had observed such a strange disguise 
of human shape, in his old armor and equipage, he 
could hardly forbear keeping the girls company in 
their laughter; but having the fear of such a warlike 
appearance before his eyes, he resolved to give him 
good words, and therefore accosted him civilly. 

“Sir Knight,” said he, “if your worship be disposed 
to alight, you will fail of nothing here but of a bed; 
as for all other accommodations, you may be supplied 
to your mind.” 

Don Quixote, observing the humility of the governor 
of the castle (for such the innkeeper and inn seemed 
to him), “Senior Castellano,” said he, “the least thing - 
in the world sufficies me; for arms are the only things 
I value, and combat is my bed of repose.” 

The innkeeper thought he had called him Castellano, 
as taking him to be one of the true Castilians, whereas 
he was indeed of Andalusia, nay, of the neighborhood 
of St. Lucar, as arrant a thief as Cacus, and as mis- 
chievous as a truant scholar, or a court page, and 
therefore he made him this reply— 

“ At this rate, Sir Knight, your bed might be a pave- 
ment, and your rest to be still awake; you may then 
safely alight; and I dare assure you, you can hardly 
miss being kept awake all the year long in this house, 
much less one single night.” 

With that he went and held Don Quixote’s stirrup, 
who, having not broke his fast that day, dismounted 
with no small trouble or difficulty. He’ immediately 
desired the governor (that is, the innkeeper) to. have 
special care of his steed, assuring him that there was 
not a better in the universe; upon which the innkeeper 
viewed him narrowly, but could not think him to be 
half so good as Don Quixote said. However, having 
set him up in the stable, he came back to the knight to 
see what he wanted, and found him pulling off his 
armor by the help of the good-natured girls, who had 
already reconciled themselves to him; but though they 
had eased him of his corselet and back plate, they could 























DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 7 


by no means undo his gorget, nor take off his ill-con- 
trived beaver, which he had tied so fast with green 
ribbons that it was impossible to get it off without 
cutting them; now he would by no means permit that, 
and so was forced to keep on his helmet all night, 
which was one of the most pleasant sights in the world; 
and while his armor was taking off by the two kind 
lasses, imagining them to be persons of quality, and 
ladies of that castle, he very gratefully made them the 
following compliment (in imitation of an old romance :)— 


“There never was on earth a knight 
So waited on by ladies fair, 
As once was he, Don Quixote hight, 
When first he left his village dear : 
Damsels to undress him ran with speed, 
And princesses to dress his steed.” 


“O Rozinante! for that is my horse's name, ladies, 
and mine Don Quixote de la Maúcha. I never thought 
to have discovered it until some feats of arms, achieved 
by me in your service, had made me better known to 
your ladyships; but necessity forcing me to apply to 
present purpose that passage of the ancient romance of 
Sir Lancelot, which 1 now repeat, has extorted the 
secret from me before its time; yet a day will come, 
when you shall command, and I obey, and then the 
valor of my arm shall evince the reality of my zeal to 
serve your ladyships.” 

The two females, who were not used to such rhetori- 
cal speeches, could make no answer to this; they only 
asked him whether he would eat anything. 

“That I will with all my heart,” cried Don Quixote, 
“whatever it be, for I am of opinion nothing can come 
to me more seasonably.”’ 

Now, as ill luck would have it, it happened to be 
Friday, and there was nothing to be had at the inn but 
some pieces of fish, which is called abadexo in Castile, 
bacallao in Andalusia, curadillo in some places, and in 
others truchuela,' or little trout, though after all it is 
but j poor jack; so they asked him whether he could eat 
any of that _truchuela, because they had no other fish 
to give him. : 





Don Quixote, imagining they meant a small trout, 
told them, “That provided there were more than one, 
it was the same thing to him, they would serve him as 
well as a great one; for,’ continued he, “it is all one 
to me whether I am paid a piece of eight in one single 
piece, or in eight small reals, which are worth as much. 
Besides, it is probable these small trouts may be like 
veal, which is finer meat than beef; or like the kid, 
which is better than the goat. In short, let it be what 
it-will, so it comes quickly; for the weight of armor 
and the fatigue of travel are not to be supported with- 
out recruiting food.” 

Thereupon they laid the itis at the inn-door, for the 
benefit of the fresh air, and the landlord brought him a 
piece of that salt fish, but ill-watered, and as ill-dressed; 
and as for the bread, it was as mould and brown as the 
knight’s armor. But it would have made one laugh 
to have seen him eat; for having his helmet on, with 
his beaver lifted up, it was impossible for him to feed 
himself without help, so that one of the girls had that 
office ; but there was no giving him drink that way, 
and he must have gone without, had not the innkeeper 
bored a cane, and setting one end of it to his mouth, 
poured the wine in at the other ; all of which the knight 
suffered patiently, because he would not cut the ribbons 
that fastened his helmet. 


While he was at supper, a swineherd happened to 
sound his cane trumpet, or whistle of reeds, four or five 
times as he came near the inn, which made Don Quixote 
the more positive of his being in a famous castle, where 
he was entertained with music at supper; that the poor 
jack was young trout, the bread of the finest flour, the 
girls great ladies, and the innkeeper the governor of 
the castle: which made him applaud himself for his 
resolution, and his setting out on such an account. 
The only thing that vexed him was, that he was not yet 
dubbed a knight; for he fancied he could not lawfully 
undertake any adventure till he had received the order 
of knighthood. 


















) to 7 E 

ÍA f Nh 
E ii Me 
> E IK xh a Ñ NÓ 7 
saa | NS Sei 
ye WA Seek wy f 
3) WAN tar) ede 
ES Al US 































ae 
a 1 ‘\ 





i} 







E MPAA 


—— 


CHAPTER III. 


AN ACCOUNT OF THE PLEASANT METHOD TAKEN BY DON QUIXOTE TO BE DUBBED A KNIGHT. 


Don QUIXOTE'S mind being disturbed with that 
thought, he abridged even his short supper; and as 
soon as he had done, he called his host, then shut him 
and himself up in the stable, and falling at his feet— 

“I will never rise from this place,” cried he, “most 
valorous knight, till you have graciously vouchsafed 
to grant me a boon, which I will now beg of you, and 
which will redound to your honor and the good of man- 
kind.” 

The inkeeper, strangely at a loss to find his guest at 
his feet, and talking at this rate, endeavored to make 
him rise ; but all in vain, till he had promised to grant 
him what he asked. 

“T expected no less from your great magnificence, 
noble sir,” replied Don Quixote; “and, therefore, I 
make bold to tell you, that the boon which I beg, and 
you generously condescend to grant me, is, that to- 
morrow you will be pleased to bestow the honor of 
knighthood upon me. This night I will watch my 
armor in the chapel of your castle, and then in the 
morning you shall gratify me, as I passionately desire, 
that I may be duly qualified to seek out adventures in 
every corner of the universe to relieve the distressed, 
according to the laws of chivalry, and the inclinations 
of knights-errant like myself.” 





The innkeeper, who, asI said, was asharp fellow, and 
had already a shrewd suspicion of the disorder in his 
guest's understanding, was fully convinced of it when 
he heard him talk after this manner; and, to make sport 
that night, resolved to humor him in his desires, telling 
him he was highly to be commended for his choice of 
such an employment, which was altogether worthy a 
knight of the first order, such as his gallant deportment 
discovered bim to be; that he himself had, in his 
youth, followed that honorable profession, ranging 
through many parts of the world in search of adven- 
tures, without so much as forgetting to visit the Per- 
cheles of Malaga, the isles of Riaran, the compass of 
Sevil, the quicksilver-house of Segovia, the olive-field 
of Valencia, the circle of Granada, the wharf of St. 
Lucar, the fountain of Cordova, the hedge-taverns of 
Toledo, and divers other places, where he had exercised 
the nimbleness of his feet, and the dexterity of his 
hands, doing wrongs in abundance, soliciting many 
widows, ruining some damsels, fleecing young heirs, 
and, in a word, making himself famous in most of the 
courts of judicature in Spain, till at length he retired 
to this castle, where he lived on his own estate, and 
those of others, entertaining all knights-errant of what 
quality or condition soever, purely for the great affec- 

8 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 9 


tion he bore them, and to partake of what they got in 
recompense of his good will. He added, that his castle 
at present had no chapel where the knjght might keep 
vigil of his arms, it being pulled down in order to be 
built new; but that he knew they might lawfully be 
watched in any other place in a case of necessity, 
and therefore he might do it that night in the court 
yard of the castle; and in the morning (God willing) 
all the necessary ceremonies should be performed, so 
that he might assure himself he should be dubbed a 
knight, nay, as much a knight as any one in the world 
could be. He then asked Don Quixote whether he had 
any money. 

“Not a farthing,” replied the knight; “for I never 
read in any history of chivalry that any knight-errant 
ever carried money about him.” 

“You are mistaken,” cried the innkeeper; “for ad- 
mit the histories are silent in this matter, the authors 
thinking it needless to mention things so evidently 
necessary as money and clean shirts, yet there is no 
reason to believe the knights went without either; and 
you may rest assured, that all the knights-errant, of 
whom so many histories are full, had their purses well 
lined to supply themselves with necessaries, and car- 
ried also with them some shirts, and a small box of 
salves to heal their wounds; for they had not the con- 
veniency of surgeons to cure them every time they 
fought in fields and deserts, unless they were so happy 
as to have some sage or magician for their friend to 
give them present assistance, sending them some dam- 
sel or dwarf through the air in a cloud, with a small 
bottle of water of so great a virtue, that they no sooner 
tasted a drop of it, but their wounds were as perfectly 
cured as if they had never received any. But when 
they wanted such a friend in former ages, the knights 
thought themselves obliged to take care that their 
squires should be provided with money and other neces- 
saries, as lint and salves to dress their wounds; and if 
those knights ever happened to have no squires, which 
was but very seldom, then they carried those things 
behind them in a little bag, asif it had been something 
of greater value, and so neatly fitted to their saddle, 
that it was hardly seen; for had it not been upon such 
an account, the carrying of wallets was not much allow- 
ed among knights-errant. I must therefore advise 
you,” continued he, “nay, I might even charge and 
command you, as you are shortly to be my son in chiv- 
alry, never from this time forwards to ride without 
money, nor without the other necessaries of which I 
spoke to you, which you will find very beneficial when 
you least expect it.” 

Don Quixote promised to perform very punctually 
all his injunctions ; and so they disposed everything in 
order to his watehing his armsina great yard that 
adjoined to the inn. To which purpose the knight 
having got them all together, laid them in a horse- 
trough close by a well in that yard; then bracing his 
target, and grasping his lance, just as it grew dark, he 
began to walk about by the horse-trough with a grace- 
ful deportment. In the meanwhile the innkeeper 
acquainted all those that were in the house with the 





extravagances of his guest, his watching his arms, and 
his hopes of being made a knight. They all wondered 
at so strange a kind of folly, and went on to observe 
him at a distance ; where they saw him sometimes walk 
about with a great deal of gravity, and sometimes lean 
on his lance, with his eyes all the while fixed upon his 
arms. It was now night, but yet the moon did shine 
with such a brightness, us might almost have vied with 
that of the luminary wnich lent it her; so that the 
knight was wholly exposed to the spectators’ view. 

While he was thus employed, one of the carriers who 
lodged in the inn came out to water his mules, which 
he could not do without removing the arms out of the 
trough. With that, Don Quixote, who saw him make 
towards him, cried out to him aloud—“ Oh thou who- 
ever thou art, rash knight, that prepares to lay thy 
hinds on the arms of the most valorous knight-errant 
that ever wore a sword, take heed; do not audaciously 
attempt to profane them with a touch, lest instant death 
be the too sure reward of thy temerity.” But the car- 
rier never regarded these dreadful threats ; and laying 
hold on the armour by the straps, without any more ado 
threw ita good way from him; though it had been 
better for him to have let it alone; for Don Quixote no 
sooner saw this, but lifting up his eyes to heaven, and 
addressing his thoughts, as it seemed, to his lady 
Dulcinea, “ Assist me, lady,” cried he, “in the first 
opportunity that offers itself to your faithful slave; 
nor let your favor and protection be denied me 
in this first trial of my valor!” Repeating such like 
ejaculations, he let slip his target, and lifting up his 
lance with both his hands, he gave the carrier such a 
terrible knock on his inconsiderate head with his lance, 
that he laid bim at his feet in a woful condition ; and 
had he backed that blow with another, the fellow would 
certainly have had no need of a surgeon. This done, 
Don Quixote took up his armor, laid it again in the 
horse-trough, and then walked on backwards and for- 
wards with as great unconcern as he did at first. 

Soon after another carrier, not knowing what had 
happened, came also to water his mules, while the first 
yet lay on the ground in a trance; butas he offered to 
clear the trough of the armor, Don Quixote, without 
speaking a word, or imploring any one’s assistance, 
once more dropped his target, lifted up his lance, and 
then let it fall so heavily on the fellow’s pate, that 
without damaging his lance, he broke the carrier’s head 
in three or four places. His outery soon brought 
thither all the people in the inn, and the landlord among 
the rest; which Don Quixote perceiving, “Thou Queen 
of Beauty,” ‘cried he, bracing on his shield, and draw- 
ing his sword, “thou courage and vigor of my weak- 
ened heart, now is the time when thou must enliven 
thy advenurous slave with the beams of thy greatness, 
while this moment he is engaging in so terrible an 
adventure !” With this, in his opinion, he found him- 
self supplied with such an addition of courage, that 
had all the carriers in the world at once attacked him, 
he would undoubtedly have faced them all. 

On the other side, the carriers, enraged to see their 
comrades thus used, though they were afraid to come 

















“He began to walk about the horse trough with a graceful depor:ment.”—p. 9. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


near, gave the knight such a volley of stones, that he 
was foreed to shelter himself as well as he could under 
the covert of his target, without daring to go far from 
the horse-trough, lest he should seem to abandon his 
arms. The inkeeper called to the carriers us loud as 
he could to let him alone; that he had told them already 
he was mad, and consequently the law would acquit 
him, though he should kill them. Don Quixote also 
made yet more noise, calling them false and treacherous 
villains, and the lord of the castle base and inhospi- 
table, a discourteous knight, for suffering a knight- 
errant to be so abused. “I would make thee know,” 
cried he, “what a perfidious wretch thou art, had I 
but received the order of knighthood; but for you, 
base, ignominious rabble! fling on, do your worst; 
draw nearer if you dare, and receive the reward of your 
indiseretion and insolence.” This he spoke with so 
much spirit and undauntedness, that he struck a terror 
into all his assailants; so that partly through fear, and 
partly through the innkeeper’s persuasions, they gave 
over flinging stones at him; and he, on his side, per- 
mitted the enemy to carry off their wounded, and then 
returned to the guard of his arms as calm and composed 
as before. 

The innkeeper, who began somewhat to disrelish 
these mad tricks of his guest, resolved to bestow on 
him that unlucky knighthood, to prevent farther mis- 
chief: so coming to him, he excused himself for the 
znsolence of those base scoundrels, as being done with- 
out his privity or consent; but their audaciousness, he 
said, was sufficiently punished. He added, that be had 
already told him there was no chapel in his castle; and 
that indeed there was no need of one to finish the rest 
of the ceremony of knighthood, which consisted only 
in the application of the sword to the neck and should- 
ers, as he had read in the register of the ceremonies of 
the order; and that this might be performed as well in 
a field as anywhere else; that he had already fulfilled 
the obligation of watching his arms, which required no 
more than two hours’ watch whereas he had been four 
hours upon the guard. Don Quixote, who easily 
believed him, told him he was ready to obey him, and 
desired him to make an end of the business as soon as 
possible, for if he were but knighted, and should see 
himself once attacked, he believed he should not leave 
a man alive in the castle, except those whom he should 
desire him to spare for his sake. 

Upon this the innkeeper, lest the knight should pro- 
ceed to such extremities, fetched the hook in which he 
used to set down the carriers’ accounts for straw and 





11 


barley; and having brought with him the two girls, 
already mentioned, and a boy that held a piece of 
lighted candle in his hand, he ordered Don Quixote to 
kneel; then reading in his manual, asif he had been 
repeating some pious oration, in the midst of his 
devotion he lifted up his hand, and gave him a good 
blow on the neck, and then a gentle slap on the back 
with the flat of his sword, still mumbling some words 
between his teeth in the tone of a prayer. 

After this he ordered one of the girls to gird the 
sword about the knight’s waist; which she did with 
much solemnity, and I may add, discretion, considering 
how hard a thing it was to forbear laughing at every 
circumstance of the ceremony: itis true, the thoughts of 
the knight’s late prowess did not a little contribute to 
the suppression of her mirth. As she girded on his 
sword, “Heaven,” cried she, “make your worship a 
lucky knight, and prosper you wherever you go.” 

Don Quixote desired to know her name, that he might 
understand to whom he wus indebted for the favor she 
had bestowed upon him, and «lso make her partaker of 
the honor he was to acquire by the strength of his arm. 
To which the lady answered with all humility, that her 
name was Tolosa, a cobbler’s daughter, that kept a stall 
among the little shops of Sanchobinaya, at Toledo; and 
that whenever he pleased to command her, she would 
be his humble servant. Don Quixote begged of her to 
do him the favor to add the title of lady to her name, 
and for his sake to be called from that time the Lady 
Tolosa; which she promised to do. Her companion 
having buckled on his spurs, occasioned a like confer- 
ence between them; and when he asked her name, she 
told him she went by the name of Miller, being the 
daughter of an honest miller of Antequera. Onr new 
knight entreated her also to style herself the Lady 
Miller, making her new offers of service. 

These extraordinary ceremonies (the like never seen 
before) being thus hurried over in a kind of post-haste, 
Don Quixote could not rest till he had taken the field 
in quest of adventures; therefore, having immediately 
saddled his Rozinante, and being mounted, he embraced 
the inn-keeper, and returned him so many thanks at so 
extravagant a rate, for the obligation he had laid upon 
him in dubbing him a knight, that it is impossible to 
give a true relation of them all; to which the inn-keep- 
er, in haste to get rid of him, returned as rhetorical 
though shorter answers; and without stopping his horse 
for the reckoning, was glad with all his heart to see 
him go. 





IN de 


ES ‘i Yi 0 
SUN ae 
hi] oe 


os 


thy 
iy oe 
ia 


oc Qu 


CHAPTER IV, 


WHAT BEFELL THE KNIGHT AFTER HE HAD LEFT THE INN. 


AURORA began to usher in the morn, when Don Quix- 
ote sallied out of the inn, so well pleased, so gay, and 
so over-joyed to find himself knighted, that he infused 
the same satisfaction into his horse, who seemed ready 
to burst bis girths with joy. But calling to mind the 
admonitions which the inn-keeper had given him, con- 
cerning the provision of necessary accommodation in 
his travels, particularly money and clean shirts, he re- 
solved to return home to furnish himself with them, 
and likewise to get him a squire, designing to entertain 
as such a laboring man, his neighbor, who was poor 
and had a charge of children, but yet very tit for the 
office. With this resolution he took the road which led 
to his own village; and Rozinante, that seemed to know 
his will by instinct, began to carry him at a round trot 
so briskly, that his heels seemed scarcely to touch 
the ground. The knight had not travelled far, when 
he fancied he heard an effeminate voice complaining in 
a thicket on his right hand. “I thank Heaven,” said 
he, when he heard the cries, “for favoring me so soon 
with an opportunity to perform the duty of my profess- 
ion, and reap the fruits of my desire! for these com- 
plaints are certainly the moans of some distressed crea- 
ture who wants my present help.” Then turning to 
that side with all the speed which Rozinante could 
make, he no sooner came into the wood but he found a 
mare tied to an oak, and to another a young lad about 
fifteen years of age, naked from the waist upwards. 
This was he who made such a lamentable outcry; and 
not without cause, for a lusty country fellow was strap- 
ping him soundly with a girdle, at every stripe putting 
him in mind of a proverb, “Keep your mouth shut, and 
your eyes open, sirrah.” 

“Good master,” cried the boy, “I'll do so no more; 
as L hope to be saved, I’ll never do so again! indeed, 
master, hereafter I’ll take more care of your goods.” 

Don Quixote seeing this, cried in an angry tone, “ Dis- 
courteous knight, ’tis an unworthy act to strike a person 





who is not able to defend himself: come, bestride thy 
steed, and take thy lance’’—for the farmer had some- 
thing that looked like one leaning to the same tree to 
which his mare was tied—“then I'll make thee know 
thou hast acted the part of a coward.” 

The country fellow, who gave himself for lost at the 
sight of an apparition in armor brandishing his lance at 
his face, answered in mild and submissive words. “Sir 
Knight,” cried he, “this boy, whom I am chastising, is 
my servant, employed by me to look after a flock of 
sheep, which I have not far off: but he is so heedless, 
that I lose some of them every day. Now, becanse I 
correct him for his carelessness or his knavery, he says 
I do it out of covetousness, to defrand him of his wages; 
but, upon my life and soul, he belies me.” 

“What! the lie in my presence, you saucy clown !” 
cried Don Quixote; “by the sun that shines, I have a 
good mind to run thee throngh the body with my lance. 
Pay the boy this instant, without any more words, or, by 
the power that rules us all, 111 immediately dispatch 
and annihilate thee: come, unbind him this moment.” 

The countryman hung down his head, and without any 
further reply unbound the boy; who being asked by 
Don Quixote what his master owed him, told him it was 
nine months’ wages, at seven reals a month. The 
knight, having cast it up, found it came to sixty-three 
reals in all; which he ordered the farmer to pay the 
fellow immediately, unless he intended to lose his life 
that very moment. The poor countryman, trembling 
for fear, told him that, as he was on the brink of death, 
by the oath he had sworn (by-the-by he had’ not sworn 
at all), he did not owe the lad so much; for there was to 
be deducted for three pair of shoes which he had bought 
him, and a real for his being let blood twice when he 
was sick. 

“That may be,” replied Don Quixote; “but set the 
price of the shoes and the bleeding against the stripes 
which you have given him without cause: for if he has 

12 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


used the shoe-leather which you paiá for, you have in 
return misused and impaired his skin sufficiently; and 
if the surgeon let him blood when heavas sick, you have 
drawn blood from him now he is in health; so that be 
owes you nothing on that account.” 

“The worst is, Sir Knight,” cried the farmer, “that I 
have no money about me; but let Andrew go home with 
me, amd PM pay him every piece out of hand.” 

“What! I go home with him!” cried the youngster; 
“the devil a-bit, sir! not I, truly; I know better things: 
for he’d no sooner have me by himself, but he’d flay me 
alive, like another St. Bartholomew.” 

“He will never dare to do it,” replied Don Quixote; 
“T command him, and that’s sufficient to restrain him; 
therefore, provided he will swear by the order of knight- 
hood which has been conferred upon him, that he will 
duly observe this regulation, I will freely let him go, 
and then thon art secure of thy money.” 

“Good sir, take heed what you say,” cried the boy; 
“for my master is no knight, nor ever was of any order 
in his life: he’s John Haldudo, the rich farmer of Quin- 
tinar.” 

“This signifies little,” answered Don Quixote, “ for 
there may be knights among the Haldudos; besides, 
the brave man curves out his fortune, and every man 
is the son of his own works.” 

“That's true, sir,” quoth Andrew; “but of what 
works can this master of mine be the son, who denies 
me my wages, which I have earned with the sweat of 
my brows?” | 

“T do not deny to pay thee thy wages, honest An- 
drew,” cried the master; “be but so kind as go along 
with me, and by all the orders of knighthood in the 
world, I swear, I'll pay thee every piece, as I said; 
nay, and perfumed to boot.” 

“You may spare your perfume,” said Don Quixote; 
“do but pay him in reals, and I am satisfied; but be 
sure you perform your oath; for if you fail, I myself 
swear by the same oath to return and find you out, and 
punish you, though you should hide yourself as close 
asa lizard. And if you will be informed who it is that 
lays these injunctions on you, that you may understand 
how highly it coucerns you to observe them, know I 
am the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the righter 
of wrongs, the revenger and redresser of grievances; 
and so farewell; but remember what you have promised 
and sworn, as you will answer the contrary at your 
peril.” This said, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and 
quickly left the master and the man a good way behind 
him. 

The countryman, who followed him with both his 
eyes, no sooner perceived that he was passed the 
woods, and quite out of sight, but he went back to his 
boy Andrew. “Come, child,” said he, “I will pay 
thee what I owe thee, as that righter of wrongs and 
redresser of grievances has ordered me.” 

“Ay,” quoth Andrew, “on my word, you will do well 
to fulfil the commands of that good knight, whom 
Heaven grant long to live; for he is so brave a man, 
and so just a judge, that, if you don’t pay me he’ll come 
back and make his words good.” 





13 


“I dare swear as much,” answered the master; “and 
to show thee how much 1 love thee, 1 «am willing to 
increase the debt, that I may enlarge the payment.” 
With that he caught the youngster by the arm, and 
tied him again to the tree; where he handled him so 
unmercifully, that scarce any signs of life were left in 
him. “Now call your righter of wrongs, Mr. Andrew,” 
cried the farmer; “and you shall see he will never be 
able to undo what Ihave done; though I think it is but 
a part of what I ought to do, for I have a good mind to 
flay you alive, as you said I would, you rasval.” How- 
ever, he untied him at last, and gave him leave to go 
and seek out his judge, in order to have his decree put 
in execution. Andrew went his ways, not very well 
pleased, vou may be sure, yet fully resolved to find out 
the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, and give him 
an exact account of the whole transaction, that he 
might pay the abuse with seven-fold usury; in short, 
he crept off sobbing and weeping, while his master 
stayed behind laughing. And in this manner was this 
wrong redressed by the valorous Don Quixote de la 
Mancha. 

In the meantime, being highly pleased with himself 
and what had happened, imagining he had given a most 
fortunate and noble beginning to his feats of arms, as 
he went on towards his village, “Oh, most beautiful of 
beauties!” said he, with a low voice; “Dulcinea del 
Toboso! well mayst thou deem thyself most happy, 
since it was thy good fortune to captivate and hold a 
willing slave to thy pleasure, so valorous and renowned 
a knight as is, and ever shall be, Don Quixote de la 
Mancha, who, as all the world knows, had the honor of 
knighthood bestowed on him but yesterday, and this 
day redressed the greatest wrong and grievance that 
ever injustice could design or cruelty commit; this day 
has he wrested the scourge out of the hands of that 
tormentor, who so unmercifully treated a tender infant, 
without the least occasion given.” 

Just as he had said this, he found himself at a place 
where four roads met, and this made him presently be- 
think of those cross ways which often use to put knights- 
errant to a stand, to consult with themselves which way 
they should take, and, that he might follow their exam- 
ple, he stopped awhile; and after he had seriously re- 
flected on the matter, gave Rozinante the reins, subject- 
ing his own will to that of his horse, who, pursuing his 
first intent, took the way that led to his own stable. 

Don Quixote had not gone above two miles, but he 
discovered a company of people riding towards him, 
who proved to be merchants of Toledo, that were going 
to buy silks in Murcia. They were six in all, every one 
screened with an umbrella, besides four servants on 
horseback, and three muleteers on foot. The knight no 
sooner perceived them, but he imagined this to be some 
new adventure, and, beaause he was resolved to imitate, 
as much as possible, the passages which he read in his 
books, he was pleased to represent this to himself as 
such a particular adventure as he had a singular desire 
to meet with; and so, with a dreadful grace and assur- 
ance, fixing himself in his stirrups, couching his lance, 
and covering his breast with his target, he posted him- 





»” 
d—,,-JBoTS-JVaY A Y OI WIT] POYSBITA 97 SUIS SIT] Jo eyds uy 
"aT 'd—,, i zat 


==> 




















DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


self in the middle of the road, expecting the coming up 
of the supposed knights-errant. As soon as they came 
within hearing, with a loud voice and haughty tone, 
“Hold!” cried he; “let all mankind stand, nor hope to 
pass on further, unless all mankind acknowledge and 
confess that there is not in the universe a more beauti- 
ful damsel than the Empress of La Mancha, the peer- 
less Dulcinea del Toboso.” 

At those words the merchants made a halt, to view 
the unaccountable figure of their opponent; and easily 
conjecturing, both by his expression and disguise, that 
the poor gentleman had lost his senses, they were will- 
ing to understand the meaning of that strange confes- 
‘sion which he would force from them; and therefore one 
of the company, who loved and understood raillery, 
having discretion to manage it, undertook to talk to 

*him. “Signor cavalier,” cried he, “we do not know 
this lady you talk of, but be pleased to let us see her, 
and then, if we find her possessed of those matchless 
charms of which you assert her to be the mistress, we 
will rreely, and without the least compulsion, own the 
truth which you would extort from us.” 

“Had I once shown you that beauty,” replied Don 
Quixote, “what wonder would it be to acknowledge so 
notorious a truth? The importance of the thing lies in 
obliging you to believe it, confess it, swear it, and main- 
tain it, without seeing her; and therefore make this ac- 
knowledgement this very moment; or know that it is 
with me you must join in battle, ye proud and unreason- 
able mortals. Come, one by one, as the laws of chivalry 
require, or all at once, according to the dishonorable 
practice of men of your stamp; here I expect you all 
oy single self, and will stand the encounter, confiding 
in the justice of my cause.” 

“Sir Knight,” replied the merchant, “I beseech you, 
in the name of all the princes here present, that, for 
the discharge of our consciences, which will not permit 
us to affirm a thing we never heard or saw, and which, 
besides, tends so much to the dishonor of the empresses 
and queens of Alcaria and Estramadura, your worship 
will vouchsafe to let us see some portrait of that lady, 
though it were no bigger than a grain of wheat; for by 
a'small sample we may judge of the whole piece, and by 
that means rest secure and satisfied, and you contented 
and appeased. Nay, I verily believe that we all find 
ourselves already so inclinable to comply with you, that 
though her picture should represent her to he blind of 
one eye, and distilling vermilion and brimstone at the 
other, yet, to oblige yon, we shall be ready to say in 
her favor whatever your worship desires.” 
| “Distil! ye infamous scoundrels,” replied Don Quix- 
ote, in a burning rage; “distil, say you? Know that 





15 


nothing distils from her but amber and civet, neither is 
she defective in her make or shape, but more straight 
than a Guadaramian spindle. But you shall all severely 
pay for the horrid blasphemy which thou hast uttered 
against the transcendent beauty of my incomparable 
lady.” 

Saying this, with his lance couched, he ran so rurious- 
ly at the merchant who thus provoked him, that had 
not good fortune so ordered it that Rozinante should 
stumble and fall in the midst of his career, the audavious 
trifler had paid dear for his raillery; but as Rozinante 
fell, he threw down his master, who rolled and tumbled 
a good way on the ground, without being able to get 
upon his legs, though he used all his skill and strength 
to effect it, so encumbered be was with his lance, target, 
spurs, helmet, and the weight of his rusty armor. 
However, in this helpless condition, he played the hero 
with his tongue. 

“Stay,” cried he, “cowards, rascals; do not fly! it is 
not through my fault that I lie here, but through that 
of my horse, ye poltroons!” 

One of the grooms, who was none of the best-natured 
creatures, hearing the overthrown knight thus insolent- 
ly treat his master, could not hear it without returning 
him au answer on his ribs; and therefore, coming up to 
him as he lay wallowing, he snatched his lance, and 
having broke it to pieces, he so belabored Don Quix- 
ote’s sides with one of them, that, in spite of his arms, 
he thrashed him like a wheat-sheaf. His master indeed 
called to him not to lay on him so vigorously, and to let 
him alone; but the fellow, whose hand was in, would 
not give over rib-roasting the knight till he had tired 
out of his passion and himself; and therefore, running 
to the other pieces of the broken lance, he fell to it 
again without ceasing, till he had splintered them all 
on the knight’s iron enclosure. 

He, on his side, notwithstanding all this storm of 
bastinadoes, lay all the while bellowing, threatening 
heaven and earth, and those villanous rutfians, as he 
took them to be. At last the mule-driver was tired, 
and the merchants pursued their journey, sufficiently 
furnished with matter for discourse at the poor knight’s 
expense. When he found himself alone he tried once 
more to get on his feet; but if he could not do it when 
he had the use of his limbs, how should he do it now, 
bruised and battered as he was? But yet, for ail this, 
he esteemed himself a happy man, being still persuaded 
that his misfortune was one of those accidents common 
in knight-errantry, and such a one as be could whoily 
attribute to the falling of his horse; nor could he possi 
bly get up, so sore and mortified his body was all over 








CHAPTER V. | 


A FURTHER ACCOUNT OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISFORTUNES. 


Don QUIXOTE, perceiving that he was not able to 
stir, resolved to have recourse to his signal remedy, 
which was to bethink himself what passage in his books 
might atford him some comfort; and presently his folly 
brought to his remembrance that story of Baldwin and 
the Marquis of Mantua, when Charlot left the former 
wounded on the mountain: a story learned and known 
by little children, not unknown to young men and wo- 
men, celebrated and even believed by the old, and yet 
not a jot more authentic than the miracles of Mahomet. 
This seemed to him as if made on purpose for his pres- 
ent circumstances, and therefore he fell a rolling and 
tumbling up and down, expressing the greatest pain 
and resentment, and breathing out, with a languishing 
voice, the same complaints which the wounded Knight 
of the Wood is said to have made :— 


“Alas! where are you, lady dear, 
That for my woe you do not moan ? 

You little know what ails me here, 
Or are to me disloyal grown!” 


Thus he went on with the lamentations in that romance, 
till he came to these verses:— 


“OQ thou, my uncle and my prince,” 
** Marquis of Mantua, noble lord!” 


when kind Fortune so ordered it that a ploughman, who 
lived in the same village, and near his house, happened 
to pass by, as he came from the mill with a sack of 
wheat. The fellow, seeing a man lie at his full length 
on the ground, asked him who he was, and why he made 
such a sad complaint. 





| 
Don Quixote, whose distemperea brain presently rep: 


resented to him the countryman for the Marquis of 
Mantua, his imaginary uncle, made him no answer, but 
went on with the romance, giving him an account of his 
misfortunes, and of the loves of his wife and the em- 
peror’s son, just as the book relates them. 

The fellow stared, much amazed to hear a man talk 
such unaccountable stuff, and taking off the vizor of 
his helmet—broken all to pieces with blows bestowed 
upon it by the mule-driver—he wiped off the dust 
that covered his face, and presently knew the gentle- 
man. ; 

“Master Quixada,” cried he (for so he was properly 
called when he had the right use of his senses, and had 
not yet from a sober gentleman transformed himself 
into a wandering knight), “how came you in this con- 
dition ?” 

But the other continued his romance, and made no 
answers to all the questions the countryman put to him 
but what followed in course in the book; which the 
good man perceiving, he took off the battered adventur- 
er’s armor as well as he could, and fell a searching for 
his wounds; but finding no sign of blood, or any other 
hurt, he endeavored to set him upon his legs, and at 
last, with a great deal of trouble, he heaved him upon 
his own ass, us being the more easy and gentle carriage. 
He also got all the knight’s arms together, not leaving 
behind so much as the splinters of his lance; and hav- 
ing tied them up and laid them on Rozinante, which he 

16 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


took by the bridle, and his ass by the halter, he led 
them all towards the village, and trudged a-foot him- 
self, very pensive, while he reflected on the extrava- 
gances which he heard Don Quixote utter. 

Nor was Don Quixote himself less melancholy, for he 
felt himself so bruised and battered that he could hardly 
sit on the ass; and now and then he breathed such 
grievous sighs as seemed to pierce the very skies, which 
moved his compassionate neighbor once more to entreat 
him to declare to him the cause of his grief. But one 
would have imagined the devil prompted him with 
stories that had some resemblance of his circumstances, 
for in that instant, wholly forgetting Baldwin, he be- 
thought him of the Moor Abindaraez, whom Rodrigo de 
Narvaez, Alcayde of Antequera, took and carried pris- 
oner to his castle; so that, when the husbandman asked 
him how he did, and what ailed him, he answered, word 
for word, as the prisoner Abindaraez replied to Rodrigo 
de Narvaez, in the “Diana” of George di Monte Mayor, 
where that adventure is related; applying it so prop- 
erly to his purpose, that the countryman wished himself 
anywhere rather than within the hearing of such strange 
nonsense; and being now fully convinced that his neigh- 
bor's brains were turned, he made all the haste he could 
to the village, to be rid of his troublesome impertinences. 

Don Quixote, in the meantime, thus went on:—“ You 
must know, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this beautiful 
Xerifa, of whom I gave you an account, is at present 
the most lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whose sake I 
have done, still do, and will achieve the most famous 
deeds of chivalry that ever were, are, or ever shall be 
seen in the universe !” 

“Good sir!” replied the husbandman, “as I am a 
sinner, I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the 
Marquis of Nantua, but Pedro Alonzo by name, your 
worship's neighbor; nor are you Baldwin, nor Abinda- 
raez, but only that worthy gentleman, Signor Quixada. ” 

“TI know very well who lam,” answered Don Quix- 
ote; “and, what's more, I know that I may not only be 
the persons I have named, but also the twelve peers of 
France; nay, and the nine worthies all in one, since my 
achievements will out-rival not only the famous exploits 
which made any of them singly illustrious, but all their 
mighty deeds accumulated together.” 

Thus discoursing, they at last got near their village 
about sunset; but the countryman stayed at some dis- 
tance tillit was dark, that the distressed gentleman 
might not be seen so scurvily mounted, and then he led 
him home to his own house, which he found in great 
confusion. The curate and the barber of the village, 
both of them Don Quixote’s intimate acquaintances, 
happened to be there at that juncture, as also the 
hous*keeper, who was arguing with them. 

“What do you think, pray, good Doctor Perez?” 
said she (for this was the curate's name); “what do 
you think of my master’s mischance? Neither he, nor 
his horse, nor his target, lance, nor armor have been 
seen these six days. What shall I do? wretch that I 
am! Idare lay my life,and it is as sure asI am a 
living creature, that those cursed books of errantry 
which he used to be always poring over have set him 

2——DON QUIX. 





17 


beside his senses ; for now I remember I have heard 
him often mutter to himself that he had a mind to turn 
knight-errant, and jaunt up and down the world to 
find out adventures. Out upon all such books, that 
have thus cracked the best head-piece in all La 
Mancha !” 

His niece said as much, addressing herself to the 
barber. “You must know, Master Nicholas,” quoth 
she (for this was his name), “that many times my uncle 
would read you those unconscionable books of disven- 
tures for eight-and-forty hours together. Then away 
he would throw you his book, and drawing his sword, 
he would fall a-fencing against the walls, and when he 
had tired himself with cutting and slashing, he would 
cry he had killed four giants as big as any steeples, 
and the sweat which he put himself into he would say 
was the blood of the wounds he had received in the 
fight; then would he swallow you a huge jug of cold 
water, and presently would be as quiet and as well as 
ever he was in his life; and he said that this same water 
was a sort of precious drink, brought him by the sage 
Esquife, a great magician, and his special friend. Now, 
itis I who am the cause of all this mischief, for not 
giving you timely notice of my uncle’s raving, that you 
might have put a stop to it ere it was too late, and have 
burnt all these excommunicated books, for there are I 
do not know how many of them that deserve to be 
burned as those of the rankest heretics.” 

“Tam of your mind,” said the curate; “and verily, 
to-morrow shall not pass over before I have fairly 
brought them to a trial, and condemned them to the 
flames, that they may not minister occasion to such as 
would read them, to be perverted after the example of 
my good friend.“ 

The countryman, who, with Don Quixote, stood with- 
out, listening to all this discourse, now perfectly under- 
stood by this the cause of his neighbor’s disorder; and, 
therefore, without any more ado, he called out aloud— 
“Here, house ! open the gates there, for the Lord Bald- 
win and the Lord Marquis of Mantua, who is coming 
sadly wounded, and for the Moorish Lord Abindaraez, 
whom the valorous Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcayde 
of Antequera, brings prisoner.” 

At which words they all got out of doors; and the 
one finding it to be her uncle, and the other to be her 
master, and the rest their friend, who had not yet 
alighted from the ass, because, indeed, he was not able, 
they all ran to embrace him; to whom Don Quixote— 

“*Forbear !” said he, “for I am sorely hurt, by reason 
that my horse failed me; carry me to bed, and, if it be 
possible, let the enchantress Urganda be sent for to 
cure my wounds.” 

“Now, in the name of mischief!” quoth the house- 
keeper, “see whether I did not guess right, on which 
foot my master halted. Come, get you to bed, I beseech 
you, and my life for yours, we will take care to cure 
you without sending for that same Urganda. A hearty 
curse, and the curse of curses—I say it again and again 
a hundred times—light upon those books of chivalry 
that have put you in this pickle!” 

Thereupon they carried him to his bed, and searched 






































SAS 


= 














«He led them all towards the village, and trudged a-foot himself, very pensive.”—p. 17 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 19 


for his wounds, but could find none; and then he told 
them he was only bruised, having had a dreadful fall 
from his horse Rozinante, while he was fighting ten 
giants; the most-outrageous and audacious that ever 
could be found upon the face of the earth. 

“How 1” cried the curate; “have we giants, too, in 
the dance ?- Nz ay, then, by the holy sign of the cross, 1 
will burn them all by to-morrow night!” 

Then did they ask the Don a thousand questions, but 
to every" one he made no other answer but that they 
should five him sometan, to eat, and then leave him 


I 





to his repose—a thing which was to him of the greatest 
importance. They complied with his desires, and then 
the curate informed himself. at large in what condition 
the countryman had found him; and having had a full 
account of every particular, as also of the knight's 
extravagant talk, both when the fellow found him and 
ashe brought him home, this increased the curate’s 
desire of effecting what he had resolved to do the next 
morning; at which time he called upon his friend Master 
Nicholas, the barber, and went with him to Don Quix- 
ote’s house. 

















Xi 


\ ' 
Ni 


vet 
} Hin yp 


CHAPTER VI. 


OF THE PLEASANT AND CURIOUS SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND THF BARBER MADE OF THE LIBRARY 
OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN. 


THE knight was yet asleep, when the curate came, 
attended by the barber, and desired his niece to let him 
have the key of the room where her uncle kept his 
books, the authors of his woes. She readily consented, 
and so in they went, and the housekeeper with them. 
There they found above a hundred large volumes, 
neatly bound, and a good number of small ones. As 
soon as the housekeeper had spied them out, she ran 
out of the study, and returned immediately with a holy- 
water potand a bunch of hyssop. 

“Here, doctor,” cried she, “pray sprinkle every 
creek and corner in the room, lest there should lurk in 
itsome one of the many sorcerers these books swarm 
with, who might chance to bewitch us, in revenge for 
what we intend to do, in banishing them out of the 
world.” 

The curate could not forbear smiling at the good 
woman's simplicity, and desired the barber to reach him 
the books one by one, that he might peruse the title- 
pages, for perhaps he might find some among them that 
might not deserve to be committed to the flames. 

“Oh, by no means,” cried the niece; “spare none of 
them; they all help, somehow, or other, to crack my 
uncle's brain. I fancy we had best throw them all out 
of the window into the yard, and lay them together in 
a heap, and then set them o” fire; or else carry them 
into the back yard, and there make a pile of them and 
burn them, and so the smoke will offend nobody.” 

The housekeeper joined with her so eagerly bent 
were both upon the destruction of those poor innocents; 
but the curate would not condescend to those irregular 
proceedings, and resolved first to read at least the 
title-page of every book. 

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands was 
“Amadis de Gaul,” in four volumes. 








“There seems to be some mystery in this book’s being 
the first taken down,” cried the curate, as soon as he 
had looked upon it; “for I have heard it is the first 
book of knight-errantry that ever was printed in Spain, 
and the model of all the rest; and therefore I am of 
opinion that, as the first teacher and author of so per- 
nicious a sect, it ought to be condemned to the fire 
without mercy.” 

“TI beg a reprieve for him,” cried the barber; “for I 
have been told ’tis the best book that has been written 
in that kind; and therefore, as the only good thing of 
that sort, it may deserve a pardon.” 

“Well, then,” replied the curate, “for this time let 
him have it. Let’s see the other, which lies next to 
him.” 

“These,” said the barber, “are the exploits of Esplan- 
dian, the lawful-begotten son of Amadis de Gaul.” 

“Verily,” said the curate, “the father’s goodness 
shall not excuse the want of itin the son. Here, good 
mistress housekeeper, open that window, and throw it 
into the yard, and let it serve as a foundation to that 
pile we are to set a-blazing presently.” : 

She was not slack in her obedience, and thus poor 
Don Esplandian was sent headlong into the yard, there 
patiently to wait the time of his fiery trial. 

“To the next,” cried the curate. 


“This,” said the barber, “is Amadis of Greece; and 
I’m of opinion that all those that stand on this side are 
of the same family.” 


“Then let them all be sent packing into the yard,” 
replied the curate; “for rather than lose the pleasure 
of burning Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the Shepherd 
Darinel with his eclogues, and the confounded unintel- 
ligible discourses of the author, I think I should burn 

20 


. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


my own father along with them, if 1 met him in the 
disguise of a knight-errant.” 

“T am of your mind,” cried the barber. 

“ And I, too,” said the niece. 

“Nay, then,” quoth the housekeeper, “let them come, 
and down with them all into the yard.” 

They were delivered to her accordingly, and many 
they were; so that, to save herself the labor of carrying 
them down stairs, she fairly sent them flying out at the 
window. 

“What overgrown piece of lumber have we here?” 
cried the curate. 

“Olivante de Laura,” returned the barber. “The 
same author wrote the ‘Garden of Flowers,’ and, to 
deal ingenuously with you, I cannot tell which of the 
two books has the most truth in it; or, to speak more 
properly, less lies; but this I know for certain, that he 
shall march into the back yard like a nonsensical, arro- 
gant blockhead, as he is.” 

“The next,” cried the barber, “is Florismart of Hyr- 
cania.” 

“How! my Lord Florismart, is he here?” replied the 
curate. “Nay, then, truly, he shall e’en follow the rest 
to the yard, in spite of his wonderful birth and incred- 
ible adventures, for his rough, dull, and insipid style 
deserves no better usage. Come, toss him into the 
yard, and this other too, good mistress.” 

“With all my heart,” quoth the housekeeper, and 
straight she was as good as her word. 

“Here’s the noble Don Platir,” cried the barber. 

“Tis an old book,” replied the curate; “and I can 
think of nothing in him that deserves a grain of pity; 
away with him, without any more words!” and down he 
went accordingly. 

Another book was opened, and it proved to be the 
“Knight of the Cross.” 

“The holy title,” cried the curate, “might in some 
measure atone for the badness of the book; but then, 
as the saying is, ‘The devil lurks behind the cross.’ 
To the flames with him!” 

Then the barber, taking down another book, cried, 
“Here's the ‘Mirror of Knighthood.’” 

“Oh! I have the honor to know him,” replied the 
curate. “There you will find the Lord Rinaldo of 
Montalban, with his friends and companions, all of 
them greater thieves than Cacus, together with the 
Twelve Peers of France, and that faithful historian, 
Turpin. Truly, I must needs say, I am only for con- 
demning them to perpetual banishment, at least, be- 
cause their story contains something of the famous 
Boyardo’s invention, out of which the Christian poet 
Ariosto also spun his web; yet, if I happen to meet 
with him in this bad company, and speaking in any 
other language than his own, I’ll show him no manner 
of favor; but if he talks in his own native tongue, I'll 
treat him with all the respect imaginable.” 

“T have him at home in Italian,” said the barber, 
“but I cannot understand him.” 

“Neither is it any great matter whether you do or 
not,” replied the curate; “and I could willingly have 
excused the good captain who translated it that trouble 


21 


of attempting to make him speak Spanish, for he has 
deprived him of a great deal of his primitive graces—a 
misfortune incident to all those who presume to trans- 
late verses, since their utmost wit and industry can 
never enable them to preserve the native beauties and 
genius that shine in the original. For this reason 1 
am for having not only this book, but likewise all 
those which we shall find here, treating of French 
affairs, laid up and deposited in some dry vault, till 
we have maturely determined what ought to be done 
with them; yet give me leave to except one Bernardo 
del Carpio, that must be somewhere here among the 
rest, and another called Roncesvalles; for whenever I 
meet with them I will certainly deliver them up into 
the hands of the housekeeper, who shall toss them into 
the fire.” 

The barber gave his approbation to every particular, 
well knowing that the curate was so good a Christian, 
and so great a lover of truth, that he would not have 
uttered a falsity for all the world. 

Then opening another volume, he found it to be Pal- 
merin de Oliva, and the next to that Palmerin of 
England. 

“Ha! have I found you?” cried the curate. “Here, 
take that Oliva, let him be torn to pieces, then burnt, 
and his ashes scattered in the air; but let Palmerin of 
England be preserved as a singular relic of antiquity; 
and let such a costly box be made for him as Alexander 
found among the spoils of Darius, which he devoted to 
enclose Homer’s works; for I must tell you, neighbor, 
that book deserves particular respect for two things— 
first, for its own excellence; and, secondly, for the sake 
of its author, who is said to have been a learned king 
of Portugal; then all the adventures of the castle of 
Miraguarda are well and artfully managed, the dialogue 
very courtly and clear, and the decorum strictly ob- 
served in equal character, with equal propriety and 
judgment. Therefore, Master Nicholas,” continued he, 
“with submission to your better advice, this and Ama- 
dis de Gaul shall be exempted from the fire; and let 
all the rest be condemned without any further inquiry 
or examination.” 

“By no means, I beseech you,” returned the barber; 
for this which I have in my hands is the famous Don 
Bellianis.” 

“Truly,” cried the curate, “he, with his second, third 
and fourth parts, had need of a dose of rhubarb to 
purge his excessive choler; besides, his Castle of Fame 
should be demolished, and a heap of other rubbish 
removed; in order to which I give my vote to grant 
them the benefit of a reprieve; and as they show signs 
of amendment, so shall mercy or justice be used 
towards them: in the meantime, neighbor, take them 
into custody, and keep them safe at home; but let none 
be permitted to converse with them.” 

“Content,” cried the barber; and to save himself the 
labor of looking on any more books of that kind, he 
bid the housekeeper take all the great volumes, and 
throw them into the yard. This was not spoken to one 
stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater mind to be 





burning them than weaving the finest and largest web: 


22 


so that, laying hold of no less than eight volumes at 
once, she presently made them leap towards the place of 
execution; but as she went too eagerly to work, taking 
more books than she could conveniently carry, she 
happened to drop one at the barber's feet, which he 
took up out of curiosity to see what it was, and found 
it to be the History of the famous Knight Tirante the 
White. 

“Good-lack-a-day !” cried the curate; “is Tirante 
the White here? oh! pray, good neighbor, give it to 
me by all means, for 1 promise myself to find inita 
treasure of delight, and a mine of recreation. There 
we have that valorous knight, Don Kyrie-Eleison of 
Montalban, with his brother Thomas of Montalban, and 
the knight Fonseca; the combat between the valorous 
Detriante and Alano; the dainty and witty conceits of 
the damsel Plazerdemivida, with the loves and guiles 
of the widow Reqosada; together with the lady empress, 
that was in love with Hippolito, her gentleman-usher. 
I vow and protest to you, neighbor,” continued he, 
“that in its way there is not a better book in the world: 
why, here you have knights that eat and drink, sleep, 
and die natural deaths in their beds, nay, and make 
their last wills and testaments; with a world of other 
things, of wbich all the rest of these sort of books 
don't say one syllable. Yet, after all, I must tell you, 
that for wilfully taking the pains to write so many fool- 
ish things, the worthy author fairly deserves to be sent 
to the galleys for all the days of his life. Take it home 
with you and read it, and then tell me whether I have 
told you the truth or no.” 

“T believe you,“ replied the barber; but what shall 
we do with all these smaller books that are left?” 

“Certainly,” replied the curate, “these cannot be 
books of knight-errantry; they are too small; you'll 
find they are only poets.” And so opening one, it hap- 
pened to be the Diana of Montemayor; which made 
him say (believing all the rest to be of that stamp )— 

“These do not deserve to be punished like the others; 
for they neither have done, nor can do, that mischief 
which those stories of chivalry have done, being gener- 
alla ingenious books, that can do nobody any prejudice.” 

“Oh! good sir,” cried the neice; “burn them with 
the rest, I beseech you; for should my uncle get cured 
of his knight-errant frenzy, and betake himself to the 
reading of these books, we should have him turn shep- 
herd, and so wander through the woods and fields; nay, 
and what would be worse yet, turn poet, which they 
say is a catching and incurable disease.” 

“The gentlewoman is in the right,” said the curate, 
“and it will not be amiss to remove that stumbling- 
block out of our friend’s way; and since we began with 
the Diana of Montemayor, I am of opinion we ought 
not to burn it, but only take out that part of it which 


treats of-the magician Felicia, and the enchanted water, | 


as also all the longer poems; and let the work escape 
with its prose, and the honor of being the first of that 
kind.” 

“Here's another Diana,” quoth the barber; “the 
second of that name, by Salmantino (of Salamanca); 
nay, and a third, too, by Gil Polo.” 





DON UUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Pray,” said the curate, “let Salmantino increase 
the number of criminals in the yard; but as for that by 
Gil Polo, preserve it as charily as if Apollo himsclf 
had wrote it; and go on as fast as you can, I beseech 
you, good neighbor, for it grows late.” 

“Here,” quoth the barber, “I’ve a book called the 
“Ten Books of the Fortunes of Love,’ by Anthony de 
Lofraco, a Sardinian poet,” 

“Now, by my holy orders,” cried the curate, “I do 
not think, since Apollo was Apollo, the muses muses, 
and the poets poets, there ever was a more comical, 
more whimsical book! Of all the works of the kind 
commend me to this, forin its way ’tis certainly the 
best and most singular that ever was published, and he 
that never read it may safely think he never in his life 
read anything that was pleasant. Give it me, neigh- 
bor,” continued he, “forI am more glad to have found 
it than if any one had given me a cassock of the best 
Florence serge.” With that he laid it aside with 
extraordinary satisfaction, and the barber went on:— 

“These that follow,” cried he, “are the ‘Shepherd 
of Iberia,’ the ‘Nymphs of Enares,’ and the ‘Cure of 
Jealousy.’ ” 

“Take them, jailor,” quoth the curate, “and never 
ask me why, or we shall ne’er have done.” 

“The next,” said the barber, “isthe Shepherd of 
Filida.” 

“He's no shepherd,” returned the curate, “but a 
very discreet courtier; keep him as precious 
jewel.” 

“Here’s a bigger,” cried the barber, “called ‘The 
Treasure of Divers Poems.’ ” 

“Had there been fewer of them,” said the curate, 
“they would have been more esteemed. "Tis fit the 
book should be pruned and cleared of several trifles 
that disgrace the rest; keep it, however, because the 
author is my friend, and for the sake of his other more 
heroic and lofty productions.” 

“Here’s a book of songs by Lopez Maldonado,” cried 
the barber. 

“He's also my particular friend,” said the curate; 
“his verses are very well liked when he reads them 
himself ; and his voice is so excellent, that they charm 
us whenever he sings them. He seems indeed to be 
somewhat too long in his eclogues; but can we ever 
have too much of a good thing? Let him be preserved 
among the best. What's the next book ? ” 


“The Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes,” replied the 
barber. 

“That Cervantes has been my intimate acquaintance 
these many years,” cried the curate; “and I know he 
has been more conversant with misfortune than with 
poetry. His book, indeed, has I don’t know what that 
looks like a good design; he aims at something, but 
concludes nothing; therefore we must stay for the 
second part, which he has promised us; perhaps he 
may make us amends, and obtain a full pardon, which 
is denied him for the present; till that time, keep him 
close prisoner at your house.” 

“J will,” quoth the barber: “but, see, I have here 
three more for you—the Araucana of Don Alonso de 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Ercilla; the Austriada of Juan Ruffo, a magistrate of 
Cordova; and the Monserrato of Christopher de Virves, 
a Valentian poet.” 

“These,” cried the curate, “are the best heroic poems 
we have in Spanish, and may vie with the most cele- 
brated of Italy: reserve them as the most valuable per- 
formance which Spain has to boast of in poetry. 

-Atlast the curate grew so tired with prying into so 
many volumes, that he ordered all the rest to be burnt 


IS 
y 


/ 
pa 
S 





23 


at a venture. But the barber showed him one which he 
had opened by chance ere the dreadful sentence was 
past. ; 

“Truly,” said the curate, who saw by the title it was 
the “Tears of Angelica,” “I should have wept myself, 
had I caused such a book to share the condemnation of 
the rest; for the author was not only one of the best 
poets in Spain, but in the whole world, and translated 
some of Ovid’s fables with extraordinary success.” 




























































































CHAPTER VII. 


DON QUIXOTE’S SECOND SALLY IN QUEST OF ADVENTURES. 


WHILE they were thus employed, Don Quixote in a 
raving fit began to talk aloud to himself. “Here, here, 
valorous knights!” cried he, “now’s the time that you 
must exert the strength of your mighty arms; for, lo! 
the courtiers bear away the honor of the tournament.” 

This amazing outcry called away the inquisitors from 
any further examination of the library; and therefore 
the housekeeper and the niece being left to their own 
discretion, it is thought the Carolea and Leo of Spain, 
with the Deeds of the Emperor, written by Don Lewis 
d'A vila, which to be sure were part of the collection, 
were committed to the flames unseen and unheard, with- 
out any legal trial; a fate which perhaps they might 
have escaped, had the curate been there to have weigh- 
ed what might have been urged in their defence. 

When they came into Don Quixote’s chamber, they 
found him risen out or his bed as mad as ever he was, 
tearing his throat, and making a heavy bustle, laying 
about him with his sword, back-stroke and fore-stroke, 
as broad awake as if he had never slept. They ran in 
upon him, caught him in their arms, and carried him to 
bed again by main force; where, after he was somewhat 
quiet and settled, turning himself to the curate, “Cer- 
tainly,” cried he, “my Lord Archbishop Turpin, ’tis a 





great dishonor to us, who are called the twelve peers, 
to suffer the knights of the court to bear aware the 
honor of the tournament without any further opposi- 
tion, after we, the knight adventurers, had carried it 
for three days before.” 

“Be pacified, my good friend,” replied the curate; 
“Fortune may have yet a better success in reserve for 
you, and they who lose to-day may win to-morrow: at 
present think on your health, for doubtless you must 
needs be now extremely tired, if not very much 
wounded.” 

“Wounded!” replied Don Quixote, “no; but as for 
being bruised, I will not deny it, for that base-born 
knight, Dpn Orlando, has battered all my limbs with 
the trunk of an oak, out of mere envy, because he sees 
that I only dare rival his exploits: but may I no more 
be called Rinaldo of Montalban, if, in spite of his en- 
chantments, I do not make him severely pay for this as 
soon as I can leave my bed; and therefore let my dinner 
be brought in, for ’tis what I want most at this juncture, 
and then let me alone to revenge this abuse.” 

Accordingly they brought him some victuals, which 
when he had eaten he fell asleep again, and th y left 
him, all of them strangely amazed at his uncommon 

24 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


madness. That night the housekeeper burnt all the 
books, not only those in the yard, but all those that 
were in the house; and several suffered in the general 
calamity, that deserved to have been treasured up in 
everlasting archives, had not their fate and the remiss- 
ness of the inquisitors ordered it otherwise. And thus 
they verified the proverb, that “the good often fare the 
worse for the bad.” . 

One of the expedients which the curate and the bar- 
ber thought themselves of in order to their friend’s re- 
covery, was to stop up the door of the room where his 
books lay, that he might not find it, nor miss them when 
he rose; for they hoped the effect would cease when 
they had taken away the cause; and they ordered, that 
if he inquired about it, they should tell him, that a cer- 
tain enchanter had carried away study, books and all. 

Two days after, Don Quixote being got up, the first 
thing he did was to go visit his darling books; and as 
he could not find the study in the place where he had 
left it, he went up and down, and looked for it in every 
room. Sometimes he came to the place where the door 
used to stand, and then stood feeling and groping about 
a good while, then cast his eyes, and stared on every 
side, without speaking a word. At last, after a long 
deliberation, he thought fit to ask his housekeeper 
which was the way to his study. 

“What study,” answered the woman, according to 
her instructions, “or rather, what nothing is it you look 
for? Alas! here’s neither study nor books in the house 
new, for the devil is run away with them all.” 

“No, ‘twas not the devil,” said the niece, “but a con- 
juror, or an enchanter, as they call them, who, since 
you went, came hither one night mounted on a dragon 
on the top of a cloud, and then alighting, went into your 
study, where what he did, he and the devil best can tell, 
for a while after he flew out at the roof of the house, 
leaving it all full of smoke; and when we went to see 
what he had done, we could neither find the books nor 
so much as the very study; only the housekeeper and 
I very well remember, that when the old thief went 
away, he cried out aloud, that out of a private grudge 
which he bore in his mind to the owner of those books, 
he had done the house a mischief, as we should soon 
perceive; and then I think he called himself the sage 
Muniaton.” 

“Not Muniaton, but Freston, you should have said,” 
cried Don Quixote. 

“Truly,” quoth the niece, “I can't tell whether it was 
Freston or Friston, but sure 1 am that his name ended 
with a ton.” 

“Tt is so,” returned Don Quixote, “for he is a famous 
necromancer, and my mortal enemy, and bears me a 
great deal of malice; for seeing by his art, that in spite 
of all his spells, in process of time I shall fight and 
vanquish in single combat a knight whose interests he 
espouses, therefore he endeavors to do me all manner 
of mischief; but I dare assure him that he strives 
against the stream, nor can his power reverse the first 
decrees of Fate.” 

“Who doubts of that?” cried the neice: “but, dear 
uncle, what makes you run yourself into these quarrels? 





25 


had not you better stay at home, and live in peace and 
quietness, than go rambling up and down like a vaga- 
bond, and seeking for better bread than is made of 
wheat, without once so much as considering that many 
go to seek wool, and come home shorn themselves ?” 

“Oh, good neice,” replied Don Quixote, “how ill thou 
understandest these matters! know that before I will 
suffer myself to be shorn, I will tear and pluck off the 
beards of all those audacious mortals, that shall attempt 
to profane the tip of one single hair within the verge of 
these mustachois.” 

To this neither the neice nor the housekeeper thought 
fit to make any reply, for they perceived the knight to 
grow angry. 

Full fifteen days did our knight remain quietly at 
home, without betraying the least sign of his desire to 
renew his rambling; during which time there passed a 
great deal of pleasant discourse between him and his 
two friends, the curate and the barber; while he main- 
tained that there was nothing the world stood so much 
in need of as knigths-errant, wherefore he was resolved 
to revive the order: in which dispute Mr. Curate some- 
times contradicted him, and sometimes submitted; for 
had he not now and then given way to his fancies, 
there would have been no conversing with bim. 

In the meantime Don Quixote earnestly solicited one 
of his neighbors, a country laborer, and a good honest 
fellow, if we may call a poor man honest, for he was 
poor indeed, poor in purse, and poor in brains; and, in 
short, the knight talked so long to him, plied him with 
so many arguments, and made him so many fair prom- 
ises, that at last the poor silly clown consented to go 
along with him, and become his squire. Among other 
inducements to entice him to do it willingly, Don Quix- 
ote forgot not to tell him that it was likely such an ad- 
venture would present itself as might secure him the 
conquest of some island in the time that he might be 
picking up a straw or two, and then the squire might 
promise himself to be made governor of the place. 
Allured with these large promises, and many others, 
Sancho Panza (for that was the name of the fellow) for- 
sook his wife and children, to be his neighbor’s squire. 

This done, Don Quixote made it his business to fur- 
nish himself with money; to which purpose, selling one 
house, mortgaging another, and losing by all, he at last 
got a pretty good sum together. He also borrowed a 
target of a friend, and having patched up his head- 
piece and beaver as well as he could, he gave his squire 
notice of the day and hour when he intended to set out, 
that he might also furnish himself with what he thought 
necessary; but, above all, he charged him to provide 
himself with a wallet; which Sancho promised to do, 
telling him he would also take his ass along with him, 
which, being a very good one, might be a great ease to 
him, for he was not used to travel much a-foot. The 
mentioning of the ass made the noble knight pause 
awhile; he mused and pondered whether he had ever 
read of any knight-errant whose squire used to ride 
upon an ass ; but he could not remember any precedent 
for it; however, he gave him leave at last to bring his 
ass; hoping to mount him more honorably with the first 



















































































“It was yet early in the morning, at which time the sunbeams did not prove so offensive.”—p. 27. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


opportunity, by unhorsing the next discorteous knight 
he should meét. He also furnished himself with shirts, 
and as many other necessaries as he could conveniently 
carry, according to the inn-keeper’s injunctions ; which 
being done, Sancho Panza, without bidding either his 
wife or children good-bye, and Don Quixote, without 
taking any more notice of his housekeeper or of his 
neice, stole out of the village one night, nor so much as 
suspected by anybody, and made such haste, that by 
break of day they thought themselves out of reach, 
should they happen to be pursued. As for Sancho 
Panza, he rode like a patriarch, with his canvas knap- 
sack, or wallet, and his leathern bottle, having a huge 
desire to see himself governor of the island which his 
master had promised him. 

Don Quixote happened to strike into the same road 

‘which he took the time before, through the plain of 
Montiel, over which he travelled with less inconveni- 
ence than when he went alone, by reason it was yet 
early in the morning ; at which time the sunbeams being 
almost parallel to the surface of the earth, and not 
directly darted down, as in the middle of the day, did 
not prove so offensive. As they jogged on, “I beseech 
your worship, Sir Knight-errant,” quoth Sancho to his 
master, “be sure you don’t forget what you promised 
me about the island; for I dare say I shall make shift to 
govern it, let it be never so big.” 

“You must know, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quix- 
ote, “that it has been the constant practice of knights- 
errant in former ages to make their squires governors 
of the islands or kingdoms they conquered: now I am 
not only resolved to keep up that laudable custom, but 
even to improve it and outdo my predecessors in gener- 
osity ; for whereas sometimes, or rather most commonly, 
other knights delayed rewarding their squires till they 
were grown old, and worn out with services, bad days, 





27 


worse nights, and all manner of hard duty, and then 
put them off with some title, either of count, or at least 
marquis of some valley or province, of great or small 
extent; now, if thou and I do but live, it may happen 
that before we have passed six days together, I may 
conquer some kingdom, having many other kingdoms 
annexed to its imperial crown; and this would fall out 
most luckily for thee; for then would I presently crown 
thee king of one of them. Nor do thou imagine this to 
be a mighty matter; for so strange accidents and revo- 
lutions, so sudden and so unforseen, attend the profes- 
sion of chivalry, that I might easily give thee a great 
deal more than I have promised.” ; 

“Why, should this come to pass,” quoth Sancho 
Panza, “and I be made a king by some such miracle as 
your worship mentions, then, my good woman, Mary 
Gutierez would be at least a queen, and my children 
infantas and princes, an’t like your worship!” 

“Who doubts of that?” cried Don Quixote. 

“JT doubt of it,” replied Sancho Panza; “for I cannot 
help believing that though it should rain kingdoms 
down upon the face of the earth, not one of them would 
sit well upon Mary Gutierez’s head; for I must needs 
tell you, she’s not worth two farthings to make a queen 
of; no, countess would be better for her, an’t please 
you; and that too, God help her, will be as much as she 
can handsomely manage.” 

“Recommend the matter to Providence,” returned 
Don Quixote; “’twill be sure to give what is most 
expedient for thee; but yet disdain to entertain inferior 
thoughts, and be not tempted to accept less than the 
dignity of a viceroy.” 

“No more I won’t, sir,” quoth Sancho; “especially 
since I have so rare a master as your worship, who will 
take care to give me whatever may be fit for me, and 
what I may be able to deal with.” 


” 





== 


== 1 == =f i Biz) 





CHAPTER VIII. 


OF THE GOOD SUCCESS WHICH THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE MOST TERRIFYING AND NEVER- 


TO-BE-IMAGINED ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, 


MITTED TO POSTERITY. 


As they were thus discoursing, they discovered some 
thirty or forty windmills, that are in that plain; and as 
soon as the knight had spied them, “Fortune,” cried 
he, “directs our affairs better than we ourselves could 
have wished; look yonder, friend Sancho; there are at 
least thirty outrageous giants, whom I intend to en- 
counter; and having deprived them of life, we will 
begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for they 
are lawful prize, and the extirpation of that cursed 
brood will be an acceptable service to Heaven.” 

“What giants,” quoth Sancho Panza. 

“Those whom thou seest yonder,” answered Don 
Quixote, “with their long, extended arms. Some of 
that detested race have arms of so immense a size, that 
sometimes they reach two leagues in length.” 

“Pray look better, sir,” quoth Sancho; “those things 
yonder are no giants, but windmills; and the arms you 
fancy are their sails, which, being whirled about by the 
wind, make the mill go.” 

“Tis a sign,” cried Don Quixote, “that thou art but 
little acquainted with adventures! I tell thee, they 
are giants; and therefore, if thou art afraid, go aside 
and say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage in a 
dreadful unequal combat against them all.” 

This said, he clapped spurs to his horse Rozinante, 





WITH OTHER TRANSACTIONS WORTHY TO BE TRANS- 


without giving ear to his squire Sancho, who bawled 
out to him, and assured him that they were windmills, 
and no giants. But he was so fully possessed with a 
strong conceit of the contrary, that he did not so much 
as hear his squire’s outcry, nor was he sensible of what 
they were, although he was already very near them; 
far from that, “Stand, cowards!” cried he, as loud as 
he could; “stand your ground, ignoble creatures, and 
fly not basely from a single knight, who dares encounter 
you all.” At the same time the wind rising, the mill- 
sails began to move, which when Don Quixote spied, 
“Base miscreants!” cried he, “though you move more 
arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your 
arrogance.” 

He most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady 
Dulcinea, imploring her assistance in this perilous ad- 
venture; and so covering himself with his shield, and 
couching his lance, he rushed with Rozinante’s utmost 
speed upon the first windmill he could come at, and 
running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it 
about with such swiftness, that the rapidity of the 
motion presently broke the lance into shivers, and 
hurled away both knight and horse along with it, till 
down he fell, rolling a good way off in the field. San- 
cho Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his 

28 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


master, whom he found lying, and not able to stir, such 
a blow he and Rozinante had received. “Mercy o’me!” 
cried Sancho, “did not I give your worship fair warn- 
ing? did not I tell you they were windmills, and that 
nobody could think otherwise, unless he had also wind- 
mills in his head?” 

“Peace, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote: “there 
is nothing so subject to the inconstancy of fortune as 
war. I am verily persuaded, that cursed necromancer 
Freston, who carried away my study and my books, has 
transformed these giants into windmills, to deprive me 
of the honor of the victory; such is his inveterate 
malice against me; but in the end, all his pernicious 
wiles and stratagems shall prove ineffectual against the 
prevailing edge of my sword.” 

“Amen, say I,” replied Sancho. And so heaving him 
up again upon his legs, once more the knight mounted 
poor Rozinante, that was half shouldered-slipped with 
his fall. 

This adventure was the subject of their discourse, as 
they made the best of their way towards the pass of 
Lapice; for Don Quixote took that road, believing he 
could not miss of adventures in one so mightily fre- 
quented. However, the loss of his lance, was no small 
affliction to him; and as he was making his complaint 
about it to his squire, “I have read,” said he, “friend 
Sancho, that a certain Spanish knight, whose name was 
Diego Perez de Vargas, having broken his sword in the 
heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a huge 
oak tree, or at least tore down a massy branch, and did 
such wonderful execution, crushing and grinding so 
many Moors with it that day, that he won himself and 
his posterity the sirname of The Pounder, or Bruiser. 
I tell thee this, because I intend to tear up the next 
oak, or holm-tree, we meet; with the trunk whereof I 
hope to perform such wondrous deeds, that thou wilt 
esteem thyself particularly happy in having had the 
honor to behold them, and been the ocular witness of 
achievements which posterity will scarce be able to 
believe.” 

“Heaven grant you may !” cried Sancho: “I believe it 
all, because your worship saysit. But, an’t please you, 
sit a little more upright in your saddle; you ride side- 
ling methinks; but that, I suppose, proceeds from your 
being bruised by the fall.” 

“It does so,” replied Don Quixote; “and if I do not 
complain of the pain, it is because a knight-errant must 
never complain of his wounds, though his bowels were 
dropping out through them.” 

“Then I have no more to say,” quoth Sancho; “and 
yet Heaven knows my heart, I should be glad to hear 
your worship lament a little now and then when some- 
thing ails you: for my part, I shall not fail to bemoan 
myself when I suffer the smallest pain, unless indeed it 
can be proved that the rule of not complaining extends 
to the squires as well as the knights.” 

Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the sim- 
plicity of his squire; and told him he gave him leave 
to complain not only when he pleased, but as much as 
he pleased, whether he had any cause or no; for he had 
never yet read anything to the contrary in any books of 





29 


chivalry. Sancho desired him, however, to consider 
that it was high time to go to dinner; but his master 
answered him, that he might eat whenever he pleased; 
as for himself, he was not yet disposed to doit. San- 
cho, having thus obtained leave, fixed himself as orderly 
as he could upon his ass; and taking some victuals out 
of his wallet, fell to munching lustily as he rode behind 
his master; and ever and anon he lifted his bottle to his 
nose, and fetched such hearty pulls, that it would have 
made the best pampered vintner in Malaga a-dry to 
have seen him. While he thus went on stuffing and 
swilling, he did not think in the least of all his master’s 
great promises; and was so far from esteeming it a 
trouble to travel in quest of adventures, that he fancied 
it to be the greatest pleasure in the world, though they 
were never so dreadful. 

In fine, they passed that night under some trees; 
from one of which Don Quixote tore a withered branch, 
which in some sort was able to serve him for a lance, 
and to this he fixed the head or spear of that which was 
broken. But he did not sleep all that night, keeping 
his thoughts intent on his dear Dulcinea, in imitation 
of what he had read in books of chivalry, where the 
knights pass their time, without sleep, in forests and 
deserts, wholly taken up with the entertaining thoughts 
of their absent mistresses. As for Sancho, he did not 
spend the night at that idle rate; for, having his paunch 
well stuffed with something more substantial than dan- 
delion-water, he made but one nap of it; and had not 
his master waked him, neither the sprightly beams 
which the sun darted on his face, nor the melody of the 
birds, that cheerfully on every branch welcomed the 
smiling morn, would have been able to have made him 
stir. As he got up, to clear his eye-sight, he took two 
or three long-winded swigs at his friendly bottle for a 
morning’s draught: but he found it somewhat lighter 
than it was the night before; which misfortune went to 
his very heart, for he shrewdly mistrusted that he was 
not in a way to cure it of that distemper as soon as he 
could have wished. On the other side, Don Quixote 
would not break fast, having been feasting all night on 
the more delicate and savory thoughts of his mistress; 
and therefore they went on directly towards the pass of 
Lapice, which they discovered about three o’clock. 
When they came near it; “Here it is, brother Sancho,” 
said Don Quixote, “that we may wanton, and, as it 
were, thrust our arms up to the very elbows, in that 
which we call adventures. But let me give thee one 
necessary caution; know, that though thou shouldst see 
me in the greatest extremity of danger, thou must not 
offer to draw thy sword in my defence, unless thou find- 
est me assaulted by base plebeians and vile scoundrels; 
for in such a case thou mayst assist thy master: but if 
those with whom I am fighting are knights, thou must 
not do it; for the laws of chivalry do not allow thee to 
encounter a knight until thou art one thyself.” 

“Never fear,“ quoth Sancho; “I'll be sure to obey 
your worship in that, 1'11 warrant you; for I have ever 
loved peace and quietness, and never cared to thrust 
myself into frays and quarrels: and yet I don’t care to 
take blows at any one’s hands neither; and should any 











Qe 











»—p. 28. 


«The sail hurled away both knight and horse along with it. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


knight offer to set upon me first, L fancy I should hardly 
mind your laws; for all laws, whether of God or man, 
allow one to stand in his own defence, if any offer to do 
him a mischief.” 

“J agree to that,” replied Don Quixote; “but as for 
helping me against any knights, thou must set bounds 
to thy natural impulses.” 

“11 be sure to do it,” quoth Sancho; “never trust 
me if I don’t keep your commandments as well as I do 
the Sabbath.” 

As they were talking, they spied coming towards 
them two monks of the order of St. Benedict mounted 
on two dromedaries, for the mules on which they rode 
were so high and stately, that they seemed little less. 
They wore riding-masks, with glasses at the eyes, 
against the dust, and umbrellas to shelter them from 
the sun. After them came a coach, with four or five 
men on horseback, and two muleteers on foot. There 
proved to be in the coach a Biscayan lady, who was go- 
ing to Seville to meet her husband, that was there in 
order to embark for the Indies, to take possession of a 
considerable post. Scarce had Don Quixote perceived 
the monks, who were not of the same company, though 
they went the same way, but he cried to his squire, 
“Hither I am deceived, or this will prove the most fa- 
mous adventure that ever was known; for without all 
question those two black things that move towards us 
must be some necromancers, that are carrying away by 
force some princess in that coach; and ’tis my duty to 
prevent so great an injury.” 

“T fear me this will prove a worse job than the wind- 
mills,” quoth Sancho. “’Slife, sir, don’t you see these 
are Benedictine friars? and ’tis likely the coach be- 
longs to some travellers that are in it: therefore, once 
more take warning, and don’t you be led away by the 
devil.” 

“TI have already told thee, Sancho,” replied Don 
Quixote, “thou art miserably ignorant in matters of ad- 
ventures: what I say is true, and thou shalt find it so 
presently.” This said, he spurred on his horse, and 
posted himself just in the midst of the road where the 
monks were to pass. And when they came within 
hearing, “Diabolical and monstrous race!” cried he, in 
aloud and haughty tone, “immediately release those 
high-born princesses whom you are violently conveying 
away in the coach, or else prepare to meet with instant 
death, as the just punishment of your pernicious deeds.” 
The monks stopped their mules, no less astonished at 
the figure than at the expressions of the speaker. 

“Sir Knight,” cried they, “we are no such persons as 
you are pleased to term us, but religious men, of the 
order of St. Benedict, that travel about our affairs, and 
are wholly ignorant whether or no there are any prin- 
cesses carried away by force in that coach.” 

“TI am not to be deceived with fair words,” replied 
Don Quixote; “I know you well enough, perfidions 
caitiffs;” and immediately, without waiting for their 
reply, set spurs to Rozinante, and ran so furiously, with 
his lance couched, against the first monk, that if he had 
not prudently flung himself off to the ground, the knight 
would certainly have laid him either dead or greviously 
wounded. 





31 


The other observing the discorteous usage of his 
companion, clapped his heels to his over-grown mule’s 
flanks, and scoured over the plain as a he had been 
running a race with the wind. 

Sancho Pancha no sooner saw the monk fall, but he 
nimbly leaped off his ass, and running to him, began to 
strip him immediately; but then the two muleteers, 
who waited on the monks, came up to him, and asked 
why he was stripping him. Sancho told them that this 
belonged to him as lawful plunder, being the spoils 
won in battle by his lord and master, Don Quixote. 

The fellows, with whom there was no jesting, not 
knowing what he meant by his spoils and battle, seeing 
Don Quixote at a good distance in deep discourse by 
the side of the coach, fell upon poor Sancho, threw him 
down, tore his beard from his chin, thumped and mauled 
him in every part of his carcase, and there left him 
sprawling without breath or motion. 

In the meanwhile the monk, scared out of his wits, 
and as pale as a ghost, got upon his mule again as fast 
as he could, and spurred after his friend, who stayed 
for him at a distance, waiting to see the issues of this 
strange adventure; and being unwilling to stay to see 
the end of it, they made the best of their way, making 
more signs of the cross than they had done on any pre- 
vious occasion. 

Don Quixote, as I said, was all that while engaged 
with the lady in the coach. “Lady,” cried he, “your 
discretion is now at liberty to dispose of your beautiful 
self as you please; for the presumptuous arrogance of 
those who attemped to enslave your person lies pros- 
trate in the dust, overthrown by this my strenuous 
arm: and that you may not be at aloss for the name of 
your deliverer, know I am called Don Quixote de la 
Mancha, by profession a knight-errant and adventurer, 
captive to that peerless beauty, Donna Dulcinea del 
Toboso: nor do I desire any other recompense for the 
service I have done you, but that you return to Toboso 
to present yourself to that lady, and let her know what 
Ihave done to purchase your deliverance.” To this 
strange talk, a certain Biscayan, the lady’s squire, 
gentleman-usher, or what you will please to call him, 
who rode along with the coach, listened with great at- 
tention; and perceiving that Don Quixote not only 
stopped the coach, but would haveit presently go back 
to Toboso, he bore briskly up to him, and laying hold 
of his lance, “Get gone!” cried he to him in bad Span- 
ish and worse Biscayan. “Get gone, thou knight! or 
by that power that made me, if thou dost not leave the 
coach, me kill thee now, so sure as me a Biscayan.” 

Don Quixote, who made shift to understand him well 
enough, very calmly made him this answer. “Wert 
thou a cavalier, as thou art not, ere this I would have 
chastised thy insolence and temerity, thou inconsider- 
able mortal!” 

“What! me no gentleman?” replied the Biscayan: “I 
swear thou say false, as me be Christian. If thou throw 
away lance, and draw sword, me will make no more of 
thee than cat does of mouse: me will show thee me be 
Biscayan, and gentleman by land, gentleman by sea, gen- 
tleman in spite of you; and thou lie if thou say contrary.” 




















«Sancho ran as fast as his ass could drive, to help his master.”—p. 28. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA- 


“Dll try titles with you, as the man said,” replied 
Don Quixote: and with that, throwing away his lance, 
he drew his sword, grasped his target, and attacked 
the Biscayan, fully. bent on his destruction. The Bis- 
cayan seeing him come on so furiously, would gladly 
have alighted, not trusting to his mule, which was one 
of those scurvy jades that are let out to hire; but all 
he had time to do was only to draw his sword, and 
snatch a cushion out of the coach to serve him instead 
of a shield; and immediately they assaulted one an- 
other with all the fury of mortal enemies. The by- 
standers did all they could to prevent their fighting; 
but it was in vain, for the Biscayan swore in his gibber- 
ish he would kill his very lady, and all those who pre- 
sumed to hinder him, if they would not let him fight. 
The lady in the coach being extremely affrighted at 
these passages, made her coachman drive out of harm’s 
way, and at a distance was an eye-witness of the furious 
combat. At the same time the Biscayan let fall such a 
mighty blow on Don Quixote’s shoulder over his target, 
that had not his armor been sword-proof, he would have 
cleft him down to the very waist. 

The knight feeling the weight of that unmeasureable 
blow, cried out aloud, “Oh! lady of my soul, Dulcinea! 
flower of all beauty, vouchsafe to succor your champion 
in this dangerous combat, undertaken to set forth your 
worth!” 

The breathing out of this short prayer, the griping 
fast of his sword! the covering of himself with his 
shield, and the charging of his enemy, was but the 
work of a moment; for Don Quixote was resolved to 
venture the fortune of the combat all upon one blow. 

2——DON QUIX. 





33 


The Biscayan, who read his design in his dreadful 
countenance, resolved to face him with equal bravery, 
and stand the terrible shock, with uplifted sword, and 
covered with the cushion, not being able to manage his 
jaded mule, who, defying the spur, and not being cut 


‘out for such pranks, would move neither to the right 


nor to the left. While Don Quixote, with his sword 
aloft, was rushing upon the wary Biscayan, with a full 
resolution to cleave him asunder, all the spectators 
stood trembling with terror and amazement, expect- 
ing the dreadful event of those prodigious blows which 
threatened the two desperate combatants: the lady in 
the coach, with her women, were making a thousand 
vows and offerings to all the images and places of de- 
votion in Spain, that Providence might deliver them 
and the squire out of the great danger that threatened 
them. 

But here we must deplore the abrupt end of this 
history, which the author leaves off. just at the very 
point when the fortune of the battle is going to be 
decided, pretending he could find nothing more 
recorded of Don Quixote’s wondrous achievements than 
what he had already related. However, the second 
undertaker of this work could not believe that so 
curious a history could lie for ever inevitably buried in 
oblivion; or that the learned of La Mancha were so 
regardless of their country’s glory as not to preserve in 
their archives, or at least in their closets, some memoirs, 
as monuments of this famous knight; and therefore he 
would not give over inquiring after the continuation of 
this pleasant history, till at last he happily found it. 











As MEDIAS 
e 
eine aa PA 


= 


ia aia 
Bs E == 
E \S 


Ze (ES 
<== Gee 









ml ‘| 
NR al 


MA 







CHAPTER IX. 


THE EVENT OF THE MOST STUPENDOUS COMBAT BETWEEN THE BRAVE BISCAYAN AND THE VALOROUS 


DON QUIXOTE. 


WE left the valiant Biscayan and the renowned Don 
Quixote with their swords lifted up and ready to dis- 
charge on each other fwo furious and most terrible 
blows, which, had they fallen directly, and met with no 
opposition, would have cut and divided the two com- 
batants from head to heel, and have split them like a 
pomegranate: but, as 1 said before, the story remained 
imperfect; neither did the author inform us where we 
might find the remaining part of the relation. This 
vexed me extremely, and turned the pleasure which the 
perusal of the beginning had afforded me, into disgust, 
when I had reason to despair of ever seing the rest. 
Yet, after all, it seemed to me no less impossible than 
unjust that so valiant a knight should have been desti- 
tute of some learned person to record his incomparable 
exploits; a misfortune which never attended any of his 
predecessors—I mean, the knights-adventurers—each 
of whom was provided with one or two learned men, 
who were always at hand to write not only their wond- 
rous deeds, but also to set down their thoughts and 
childish petty actions, were they never so hidden. 
Therefore, as I could not imagine that so worthy a 
knight should be so unfortunate as to want that which 
has been so profusely lavished even on such a one as 
Platyr, and others of that stamp, I could not induce 
myself to believe that so admirable a history was ever 
left unfinished, and rather chose to think that time, 





the devourer of all things, had hid or consumed it. On 
the other side, when I considered that several modern 
books were found in his study, as the “Cure of Jeal- 
ousy,” and the “Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares,” 
I had reason to think that the history of our knight 
could be of no very ancient date; and that, had it 
never been continued, yet his neighbors and friends 
could not have forgot the most remarkable passages of 
his life. Full of this imagination, I resolved to make 
it my business to make a particular and exact inquiry 
into the life and miracles of our renowned Spaniard, 
Don Quixote, that refulgent glory and mirror of the 
knighthood of La Mancha, and the first who, in these 
depraved and miserable times, devoted himself to the 
neglected profession of knight-errantry, to redress 
wrongs and injuries, to relieve widows, and defend the 
honor of damsels. For this reason and many others, I 
say, our gallant Don Quixote is worthy everlasting and 
universal praise; nor ought I to be denied my due 
commendation for my indefatigable care and diligence 
in seeking and finding out the continuation of this 
delightful history; though, after all, I must confess 
that had not chance or fortune assisted me in the dis- 
covery, the world had been deprived of two hours’ 
diversion and pleasure, which it is likely to afford to 
those who will read it with attention. One day, being 
in the Alcana at Toledo, I saw a young lad offer to sell 
34 


DON QUIXOTE DE: LA: MANCHA. 


a parcel of old written papers to a shopkeeper. Now 
I, being apt to take up the least piece of written or 
printed paper that lies in my way; though it were in 
the middle of the street, could not forbear laying my 
hands on one of the manuscripts, to see. what it was, 
and I found it to be written in Arabic, which I could 
not read. This made me look about to see whether I 
could find a Morisco that understood Spanish, to read 
it for me,'and give me some account of it; nor was it 
very difficult to meet with an interpreter there; for 
had I wanted one for a better and more ancient tongue, 
that place would have infallibly supplied me. It was 
my good fortune to find one immediately; and having 
informed him of my desire, he no sooner read some 
lines, but he began to laugh.: I asked him what he 
laughed at. “At a certain remark here in the margin 
of the book,” said he. I prayed him to explain it; 
whereupon still laughing, he did it in these words— 
“This Dulcinea del Toboso, so often mentioned in this 
history, is said to have had the best hand at salting of 
pork of any woman in all La Mancha.” 

I was surprised when I heard him name Dulcinea del 
Toboso, and presently imagined that those old papers 
contained the history of Don Quixote. This made me 
press him to read the title of the book; which he did, 
turning it thus extemporary out of Arabic: “The His- 
tory of Don Quixote de la Mancha; written by Cid 
Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian Historiographer.” I 
was so overjoyed when I heard the title, that I had 
much ado to conceal it; and presently taking the bar- 
gain out of the shopkeeper’s hand, I agreed with the 
young man for the whole, and bought that for half a 
real which he might have sold me for twenty times as 
much, had he but guessed at the eagerness of his chap- 
man. I immediately withdrew with my purchase to the 
cloister of the great church, taking the Moor with me; 
and desired him to translate me those papers that 
treated of Don Quixote, without adding or omitting the 


least word, offering him any reasonable satisfaction. 


He asked me but two arrobes of raisins and two bushels 
of wheat, and promised me to do it faithfully with all 
expedition; in short, for the quicker dispatch and the 
greater security, being unwilling to let such a lucky 
prize go out of my hands, I took the Moor to my own 
house, where in less than six weeks Be finished aoe 
whole translation. dc li 

Don Quixote's fight with the Biscayan was avant 
drawn on one of the leaves of the first quire, in the 
same posture as we left them, with their swords lifted 
up over their heads, the one guarding himself with his 
shield, the other with his cushion. The Biscayan’s 
mule was pictured so to the life, that with half an eye 
you might have known it to be an hired mule. Under 
the Biscayan was written Don Sancho de Aspetia; and 
under Rozinante, Don Quixote. Rozinante was so ad- 
mirably delineated—so slim, so stiff, so lean, so jaded, 
with so sharp a ridge-bone, and altogether so like one 
wasted with an incurable consumption—that any one 
must have owned at first sight that no horse ever better 
deserved that name. Not far off stood Sancho Panza 
holding his ass by the halter; at whose feet there was 





a seroll, in which was written Sancho Canzas; and if 
we may judge of him by his picture, he was thick and 
short, paunch-bellied, and long-haunched; so that in 
all likelihood for this reason he is sometimes: called 
Panza and sometimes Canza in this history. There 
were some other niceties to be seen in that piece, but 
hardly worth observation, as not giving any light into 
this true history, otherwise they had not passed un- 
mentioned; for none can be amiss so they be authentic. 
I must only acquaint the reader that if any objection is 
to be made as to the veracity of this, itis only that the 
author is an Arabian, and those of that country are not 
a little addicted to lying; but yet, if we consider that 
they are our enemies, we should sooner imagine that 
the author has rather suppressed the truth, than added 
to the real worth of our knight; and I am the more 
inclinable to think so, because it is plain, that where he 
ought to have enlarged on his praises, he maliciously 
chooses to be silent—a proceeding unworthy a his- 
torian, who ought to be exact, sincere, and impartial; 
free from passion, and not to be biased either by inter- 
est, fear, resentment, or affection, to deviate from truth, 
which is the mother of history, the preserver and 
eterniser of great actions, the professed enemy of ob- 
livion, the wituess of things passed. and the director 
of future times. As for this history, I know it will 
afford you as great a variety as you could wish, in the 
most entertaining manner; and if in any point it falls 
short of your expectation, I am of opinion it is more 


the fault of its author than the subject; and so let us 


come to the history, which, according to our transla- 
tion, began in this manner. 

Such were the bold and formidable looks of the two 
enraged combatants, that with uplifted arms, and with 
destructive steel, they seemed to threaten heaven, 
earth, and the infernal mansions; while the spectators 
seemed wholly lost in fear and astonishment. The 
choleric Biscayan discharged the first blow, and that 
with such force, and:so desperate a fury, that had not 
his sword turned in his hand, that single stroke had 
put an end to the dreadful combat and all our knight’s 
adventures. But Fate, that reserved him for greater 
things, so ordered it, that his enemy’s sword turned in 
such a manner, that though it struck him on the left 
shoulder, it did him no other hurt than to disarm 
that side of his head, carrying away with it a great 
part of his helmet and one half of his ear, which, 
like a dreadfnl ruin, fell ,together to the ground. 
Assist me, ye powers! but it is in vain; the fury 
which then engrossed the breast of our hero of La 
Mancha is not to be expressed; words would but 
wrong it; for what color of speech can be lively 
enough to give buta slight sketch or faint image of 
his unutterable rage? Exerting all his valor, he raised 
himself upon his stirrups,.and seemed even greater than 
himself; and at the same instant griping his sword fast 
with both hands, he discharged such a tremendous blow 
full on the Biscayan’s cushion and his head, that in spite 
of so good adefence, as if a whole mountain had 
fallen upon him, the blood gushed out at his mouth, nose, 
and ears, all at once; and he tottered so in his saddle, 


36 


that he had fallen to the ground immediately, had he 
not caught hold of the neck of his mule: but the dull 
beast itself being roused out of its stupidity with that 
terrible blow, began to run about the fields; and 
the Biscayan, having lost his stirrups and his 
hold, with two or three winces the mule shook him 
off, and threw him on the ground. Don Quixote 
beheld the disaster of his foe with the greatest tran- 
quility and unconcern imaginable; and seeing him down, 
slipped nimbly from his saddle, and running to him, set 
the point of his sword to his throat, and bid him yield, 
or he would cut off his head. The Biscayan was so 
stunned, that he could make no reply; and Don Quix- 
ote had certainly made good his threats, so provoked 
was he, had not the ladies in the coach, who with great 
“uneasiness and fear beheld the sad _ transactions, 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


hastened to beseech Don Quixote very earnestly to 
spare his life. ‘Truly, beautiful ladies,” said the vic- 
torious knight, with a great deal of loftiness and 
gravity, “I am willing to grant your request; but upon 
condition that this same knight shall pass his word of 
honor to go to Toboso, and there present himself in my 
name before the peerless lady Donna Dulcinea, that 
she may dispose of him as she shall see convenient.” 

The lady, who was frightened almost out of her 
senses, without considering what Don Quixote enjoined, 
or inquiring who the lady Dulcinea was, promised in her 
squire's behalf a punctual obedience to the knight's 
commands. 

“Let him live then,” replied Don Quixote, “upon 
your word, and owe to your intercession that pardon 
which I might jnstly deny his arrogance.” 





























Too A AS HS 
TE RPISAM LS LS 


CHAPTER X. 


WHAT FARTHER BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH THE BISCAYAN ; AND OF THE DANGER HE RAN AMONG A 


PARCEL OF YANGUESIANS. 


SANCHO PANZA was got up again before this, not 
much better for the kicks and thumps bestowed on his 
carcase by the monks’ grooms; and seeing his master 
engaged in fight, he went devoutly to prayers, beseech- 
ing Heaven to grant him victory, that he might now 
win some island, in order to his being made governor 
of it, according to his promise. At last, perceiving the 
danger was over, the combat atan end, and his master 
ready to mount again, he ran in all haste to help him; 
but ere the knight put his foot in the stirrup, Sancho 
fell on his knees before him, and, kissing his hand, 
“ An’t please your worship,” cried he, “my good lord 
Don Quixote, I beseech you make me governor of the 
island you have won in this dreadful and bloody fight; 
for though it were never so great, I find myself able to 
govern it as well as the best that ever went about to 
govern an island in the world.” 

“Brother Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “these are 
no adventures of islands; these are only recounters 
on the road, where little is to be got besidesa broken 
head, or the loss of an ear: therefore have patience, 
and some adventure will offer itself, which will not only 
enable me to prefer thee to a government, but even to 
something more considerable.” 

Sancho gave him a world of thanks; and having once 
more kissed his hand, and the skirts of his coat of 
armor, he helped him to get upon Rozinante; and then 
leaping on his ass, he followed the hero, who, without 
taking leave of those in the coach, put on a good round 
pace, and rode intoa wood that was not far off. 
Sancho made after him as fast as his ass would trot; but 
finding Rozinante was like to leave him behind, he was 





forced to call for his master to stay for him. Don 
Quixote accordingly checked his horse, and soon gave 
Sancho leisure to overtake him. 

“Methinks, sir,” said the fearful squire, as soon as he 
came up with him, “it won’t be amiss for us to betake 
ourselves to some church, to get out of harm’s way; for 
if that same man whom you have fought with should do 
otherwise than well, I dare lay my life they will get a 
warrant from the holy brotherhood, and have us taken 
up; which if they do,on my word it will go hard with us 
ere we can get out of their clutches.” 

“Hold thy tongue!” cried Don Quixote: “where didst 
thou ever read or find that a knight-errant was brought 
before any judge for the homicides which he com- 
mitted ?” 

“T can’t tell what you mean by your homilies.” replied 
Sancho; “I do not know that ever I saw one inmy born 
days, not I; but well I wot that the law lays hold on 
those that go to murder one another in the fields; and 
for your what d’ye call them’s, I’ve nothing to say to 
them.” 

“Then be not afraid, good Sancho,” cried Don Quix- 
ote; “for I would deliver thee out of the uands of the 
Chaldeans, and with much more ease out of those of 
the holy brotherhood. But come, tell me truly, dost 
thou believe that the whole world can boast of another 
knight that may pretend to rival me iu valor? didst 
thou ever read in history, that any other ever showed 
more resolution to undertake, more vigor to attack, 
more breath to hold out, more dexterity and activity to 
strike, and more art and force to overthrow his ene- 
mies ?” 

37 


38 


“Not I, by my troth,” replied Sancho; “I never did 
meet with anything like youin history, for I can neither 
read nor write; but that which 1 dare wager is, that 1 
never in my life served a bolder master than your wor- 
ship: pray Heaven this same boldness may not bring 
us to what I bid you beware of. All I have to put you 
in mind of now is, that you get your ear dressed, for 
you lose a deal of blood; and by good luck I have here 
some lint and a little white salve in my wallet.” 

“How needless would all this have been ” cried Don 
Quixote, “had 1 but bethought myself of making a 
small bottle-full of the balsam of Fierabras! a single 
drop of which would have spared us a great deal of 
time and medicaments.” 

“What is that same balsam, an't please you ?” cried 
Sancho. 

“A balsam,” answered Don Quixote, “of which I 
have the receipt in my head. He that has it may defy 
death itself, and dally with all manner of wounds: 
therefore, when I have made some of it, and given it to 
thee, if at any time thou happenest to see my body cut 
in two by some unlucky back-stroke, as ’tis common 
among us knights-errant, thou hast no more to do but 
to take up nicely that half of me which is fallen to the 
ground, and clap it exactly to the other half on the 
saddle before the blood is congealed, always taking care 
to lay it just in its proper place; then thou shalt give 
me two draughts of that balsam, and thou shalt imme- 
diately see me become whole, and sound as an apple.” 

“If this be true,” quoth Sancho, “I will quit you of 
your promise about the island this minute of an hour, 
and will have nothing of your worship for what service 
I have done and am to do you, but the receipt of that 
same balsam; for, I dare say, let me go wherever I will, 
it will be sure to yield me three good reals an ounce; 
and thus I shall make shift to pick a pretty good live- 
lihood out of it. But stay, though,” continued he, 
“does the making stand your worship in much, sir?” 

“Three quarts of it,” replied Don Quixote: “may be 
made for three reals.” 

“Body of me!” cried Sancho, “why do not you make 
some out of hand, and teach me how to make it?” 

“Say no more, friend Sancho,” returned Don Quix- 
ote; “I intend to teach thee much greater secrets, and 
design thee nobler rewards; but in the meantime dress 
my ear, for it pains me more than I could wish.” 

Sancho then took his lint and ointment out of his 
wallet; but when Don Quixote perceived the visor of 
his helmet was broken, he had like to have run stark 
staring mad; straight laying hold on his sword, and 
lifting up his eyes to heaven, “By the great Creator of 
the universe,” cried he; “by every syllable contained 
inthe four holy evangelists, I swear to lead a life like the 
great Marquis of Mantua, when he made a vow to re- 
venge the death of his nephew Valdovinos, which was 
never to eat bread on a table-cloth, never to lie down 
in his bed, and other things, which, though they are 
now at present slipped out of my memory, I comprise 
in my vow no less than if 1 had now mentioned them; 
and this I bind myself to, till I have fully revenged 
myself on him that has done me this injury.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Good yonr worship,” cried Sancho (amazed to hear 
him take such a horrid oath), “think on what you are 
doing; for if that same knight has done as you bid him, 
and has gone and cast himself before my lady Dulcinea 
del Toboso, I do not see but you and he are quit; and 
and the man deserves no further punishment, unless he 
does you some new mischief.” 

“Tis well observed,” replied Don Quixote; “and 
therefore as to the point of revenge, I revoke my oath; 
but I renew and confirm the rest, protesting solemnly 
to lead the life I mentioned, till Ihave by force of arms 
despoiled some knight of as good ahelmet as mine was. 
Neither do thou fancy, Sancho, that I make this pro- 
testation lightly, or make a smoke of straw: no, I have 
a laudable precedent for it, the authority of which will 
sufficiently justify my imitation; for the very same 
thing happened about Mambrino’s helmet, which cost 
Sacripante so dear.” 

“Good sir,” quoth Sancho, “let all such cursing and 
swearing alone; there’s nothing can be worse for your 
soul’s health, nay, for your bodily health, neither. Be- 
sides, suppose we should not this good while meet any 
one with a helmet on, what asad case should we then 
be in! Will your worship then keep your oath in spite 
of so many hardships, such as to lie rough for a month 
together, far from any inhabited place, and a thousand 
other idle penances which that mad old Marquis of 
Mantua punished himself with by his vow? Do but con- 
sider, that we may ride I do not know how long upon 
this road without meeting any armed knight to pick 
a quarrel with; for here are none but carriers and wag- 
oners, who are so far from wearing any helmets, that it 
is ten to one whether they ever heard of such a thing 
in their lives.” 

“Thou art mistaken, friend Sancho,” replied Don 
Quixote ;” for we shall not be two hours this way without 
meeting more men in arms than there were at the siege 
of Albraca, to carry off the fair Angelica.” 

“Well, then, let it be so,” quoth Sancho, “and may 
we have luck to come off well, and quickly win that 
island which costs me so dear, and then 1 do not matter 
what befalls me.” 

“T have already bid thee not trouble thyself about 
this business, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for should 
we miss of an island, there is either the kingdom of 
Dinamarque, or that of Sobradisa, as fit for thy pur- 
pose as a ring to thy finger; and what ought to be no 
small comfort to thee, they are both upon terra firma. 
But we'll talk of this in its proper season: at this time I 
would have thee see whether thou hast anything to 
eat in thy wallet, that we may afterwards seek for some 
castle, where we may lodge this night, and make the 
balsam I told thee; for I protest my ear smarts ex- 
tremely.” 

“TI have here an onion,” replied the squire, “a piece 
of cheese, and a few stale crusts of bread; but sure 
such coarse fare is not for such a brave knight as your 
worship.” 

“Thou art grossly mistaken, friend Sancho,” answer- 
ed Don Quixote: “know that it is the glory of knights- 
errant to be whole months without eating; and when 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


they do, they fall upon the first thing they meet with, 
though it be never so homely. Hadst thou but read as 
many books as I have done, thou hadst been better in- 
formed as to that point; for though I think I have read 
as many histories of chivalry in my time as any other 
man, I never could find that the knights-errant ever 
ate, unless it were by mere accident, or when they were 
invited to great feasts and royal banquets; at other 
times they indulged themselves with little other food 
besides their thoughts. Though it is not to be imag- 
ined they could live without supplying the exegencies 
of human nature, as being after all no more than mortal 
men, yet itis likewise to be disposed that, as they spent 
the greatest part of their lives in forests and deserts, 
and always destitute of a cook, consequently their 
usual food was but such coarse country fare as thou now 
offerest me. Never, then, make thyself uneasy about 
what pleases me, friend Sancho, nor pretend to make a 
new world, nor to unhinge the very constitution and 
ancient customs of knight-errantry.” 

“I beg your worship’s pardon,” cried Sancho; “for 
as I was never bred a scholar, I may chance to have 
missed in some main point of your laws of knight-hood; 
but from this time forward I will be sure to stock my 
wallet with all sorts of dry fruits for you, because your 
worship is a knight; as for myself, who am none, I will 





39 


provide good poultry and other substantial victuals.” 

“TI do not say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that a 
knight-errant is obliged to feed altogether upon fruit; 
I only mean, that this was their common food, together 
with some roots and herbs, which they found up and 
down the fields, of all which they had a perfect knowl- 
edge, as I myself have.” 

“>Tis a good thing to know these herbs,” cried San- 
cho; “for I am much mistaken, or that kind of knowl- 
edge will stand us in good stead ere long. In the mean- 
time,” continued he, “here’s what good Heaven has 
sent us.” 

With that he pulled out the provision he had, and 
they fell to heartily together. But their impatience to 
find out a place where they might be harbored that 
night, made them shorten their sorry meal, and mount 
again, for fear of being benighted; so away they went 
in search of a lodging. But the sun and their hopes 
failed them at once, as they came to a place where some 
goatherds had set up some small huts; and therefore 
they concluded to take up their lodging there that 
night. This was as great a mortification to Sancho, 
who was altogether for a good town, as it was a pleas- 
ure to his master, who was for sleeping in the open 
fields, as believing that as often as he did it he con- 
firmed his title to knighthood by anew act of possession. 








CHAPTER XI. 


WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERDS. 


THE knight was very courteously received by the 
goatherds; and as for Sancho, after he had set up Ro- 
zinante and bis ass as well as he could, he presently 
repaired to the attractive smell of some pieces of kid’s 
flesh which stood boiling in a kettle over the tire. The 
hungry squire would immediately have tried whether 
they were fit to be removed out of the kettle into the 
stomach, but was not put to that trouble; for the goat- 
herds took them off the fire and spread some sheepskins 
on the ground, and soon got their rural feast ready, and 
cheerfully invited his master and him to partake of 
what they had. Next, with some coarse compliment, 
after the country way, they desired Don Quixote to sit 
down on a trough with the bottom upwards; and then 
six of them, who were all that belonged to that fold, 
squatted them down round the skins, while Sancho 
stood to wait upon his master, and gave him drink ina 
horn cup which the goatherds used. But he seeing his 
man stand behind, said to him— 

“That thou mayest understand, Sancho, the benefits 
of knight-errantry, and how the meanest retainers to it 
have a fair prospect of being speedily esteemed and 
honored by the world, it is my pleasure that thou sit 
thee down by me, in the company of these good people; 
and that there be no difference now observed between 





thee and me, thy natural lord and master; that thou eat 
in the same dish, and drink in the same cup; for it may 
be said of knight-errantry, as of love, that it makes all 
things equal.” 

“TI thank your worship,” cried Sancho; “but yet 1 
must needs own, had 1 but a good deal of meat before 
me, I’d eat it as well, or rather better, standing, and by 
myself, than if I sat by an emperor; and, to deal plain- 
ly and truly with you, I had rather munch a crust of 
brown bread and an onion in a corner, without any more 
ado or ceremony, than feed upon turkey at another 
man’s table, where one is fain to sit mincing and chew- 
ing his meat an hour together, drink little, be always 
wiping his fingers and mouth, and never dare to cough 
nor sneeze, though he has never so much a mind to it, 
nor do a many things which a body may do freely by 
one’s self; therefore, good sir, change those tokens of 
your kindness which IJ have a right to, by being your 
worship’s squire, into something that may do me good. 
As for these same honors, I heartily thank you as much 
as if I had accepted them, but yet I give up my right 
to them from this time to the world’s end.” 

“Talk no more,” replied Don Quixote, “but sit thee 
down, for the humble shall be exalted;” and so pulling 
him by the arms, he forced him to sit by him. 

40 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


All this while the goatherds, who did not understand 
this jargon of knights-errant, chivalry, and squires, but 
who fairly swallowed whole luncheons as big as their 
fists with a migbty appetite, fed heartily, and said 
nothing, but stared upon their guests. The first course 
being over, they brought in the second, consisting of 
dried acorns, and half a cheese as hard as a brick; nor 
was the horn idle all the while, but went merrily round 
up and down so many times, sometimes full, and some- 
times empty, like the two buckets of a well, that they 
mede shift at last to drink off one of the two skins of 
wine which they had there. And now Don Quixote 
hsving satisfied his appetite, he took a handful of 
acorns, and looking earnestly upon them, “Oh, happy 
age,” cried he, “which our first parents called the age 
of gold! not because gold, so much adored in this iron 
age, was then easily purchased, but because those two 
fatal words, ‘mine’ and ‘thine,’ were distinctions un- 
known to the people of those fortunate times: for all 
things were in common in that holy age: men, for their 
sustenance, needed only to lift their hands, and take it 
from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberally in- 
vited them to gather the wholesome, savory fruit; while 
the clear springs and silver rivulets, with luxuriant 
plenty, offered them their pure, refreshing water. In 
hollow trees, and in the clefts of rocks, the laboring and 
industrious bees erected their little commonwealths, 
that men might reap with pleasure and with ease the 
sweet and fertile harvest of their toils. The tough and 
strenuous cork-trees did of themselves, and without 
other art than their native liberality, dismiss and im- 
part their broad light bark, which served to cover those 
lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that 
were first built as a shelter against the inclemencies of 
the air: all then was union, all peace, all love and 
friendship in the world: as yet no rude ploughshare 
presumed with violence to pry into the pious bowels of 
our mother Earth; for she, without compulsion kindly 
yielded from every part of her fruitful and spacious 
bosom whatever might at once satisfy, sustain, and 
indulge her frugal children. Then was the time when 
innocent, beautiful young shepherdesses went tripping 
over the hills and vales; their lovely hair sometimes 
plaited, sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other 
vestment but what was necessary to cover decently what 
modesty would always have concealed: the Tyrian dye, 
and the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and dissembled 
into every color, which are now esteemed so fine and mag- 
nificent were unknown to the innocent plainness of that 
age; yet bedecked with more becoming leaves and flowers 
they might be said to outshine the proudest of the vain- 
dressing ladies of our age, arrayed in the most magnifi- 
cent garbs and all the most sumptuous adornings which 
idleness and luxury have taught succeeding pride: 
lovers then expressed the passion of their souls in the 
unaffected language of the heart, with the native plain- 
ness and sincerity in which they were conceived, and 
divested of all that artificial contexture which ener- 
yates what it labors to enforce: imposture, deceit, and 
malice had not yet crept in, and imposed themselves 
upon mankind, in the disguise of truth and simplicity ; 





41 


justice, unbiassed either by favor or interest, which 
now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impartially 
dispensed; nor was the judge’s fancy law, for then 
there were neither judges nor causes to be judged. 
But in this degenerate age, fraud and a legion of ills 
infecting the world, no virtue can be safe, no honor be 
secure; while wanton desires, diffused in the hearts of 
men, corrupt the strictest watches and the closest 
retreats; which, though as intricate and unknown as 
the labyrinth of Crete, are no security for chastity. 
Thus that primitive innocence being vanished, and 
oppression daily prevailing, there was a necessity to 
oppose the torrent of violence: for which reason the 
order of knighthood-errant was instituted, to defend 
the honor of virgins, protect widows, relieve orphans, 
and assist all the distressed in general. Now I myself 
am one of this order, honest friends; and though all 
people are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to 
persons of my order, yet since you, without knowing 
anything of this obligation, have so generously enter- 
tained me, I ought to pay you my utmost acknowledge- 
ment; and, accordingly, return you my most hearty 
thanks for the same.” 


All this long oration, which might very well have 
been spared, was owing to the acorns that recalled the 
golden age to our knight’s remembrance, and made him 
thus hold forth to the goat-herds, who devoutly 
listened, but edified little, the discourse not being suited 
to their capacities. Sancho, as well as they, was silent 
all the while, eating acorns, and frequently visiting the 
second skin of wine, which for coolness' sake was hung 
upon a neighboring cork-tree. As for Don Quixote, he 
was longer and more intent upon his speech than upon 
supper. When he had done, one of the goatherds 
addressed himself to him. 

“Sir Knight,” said he, “that yon may be sure you 
are heartily welcome, we will get one of our fellows to 
give usa song; he is just a-coming; a good, notable 
young lad he is—I will say that for him—and up to the 
ears in love. He is a scholar, and can read and write; 
and plays so rarely upon the rebeck, that it is a charm 
but to hear him.” 

No sooner were the words out of the goatherd’s mouth, 
but they heard the sound of the instrument he spoke 
of, and presently appeared a good, comely young man 
of about two-and-twenty years of age. The goatherds 
asked him if he had supped; and he having told them 
he had— 


“Then, dear Antonio,” says the first speaker, “pray 
thee sing us a song, to let this gentleman, our guest, 
see that we have those among us who know somewhat 
of music, for all we live amidst woods and mountains. 
We have told him of thee already; therefore, pray thee, 
make our words good, and sing us the ditty thy uncle, 
the prebendary, made of thy love, that was so liked in 
our town.” 

“With all my heart,“ replied Antonio; and so with- 
out any further entreaty, sitting down on the stump of 
an oak, he tuned his fiddle, and very handsomely sung 
the following song :— 























DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 43 


ANTONIO'S AMOROUS COMPLAINT. 


Though love ne'er prattles at your eyes 
(The eyes those silent tongues of love), 
Yer sure, Olalia, you're my prize; 
For truth, with zeal, even heaven can move, 


I think, “my. Jove, you only try, 
Even while I fear you've sealed my doom: 
So, though involved in doubts I lie, 


Hope sometimes aa through the gloom, .. 


A flame 80 fierce, 80 bright, 80 pure, 

- No scorn can quench, or art improve: 
‘Thus like a martyr I endure; 

_. For there's a heaven to crown my love, 


ss a In dreesland dancing I have strove 
My prondest rivals to outvle; 

In serenades I've breathed my love, 

ae When all things slept but love and I. 





T need not add, I speak your praise 
Till every nymph’s disdain I move; 

Though thus a thonsand foes I raise, 
"Tis sweet to praise the fair 1 love. 


Teresa once your charms debased, 
But I her rudeness soon 'reproved : z 
- In vain her friend my anger faced ; 
For then I fought' for her I loved. 


Dear, cruel fair! why then so coy ? 
. How can you so much love withstand x 
Alas! 17 crave no lawless joy, 
e - But with my heart would give my hand. © 








Soft, easy, strong is Hymen’s tie: 

Oh, then,.no more the bliss refuse! - 
Oh, wed me, or I swear to die, :. 

Or linger wretched and-recluse! * 












him to sing another; but Sancho Panza, being more 
disposed to sleep than to hear the finest singing in the 
world, was of another mind; and therefore he said to 
his master— ios : 

“Good sir, your worship 1 heat better go andl ie down 
where you are to take your rest this night; besides, 
these good people are tired with their day’s labor, and 
rather want to go to sleep, than to sit up all mighe to 
hear ballads.” pd cae 

“T understand thee, Sancho,” eried. Don Quixote; 

“and, indeed, I thought thy frequent visiting. slo bottle 
would make thee fonder of sleep than of music.’ 

“Make us thankful ad cried Sancho; “we all liked the 
wine well enough.” ' 

“I do not deny. it,” replied Don Quixote; “but go 








| thou and lay thee down where thou pleasest; as for me, 


it better. ‘becomes á man of my profession to wake than 
to sleep: yet stay and dress my ear before thou goest, 
for it pains me extremely.” — 

Thereupon one of. the rails beholding the wound, 
as Sancho offered to dress it, desired the knight not to 


- | trouble himself, for he had a remedy that would quick- 


ly cure him; and then fetching a few rosemary leaves, 
which ‘grew in great plenty thereabout, he bruised 
them, and mixed a little salt among them, and having 
applied the. “mediciz e. to the ear, he bound it up, assur- 


aa jing him he needed no other rembdy. which ina little 
Heré Antonio ended his song; Don Quixote entreated 





time proved very true. ees San 


ca ay Wi, Hs 
tt ai >. te 
AN sage 


il 


Ure 
lif 


Vea 





SS 


SS 


OR 


4 


Ds HAN 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE STORY WHICH A YOUNG GOATHERD TOLD TO THOSE THAT WERE WITH DON QUIXOTE. 


A YOUNG FELLOW, who used to bring them provis- 
ions from the next village, happened to come while 
this was doing, and addressing himself to the goatherds, 
“Hark ye, friends,” said he, “d’ye hear the news?” 

“What news?” cried one of the company. 

“That fine shepherd and scholar Chrysostome died 
this morning,” answered the other; “and they say it 
was for love of that untoward lass, Marcella, rich Wil- 
liam's daughter, that goes up and down the country in 
the habit of a shepherdess. ” 

“For Marcella!” cried one of the goatherds. 

“Tsay for her,” replied the fellow; “and what is more, 
it is reported he has ordered by his will, they should 
bury him in the fields like any heathen Moor, just at 
the foot of the rock hard by the cork-tree fountain, 
where they say he had the first sight of her. Nay, he 
has likewise ordered many other strange things to be 
done, which the heads of the parish won’t allow of, for 
they seem to be after the way of the Pagans. But 
Ambrose, the other scholar who, likewise apparelled 
himself as a shepherd, is resolved to have his friend 
Chrysostome's will fulfilled in everything, just as he 
has ordered it. All the village isin an uproar. But, 
after all, it is thought Ambrose and his friends will 
carry the day; and to-morrow morning he is to be 





buried in great state where I told you: I fancy it will 
be worth seeing; howsoever, be it what it will, 1 will 
even go aud see it, even though I could not get back 
again to-morrow.” 

“We will all go,” cried the goatherds, “and cast lots 
who shall tarry to look after the goats.” 

“Well said, Peter,” cried one of the goatherds; “but 
as for casting lots, I will save you that labor, for I will 
stay myself, not so much out of kindness to you neither, 
or want of curiosity, as because of the thorn which 
stuck into my toe the other day, that will not let me go.” 

“Thank you, however,” quoth Peter. 

Don Quixote, who heard all this, entreated Peter to 
tell him who the deceased was, and also to give hima 
short account of the shepherdess. 

Peter made answer, that all he knew of the matter 
was, that the deceased was a wealthy gentleman, who 
lived not far off; that he had been several years at the 
university of Salamanca, and then came home mightily 
improved in his learning. “But above all,” quoth he, 
“it was said of him, that he had great knowledge in the 
stars, and whatsoever the sun and moon do in the skies, 
for he would tell us punctually the clip of the sun and 
moon.” 

“We call it an eclipse,” cried Don Quixote, “and not 

44 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


a clip, when either of those two great luminaries are 
darkened.” ; 

“He would also,” continued Peter, who did not stand 
upon such nice distinctions, “foretell when the year 
would be plentiful or esti.” 

“You would say steril,” cried Don Quixote. 

“ Steril or estil,” replied the fellow, “that is all one to 
me: but this I say, that his parents and friends, being 
ruled by him, grew woundy rich in a short time; for he 
would tell them, ‘This year sow barley, and no wheat: 
in this you may sow pease, and no barley: next year will 
be a good year for oil: the three after that, you shan’t 
gather a drop;’ and whatsoever he said would certainly 
come to pass.” 

“That science,” said Don Quixote, 
trology.” 

“I do not know what you call it,” answered Peter, 
“but I know he knew all this, and a deal more. But, 
in short, within some few months after he had left the 
versity, on a certain morning we saw him come dressed 
for all the world like a shepherd, and driving his flock, 
having laid down the long gown, which he used to wear 
as a scholar. At the same time one Ambrose, a great 
friend of his, who had been his fellow-scholar also, took 
upon him to go like a shepherd, and keep him company, 
which we all did not a little marvel at. I had almost 
forgot to tell you how he that is dead was a mighty man 
for making of verses, insomuch that he commonly made 
the carols which he sung on Christmas-eve, and the 
plays which the young lads in our neighborhood enact- 
ed on Corpus Christi Day; and every one would say, that 
nobody could mend them. Somewhat before that time 
Chrysostome’s father died, and left him a deal of wealth, 
both in land, money, cattle, and other goods, whereof 
the young man remained dissolute master; and in troth 
he deserved it all, for he was as good natured a soul as 
e'er trod on shoe of leather; mighty good to the poor, 
a main friend to all honest people, and had a face like a 
blessing. At last it came to be known, that the reason 
of his altering his garb in that fashion, was only that 
he might go up and down after that shepherdess Mar- 
cella, whom our comrade told you of before, for he was 
fallen mightily in love with her. And now I will tell 
you such a thing you never heard the like in your born 
days, and may not chance to hear of such another while 
you breathe, though you were to live as long as Sarnah!” 

“Say Sarah,” cried Don Quixote, who hated to hear 
him blunder thus. 

“The Sarna, or the itch, for that is all one with us,” 
quoth Peter, “lives long enough too; but if you make 
me break off my tale at every word, we are not like to 
have done this twelvemonth.” 

“Pardon me, friend,” replied Don Quixote; “I only 
spoke to make thee understand that there is a differ- 
ence between Sarna and Sarah: however thou sayest 
well; for the Sarna (that is, the itch) lives longer than 
Sarah; therefore pray make an end of thy story, for I 
will not interrupt thee any more.” 

“Well, then,” quoth Peter, “you must know, good 
master of mine, that there lived near us one William, a 
yeoman, who was richer yet than Chrysostome’s father; 


“is called as- 





45 


now he had no child in the ’versal world but a daugh. 
ter; her mother died when she was born (rest her 
soul!) and was as good a woman as ever went upon two 
legs; methinks I see her yet standing afore me, with 
that blessed face of hers, the sun on one side, and the 
moon on the t'other. ¿She was a main house-wife, and 
did a deal of good among the poor; for which I dare 
say she is at this minute in Paradise. Alas! her death 
broke old William’s heart; he soon went after her, poor 
man! and left all to his little daughter, that Marcella 
by name, giving charge of her to her uncle, the parson 
of our parish. Well, the girl grew such a fine child, 
and so like her mother, that it used to put us in mind 
of her every foot; however, ’twas thought she’d make 
a finer woman yet: and so it happened indeed; for, by 
that time she was fourteen or fifteen years of age, no 
man set his eyes on her that did not bless Heaven for 
having made her so handsome; so that most men fell in 
love with her, and were ready to run mad for her. 
All this while her uncle kept her up very close; yet 
the report of her great beauty and wealth spread far 
and near, insomuch that she had I don’t know how 
many sweethearts. Almost all the young men in our 
town asked her of her uncle; nay, from I don’t know 
how many leagues about us, there flocked whole droves 
of suitors, and the very best in the country, too, who 
all begged and sued and teased her uncle to let them 
have her. But though he’d have been glad to have got 
fairly rid of her, as soon as she was fit for a husband, 
yet would not he advise or marry her against her will: 
for he’s a good man, 111 say that for him, and a true 
Christian every inch of him, and scorns to keep her 
from marrying to make a benefit of her estate; and, to 
his praise be it spoken, he has been mainly commended 
for it more than once, when the people of our parish 
meet together. For I must tell you, Sir Errant, that 
here in the country, and in our little towns, there is not 
the least thing can be said or done but people will talk 
and find fault; but let busybodies prate as they please, 
the parson must have a good body indeed who could 
bring his whole parish to give him a good word, espec- 
ially in the country.” 

“Thou art in the right,” cried Don Quixote; “and 
therefore go on, honest Peter, for the story is pleasant, 
and thou tellest it with a grace.” 

“May I never want God's grace,” quoth Peter, “for 
that is most tothe purpose. But for our parson, as I 
told you before, he was not for keeping his niece from 
marrying, and therefore he took care to let her know of 
all those that would have taken her to wife, both what 
they were and what they had, and he was at her, to 
have her pitch upon one of them for a husband; yet 
would she never answer otherwise, but that she had no 
mind as yet to wed, as finding herself too young for the 
burden of wedlock. With these and such like come- 
offs, she got her uncle to let her alone, and wait till she 
thought fit to choose for herself: for he was wont to 
say, that parents are not to bestow their children where 
they bear no liking, and in that he spoke like an honest 
man. And thus it happened, that when we least 
dreamed of it, that coy lass, finding herself at liberty, 


46 


would needs turn sheperdess; and neither her uncle, 
nor all those of the village who advised her against it, 
could work anything upon her, but away she went to 
the fields to keep her own sheep with the other young 
lasses of the town. But then it was ten times worse; 
for no sooner was she seen abroad, that I cannot tell 
how many spruce gallants, both gentlemen and rich 
farmers, changed their garb for love of her, and fol- 
lowed her up and down in shepherd’s guise. One of 
them, as I have told you, was this same Chrysostome, 
who now lies dead, of whom it is said, he not only 
loved, but worshipped her. Howsoever, I would not 
have you think or surmise, because Marcella took that 
course of life, and was as it were tinder no manner of 
keeping, that she gave the least token of naughtiness 
or light behavior; for she ever was, and is still, so coy, 
and so watchful to keep her honor pure and free from 
evil tongues, that among so many wooers who suitor 
her, there is not one can make his brags of having the 
least hope of ever speeding with her; for though she 
does not shun the company of shepherds, but uses 
them courteously, so far as they behave themselves 
handsomely, yet whensoever any one of them does but 
offer to break his mind to her, be it ever so well meant, 
and only in order to marry, she casts him away from 
her, as with a sling, and will never have any more to 
say to him. 

“And thus this fair maiden does more harm in this 
country than the plague would do; for her courteous- 
ness and fair looks draw on everybody to love her; but 
then her dogged, stubborn coyness breaks their hearts, 
and makes them ready to hang themselves; and all they 
can do poor wretches, is to make a heavy complaint, 
and call her cruel, unkind, ungrateful, and a world of 
such names, whereby they plainly show what a sad 
condition they are in. Were you but to stay here some 
time, you'd hear these hills and valleys ring again with 
the doeful moans of those she has denied, who yet can- 
not, for the blood of them, give over sneaking after 
her. We have a place not far off, where there are some 
two dozen of beach-trees, and on them all you may find, 
T don't know how many, Marcellas cut in the smooth bark. 
On some of them thereis a crown carved over the name, 
as much as to say that Marcella bears away the crown, 


En 
> 


; NS fs 7 
SS WS 


oe INS = 








DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


and deserves the garland of beauty. Here sighs one 
shepherd, there another whines; here is one singing 
doleful ditties, there another is wringing his hands and 
making woful complaints. You shall have one lay him 
down at night at the foot of a rock, or some oak, and 
there lie w eping and wailing, without a wink of sleep, 
and talking to himself till the sun finds him the next 
morning; you shall have another lie stretched upon the 
hot, sandy ground, breathing his sad lamentations to 
Heaven, without heeding the sultry heat of the sum- 
mer sun. And all this while the hard-hearted Marcella 
ne’er minds any one of them, and does not seem to be 
the least concerned for them. Weare all mightily at 
a loss to know what will be the end of all this pride 
and coyness; who shall be the happy man that shall at 
last tame her, and bring her to his lure. Now because 
there is nothing more certain than all this, I am the 
more apt to give credit to what our comrade has told 
us, as to the occasion of Chrysostome’s death; and 
therefore I would needs have you go and see him laid 
in his grave to-morrow; which I believe will be worth 
your while, for he had many friends, and it is not half 
a league to the place where it was his will to be buried.” 

“T intend to be there,” answered Don Quixote, “and 
in the meantime I return thee many thanks for the extra- 
ordinary satisfaction this story has afforded me.” 

“Alas! Sir Knight;” replied he goatherd, “I have 
not told you half the mischiefs this proud creature hath 
done here, but to-morrow mayhap we shall meet some 
shepherd by the way that will be able to tell you more. 
Meanwhile it won’t be amiss for you to take your rest 
in one of the huts; for the open air is not good for your 
wound, though what I’ve put to it is so special a medi- 
cine that there’s not much need to fear but ’will do 
well enough.” 

Sancho, who was quite out of patience with the goat- 
herd’s long story, and wished him further for his pains, 
at last prevailed with him to lie down in Peter’s hut, 
where Don Quixote, in imitation of Marcella’s lovers, 
devoted the remainder of the night to amorous expos- 
tulations with his dear Dulcinea. As for Sancho, he 
laid himself down between Rozinante and his ass, and 
slept it out, not like a disconsolate lover, but like a man 
that had been soundly kicked and bruised in the morning. 















































>= 


pe 
UPISAN ——= 
> 





CHAPTER XIII. 


A CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF MARCELLA. 


SCARCE had day begun to appear from the balconies 
of the east; when five of the goatherds got up, and 
having waked Don Quixote, asked him if he held his 
resolution of going to the funeral, whither they were 
teady to bear him company. Thereupon the knight, 
who desired nothing more, presently arose, and ordered 
Sancho to get Rozinante and the ass ready immediately; 
which he did with all expedition, and then they set 
forwards. They had not gone a quarter of a league 
before they saw advancing towards them, out of a cross 
path, six shepherds clad in black skins, their heads 
crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter rose-bay 
tree, with long holly-staves in their hands. Two gen- 
tlemen on horseback, attended by three young lads on 
foot, came immediately after them : as they drew near, 
they saluted one another civilly, and after the usual 
question, “Which way d'ye travel?” they found they 
were all going the same way, to see the funeral: and so 
they all joined company. 

“T fancy, Sefior Vivaldo,” said one of the gentlemen, 
addressing himself to the other, “we shall not think 
our time misspent in going to see this famous funeral, 
for it must of necessity be very extraordinary, accord- 
ing to the account which these men have given us of 
the dead shepherd and his murdering mistress.” 

“T am so far of your opinion,” answered Vivaldo; 





“that I would not stay one day, but a whole week, 
rather than miss the sight.” : 

This gave Don Quixote occasion to ask them what 
they had heard concerning Chrysostome and Marcella. 
One of the gentlemen made answer, That having met 
that morning with these shepherds, they could not for- 
bear inquiring of them why they wore such a mournful 
dress; whereupon one of them acquainted them with 
the sad occasion, by relating the story of a certain shep- 
herdess, named Marcella, no less lovely than cruel, 
whose coyness and disdain had made a world of unfor- 
tunate lovers, and caused the death of that Chrysostome 
to whose funeral they were going. In short, he repeat- 
ed to Don Quixote all that Peter had told him the night 
before. After this, Vivaldo asked the knight why he 
travelled so completely armed in so peaceable a 
country. 

“My profession,” answered the champion, “does not 
permit me to ride otherwise. Luxurious feasts, sump- 
tuous dresses, and downy ease were invented for effem- 
inate courtiers; but labor, vigilance, and arms are the 
portion of those whom the world calls knights-errant, 
of which number I have the honor to be one, though the 
most unworthy and the meanest of the fraternity.” 

He needed to say no more to satisfy them his brains 
were out of order; however, that they might the better 

47 


48 


understand the nature of his folly, Vivaldo asked him 
what he meant by a knight-errant. 

“Have you not read,” cried Don Quixote, “the An- 
nals and History of Britain, where are recorded the 
famous deeds of King Arthur, who, according to the 
ancient tradition in that kingdom, never died, but was 
turned into a crow by enchantment, and shall one day 
resume his former shape, and recover his kingdom 
again?. For which reason, since that time, the people 
of Great Britain dare not offer to kill a crow. In this 
good king's time, the most noble order of the Knights 
of the Round Table was first instituted, and then also 
the amours between Sir Lancelot of the Lake and Queen 
Guinever were really transacted, as that history relates; 
they being managed and carried on by the mediation of 
that honorable matron, the Lady Quintaniona, which 
produced that excellent history in verse so sung and 
celebrated here in Spain— 


‘There never was on earth a knight 

So waited on by ladies fair, 
As once was he Sir Lancelot hight, 
When first he left his country dear:’ 
and the rest, which gives so delightful an account both 
of his loves and feats of arms. From that time the or- 
der of knight-errantry began by degress to dilate and 
extend itself into most parts of the world. Then did 
the great Amadis de Gaul signalize himself by heroic 
exploits, and so did his offspring to the fifth generation. 
The valorous Felixmart of Hyrcania then got immortal 
fame, and that undaunted knight, Tirante the White, 
who never can be applauded to his worth. Nay, had 
we but lived alittle sooner, we might have been blessed 
with the conversation of that invincible knight of our 
modern times, the valorous Don Belianis of Greece. 
And this, gentlemen, is that order of chivalry which, 
sinner though I am, I profess, with a due observance 
of the laws which those brave knights observed before 
me; and for that reason I choose to wander through 
these solitary deserts, seeking adventures, fully re- 
solved to expose my person to the most formidable dan- 
gers which Fortune can obtrude on me, that by the 
strength of my arm I may relieve the weak and the dis- 
tressed.” 

After all this stuff, you may be sure the travellers 
were sufficiently convinced of Don Quixote’s frenzy. 
Nor were they less surprised than were all those who 
had hitherto discovered so unaccountable a distraction 
in one who seemed a rational creature. However, Vi- 
valdo, who was of a gay disposition, had no sooner 
made the discovery, but he resolved to make the best 
advantage of it that the shortness of the way would 
allow him. 

Therefore, to give him further occasion to divert them 
with his whimsies, “Methinks, Sir Knight-errant,” said 
he to him, “you have taken up one of the strictest and 
most mortifying professions in the world. I don’t think 
but that a Carthusian friar has a better time on’t than 
you have.” 

“Perhaps,” answered Don Quixote, “the prolession 
of a Carthusian may be as austere, but Iam within two 
fingers’ breadth of doubting whether it may be as ben- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


eficial to the world as ours. For, if we must speak the 
truth, the soldier, who puts his captain’s command in 
execution, may be said to do as much at least as the 
captain who commanded him. The application is easy: 
for, while those religious men have nothing to do, but 
with all quietness and security to say their prayers for 
the prosperity of the world, we knights, like soldiers, 
execute what they do but pray for, by the strength of 
our arms, and at the hazard of our lives, exposed to 
summer’s scorching heat and winter’s pinching cold. 
However, gentlemen, do not imagine I would insinuate 
as if the profession of a knight-errant was a state of 
perfection equal to that of a holy recluse: I would only 
infer from what I have said, and what I myself endure, 
that ours without question is more laborious, more sub- 
ject to the discipline of heavy blows, to maceration, to 
the penance of hunger and thirst, and, in a word, to 
tags, to want, and misery. For if you find that some 
knights-errant have at last by their valor been raised to 
thrones and empires, you may be sure it has been still 
at the expense of much sweat and blood. And had even 
those happier knights been deprived of those assisting 
sages and enchanters, who helped them in all emergen- 
cies, they would have been strangely disappointed of 
their mighty expectations.” 

“Tam of the same opinion,” replied Vivaldo. “But 
one thing among many others, which I can by no means 
approve in your profession, is, that when you are just 
going to engage in some very hazardous adventure, 
where your lives are evidently to be much endangered, 
you never once remember to commend yourselves to 
God, as every good Christian ought to do on such occa- 
sions, but only recommend yourselves to your mistresses, 
and that with as great zeal and devotion as if you wor- 
shipped no other deity; a thing which, in my opinion, 
strongly relishes of paganism.” 

“Sir,” replied Don Quixote, “there is no altering 
that method; for should a knight-errant do other- 
wise, he would too much deviate from the ancient and 
established customs of knight-errantry, which in- 
violably oblige him just in the moment when 
he is rushing on, to have his mistress still before 
his eyes, by a strong and lively imagination, and 
with soft, amorous, and energetic looks, imploring her 
favor and protection in that perilous circumstance. 
Nay, even if nobody can hear him, he is obliged to 
whisper, or speak between his teeth, some short ejacu- 
lations, to recommend himself with all the fervency 
imaginable to the lady of his wishes; and of this we 
have innumerable examples in history. Nor are you 
for all this to imagine that knights-errant omit recom- 
mending themselves to Heaven, for they have leisure 
enough to do it even in the midst of the combat.” 

“Sir,” replied Vivaldo, “you must give me leave to 
tell you, I am not yet thoroughly satisfied on this point: 
for I have often observed in my reading, that two 
knights-errant, having first talked a little together, 
have fallen out presently, and been so highly provoked, 
that, having turned their horses’ heads to gain room 
for the career, they have wheeled about, and then with 
all speed run full tilt at one another, hastily recom- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


nrending themselves to their mistresses in the midst of 
their career; and the next thing has commonly been, 
that one of them has been thrown to the ground over 
the crupper of his horse, fairly run through and 
through with his enemy’s lance; and the other forced 
to catch hold of his horse’s mane to keep himself from 
falling. Now,I cannot apprehend how the knight that 
was slain had any time to recommend himself to 
Heaven, when his business was done so suddenly. Me- 
thinks those hasty invocations, which in his career 
were directed to his mistress, should have been direct- 
ed to Heaven, as every good Christian would have 
done. Besides, I fancy every knight-errant has not a 
mistress to invoke, nor is every one of them in love.” 

“Your conjecture is wrong,” replied Don Quixote; 
“a knight-errant cannot be without a mistress. "Tis 
not more essential for the skies to have stars, than ’tis 
to us to be in love; insomuch, that I dare affirm that no 
history ever made mention of any knight-errant that 
was not a lover: for were any knight free from the im- 
pulses of that generous passion, he would not be allow- 
ed to be a lawful knight, but a misborn intruder, and 
one who was not admitted within the pale of knight- 
hood at the door, but leaped the fence, and stole in like 
a robber and a thief.” 

“Yet, sir,” replied the other, “I am much mistaken, 
or I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis, 
never had any certain mistress to recommend himself 
to, and yet for all that he was not the less esteemed.” 

“One swallow never makes a summer,” answered 
Don Quixote. “Besides, I know that knight was 
privately very much in love; and as for his making his 
addresses wherever he met with beauty, this was an 
effect of his natural inclination, which he could not 
easily restrain. But after all, 'tis an undeniable truth, 
that he had a favorite lady, whom he had crowned em- 
press of his will; and to her he frequently recommend- 
ed himself ir. private, for he did not a little value him- 
self upon his discretion and secrecy in love.” 

“Then, sir,” said Vivaldo, “since ’tis so much the 
being of knight-errantry to be in love, I presume you, 
who are of that profession, cannot be without a mistress. 
And therefore, if you do not set up for secrecy as much 
as Don Galaor did, give me leave to beg of you, in the 
name of all the company, that you will be pleased so 
far to oblige us as to let us know the name and quality 
of your mistress, the place of her birth, and the charms 
of her person. For, without doubt, the lady cannot 
but esteem herself happy in being known to all the 
world to be the object of the wishes of a knight so ac- 
complished as yourself.” 

With that Don Quixote, breathing out a deep sigh, 
“T cannot tell,” said he, “whether this lovely enemy of 
my repose is the least affected with the world’s being 
informed of her power over my heart; all I dare say, in 
compliance with your request, is, that her name is 
Dulcinea, her country La Mancha, and Toboso the 
happy place which she honors with her residence. As 
for her quality, it cannot be less than princess, seeing 
she is my mistress and my queen. Her beauty trans- 
cends all the united charms of her whole sex; even 

3—DON QUIX. 





49 


those chimerical perfections which the hyperbolical 
imaginations of poets in love have assigned to their 
mistresses cease to be incredible descriptions when ap- 
plied to her, in whom all those miraculous endowments 
are most divinely centred. The curling locks of her 
bright flowing hair are purest gold; her smooth forehead 
the Elysian Plain; her brows are two celestial bows; 
her eyes two glorious suns; her cheeks two beds of 
roses; her lips are coral; her teeth are pearl; her neck 
is alabaster; her hands ivory; and snow would lose its 
whiteness near her bosom.” 

“Pray, sir,” cried Vivaldo, “oblige us with an account 
of her parentage, and the place of her birth, to complete 
the description.” 

“Sir,” replied Don Quixote, “she is not descended 
from the ancient Curtius’s, Caius’s, nor Scipios of Rome, 
nor from the more modern Colonas nor Ursinis; nor 
from the Moncadas and Requesenes, of Catalonia; nor 
from the Rebillas and Villanovas of Valencia; nor from 
the Palafoxes, Nucas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Ala- 
gones, Urreas, Fozes, or Gurreas of Arragon; nor from 
the Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas, and Guzmans of Cas- 
tile; nor from the Alencastros, Pallas, and Menezes of 
Portugal; but she derives her great original from the 
family of Toboso in La Mancha—a race, which, though 
it be modern, is sufficient to give a noble beginning to 
the most illustrious progenies of succeeding ages. And 
let no man presume to contradict me in this, unless it 
be upon those conditions which Zerbin fixed at the foot 
of Orlando’s armor: 


***Let none but he these arms displace, 
Who dares Orlando's fury face.” ” 


“T draw my pedigree from the Cachopines of Laredo,” 
replied Vivaldo; “yet I dare not make any comparisons 
with the Tobosos of La Mancha; though, to deal sincere- 
ly with you, ’tis a family I never heard of till this 
moment.” 

“Tis strange,” said Don Quixote, “you should never 
have heard of it before.” 

All the rest of the company gave great attention to 
this discourse; and even the very goatherds and shep- 
herds were now fully convinced that Don Quixote’s 
brains were turned topsy-turvy. But Sancho Panza 
believed every word that dropped from his master’s 
mouth to be truth, as having known him from his cradle 
to be a man of sincerity. Yet that which somewhat 
staggered his faith was this story of Dulcinea of Toboso; 
for he was sure he had never heard before of any such 
princess, nor even of the name, though he lived hard 
by Toboso. 

As they went on thus discoursing, they saw upon 
the hollow road between the neighboring mountains, 
about twenty shepherds more, all accoutred in black 
skins, with garlands on their heads, which, as they 
afterwards perceived, were all of yew or cypress; six 
of them carried a bier covered with several sorts of 
boughs and flowers: which one of the goatherds 
espying— 

“Those are they,” cried he, “that are carrying poor 
Chrysostome to his grave; and ’twas in yonder bottom 
that he gave charge they should bury his corpse.” 


50 


This made them all double their pace, that they might 
get thither in time; and so they arrived just as the 
bearers had set down the bier npon the ground, and 
four of them had begun to open the ground with their 
spades, just at the footof arock. They all saluted each 
other courteously, and condoled their mutual loss; and 
then Don Quixote, with those who came with him, went 
to view the bier, where they saw the dead body of a 
young man in shepherd’s weeds, all strewed over with 
flowers. The deceased appeared about thirty years old; 
and, dead as he was, it was easily perceived that both 
his face and shape were extraordinarily handsome. 
Within the bier were some books and papers, some 
open, and the rest folded up. This doleful object so 
strangely filled all the company with sadness, that not 
only the beholders, but also the grave-makers, and all 
the mourning shepherds, remained a long time silent; 
till ut last one of the bearers, addressing himself to one 
of the rest— 

“Look, Ambrose,” cried he, “whether this be the 
place which Chrysostome meant, sinve you must needs 
have his will so punctually performed.” 

“This is the very place,” answered the other; “there 
it was that my unhappy friend many times told me the 
sad story of his cruel fortune; and there it was that he 
first saw that mortal enemy of mankind; there it was 
that he made the first discovery of his passion, no less 
innocent than violent; there it was that the relentless 
Marcella last denied, shunned him, and drove him to 
that extremity of sorrow and despair that hastened the 
sad catastrophe of his tragical and miserable life; and 
there it was that, in token of so many misfortunes, he 
desired to be committed to the bowels of eternal obli- 
vion.” Then addressing himself to Don Quixote and 
the rest of the travellers— 

“This body, gentlemen,” said he, “which here you 
now behold, was once enlivened by asoul which Heaven 
had enriched with the greatest part of its most valuable 
graces. This is the body of that Chrysostome who was 
unrivalled in wit, matchless in courteousness, incom- 
parable in gracefulness, 4 phenix in friendship, gener- 
ous and magnificent without ostentation, prudent and 
grave without pride, modest without affectation, 
pleasant and complaisant withont meanness; in a 
word, the first in every estimable qualification, and 
second to none in misfortune; he loved well, and was 
hated; he adored, and was disdained; he begged pity 
of cruelty itself; he strove to move obdurate marble; 
pursued the wind; made his moans to solitary deserts; 
was constant to ingratitude; and for the recompense of 
his fidelity, became a prey to death in the flower of his 
age, through the barbarity of a shepherdess, whom he 
strove to immortalize by his verse; as these papers 
which are here deposited might testify, had he not 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


commanded me to sacrifice them to the flames. at the 
same time that his body was committed to the earth.” 

“ Should you do so,” cried Vivaldo, “you would ap- 
pear more cruel to them than their exasperated, un- 
happy parent. Consider, sir, tis not consistent with dis- 
cretion, nor even with justice, so nicely to perform the 
request of the dead, when ’tis repugnant to reason. 
Augustus Cesar himself would have forfeited his title 
to wisdom, had he permitted that to have been effected, 
which the divine Virgil had ordered by his will. There- 
fore, sir, now that you resign your friend’s body to the 
grave, do not hurry thus the noble and only remains of 
that dear unhappy man to a worse fate, the death of 
oblivion. What though he has doomed them to perish 
in the height of his resentment, you ought not indis- 
creetly to be their executioner; but rather reprieve 
and redeem them from eternal silence, that they may 
live, and, flying through the world, transmit to all ages 
the dismal story of your friend’s virtue and Marcella’s 
ingratitude, as a warning to others, that they may 
avoid such tempting snares and enchanting destruc- 
tions; for not only to me, but to all here present, is 
well known the history of your enamored and desperate 
friend: we are no strangers to the friendship that was 
between you, as also to Marcella’s cruelty, which occa- 
sioned his death. Last night we were informed that he 
was to be buried here to-day; and so, moved not so 
much by curiosity as pity, we are come to behold with 
our eyes that which gave us so much trouble to hear. 
Therefore in the name of all the company, like me, 
deeply affected with a sense of Chrysostome's extra. 
ordinary merit, and his unhappy fate, and desirous to 
prevent such deplorable disasters for the future, 1 beg 
that you will permit me to save some of these papers, 
whatever you resolve to do with the rest.” 

And so, without waiting for an answer, he stretched 
out his arm, and took out those papers which lay next 
to his hand. 

“ Well, sir,” said Ambrose, “ you have found a way 
to make me submit, and yon may keep those papers; 
but for the rest, nothing shall make me alter my reso- 
lution of burning them.” 

Vivaldo said no more; but being impatient to see 
what those papers were, which he had rescued from the 
flames, he opened one of them immediately, and read 
the title of it, which was, “ The Despairing Lover.” 

“ That,” said Ambrose, * was the last piece my dear 
friend ever wrote; and therefore, that you may all hear 
to what a sad condition his unhappy passion had re- 
duced him, read it aloud, I beseech you, sir, while the 
grave is making.” 

“ With all my heart,” replied Vivaldo: and so the 
company, having the same desire, presently gathered 
round about bim, and he read the following lines. 








CHAPTER XIV. 


THE UNFORTUNATE SHEPHERD'S VERSES, AND OTHER UNEXPECTED MATTERS. 


THE DESPAIRING LOVER. 


RELENLEss tyrant of my heart, 
Attend, and hear thy slave impart 
The matchless story of his pain. 
In vain I labor to conceal 
What my extorted groans reveal; 
Who can be racked, and not complain ? 


But, oh! who duly can express 
Thy cruelty, and my distress? 

No human heart, no human tongue. 
Then fiends assist, and rage infuse? 
A raving fury be my muse, 

And Pluto teach the dismal song! 


‘Though still I moan in dreary caves, 
To desert rocks and silent graves 

My loud complaints shall wander far; 
Borne by the winds they shall survive, 
By pitying echoes kept alive, 

And fill the world with my despair. 


Love's deadly cure is fierce disdain, 
Distracting fear a dreadful pain, 
And jealousy a matchless woe ; 
Absence is death ; yet while it kills, 
Llive with all these mortal ills, 
Scorned, jealous, loath’d, and absent, too. 


No dawn of hope e'er cheer'd my heart, 
No pitying ray e’er sooth'd my smart ; 
All, all the sweets of life are gone ! 
Then come despair, and frantic rage, 
With instant fate my pain assuage, 
And end a thousand deaths by one 





But even in death let love be crown'd, 
My fair destruction guiltless found, 
AndI be thought with justice scorn'd, 
Thus Jet me fall unloved, unblese'd, 
With all my load of woes oppress'd, 
And even too wretched to be mourn'd. 


Oh! thou by whose destructive fate 
I'm hurried to this doleful fate, 
When I’m no more, thy pity spare! 
I dread thy tears ; oh! spare them, then— 
But, oh! I rave, I was too vain; 
My death can never cost a tear 


And thou, my song, sad child of woe, 
When life is gone, and I’m below, 

For thy lost parent cease to grieve. 
With life and thee my woes increase, 
And should they not by dying cease, 

There are no pains like those I leave. 

These verses were well approved by all the com- 
pany; only Vivaldo observed, that the jealousies and 
fears of which the shepherd complained did not very 
well agree with what he had heard of Marcella’s un- 
spotted modesty and reservedness. But Ambrose, who 
had been always privy to the most secret thoughts of 
his friend, informed him that the unhappy Chrysostome 
wrote those verses when he had torn himself from his 
adored mistress, to try whether absence, the common 
cure of love, would relieve him and mitigate his pain. 
And as everything disturbs an absent lover, so did 

51 


52 


Chrysostome perplex himself with jealousies and sus- 
picions, which had no ground but in his distracted 
imagination; and therefore whatever he said in those 
uneasy circumstances could never affect, or in the least 
prejudice, Marcella's virtuous character, upon whom, 
setting aside her cruelty aud her disdainful haughti- 
ness, envy itself could never fix the least reproach, 
Vivaldo being thus convinced, they were going to read 
another paper, when they were unexpectedly prevented 
by a kind of apparition that offered itself to their view. 

It was Marcella herself, who appeared at the top of 
the rock, at the foot of which they were digging the 
grave; but so beautiful, that fame seemed rather to 
have lessened than to have magnified her charms; 
those who had never seen her before gazed on her with 
silent wonder and delight; nay, those who used to see 
her every day seemed no less lost in admiration than 
the rest. 

But scarce had Ambrose spied her, when, with anger 
and indignation in his heart, he cried out— 

“What makest thou there, thou fierce, thou cruel 
basilisk of these mountains? comest thou to see whether 
the wounds of this murdered wretch will bleed afresh 
at thy presence? or comest thou, thus mounted aloft, 
to glory in the fatal effects of thy native inhumanity, 
like another Nero at the sight of flaming Rome? or is it 
to trample on this unfortunate corpse, as Tarquin’s un- 
grateful daughter did her father’s? Tell us quickly 
why thou comest, and what thou yet desirest? for since 
I know that Chrysostome’s whole study was to serve 
and please thee while he lived, I am willing to dispose 
all his friends to pay thee the like obedience now he is 
dead.” 

“T came not here to any of those ungrateful ends, 
Ambrose,” replied Marcella; “but only to clear my 
innocence, and show the injustice of all those who lay 
their misfortunes and Chrysostome’s death to my 
charge: therefore, I entreat you all who are here at this 
time to hear me a little. Heaven, you are pleased to 
say, has made me beautiful, and that to such a degree, 
that you are forced, nay, as it were, compelled to love 
me, in spite of your endeavors to the contrary: and for 
the sake of that love, you say, I ought to love you 
again. Now, though 1 am sensible that whatever is 
beautiful is lovely, I cannot conceive that what is loved 
for being handsome should be bound to love that by 
which it is loved, merely because it is loved. He that 
loves a beautiful object may happen to be ugly; and 
as what is ugly deserves not to be loved, it would be 
ridiculous to say, ‘I love you because you are handsome, 
and therefore you must love me again, though I am 
ugly.’ But suppose two persons of different sexes are 
equally handsome, it does not follow that their desires 
should be alike and reciprocal; for all beauties do not 
kindle love; some only recreate the sight, and never 
reach or captivate the heart. Alas! if whatever is 
beautiful were to beget love and enslave the mind, 
mankind’s desires would ever run confused and wan- 
dering, without being able to fix their determinate 
choice; for as there is an infinite number of beautiful 
objects, the desires would consequently be also infinite ; 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


whereas, on the contrary, I have heard that true love 
is still confined to one, and must be voluntary and un- 
forced. This being granted, why would you have me 
force my inclinations for no other reason but that you 
say you love me! Tell me, I beseech you, had Heaven 
formed me as ugly as it has made me beautiful, could I 
justly complain of you for notloving me? Pray con- 
sider also, that Ido not possess those charms by choices, 
such as they are, they were freely bestowed on me by 
Heaven: and as the viperis not to be blamed for the 
poison with which she kills, seeing it was assigned her 
by Nature, so I ought not to be censured for that beauty 
which 1 derive from the same cause; for beauty in a 
virtuous woman is like a distant flame, or asharp-edged 
sword, and only burns and wounds those who approach 
too near it. Honor and virtue are the ornaments of the 
soul, and that body that is destitute of them cannot be 
esteemed beautiful, though it be naturally so. If, then,. 
honor be one those endowments which must adorn the 
body, why should she that is beloved for her beauty 
expose herself to the loss of it? I was born free, and, 
that I might continue so, I retired to these solitary hills. 
and plains, where trees are my companions, and clear 
fountains my looking-glasses. To the trees and to the 
waters, I communicate my thoughts and my beauty. I 
am a distant flame, and a sword far off: those whom the 
sight of me has enamored. I have undeceived with my 
words; and as I never gave any encouragement to 
Chrysostome, nor to any other, it may well be said it 
was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that 
shortened his life. If you tell me that his intentions. 
were honest, and therefore ought to have beeu complied 
with, I answer, that when, at the very place where his. 
grave is making, he discovered his passion, I told him 
Iwas resolved to live and die single, and that the earth 
alone should reap the fruit of my reservedness, and en- 
joy the spoils of my beauty; and if, after all the admo- 
nitions I gave him, he would persist in his obstinate 
pursuit, and sail against the wind, what wonder is it 
he should perish in the waves of his indiscretion! Had 
I ever encouraged him, or amused him with ambiguous 
words, then Ihad been false; and had I gratified his. 
wishes, [ had acted contrary to my better resolves: he 
persisted, though I had given him a due caution, and he 
despaired without being hated. Now I leave you to 
judge whether I ought to be blamed for his sufferings. 
If I have deceived any one, let him complain; if Ihave 
broke my promise to any one, let him despair; if I en- 
courage any one, let him presume; if I entertain any 
one, let him boast: but let no man call me cruel or mur- 
deress, until I either deceive, break my promise, en- 
courage, or entertain him. Heaven has not yet been 
pleased to show whether it is its will I should love by 
destiny ; and itis vain to think I will ever doit by choice: 
so let this general caution serve every one of those who 
make their addresses to me for their own ends. Andif 
any one hereafter dies on my account, let not their jeal- 
ousy, nor my scoru or hate, be thought the cause of their 
death; for she who never pretended to love cannot 
make any one jealous, and a free and generous declara- 
tion of our fixed resolution ought not to be counted 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


hate ordisdain. In short, let him that calls me atigress, 
and a basilisk, avoid me as a dangerous thing; and let him 
that calls me ungrateful, give over serving me: I assure 
them I will never seek nor pursue them. Therefore let 
none hereafter make it their business to disturb my 
ease, nor strive to make me hazard among men the peace 
I now enjoy, which I am persuaded is not to be found 
with them. I have wealth enough; I neither love nor 
hate any one: the innocent conversation of the neigh- 
boring shepherdesses, and the care of my flocks, help 
me to pass away my time, without either coquetting 
with this man or practising arts to ensnare that other. 
My thoughts are limited by these mountains; and if 
they wander further, it is only to admire the beauty of 
heaven, and thus by steps to raise my soul towards her 
original dwelling.” 

As soon as she had said this, without staying for any 
answer, she left the place, and ran into the thickest of 
the adjoining wood, leaving all that heard her charmed 
with her discretion as well as with her beauty. How- 
ever, so prevalent were the charms of the latter, that 
some or the company, who were desperately. struck, 
could not forbear offering to follow her, without being 
the least deterred by the solemn protestations which 
they had heard her make that very moment. But Don 
Quixote perceiving their design, and believing he had 
now a fit opportunity to exert his knight-errantry : 

“Let no man,” cried he, “of what quality or condition 
soever, presume to follow the fair Marcella, under the 
penalty of incurring my furious displeasure. She has 
made it appear, by undeniable reasons, that she was 
not guilty of Chrysostome’s death; and has positively 
declared her firm resolution never to condescend to the 
desires of any of her admirers; for which reason, in- 
stead of being importuned and persecuted, she ought to 
be esteemed and honored by all good men, as being per- 
haps the only woman in the world that ever lived with 
such a virtuous reservedness.” 

Now, whether it were that Don Quixote’s threats 
terrified the amorous shepherds, or that Ambrose’s per- 
suasion prevailed with them to stay and see their friend 
interred, none of the shepherds left the place, till the 





53 


grave was made, and the papers burnt, the body was 
deposited into the bosom of the earth, not without many 
tears from all the assistants. They covered the grave 
with a great stone, till a monument was made, which 
Ambrose said he designed to have set up there, with 
the following epitaph upon it:— 
CHRYSOSTOME'S EPITAPH. 


Here of a wretched swain 
-The frozen body’s laid, 
Kill'd by the cold disdain 
Of anungrateful maid, 


Here first love’s power he tried, 
Here first his pains express’d : 
Here first he was denied, 
Here first he chose to rest. 


, 


You who the shepherd mourn, 
From coy Marcella fly ; 

Who Chrysostome could scorn, 
May all mankind destroy, 

The shepherds strewed the grave with many flowers 
and boughs; and every one having condoled a while 
with his friend Ambrose, they took their leave of him, 
and departed. Vivaldo and his companion did the 
like; as did also Don Quixote, who was not a person to 
forget himself on such occasions: he likewise bid adieu 
to the kind goatherds, that had entertained him, and to 
the two travellers who desired him to go with them to 
Seville, assuring him there was no place in the world 
more fertile in adventures, every street and every cor- 
ner there producing some. 

Don Quixote returned them thanks for their kind in- 
formation; but told them, “he neither would nor ought 
to go to Seville, till he had cleared all those mountains 
of the thieves and robbers which he heard very much 
infested all those parts.” 

Thereupon the travellers, being unwilling to divert 
him from so good a design, took their leaves of him once 
more, and pursued their journey, sufficiently supplied 
with matter to discourse on, from the story of Marcella 
and Chrysostome, and Don Quixote’s follies. As for him, 
he resolved to find out the shepherdess Marcella, if pos- 
sible, to offer her his service to protect her to the utmost 
of his power: but he happened to be crossed in his de- 
signs, as you shall hearin the sequel of this true history. 





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CHAPTER XV. 


GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE'S UNFORTUNATE RECOUNTER WITH CERTAIN BLOODY-MINDED AND 


WICKED YANGUESIAN CARRIERS. 


THE sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, that when 
Don Quixote had taken leave of all those that were at 
Chrysostome's funeral, he and his squire went after 
Marcella into the wood; and having ranged it above 
two hours without being able to find her, they came at 
last to a meadow, whose springing green, watered with 
a delightful and refreshing rivulet, invited, or rather 
pleasantly forced them, to alight and give way to the 
heat of the day, which began to be, very violent: so 
leaving the ass and Rozinante to graze at large, they 
ransacked the wallet, and without ceremony the master 
and the man fell to, and. fed. lovingly on what they 
found. se 

Now Sancho had not taken care to tie up Rozinante, 
knowing him to be a horse of great sobriety., But for- 
tune so ordered it, that a good number of Galician 
mares, belonging to some Yanguesian carriers, were 
then feeding in the same valley; it being the custom of 
those men, about the hottest time of the day, to stop 
wherever they met with grass and water, to refresh 
their cattle; nor could they have found a fitter place 
than that where Don Quixote was. 

Now Rozinante was all of a sudden taken with a fancy 
for going to flirt with the mares; so, forsaking his nat- 
ural gravity and reservedness, and without asking his 
master’s leave, away he trots it briskly to them: but 
they, who it seems had more mind to feed than to be 
merry, received him so rudely, with their heels and 
teeth, that in a trice they broke his girths and threw 
down his saddle, and left him disrobed of all his equip- 
age. And for an addition to his misery, the carriers 
perceiving the violence that was offered to their mares, 
flew to their relief with poles and pack-staves, and so 
belabored poor Rozinante, that he soon sunk to the 
ground under the weight of their unmerciful blows. 

Don Quixote and Sancho, perceiving at a distance the 
ill-usage of Rozinante, ran with all speed to his rescue; 
and as they came near the place, panting, and almost 
out of breath— 

“Friend Sancho,” cried Don Quixote, “I perceive 
these are no knights, but only a pack of scoundrels, and 





fellows of the lowest rank. I tell thee this, because 
thou mayest lawfully help me to revenge the injury 
they have done Rozinante before our faces.” 

“What are you saying about revenge ?” quoth San- 
cho; “we are likely to revenge ourselves finely! you 
see they are above twenty, and we are but two; nay, 
perhaps but one and a half.” 

“T alone am worth a hundred,” replied Don Quixote; 
and then, without any more words, he drew his sword, 
and flew upon the Yanguesians. ‘ 

Sancho, encouraged by his master’s example, did the 
like; and with the first blow which Don Quixote gave 
one of them, he cut through his leathern doublet, and 
gave him a deep slash in the shoulder. : 

‘The Yanguesians, seeing themselves thus rudely 
handled by two men only, betook themselves to their 
levers and pack-staves, and then all at once surround- 
ing the valiant knight and his trusty squire, they 
charged them and laid on with great fury. At the sec- 
ond round, they brought poor Sancho to the ground, 
and then Don Quixote himself, who, as chance would 


|) have it, fell at the feet of Rozinante, that had not yet 


recovered his legs; whence we may learn how unmerci- 
fully pack-staves will bruise, when in rustic and wrath- 
ful hands. a Sees 

The Yanguesians, fearing the ill consequence ofthe 
mischief they had done, made all the haste they could 
to be gone, leaving our two adventurers in a woful con- 
dition. - 

The first that recovered his senses was Sancho Panza, 
who, finding himself near his master, called to him thus, 
with a weak and doleful voice: ~~ 

“Ah, master! master! Sir, Sir Knight!” | 

“What is the matter; friend Sancho?” asked: the 
knight, in the same feeble and lamenting tone.. Ñ 

“I could wish,” replied Sancho, “that your worship 
would help me to two good draughts of the liquor you 
talk of, if you have any by you; perhaps it is as good 
to cure broken bones as it is to heal outward wounds.” 

“Oh! that I had some of it here now,” cried Don 
Quixote; “we could not then be said to want anything: 

55 





WA 


y 
yn 


: 

















‘©The Yanguesians betook themselves to their levers and pack-staves "—p, 55. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


but I swear to thee, honest Sancho, by the faith of a 
knight-errant, that within these two days (if no other 
disaster prevent me) I will have some of it at my dis- 
posal, or I shall have lost the use of my hands.” 

“Two days, sir!” replied Sancho: “why, pray how 
many days do you think it will be before we are able to 
stir our feet ?” 

“ As for myself,” answered the bruised Don Quixote, 
“T must own I could not exactly state how many. But 
it is I who am the fatal cause of all this mischief; I 
ought not to have drawn my sword against a company 
of fellows, upon whom the honor of knighthood was 
never conferred; and I do not doubt but that the Lord 
of hosts suffered this punishment to befal me for trans- 
gressing thus the laws of chivalry. Therefore, friend 
Sancho, observe what I am going to tell thee, for it is a 
thing that highly concerns the welfare of us both; it is 
that for the future, whenever thou perceivest us to be 
any ways abused by such inferior fellows, thou art not 
to expect I should offer to draw my sword against them; 
for I will not do it in the least: no, do thou then draw 
and chastise them as thou thinkest fit; but if any 
knights come to take their parts, then will I be 
sure to step between thee ‘and danger, and assault 
them with the utmost vigor and intrepidity. Thou 
hast already had a thousand proofs of the great- 
ness of my valor, and the prevailing strength of my 
most dreadful arm.” So arrogant the knight was 
grown since his victory over the bold Biscayan. 

But Sancho was not so well pleased with his master’s 
admonitions, as to forbear answering. “Sir,” says he, 
“T am a peaceful man, a harmless, quiet fellow, d’ye 
see; I can make shift to pass by an injury as well as 
any man, as having a wife to maintain, and children to 
bring up; and therefore pray take this from me by the 
way of advice (for I will not offer to command my 
master), that I will not in any wise draw my sword 
neither against knight nor clown, not I; and that, from 
this time forward,I freely forgive all mankind, high 
and low, rich and poor, lords and beggars, whatever 
wrongs they ever did or may do me, without the least 
exception.” 

“Sancho,” said his master, hearing this, “I heartily 
wish I had breath enough to answer thee effectually, or 
that the pain which I feel in one of my short ribs would 
leave me but for so long as might serve to convince 
thee of thy error. Come, suppose, thou silly wretch, 
that the gale of fortune, which has hitherto been so 
contrary to us, should at last turn favorable, swelling 
the sails of our desires, so that we might with as much 
security as ease arrive at some of those islands which I 
have promised thee; what would become of thee, if, 
after I had conquered one of them, I were to make thee 
lord of it? Thou wouldst certainly be found not duly 
qualified for that dignity, as having abjured all knight- 
hood, all thoughts of honor, and all intention to revenge 
injuries, and defend thy owndominions. For thou must 
understand, that in kingdoms and provinces newly 
conquered, the hearts and minds of the inhabitants are 
never so thoroughly subdued, or wedded to the inter- 
ests of their new sovereign, but that there is reason to 





57 


fear they will endeavor to raise some commotions to 
change the face of affairs, and, as men say, once more 
try their fortune. Therefore it is necessary that the 
new possessor have not only understanding to govern, 
but also valor to attack his enemies, and defend himself 
on all occasions. ; 

“TI would I had had that volor and understanding you 
talk of,” quoth Sancho, “in this that hath now befallen 
us; but now, sir, I must be free to tell you, I have more 
need of asurgeon than of apreacher. Pray try whether 
you can rise, and we will help Rozinante, though he 
does not deserve it; for he is the chief cause of all this 
beating. For my part, I could never have believed the 
like of him. In short, it isa true saying, that ‘a man 
must eat a peck of salt with his friend, before he knows 
him;’ and that ‘there is nothing sure in this world:’ 
for who would haye thought, after the dreadful slashes 
you gave to that knight-errant, such a terrible tempest of 
pack-staves would so soon have fallen upon our should- 
ers?” 

“As for thine,” replied Don Quixote, “I expect they 
are used to endure such sort of tempests; but mine, that 
were nursed in soft linen, will most certainly be longer 
sensible of this misfortune; and were it not that I 
imagine—(but why dol say imagine?)—were it not 
that I am positively sure that all these inconveniences 
are inseparable from the profession of chivalry, I would 
abandon myself to grief, and die of mere despair on this 
very spot.” 

“T beseech you, sir,” quoth Sancho, “since these rubs 
are the veils of your trade of knighthood, tell me whether 
they are to come often, or whether we may look for 
them at set times? for, I fancy, if we meet but with two 
such harvests, we shall never be able to reap a third, 
unless God, of his infinite mercy, assist us.” 

“Know, friend Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “that 
the lives of knights-errant are subject to a thousand 
hazards and misfortunes: but on the other side, they 
may at any time suddenly become kings and emperors, 
as experience has demonstrated in many knights, of 
whose histories I have a perfect knowledge. Thus I 
may well bear my misfortune patiently, since those 
which so many greater persons have endured may be 
said to outdo it: for I would have thee know, that 
these wounds that are given with the instruments and 
tools which a man happens to have in his hand, do not 
really disgrace the person struck. We read expressly 
in the laws of duels, ‘That if a shoemaker strike another 
man with his last which he held in his hand, though it 
be of wood, as a cudgel is, yet the party who was 
struck with it shall not be said to have been cudgelled.’ 
I tell thee this, that thou mayest not think we are in 
the least dishonored, though we have been horribly 
beaten in this encounter; for the weapons which those 
men used were but instruments of their profession, and 
not one of them, as I very well remember, had either 
tuck, or sword, or dagger.” 

“They gave me no leisure,” quoth Sancho, “‘to exam- 
ine things so narrowly; for I had no sooner drawn my 
cutlass, than they crossed my shoulders with such a 
wooden blessing, as settled me on the ground without 


_. €Q__Ro AA 


i 


| ' 
q al 


“ Leading the ass by the halter, he took the nearest way hi 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


sense or motion, where you see me now lying, and 
where I don’t trouble my head whether it be a disgrace 
to be mauled with cudgels or with pack-staves; let 
them be what they will, I am only vexed to feel them 
so heavy on my shoulders, where I am afraid they are 
imprinted as deep as they are on my mind.” 

“For all this,” replied Don Quixote, “I must inform 
thee, friend Sancho, that there is no remembrance 
which tine will not efface, nor no pain to which death 
will not.put a period.” — 

“Thank you for nothing,” quoth Sancho; “what worse 

can befall us, than to have only death to trust to? Were 
our affliction to be cured with a plaster or two, a man 
might have some patience; but for aught I see, all the 
salves in an hospital won’t set us on our best legs 
again.” ; 
Come, no more of this,” cried Don Quixote, “take 
courage, and make a virtue of necessity; for it is what 
I am resolved to do. Let us see how it fares with Roz- 
inante; for if I am not mistaken, the poor creature has 
not been the least sufferer in this adventure.” 

“No wonder at that,” quoth Sancho, “seeing he’s a 
knight-errant, too: I rather wonder how my ass has 
escaped so well, while we have fared so ill.” 

“In our disasters,“ returned Don Quixote, “fortune 
leaves always some door open to come at aremedy. I 
say it, Sancho, because that little beast may now supply 
the want of Rozinante, to carry me to some castle where 
I may get cured. Nor do I esteem this kind of riding 
dishonorable, for I remember that the good old Silenus, 
tutor and governor to the jovial god of wine, rode very 
fairly on a goodly ass, when he made his entry into the 
city with a hundred gates.” 

“Ay,” quoth Sancho, “it will do well enough, could 
you ride as fairly on your ass as he did on his; but 
there is a deal of difference between riding and being 
laid across the pummel like a sack.” 

“The wounds which are received in combat,” said 
Don Quixote, “rather add to our honor than deprive us 








59 


of it; therefore, good Sancho, trouble me with no more 
replies, but as I said, endeavor to get up, and lay me 
as thou pleasest upon thy ass.” 

“But, sir,” cried Sancho, “I have heard you say that 
it is a common thing among you knights-errant to sleep 
in the fields and deserts the best part of the year, and 
that you look upon it to be a very happy kind of life.” 

“That is to say,” replied Don Quixote, “when we 
can do no better, or when we are in love; and this is so 
true, that there have been knights who have dwelt on 
rocks exposed to the sun, and other inclemencies of 


¡the sky, for the space of two years, without their lady’s 


knowledge. But setting these discourses aside, pr’y- 
thee dispatch, lest some mischief befall the ass, as it 
has done Rozinante.” | s 

“That would be a calamity indeed,” replied Sancho; 
and so, breathing out some thirty lamentations, three- 
score sighs, and a hundred and twenty plagues on those 
that had decoyed him thither, he at last got upon his 
legs, yet not so but that he went stooping, with his 
body bent like a Turk’s bow, not being able to stand 
upright. Yet in this crooked posture he made a shift 
to harness his ass. After this, he helped up Rozinante, 
who, could his tongue have expressed his sorrows, would 
certainly not have been outdone by Sancho and his 
master. After many bitter “Oh's!” and screwed faces, 
Sancho laid Don Quixote on the ass, tied Rozinante to 
its tail, and then leading the ass by the halter, he took 
the nearest way that he could guess to the high road; 
to which he luckily came, before he had travelled a 
short league, and then he discovered an inn; which, in 
spite of all he could say, Don Quixote was pleased to 
mistake for a castle. Sancho swore it was an inn, and 
his master was as positive of the contrary. In short, 
their dispute lasted so long that before they could de- 
cide it they reached the inn door, where Sancho straight 
went in, with all his train, without troubling himself 
any farther about the matter. 





o > NS 
DE OS 
su SR 





RARE 


ES 


CHAPTER XVI. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK FOR A CASTLE. 


THE innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote lying athwart the 
ass, asked Sancho what ailed him? Sancho answered it 
was nothing, only his master had got a fall from the top 
of arock to the bottom, and had bruised his sides a little. 
The innkeeper had a wife, very different from the com- 
mon sort of hostesses, for she was of a charitable na- 
ture and very compassionate of her neighbors’ affliction ; 
which made her immediately take care of Don Quixote, 
and call her daughter (a good, handsome girl) to set 
her helping hand to his cure. One of the servants in 
the inn was an Asturian girl, a broad-faced flat-headed, 
saddle-nosed dowdy; blind of one eye, and the other 
almost out: however, the activity of her body supplied 
all other defects. She was not above three feet high from 
her heels to her head; and her shoulders, which some- 
what loaded her, as having too much flesh upon them, 
made her look downwards oftener than she could have 
wished. This charming original likewise assisted the 
mistress and the daughter, and with the latter helped 
to make the knight’s bed, and a sorry one it was; the 
room where it stood was an old cock-loft, which by man- 
ifold signs seemed to have been, in the days of yore, a 
repository for chopped straw. Somewhat farther, in a 
corner of that garret, a carrier had his lodging; and 
though his bed was nothing but the pannels and cover- 
ings of his mules, it was much better than that of Don 
Quixote, which only consisted of four rough-hewn 
boards laid upon two uneven tressels, a flock-bed that, 
for thinness, might well have passed for a quilt, and 
was full of knobs and bunches, which, had they not 
peeped out through many a hole, and shown themselves 
to be of wool, might well have been taken for stones. 





The rest of that extraordinary bed’s furniture was a 
pair of sheets, which rather seemed to be of leather 
than of linen-cloth, and a coverlet whose every indi- 
vidual thread you might have told, and never have 
missed one in the tale. 

In this ungracious bed was the knight laid, to rest 
his belabored carcass, and presently the hostess and 
her daughter anointed and plastered him all over, while 
Maritornes (for that was the name of the Asturian girl) 
held the candle. The hostess, while she greased him, 
wondering to see him so bruised all over, “ I fancy,” 
said she, “those bumps look much more like a dry 
beating ihan a fall.“ 

“It was no dry beating, mistress, I promise you,” 
quoth Sancho, “ but the rock had I know not how many 
cragged ends and knobs, whereof every one gave my 
master atoken of his kindness. And by the way, for- 
sooth,” continued he, “ I beseech you to save a little of 
that same tow and ointment for me too, for I don’t know 
what is the matter with my back, but I fancy I stand 
mainly in want of alittle greasing too.” 

“What ! I suppose you fell too ?” quoth the landlady. 

“Not I,” quoth Sancho, “but the very fright that I 
took to see my master tumble, down the rock, has so 
wrought upon my body, that I am as sore as if I had 
been sadly mauled.” 

“It may well be as you say,” cried the innkeeper’s 
daughter; “for I have dreamed several times that I 
have been falling from the top of a high tower without 
ever coming to the ground; and, when I waked, I have 
found myseif as out of order, and as bruised, as if I had 
fallen in good earnest.” 

60 


























“He verily believed his last hour was come.”-—p. 62, 


62 


“That is e'en my case, mistress,” quoth Sancho; “only 
ill luck would have it so, that I should find myself e’en 
almost as battered and bruised as my lord Don Quixote, 
and yet all the while he is broad awake as I am 
now.” 

“How do you call this same gentleman?” quoth 
Maritornes. 

“He is Don Quixote de la Mancha,” replied Sancho; 
and he is a knight-errant; and one of the primest and 
stoutest that ever the sun shone on.” 

“A knight-errant!” cried the girl; “pray, what is 
that?” Pe 

“Heigh-day ! ” cried Sancho, “does she know no more 
of the world than that comes to? Why, a knight-errant 
is a thing which in two words you see well cudgelled, 
and then an emperor. To-day there is not a more 
wretched thing upon the earth, and yet to-morrow he’ll 
have two or three kingdoms to give away to his 
squire.” 

“How comes it to pass, then,” quoth the landlady, 
“that thou, who art this great person’s squire, hast not 
yet got thee at least an earldom ?” 

“Fair and softly goes far,” replied Sancho. “Why, 
we have not been a month in our gears, so that we have 
not yet encountered any adventure worth the naming; 
besides, many a time we look for one thing, and light 
on another. But if my lord Don Quixote happens to 
get well again, and I escape remaining a cripple, 111 
not take the best title in the land for what Iam sure 
will fall to my share.” 

Here Don Quixote, who had listened with great at- 
tention to all these discourses, raised himself up in his 
bed with much ado, and taking the hostess in a most 
obliging manner by the hand— 

“Believe me,” said he “beautiful lady, you may well 
esteem it a happiness that you have now the opportu- 
nity to entertain my person in your castle. Self-praise 
is unworthy aman of honor, and therefore I shall say 
no more of myself, but my squire will inform you who I 
am; only thus much let me add, that I will eternally 
preserve your kindness in the treasury of my remen- 
brance, and study all occasions to testify my gratitude. 
And I wish,” continued he, “the powers above had so 
disposed my fate, that I were not already love’s devoted 
slave, and captivated by the charms of the disdainful 
beauty who engrosses all my softer thoughts! for then 
would I be proud to sacrifice my liberty to this beauti- 
ful damsel.” 

The hostess, her daughter, and the kind-hearted Ma- 
ritornes, stared at one another, quite at a loss for the 
meaning of this high-flown language, which they under- 
stood full as well as if had been Greek. Yet, conceiv- 
ing these were words of compliment and courtship, 
they looked upon him and admired him as a man of an- 
other world: and, so having made him such returns as 
innkeepers’ breeding could afford, they left him to his 
rest; only Maritornes stayed to rub down Sancho, who 
wanted her help no less than his master. 

“Sancho” said Don Quixote presently, “I pray thee 
rise, if thou canst, and desire the governor of the castle 
to send me some oil, salt, wine and rosemary, that I may 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


make my healing balsam that will cure us in the twink- 
ling of an eye; for truly I want it extremely.” 

Sancho then got up as fast as his aching bones would 
let him, and with much ado made shift to crawl out of 
the room to look for the innkeeper; and, stumbling by 
the way on an officer belonging to that society which 
they call the Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, whose chief 
office it is to look after thieves and robbers, and who 
happened that night to lodge in the inn—“Sir,” quoth 
he to him, “for Heaven’s sake do so much as help us to 
a little oil, salt, wine and rosemary, to make a medicine 
for one of the best knights-errant that ever trod on shoe 
of leather, who lies yonder grievously wounded.” 

The officer, hearing him talk at this rate, took him to 
be one out of his wits: but he opened the inn-door, and 
told the innkeeper what Sancho wanted. The host pre- 
sently provided the desired ingredients, and Sancho 
crept back with themto his master, whom he found 
holding his head, and sadly complaining of the pain 
which he felt there. 

The knight took all the ingredients, and, having 
mixed them together, he had them set over the fire, and 
there kept them boiling till he thought they were 
enough. That done, he asked for a phial to put this 
precious liquor in: but there being none to be got, the 
innkeeper presented him with an old earthen jug, and 
Don Quixote was forced to be contented with that. Then 
he mumbled over the pot above fourscore Paternosters, 
and asmany Ave Marias, Salva Reginas,and Credos, mak- 
ing the sign of the cross at every word by way of bene- 
diction; at which ceremony Sancho, the innkeeper, and 
the officer were present. This blessed medicine being 
made, Don Quixote resolved to make an immediate exper- 
iment of it upon himself: and to that (purpose he took 
off a good draught of the overplus, which the pot would 
not hold: but he had scarce gulped it down, when it set 
him a-vomiting so violently, that you would have 
thought he would have cast up his heart; and his 
retching and straining put him into such a sweat, that 
he desired to be covered up warm, and left to his repose. 
With that they left him, and he slept three whole hours; 
and then waking, found himself so wonderfully eased, 
that he made no question but he had now the right bal- 
sam of Fierabras; and therefore he thought he might 
safely undertake all the most dangerous adventures in 
the world, without the least hazard of his person. 

Sancho, encouraged by the wonderful effect of the 
balsam on his master, begged that he would be pleased 
to give him leave to sip up what was left in the pot, 
which was no small quantity; and the Don having con- 
sented, honest Sancho lifted it up with both his hands, 
and with a strong faith, and better will, poured every 
drop down his throat. Now the man’s stomach not be- 
ing so nice as his master’s, the drench did not set him 
a-vomiting after that manner: but caused such a rum- 
bling in his stomach, such a bitter loathing, kecking, 
and retching, and such grinding pangs, with cold sweats 
and swoonings, that he verily believed his last hour 
was come. 

“Friend,” said Don Quixote, seeing him in that con- 
dition, “I begin to think all this pain befalls thee, only 









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“* T have nothing to do with all this,” cried the innkeeper ; “pay your reckoning.”—p, 64, 


64 


because thou hast not received the order of knighthood ; 
for it is my opinion, this balsam ought to be used by no 
man that is not a professed knight.” 

“What did you mean then by letting me drink it?” 
quoth Sancho. “Why did you not tell me this before ?” 

But Don Quixote, as we have said, found himself at 
ease and whole; and his active soul loathing an inglo- 
rious repose, he presently was impatient to depart to 
perform the duties of his adventurous profession: for 
he thought those moments that were trifled away in 
amusements, or other concerns, only a blank in life; and 
all delays a-depriving distressed persons, and the world 
in general, of his needed assistance. Thus carried away 
by his eager thoughts, he saddled Rozinante himself, 
and then put the pannel upon the ass, and his squire 
upon the pannel, after he had helped him to huddle on 
his clothes: that done, he mounted his steed; and hav- 
ing spied a javelin that stood in a corner, he seized and 
appropriated it to himself, to supply the want of his 
lance. Above twenty people that were in the inn were 
spectators of all these transactions; and among the rest 
the innkeeper’s daughter, from whom Don Quixote had 
not power to withdraw his eyes, breathing out at every 
glance a deep sigh from the very bottom of his heart; 
which those who had seen him so mortified the night 
before, took to proceed from the pain of his bruises. 

And now, being ready to set forwards, he called for 
the master of the house, and with a grave delivery, 
“My lord governor,” cried he, “the favors I have re- 
ceived in your castle are so great and extraordinary, 
that they bind my grateful soul to an eternal acknowl- 
edgment: therefore, that I may be so happy as to dis- 
charge part of the obligation, think if there be ever a 
proud mortal breathing on whom you desire to be re- 
venged for some affront or other injury, and acquaint 
me with it now; and by my order of knighthood, which 
binds me to protect the weak, relieve the oppressed, 
and punish the bad, I promise you I’ll take effectual 
care that you shall have ample satisfaction.” 

“Sir Knight,” answered the innkeeper, with an aus- 
tere gravity, “I shall not need your assistance to re- 
venge any wrong that may be offered to my person; for 
I am able to do myself justice, whenever any man pre- 
sumes to do me wrong: therefore all the satisfaction I 
desire is, that you will pay your reckoning for horse- 
meat and man’s meat, and all your expenses in my 
inn.” 

“How!” cried Don Quixote is this an inn?” 

“Yes,” answered the host, “and one of the most 
noted and of the best repute upon the road.” 

“How strangely have I been mistaken, then!” cried 
Don Quixote; “upon my honor I took it for a castle, 
and a considerable one, too; but if it be an inn, and not 
a castle, all I have to say is, that you must excuse me 
from paying anything; for I would by no means break 
the laws which we knights-errant are bound to observe ; 
nor was it ever known that they paid in any inn what- 
soever; for this is the least recompense that can be al- 
lowed them for the intolerable labors they endure day 
and night, winter and summer, on foot and on horse- 
back, pinched with hunger, choked with thirst, and 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


exposed to all the injuries of the air, and all the incon- 
veniences in the world.” 

“TI have nothing to do with all this,” cried the inn- 
keeper: “pay your reckoning, and don't bother me with 
your foolish stories of a cock and a bull; I can’t afford 
to keep house at that rate.” 

“Thou art both a fool and a knave of an inkeeper!” 
replied Don Quixote: and with that, clapping spurs to 
Rozinante, and brandishing his javelin at his host, he 
rode out of the inn without any opposition, and gota 
good way from it, without so much as once looking be- 
hind him to see whether his squire came after him. 

The knight being marched off, the host ran to demand 
his due from Sancho Panza. However, he swore he 
would not pay; for the selfsame law that acquitted the 
knight acquitted the squire. This put the innkeeper 
into a great passion, and made him threaten Sancho 
very hard, telling him if he would not pay him by fair 
means, he would have him laid by the heels that 
moment. Sancho swore by his master’s knighthood, he 
would sooner part with his life than his money on such 
an account: nor should the squires in after ages ever 
have occasion to upbraid him with giving so ill a pre- 
cedent, or breaking their rights. Butas ill luck would 
have it, there happened to be in the inn four Segovia 
clothiers, three Cordova point-makers, and two Seville 
hucksters, all brisk, gamesome, arch fellows; who agree- 
ing all in the same design, encompassed Sancho, and 
pulled him off his ass, while one of them went and got 
a blanket. Then they put the unfortunate squire into 
it, and observing the roof of the place they were in to 
be somewhat too low for their purpose, they carried him 
into the back yard, which had no limits but the sky, 
and there they tossed him for several times together 
in the blanket, as they do dogs on Shrove Tuesday. 
Poor Sancho made so grevious an outcry all the while, 
that his master heard him, and imagined those lamen- 
tations were of some person in distress, and consequent- 
ly the occasion of some adventure: but having at last 
distinguished the voice, he made to the inn at a lumber- 
ing gallop; and finding the gates shut, he rode about to 
see whether he might not find some other way to get in. 
But he no sooner came to the back yard wall, which 
was none of the highest, than he was an eye-witness to 
the scurvy trick that was put upon his squire. There 
he saw him ascend and descend, and frolic and caper in 
the air with so much nimbleness and agility, that it is 
thought the knight himself could not have forborne 
laughing, had he been anything less angry. He did 
his best to get over the wall, but, alas! he was so 
bruised, that he could not so much as alight from his 
horse. This made him fume and chafe, and vent his 
passion in a thousand threats and revilings, so strange 
and various, that itis impossible to repeat them. But 
the more he stormed, the more they tossed and laughed; 
Sancho on his side begging, and howling, and threaten- 
ing, to as little purpose as his master, for it was weari- 
ness alone could make the tossers give over. Then 
they charitably put an end to his high dancing, and 
set him upon his ass again, carefully wrapped in his 
mantle. 








he more he stormed, the more they tossed and laughed."—p. 64. 





66 


But Maritornes’ tender soul made her pity a male 
creature in such tribulation; and thinking he had 
danced and tumbled enough to be a-dry, she was so 
generous as to help him to a draught of water, which 
she purposely drew from the well that moment, that it 
might be the cooler. Sancho clapped the pot to his 
mouth, but his master made him desist. “Hold, hold!” 
cried he, “son Sancho; drink no water, child, it will 
kill thee: behold, I have here the most holy balsam, 
two drops of which will cure thee effectually.” 

“Ha!” replied Sancho, shaking his head, and looking 
sourly on the knight with a side-face; “have you again 
forgot that T am no knight? Keep your brewings for 
yourself, and let me alone.” 

With that he lifted up the jug to his nose, but find- 
ing it to be mere element, he spirted out again the little 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


he had tasted, and desired the girl to help him to some 
liquor: so she went and fetched him wine, to make 
him aménds, and paid for it, too, out of her own pocket. 
As soon as Sancho had tipped off his wine, he visited 
his ass’s ribs twice or thrice with his heels, and, free 
egress being granted him, he trooped off, mightily 
satisfied that he had paid nothing, and had carried his 
point, though at the expense of his shoulders, his usual 
sureties. lt is true, the innkeeper kept his wallet for 
the reckoning; but the poor squire was so dismayed, 
and in such haste to be gone, that he never missed it. 
The host was for shutting the inn-doors after him, for 
fear of the worst; but the tossers would not let him, 
being a sort of fellows that would not have mattered 
Don Quixote a straw, though he had really been one of 
the Knights of the Round Table. 








CHAPTER XVII. 


OF THE DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE KNIGHT AND THE SQUIRE, WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH RELATING. 


SANCHO overtook his master, but so pale, so dead- 
hearted, and so mortified, that he was hardly able to 
sit his ass. 

“My dear Sancho,” said Don Quixote, seeing him in 
that condition, “I am now fully convinced that this 
castle, or inn, is enchanted; for what could they be 
that made themselves such barbarous sport with thee, 
but spirits and people of the other world? and I the 
rather believe this, seeing that when I looked over the 
wall, and saw thee thus abused, I strove to get over it, 
but could not stir, nor by any means alight from Rozi- 
nante. For, by my honor, could I either have got over 
the wall or dismounted, I would have revenged thee so 
effectually on those discourteous wretches, that they 
should never have forgot the severity of their punish- 
ment, though for once I had infringed the laws of 
chivalry, which, as I have often informed thee, do not 
permit any knight to lay hands on one that is not 
knighted, unless it be in his own defence, and in case 
of great necessity.” 

“Nay,” quoth Sancho, “I would have paid them home 
myself, whether knight or no knight, but it was not in 
my power; and yet, I dare say, those that made them- 
selves so merry with my carcass were neither spirits 
nor enchanted folks, as you will have it, but mere flesh 
and blood, as we be. I am sure they called one another 
by their Christian names and surnames, while they 
made me vault and frisk in the air: one was called 
Pedro Martinez, the other Tenorio Hernandez; and as 
for our dog of an host, I heard them call him Juan 
Palomeque, the left-handed. Then pray don’t you 
fancy that your not being able to get over the wall, nor 
to alight, was some enchanter’s trick. It is a folly to 
make many words; it is as plain as the nose in a man's 
face, that these same adventures which we hunt for up 
and down are like to bring us at last into a peck of 
troubles, and such a plaguy deal of mischief, that we 
shan't be able to set one foot afore the other. The 
short and the long is, I take it to be the wisest course 





17 


to jog home and look after our harvest, and not to run 
rambling from Ceca to Mecca, lest we leap out of the 
frying-pan into the fire, or out of God's blessing into 
the warm sun. 

“Poor Sancho,” cried Don Quixote; “how ignorant 
thou art in matters of chivalry! Come, say no more, 
and have patience: a day will come when thou shalt be 
convinced how honorable a thing it is to follow this 
employment. For, tell me, what satisfaction in this 
world, what pleasure can equal that of vanquishing 
and triumphing over one's enemy? None, without 
doubt.” 

“It may be so, for aught 1 know,” quoth Sancho, 
“though 1 know nothing of the matter. However, this 
I may venture to say, that ever since we have turned 
knights-errant—your worship, I mean, for it is not for 
such scrubs as myself to be named the same day with 
such folk—not any fight have you had the better in, 
unless it be that with the Biscayan: and in that, too, 
you came off with the loss of one ear and the vizor of 
your helmet. And what have we got ever since, pray, 
but blows, and more blows; bruises, and more bruises? 
besides this tossing in a blanket, which fell all to my 
share, and for which I cannot be revenged, because 
they were hobgoblins that served me so forsooth, though 
I hugely long to be even with them, that I may know 
the pleasure you say there is in vanquishing one’s 
enemy.” 

“T find, Sancho,” cried Don Quixote, “thou and I are 
both sick of the same disease; but I will endeavor with 
all speed to get me a sword made with so much art, 
that no sort of enchantment shall be able to hurt who- 
soever shall wear it, and perhaps fortune may put into 
my hand that which Amadis de Gaul wore when he 
styled himself the Knight of the Burning Sword, which 
was one of the best blades that ever was drawn by 
knight; for, besides the virtue I know mentioned, it 
had an edge like a razor, and would enter the strongest 
armor that ever was tempered or enchanted.” 

67 


68 DON QUIXOTE 


“Iwilllay anything,” quoth Sancho, “when you have 
found this sword, it will prove just such another help 
to me as your balsam; that is to say, it will stand no- 
body in any stead but your dubbed knights; as for the 
poor squires, they may shift how they ean.” 

“Fear no such thing,” replied Don Quixote; “Heav- 
en will be more propitious to thee than thou ima- 
ginest.” 

Thus they went on discoursing, when Don Quixote 
perceiving a thick cloud of dust arise right before them 
in the roal—“The day is come,” said he, turning to his 
squire; “the day is come, Sancho, that shall usher in 
the happiness which fortune has reserved for me; this 
day shall the strength of my arm be signalized by such 
exploits as shall be transmitted even to the latest pos- 
terity. See’st thou that cloud of dust, Sancho? it is 
raised by a prodigious army marching this way, and 
composed of an infinite number of nations.” 

“Why, then, at this rate, quoth Sancho, “there 
should be two armies; for yonder is as great a dust on 
the other side.” 

With that Don Quixote looked, and was transported 
with joy at the sight, firmly believing that two vast 
armies were ready to engage each other in that plain; 
for his imagination was so crowded with those battles, 
enchantments, surprising adventures, amorous thoughts 
and other whimsies which he had read of in romances, 
that his strong fancy changed everything he saw into 
what he desired to see; and thus he could not conceive 
that the dust was only raised by two large flocks of 
sheep that were going the same road from different 
parts, and could not be discerned till they were very 
near: he was so positive that they were two armies, 
that Sancho firmly believed him at last. 

“Well, sir,” quoth the squire, “what are we to do, I 
beseech you?” 

“What shall we do,” replied Don Quixote, “but 
assist the weaker and injured side? for know, Sancho, 
that the army which now moves towards us is command- 
ed by the great Alifanfaron emperor of the vast island 
of Taprobana: the other that advances behind us is his 
enemy, the King of the Garamantians, Pentapolin of 
the naked army; so called, because he always enters 
into battle with his right arm bare.” 

“Pray, sir,” quoth Sancho, “why are these two great 
men going together by the ears?” 

“The occasion of their quarrel is this,” answered Don 
Quixote; “ Alifanfaron, a strong pagan, is in love with 
Pentapolin’s daughter, a very beautiful lady and a 
Christian: now her father refuses to give her in mar- 
riage to the heathen prince, unless he abjure his false 
belief and embrace the Christian religion.” 

“Burn my beard,” said Sancho, “if Pentapolin be not 
in the right on it; I will stand by him and help him all 
I may.” 

“Il commend thy resolution,” replied Don Quixote; 
“it is not only lawful, but requisite; for there is no need 
of being a knight to fight in such battles.” 

“T guessed as much,” quoth Sancho; “but where 
shall we leave my ass in the meantime, that I may be 
sure to find him again after the battle? for I fancy you 





DE LA MANCHA. 


never heard of any man that ever charged upon such a 
beast.” 

“Jt is true,” answered Don Quixote; “and therefore I 
would have thee turn him loose, though thou wert sure 
never to find him again; for we shall have so many 
horses after we have got the day, that even Rozinante 
himself will be in danger of being changed for another.” 

Then mounting on the top of a hillock, whence they 
might have seen both the flocks, had not the dust ob- 
structed their sight—“Look yonder, Sancho!” cried 
Don Quixote; “that knight whom thou see’st in the 
gilded arms, bearing in his shield a crowned lion 
couchant at the feet of a lady, is the valiant Laurcalco, 
lord of the Silver Bridge. Hein the armor powdered 
with flowers of gold, bearing three crows argent in a 
field azure, is the formidable Micocolembo, great Duke 
of Quiracia. That other of a gigantic size, that marches 
on his right is the undaunted Brandabarbaran of Bo- 
liche, sovereign of the three Arabias; he is arryedin a 
serpent's skin, and carries instead of a shield a huge 
gate, which they say belonged to the temple which 
Samson pulled down at his death, when he revenged 
himself upon his enemies. But cast thy eyes on this 
side, Sancho, and at the head of the other army see the 
victorious Timonel of Carcaxona, Prince of New Biscay, 
whose armor is quartered azure, vert, or an argent, and 
who bears in his shield a cat or, ina field gules, with 
these four letters, MIAU, for a motto, being the begin- 
ing of his mistress’s name, the beautiful Miaulina, 
daughter to Alpheniquen, Duke or Algarva. That 
other monstrous load upon the back of yonder wild 
horse, with arms as white as snow, and ashield without 
device, is a Frenchman, now created kniglit, called 
Pierre Papin, Baron of Utrique: he whom you see prick- 
ing that pied courser’s flanks with his armed heels, is 
the mighty Duke of Nervia, Espartafilardo of the wood, 
bearing in his shield a field of pure azure, powdered 
with asparagus (£sparrago) with this motto in Castilian: 
Rastrea mi suetre— Thus trails, or drags my fortune.’ ” 

And thus he went on, naming a great number of 
others in both armies, to every one of whom his fertile 
imagination assigned arms, colors, devices, and mottoes, 
as readily as if they had really been that moment ex- 
tant before his eyes. “That vast body,” said he, “that 
is just opposite to us is composed of several nations. 
There you see those who drink the pleasant stream of 
the famous Xanthus; therethe mountaineers that till 
the Massilan fields; those that sift the pure gold of 
Arabia Felix; those that inhabit the renowned and de- 
lightful banks of Thermodon. Yonder, there are those 
who so many ways sluice and drain the golden Pactolus 
for its precious sand; the Numidians, unsteady and 
careless of their promises; the Persians, excellent 
archers; the Medes and Parthians, who fight flying; 
the Arabs, who have no fixed habitations; the Scythians, 
cruel and savage, though fair-complexioned; the sooty 
Ethiopians, that bore their lips; and a thousand other 
nations, whose countenances I know, though I have for- 
gotten their names. On the other side come those 
whose country is watered with the crystal streams of 
Betis, shaded with olive-trees; those who bathe their 








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“ He charged the squadron of sheep.”—p. 70. 


70 


limbs in the rich flood of the golden Tagus; those whose 
mansions are laved by the profitable stream of the 
divine Genil; those who range the verdant Tartesian 
meadows; those who indulge their luxurious temper in 
the delicious pastures of Xerez; the wealthy inhab- 
itants of Mancha, crowned with golden ears of corn; 
the ancient offspring of the Goths, cased in iron; those 
who wanton in the lazy current of Pisverga; those who 
feed their numerous flocks in the ample plains where 
the Guadiana, so celebrated for its hidden course, pur- 
sues its wandering race; those who shiver with extrem- 
ity of cold on the woody Pyrenean hills, or on the 
hoary tops of snowy Apennine: in a word all that 
Europe includes within its spacious bounds—half a 
world in an army.” It is scarce to be imagined how 
many countries he had run over, how many nations he 
had enumerated, distinguishing every one by what is 
peculiar to them, with an incredibile vivacity of mind, 
and that still in the puffy style of his fabulous books. 
Sancho listened to all this romantic muster-roll as mute 
asa fish with amazement; all that he could do was now 
and then to turn his head on this side and t’other side, 
to see if he could discern the knights and giants whom 
his master named. Butatlength, not being able to dis- 
cover any—“ Why,” cried he, “you had as good tell me 
it snows; not any knight, giant, or man can I see, of all 
those you talk of now: who knows but all this may be 
witchcraft and spirts, like yesternight?” 

“How!” replied Don Quixote; “dost thou not hear 
their horses neigh, their trumpets sound, and their 
drums beat?” 

“Not 1!” quoth Sancho. “J prick up my ears like a 
sow in the beans, and yet hear nothing but the bleating 
of sheep.” Sancho might well say so, for by this time 
the flocks were very near. 

“Thy fear disturbs thy senses,” said Don Quixote, 
“and hinders thee from hearing and seeing right. But 
it is no matter; withdraw to some place of safety, 
since thou are so terrified; for I alone am sufficient to 
give the victory to that side which I shall favor with 
my assistance.” With that he couched his lance, 
clapped spurs to Rozinante, and darted like a thunder- 
polt into the plain. 

Sancho bawled after him as loud as he could: “Hold, 
sir! for Heaven’s sake, come back! What do you 
mean? as sure as I am a sinner, those you are going to 
maul are nothing but poor, harmless sheep. Come 
pack, I say! Are you mad, sir? there are no giants, no 
knights, no cats, no asparagus-gardens, no golden quar- 
ters, nor what d’ye call thems. What can possess you? 
you are leaping over the hedge before you come at the 
stile—you are taking the wrong sow by the ear. Oh, 
that I was ever born to see this day !” 

But Don Quixote, still riding on, deaf and lost to 
good advice, out-roared his expostulating squire. 
“Courage, brave knights!” cried he; “march up, fall 
on, all you who fight under the standard of the valiant 
Pentapolin with the naked arm: follow me, and you 
shall see how easily I will revenge him on that infidel, 
Alifanfaron of Taprobana!” and so saying, he charged 
the squadron of sheep with that gallantry and resolu- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


tion, that he pierced, broke, and put it to flight in an 
instant, charging through and through, not without a 
great slaughter of his mortal enemies, whom he laid at 
his feet, biting the ground and wallowing in their blood. 
The shepherds, seeing their sheep go to wrack, called 
out to him; till, finding fair means ineffectual, they un- 
loosed their slings, and began to ply him with stones as 
big as their fists. But the champion, disdaining such 
a distant war, spite of their showers of stones, rushed 
among the routed sheep, trampling both the living and 
the slain in a most terrible manner, impatient to meet 
the general of the enemy, and end the war at once. 

“Where, where art thou,” cried he, “proud Alifan- 
faron? Appear! see here a single knight who seeks 
thee everywhere, to try now, hand to hand, the boasted 
force of thy strenuous arm, and deprive thee of life, as 
a due punishment for the unjust war which thou hast 
audaciously waged with the valiant Pentapolin !” 

Just as he had said this, while the stones flew about 
his ears, one unluckily hit upon his small ribs, and had 
like to have buried two of the shortest deep in the 
middle of his body. The knight thought himself slain, 
or at least desperately wounded; and therefore calling 
to mind his precious balsam, and pulling out his earth- 
en jug, he clapped it to his mouth: but before he had 
swallowed a sufficient dose, souse comes another of 
those bitter almonds, that spoiled his draught, and hit 
him so pat upon the jug, hand, and teeth, that it broke 
the first, maimed the second, and struck out three or 
four of the last. These two blows were so violent, that 
the boisterous knight, falling from his horse, lay upon 
the ground as quiet as the slain; so that the shepherds, 
fearing he was killed, got their flock together with all 
speed, and carrying away their dead, which were no less 
than seven sheep, made what haste they could out of 
harm’s way, without looking any farther into the matter. 

All this while Sancho stood upon the hill, mortified 
at the sight of this mad adventure. There he stamped 
and tore his beard for madness, and cursed the moment 
he first knew his master: but seeing him at last knocked 
down and settled, the shepherds having scampered off, 
he thought he might venture to come down; when he 
found him in a very ill plight, though not altogether 
senseless. 

“Ah! master,” quoth he, “this comes of not taking 
my counsel. Did I not tell you it was a flock of sheep, 
and no army ?” 

“Friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “know it is 
an easy matter for necromancers to change the shapes 
of things as they please: thus that malicious enchanter, 
who is my inveterate enemy, to deprive me of the glory 
which he saw me ready to acquire, transformed in a 
moment the routed squadrons into sheep. If thou wilt 
not believe me, Sancho, yet do one thing for my sake; 
do but take thy ass, and follow those supposed sheep 
at a distance, and I dare engage thou shalt soon see 
them resume their former shapes, and appear such as I 
described them.” 

Thereupon Don Quixote got up with much ado, and 
clapping his left hand before his mouth, that the rest 
of his loose teeth might not drop out, he laid his right 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


hand on Rozinante's bridle (for such was the good na- 
ture of the creature, that he had not budged a foot from 
his master); then he crept along to Squire Sancho, who 
stood lolling on his ass's pannel, with his face in the 
hollow of both his hands, in a doleful, moody, melan- 
choly fit. “Friend Sancho,” said he, “learn of me, that 
one man is no more than another, if he do no more than 
what another does. All these storms and hurricanes 
are but arguments of the approaching calm: better suc- 
cess will soon follow our past calamities: good and bad 
fortune have their vicissitudes; and it is a maxim, that 
nothing violent can last long: and therefore we may 
well promise ourselves a speedy change in our fortune, 
since our afflictions have extended their range beyond 
their usual stint: besides, thou oughtest not to afflict 
thyself so much for misfortunes, of which thou hast no 
share, but what friendship and humanity bid thee 
take.” 

“How!” quoth Sancho, “have I no other share in 
them? was not he that was tossed in the blanket this 
morning the son of my father? and did not the wallet, 
and all that was in it, which I have lost, belong to the 
son of my mother ?” 

“How,” asked Don Quixote, “hast thou lost thy 
wallet?” 

“T don’t know,” said Sancho, “whether it is lost or 
no; but I’m sure I can’t tell what is become of it.” 

“Nay, then,” replied Don Quixote, “I find we must 
fast to-day.” 

“Ay, marry must we,” quoth Sancho, “unless you 
take to gather in these fields some of those roots and 
herbs which I have heard you say you know, and which 
used to help such unlucky knights-errant as yourself 
at a dead lift.” 

“For all that,” cried Don Quixote, “I would rather 
have at this time a good luncheon of bread, or a cake 
and two pilchards’ heads, than all the roots and simples 
in Dioscorides’ herbal, and Doctor Laguna’s supplement 
and commentary: I pray thee, therefore, get upon thy 
ass, good Sancho, and follow me once more; for God’s 
providence, that relieves every creature, will not fail 
us, especially since we are about a work so much to his 
service; thou seest he even provides for the little fly- 
ing insects in the air, the wormlings in the earth, and 
the spawnlings in the water; and, in his mercy, he 
makes his sun shine on the righteous and on the unjust, 
and rains upon the good and the bad.” 

“Your worship,” quoth Sancho, “would make a better 
preacher than a knight-errant.” 





71 


“Knights-errant,” replied Don Quixote, “ought to 
know all things: there have been such in former ages, 
that have delivered as ingenious and learned a sermon 
at the head of an army, as if they had taken their de- 
grees at the University of Paris: from which we may 
infer, that the lance never dulled the pen, nor the pen 
the lance.” 

“Well, then,” quoth Sancno, “let it be as you would 
have it; let us even leave this unlucky place, and seek 
out a lodging, where I pray there may be neither blank- 
ets nor blanket-heavers, nor hobgoblins, nor enchanted 
Moors.” 

“Leave all things to Providence,” replied Don Quix- 
ote, “and for once lead which way thou pleasest, for I 
leave it wholly to thy discretion to provide us a lodg- 
ing. But first, I pray thee, feel a little how many teeth 
I want in my upper jaw on the right side, for there L 
feel most pain.” 

With that Sancho, feeling with his finger in the: 
knight’s mouth—“Pray, sir,” quoth he, “how many 
grinders did your worship use to have on that side ?” 

“Four,” answered Don Quixote; “besides the eye- 
tooth, all of them whole and sound.” 

“Think well on what you say,” cried Sancho. 

“T say four,” replied Don Quixote, “if there were not 
five; for I never in all my life have had a tooth drawn, 
or dropped out, or decayed, or loosened by rheum.” 

“Bless me !” quoth Sancho, “why, you have in this 
nether jaw on this side but two grinders and a stump; 
and in that part of your upper jaw never a stump, and 
never a grinder. Alas! all is levelled there as smooth 
as the palm of one's hand.” 

“Oh, unfortunate Don Quixote!” cried the knight; 
“T had rather have lost an arm, so it were not my sword 
arm; for a mouth without cheek-teeth is like a mill 
without a millstone, Sancho; and every tooth in a man’s 
head is more valuable than a diamond. But we that 
profess this strict order of knight-errantry are all sub- 
ject to these calamities; and therefore, since the loss is 
irretrievable, mount, my trusty Sancho, and go thy own 
pace; I will follow thee.” 

Sancho obeyed, and led the way, still keeping the 
road they were in, which being very much beaten, 
promised to bring him soonest to a lodging. Thus 
pacing along very softly, for Don Quixote’s gums and 
ribs would not suffer him to go faster, Sancho, to divert 
his uneasy thoughts, resolved to talk to him all the 
while of one thing or other, as the next chapter will 
inform you. 











CHAPTER XVIII. 


OF THR WISE DISCOURSE BETWEEN SANCHO AND HIS MASTER ; AS ALSO OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEAD 


CORPSE, AND OTHER FAMOUS OCCURRENCES. 


“Now, sir, ”quoth Sancho, “I can't help thinking but 
that all the mishaps that have befallen us of late are a 
just judgment for the grevious sin you have committed 
against the order of knighthood, in not keeping the 
oath you swore, not to eat bread at board, and 1 know 
not what more, until you had won—what (ye call him? 
—the Moor’s helmet, I think you named him.” 

“Truly,” answered Don Quixote, “thou art much in 
the right, Sancho; and to deal ingeniously with thee, I 
wholly forgot that: and now thou may’st certainly as- 
sure thyself, thou wert tossed in a blanket for not re- 
membering to put me in mind of it. However, I will 
take care to make due atonement; for knight-errantry 
has ways to conciliate all sorts of matters.” 

“Why,” quoth Sancho, “did lever swear to mind you 
of your vow ?” 

“Tt is nothing to the purpose,” replied Don Quixote, 
“whether thou swarest or no: let it suffice that I think 
thou art not very clear from being accessory to the 
breach of my vow; and therefore, to prevent the worst, 
there will be no harm in providing for a remedy.” 

“Hark you, then,” cried Sancho, “be sure you don’t 
forget your atonement, as you did your oath, lest those 
hobgoblins come and maul me, and mayhap you too, for 
being a stubborn sinner.” 

Insensibly night overtook them before they could dis- 
cover any lodging; and, what was worse, they were 
almost hunger-starved, all their provision being in the 
wallet which Sancho had unluckily left behind; and, to 
complete their distress, there happened to them an ad- 
venture, or something that really looked like one. 

While our benighted travellers went on dolefully in 
the dark, the knight very hungry, and the squire very 
sharp set, what should they see moving towards them 
but a great number of lights, that appeared like so 
many wandering stars. At this strange apparition, 





down sunk Sancho’s heart at once, and even Don Quix- 
ote himself was not without some symptoms of surprise. 
Presently the one pulled to him the uss’s halter, the 
other his horse’s bridle, and both made a stop. They 
soon perceived that the lights made directly towards 
them, and the nearer they came the bigger they appear- 
ed. At this terrible wonder, Sancho shook and shiver- 
ed every joint, like one in a palsy, and Don Quixote's 
hair stood up on end: however, heroically shaking off 
the amazement which that sight stamped upon his soul, 
“Sancho,” said he, “this must doubtless be a great and 
most perilous adventure, where I shall have occasion to 
exert the whole stock of my courage and strength.“ 

“Woe's me!” quoth Sancho; “should this happen to 
be another adventure of ghosts, as I fear it is, where 
shall I find ribs to endure it?” 

“Come every ghost,” cried Don Quixote, “I will not 
suffer them to touch a hair of thy head. If they insult- 
ed thee lately, know there was then between thee and 
and me a wall, over which I could not climb; but now 
we are in the open field, where I shall have liberty to 
make use of my sword.” 

“Ay,” quoth Sancho, “you may talk; but should they 
bewitch you as they did before, what would it avail us 
to be in the open field?” 

“Come, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “be of good 
cheer; the event will soon convince thee of the great- 
ness of my valor.” 

“Pray Heaven it may,” quoth Sancho; “I will do my 
best.” 

With that they rode a little out of the way, and, gazing 
earnestly at the lights, they soon discovered a great 
number of persons all in white. At the dreadful sight, 
all poor Sancho’s shuffling courage basely deserted him ; 
his teeth began to chatter as if he had been in an ague 
fit, and as the objects drew nearer his chattering in- 

72 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


creased. And now they could plainly distinguish about 
twenty men on horseback, all in white, with torches in 
their hands, followed by a hearse covered over with 
black, and six men in deep mourning, whose mules were 
also in black down to their very heels. Those in white 
moved slowly, murmuring from their lips something in 
alow and lamentable tone. This dismal spectacle, at 
such a time of night, in the midst of such a vast soli- 
tude, was enough to have shipwrecked the courage of 
a stouter squire than Sancho, and even of his master, 
had he been any other than Don Quixote: but, as his 


imagination straight suggested to him that this was one} 


of those adventures of which he had so often read in 
his books of chivalry, the hearse appeared to him to be 
a litter, where lay the body of some knight either slain 
or dangerously wounded, the revenge of whose mis- 
fortunes was reserved for his prevailing arm; and so, 
without any more ado, couching his lance, and seating 
himself firm in the saddle, he posted himself in the mid- 
dle of the road, where the company were to pass. As 
soon as they came near, “Stand!” cried he to them, in 
a haughty tone, “whoever you be, and tell me who you 
are, whence you come, whither you go, and what you 
carry in that litter; for there is all th» reason in the 
world to believe that you have either done or received 
a great deal of harm; and it is requisite I should be in- 
formed of the matter, in order either to punish you for 
the ill you have committed, or else to revenge you of 
the wrong you have suffered.” 


“Sir,” answered one of the men in white, “we are in 
haste; the inn is a great way off, and we cannot stay to 
answer so many questions;” and with that, spurring his 
mule, he moved forwards. 


But Don Quixote, highly dissatisfied with the reply, 
laid hold on the mule’s bridle and stopped him. “Stay,” 
cried he, “proud, discourteous knight! Mend your be- 
havior, and give me instantly an account of what I 
asked of you, or here I defy you all to mortal com- 
bat.” 

Now the mule, which was shy and skittish, being 
thus rudely seized by the bridle, was presently scared, 
and, rising up on her hinder legs, threw her rider to 
the ground. Upon this one of the footmen that be- 
longed to the company gave Don Quixote ill language; 
which so incensed him, that, being resolved to be re- 
venged upon them all, in a mighty rage he flew at the 
next he met, who happened to be one of the mourners. 
Him he threw to the ground very much hurt; and then 
turning to the rest with a wonderful agility, he fell 
upon them with such fury, that he presently put them 
all to flight. You would have thought that Rozinante 
had wings at that time, so active and so fierce did he 
then approved himself. 


It was not indeed for men unarmed, and naturally 
fearful, to maintain the field against such an enemy; no 
wonder, then, if the gentlemen in white were immedi- 
ately dispersed. Some ran one way, some another, 
crossing the plain with their lighted torches: you 
would now have taken them for a parcel of frolicsome 
masqueraders, gambolling and scouring on a carnival 





73 


night. As for the mourners, they, poor men, were so 


muffled up in their long, cumbersome cloaks, that, not 
being able to make their party good, nor defend them- 


selves, they were presently routed, and ran away like 
the rest, the rather for that they thought it was no 
mortal creature, but some evil spirit, that was come to 
fetch away the dead body which they were accompany- 
ing to the grave. All the while Sancho was lost in 
admiration and astonishment, charmed with the sight of 
his master’s valor; and now concluded him to be the 
formidable champion he boasted himself. , 


After this the knight, by the light of a torch that lay 
burning on the ground, perceiving the man who was 
thrown by bis mule lying near it, rode up to him, and, 
setting his lance to his throat, “Yield!” cried he, “and 
beg thy life, or thou diest.” 

“Alas! sir,” cried the other, “why need you ask me 
to yield? I am not able to stir, for one of my legs is 
broken; and I beseech you, if you are a Christian, do 
not kill me. I am a master of arts, and in holy orders; 
it would be a heinous sacrilege to take away my 
life.” 

“What brought you hither, then, if you are a clergy- 
man?” cried Don Quixote. 

“What else but my ill fortune?” replied the sup-. 
pliant. 

“A worse hovers over thy head,” cried Don Quixote, 
“and threatens thee, if thou dost not answer this 
moment to every particular question I ask.” 

“T will, I will, sir,” replied the other; “and first I 
must beg your pardon for saying I was a master of arts, 
for I have yet but taken my bachelor’s degree. My 
name is Alonzo Lopez; I am of Alcovendas, and came 
now from the town of Baeza, with eleven other clergy- 
men, the same that now ran away with the torches. 
We were going to Segovia, to bury the corpse of a gen- 
tleman of that town, who died at Baeza, and lies now in 
yonder hearse.” 


“And who killed him?” asked Don Quixote. 


“Heaven, with a pestilential fever,” answered the 
other. 

“Tf it be so,” said Don Quixote, “I am dis- 
charged of revenging his death. Since Heaven did it, 
there is no more to be said; had it been its pleasure to 
have taken me off so, I too must have submitted. I 
would have you informed, reverend sir, that I am a 
knight of La Mancha, my name Don Quixote; my em- 
ployment ‘is to visit all parts of the world in quest of 
adventures, to right and relieve injured innocence, and 
punish oppression.” 

“Truly, sir,” replied the clergyman, “I do not under- 
stand how you can call that to right and relieve men, 
when you break their legs: you have made that crooked 
which was right and straight before; and Heaven knows 
whether it can ever be set right as long as I live. In- 
stead of relieving the injured, I fear you have injured 
me past relief; and while you seek adventures, you 
have made me meet with a very great misadven- 
ture.” 

“All things,” replied Don Quixote, “are not blessed 


74 DON QUIXOTE 
alike with a prosperous event, good Mr. Bachelor; you 
should have taken care not to have thus gone a-pro- 
cessioning in these desolate plains at this suspicious 
time of night with your white surplices, burning 
torches, and sable weeds, like ghosts and goblins, that 
go about to scare people out of their wits: for I could 
not omit doing the duty of my profession, nor would I 
have forborne attacking you, though you had really 
been all Lucifer’s infernal crew; for such I took you to 
be, and till this moment could have no better opinion 
of you.” 

“Well, sir,” said the bachelor, “since my bad fortune 
has so ordered it, I must desire you, as you are a knight- 
errant, who have made mine so ill an errand, to help me 
to get from under my mule, for it lies so heavy upon 
me, that I cannot get my foot out of the stirrup.” 

“Why did you not acquaint me sooner with your 
grievance?” cried Don Quixote; “I might have talked 
on till to-morrow morning and never have thought on 
it.” 

With that he called Sancho, who made no great haste, 
for he was much better employed in rifling a load of 
choice provisions, which the holy men carried along 
with them on a sumpter-mule. He had spread his coat 
on the ground, and having laid on it as much food as 
it would hold, he wrapped it up like a bag, and laid the 
booty on his ass; and then away he ran to his master, 
and helped him to set the bachelor upon his mule: after 
which he gave him his torch, and Don Quixote bade 
him follow his company, and excuse him for his mis- 
take, though, all things considered, he could not avoid 
doing what he had done. 

“And, sir,” quoth Sancho, “if the gentlemen would 
know who it was that so well threshed their jackets, 
you may tell them it was the famous Don Quixote de la 
Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Woful 
Figure.” 

When the Bachelor was gone, Don Quixote asked 
Sancho why he called him the Knight of the Woful 
Figure. 

“pl tell you why,” quoth Sancho; “I have been 
staring upon you this pretty while by the light of that 
unlucky priest's torch, and I have been thinking I 
never set eyes ona more dismal figure in my born days; 
but I can’t tell what should be the cause on’t, unless 
your being tired after this fray, or the want of your 
worship’s teeth.” 

“That is not the reason,” cried Don Quixote; “no, 
Sancho, I rather conjecture that the sage wlio is com- 
missioned by Fate to register my achievements, thought 
it convenient I should assume a new appellation, as all 

- the knights of yore; for one was called the Knight of 
the Burning Sword, another of the Unicorn, a third of 
the Phenix, a fourth the Knight of the Damsels, an- 
other of the Griffin, and another the Knight of Death: 
by which by-names and distinctions they were known 
all over the globe. Therefore, doubtless, that learned 
sage, my historian, has inspired thee with the thought 
of giving me that additional appellation of the Knight 
of the Woful Figure: and accordingly I assume the 





DE LA MANCHA. 


name, and intend henceforward to be distinguished by 
that denomination. And, that it may seem the more 
proper, I will, with the first opporiunity, have a most 
woful face painted on my shield.” 

“On my word,” quoth Sancho, “you may even save 
the money, and instead of having a woful face painted, 
you need no more but only show your own. Iam but 
in jest, as a body may say; but what with the want of 
your teeth, and what with hunger, you look so queerly 
and so wofully, that no painter can draw you a figure 
so fit for your purpose as your worship’s.” 

This merry coneeit of Sancho extorted a smile from 
his master's austere countenance; however, he per- 
sisted in his resolution about the name and the picture; 
and after a pause, a sudden thought disturbing his con- 
science, “Sancho,” cried he, “I am afraid of being ex- 
communicated for having laid violent hands upon a 
man in holy orders—Juata ¿lud ; si quis suadente dia- 
bolo, &. But yet, now I think better on it, I never 
touched him with my hands, but only with my lance; 
besides, I did not in the least suspect I had to do with 
priests, whom I honor and revere as every good Catho- 
lic and faithful Christian ought to do, but rather took 
them to be evil spirits. Well, let the worst come to the 
worst, I remember what befel the Cid Ruy-Dias, when 
he broke to pieces the chair of a king’s ambassador in 
the Pope’s presence, for which he was excommunicated ; 
which did not hinder the worthy Rodrigo de Vivar 
from behaving himself that day like a valorous knight, 
and a man of honor.” 

This said, Don Quixote was for visiting the hearse, 
to see whether what was in it were only dead bones: 
but Sancho would not let him. “Sir,” quoth he, “you 
are come off now with a whole skin, and much better 
than you have done hitherto. Who knows but these 
same fellows that are now scampered off, may chance to 
bethink themselves what a shame it is for them to have 
suffered themselves to be thus routed by a single man, 
and so come back, and fall upon us all at once? Then 
we shall have work enough upon our hañds. The ass is 
in good case; there’s a hill not far off, and our bellies 
cry ‘Cupboard.’ Come, let us even get out of harm’s 
way, and not let the plow stand to catch a mouse, as the 
saying is; to the grave with the dead, and the living to 
the bread.” 

With that he put on a dog-trot with his ass; and his 
master, bethinking himself that he was in the right, put 
on after him without replying. 

After they had rid a little way, they came to a valley 
that lay skulking between two hills. There they 
alighted, and Sancho having opened his coat and 
spread it on the grass, with the provision which he had 
bundled up in it, our two adventurers fell to; and their 
stomachs being sharpened with the sauce of hunger, 
they ate their breakfast, dinner, afternoon’s luncheon, 
and supper all at the same time, feasting themselves 
with a variety of cold meats, which you may be sure 
were the best that could be got; the priests, who had 
brought it for their own eating, being, like the rest of 
their coat, none of the worst stewards for their bellies 
and knowing how to make much of themselves. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 75 


But now they began to grow sensible of a very great) which now scorched and choked them worse than hun- 
misfortune, and such a misfortune as was bemoaned by|ger had pinched them before. However, Sancho, con- 
poor Saneho, as one of the saddest that ever could |sidering they were in a place where the grass was fresh 
befall him; for they found they had not one drop of wine |and green, said to his master——what you shall find in 
or water to wash down their meat and quench their thirst, | the following chapter. 





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CHAPTER XIX. 


OF A WONDERFUL ADVENTURE ACHIEVED BY THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA; THE LIKE 


NEVER COMPASSED WITH LESS DANGER BY ANY 


“THE grass is so fresh,” quoth Sancho, half choked 
with thirst, “that I dare lay my life we shall light on 
some spring or stream hereabouts; therefore, sir, let us 
look, I beseech you, that we may quench this drought, 
that plagues our throats ten times worse than hunger 
did our stomachs.” 

Therenpon Don Quixote, leading Rozinante by the 
bridle, and Sancho his ass by the halter, after he had laid 
up the reversion of their meal, went feeling about, only 
guided by their guess; for itwas so dark they scarce 
could seetheir hands. They had not gone above two 
hundred paces before they heard a noise of a great 
water-fall; which was to them the most welcome sound 
in the world: but then, listening with great attention to 
know on which side the grateful murmer came, they 
on a sudden heard another kind of noise, that strangely 
allayed the pleasure of the first, especially in Sancho, 
who was naturally fearful and pusillanimous. They 
heard a terrible din of obstreperous blows, struck regu- 
larly, and a more dreadful rattling of chains and irons, 
which, together with the roaring of the waters, might 
have filled any other heart but Don Quixote’s with ter- 
ror and amazement Add to this the horrors of a dark 
night and solitude, in an unknown place; the loud rust- 
ling of the leaves of some lofty trees under which for- 
tune had brought them at the same unlucky moment; 
the whistling of the wind, which concurred with the 
other dismaying sounds; the fall of the waters, the 
thundering thumps, and the clanking of chains afore- 
said. The worst, too, was, that the blows were re- 
doubled without ceasing, the wind blew on, and daylight 
was far distant. 





But then it was that Don Quixote, 


OF THE MOST FAMOUS KNIGHTS IN THE WORLD. 


accompanied by his intrepid heart, leaped upon his 
Rozinante, braced his shield, branished his lance, and 
showed a soul unknowing fear, and superior to danger 
and fortune. 

“ Know, Sancho,” cried he,*I was born in this iron age, 
to restore the age of gold, or the golden age, as some 
choose to call it. Iam the man for whom Fate has reserv- 
ed the most dangerous and formidable attempts, the most 
stnpendous and glorious adventures, and the most valo- 
rious feats of arms. J am the man who must revive the 
order of the Round Table, the twelve peers of France, 
and the nine worthies, and efface the memory of your 
Platyrs, your Tablantes, your Olivantes, and your Tir-” 
antes. Now must your Knights of the Sun, your Beli- 
anises, and all the numerous throng of famous heroes, 
and knights-errant of former ages, see the glory of all 
their most dazzling actions eclipsed and darkened by 
more illustrious exploits. Do but observe, oh, thou my 
faithful squire, what a multifarious assemblage of ter- 
rors surround us! A horrid darkness, a doleful solitude, 
a confused rustling of leaves, a dismal rattling of chains, 
a howling of the winds, an astonishing noise of cata- 
racts, that seem to fall with a boisterous rapidity from 
the steep mountains of the moon, a terrible sound of 
redoubled blows, still wounding our ears like furious 
thunderclaps, and a dead and universal silence of those 
things that might buoy up the sinking courage of frail 
mortaility. In this extremity of danger, Mars himself 
might tremble with the affright: yet I, in the midst of 
all these unutterable alarms, still remain undaunted and 
unshaken. These are but incentives to my valor, and 
but animate my heart the more; it grows too big and 

76 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


mighty for my breast, and leaps at the approach of this 
threatening adventure, so formidable as it is like to 
prove. Come, girt Rozinante straighter, and then 
Providence protect thee: thou mayest stay for me here; 
but if I do not return in three days, go. back to our 
village; and from thence, for my sake, to Toboso, where 
thou shalt say to my incomparble Lady Dulcinea, that 
her faithful knight fell a sacrifice to love and honor, 
while he attempted things that might have made him 
worthy to be called her adorer.” 

When Sancho heard his master talk thus, he fell a- 
weeping in the most pitiful’ manner in the world. 
“Pray, sir,” cried he, “why will you thus run yourself 
into mischief? Why need you go about this rueful 
misventure ? it is main dark, and there is never a living 
soul sees us; we have nothing to do but to sheer off, 
and get out of harms way, though we were not to drink 
a drop these three days. Who is there to take notice of 
our flinching? I have heard our parson, whom you 
very well know, say in his pulpit, that he who seeks 
danger perishes therein: and therefore we should not 
tempt Heaven by going about a thing that we cannot 
compass but by a miracle. Is it not enough, think you, 
that it has preserved you from being tossed in a blanket 
as I was, and made you come off safe and sound from 
among so many goblins that went with the dead man? 
If all this won’t work upon that hard heart of yours, do 
but think of me, and rest yourself assured that when 
once you have left your poor Sancho, he will be ready 
to give up the ghost for very fear, to the next that will 
come for it; Ileft my house and home, my wife; children, 
and all to follow you, hoping to be the better for it, and 
not the worse; but as covetousness breaks the sack, so 
has it broke me and my hopes; for while I thought my- 
self sure of that unlucky island, which you so often 
promised me, in lieu thereof you drop me here in a 
strange place. Dear master, don’t be so hard-hearted; 
and if you won’t be persuaded not to meddle with this 
ungracious adventure, do but put it off till day-break, 
to which, according to the little skill I learned when a 
shepherd, it cannot be above three hours; for the muz- 
zle of the lesser bear is just over ae heads, and makes 
midnight in the line of the left arm.’ 

“How! canst thou see the muzzle of the bear?” asked 
Don Qnixote; “there's not a star to be seen in the sky.” 

“That’s true,” quoth Sancho; “but fear is sharp- 
sighted, and can see things under ground, and much 
more in the skies.” 

“Let day come, or not come, it is all one to me,” cried 
the champion; “it shall never be recorded of Don Quix- 
ote, that either tears or entreaties could make him 
neglect the duty of a knight. Then, Sancho, say no 
more; for Heaven, that has inspired me with a resolu- 
tion of attempting this dreadful adventure, will certain- 
ly take care of me and thee; come quickly, girt my 
steed, and stay here for me; for you will shortly hear 
of me again, either alive or dead.” 

Sancho, finding his master obstinate, and neither to 
be moved with tears nor good advice, resolved to try a 
trick of policy to keep him there till daylight: and ac- 
cordingly, while he pretended to fasten the girths, he 





TT 


slily tied Rozinante's hinder legs with his ass's halter, 
without being so much as suspected: so that when Don 
Quixote thought to have moved forwards, he found his 
horse would not go a step without leaping, though. he 
spurred him on smartly. Sancho, perceiving his plot 
took, “Look you, sir,” quoth he, “Heaven's on my side, 
and won't let Rozinante budge a foot forwards; and now 
if you will still be spurring him, I dare pawn my life, 
it will be but striving against the stream; or, as the say- 
ing is, but kicking against the pricks.” 

Don Quixote fretted, and chafed, and raved, and was 
in a desperate fury, to find his horse so stubborn; but 
at last, observing that the more he spurred and galled 
his sides, the more restive he proved, he resolved, 
though very unwillingly, to have patience until it was 
light. “Well,” said he, “since Rozinante will not leave 
this place, I must tarry in it until the dawn, though its 
slowness will cost me some sighs.” ate 

“You shall not need to sigh nor be melanchély; 9 
quoth Sancho, “for I will undertake ta, tell you stories 
until it be day; unless your worship had rather get off 
your horse, and take a nap upon the green grass, a8 
knights-errant are wont, that you may be the fresher, 
and the better able in the morning to go through that 
monstrous adventure that waits for you.” 

“What dost thou mean by thus alighting and sleep- 
ing?” replied Don Quixote; “thinkest thou I am one-of 
those carpet-knights, that abandon themselves to sleep 
and lazy ease, when danger is at hand? no, sleep thou, 
thou art born to sleep; or do what thou wilt. As for 
myself, J know what I have to do.” 

“Good sir,” quoth Sancho, “do not put yourself in a 
passion; I meant no such thing, not I.” 

‘Saying this, he clapped one of his hands upon the 
pummel of Rozinante’s saddle, and the other upon the 
crupper, and thus he stood embracing his master’s left 
thigh, not daring to budge an inch, for fear of the blows 
that dinned continually in his ears. Don Quixote then 
thought fit to claim his promise, and desired him to tell 
some of his stories, to help to pass away the time. 

“Sir,” quoth Sancho, “I am wofully frighted, and 
have no heart to tell stories; however, I will do my 
best; and, now I think on it, there is one come into my 
head, which if I can but hit on it right, and nothing 
happens to put me out, is the best story you ever heard 
in your life; therefore listen, for I am going to begin— 
In the days of yore, when it was as it was, good betide 
us all, and evil to him that evil seeks. And here, sir, 
you are to take notice that they of old did not begin 
their tales in an ordinary way; for it was a saying ofa 
wise man whom they called Cato the Roman Tonsor, 
that said, ‘ Evil to him that evil seeks,’ which is as pat 
for your purpose as a ring for the finger, that you may 
neither meddle nor make, nor seek evil and mischief 
for the nonce, but rather get out of harm’s way.” - 

“Go on with the story, Sancho,” cried Don Quixote, 
and leave the rest to my discretion.” 

“T say then,” quoth Sancho, “thatin a ee foal 
in Estremadura, there lived a certain shepherd, goat- 
herd I should have said; which goatherd, as the story 
has it, was called Lope Ruyz; and this Lope Ruyz was 





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Don Quixote, accunupanied by lus lutrepid heart, leaped upon Rozinante.”—p. 76, 


. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


in love with a shepherdess, whose name was Toralva; 
the which shepherdess, whose name was Toralva, was 
the daughter of a wealthy grazier; and this wealthy 
grazier——” 

“If thou goest on at this rate,” cried Don Quixote, 
“and makest so many needless repetitions, thou wilt 
not have told thy story these two days. Pray thee tell 
it concisely, and like a man of sense, or let it alone.” 

“T tell it you,” quoth Sancho, “as all stories are told 
in our country, and I cannot for the life of me tell it in 
any other way, nor is it fit I should alter the custom.” 

“Why, then, tell it how thou wilt,” replied Don 
Quixote, “since my ill fortune forces me to stay and 
hear thee.” 

“Well, then, dear sir,” quoth Sancho, “as I was say- 
ing, this same shepherd—goatherd I should have said— 
was woundily in love with that same shepherdess 
Toralva, who was a well-trussed, round, strapping 
wench, coy and foppish, and somewhat like a man, for 
she had a kind of beard on her upper lip. Methinks I 
see her now standing before me.” 

“Then I suppose thou knewest her?” said Don 
Quixote. 

“Not I,” answered Sancho; “ I never set eyes on her 
in my life; but he that told me the story said this was 
so true, that I might vouch it for a real truth, and even 
swear I had seen it all myself. Well,——but, as you 
know, days go and come, and time and straw makes 
medlars ripe; so it happened, that after several days 
coming and going, the devil, who seldom lies dead in a 
ditch, but will have a finger in every pie, so brought it 
about, that: the shepherd fell out with his sweetheart, 
insomuch, that the love he bore her turned into dudgeon 
and ill-will and the cause was, by report of some mis- 
chievous tale-carriers that bore no good will to either 
party, for that the shepherd thought her no better than 
she should be. Thereupon, being grievous in the 
dumps about it, and now bitterly hating her, he even 
resolved to leave that country, to get out of her sight: 
for now, as every dog has his day, the wench perceiving 
he came no longer a-suitoring to her, but rather tossed 
his nose at her, and shunned her, she began to love him 
and doat upon him like anything.” 

“That is the nature of women,” cried Don Quixote; 
“not to love when we love them, and to love when we 
love them not. But go on.” 

“The shepherd then gave her the slip,” continued 
Sancho, “and driving his goats before him, went trudg- 
ing through Estremadura, onhis way to Portugal. But 
Toralvo, having a long nose, soon smelt his design, and 
then what does she do, think ye, but comes after him 
bare-foot and bare-legged, with a pilgrim's staff in her 
hand, and a wallet at her back, wherein they say she 
carried a piece of looking-glass, half a comb, a broken 
pot with paint, and I don’t know what other trinkum- 
trankums to prink herself up. But let her carry what 
she would, it is no bread and butter of mine; the short 
and the long is, that they say the shepherd with his 
goats got at last to the river Guadiana, which happened 
to be overflowed at that time; and what was worse than 
ill luck, there was neither boat nor. bark to ferry him 





79 


over; which vexed him the more, because he perceived 
Toralva at his heels, and he feared to be teased and 
plagued with her weeping and wailing. At last he 
spied a fisherman in a little boat, but so little it was, that 
it would carry but one man and one goat at a time. 
Well, for all that, he called to the fisherman, and agreed 
with him to carry him and histhree hundred goats over 
the water. The bargain being struck, the fishermen 
came with his boat, and carried over one goat; then he 
rowed back and fetched another goat, and after another 
goat. Pray, sir,” quoth Sancho, “be sure you keep a 
good account how many goats the fisherman ferries 
over; forif you happen but to miss one, my tale is at 
end, and not one word have I more to say.— Well them, 
whereabouts was I?—Ho! I ha’t.—Now the landing- 
place on the other side was very muddy and slippery, 
which made the fisherman be a long while in going and 
coming; yet for all that, he took heart of grace, and 
made shift to carry over one goat, then another, and 
then another.” 

“Come,” said Don Quixote, “we will suppose he has 
landed them all on the other side of the river; for as 
thou goest on, one by one, we shall not have done these 
twelve months.” 

“Pray let me go on in my own way,” quoth Sancho. 
“How many goats are got over already?” 

“Nay, how can I tell?” replied Don Quixote. 

“There itis!” quoth Sancho; “did notI bid you keep 
count? on my word the tale is at an end, and now you 
may go whistle for the rest.” 

“Ridiculous?” cried Don Quixote: “pray thee, is 
there no going on with the story unless I know exactly 
how many goats are wafted over?” : 

“No, marry is there not,” quoth Sancho; for as soon 
as you answered that you could not tell, the rest of 
the story quite and clean slipped outof my head; and 
in troth it is a thousand pities, forit was aspecial one.” 

“So, then,” cried Don Quixote, “the story’s ended?” 

“Ay, marry is it,” quoth Sancho; “it is no more to be 
fetched to life than my dead mother.” 

“Upon my honor,” cried Don Quixote, “a most ex- 
traordinary story, and told and concluded in as extra- 


|ordinary a manner! itis a nonsuch, I assure ye; though 


truly I expected no less from a man of such uncommon 
parts. Alas! poor Sancho, I am afraid this dreadful 
noise has turned thy brain.” 

“That may well be,” quoth Sancho; “but as for my 
story, I am sure there is nothing more to be said; for 
where you lose the account of the goats, there it ends.” 

This discourse, such as it was, served them to pass 
away the night; and now Sancho, seeing the morning 
arise, thought it time to untie Rozinante’s feet, and he 
did so with so much caution, that his master suspected 
nothing. As for Rozinante, he no sooner felt himself 
at liberty, but he seemed to express his joy by pawing 
the ground; for, with his leave be it spoken, he was a 
stranger to curvetting and prancing. Don Quixote also 
took it as a good omen, that his steed was now ready to 
move, and believed that it was a signal given him by 
kind fortune, to animate him to give birth to the ap- 
proaching adventure. 









































DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Now had Aurora displayed her rosy mantle over the 
blushing skies, and dark night withdrawn her sable 
veil; all objects stood confessed to human eyes, and 
Don Quixote could now perceive he was under some 
tall chestnut trees, whose thick spreading boughs dif- 
fused an awful gloom around the place; but he could 
not yet discover whence proceeded the dismal sound of 
those incessant strokes. Therefore being resolved to 
find it out, once more he took his leave of Sancho, with 
the same injunctions as before; adding, withal, that he 
should not trouble himself about the recompense of his 
services, for he had taken care of that in his will, which 
he had providently made before he left home; but if he 
come off victorious from this adventure, he might most 
certainly expect to be gratified with the promised island. 
Sancho could not forbear blubbering again, to hear 
these tender expressions of his master, and resolved not 
to leave him till he had finished this enterprise. And 
from that deep concern, and this nobler resolution to 
attend him, the author of this history infers that the 
squire was something of a gentleman by descent, or at 
least the offspring of the old Christians. Nor did his 
good nature fail to move his master more than he was 
willing to show, at a time when it behooved him to 
shake off all softer thoughts; for now he rode towards 
the place whence the noise of the blows and the water 
seemed to come, while Sancho trudged after him, lead- 
ing by the halter the inseparable companion of his good 
and bad fortune. 

After they had gone a pretty way under a pleasant 
covert of chestnut trees, they came into a meadow ad- 
joining certain rocks, from whose top there was a great 
fall of waters. At the foot of those rocks they discov- 
ered certain old, ill-contrived buildings, that rather 
looked like ruins than inhabited houses; and they per- 
ceived that the terrifying noise of the blows, which yet 
continued, issued out of that place. When they came 
nearer, even patient Rozinante himself started at the 
dreadful sound; but, being heartened and pacified by 
his master, he was at last prevailed with to draw nearer 
and nearer with wary steps; the knight recommending 
himself all the way most devoutly to his Dulcinea, and 
now and then also to Heaven, in short ejaculations. As 
for Sancho, he stuck close to his master, peeping all 
the way through Rozinante’s legs, to see if he could 
perceive what he dreaded to find out. When a little 
farther, at the doubling of the point of a rock, they 
plainly discovered (kind reader, do not take it amiss) 
six huge fulling-mill hammers, which interchangeably 
thumping several pieces of cloth, made the terrible 
noise that caused all Don Quixote’s anxieties and San- 
cho’s tribulation that night. 

Don Quixote was struck dumb at this unexpected 
sight, and was ready to drop from his horse with shame 
and confusion. Sancho stared upon him, and saw him 
hang down his head, with a desponding, dejected coun- 
tenance, like a man quite dispirited with this cursed 
disappointment. At the same time he looked upon 
Sancho, and seeing by his eyes, and his cheeks swelled 
with laughter, that he was ready to burst, he could not 
forbear laughing himself, in spite of all his vexation; 

6——DON QUIX. 





81 


so that Sancho, seeing his master begin, immediately 
gave a loose to his mirth, and broke out into such a fit 
of laughing, that he was forced to hold his sides with 
both his knuckles, for fear of bursting his aching 
paunch. Four times he ceased, and four times re- 
newed his obstreperous laughing ; which sauciness 
Don Quixote began to resent with great indignation; 
and the more when Sancho, in a jeering tone, presumed 
to ridicule him with his own words, repeating part of 
the vain speech he made when first they heard the 
noise: “Know, Sancho, I was born in this iron age to 
restore the age of gold. 1 am the man for whom 
Heaven has reserved the most dangerous and glorious 
adventures,” &c. 

Thus he went on, till his master, dreadfully enraged 
at his insolence, hit him two such blows on the shoul- 
ders with his lance, that, had they fallen upon his head, 
they had saved Don Quixote the trouble of paying him 
his wages, whatever he must have done to his heirs. 
Thereupon Sancho, finding his jest turn to earnest, 
begged pardon with all submission. “Mercy! good 
your worship,” cried he; “spare my bones, I beseech 
you! I meant no harm, I did but joke a little.” 

“And because you joke, I do not,” cried Don Quix- 
ote. “Come hither, good Mr. Jester, you who pretend 
to rally; tell me, had this been a dangerous adventure, 
as well as it proves only a false alarm, have I not shown 
resolution enough to undertake and finish it? Am I, 
who am a knight, bound to know the meaning of every 
mechanical noise, and distinguish between sound and 
sound? Besides, it might happen, as really it is, that I 
had never seen a fulling-mill before, though thou, like 
a base scoundrel as thou art, were born and brought up 
among such mean implements of drudgery. But let the 
six fulling-hammers be transformed into so many giants, 
and then set them at me one by one, or all together; 
and if I do not lay them all at my feet with their heels 
upwards, then I will give thee leave to exercise thy ill- 
bred raillery as much as thou pleasest.” 

“Good, your worship,” quoth Sancho, “talk no more 
on it, I beseech you; I confess I carried the jest too 
far. But now all is hushed and well, pray tell me in 
sober Sadness, as you hope to speed in all adventures, 
and come off safe and sound as from this, don’t you 
think but that the fright we were in, I mean that I was 
in, would be a good subject for people to make sport 
with?” 

“T grant it,” answered Don Quixote, “but I would 
not have it told; for all people are not so discreet as to 
place things, or look upon them, in the position in 
which they should be considered.” 

“T will say that for you,” quoth Sancho; “you have 
shown you understand how to place things in their 
right position, when, aiming at my head, you hit my 
shoulders; had not I ducked a little on one side, I had 
been in a fine condition! But let that pass, it will wash 
out in the bucking. I have heard my grannam say, 
‘That man loves thee well who makes thee to weep.’ 
Good masters may be hasty sometimes with a servant, 
but presently after a hard word or two they commonly 
give him a pair of cast breeches: what they give after 


82 


a basting, Heaven knows; all I can tell is, that knights- 
errant, after bastinadoes, give you some cast island, or 
some old fashioned kingdom upon the mainland.” 
“Fortune,” said Don Quixote, “will perhaps order 
everything thou hast said to come to pass; therefore, 
Sancho, I pray thee think no more of my severity; thou 
knowest a man cannot always command the first im- 
pulse of his passions. On the other side, let me advise 
thee not to be so saucy for the future, and not to as- 
sume that strange familiarity with me which is so un- 
becoming ina servant. I protest, in such a vast num- 
ber of books of knight-errantry as 1 have read, I never 
found that any squire was ever allowed so great a free- 
dom of speech with his master as thou takest with me; 
and truly I look upon it to be a great fault in us both: 
in thee for disrespecting me, and in me for not making 
myself be more respected. Gandalin, Amadis de Gaul’s 
squire, though he was earl of the Firm Island, yet 
never spoke to his master but with cap in hand, his 
head bowed, and his body half bent, after the Turkish 
manner. But what shall we say of Gassabal, Don 
Galaor’s squire, who was such a strict observer of 
silence, that, to the honor of his marvellous taciturnity, 
he gave the author occasion to mention his name but 
once in that voluminous authentic history? From all 
this, Sancho, I would have thee make this observation, 
that there ought to be a distance kept between the 
master and the man, the knight and the squire. There- 
fore, once more I tell thee, let us live together for the 
future more according to the due decorum of our re- 
spective degrees, without giving one another any fur- 
ther vexation on this account; for after all, it will 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


always be the worse for you on whatsoever occasion we 
happen to disagree. As for the rewards I promised 
you, they will come in due time; and should you be 
disappointed in that way, you have your salary to trust 
to, as I have told you.” 

“You say very well,” quoth Sancho; “but now, sir, 
suppose no rewards should come, and I should be 
forced to stick to my wages, I would fain know how 
much a squire-errant used to earn in the days of yore ? 
Did they go by the month, or by the day, like our 
laborers ?” 

“I do not think,” replied Don Quixote, “they ever 
went by the hire, but rather that they trusted to their 
master’s generosity. And if I have assigned thee 
wages in my will, which I left sealed up at home, it was 
only to prevent the worst, because I do not know yet 
what success I may have in chivalry in these de- 
praved times; and I would not have my soul suffer in 
the other world for such a trifling matter; for there is 
no state of life so subject to dangers as that of a knight- 
errant.” 

“Like enough,” quoth Sancho,” when merely the noise 
of the hammers of a fulling-mill is able to trouble and 
disturb the heart of such a valiant knight as your wor- 
ship! But you may be sure I will pot hereafter so 


much as offer to open my lips to jibe or joke at your do- 
ings, but always stand in awe of you, and honor you 
as my lord and master.” 

“By doing so,” replied Don Quixote, “thy days shall 
be long on the face of the earth; for next to our parents, 
we ought to respect our masters, as if they were our 
fathers.” 








CHAPTER XX. 


OF THE HIGH ADVENTURE AND CONQUEST OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET, WITH OTHER EVENTS RELATING TO 


o 


OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT. 


AT the same time it began to rain, and Sancho would 
fain have taken shelter in the fulling mills; but Don 
Quixote had conceived such an antipathy against them 
for the shame they had put upon him, that he would 
by no means be prevailed with to goin; and turning to 
the right hand he struck into a highway, where they 
had not gone far before he discovered a horseman, who 
wore upon his head something that glittered like gold. 
The knight had no sooner spied him, but, turning to his 


squire, “Sancho,” cried he, “I believe there is no pro-| 


verb but what is true; they are all so many sentences 
and maxims drawn from experience, the universal moth- 
er of sciences: for instance, that saying, that ‘where 
one door shuts, another opens:’ thus Fortune, that last 
night deceived us with the false prospect of an adven- 
ture, this morning offers a real one to make us amends; 
and such an adventure, Sancho, that if I do not glori- 
ously succeed in it, I shall have now no pretence to an 
excuse, no darkness, no unknown sounds to impute my 
disappointment to; in short, in all probability yonder 
comes the man who wears on his head Mambrino’s hel- 
met, and thou knowest the vow I have made.” 

“Good sir,” quoth Sancho, “mind what you say, and 
take heed what you do; for I would willingly keep my 
carcase and the case of my understanding from being 
pounded, mashed, and crushed with fulling-hammers.” 

“Blockhead !” cried Don Quixote; “is there no dif- 
ference between a helmet and a fulling-mill ?” 

“T don’t know,” saith Sancho; “but I am sure, were 
I suffered to speak my mind now as I was wont, may- 
hap I would give you such main reasons, that yourself 
should see you are wide of the matter.” 

“How can I be mistaken, thou eternal misbeliever ?” 
cried Don Quixote; “dost thou not see that knight that 
comes riding up directly towards us upon a dapple-grey 
steed, with a helmet of gold on his head?” 

“I see what I see,” replied Sancho; “and I can spy 





nothing but a fellow on such another grey ass as mine 
is, with something that glisters o’top of nis head.” 

“T tell thee that is Mambrino’s helmet,” replied Don 
Quixote; “do thou stand at a distance, and leave me 
to deal with him; thou shalt see that, without trifling 
away so much as a moment in needless talk, I will finish 
this adventure, and possess myself of the desired 
helmet.” 

“I shall stand at a distance, you may be sure,” guoth 
Sancho; “but I wish this may not prove a worse job 
than the fulling-mills.” 

.“I have warned you already, fellow,” said Don 
Quixote, “not so much as to name the fulling-mills; 
dare but once more to do it, nay, but to think on it, and 
I vow to—I say no more, but I’ll full and pound your 
dogship into jelly.” 

These threats were more than sufficient to padlock 
Sancho’s lips, for he had no mind to have his master’s 
vow fulfilled at the expense of his bones. 

Now the truth of the story was this: there were in 
that part of the country two villages, one of which was 
so little that it had not so much as a shop in it, nor any 
barber; so that the barber of the greater village served 
also the smaller. And thus a person happening to 
have occasion to be let blood, and another to be shaved, 
the barber was going thither with his brass basin, which 
he had clapped upon his head to keep his hat, that 
chanced to be a new one, from being spoiled by the 
rain; and as the basin was new scoured, it made a glit- 
tering show a great way off. As Sancho had well 
observed, he rode upon a grey ass, which Don Quixote 
as easily took for a dapple-grey steed as he took the 
barber for a knight, and his brass basin for a golden 
helmet; his distracted brain easily applying every 
object to his romantic ideas. Therefore, when he saw 
the poor imaginary knight draw near, he fixed his lance, 
or javelin, to his thigh, and without staying to hold a 

83 


84 


parley with his thoughtless adversary, flew at him as 
fiercely as Rozinante would galop, resolved to pierce 
him through and through; crying out in the midst of 
his career, “Cuitiff! wretch! defend thyself, or imme- 
diately surrender that which is so justly my due.” 

The barber, who, as he peacefully went along, saw 
that terrible apparition come thundering upon him un- 
awares, had no other way to avoid being run through 
with his lance, but to throw himself off from his ass to 
the ground; and then as hastily getting up, he took to 
his heels, and ran over the fields swifter than the wind, 
leaving his ass and his basin behind him. Don Quixote 
finding himself thus master of the field and of the 
basin, “The miscreant,” cried he, “who has left this 
helmet, has shown himself as prudent as the beaver, 
who, finding himself hotly pursued by the hunters, to 
save his life, tears and cuts off with his teeth that for 
which his natural instinct tells him he was followed.” 
Then he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet. 

“On my word,” quoth Sancho, having taken it up, 
“it is a special basin, and as well worth a piece of eight 
as a thief is worth a halter.” 

With that he gave it to his master; who presently 
clapped it on his head, turning it every way to find out 
the beavor or visor: and at last, seeing it had none, 
“Doubtless,” said he, “the pagan for whom this famous 
helmet was first made had a head of a prodigious size; 
but the worst is, that there is at least one half of it 
wanting.” 

Sancho could not forbear smiling to hear his master 
call the barber’s basin a helmet; and, had not bis fear 
dashed his mirth, he had certainly laughed outright. 

“What does the fool grin at now?” cried Don Quixote. 

“T laugh,” said he, “to think what a huge jolt-head 
he must needs have had who was the owner of this 
same helmet, that looks for all the world like a barber’s 
basin.” 

“J fancy,” said Don Quixote, “this enchanted helmet 
has fallen by some strange accident into the hands of 
some person, who, not knowing the value of it, for the 
lucre of a little money, finding it to be of pure gold, 
melted one half, and of the other made this head-piece, 
which, as thou sayest, has some resemblance to a bar- 
ber's basin; but to me, who know the worth of it, the 
metamorphosis signifies little; for as soon as ever I 
come to some town where there is an armorer, I will 
have it altered so much for the better, that then even 
the helmet which the God of Smiths made for the God 
of War shall not deserve to be compared with it. In 
the meantime I'll wear it as itis; itis better than noth- 
ing, and will serve at least to save part of my head 
from the violent encounter of a stone.” 

“Ay, thatit will,” quoth Sancho, “so it is not hurled 
out of a sling, as were those at the battle between the 
two armies, when they hit you that dowse o” the chops, 
that saluted your worship’s cheek-teeth, and broke the 
pot about your ears in which you kept that blessed 
drench that made me bring up my stomach.” 

“True,” cried Don Quixote, “there I lost my precious 
balsam indeed; but I do not much repine at it, for thou 
knowest I have the recipe in my memory.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“So have I, too,” quoth Sancho, “and shall have 
while I have breath to draw: but if ever I make any of 
that stuff, or taste it again, may I give up the ghost 
with it! Besides, I don’t intend ever to do anything 
that may give occasion for the use of it: for my fixed 
resolution is, with all my five senses, to preserve myself 
from hurting and from being hurt by anybody. As to 
being tossed in a blanket again, I have nothing to say 
to that, for there is no remedy for accidents but 
patience, it seems: so if it ever be my lot to be served 
so again, PM shrug up my shoulders, hold my breath, 
shut my eyes, and then, happy be lucky, let the blanket 
and fortune toss me on to the end of the chapter.” 

“Truly,” said Don Quixote, “I am afraid thou art no 
good Christian, Sancho; thou never forgettest injuries. 
Let me tell thee, it is the part of noble and generous 
spirits to pass by tritles. Where art thou lame? which 
of thy ribs is broken, or what part of thy skull is 
bruised, that thou canst never think on that jest with- 
out malice? for, after all, it was nothing but a jest, a 
harmless piece of pastime: had I looked upon it other- 
wise, [ had returned to that place before this time, and 
had made more noble mischief in revenge of your 
quarrel than ever the incensed Grecians did at Troy, 
for the detention of their Helen, that famed beauty of 
the ancient world: who, however, had she lived in our 
age, or had my Dulcinea adorned her’s, would have 
found her charms outrivalled by my mistress's per- 
fections:” and saying this, he heaved up a deep sigh. 

“Well, then,” quoth Sancho, “I will not rip up old 
sores; let it go for a jest, since there is no revenging it 
in earnest. But what shall we do with this dapple- 
grey steed, that is so like a grey ass? You see that 
same poor caitiff has left it to shift for itself, poor thing! 
and by his haste to scour off, I don’t think he means to 
come back for it; and, by my beard, the grey beast is a 
special one.” 

“Tt is not my custom,” replied Don Quixote, “to 
plunder those whom I overcome; nor is it usual among 
us knights for the victor to take the horse of his van- 
quished enemy and let him go afoot, unless his own 
steed be killed or disabled in the combat: therefore, 
Sancho, leave the horse, or the ass, whatever thou 
pleasest to call it; the owner will be sure to come for it 
as soon as he sees us gone.” 

“Thave a huge mind to take him along with us,” 
quoth Sancho, “or at least to exchange him for my own, 
which is not so good. What! are the laws of knight- 
errantry so strict, that aman must not exchange one 
ass for another? At least, I hope they will give me 
leave to swop one harness for another.” 

“Truly, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “I am not so 
very certain as to this last particular; and therefore, 
till I am better informed, I give thee leave to exchange 
the furniture, if thou hast absolutely occasion for it.” 

“T have so much occasion for it,” quoth Sancho, “that 
though it were for my own very self, I could not need 
it more.” 

So without any more ado, being authorized by his 
master’s leave, he made mutatio capparum (a change of 
caparisons), and made his own beast three parts in four 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


better for his new furniture. This done, they break- 
fasted upon what they left at supper, and quenched 
their thirst at the stream that turned the fulling-mills, 
towards which they took care not to cast an eye, for 
they abominated the very thoughts of them. Thus 
their spleen being eased, their choleric and melancholic 
humors assuaged, up they got again, and never mind- 
ing their way, were all guided by Rozinante's discre- 
tion, the depository of his master’s will, and also of the 
ass’s, that kindly and sociably always followed his 
steps wherever he went. Their guide soon brought 
them again into the high road, where they kept ona 
slow pace, not caring which way they went. 

As they jogged on thus, quoth Sancho to his master, 
“Pray, sir, will you give me leave to talk to you a little? 
for since you have laid that bitter command upon me, 
to hold my tongue, I have had four or five quaint con- 
ceits that have rotted in my gizzard, and now I have 
another at my tongue’s end that I would not for any- 
thing should miscarry.” 

“Say it” cried Don Quixote; “but be short, for no 
discourse can please when too long.” 

“Well, then,” quoth Sancho, “I have been thinking 
to myself of late how little is to be got by hunting up 
and down those barren woods and strange places, where, 
though you compass the hardest and most dangerous 
jobs of knight-errantry, yet no living soul sees or hears 
on't, and so it is every bitas good as lost; and therefore 
methinks it were better (with submission to your wor- 
ship’s better judgment, be it spoken) that we e’en went 
to serve some emperor, or other great prince that is at 
war; for there you might show how stout and how 
wondrous strong and wise you be; which, being per- 
ceived by the lord we shall serve, he must needs reward 
each of us according to his deserts; and there you will 
not want a learned scholar to set down all your high 
deeds, that they may never be forgotten: as for mine, I 
say nothing, since they are not to be named the same 
day with your worship’s; and yet I dare avouch, that if 
any notice be takenin knight-errantry of the feats of 
squires, mine will be sure to come in for a share.” 

“Truly, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “there is 
some reason in what thou sayest; but first of all itis 
requisite that a knight-errant should spend some time 
in various parts of the world, as a probationer in quest 
of adventures, that, by achieving some extraordinary 
exploits, his renown may diffuse itself through neigh- 
boring climes and distant nations: so when he goes to 
the court of some great monarch, his fame flying before 
him as his harbinger, secures him such a reception, that 
the knight has scarcely reached the gates of the 
metropolis of the kingdom, when he finds himself at- 
tended and surrounded by admiring crowds, pointing 
and crying out, ‘There, there rides the Knight of the Sun, 
or of the Serpent,’ or whatever other title the knight 
takes upon him. ‘That is he,’ they will cry, ‘who van- 
quished in single combat the huge giant Brocabruno, 
surnamed of the invincible strength; this is he that 
freed the great Mamaluco of Persia from the enchant- 
ment that had kept him confined for almost nine hun- 
dred years together.’ Thus, as they relate his achieve- 





85 


ments with loud acclamations, the spreading rumor at 
last reaches the king’s palace, and the monarch of that 
country, being desirous to be informed with his own 
eyes, will not fail to look out of his window. As soon 
as he sees the knight, knowing him by his arms, or the 
device on his shield, he will be obliged to say to his at- 
tendants, ‘My lords and gentlemen, haste all of you, as 
many as are knights, go and receive the flower of chiv- 
alry that is coming to our court.’ At the king’s com- 
mand, away they all run to introduce him; the king him- 
self meets him half way on the stairs, where he em- 
braces his valorious guest, and kisses his cheek: then, 
taking him by the hand, he leads him directly to the 
queen’s apartment, where the knight finds her attended 
by the princess, her daughter, who must be one of the 
most beautiful and most accomplished damsels in the 
whole compass of the universe. At the same time Fate 
will so dispose of everything, that the princess shall 
gaze on the knight, and the knight on the princess, and 
each shall admire one another as persons rather angeli- 
cal than human; and then, without knowing how, they 
shall both find themselves caught and entangled in the 
inextricable net of love, and wondrously perplexed for 
want of an opportunity to discover their amorous an- 
guish to one another. After this, doubtless, the knight 
is conducted by the king to one of the richest apart- 
ments in the palace; where, having taken off his armor, 
they will bring him a rich scarlet vestment lined with 
ermine; and if he looked so graceful cased in steel, how 
lovely will he appear in all the heightening ornaments 
of courtiers! Night being come, he shall sup with the 
king, the queen, and the princess; and shall all the 
while be feasting his eyes with the sight of the charm- 
er, yet so as nobody shall perceive it; and she will 
repay him his glances with as much discretion; for, as 
I have said, she is a most accomplished person. After 
supper a surprising scene unexpectedly appears: enter 
first an ill-favored little dwarf, and after him a fair 
damsel between two giants, with the offer of a certain 
adventure so contrived by an ancient necromancer, and 
so difficult to be performed, that he who shall under- 
take and end it with success, shall be esteemed the best 
knight in the world. Presently itis the king’s pleasure 
that all his courtiers should attempt it; which they do, 
but all of them unsuccessfully ; for the honor is reserved 
for the valorous stranger, who effects that with ease 
which the rest essayed in vain; and then the princess 
shall be overjoyed, and esteem herself the most happy 
creature in the world, for having bestowed her affec- 
tions on so deserving an object. Now, by the happy 
appointment of Fate, this king, or this emperor, is at 
war with one of his neighbors as powerful as himself, 
and the knight being informed of this, after he has 
been some few days at court, offers the king his service; 
which is accepted with joy, and the knight courteously 
kisses the king’s hand in acknowledgment of so great 
afavor. That night the lover takes his leave of the prin- 
cess at the iron grate before her chamber-window look- 
ing into the garden, where he and she have already had 
several interviews, by means of the princess’s confi- 
dante. The knight sighs, the princess swoons, and the 


86 DON QUIXOTE 
damsel runs for cold water to bring her to life again. 
At last the princess revives, and gives tbe knight her 
lovely hand to kiss through the iron grate; which he 
does a thousand and a thousand times, bathing it all 
the while with his tears. Then they agree how to 
transmit their thoughts in secrecy to each other, with a 
mutual intercourse of letters, during this fatal absence. 
The princess prays him to return with all the speed of 
a lover; the knight promises it with repeated vows, and 
a thousand kind protestations. At last, the fatal mo- 
ment being come that must tear him from all he loves, 
and from his very self, he seals once more his love on 
her soft, snowy hand, almost breathing out his soul, 
which mounts to his lips, and even would leave its body 
to dwe!l there; and then he is hurried away by the con- 
fidante. After this cruel separation he retires to his 
chamber, and throws himself on his bed; but grief will 
not sutfer sleep to close his eyes. Then rising with the 
sun, he goes to take his leave of the king and the 
queen: he desires to pay his compliment of leave to the 
princess, but he is told she is indisposed; and as he has 
reason to believe that his departing is the cause of her 
disorder, he is so grieved at the news, that he is ready 
to betray the secret of his heart, which the princess’s 
confidante observing, she goes and acquaints her with 
it, and finds the lovely mourner bathed in tears, who 
tells her that the greatest affliction of her soul is her 
not knowing whether her charming knight be of royal 
blood: but the damsel pacifies her, assuring her that so 
much gallantry, and such noble qualifications, were un- 
questionably derived from an illustrious and royal orig- 
inal. This comforts the afflicted fair, who does all she 
can to compose her looks, lest the king or the queen 
should suspect the cause of their alteration; and so 
some days after she appears in public as before. And 
now the knight, having been absent for some time, 
meets, fights, and overcomes the king’s enemies, takes 
T do not know how many cities, wins I do not know how 
many battles, returns to court, and appears before his 
mistress laden with honor. He visits her privately as 
before, and they agree that he shall demand her of the 
king, her father, in marriage, as the reward of all his 
services; but the king will not grant his suit, as being 
unacquainted with his birth: however, whether it be 
that the princess suffers herself to be privately carried 
away, or that some other means are used, the knight 
marries her, and in a little time the king is very well 
pleased with the match: for now the knight appears to 
be the son of a mighty king of I cannot tell what coun- 
try, for I think it is notin the map. Some time after 
the father dies, the princess is heiress, and thus in a 
trice our knight comes to be king. Having thus com- 
pleted his happiness, his next thoughts are to gratify 
his squire, and all those who have been instrumental in 
his advancement to the throne: thus he marries his 
squire to one of the princess’s damsels, and most prob- 
ably to her favorite, who is daughter to one of the most 
considerable dukes in the kingdom.” 

“That is what I have been looking for all this while,” 
quoth Sancho; “give me but that, and let the world 
rub, there I’ll stick; for every tittle of this will come 





DE LA MANCHA. 


to pass, and be your worship’s case, as sure as a gun, if 
you will take upon you that same nickname of the 
Knight of the Woful Figure.” 

“Most certainly, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “for 
by the same steps, and in that very manner, knights- 
errant have always proceeded to ascend to the throne; 
therefore our chief business is to find out some great 
potentate, either among the Christians or the Pagans, 
that is at war with his neighbors, and has a fair daugh- 
ter. But we shall have time enough to inquire after 
that; for as I have told thee, we must first purchase 
fame in other places, before we presume to go to court. 
Another thing makes me more uneasy: suppose we have 
found out a king and a princess, and I have filled the 
world with the fame of my unparalleled achievements, 
yet cannot I tell how to find out that I am of royal 
blood, though it were but second cousin to an emperor; 
for it is not to be expected that the king will ever con- 
sent that I shall wed his daughter until I have made 
this out by authentic proofs, though my service deserve 
it never so much; and thus, for want of a punctilio, I 
am in danger of losing what my valor so justly merits. 
It is true, indeed, I am a gentleman, and of a noted an- 
cient family, and possessed of an estate of a hundred 
and twenty crowns a year; nay, perhaps the learned 
historiographer who is to write the history of my life 
will so improve and beautify my genealogy, that he will 
find me to be the fifth, or sixth at least, in descent from 
aking: for, Sancho, there are two sorts of originals in 
the world; some who, sprung from mighty kings and 
princes, by little and little have been so lessened and 
obscured, that the estates and titles of the following 
generations have dwindled to nothing, and ended in a 
point like a pyramid; others who, from mean and low 
beginnings, still rise and rise, till at last they are raised 
to the very top of human greatness: so vast the differ- 
ence is, that those who were something are now nothing, 
and those that were nothing are now something. And 
therefore who knows but that I may be one of those 
whose original is so illustrious? which being hand- 
somely made out, after due examination, ought un- 
doubtedly to satisfy the king, my father-in-law. But 
even supposing he were still refractory, the princess is 
to be so desperately in love with me, that she will mar- 
ry me without his consent, though I were a son of the 
meanest water-carrier. If she refuse, it may not be 
amiss to put a pleasant constraint upon her, by convey- 
ing her by force out of the reach of her father, to whose 
persecutions either time or death will be sure to puta 
period.” 

“Ay,” quoth Sancho, “wild fellows have a saying 
that is pat to your purpose—‘ Never cringe nor creep, 
for what you by force may reap;’ though I think it 
were better said, ‘A leap from a hedge is better than 
the prayer of a good man.’ I say this, because, if the 
king, your father-in-law, won't let you have his daugh- 
ter by fair means, there is no more to be done, as your 
worship says, but fairly and squarely to run away with 
her. All the mischief that I fear is only that while 
you are making your peace with him, and waiting after 
a dead man’s shoes, as the saying is, the poor dog of & 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


squire is like to go long barefoot, and may go hang 
himself for any good you will be able to do him, unless 
the damsel, Go-Between, who is to be his wife, run 
away too with the princess, and he solace himself with 
her till a better time comes; for I don’t see but that the 
knight may clap up the match between us without any 
more ado.” 

“That is most certain,” answered Don Quixote. 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “let us even take our 
chance, and let the world rub.” 

“May. Fortune crown our wishes!” cried Don Quix- 
ote; “and let him be wretched who thinks himself so.” 

“ Amen, say I,” quoth Sancho; “for I am one of your 
old Christians, and that is enough to qualify me to be 
an earl.” > 

“And more than enough,” said Don Quixote; “for 
though thou wert not so well descended, being a king, 
I could bestow nobility on thee, without putting thee 
to the trouble of buying it, or doing me the least ser- 
vice; and making thee an earl, men must call thee my 
lord, though it grieves them never so much.” 

“And do you think,” quoth Sancho, “I should not 
become my equality main well ?” 

“Thou shouldst say quality,” said Don Quixote,“and 
not equality.” 

“Even as you will,” returned Sancho: “but, as I was 
saying, I should become an earldom rarely; for I was 
once beadle to a brotherhood, and the beadle’s gown 
did so become me, that everybody said I had the pre- 
sence of a warden. Then how do you think I should 
look with a duke’s robes on my back, all bedaubed 
with gold and pearl, like any foreign count? I believe 
we shall have folks come a hundred leagues to see me.” 

“Thou wilt look well enough,” said Don Quixote; 
but then thou must shave that rough, bushy beard of 





87 


thine at least every other day, or people will read thy 
beginning in thy face as soon as they see thee.” 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “it is but keeping a 
barber in my house; and if needs be, be shall trot after 
me wherever I go, like a grandee’s master of the 
horse.” 

“How camest thou to know,” said Don Quixote, 
“that grandees have their masters of the horse to ride 
after them ?” 

“Pl tell you,” quoth Sancho: “some years ago I 
happened to be about a month among your court folks, 
and there I saw alittle dandiprat riding about, who, 
they said, was a huge, great lord: there was aman on 
horseback that followed him close wherever he went, 
turning and stopping as he did; you would have 
thought he had been tied to his horse’s tail. With that 
I asked why that hind man did not ride with the other, 
but still came after him thus; and they told me he was 
master of his horses, and that the grandees have al- 
ways such kind of men at their tail: and I marked this 
so well, that I have not forgot it since.” 

“Thou art in the right,” said Don Quixote; “and 
thou mayest as reasonably have th y barber attend thee 
in this manner. Customs did not come up all at once, 
but rather started up and were improved by degrees; 
so thou mayest be the first earl that rode in state with 
his barber behind him; and this may be said to justify 
thy conduct, that itis an office of more trust to shave 
a man's beard than to saddle a horse.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “leave the business of the 
barber to me, and do but take care you be a king and I 
an earl.” 

“Never doubt it,” replied Don Quixote; and with 
that, looking about, he discovered——what the next 
chapter will tell you. 











—_—_ Ra ES 





CHAPTER XXI. 


HOW DON QUIXOTE SET FREE MANY MISERABLE CREATURES, WHO WERE BEING TAKEN, MUCH AGAINST 


THEIR WILLS, TO A PLACE THEY DID NOT LIKE. 


Crip HAMET BENENGELT, an Arabian and Manchegan 
author, relates in this most grave, high-sounding, 
minute, soft, aud humorous history, that after this dis- 
course between the renowned Don Quixote and his 
squire Sancho Panza, which we have laid down at the 
end of the twentieth chapter, the knight, lifting up his 
eyes, saw about twelve men a-foot, trudging in the road 
all in arow, one behind another, like beads upon a-string, 
being linked together by the neck to a huge iron chain, 
and manacled besides. They were guarded by two 
horsemen, armed with carabines, and two men a-foot 
with swords and javelins. As soon as Sancho spied 
them, “Look ye, sir” cried he; “here is a gang of 
wretches hurried away by main force to serve the king 
in the galleys.” 

“How!” replied Don Quixote; “is it possible the king 
will torce anybody?” 

“T don't say so,” answered Sancho; “I mean these 
rogues whom the law has sentenced, for their misdeeds, 
to row in the king’s galleys.” 

“However,” replied Don Quixote, “they are forced, 
beeause they do not go of their own free will.” 

“Sure enough,” quoth Sancho. 

“Tf it be so,” suid Don Quixote, “they come within 





the verge of my office, which is to hinder violence and 
oppression, and succor all people in misery.” 

“Ay, sir,” quoth Sancho; “but neither the king nor 
law offers any violence to such wicked wretches; they 
have but their deserts.” 

By this the chain of slaves came up, when Don Quix- 
ote, in very civil terms desired the guards to inform 
him why these people were led along in that manner. 

“Sir,” answered one of the horseman, “they are 
criminals, condemned to serve the king in his galleys: 
that is all T have to say to you, and you need inquire 
no farther.” 

“Nevertheless, sir,” replied Don Quixote, “I have a 
great desire to know in few words the cause of their 
misfortune, and I will esteem it an extraordinary favor 
if you will let me have that satisfaction.” 

“We have here the copies and certificates of their 
several sentences,” said the other horseman, “but we 
can’t stand to pull them out and read them now; you 
may draw near and examine the men yourself: I suppose 
they themselves will tell you why they are condemned; 
for they are such honest people, they are not ashamed 
to boast of their rogueries.” 

With this permission, which Don Quixote would have 

88 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


taken himself had they denied it him, he rode up to 
the chain, and asked the first for what crimes he was 
in these miserable circumstances. The galley-slave 
answered him that it was for being in love. “What! 
only for being in love?” cried Don Quixote; “were all 
those that are in love to be used thus, I myself might 
have been long since in the galleys.” 

“Ay, but,” replied the slave “my love was not of 
that sort which you conjecture: I was so desperately 
in love with a basket of linen, and embraced it so close, 
that had not the jndge taken it from me by force, I 
would not have parted with it willingly. In short, I 
was taken in the fact, and so there was no need to put 
me to the rack: it was proved so plainuponme. So I 
was committed, tried, condemned, had the gentle lash; 
and besides that, was sent for three years, to be an 
element-dasher; and there is an end of the business.” 

“An element-dasher!” cried Don Quixote; “what do 
you mean by that?” 

“A galley-slave,” answered the criminal, who was a 
young fellow, about four-and-twenty years old, and said 
he was born at Piedra Hita. 

Then Don Quixote examined the second, but he was 
so sad and desponding, that he would make no answer: 
however, the first rogue informed the knight of his 
affairs. “Sir,” said he, “this canary bird keeps us 
company for having sung too much.” 

“Is it possible!” cried Don Quixote; “ 
the galleys for singing?” 

“Ay, marry are they,” quoth the arch rogue; 
there is nothing worse than to sing in anguish.” 

“How!” cried Don Quixote; “that contradicts the 
saying, ‘Sing away sorrow, cast away care.’” 

“Ay, but with us the case is different,” replied the 
slave; “he that sings in disaster weeps all his life after.” 

“This is a riddle which I cannot unfold,” cried Don 
Quixote. 

“Sir,” said one of the guards, “singing in anguish, 
among these gaol-birds, means to confess upon the rack; 
this fellow was put to the torture, and conf ssed his 
crime, which was stealing of cattle; and because he 
squeaked, or sung, as they call it, he was condemned to 
the galleys for six years, besides a hundred jerks with 
a cat-o’-nine-tails that have whisked and powdered his 
shoulders already. Now the reason why he goes thus 
mopish and out o’ sorts, is only because his fellow- 
rogues jeer and laugh at him continually for not having 
had the courage to deny: as if it had not been as easy 
for him to have said ‘No’ as ‘Yes;’ or as if a fellow, 
taken up on suspicion, were not a lucky rogue, when 
there is no positive evidence can come in against him 
but his own tongue; and in my opinion they are some- 
what in the right.” 

“T think so too,” said Don Quixote. 

Thence addressing himself to the third, “And you,” 
said he, “what have you done?” 

“Sir,” answered the fellow, readily and pleasantly 
enough, “I must mow the great meadow for five years 
together, for want of twice five ducats.” 

“T will give twenty with all my heart,” said Don 
Quixote, “to deliver thee from that misery.” 


aremen sent to 


“for 





89 


“Thank you for nothing,” quoth the slave; “itis just 
like the proverb, * After meat comes mustard;’ or like 
money to a starving man at sea, when there are no 
victuals to be bought with it: had I had the twenty 
ducats that you offer me before I was tried, to have 
greased the clerk’s pen, and whetted my lawyer’s wit, 
Imight have been now at Toledo, in the market-place 
of Zocodover, and not have been thus led like a dog'in 
a string. But Heaven is powerful. Patience! I say 
no more.” 

After these came a man about thirty years old, a 
clever, well-set, handsome fellow, only he squinted 
horribly with one eye: he was strangely loaded with 
irons; a heavy chain clogged his leg and was so long, 
that he twisted it about his waist like a girdle: he had 
a couple of collars about his neck, the one to link to the 
rest of the slaves, and the other one of those iron-ruffs 
which they call a keep-friend, or a friend’s foot; from 
whence two irons went down to his middle, and to their 
two bars were riveted a pair of manacles that griped 
him by the fists, and were secured with a large padlock; 
so that he could neither lift his hands to his mouth, nor 
bend down his head towards his hands. Don Quixote 
inquired why he was worse hampered with irons than 
the rest. 

“Because he alone has done more rogueries than all 
the rest,” answered one of the guards. “This is such a 
reprobate, such a villian, that no gaol nor fetters will 
hold him; we are not sure he is fast enough, for all he is 
chained so.” 

“What sort of crimes, then, has he been guilty of,” 
asked Don Quixote, “that he is only sent to the galleys?” 

“Why,” answered the keeper, “he iscondemned to 
ten years’ slavery, which is no better than a civil death: 
but I need not stand to tell you any more of him, but 
that he is that notorious rogue, Gines de Passamonte, 
alias Ginesillo de Parapilla.” 

“Hark you, sir,” cried the slave, “fair and softly; 
what makes you give a gentleman more names than he 
has? Gines is my Christian name, and Passemonte my 
surname, and not Ginesillo, nor Parapilla, as you say. 
Blood! let every man mind what he says, or it may 
prove the worse for him.” 

“Don’t you be so saucy, Mr. Crack-rope,” cried the 
officer to him, “or I may chance to make you keep a 
better tongue in your head.” 

“It is a sign,” cried the slave, “that a man is fast and 
under the lash; but one day or other somebody shall 
know whether I am called Parapilla or no.” 

“Why, Mr. Slip-string,” replied the officer, “do not 
people call you by that name?” 

“They do,” answered Gines, “but I’ll make them call 
me otherwise, or I’ll fleece and bite them worse than I 
care to tell you now.—But you, sir, who are so inquisi- 
tive,” added he, turning to Don Quixote, “if you have 
amind to give us anything, pray do it quickly, and go 
your ways; for I don’t like to stand here answering 
questions. 1 am Gines de Passamonte: I am not 
ashamed of my name. As for my life and conversation, 
there is an account of them in black and white, written 
with this numerical hand of mine.” 





















































“D ixot ked the first for what crimes he was in these miserabl tances.”—, 
d the fi f hat € circumsta 
on Quixote as “Pp. 89. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“There he tells you true,” said the officer, “for he 
has written his own history himself, without omitting 
a title of his roguish pranks; and he has left the manu- 
script in pawn in the prison for two hundred reals.” 

“Ay,” said Gines, “and will redeem it, though it lay 
there for as many ducats.” 

“Then it must be an extraordinary piece,” cried Don 
Quixote. 

“So extraordinary,” replied Gines, “that it far out- 
does not only Lazarillo de Tormes, but whatever has 
been and shall be written in that kind; for mine is true 
every word, and noinvented stories can compare with 
it for variety of tricks and accidents.” 

“What is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote. 

“The life of Gines de Passamonte,” answered the 
other. 

“Ts it quite finished?” asked the knight. 

“How can it be finished and I yet living?” replied 
the slave. “There is in it every material point, from 
my cradle to this my last going to the galleys.” 

“Then it seems you have been there before,” said 
Don Quixote. 

“To serve God and the king, I was some four years 
there once before,” replied Gines: “I already know 
how the biscuit agree with my carcase: it does not 
grieve me much to go there again, for there I shall 
have leisure to give a finishing stroke to my book. I 
have a great many things to add; and in our Spanish 
galleys there is always leisure and idle time enough o” 
conscience: neither shall:1 want so much for what I 
have to insert, for 1 know it all by heart.” 

“Thou seemest to be a witty fellow,” said Don 
Quixote. ‘ 

“You should have said anta, too,” replied the 
slave; “for Fortune is still unkind to men of wit.” 

“You mean to such wicked wretches as yourself,” 
cried the officer. 

“Look you, Mr. Commissary,” said Gines, “I have 
already desired you to use good language. The law 
did not give us to your keeping for you to abuse us, 
but only to conduct us where the king has occasion for 
us. Let every man mind his own business, and give 
good words, or hold his tongue; for—I will say no 
more, murder will out; there will be a time when some 
people’s rogueries may come to light, as well as those 
of other folks.” 

With that the officer, provoked by the slave’s threats, 
held up his staff to strike him; but Don Quixote step- 
ped between them, and desired him not to do it, and to 
consider that the slave was the more to be excused for 
being too free of his tongue, since he had ne’er another 
member at liberty. Then addressing himself to all the 
slaves, “My dearest brethren,” cried he, “I find, by 
what I gather from your own words, that though you 
deserve punishment for the several crimes of which 
you stand convicted, yet you suffer execution of the 
sentence by constraint, and merely because you cannot 
help it. Besides, it is not unlikely but that this man’s 
want of resolution upon the rack, the other’s want of 
money, the third’s want of friends and favor, and, in 
short, the judges perverting and wresting the law to 





91 


your great prejudice, may have been the cause of your 
misery. Now, as Heaven has sent me into the world to 
relieve the distressed, and free suffering weakness from 
the tyranny of oppression, according to the duty of my 
profession of knight-errantry, these considerations in- 
duce me to take you under my protection. But because 
it is the part of a prudent man not to use violence 
where fair means may be effectual, I desire you, gentle- 
men of the guard, to release these poor men, there being 
people enough to serve his majesty in their places; for 
it is a hard case to make slaves of men whom God and 
nature made free; and you have the less reason to use 
these wretches with severity, seeing they never did 
you any wrong. Let them answer for their sins in the 
other world; Heaven is just, you know, and will be 
sure to punish the wicked, as it will certainly reward 
the good. Consider besides, gentlemen, that it is 
neither a Christian-like nor an honorable action for 
men to be the butchers and tormentors of one another; 
principally, when no advantage can arise from it. I 
choose to desire this of you, with so much mildness, 
and in so peaceable a manner, gentlemen, that I may 
have occasion to pay you a thankful acknowledgement, 
if you will be pleased to grant so reasonable a request; 
but if you provoke me by refusal, I must be obliged to 
tell ye, that this lance, and this sword, guided by this 
invinciblé arm, shall force you to yield that to my valor 
which you deny to my civil entreaties.” 

“A very good jest, indeed!” cried the officer. “What 
makes you dote at such a rate? would you have us set 
at liberty the king’s prisoners, as if we had authority 
to do it, or you tocommand it? Go, go about your 
business, good Sir Errant, and set your basin right 
upon your empty pate, and pray do not meddle any 
further in what does not concern you, for those who 
play with cats must expect to be scratched.” 

“Thou art a cat, and a rat, and coward to boot!” cried 
Don Quixote; and with that he attacked the officer 
with such a sudden and surprising fury, that before he 
had any time to put himself into a posture of defence, 
he struck him down, dangerously wounded with his 
lance; and, as Fortune had ordered it, this happened 
to be the horseman who was armed with a carbine. 
His companions stood astonished at such a bold 
action, but at last fell upon the champion with 
their swords and darts, which might have proved 
fatal to him, had not the slaves laid hold of this op- 
portunity to break the chain, in order to regain their 
liberty; for, the guard perceiving their endeavors to get 
loose, thought it more material to prevent them, than 
to be fighting a madman: but, as he pressed them vig- 
orously on one side, and the slaves were opposing them 
and freeing themselves on the other, the hurlyburly was 
so great, and the guards so perplexed, that they did 
nothing to the purpose. In the meantime, Sancho was 
helping Gines de Passamonte to get off his gyves, 
which he did sooner than can be imagined; and then 
that active desperado having seized the wounded offi- 
cer’s sword and carbine, he joined Don Quixote, and 
sometimes aiming at one and sometimes at the other, as 
if he had been ready to shoot them, yet still without 


92 


letting off the piece, the other slaves at the same time 
pouring volleys of stone-shot at the guards, they be- 
took themselves to their heels, leaving Don Quixote 
and the criminals masters of the field. Sancho, who 
was always for taking care of the main chance, was not 
at all pleased with this victory; for he guessed that the 
guards who were fled would raise a hue and ery, and 
soon be at their heels with the whole posse of the holy 
brotherhood, and lay them up for a rescue and rebellion. 
This made him advise his master to get out of the way 
as fast as he could, and hide himself in the neighboring 
mountains. 

“T hear you,” answered Don Quixote to this motion 
of his squire, “and I know what I have to do.” 

Then calling to him all the slaves, who by this time 
had uncased the keeper to his skin, they gathered about 
him to know his pleasure, and he spoke to them in this 
manner :— 

“Tt is the part of generous spirits to have a grateful 
sense of the benefits they receive, nc crime being more 
odious than ingratitude. You see, gentlemen, what I 
have done for your sakes, and you cannot but be sensi- 
ble how highly you are obliged to me. Now all the 
recompence I require is, only that every one of you, 
laden with that chain from which I have freed your 
necks, do instantly repair to the city of Toboso; and 
there presenting yourselves before the Lady Dulcinea 
del Toboso, tell her that her faithful votary, the Knight 
of the Woful Countenance, commanded you to wait on 
her, and assure her of his profound veneration. Then 
you shall give her an exact account of every particular 
relating to this famous achievement, by which you once 
more taste the sweets of liberty; which done, I give 
you leave to seek your fortunes where you please.” 

To this the ringleader and master thief, Gines de 
Passamonte, made answer for all the rest. “What you 
would have us do,” said he, “our noble deliverer, is ab- 
solutely impracticable and impossible; for we dare not 
be seen all together for the world. We must rather 
part, and skulk some one way, some another, and lie 
snug in creeks and corners under ground, for fear of 
those man-hounds that will be after us with a hue and 
ery; therefore all we can and ought to do in this case, 
is to change this compliment and homage which you 
would have us to pay to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, 
into a certain number of Ave Marias and Creeds, which 
we will say for your worship’s benefit; and this may be 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


done by night or by day, walking or standing, and in 
war as well as in peace: but to imagine we will return 
to our flesh-pots of Egypt, that is to say, take up our 
chains again, and lug them no man knows whither, is as 
unreasonable as to think it is night now at ten o’clock 
in the morning. 'Sdeath, to expect this from us, is to 
expect pears from an elm-tree.” 

“Now, by my sword,” replied Don Quixote, “Sir 
Ginesello de Parapilla, or whatever be your name, you 
yourself, alone, shall go to Toboso, like a dog that has 
scalded his tail, with the whole chain about your 
shoulders.” 

Gines, who was naturally very choleric, judging by 
Don Quixote’s extravagance in freeing them, that he 
was not very wise, winked on his companions, who, like 
men that understood signs, presently fell back to the 
right and left, and pelted Don Quixote with such a 
shower of stones, that all his dexterity to cover himself 
with his shield was now ineffectual, and poor Rozinante 
no more obeyed the spur than if he had been only the 
statue of a horse. As for Sancho, he got behind his 
uss, aud there sheltered himself from the volleys of 
flints that threatened his bones, while his master was 
so battered, that in a little time he was thrown out of 
his saddle to the ground. He was no sooner down, but 
one of the gang leaped on him, took off his basin from 
his head, gave him three or four thumps on the shoul- 
ders with it, and then gave it so many knocks against 
the stones, that he almost broke it to pieces. After 
this, they stripped him of his upper coat, and had 
robbed him of his hose too, but that his greaves hin- 
dered them. They also eased Sancho of his upper 
coat, and left him in his doublet; then, having divided 
the spoils, they shifted every one for himself, thinking 
more how to avoid being taken up, and linked again in 
the chain, than of trudging with it to my Lady Dulcinea 
del Toboso. Thus the ass, Rozinante, Sancho, and Don 
Quixote remained indeed masters of the field, but in an 
ill condition: the ass hanging his head, and pensive, 
shaking his ears now and then, as if the volleys of 
stones had still whizzed about them; Rozinante lying 
in a desponding manner, for he had been knocked down 
as well as his unhappy rider; Sancho uncased to his 
doublet, and trembling for fear of the holy brotherhood ; 
and Don Quixote filled with sullen regret, to tind him- 
self so barbarously used by those whom he had so 
highly obliged. 

















3 >. = - = 
SS = = 





CHAPTER XXII 


WHAT BEFELL THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA (BLACK MOUNTAIN) BEING ONE OF 


THE RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS AUTHENTIC HISTORY. 


Don QUIXOTE, finding himself so ill treated, said to 
his squire, “Sancho, J have always heard it said, that 
to do a kindness to clowns is like throwing water into 
the sea. Had I given ear to thy advice, I had prevent- 
ed this misfortune; but since the thing is done, it is 
needless to repine; this shall be «warning to me for the 
future.” 

“Your worship,” quoth Sancho, “will as much take 
warning, as lama Turk: but since you say you had 
escaped this mischief had you believed me, good sir, 
believe me now, and you will escape a greater; for 1 
must tell you that the holy brotherhood does not stand 
in awe of your chivalry, nor do they care a straw for all 
the knights-errant in the world. Methinks I already 
hear their arrows whizzing about my ears.” 

“Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho,” cried Don 
Quixote; “nevertheless, that thou mayest not say I am 
obstinate, and never follow thy advice, I will take thy 
counsel, and for once convey myself out of the reach 
of this dreadful brotherhood, that so strangely alarms 
thee; but upon this condition, that thou never tell any 
mortal creature, neither while I live, nor after my death, 
that I withdrew myself from this danger through fear, 
but merely to comply with thy entreaties: for if thon 
ever presume to say otherwise, thou wilt belie me; and 
from this time to that time, and from that time to the 





world’s end, I give thee the lie, and thou liest, and shalt 
lie in thy throat, as often as thou sayest or but think- 
est to the contrary. Therefore do not offer to reply; 
for shouldest thou but surmise that I would avoid any 
danger, and especially this which seems to give some 
occasion or color for fear, I would certainly stay here, 
though unattended and alone, and expect and face not 
only the holy brotherhood, which thou dreadest so 
much, but also the fraternity or twelve heads of the 
tribes of Israel, the seven Maccabees, Castor and Pollux, 
and all the brothers and brotherhoodsin the universe.” 

“An' please your worship,” quoth Sancho, “to with- 
draw is not to run away, and to stay is no wise action, 
when there is more reason to fear than to hope; it is 
the part of a wise man to keep himself to-day for to- 
morrow, and not venture all his eggs in one basket. 
And for all J am but a clown, ora bumpkin, as you may 
say, yet I would have you to know I know what’s what, 
and have always taken care of the main chance; there- 
fore do not be ashamed of being ruled by me, but even 
get on horseback if you are able: come, I will help you, 
and then follow me; for my mind plaguily misgives me, 
that now one pair of heels will stand us in more stead 
than two pair of hands.” 

Don Quixote, without any reply, made shift to mount 
Rozinante, and Sancho on his ass led the way to the 

94 











96 DON 
neighboring mountainous desert, called Sierra Morena, 
which the crafty squire had a design to cross over and 
get out at the farthest end, either at Viso, or Almado- 
var del Campo, and in the meantime to lurk in the 
craggy and almost inaccessable retreats of that vast 
mountain, for fear of falling into the hands of the holy 
brotherhood. He was the more eager to steer this 
course, finding that the provision which he had laid on 
his ass had escaped plundering, which was a kind of 
miracle, consideriñg how narrowly the galley-slaves 
had searched everywhere for booty. It was night be- 
fore our two travellers got to the middle and most desert 
part of the mountain, where Sancho advised his master 
to stay some days, at least as long as their provisions 
lasted; and accordingly that night they took up their 
lodging between two rocks, among a great number of 
cork trees; but Fortune, which, according to the opin- 
ion of those that have not the light of true faith, guides, 
appoints, and contrives all things as it pleases, directed 
Gines de Passamonte (that master rogue, who, thanks 
be to Don Quixote’s force and folly, had been put in a 
condition to do him a mischief) to this very part of the 
mountain, in order to hide himself till the heat of the 
pursuit, which he had just cause to fear, were over. 
He discovered our adventurers much about the time 
that they fell asleep; and as wicked men are always un- 
grateful, and urgent necessity prompts many to do 
things at the very thoughts of which they perhaps 
would start at other times, Gines, who was a stranger 
both to gratitude and humanity, resolved to ride away 
with Sancho's ass; for as for Rozinante, he looked upon 
him as a thing that would neither sell nor pawn: so 
while poor Sancho lay snoring, he spirted away his dar- 
ling beast, and made such haste, that before day he 
thought himself and his prize secure from the unhappy 
ownor’s pursuit. 

Now Aurora with her smiling face returned to enliven 
and cheer the earth, but alas! to grieve and affright San- 
cho with a dismal discovery : for he had no sooner opened 
his eyes, but he missed his ass; and finding himself de- 
prived of that dear partner of his fortunes, and best com- 
fort in his peregrinations, he broke out into the most piti- 
ful and sad lamentations in the world; insomuch that he 
waked Don Quixote with hismoans. “Oh, dear child,” 
cried he, “born and bred under my roof, my children’s 
play-fellow, the comfort of my wife, the envy of my neigh- 
bors, the ease of my burthens, the staff of my life, and, 
in a word, half my maintenance; for with six-and- 
twenty maravedis, which were daily earned by thee, I 
made shift to keep half my family.” 

Don Quixote, who easily guessed the cause of these 
complaints, strove to comfort him with kind, condoling 
words, and learned discourses upon the uncertainty of 
human happiness: but nothing proved so effectual to 
assuage his sorrow, as the promise which his master 
made him of drawing a bill of exchange on his niece for 
three asses out of five which he had at home, payable 
to Sancho Panza, or his order; which prevailing argu- 
ment soon dried up his tears, hushed his sighs and 
moans, and turned his complaints into thanks to his 
generous master for so unexpected a favor. 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


And now, as they wandered further in these moun- 
tains, Don Quixote was transported with joy to find 
himself where he might flatter his ambition with the 
hopes of fresh adventures to signalize his valor; for 
these vast deserts made him call to mind the wonderful 
exploits of other knights-errant performed in such soli- 
tudes. Filled with those airy notions, he thought on 
nothing else: but Sancho was for more substantial 
food; and now, thinking himself quite out of the reach 
of the holy brotherhood, his only care was to fill his 
belly with the relics of the clerical booty: and thus 
sitting sideling, as women do, upon his beast, he slyly 
took out now one piece of meat, then another, and kept 
his grinders going faster than his feet. Thus plodding 
on, he would not have given a rush to have met with 
any other adventure. 

While he was thus employed, he observed that his 
master endeavored to take up something that lay on 
the ground with the end of his lance: this made him 
run to help him to lift up the bundle, which proved to 
be a portmanteau, and the seat of a saddle, that was 
half or rather quite rotted with lying exposed to the 
weather. The portmanteau was somewhat heavy, and 
Don Quixote having ordered Sancho to see what it 
contained, though it was shut with a chain and pad- 
lock, he easily saw what was in it through the crack, 
and puled ont four fine holland shirts, and other clean 
and fashionable linen, besides a considerable quantity 
of gold tied up in a handkerchief. 

“Bless my eye-sight,” quoth Sancho; “and now, 
Heaven, I thank thee for sending us such a lucky ad- 
venture once in our lives.” With that, groping fur- 
ther in the portmanteau, he found a table-book richly 
bound. 

“Give me that,” said Don Quixote, “and do thou 
keep the gold.” 

“Heaven reward your worship,” quoth Sancho, kiss- 
ing his master’s hand, and at the same time clapping 
up the linen and the other things into the bag where 
he kept the victuals. 

“T fancy,” said Don Quixote, “that some person hav- 
lost his way in these mountains, has been met by rob- 
bers, who have murdered him, and buried his body 
somewhere hereabouts.” 

“Sure your worship’s mistaken,” answered Sancho, 
“for had they been highwaymen, they would never 
have left such a booty behind them.” 

“Thou art in the right,” replied Don Quixote; “and 
therefore I cannot imagine what it must be. But stay, 
I will examine the table-book; perhaps we shall find 
something written in that, which will help us to dis- 
cover what I would know.” With that he opened it, 
and the first thing he found was the following rough 
draught of a sonnet, fairly enough written to be read 
with ease; so he read it aloud, that Sancho might know 
what was in it as well as himself. 


” 


THE RESOLVE. 
A SONNET. 
Love is a god ne'er knows our pain, 
Or cruelty's his darling attribute; 
Else he'd ne'er force me to complain, 
And to his spite my raging pain impute. 
































98 DON QUIXOTE 


But sure, if Love's a god, he must 
Have knowledge equal to his power; 
And ‘tis a crime to think a god unjust: 
Whence then the pains that now my heart devour? 


From Phyllis? No: why do I pause? 
Such cruel ills ne'er boast so sweet a cause; 
Nor from the gods such torments we do bear. 
Let death, then, quickly be my cure: 
When thus we ills unknown endure, 
"Tie shortest to despair. 

“There’s not much can be picked out of this,” quoth 
Sancho, “unless you can tell who that same Phyl] is.” 

“T did not read Phyll, but Phylliss,” said Don Quix- 
ote. 

“Oh, then, mayhap, the man has lost his filly-foal.” 

“Phyllis,” said Don Quixote, “is the name of a lady 
that is beloved by the author of this sonnet, who truly 
seems to be a tolerable poet, or I have but little judg- 
ment.” 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “belike your worship 
understands how to make verses too?” 

“That I do,” answered Don Quixote, “and better 
than thou imaginest; as thou shalt see when I shall give 
thee a letter written all in verse to carry to my Lady 
Dulcinea del Toboso: for I must tell thee, friend San- 
cho, all the knights-errant, or at least the greatest part 
of them, in former times, were great poets, and as great 
musicians; those qualifications, or, to speak better, 
those two gifts, or accomplishments, being almost in- 
seperable from love adventures: though I must confess 
the verses of the knights in former ages are not alto- 
gether so polite, nor so adorned with words, as with 
thoughts and inventions.” 

“Good sir,” quoth Sancho, “look again into the 
pocket-book; mayhap you will find somewhat that will 
inform you of what you would know.” 

With that, Don Quixote turning over the leaf, 
“Here's some prose,” cried he, “and I think it is the 
sketch of a love-letter.” 

“Oh! good your worship,” quoth Sancho, “read it out 
by all means, for I delight mightily in hearing of love- 
stories.” 

Don Quixote read it aloud, and found what follows. 

“The falsehood of your promises, and my despair, hur- 
ry me from you forever; and you shall sooner hear the 
news of my death than the cause of my complaints. You 
have forsaken me, ungrateful fair, for one more wealthy 
indeed, but not more deserving than your abandoned 
slave. Were virtue esteemed a treasure equal to its 
worth by your unthinking sex, J must presume to say, 
I should have no reason to envy the wealth of others, 
and no misfortune to bewail. What your beauty has 
raised, your actions have destroyed; the first made me 
mistake you for an angel, but the last convince me you 
are a very woman. However, oh! too lovely disturber 
of my peace, may uninterrupted rest and downy ease 
engross your happy hours; and may forgiving Heaven 
still keep your husband’s perfidiousness concealed, lest 
it should cost your repenting heart a sigh for the in- 
justice you have done to so faithful a lover, and so I 
should be prompted to a revenge which I do not desire 
to take. Farewell.” 

“This letter,” quoth Don Quixote, “does not give us 





DE LA MANCHA. 


any further insight into the things we would know; all 
I can infer from it is, that the person who wrote it was 
a betrayed lover.” 

And so turning over the remaining leaves, he found 
several other letters and verses, some of which were 
legible, and some so scribbled that he could make no- 
thing of them. As for those he read, he could meet 
with nothing in them but accusations, complaints and 
expostulations, distrusts and jealousies, pleasures and 
discontents, favors and disdain—the one highly valued, 
the other as mournfully resented. And while the 
knight was poring on the table-book, Sancho was rum- 
maging the portmanteau and the seat of the saddle with 
that exactness, that he did not leave a corner un- 
searched, nor a seam unripped, nor a single lock of 
wool unpicked; for the gold he had found, which was 
above a hundred ducats, had but whetted his greedy 
appetite, and made him wild for more. Yet, though 
this was all he could find, he thought himself well paid 
for the more than Herculean labors he had undergone; 
nor could he now repine at his being tossed in a blanket, 
the straining and griping operation of the balsam, the 
benedictions of the pack-staves and leavers, the fisti- 
cuffs of the carrier, the loss of his cloak, his dear wal- 
let, and of his dearer ass, and all the hunger, thirst, 
and fatigue which he had suffered in his kind master’s 
service. On the other side, the Knight of the Woful 
Figure strangely desired to know who was the owner 
of the portmanteau, guessing by the verses, the letter, 
the linen, and the gold, that he was a person of worth, 
whom the disdain and unkindness of his mistress had 
driven to despair. At length, however, he gave over 
the thoughts of it, discovering nobody through that 
vast desert; and so he rode on, wholly guided by Rozi- 
nante’s discretion, which always made the grave, saga- 
cious creature choose the plainest and smoothest way: 
the master still firmly believing that in those woody, 
uncultivated forests he should infallibly start some 
wonderful adventure. 

And indeed, while these hopes possessed him, he 
spied upon the top of a stony crag just before him 
a man that skipped from rock to rock, over briers 
and bushes, with wonderful agility. He seemed 
to him naked from the waist upwards, with a thick 
black beard; his hair long and strangely tangled; 
his head, legs, and feet bare; on his hips a pair of 
breeches, that appeared to be of sand-colored velvet, 
but so tattered and torn, that they discovered 
his skin in many places. These particulars were 
observed by Don Quixote while he passed by, and 
he followed him, endeavoring to overtake him, for he 
presently guessed this was the owner of the portman- 
teau. But Rozinante, who was naturally slow and 
phlegmatic, was in too weak a case besides to run races 
with so swift an apparition: yet the Knight of the Wo- 
ful Figure resolved to find out that unhappy creature, 
though he were to bestow a whole year in the search; 
and to that intent he ordered Sancho to beat one side 
of the mountain, while he hunted the other. 

“In good sooth,” quoth Sancho, “your worship must 
excuse me as to that; for if I but offer to stir an inch 











(tte: 
Piss 
(hay rl 
Y) 


AS 
Wy ya 


Don Quixote was transported with joy to find himself where he might flatter his ambition with the hopes of fresh adventures.—p. 96 





100 


from you, J am almost frighted out of my seven senses: 
and let this serve you hereafter for a warning, that 
you may not send me a nail's breath from your pres- 
ence.” 

“Well,” said the knight, “I will take thy case into 
consideration; and it does not displease me, Sancho, to 
see thee thus rely upon my valor, which I dare assure 
thee, shall never fail thee, though thy very soul should 
be scared out of thy body. Follow me, therefore, step 
by step, with as much haste as is consistent with good 
speed; and let thy eyes pry everywhere while we search 
every part of this rock, where, it is probable, we may 
meet with that wretched mortal, who doubtless is the 
owner of the portmanteau.” 

“Odsnigs, sir,” quoth Sancho, “I had rather get out 
of his way; for, should we chance to meet him, and he 
lay claim to the portmanteau, it is a plain case I shall 
be forced to part with the mouey: and therefore I think 
it much better, without making so much ado, to let me 
keep it bond fide, till we can light on the right owner 
some more easy way, and without dancing after him; 
which may not happen till we have spent all the money; 
and in that case I am free from the law, and he may go 
whistle for it.” 

“Thou art mistaken, Sancho,” cried Don Quixote; 
“for, seeing we have some reason to think that we know 
who is the owner, we are bound in conscience to en- 
deavor to find him out, and restore it to him; the rather, 
because should we not now strive to meet him, yet the 
stronger presumption we have that the goods belong to 
him, would make us possessors of them male fide, and 
render us as guilty as if the party whom we suspect to 
have lost the things were really the right owner; there- 
fore, friend Sancho, do not think much of searching for 
him, since, if we find him out, it will extremely ease my 
mind.” 

With that he spurred Rozinante; and Sancho, not 
very well pleased, followed him, comforting himself, 
however, with the hopes of the three asses which his 
master had promised him. So when they had rode over 
the greatest part of the mountain, they came to a brook, 
where they fonnd a mule lying dead, with her saddle 
and bridle about her, and herself half devoured by 
beasts and birds of prey; which discovery further con- 
firmed them in their suspicion, that the man who fled 
so nimbly from them was the owner of the mule and 
portmanteau. Now as they paused and pondered upon 
this, they heard whistling, like that of some shep- 
herd keeping his flocks; and presently after, upon 
their left hand, they spied a great number of goats 
with an old herdsman after them, on the top of the 
mountain. Don Quixote called out to him, and de- 
sired him to come down; but the goatherd, instead 
of answering him, asked them in as loud a tone how 
they came thither in those deserts, where scarce 
any living creatures resorted except goats, wolves, 
and other wild beasts? Sancho told him they would 
satisfy him as to that point if he would come where 
they were. With that the goatherd came down to 
them; and seeing them look upon the dead mule, “That 
dead mule,” said the old fellow, “has lain in that very 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


place this six months; but pray tell me, good people, 
have you not met the master of it by the way ?” 


“We have met nobody,” answered Don Quixote; 
“but we found a portmanteau and a saddle cushion not 
far from this place.” 

“I have seen it too,” quoth the goatherd, “but I 
never durst meddle with it, nor so much as come near 
it, for fear of some misdemeanor, lest I should be 
charged with having stolen somewhat out of it: for 
who knows what might happen? the devil is subtle, 
and sometimes lays baits in our way to tempt us, or 
blocks to make us stumble.” 

“It is just so with me, gaffer,” quoth Sancho; “for I 
saw the portmanteau too, d’ye see, but 1 would not 
come within a stone’s throw of it; no, there I found it, 
and there I left it; i’faith, it shall e’en lie there still for 
me. He that steals a bellweather shall be discovered 
by the bell.” 

“Tell me, honest friend,” asked Don Quixote, “dost 
thou know who is the owner of those things ?” 

“All I know of the matter,” aswered the goatherd, 
“is, that it is now six months, little more or less, since to 
a certain sheep-fold, some three leagues off, there came 
a young, well-featured, proper gentleman in good 
clothes, and under him this same mule that now lies 
dead here, with the cushion and cloak-bag, which you 
say you met, but touched not. He asked us which was 
the most desert and least frequented part of these 
mountains; and we told him this where we are now: 
and in that we spoke the plain truth, for should you 
venture to go but half a league further, you would 
hardly be able to get back again in haste; and I marvel 
how you could get even thus far, for there is neither 
highway nor foot-path that may direct a man this way. 
Now, as soon as the young gentleman had heard our 
answer, he turned about his mule, and made to the 
place we showed him, leaving us all with a great liking 
to his comliness, and strangely marvelling at his de- 
mand, and the haste he made towards the middle of the 
mountain. After that we heard no more of him for a 
great while, till one day by chance one of the shep- 
herds coming by, he fell upon him, without saying why 
or wherefore, and beat him without mercy: after that 
he went to the ass that carried our victuals, and, tak- 
ing away all the bread and cheese that was there, he 
tripped back again to the mountain with wondrous 
speed. Hearing this, a good number of us togetner 
resolved to find him out; and when we had spent the 
best part of two days in the thickest of the forest, we 
found him at last lurking in the hollow of a huge cork- 
tree, from whence he came forth to meet us as mild as 
could be. But then he was so altered, his face was so dis- 
figured, wan, and sun-burnt, that, had it not been for 
his attire, which we made shift to know again, though 
it was all in rags and tatters, we could not have 
thought it had been the same man. He saluted us cour- 
teously, and told us in few words, mighty handsomely 
put together, that we were not to marvel to see him in 
that manner, for that it behooved him so to be, that he 
might fulfill a certain penance enjoined him for the 
great sins he had committed. We prayed him to tell 


rn ly 
a 


1 
Lila 
y Miel 
TTL 
E f 








“The first thing he found was the rough draught of a sonnet; so he read it aloud.”—p. 96. 


102 


us who he was, but he would by no means do it: we like- 
wise desired him to let us know where we might find 
him, that whensoever he wanted victuals we might 
bring him some, which we told him we would be sure to 
do, for otherwise he would be starved in that barren 
place; requesting him, that if he did not like that mo- 
tion neither, he would at least come and ask us for what 
he wanted, and not to take it by force as he had done. 
He thanked us heartily for our offer, and begged pardon 
for that injury, and promised to ask it henceforward as 
an alms, without setting upon any one. As for his 
place of abode, he told us he had none certain, but 
wherever night caught him, there he lay: and he ended 
his discourse with such bitter moans, that we must have 
had hearts of flint had we not had a feeling of them, 
and kept him company therein; chiefly considering we 
beheld him so strangely altered from what we had seen 
him before: for, as I said, he was a very fine, comely 
young man, and by his speech and behavior we could 
guess him to be well born, and a courtlike sort of a 
body: for though we were but clowns, yet such was his 
genteel behavior, that we could not help being taken 
with it. Now as he was talking to us, he stopped of a 
sudden, as if he had been struck dumb, fixing his eyes 
steadfastly on the ground; whereat we all stood in 
amaze. After he had thus stared a good while, he shut 
his eyes, then opened them again, bit his lips, knit his 
brows, clutched his fists; and then rising from the 
ground, whereon he had thrown himself a little before, 
he flew at the man that stood next to him with such a 
fury, that if we had not pulled him off by main force, 
he would have bit and thumped him to death; and all 
the while he cried out, ‘Ah! traitor Ferdinand, here, 
here thou shalt pay for the wrong thou hast done me; I 
must rip up that false heart of thine;’ and a deal more 
he added, all in dispraise of that same Ferdinand. 
After that he flung from us without saying a word, 
leaping over the bushes and brambles at such a strange 
rate, that it was impossible for us to come at him; from 
which we gathered, that his madness comes on him by 
fits, and that some one called Ferdinand had done him 
an ill turn, that hath brought the poor youg man to this 
pass. And this hath been confirmed since that many 
and many times: for when he is in his right senses, he 
will come and beg for victuals, and thank us for it with 
tears; but when he is in his mad fit, he will beat us 
though we proffer him meat civilly: and to tell you the 
truth, sirs,” added the goat-herd, “I, and four others, of 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


whom two are my men, and the other two my friends, 
yesterday agreed to look for him till we should find 
him out, and either by fair means or by force to carry 
him to Almodover town, that is but eight leagues off; 
and there we will have him cured, if possible, or at least 
we shall learn who he is when he comes to his wits, and 
whether he has any friends to whom he may be sent 
back. This is all I know of the matter; and I dare 
assure you that the owner of those things which you 
saw in the way, is the self-same body that went so nim- 
bly by you;” for Don Quixote had by this time ac- 
quainted the goatherd of his having seen that man skip- 
ping among the rocks. 

The knight was wonderfully concerned when he had 
heard the goatherd's story, and renewed his resolution 
of finding out that distracted wretch, whatever time 
and pains it might cost him. But Fortune was more 
propitious to his desires than he could reasonably 
have expected: for just as they were speaking, they 
spied him right against the place where they stood, 
coming towards them out of the cleft of a rock, mutter- 
ing somewhat to himself, which they could not well 
have understood had they stood close by him, much 
less could they guess his meaning at that distance. His 
apparel was such as has already been said, only Don 
Quixote observed, when he drew nearer, that he had 
on a buff doublet, torn in many places, which yet the 
knight found to be perfumed with amber; and by this, 
as also by the rest of his clothes, and other conjectures, 
he judged him to be aman of some quality. As soon 
as the unhappy creature came near them, he saluted 
them very civilly, but with a hoarse voice. Don Quix- 
ote returned his civilites, and, alighting from Rozi- 
nante, accosted him in a very graceful manner, and 
hugged him close in his arms, as if he had been one of 
his intimate acquaintance. The other, whom we may 
venture to call the Knight of the Ragged Figure, as 
well as Don Quixote the Knight of the Woful Figure, 
having got loose from that embrace, could not forbear 
stepping back a little, and laying his hands on Don 
Quixote’s shoulders, he stood staring in his face, as if 
he had been striving to call to mind whether he had 
known him before, probably wondering as much to be- 
hold Don Quixote's countenance, armor, and strange 
figure, as Don Quixote did to see his tattered condition: 
but the first that opened his mouth after this pause 
was the ragged knight, as you shall find by the sequel 
of the story. 





* He spied upon the top of a stony crag just before him a man that skipped from rock to rock with wonderful agility .”—p. 98. 





CHAPTER 


XXIII. 


THE ADVENTURE IN THE SIERRA-MORENA—continued. 


THE history relates that Don Quixote listened with 
great attention to the ragged Knight of the Mountain, 
who made him the following compliment:—“Truly, sir, 
whoever you be (for I have not the honor to know you), 
I am much obliged to you for your expressions of civ- 
ilty and friendship; and I could wish I were in a con- 
dition to convince you otherwise than by words of the 
deep sense I have of them: but my bad fortune leaves 
me nothing to return for so many favors, but unprofit- 
able wishes.” 

“Sir,” answered Don Quixote, “I have so hearty a 
desire to serve you, that I was fully resolved not to 
depart these mountains till I had found you out, that I 
might know from yourself whether the discontents that 
have urged you to make choice of this unusual course 
of life might not admit of a remedy: for if they do, 
assure yourself I will leave no means untried, till I 
have purchased you that ease which I heartily wish 
you; or if your disasters are of that fatal kind that 
exclude you for ever from the hopes of comfort or 
relief, then will I mingle sorrows with you, and, by 
sharing your load of grief, help you to bear the op- 
pressing weight of affliction; for it is the only comfort 
of the miserable to have partners in their woe. If, then, 





good intentions may plead merit, or a grateful requital, 
let me entreat you, sir, by that generous nature that 
shoots through the gloom with which adversity has 
clouded your graceful outside; nay, let me conjure you 
by the darling object of your wishes, to let me know who 
you are, and what strange misfortunes have urged you 
to withdraw from the converse of your fellow-creatures, 
to bury yourself alive in this horrid solitude, where 
you linger out a wretched being, a stranger to ease, to 
all mankind, and even to your very self. And I sol- 
emnly swear,” added Don Quixote, “by the order of 
knighthood, of which I am an unworthy professor, that 
if you so far gratify my desires, I will assist you to the 
utmost of my capacity, either by remedying your dis- 
aster, if it is not past redress, or at least I will become 
your partner in sorrow, and strive to ease it by a soci- 
ety in sadness.” 

The Knight of the Wood, hearing the Knight of the 
Woful Figure talk at that rate, looked upon him stead- 
fastly for a long time, and viewed and re-viewed him 
from head to foot; and when he had gazed a great while 
upon him, “Sir,” cried he, “if you have anything to 
eat, for Heaven's sake give it me, and when my hunger 
is abated, I shall be better able to comply with your 

104 




















«* They came to a brook where they found a mule lying dead.”—p. 100, 


106 


desires, which your great civilties and undeserved 
offers oblige me to satisfy.” Sancho and the goatherd, 
hearing this, presently took out some victuals, the one 
out of his bag, the other out of his scrip, and gave it to 
the ragged knight to allay his hunger, who immedi- 
ately fell on with that greedy haste, that he seemed 
rather to devour than feed; for he used no intermission 
between bit and bit, so greedily he chopped them up; 
and all the time he was eating, neither he nor the by- 
standers spoke the least word. When he had assuaged 
his voracious appetite, he beckoned to Don Quixote 
and the rest to follow him; and after he had brought 
them to a neighboring meadow, he laid himself at his 
ease on the grass, where the rest of the company sitting 
down by him, neither he nor they having yet spoke a 
word since he fell to eating, he began in this manner :— 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “if you intend to be informed 
of my misfortunes, you must promise me beforehand 
not to cut off the thread of my doleful narration with 
any questions, or any other interruption; for in the 
very instant that any of you does it, I shall leave off 
abruptly, and will not afterwards go on with the story.” 

This preamble put Don Quixote in mind of Sancho’s 
ridiculous tale, which by his neglect in not telling the 
goats was brought to an untimely conclusion. “T only 
use this precaution,” added the ragged knight, “be- 
cause I would be quick in my relation, for the very 
remembrance of my former misfortune proves a new one 
to me; and yet, I promise you, I will endeavor to omit 
nothing that is material, that you may have as full an 
account of my disasters as I am sensible you desire.” 

Thereupon Don Quixote, for himself and the rest, 
having promised him uninterrupted attention, he pro- 
ceeded in this manner :— 

“My name is Cardenio, the place of my birth one of 
the best cities in Andalusia: my descent noble, my 
parents wealthy, but my misfortunes are so great, that 
they have doubtless filled my relations with the deep- 
est of sorrows: nor are they to be remedied with 
wealth, for goods of fortune avail but little against the 
anger of Heaven. In the same town dwelt the charm- 
ing Lucinda, the most beautiful creature that ever Na- 
ture framed, equal in descent and fortune to myself, but 
more happy and less constant. I loved, nay, adored 
her almost from her infancy; and from her tender years 
she blessed me with as kind a return as is suitable with 
the innocent freedom of that age. Our parents were 
conscious of that early friendship; nor did they oppose 
the growth of this inoffensive passion, which they per- 
ceived could have no other consequences than a happy 
union of our families by marriage—a thing which the 
equality of our births and fortunes did indeed of itself 
almost invite us to. Afterwards our loves so grew up 
with our years, that Lucinda’s father, either judging 
our usual familiarity prejudicial to his daughter’s honor, 
or for some other reasons, sent to desire me to discon- 
tinue my frequent visits to his house: but this restraint 
proved but like that which was used by the parents of 
that loving Thisbe, so celebrated by the poets, and but 
added flames to flames, and impatience to desires. As 
our tongues were now debarred their former privilege, 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


we had recourse to our pens, which assumed the greater 
freedom to disclose the most hidden secrets of our 
hearts; for the presence of the beloved object often 
heightens a certain awe and bashfulness, that disorders, 
confounds, and strikes dumb even the most passionate 
lover. How many letters have I written to that lovely 
charmer! how many soft, moving verses have I ad- 
dressed to her! what kind yet honorable returns have 
I received from her! the mutual pledges of our secret 
love, and the innocent consolations of a violent passion. 
At length, languishing and wasting with desire, de- 
prived of that reviving comfort of my soul, I resolved 
to remove those bars with which her father’s care and 
decent caution obstructed my only happiness, by de- 
manding her of him in marriage. He very civilly told 
me that he thanked me for the honor J did him, but 
that I had a father alive, whose consent was to be ob- 
tained as well as his, and who was the most proper per- 
son to make such a proposal. I thanked him for his 
civil answer, and thought it carried some show of rea- 
son, not doubting but my father would readily consent 
to the proposal. I therefore immediately went to wait 
on him with a design to beg his approbation and assist- 
ance. I found him in his chamber with a Jetter opened 
before him, which, as soon as he saw me, he put into 
my hand, before I could have time to acquaint him with 
my business. ‘Cardenio,’ said he, ‘ you will see by this 
letter the extraordinary kindness that Duke Ricardo 
has for you.’ I suppose I need not tell you, gentlemen, 
that this Duke Ricardo is a grandee of Spain, most of 
whose estate lies in the best part of Andalusia. I read 
the letter, and found it contained so kind and advanta- 
geous an offer, that my father could not but accept of 
it with thankfulness; for the duke entreated him to 
send me to him with all speed, that I might be the com- 
panion of his eldest son, promising withal to advance 
me to a post answerable to the good opinion he had 
of me. 

“This unexpected news struck me dumb; but my 
surprise and disappointment were much greater when I 
heard my father say to me, ‘Cardenio, you must get 
ready to be gone in two days: in the meantime give 
Heaven thanks for opening you a way to that prefer- 
ment which I am so sensible you deserve.’ After this 
he gave me several wise admonitions, both as a father 
and a man of business, and then he left me. The day 
fixed for my journey quickly came; however, the night 
that preceded it I spoke to Lucinda at her window, and 
told her what had happened. I also gave her father a 
visit, and informed him of it too, beseeching him to 
preserve his good opinion of me, and defer the bestow- 
ing of his daughter till I had been with Duke Ricardo, 
which he kindly promised me: and then, Lucinda and 
I, after an exchange of vows, and protestations of eter- 
nal fidelity, took our leaves of each other with all the 
grief which two tender and passionate lovers can feel 
at a separation. 

“T left the town, and went to wait upon the duke, 
who received and entertained me with that extraordi- 
nary kindness and civility that soon raised the envy of 
his greatest favorites. But he that most endearingly 


DON QUIXOTE 


caressed me was Don Ferdinand, the duke's second 
son, a young, airy, handsome, generous gentleman; he 
seemed to be overjoyed at my coming, and in a most 
obliging manner told me he would have me one of his 
most intimate friends. In short, he so really convinced 
me of bis affection, that though his elder brother gave 
me many testimonies of love and esteem, yet could I 
easily distinguish between their favors. Now, as it is 
common for bosom friends to keep nothing secret from 
each other, Don Ferdinand, relying as much on my 
fidelity as I had reason to depend on his, revealed to 
me his most private thoughts; and among the rest, his 
being in love with the daughter of a very rich farmer, 
who was his father's vassal. The beauty of that lovely 
country maid, her virtue, her discretion, and the other 
graces of her mind, gained her the admiration of all 
those who approached her: and those uncommon endow- 
ments had so charmed the soul of Don Ferdinand, that 
he resolved to marry her. 1 thought myself obliged, 
by all the ties of gratitude and friendship, to dissuade 
him from so unsuitable a match; and therefore I made 
use of such arguments as might have diverted any one 
but so confirmed a lover from such an unequal choice. 
At last finding them all ineffectual, I resolved to inform 
the duke, his father, of his intentions: but Don Ferdi- 
nand was too clear-sighted not to read my design in my 
great dislike of his resolutions; and dreading such a 
discovery, which he knew my duty to his father might 
well warrant, in spite of our intimacy, since I looked 
upon such a marriage as highly prejudicial to them 
both, he made it his business to hinder me from betray- 
ing his passion to his father, assuring me there would 
be no need to reveal it to him. To blind me the more 
effectually, he told me he was willing to try the power 
of absence, that common cure of love, thereby to wear 
out and lose his unhappy passion; and that in order to 
this, he would take a journey with me to my father’s 
house, pretending to buy horses in our town, where the 
best in the world are bred. No sooner had I heard this 
plausible proposal but I approved it, swayed by the in- 
terest of my own love, that made me fond of an opportu- 
nity to see my absent Lucinda. 

“Having obtained the duke’s leave, away we posted 
to my father’s house, where Don Ferdinand was enter- 
tained according to his quality; and I went to visit my 
Lucinda, who, by a thousand innocent endearments, 
made me sensible that her love, like mine, was rather 
heightened than weakened by absence, if anything 
could heighten a love so great and so perfect. I then 
thought myself obliged, by the laws of friendship, not 
to conceal the secrets of my heart from so kind and in- 
timate a friend, who had so generously entrusted me 
with his; and therefore, to my eternal ruin, I unhappily 
discovered to him my passion. I praised Lucin- 
da’s beauty, her wit, her virtue; and praised them 
so like a lover, so often, and so highly, that I 
raised in him a great desire to see so accomplished 
a lady; and, to gratify his curiosity, I showed 
her to him by the help of a light, one evening, at 
a low window, where we used to have our inter- 
views. She proved but too charming, and too strong a 





DE LA MANCHA. 107. 
temptation to Don Ferdinand; and her prevailing im- 
age made so deep an impression on his soul, that it was 
sufficient to blot out of his mind all those beauties 
that had till then employed his thoughts. He was 
struck dumb with wonder and delight, at the sight of 
the ravishing apparition: and, in short, to see her and 
to love her proved with him the same thing: and when 
I say to love her, I need not add to desperation, for 
there is no loving her but to an extreme. If her face 
made him so soon take fire, her wit quickly set him all 
ina flame. He often importuned me to communicate to 
him some of her letters, which 1 indeed would never 
expose to any eyes but my own; but, unhappily, one 
day he found one, wherein she desired me to demand 
her of her father, and to hasten the marriage. It was 
penned with such tenderness and discretion that, when 
he had read it, he presently cried out that the charms 
which were scattered and divided among other beau- 
ties were all divinely centred in Lucinda, and in Lu- 
cinda alone. Shall I confess a shameful truth? Lucin- 
da’s praises, though never so deserved, did not sound 
pleasantly to my ears out of Don Ferdinand’s mouth. 
I began to entertain I know not what distrusts and 
jealous fears, the rather, because he would be still in- 
sensibly turning the discourse he held of other mat- 
ters, to make her the subject, though never so far- 
fetched, of our constant talk. Not that I was appre- 
hensive of the least infidelity from Lucinda: far from 
it; she gave me daily fresh assurances of her inviola- 
ble affection; but I feared everything from my malig- 
nant stars; and lovers are commonly industrious to 
make themselves uneasy. 

“Tt happened one day that Lucinda, who took great 
delight in reading books of knight-errantry, desired me 
to lend her the romance of Amadis de Gaul——” 

Scarce had Cardenio mentioned knight-errantry, 
when Don Quixote interrupted him. “Sir,” said he, 
“had you but told me, when you first mentioned the 
Lady Lucinda, that she was an admirer of books of 
knight-errantry, there had been no need of using any 
amplification to convince me of her being a person of 
uncommon sense; yet, sir, had she not used those 
mighty helps, those infallible guides to sense, though 
indulgent Nature had strove to bless her with the rich- 
est gifts she can bestow, I might justly enough have 
doubted whether her perfections could have gained her 
the love of a person of your merit; but now you need 
not employ your eloquence to set forth the greatness of 
her beauty, the excellence of her worth, or the depth of 
her sense, for, from this account which I have of her 
taking great delight in reading books of chivalry, I 
dare pronounce her to be the most beautiful, nay, the 
most accomplished lady in the universe; and I heartily 
could have wished that, with Amadis de Gaul, you had 
sent her the worthy Don Rugel of Greece; for I am 
certain the Lady Lucinda would have been extremely 
delighted with Daryda and Garaya, as also with the 
discreet shepherd Darinel, and those admirable verses 
of his bucolics, which he sung and repeated with so 
good a grace. Buta time may yet be found to give her 
the satisfaction of reading those master-pieces, if you 


108 


will do me the honor to come to my house, for there I 
may supply you with above three hundred volumes, 
which are my soul's greatest delight, and the darling 
comfort of my life; though now I remember myself, I 
have just reason to fear there is not one of them left 
in my study, thanks to the malicious envy of wicked 
enchanters. I beg your pardon for giving you this in- 
terruption, contrary to my promise; but when I hear 
the least mention made of knight-errantry, it is no 
more in my power to forbear speaking than it is in the 
sunbeams not to warm, or in those of the moon not to 
impart her natural humidity; and therefore, sir, I be- 
seech you to goon.” 

While Don Quixote was running on with this impert- 
inent digression, Cardenio hung down his head on his 
breast with all the signs of a man lost in sorrow; nor 
could Don Quixote, with repeated entreaties, persuade 
him to look up, or answer a word. At last, after he 
had stood thus a considerable while, he raised bis head, 
and, suddenly breaking silence, “I am positively con- 
vinced,” cried he, “nor shall any man in the world ever 
persuade me to the contrary; and he’s a blockhead who 
says otherwise than that great villain, Master Elisabat, 
compromised Queen Madasima. ” 

“It is false!” cried Don Quixote, in a mighty heat; 
“by all the powers above, it is all scandal and base de- 
traction to say this of Queen Madasima! She was a 
most noble and virtuous lady; nor is it to be presumed 
that so great a princess would ever debase herself so 
far as to fallin love with a quack. Whoever dares to 
say she did, lies like an arrant villain; and Dll make 
him acknowledge it either a-foot or a-horseback, 
armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or how he 
pleases.” 

Cardenio very earnestly fixed his eyes on Don Quix- 
ote, while he was thus defying him, and taking Queen 
Madasima’s part, as if she had been his true and law- 
ful princess; and being provoked by these abuses into 
one of his mad fits, he took up a great stone that lay 
by him, and hit Don Quixote such a blow on his breast 
with it, that it beat him down backwards. Sancho, 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


seeing his lord and master so roughly handled, fell 
upon the mad knight with his clenched fists; but he 
beat him off at the first onset, and laid him at his feet 
with a single blow, and then fell a-trampling on his 
stomach like a baker in a dough-trough. Nay, the 
goatherd, who was offering to take Sancho’s part, had 
like to have been served in the same manner. So, the 
ragged knight, having tumbled them one over another, 
and beaten them handsomely, left them, and ran into 
the wood, without the least opposition. 

Sancho got up when he saw him gone; and being 
very much out of humor to find himself so roughly 
handled without any manner of reason, began to pick a 
quarrel with the goatherd, railing at him for not fore- 
warning them of the ragged knight’s mad fits, that 
they might have stood upon their guard. The goatherd 
answered he had given them warning at first, and if he 
could not hear it was nofault of his. Tothis Sancho re- 
plied, and the goatherd made a rejoinder, till from pro’s 
and cons they fell to a warmer way of disputing, and went 
to fisty-cuffs together, catching one another hy the 
beards, and tugging, hauling, and belaboring one an- 
other so unmercifully, that, had not Don Quixote part- 
ed them, they would have pulled one another’s chins 
off. Sancho, in great wrath, ¡still keeping his hold, 
cried to his master, “Let me alone, Sir Knight of the 
Woful Figure: this is no dubbed knight but an ordi- 
nary fellow like myself; I may be revenged on him for 
the wrong he has done me; let me box it out, and fight 
him fairly hand to fist, like a man !” 

“Thou mayest fight him, as be is thy equal,” answer- 
ed Don Quixote; “but thou oughtest not to do it, since 
he has done us no wrong.” 

After this he pacified them, and then, addressing him- 
self to the goatherd, asked him whether it was possible 
to find out Cardenio again, that he might hear the end 
of his story. The goatherd answered that, as he al- 
ready told him, he knew of no settled place he used, 
but that if they made any stay thereabouts, he would 
be sure to meet with him, mad or sober, some time or 
other. 





CHAPTER XXIV. 


KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE BLACK 


OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT 


MOUNTAIN ; AND OF THE PENANCE HE DID THERE, IN IMITATION OF BELTENEBROS OR THE LOVELY 


OBSCURE. . 


Down QUIXOTE took leave of the goatherd, and having 
mounted Rozinante, commanded Sancho to follow him, 
which he did, but with no very good will, his master 
leading him into the roughest and most craggy part of 
the mountain. Thus they travelled for a while without 
speaking a word to each other. Sancho, almost dead, 
and ready to burst for want of alittle chat, waited with 
great impatience till his master should begin, not dar- 
ing to speak first, since his strict injunction of silence. 
But at last, not being able to keep silence any longer, 
“good your worship,” quoth he, “give me your bless- 
ing and leave to be gone, I beseech you, that I may go 
home to my wife and children, where I may talk till I 
am weary, and nobody can hinder me! for I must needs 
tell you, that for you to lead me a jaunt through 
hedge and ditch, over hills and dales, by night and by 
day, without daring to open my lips, is to bury me alive. 
Could beasts speak, as they did in XEsop's time, it would 
not have been half so bad with me; for then might I 
have communed with my ass as I pleased, and have for- 
got my ill-fortune: but to trot on in this fashion, all the 





days of my life, after adventures, and to light on noth- 
ing but thumps, kicks and cuffs, and be tossed ina 
blanket, and after all, forsooth, to have a man’s mouth 
sewed up, without daring to speak one’s mind—I say it 
again, no living soul can endure it.” 

“T understand thee, Sancho,” answered Don Quix- 
ote; “thou art impatient to exercise thy talking faculty. 
Well, I am willing to free thy tongue from this restraint 
that so cruelly pains thee, upon condition that the time 
of this license shall not extend beyond that of our con- 
tinuance in these mountains.” 

“A match!” quoth Sancho. “Let us “make hay 
while the sun shines;’ I will talk whilst I may; what I 
may do hereafter Heaven knows best!” And so, begin- 
ning to take the benefit of his privilege, “Pray, sir,” 
quoth he, “what occasion had you to take so hotly the 
part of Queen Magimasa, or what do you call her?” 

“Upon my honor, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quix- 
ote, “didst thou but know, as well as I do, what a vir- 
tuous and eminent lady Queen Madasima was, thou 
wouldst say I had a great deal of patience, seeing I did 

109 


110 


not strike that profane wretch on the mouth, out of 
which such blasphemies proceeded: for, in short, it was 
the highest piece of detraction to say that a queen was 
familiar with a barber-surgeon: for the truth of the 
story is, that this Master Elisabat, of whom the madman 
spoke, was a person of extraordinary prudence and 
sagacity, and physician to that queen, who also made 
use of his advice in matters of importance; neither can 
I believe that Cardenio knew what he said, when he 
chargéd the queen with that debasing guilt; for it was 
plain that his raving fit had disordered the seat of his 
understanding.” 

“Why, there it is,” quoth Sancho; “who but a mad- 
man would have minded what a madman said? What 
if the flint that hit you on the breast had dashed out 
your brains ? we had been in a dainty pickle for taking 
the part of that same lady. Nay, and Cardenio would 
have come off too, had he knocked you on the head; for 
the law has nothing to do with madmen.” 

“Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “we knights-errant 
are obliged to vindicate the honor of women of what 
quality soever, as well against madmen as against men 
in their senses; much more queens of that magnitude 
and extraordinary worth as Queen Madasima, for whose 
rare endowments I have a peculiar veneration; for she 
was a most beautiful lady, discreet and prudent to ad- 
miration, and behaved herself with an exemplary 
patience in all her misfortunes. It was then that the 
company and wholesome counsels of Master Elisabat 
proved very useful to alleviate the burden of her afflic- 
tions: from which the ignorant and ill-meaning vulgar 
took occasion to invent scandals. But I say once more, 
they lie, and lie a thousand times, whoever they be, that 
shall presumptuously report, or hint, or so much as 
think or surmise so base a calumny.” 

“Why,” quoth Sancho, “I neither say nor think one 
way nor the t’other, not I: let them that say it eat the 
lie, and swallow it with their bread. I never trust my 
nose into other men's porridge. It is no bread and 
butter of mine: ‘every man for himself, and God for us 
all’ say I; for he that buys and lies, finds it in his purse. 
Let him that owns the cow take her by the tail. Naked 
came I into the world, and naked must I go out. Many 
think to find flitches of bacon, and find not so much as 
the racks to lay them on; but who can hedge in a cuc- 
koo? “Little said is soon mended-’ It isa sin to belie 
the devil: but misunderstanding brings lies to town, 
and there is no padlocking of people's mouths; for a 
close mouth catches no flies.” 

“Bless me!” cried Don Quixote, “what a catalogue of 
musty proverbs hast thou run through! what a heap of 
frippery ware hast thou threaded together, and how 
wide from the purpose! Pray thee have done, and for 
the future let thy whole study be to spur thy ass; nor 
do thou concern thyself with things that are out of thy 
sphere; and with all thy five senses remember this, that 
whatsoever I do, have done, and shall do, is no more 
than what is the result of mature consideration, and 
strictly conformable to the laws of chivalry, which I 
understand better than all the knights that ever pro- 
fessed knight-errantry.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Ay, ay sir,” quoth Sancho; “but pray is it a good, 
law of chivalry that says we shall wander up and down, 
over bushes and briars, in this rocky wilderness, where 
there is neither foot-path nor horse-way, running after 
a madman, who, if we may light on him again, may 
chance to make an end of what he has begun—not of 
his story, I mean, but of belaboring you and me thor- 
oughly ?” 

“Once more, I pr’ythee, have done,” said Don Quix- 
ote; “I have business of greater moment than the find- 
ing this frantic man: itis not so much that business 
detains me in this barren and desolate wild, as a desire 
Ihave to perform a certain heroic deed that shall im- 
mortalize my fame, and make it fly to the remotest 
regions of the habitable globe; nay, it shall seal and 
confirm the most complete and absolute knight-errant 
in the world.” 

“But is not this same adventure very dangerous?” 
asked Sancho. 

“Not at all,” replied Don Quixote; “though, as for- 
tune may order it, our expectations may be baffled by 
disappointing accidents: but the main thing consists in 
thy diligence.” 

“My diligence ?” quoth Sancho. 

“I mean,” said Don Quixote, “that if thou returnest 
with all the speed imaginable from the place whither I 
design to send thee, my pain will soon be at an end, 
and my glory begin. And because I do not doubt thy 
zeal for advancing thy master’s interest, I will no long- 
er conceal my design from thee. Know, then, my most 
faithful squire, that Amadis de Gaul was one of the 
most accomplished knights-errant; nay, I should not 
have said he was one of them, but the most perfect, the 
chief and prince of themall. And let not Don Belianis, 
nor any others, pretend to stand in competition with 
him for the honor of priority; for, to my knowledge, 
should they attempt it, they would be egregiously in 
the wrong. I must also inform thee, that when a 
painter studies to excel and grow famous in his art, he 
takes care to imitate the hest originals; which rule 
ought likewise to be observed in all other arts and 
sciences that serve for the ornament of well-regulated 
commonwealths. Thus he thatis ambitious of gaining the 
reputation of a prudent and patient man, ought to pro- 
pose to himself to imitate Ulysses, in whose person and 
troubles Homer has admirably delineated a perfect pat- 
tern and prototype of wisdom and heroic patience. So 
Virgil, in his 4neas, has given the world a rare example 
of filial piety, and of the sagacity of a valiant and experi- 
enced general; both the Greek and Roman poets repre- 
senting their heroes, not such as they really were, but 
such as they should be, to remain examples of virtue to 
ensuing ages. In the same manner, Amadis having been 
the polar star and sun of valorous and amorous knights, 
it is him we ought to set before our eyes as our great 
exemplar, all of us that fight under the banner of love 
and chivalry; for it is certain that the adventurer who 
shall emulate him best shall consequently arrive near- 
est to the perfection of knight-errantry. Now, Sancho, 
I find that among the things which most displayed that 
champion's prudence and fortitude, his constancy and 


ll 
Hip 

A if hy 
hi 











“But pray, sir, quoth Sancho, “is it a good law of chivalry that says we shall wander up and down, over bushes and briars.”-.p. 110, 


112 


love, and bis other heroic virtues, none was more re- 
markable than his retiring from his disdainful Oriana, 
to do penance on the Poor Rock; changing his name 
into that of Beltenebros, or the Lovely Obscure, a title 
certainly most significant, and adapted to the life which 
he then intended to lead. So I am resolved to imitate 
him in this, the rather because I think it a more easy 
task than it would be to copy his other achievements, 
such as cleaving the bodies of giants, cutting off the 
heads of dragons, killing dreadful monsters, routing 
whole armies, dispersing navies, breaking the force of 
magic spells. And since these mountainous wilds offer 
me so fair an opportunity, I see no reason why I should 
neglect it, and therefore I will lay hold on it now.” 

“Very well,” quoth Sancho; “but pray, sir, what is 
it that you mean to do in this fag end of the world.” 

“Have I not already told thee,” answered Don 
Quixote, “that I intend to copy Amadis in his madness, 
despair, and fury? nay, at the same time I will imitate 
the valiant Orlando Furioso’s extravagance when he 
ran mad; at which time, in his frantic despair, he tore 
up trees by the roots, troubled the waters of the clear 
fountains, slew the shepherds, destroyed their flocks, 
fired their huts, demolished houses, drove their horses 
before him, and committcd a hundred thousand other 
extravagances, worthy to be recorded in the eternal 
register of fame. Not that I intend, however, in all 
things to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotoland (for 
he had all those names), but only to make choice of 
such frantic effects of his amorous despair, as I shall 
think most essential and worthy imitation. Nay, per- 
haps I shall wholly follow Amadis, who, without launch- 
ing out into such destructive and fatal ravings, and 
only expressing his anguish in complaints and lamenta- 
tions, gained nevertheless, a renown equal, if not 
superior, to that of the greatest heroes.” 

“Sir,” quoth Sancho, “I dare say the knight who did 
these penances had some reason to be mad; but what 
need have you to be mad too? what lady has sent you 
a-packing, or so much as slighted you? when did you 
ever find that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso did other- 
wise than she should do?” 

“Why, there is the point,” cried Don Quixote: “in 
this consists the singular perfection of my undertaking; 
for, mark me, Sancho, for a kuight-errant to run mad 
upon any just occasion, is neither strange nor meritor- 
ious; no, the rarity is to run mad without a cause, with- 
out the least constraint or necessity: there is a refined 
and exquisite passion for you, Sancho! for thus my 
mistress must needs have a vast idea of my love. But 
besides, I have but too just a motive to give a loose to 
my raving grief, considering the long date of my ab- 
sence from my ever supreme Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; 
for as the shepherd in Matthias Ambrosio has it— 


“ Poor lovers, absent from the darling fair, 
All ills not only dread, but bear.” 


Then do not lavish any more time in striving to divert 
me from so rare, so happy, and so singular an imitation. 
I am mad, and will be mad, until thy return with an 
answer to the letter which thou must carry from me to 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


the Lady Dulcinea; and if it be as favorable as my un- 
shaken constancy deserves, then my madness and my 
penance shall end; but if I find she repays my vows 
and services with ungrateful disdain, then will I be 
emphatically mad, and screw up my thoughts to such 
an excess of distraction, that I shall be insensible of the 
rigor of my relentless fair. Thus what return soever 
she makes to my passion, I shall be eased one way or 
other of the anxious thoughts that now divide my soul; 
either entertaining the welcome news of her reviving 
pity with demonstrations of sense, or else showing my 
insensibility of her cruelty by the height of my dis- 
traction. But in the meantime, Sancho, tell me, hast 
thou carefully preserved Membrino's helmet? I saw 
thee take it up the other day, after that monster of in- 
gratitude had spent his rage in vain endeavors to break 
it, which, by the way, argues the most excellent temper 
of the metal.” 

“Body of me,” quoth Sancho, “Sir Knight of the Wo- 
ful Figure, I can no longer bear to hear you run on at 
this rate! Why, this were enough to make any man 
believe that all your bragging and bouncing of your 
knight-errantry, your winning of kingdoms, and be- 
stowing of islands, and Heaven knows what, upon your 
squire, are mere flim-flam stories, and nothing but shams 
and lies; for who can hear a man call a barber’s basin a 
helmet, nay, and stand to it, and vouch it four days to- 
gother, and not think him that says it to be stark mad, 
or without brains? I have the basin safe enough here 
in my pouch, and I'll get it mended for my own use, if 
ever I have the luck to get home to my wife and 
children.” 

“Now as I love bright arms,” cried Don Quixote, “I 
swear thou art the shallowest, silliest, and most stupid 
fellow of a squire that ever I heard or read of in my 
life! How is it possible for thee to be so dull of appre- 
hension, as not to have learnt in all this time that thou 
hast been in my service, that all the actions and adven- 
tures of us knights-errant seem to be mere chimeras, 
follies, and impertinences? Not that they are so in- 
deed, but appear so, either through the officious care 
or the malice and envy of those enchanters that always 
haunt and persecute us unseen, and by their fascinations 
change the appearance of our actions into what they 
please, according to their love or hate. This is the very 
reason why that which I plainly perceive to be Mam- 
brino’s helmet seems to thee to be only a barber’s basin, 
and perhaps another man may take it to be something 
else. And in this I can never too much admire the 
prudence of the sage who espouses my interests, in 
making that inestimable helmet seem a basin; for did 
it appear in its proper shape, its tempting value would 
raise me as many enemies as there are men in the uni- 
verse, all eager to snatch from me so desirable a prize: 
but so long as it shall seem to be nothing but a barber’s 
basin, men will not value it; as is manifest from the 
fellow’s leaving it behind him on the ground; for had 
he known what it really was, he would sooner have 
parted with his life. K: ep it safe then, Sancho, for I 
have no need of it at present, far from it; I think to 
put off my armor, and strip myself as naked as I came 


DON QUIXOTE 


into the world, in case I determine to imitate Orlando’s 
fury, rather than the penance of Amadis.” 

This discourse brought them to the foot of a high 
rock that stood by itself, as if it had been hewn out, 
and divided from the rest; by the skirt of it glided a 
purling stream, that softly took its winding course 
through an adjacent meadow. The verdant freshness 
of the grass, the number of wild trees, plants, and flow- 
ers that feasted the eyes in that pleasant solitude, in- 
vited the Knight of the Woful Figure to muke choice 
of it to perform his amorous penance; and therefore as 
soon as he had let his ravished sight rove a while over 
the scattered beauties of the place, he took possession 
ofit with the following speech, asif he had utterly 
lost the small share of reason he had left. 

“Behold, oh ye heavens !” cried he, “thisis the place 
which an unhappy lover has chosen for bemoaning the 
deplorable state to which you have reduced him: here 
shall my flowing tears swell the liquid veins of this 
crystal rill, and my deep sighs perpetually move the 
leaves of these shady trees, in testimony of the anguish 
and pain that harrows up my soul. Ye rural deities, 
whoever ye be, that make these unfrequented deserts 
your abode, hear the complaints of an unfortunate 
lover, whom a tedious absence, and some slight impres- 
sions of a jealous mistrust, have driven to these re- 
gions of despair, to bewail his rigorous destiny, and 
deplore the distracting cruelty of that ungrateful fair, 
who is the perfection of all human beauty. Ye pitying 
Napen Nymphs and Dryades, silent inhabitants of the 
woods and groves, assist me to lament my fate, or at 
least attend the mournful story of my woes; so may no 
designing satyrs, those just objects of your hate, ever 
have power to interrupt your rest. O Dulcinea del 
Toboso! thou sun that turnest my gloomy night to 
day! glory of my pain! north star of my travels, and 
reigning planet that controll’st my heart ! pity, I con- 
jure thee, the unparalleled distress to which thy ab- 
sence has reduced the faithfullest of lovers, and grant 
to my fidelity that kind return which it so justly 
claims; so may indulgent Fate shower on thee all the 
blessings thou ever canst desire, or Heaven grant. Ye 
lonesome trees, under whose spreading branches I come 
to linger out the gloomy shadow of a tedious being, let 
the soft language of your rustling leaves, and the kind 
nodding of your springing boughs, satisfy me that I am 
welcome to your shady arbors. Oh, thou, my trusty 
squire, the inseparable companion of my adventures, 
diligently observe what thou shalt see me do in this 
lonely retreat, that thou mayest inform the dear cause 
of my ruin with every particular.” 

As he said this, he alighted, and presently taking off 
his horse’s bridle and saddle, “Go, Rozinante,” saith 
he; “he that has lost his freedom, gives thee thine, 
thou steed as renowned for thy extraordinary actions 
as for thy misfortunes; go rear thy awtul front where- 
ever thou pleasest, secure that neither the Hypogry- 
phon of Astolpho, nor the renowned Frontino, which 
Bradamante purchased at so high a price, could ever 
be thought thy equals.” 

“Well fare him,” cried Sancho, “that saved me the 





DE LA MANCHA. 113 


trouble of sending my ass to grass too; poor thing! 
had I him here, he should not want a fine speech in his 
praise, while I took off his pannel. But stay, now I 
think on it, Sir Knight of the Woful Figure, if your 
worship is resolved to be mad, and send me away in 
good earnest, we must even clap the saddle again on 
Rozinante’s back; for to tell you the truth, I am but a 
sorry foot-man, and if Ido not ride home, I do not 
know when I shall be able to come back again.” 

“Do as thou thinkest fit for that, Sancho,” answered 
Don Quixote, “for I design thou shalt set forward about 
three days hence. Inthe meanwhile, thou shalt be a 
witness of what I will do for my lady’s sake, that thou 
mayest give her an account of it.” 

“Bless me!” quoth Sancho, “what can I see more 
than I have seen already?” 

“Thou has seen nothing yet,” answered Don Quixote; 
“thou must see me throw away my armor, tear my 
clothes, knock my head against the rocks, and do a 
thousand other things of that kind, that will fill thee 
with astonishment.” 

“Tor goodness sake, sir,” quoth Sancho, “take heed 
how you quarrel with those ungracious rocks; you may 
chance to get such acrack on the crown at the very 
first rap, as may spoil your penance at one dash. No, 
I do not like that way, by no means; if youmust needs 
be knocking your noddle, to go through with this ugly 
job, seeing it is all but a mockery, or as it were between 
jest and earnest, why cannot you as well play your 
tricks on something that is softer than these uncon- 
scionable stones? You may run your head against 
water, or rather against cotton, or this stuffing of 
Rozinante's saddle, and then let me alone with the rest: 
I will be sure to tell my Lady Dulcinea that you be- 
bumped your poll against the point of a rock that is 
harder than a diamond.” 

“T thank thee for thy good will, dear Sancho,” replied 
Don Quixote; “but I assure thee that all these seeming 
extravagances that I must run through are no jests; far 
from it: they must all be performed seriously and sol- 
emnly; for otherwise we should transgress the laws of 
chivalry, that forbid us to tell lies upon pain of degra- 
dation; now to pretend to do one thing, and effect 
another, is an evasion, which J esteem to be as bad as 
lying. Therefore the blows which I must give myself 
on the head ought to be real, substantial, sound ones, 
without any trick or mental reservation; for which 
reason I would have thee leave me some lint and salve, 
since Fortune has deprived us of the sovereign balsam 
which we lost.” 

“It was a worse loss to lose the ass,” quoth Sancho, 
“for with him we have lost bag and baggage, lint and 
all: but no more of your drench, if you love me; the 
very thoughts on it are enough not only to turn my 
stomach, but my soul; such a rumbling I feel at the 
name of it. Then as for the three days you would have 
me loiter here to mind your mad tricks, you had as good 
make account they are already over; for I hold them 
for done, unsight unseen, and will tell wonders to my 
lady: wherefore write you your letter, and send me going 
with all haste; for let me be hanged if Ido votlong al- 


114 


ready to be back, to take you out of this purgatory 
wherein I leave you.” 

“Well, be it so,” said the Knight of the Woful 
Figure: “but how shall I do to write this letter!” 

“ And the order for the three asses?” added Sancho. 

“T will not forget it,“ answered Don Quixote; but 
since we have here no paper, I must be obliged to write 
on the leaves or bark of trees, or on wax, as they did 
in ancient times; yet now I consider on it, we are here 
as ill provided with wax as with paper: but stay, now 
I remember, I have Cardenio's pocket-book, which will 
supply that want in this exigence, and then thou shalt 
get the letter fairly transcribed at the first village 
where thou canst meet with a schoolmaster; or, for 
want of a schoolmaster, thou mayest get the clerk of 
the parish to do it; but by no means give it to any 
notary or scrivener to be written out; for they commonly 
write such exécrable hands, that no one on earth is able 
to read it.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “but what shall Ido for want 
of your name to it?” 

“Why,” answered Don Quixote, ‘“ Amadis never used 
to subscribe his letters.” 

“Ay,” replied Sancho, “but the bill of exchange for 
the three asses must be signed; for should I get it 
copied out afterwards, they would say itis not your 
hand, and so I shall go without the asses.” 

“I will write and sign the order for them in the 
pocket-book,” answered Don Quixote: “and as soon as 
my niece sees the hand, she will never scruple the de- 
livery of the asses: and as for the love-letter, when 
thou gettest it transcribed, thou must get it thus under- 
written, ‘ Yours till death, the Knight of the Woful 
Figure.’ It is no matter whether the letter and sub- 
scription be written by the same hand or no; for as 1 
remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor did 
she ever see uny of my letters, nay, not so much as any 
of my writing in her life: for my love and hers have 
always been purely Platonic, never extending beyond 
the lawful bounds of a look; and that, too, so very 
seldom, that I dare safely swear that though for these 
twelve years she has been dearer tomy soul than light 
to my eyes, yet I never saw her four times in my life; 
ane perhaps of those few times that Ihave seen her, she 
has scarce. perceived once that I beheld her; so strictly 
and so discreetly Lorenzo Corchuelo, her father and 
Aldonza Nogales, her mother, have kept and educated 
her.” 

“Heighday!” quoth Sancho; “did you ever here the 
like? and is my lady Dulcinea del Toboso at last the 
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, she that is otherwise 
called Aldonza Lorenzo?” 

“The same,” answered Don Quixote; “and it is she 
that merits to be sovereign the mistress of the universe.” 

“Udsniggers?” quoth Sancho, “I know her full well; 
it is a strapping wench, i’faith, and pitches the bar with 
e’er a luste young fellow in our parish. By the mass, 
it is a notable, strong-built, sizable, sturdy, manly lass, 
and one that will keep her chin out of the mire, I war- 
rant her; nay, and hold the best knight-errant to it that 
wears a head, if everhe venture near her. Body of me, 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


what a pair of lungsand a voice she hus, when she sets 
up her throat? I saw her one day perched up o’top of 
of our steeple, to call some ploughmen that were at 
work ina fallow-field: and though they were half a 
league off, they heard her as plain as if they had been in 
the churchyard underher. The bestof her is, that she is 
neither coy nor frumpish; she is atractable lass, and fit 
for acourtier, for she will play with you like a kitten, and 
jibes and jokes at everybody. And now, in good truth, 
Sir Knight of the Woful Figure, you may e’en play at 
your gambols as you please; you may run mad, you may 
hang yourself for her sake; there is nobody but will 
say you e’en took the wisest course. Now am I even 
wild to be gone, though it were for nothing else but to 
see her, for I have not seen her this many a day; I 
fancy 1 shall hardly know her again, for a woman’s face 

strangely alters by her being always in the sun, and 

drudging and moiling in the open fields. Well, I must 

needs own I have been mightily mistaken all along; 

for I durst have sworn this Lady Dulcinea had been 

some great princess with whom you were in love, and 

such a one as deserved those rare gifts you bestowed 

on her, as the Biscayan, the galley-slaves, and many 

others, that, for anght I know, you may have sent her 

before L was your squire. I cannot choose but to laugh 

to think how my Lady Aldonza Lorenzo (my Lady 

Dulcinea del Toboso, I should have said) would behave 

herself, should any of those men which you have sent, 

or may send to her, chance to go and fall down on their 

marrow-bones before her: for it is ten to one they may 

happen to find her a-carding of flax, or threshing in 

the barn, and then how finely baulked they will be! 

as sure as I am alive, they must needs think fortune 

owed them a shame; and she herself will but flout 

them, aud mayhap be somewhat nettled at it.” 

“I have often told thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
“and I tell thee again, that thou oughtest to bridle or 
immure thy saucy, prating tongue; for though thou art 
but a dull-headed dunce, yet now and then thy ill- 
mannered jests bite tov sharp. But that I may at once 
make thee sensible of thy folly and my discretion, 
pr’ythee tell me, dost thou think the poets, who, every 
one of them, celebrate the praises of some lady or other, 
had all real mistresses? or that the Amaryllises, the 
Phyllises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the 
Alidas, and the like, which you shall find in so many 
poems, romances, songs, and ballads, upon every stage, 
and even in every barber’s shop, were creatures of flesh 
and blood, and mistresses to those that did and do cel- 
ebrate them? No, no, never think it; for I dare assure 
thee, the greatest part of them were nothing but the 
mere imaginations of the poets, for a groundwork to 
exercise their wits upon, and give to the world occasion 
to look on the authors as men of a gallant disposition: 
and so it is sufficient for me to imagine that Aldonza 
Lorenzo is beautiful and chaste; as for her birth and 
parentage, they concern me but little; for there is no 
need to make an inquiry about a woman’s pedigree, as 
there is of us men; when some badge of honor is be- 
stowed on us: and so she is to me the greatest princess 
in the world: for thou oughtest to know, Sancho—if 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


thou knowest it not already—that there are but two 
things that chiefly excite us to love a woman—an at- 
tractive beauty and unspotted fame. Now these two 
endowments are happily reconciled in Dulcinea; for as 


for the one, she has not her equal, and few can vie with. 


her in the other: but to cut off all objections at once, 1 
imagine that all I say of her is really so, without the 
least addition or diminution: I fancy her to be just such 
as I would have her for beauty and qnality. Helen 
cannot stand in competition with her; Lucretia cannot 
rival her; and all the heroines which antiquity has to 
boast, whether Greeks, Romans, or barbarians, are at 
once outdone by her incomparable perfections. There- 
fore let the world say what it will; should the ignorant 
vulgar foolishly censure me, I please myself with the 
assurances I have of the approbation of men of the 
strictest morals and the nicest judgment.” 

“Sir,” quoth Sancho, “I knock under: you have 
reason on your side in all you say, and I own myself an 
ass. Nay, I am an ass to talk of an ass; for it is ill 
talking of halters in the house of a man that was hang- 
ed. But where is the letter all this while, that I may 
be jogging ? 

With that Don Quixote pulled out the pocket-book, 
and, retiring a little aside, he very seriously began to 
write the letter; which he had no sooner finished, but 
he called Sancho, and ordered him to listen while he 
read it over to him, that he might carry it as well in his 
memory as in his pocket-book, in case he should have 
the ill luck to lose it by the way; for so cross was For- 
tune to him, that he feared every accident. “But, sir,” 
said Sancho, “write it over twice or thrice there in the 
book, and give it me, and then I will be sure to deliver 
the message safe enough, I warrant ye: for it is a folly 
to think I can get it by heart. Alas! my memory is so 
bad, that many times I forget my own name; but yet for 
all that, read it out tome, I beseech you, for 1 havea 
great mind to hear it. I dare say, it is as fine as though 
it were in print.” 

“Well, then, listen,” said Don Quixote. 


Don Quixote de la Mancha to Dulcinea del Toboso. 
“High and Sovereign Lady! 


“He that is stabbed to the quick with the poniard of 
absence, and wounded to the heart with love's most 
piercing darts, sends you that health which he wants 
himself, sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso. If your beauty 
reject me, if your virtue refuse to raise my fuinting 
hopes, if your disdain exclude me from relief, I must 
at last sink under the pressure of my woes, though 
much inured to sufferings: for my pains are not only too 
violent, but too lasting. My trusty squire Sancho will 
give you an exact account of the condition to which 
love and you have reduced me, too beautiful ingrate! 
If you relent at last, and pity my distress, then I may 
say I live, and you preserve what is yours. But if you 
adandon me to despair, I must patiently submit, and, 
by ceasing to breathe, satisfy your cruelty and my 
passion.— Yours, till death. 

“The Knight of the Woful Figure.” 





115 


“By the life of my father,” quoth Sancho, “if I ever 
saw a finer thing inmy born days! How neatly and 
roundly you tell your mind, and how cleverly you bring 
in at last, ‘The Knight of the Woful Figure!’ Well, 
I say it again in good earnest, there is no kind of thing 
in the ’versal world but what you can turn your hand 
to.” 

“A man ought to have some knowledge of every- 
thing,” answered Don Quixote, “if he would be duly 
qualified for the employment I profess.” 

“Well, then,” quoth Sancho, “do so much as write 
the warrant for the three asses on the other side of that 
leaf; and pray write it mighty plain, that they may 
know itis your hand at first sight.” 

“T will,” said Don Quixote; and with that he wrote it 
accordingly, and then read it in this form:— 


“My dear Niece, 

“Upon sight of this my first bill of asses, be pleased 
to deliver three of the five which 1 left at home in 
your custody to Sancho Panza, my squire, for the like 
number received of bim here in tale; and this, together 
with his acquaintance, shall be your discharge. Given 
in the very heart of the Sierra Morena, the 22nd of 
August, in the present year.” 


“Tt is as it should be,” quoth Sancho: “there only 
wants your name at the bottom.” 

“There is no need to set my name,” answered Don 
Quixote, “I will only set the two first letters of it, and 
it will be as valid as if it were written at length, 
though it were not only for three asses, but for three 
hundred.” 

“I dare take your worship’s word,” quoth Sancho. 
“And now I am going to saddle Rozinante, and then 
you shall give me your blesssing, for I intend to set 
out presently, without seeing any of your mad tricks; 
and I will relate that I saw you perform so many, that 
she can desire no more.” 

“Nay,” said Don Quixote, “I will have thee stay 
a while, Sancho; “it is absolutely necessary thou 
shouldst see me practice some twenty or thirty mad 
gambols. I shall have dispatched them in less than 
half an hour, and when thou hast been an eye-witness 
of that essay, thou mayest with a safe conscience swear 
thou hast seen me play a thousand more; for 1 dare as- 
sure thee, for thy encouragement, thou never canst ex- 
ceed the number of those 1 shall perform.” 

“Good sir,” quoth Sancho, “as you love me, do not 
let me stay to see you! it will grieve me so to the 
heart, that I shall cry my eyes out; and 1 have blub- 
bered and howled but too much since yesternight for 
the loss of my ass; my head is so sore with it, I am not 
able to cry any longer; but if you will needs have me 
see some of your antics, pray do them out of hand, and 
let them be such as are most to the purpose; for the 
sooner I go, the sooner I shall come back, and the way 
to be gone is not to stay here. I long to bring you an 
answer to your heart’s content, and I will be sure to do 
it, orlet the Lady Dulcinea look to it; for if she does 
not answer it as she should do, I protest solemnly I will 




















“He gave two or three frisks in theair, and then pitching on his hands, he fetched his heels over his head twice together.”—p. 117 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


force an answer out of her by dint of good kicks and 
fisticuffs; for it is not to be endured that so notable a 
knight-errant as your worship is should thus run out of 
his wits without knowing why or wherefore, for such a— 
odsbobs, I know whatl know; she had best not provoke 
me to speak it out; for, if she does, I shall let fly, and 
out with it by wholesale, though it spoil the mar- 
ket.” , 

“T protest, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “I think thou 
art as mad as myself.” 

“Nay, not so mad neither,” replied Sancho, “but 
somewhat more choleric. But talk no more of that. 
Let us see how you will do for victuals when I am gone? 
Do you mean to do like the other madman yonder, rob 
upon the the highway, and snatch the goatherds’ vic- 
tuals from them by main force ?” 

“Never let that trouble thy head,” replied Don 
Quixote, “for though I had all the dainties that can 
feast a luxurious palate, I would feed upon nothing but 
the herbs and fruits which this wilderness will afford 
me; for the singularity of my present task consists in 
fasting and half starving myself, and in the perform- 
ance of other austerities.” 

“But there is another thing come into my head,” 
quoth Sancho; “how shall I do to find the way hither 
again? it is such a bye-place.” 

“Take good notice of it beforehand,” said Don Quix- 
ote, “and I will endeavor to keep hereabouts till thy 
return; besides, about the time when I may reasonably 
expect thee back, I will be sure to watch on the top of 
yonder high rock for thy coming. But now I bethink 
myself of a better expedient: thou shalt cut down a 
good number of boughs, and strew them in the way as 





114 


thou ridest along, till thou gettest to the plains, and 
this will serve thee to find me again at thy return, like 
Persens's clue to the labyrinth in Crete.” 

“T will go about it out of hand,” quoth Sancho. 

With that he went and cut down a bundle of boughs, 
then came and asked his master's blessing, and, after a 
shower of tears shed on both sides, mounted Rozinante, 
which Don Quixote very seriously recommended to his 
care, charging him to be as tender of that excellent 
steed as of his own person. After that he set forward 
toward the plains, strewing several boughs as he rode, 
according to order. His master importuned him to stay 
and see him do two or three of his antic postures before 
he went, but he could not prevail with him: however, 
before he was got out of sight, he considered of it and - 
rode back. “Sir,” quoth he, “I have thought better of 
it, and believe I had best take your advice, that I may 
swear with a safe conscience I have seen you play your 
mad tricks; therefore I would see you do one of them 
at least, though I think I have seen you do a very great 
one already—I mean, your staying by yourself in this 
desert.” 

“JT had advised thee right,” said Don Quixote; “and 
therefore stay but while a man may repeat the Creed, 
and I will show thee what thou wouldst see.” 

With that, stripping himself to the waist, he gave 
two or three frisks in the air, and then pitching on his 
hands, he fetched his heels over his head twice together. 
Whereupon Sancho made haste to turn his horse’s head, 
and rode away full satisfied, that he might swear his 
master was mad. And so we will leave him to make 
the best of his way till his return, which will be more 
speedy than might be imagined. 





CHAPTER XXV. 


A CONTINUATION OF THE REFINED EXTRAVAGANCES BY WHICH THE GALLANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA CHOSE 


TO EXPRESS HIS LOVE IN THE SIERRA MORENA. 


THE history relates, that as soon as the Knight of the 
Woful Figure saw himself alone, after he had taken his 
frisks and leaps, the prelude to his amorous penance, 
he ascended the top of a high rock, and there began 
seriously to consider with himself what resolution to 
take in that nice dilemma, which had already so per- 
plexed his mind; that is, whether he should imitate 
Orlando in his wild ungovernable fury, or Amadis in 
his melancholy mood. To which purpose, reasoning 
with himself, “I do not much wonder,” said he, “at 
Orlando’s being so very valiant, considering he was en- 
chanted in such a manner, that he could not be slain, 
but by the thrust of along pin through the bottom of 
his foot, which he sufficiently secured, always wearing 
seven iron soles to his shoes; and yet this availed him 
nothing against Bernardo del Carpio, who, understand- 
ing what he depended upon, squeezed him to death be- 
tween his arms at Roncevalles. But, setting aside his 
valor, let us examine his madness; for that he was mad, 
is an unquestionable truth; nor is it less certain that 
his frenzy was occasioned by the assurances he had 
that the fair Angelica had fallen in love with Medoro, 
that young Moor with curled locks, who was page to 
Agramont. Now, after all, seeing he was too well 
convinced of his lady's infidelity, it is not to be 
admired he should run mad: but how can I imitate 
him in his furies, if I cannot imitate him in their 
occasion? for I dare swear my Dulcinea del Toboso 
never saw a downright Moor in his own garb since 
she first beheld light, so that I should do her a great 
injury, should I entertain any dishonorable thoughts 
of her behavior, and fall into such a kind of madness 
as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other side I find 
that Amadis de Gaul, without punishing himself with 
such distraction, or expressing his resentment in so 
boisterous and raving a manner, got as great a reputa- 
tion for being a lover as any one whatsoever: for what 
I tind in history as to his abandoning himself to sorrow, 
is only this: he found himself disdained, his lady Oriana 
having charged him to get out of her sight, and not to 
presume to appear in her presence till she gave him 
leave; and this was the true reason why he retired to 
the Poor Rock with the hermit, where he gave up him- 
self wholly to grief, and wept a deluge of tears, till 
pitying Heaven at last, commiserating his affliction, sent 





him relief in the height of his anguish. Now, then, 
since this is true, as I know it is, what need have I to 
tear off my clothes, to rend and root up those harmless 
trees, or trouble the clear water of these brooks, that 
must give medrink when I am thirsty? No, long live 
the memory of Amadis de Gaul, and let him be the 
great exemplar which Don Quixote dela Mancha chooses 
to imitate in all things that will admit of aparallel. So 
may it be said of the living copy, as was said of the 
dead original, that, if he did not perform great things, 
yet no man was more ambitious of undertaking them 
than he; and though I am not disdained nor discarded by 
Dulcinea, yet it is sufficient that Iam absent from her. 
Then it is resolved: and now, ve famous actions of the 
great Amadis, recur to my remembrance, and be my 
trusty guides to follow his example.” 

This said, he called to mind that the chief exercise of 
that hero in his retreat was prayer; to which purpose 
our modern Amadis presently went and made himself a 
rosary of galls or acorns instead of beads; but he was 
extremely troubled for want of a hermit to hear his 
confession, and comfort him in his affliction. However, 
he entertained himself with his amorous contemplations, 
walking up and down in the meadow, and writing some 
poetical conceptions in the smooth sand, and upon the 
barks of trees, all of them expressive of his sorrows, 
and the praises of Dulcinea ; but, unhappily, none 
were found entire and legible but these stanzas as 
follow :— 

Ye lofty trees, with spreading arme, 

The pride and shelter of the plain ; 

Ye humbler shrubs, and flow'ry charms, 
Which here in springing glory reign! 

If my complaints may pity move, 
Hear the sad story of my love! 

While with me here you puss your hours, 
Should you grow faded with my cares, 

TN bribe you with refreshing showers, 
You shall be watered with my tears. 

Distant though present in idea, 


I monrn my absent Dulcinea 
De) Toboso. 


Love's truest slave desparing chose 

This lonely wild, this desert plain, 
The silent witness of the woes 

Which he, though guiltless, must sustain. 
Unknowing why those pains he bears, 

He groans, he raves, and he despairs; 
With ling'ring fires Jove racks my soul, 

In vain I grieve, in vainlament ; 


118 


DON QUIXOTE 


Like tortur’d fiends, I weep, I how], 
And burn, yet never can repent. 
Distant, thongh present in idea, 
1 mourn my absent Dulcinea 
Del Toboso. 


While I through honor'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, 

And 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 in every part, 

And into madness lash his slave. 
Distant, though present in idea, 

I mourn my absent Dulcinea 

Del Toboso. 


This addition of Del Toboso to the name of Dulcinea 
made those who found these verses laugh heartily; and 
they imagined, that when Don Quixote made them, he 
was afraid those who should happen to read them would 
not understand on whom they were made, should he 
omit to mention the place of his mistress's birth and 
residence; and this was indeed the true reason, as he 
himself afterwards confessed. With this employment 
did our disconsolate knight beguile the tedious hours; 
sometimes also he expressed his sorrows in prose, sigh- 
ed to the winds, and called upon the Sylvan gods, and 
Fauns, the Naiads, the Nymphs of the adjoining 
groves, and the mournful Echo, imploring their atten- 
tion and condolement with repeated supplications: at 
other times he employed himself in gathering herbs for 
the support of languishing nature, which decayed so 
fast, what with his slender diet, and what with his 
studied anxiety and intenseness of thinking, that had 
Sancho stayed but three weeks from him, whereas by 
good fortune he stayed but three days, the Knight of 
the Woful Figure would have been so disfigured, that 
his mother would never have known her own child. 

But now it is necessary we should leave him a while 
to his sighs, his sobs, and his amorous expostulations, 
and see how Sancho Panza behaved himself in his em- 
bassy. He made all the haste he could to get out of 
the mountain, and then taking the direct road to Tobo- 
so, the next day he arrived near the inn where he had 
been tossed in a blanket. Scarce had he descried the 
fatal walls, when a sudden shivering seized his bones, 
and he fancied himself to be again dancing in the air, 
so that he had a good mind to have rode farther before 
he baited, though it was dinner-time, and his mouth 
watered strangely at the thoughts of ahot bit of meat, 
the rather, because he had lived altogether on cold 
victuals for a long while. This greedy longing drew 
him near the inn, in spite of his aversion to the place: 
but yet when he came to the gate he had not the cour- 
age to go in, but stopped there, not knowing whether 
he had best enter or no. While he sat musing, two men 
happened to come out, and believing they knew him, 
“Look, master doctor,” cried one to the other, “is not 
that Sancho Panza, whom the housekeeper told us her 
master had inveigled to go along with him? 

“The same,” answered the other; “and more than 
that, he rides on Don Quixote’s horse.” 

Now these two happened to be the curate and the 


barber, who had brought his books to a trial, and pass- 


DE LA MANCHA. 





119 


ed sentence on them; therefore they had no sooner said 
this, but they called to Sancho, and asked him where 
he had left his master. The trusty squire presently 
knew them, and, having no mind to discover the place 
and condition he had left his master in, told them he was 
taken up with certain business of great consequence at 
a certain place, which he durst not discover for his life. 

“How, Sancho!” cried the barber; “you must not 
think to put us off with a flim-flam story, if you will not 
tell us where he is, we shall believe you have murdered 
him, and robbed him of his horse; therefore either satis- 
fy us where you have left him, or we will have you laid 
Ly the heels.” 

“Look you, neighbor,” quoth Sancho, “I am not 
afraid of words, do you see; I am neither a thief nor a 
manslayer; I kill nobody, so nobody kill me; I leave 
every man to fall by his own fortune, or by the hand of 
Him that made him. As for my master, I left him frisk- 
ing and doing penance in the midst of yon mountain, to 
his heart’s content.” After this, without any further 
entreaty, he gave them a full account of that business, 
and of all their adventures; how he was then going 
from his master to carry a letter to my Lady Dulcinea 
del Toboso, Lorenzo Corchuelo's daughter, with whom 
he was up to the ears in love. 

The curate and barber stood amazed, hearing all these 
particulars; and though they already knew Don Quix- 
ote’s madness but too well, they wondered more and 
more at the increase of it, and at so strange a cast and 
variety of extravagance. Then they desired Sancho 
to show them the letter. He told them it was written 
in a pocket-book, and that his master had ordered him 
to get it fairly transcribed upon paper at the next vil- 
lage he should come at. Whereupon the curate prom- 
ising to write it out fairly himself, Sancho put his hand 
into his bosom to give him the pocket-book; but though 
he fumbled a great while for it, he could find none of it; 
he searched and searched again, but it had been in vain 
though he had searched till doomsday, for he came away 
from Don Quixote without it. This put him in a cold 
sweat, and made him turn as pale as death; he fell a- 
searching all his clothes, turned his pockets inside out- 
wards, fumbled in his bosom again: but being at last 
convinced he had it not about him, he fell a-raving and 
stamping, and cursing himself like a madman; he rent 
his beard from his chin with both hands, befisted his 
own forgetful skull, and his blubber cheeks, and gave 
himself a bloody nose in amoment. The curate and 
barber asked him what was the matter with him, and 
why he punished himself at that strange rate. 

“T deserve it all,” quoth Sancho, “like a blockhead 
as I am, for losing at one cast no less than three asses, 
of which the least was worth a castle.” 

“How so?” quoth the barber. 

“Why,” cried Sancho, “I have lost that same pocket- 
book, wherein was written Dulcinea’s letter, and a bill 
of exchange drawn by my master upon his niece for 
three of the five asses which he has at home;”and with 
that he told them how he had lost his own ass. But 
the curate cheered him up, and promised him to get 
another bill of exchange from his master written upon 


120 


paper, whereas that in the pocket-book, not being in 
due form, would not have been accepted. With that 
Sancho took courage, and told them if it were so, he 
cared not a straw for Dulcinea's letter, for he knew it 
almost all by rote. 

“Then prithee let us hear it,” said the barber, “and 
we will see and write it.” In order to this Sancho 
paused, and began to study for the words; presently he 
fell a-scratching his head, stood first upon one leg, and 
then upon another, gaped sometimes upon the skies, 
sometimes upon the ground; at length, after he had 
gnawed away the top of his thumb, and quite tired out 
the curate and barber’s patience, “Before George,” 
cried he, “Mr. Docter, may I be choked if I can remem- 
ber a word of this letter, but only that there was at the 
beginning, ‘High and subterrene lady.’” 

“Sovereign or superhuman lady, you would suy, 
quoth the barber. 

“Ay, ay,” quoth Sancho, “you are in the right; but 
stay, now I think I can remember some of that which 
followed: ho! I have it, I have it now—‘He that is 
wounded, and wants sleeps, sends you the dagger. 
which he wants himself. that stabbed him to the 
heart——and the hurt man does kiss your ladyship's 
land ’——and at last, after a thousand hum’s and ha’s, 
‘Sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso;’ and thus he went on 
rambling a good while with I do not know what more 
of fainting, and relief, and sinking, till at last he ended 
with ‘Yours till death, the Knight of the Woful Figure.”” 

The curate and the barber were mightily pleased 
with Sancho’s excellent memory, insomuch that they 
desired him to repeat the letter twice or thrice more, 
that they might also get it by heart, and write it down, 
which Sancho did very freely, but every time he made 
many odd alterations and additions as pleasant as the 
first. Then he told them many other things of his 
master, but spoke not a word of his own being tossed 
in a blanket at that very inn. He also told them, that if 
he brought a kind answer from the Lady Dulcinea, his 
master would forthwith set out to see and make himself 
an emperor, or at least a king; for so they two had 
agreed between themselves, he said; and that, after all, 
it was a mighty easy matter for his master to become 
one, such was his prowess, and the strength of his arm; 
which being done, his master would marry him to one 
of the empress’s damsels, and that fine lady was to be 
heiress to uw large country on the main land, but not to 
any island or islands, for he was out of conceit with 
them. Poor Sancho spoke all this so seriously, and so 
feelingly, ever and anon wiping his nose, and stroking 
his beard, that now the curate and the barber were 
more surprised than they were before, considering the 
prevalent influences of Don Quixote’s folly upon that 
silly, credulous fellow. However, they did not think 
it worth their while to undeceive him yet, seeing only 
this was a harmless delusion, that might divert them a 
while; and therefore they exhorted him to pray for his 
master’s health and long life, seeing that it was no im- 
possible thing, but that he might in time become an 
emperor as he said, or at least an archbishop, or some- 
what else equivalent to it. 











DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“But, pray, good Mr. Doctor,” asked Sancho, “should 
my master have no mind to be an emperor, and take a 
fancy to be an archbishop, I would fain know what your 
archbishops-errant are wont to give their squires ?” 

“Why,” answered the curate, “they use to give them 
some parsonage, or sinecure, or some such other bene- 
fice, or church living, which, with the profits of the 
altar, and other fees, brings them in a handsome 
revenue.” 

“Ay, but,” says Sancho, “to put in for that, the squire 
must be a single man, and know how to answer, and 
assist at mass at least; and how shall I do that, seeing 
I have the ill luck to be married ? nay, and besides I do 
not so much as know the -first letter of my Christ 
Church Row. What will become of me, should it come 
into my master’s head to make himself an archbishop, 
and not an emperor, as it is the custom of knights- 
errant ?” 

“Do not let that trouble thee, friend Sancho,” said 
the barber; “we will talk to him about it, and advise 
him, nay, urge him to it asa point of conscience, to be 
an emperor, and not an archbishop, which will be better 
for him, by reason he has more courage than learning.” 

“Troth, l am of your mind,“ quoth Sancho, “though 
he is such a headpiece, that I dare say he can turn 
himself to anything; nevertheless, I mean to make it 
the burthen of my prayers, that Heaven may direct 
him to that which is best for him, and what may enable 
him to reward me most.” 

“You speak like a wise man and a good Christian,” 
said the curate: “but all we have to do at present is 
to see how we shall get your master to give over that 
severe, unprofitable penance which he has undertaken; 
and therefore let us go in to consider about it, and also 
to eat our dinner, for I fancy it is ready about this 
time.” 

“Do you two go in, if you please,” quoth Sancho; 
“but as for me, I had rather stay without; and anon Ill 
tell you why I don’t care to go in a’ doors; however, 
pray send me out a piece of hot victuals to eat here, 
and some provender for Rozinante.” With that they 
went in, and a while after the barber brought him out 
some meat; and returning to the curate, they consulted 
how to compass their design. At last the latter luckily 
bethought himself of an expedient that seemed most 
likely to take, as exactly fitting Don Quixote’s humor; 
which was, that he should disguise himself in the habit 
of a damsel-errant, and the barber should alter his dress 
as well as he could, so as to pass for a squire or gentle- 
man-usher. “In that equipage,” added he, “we will 
go to Don Quixote, and feigning myself to be a dis- 
tressed damself, I will beg a boon of him, which he, as 
a valorous knight-errant, will not fail to promise me. 
By this means I will engage him to go with me to re- 
dress a very great injury done me by a false and dis- 
courteous knight, beseeching him not to desire to see 
my face, nor ask me anything about my circumstances 
till he has revenged me of that wicked night. This 
bait will take, I dare engage, and by this stratagem we 
will decoy him back to his own house, where we will 
try to cure him of his romantic frenzy.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


HOW THE CURATE AND BARBER PUT THEIR DESIGN IN EXECUTION ; WITH OTHER THINGS WORTHY TO BE 


RECORDED IN THIS IMPORTANT HISTORY. 


THE curate's project was so well liked by the barber 
that they instantly put it into practice. First, they 
borrowed a complete woman's apparel of the hostess, 
leaving her in pawn a new cassock of the curate’s; and 
the barber made himself a long beard with a grizzled 
ox's tail, in which the innkeeper used to hang his 
combs. The hostess being desirous to know what they 
intended to do with those things, the curate gave her 
a short account of Don Quixote’s distraction, and their 
design. Whereupon the innkeeper and his wife pres- 
ently guessed this was their romantic knight, that made 
the precious balsam; and accordingly they told them 
the whole story of Don Quixote’s lodging there, and of 
Sancho’s being tossed in a blanket: which done, the 
hostess readily fitted out the curate at such a rate, that 
it would have pleased any one to have seen him; for 
she dressed him up in a cloth gown trimmed with 
borders of black velvet, the breadth of a span, all 
pinked and jagged ; and a green velvet bodice, with 
sleeves of the same, and faced with white satin; which 
accoutrements probably had been in fashion in old 
King Wamba’s days. The curate would not let 
her encumber his head with a woman's head-gear, 
but only clapped upon his crown a white quilted 
cap which he used to wear a-nights, and bound 
his forehead with one of his garters, that was of black 
taffety, making himself a kind of muffler and vizard 
mask with the other: then he had half buried his head 
uuder bat, pulling it down to squeeze in his ears; and 
as the broad brim flapped down over his eyes, it seemed 
a kind of umbrella. This done, he wrapped his cloak 
about him, and seated himself on his mule sideways, 
like a woman: then the barber clapped on his ox-tail 
beard, half-red and half-grizzled, which hung from his 
chin down to waist; and, having mounted his mule, 
they took leave of their host and hostess, as also of the 
good-conditioned Maritornes, who vowed, though she 
was a sinner, to tumble her beads, and say a rosary to 

-the success of so arduous and truly Christian an un- 
dertaking. 

But scarce were they got out of the inn, when the 
curate began to be troubled with a scruple of con- 
science about his putting on woman’s apparel, being 
apprehensive of the indecency of the disguise in a 
priest, though the goodness of his intention might well 





warrant a dispensation from the strictness of decorum: 
therefore he desired the barber to change dresses, 
for that in his habit of a squire he should less profane 
his own dignity and character, to which he ought to 
have a greater regard than to Don Quixote; withal as- 
suring the barber, that unless he consented to this ex- 
change, he was absolutely resolved to go no further, 
though it were to save Don Qixote’s soul. Sancho came 
up with them just upon their demur. and was ready to 
split his sides with laughing at the sight of the strange 
masqueraders. In short, the barber consented to be 
the damsel, and to let the curate be the squire. Now, 
while they were thus changing sexes, the curate 
offered to tutor him how to behave himself in that 
female attire, so as to be able to wheedle Don Quixote 
out of his penance; but the barber desired him not to 
trouble himself about that matter, assuring him that he 
was well enough versed in female affairs to be able to 
act a damsel without any directions: however, he said 
he would not now stand fiddling and managing his 
pins, to prink himself up, seeing it would be time 
enough to do that when they came near Don Quixote’s 
hermitage ; and, therefore, having folded up bis 
clothes, and the curate his beard, they spurred on, 
while their guide Sancho entertained them with a rela- 
tion of the mad, tattered gentleman whom they had met 
in the mountain—however, without mentioning a word 
of the portmanteau or of the gold; for, as much fool as 
he was, he loved money, and knew how to keep it 
when he had it, and was wise enough to keep his own 
counsel. 

They got the next day to the place where Sancho had 
strewed the boughs to direct them to Don Quixote; 
and, therefore, he advised them to put on their dis- 
guises, if it were, as they told him, that their design 
was only to make his master leave that wretched kind 
of life, in order to become an emperor. Thereupon 
they charged him on his life not to take the least notice 
who they were. As for Dulcinea’s letter, if Don Quix- 
ote asked him about it, they ordered him to say he had 
delivered it; but that by reason she could neither write 
nor read, she had sent him her answer by word of 
mouth; which was, that, on pain of her indignation, he 
should immediately put an end to his severe penance, 
and repair to her presence. This, they told Sancho, 

121 


0) 
22 


together with what they themselves designed to say, 
was the only way to oblige his master to leave the de- 
sert, that he might prosecute his design of making 
himself an emperor; assuring him that he should not 
entertain the least thought of an archbishopric. 

Sancho listened with great attention to all these in- 
structions, and treasured them up in his mind, giving 
the curate and the barber a world of thanks for their 
good intention of advising his master to become an em- 
peror and not an archbishop; for, as he said, he imag- 
ined in his simple judgment, that an emperor-errant 
was ten times better than an archbishop-errant, and 
could reward his squire a great deal better. 

He likewise added that he thought it would be pro- 
per for him to go to his master somewhat before them, 
and give him an account of his lady’s kind answer; for 
perhaps that alone would be sufficient to fetch him out 
of that place, without putting them to any further 
trouble. They liked his proposal very well, and there- 
fore agreed to let him go, and wait there till he came 
back to give them an account of his success. With 
that Sancdo rode away, and struck into the clefts of 
the rock, in order to find out his master, leaving the 
curate and the barber by the side of a brook, where the 
neighboring hills and some trees that grew along its 
banks combined to make a cool and pleasant sbade. 
There they sheltered themselves from the scorching 
beams of the sun, that commonly shines intolerably hot 
in those parts at that time, being about the middle of 
August, and hardly three o’clock in the afternoon. 
While they quietly refreshed themselves in that de- 
lightful place, where they agreed to stay till Sancho’s 
return, they heard a voice, which, though unattended 
with any instrument, ravished their ears with its melo- 
dious sound: and what increased their surprise and 
admiration was, to hear such artful notes and such del- 
icate music in so unfrequented and wild a place, where 
scarce any rustics ever straggled, much less skilful 
songsters, as the person whom they heard unquestion- 
ably was; for though the poets are pleased to fill the 
fields and woods with swains and shepherdesses that 
sing with all the sweetness and delicacy imaginable, 
yet it is well enough known that those gentlemen deal 
more in fiction than in truth, and love to embellish the 
descriptions they make with things that have no exist- 
ence but in their own brain. Nor could our two listen- 
ing travellers think it the voice of a peasant, when they 
began to distinguish the words of the song, for they 
seemed to relish more of a courtly style than a rural 
composition. These were the verses :— 


A SONG. 


L 


What makes me languish and complain? 
Oh, *tis disdain. 
What yet more fiercely tortures me? 
“Tis jealousy. 
How have I my patience Jost? 
By absence crost. 
Then hopes farewell. there’s no relief; 
lsink beneath oppressing grief; 
Nor can a wretch, without despair, 
Scorn, jealousy, and absence bear. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


II. 


What in my breast this anguish drove? 
Intruding love. 
Who could such mighty ills create? 
Blind Fortune's hate. 
What cruel powers my fate approve? 
The powers above. 
Then let me hear and cease to moan; 
"Tis glorious thus to be undone; 
When these invade, who dares oppose? 
Heaven, Love, and Fortnne are my foes. 


I. 
Where shall I find a speedy cure? 
Death is sure. 
No milder means to set me free? 
Inconstancy. 
Can nothing else my pains assuage? 
Distracting rage. 
What! die or change? Lucinda lose? 
Or, rather let me madness choose! 
But judge, ye gods, what we endnre, 
When death or madness are a cure! 

The time, the hour, the solitariness of the place, the 
voice and agreeable manner with which the unseen 
musician sung, so tilled the hearers’ minds with wonder 
and delight, that they were all attention; and when the 
voice was silent, they continued so too a pretty while, 
watching with listening ears to catch the expected 
sounds, expressing their satisfaction best by that dumb 
applause. At last, concluding the person would sing 
no more, they resolved to find out the charming song- 
ster: but as they were going so to do, they heard the 
wished-for voice begin another air, which fixed them 
where they stood till it had sung the following sonnet :— 


A SONNET. 


Oh, sacred Friendship, Heaven's delight, 
Which, tired with man's unequal mind, 

Took to thy native skics thy flight, 
While scarce thy shadow's left behind! 


From thee, diffusive good below, 
Peace and her train of joys we trace; 

But falsehood with dissembled show 
Too oft usurps thy sacred face. 


Bless'd genins, then resume thy seat! 
Destroy imposture and deceit, 

Which in thy dress confound the ball! 
Harmonions peace and truth renew, 
Show the false friendship from the trne, 

Or Nature must to Chaos fall. 

This sonnet concluded with a deep sigh, and such 
doleful throbs, that the curate and the barber, now out 
of pity, as well as curiosity before, resolved instantly 
to find out who this mournful songster was. They had 
not gone far, when, by the side of a rock, they discov- 
ered a man, Whose shape and aspect answered exactly 
to the description Sancho had given them of Cardenio. 
They observed he stopped short as soon as he spied 
them, yet without any signs of fear; only he hung 
down his head, like one abandoned to sorrow, never so 
much us lifting up his eyes to mind what they did. 
The curate, who was a good and a well-spoken man, 
presently guessing him to be the same of whom Sancho 
had given them an account, went towards him, and, ad- 
dressing himself to him with great civility and disere- 
tion, earnestly entreated him to forsake this desert, and 
a course of life so wretched and forlorn, which endan- 
gered his title to a better, and from a wilful misery 
'might make bim fall into greater and everlasting woes. 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Cardenio was then free from the distraction that so 
often disturbed his senses; yet seeing two persons in a 
garb wholly different from that of those few rustics who 
frequented these deserts, and hearing them talk as if 
they were no strangers to his concerns, he was some- 
what surprised at first; however, having looked upon 
them earnestly for some time, “Gentlemen,” said he, 
“whoever ye be, I find Heaven, pitying my misfortunes, 
has brought ye to these solitary regions, to retrieve me 
from this frightful retirement, and recover me to the 
society of men: but because you do not know how un- 
happy a fate attends me, and that I never am free from 
one affliction but to fall into a greater, you perhaps take 
me for a man naturally endowed with a very small stock 
of sense, and, what is worse, for one of those wretches 
who are altogether deprived of reason. And, indeed, I 
cannot blame any one that entertains such thoughts of 
me; for even I myself am convinced that the bare re- 
rembrance of my disasters often distracts me to that 
degree, that, losing all sense of reason and knowledge, 
Tunman myself for the time, and launch into those ex- 
travagances which nothing but height of frenzy and 
madness would commit; and I am the more sensible of 
my being troubled with this distemper, when people 
tell me what I have done during the violence of that 
terrible accident, and give me too certain proofs of it. 
And, after all, I can allege no other excuse but the 
cause of my misfortune, which occasioned that frantic 
rage, and, therefore, tell the story of my hard fate to 
as many as have the patience to hear it: for men of 
seuse, perceiving the cause, will not wonder at the 
effects; and though they can give me no relief, yet, at 
least, they will cease to condemn me; for a bare relation 
of my wrongs must needs make them lose their resent- 
ments of the effects of my disorder into a compassion of 
my miserable fate. Therefore, gentlemen, if you came 
here with that design, I beg that before you give your- 
selves the trouble of reproving and advising me, you 
will be pleased to attend to the relation of my calam- 
ities; for perhaps when you have heard it, you will 
think them past redress, and so will save yourselves the 
labor you would take.” 

The curate and the barber, who desired nothing more 
than to hear the story from his own mouth, were ex- 
tremely glad of his proffer; and, having assured him they 
had no design to aggravate his miseries with pretending 
to remedy them, nor would they cross his inclinations 
in the least, they entreated him to begin his relation. 

The unfortunate Cardenio then began his story, and 
went on with the first part of it almost in the same 
words, as far as when he related it to Don Quixote and 
the goatherd, when the knight, out of superstitious 
niceness to observe the decorum of chivalry, gave an 
interruption to the relation of quarrelling about Mr. 
Elisabat, as we have already said. Then he went on 
with that passage concerning the letter sent him by 
Lucinda, which Don Ferdinand had unluckily found, 
happening to open the book of Amadis de Ganl first, 
when Lucinda sent it back to Cardenio, with that letter 
in it between the leaves, which Cardenio told them was 
as follows :— 





123 


LUCINDA TO CARDENIO. 


“T discover in you every day so much merit, that I am 
obliged, or rather forced, to esteem you more and more. 
If you think this acknowledgement to your advantage, 
make that use of it which is most consistent with your 
honor and mine. I have a father that knows you, and 
is too kind a parent ever to obstruct my designs, when 
he shall be satisfied with their being just and honorable: 
so that it is now your part to show you love me, as you 
pretend, and I believe.” 


“This letter,” continued Cardenio, “made me resolve 
once more to demand Lucinda of her father in marriage, 
and was the same that increased Don Ferdinand’s 
esteem for her, by that discovery of her sense and dis- 
cretion which so inflamed his soul, that from that 
moment he secretly resolved to destroy my hopes ere 
I could be so happy as to crown them with success. T 
told that perfidious friend what Lucinda’s father had 
advised me to do when I had rashly asked her for my 
wife before, and that I durst not now impart this to my 
father, lest he should not readily consent I should marry 
yet. Not but that he knew that her quality, beauty 
and virtue were sufficient to make her an ornament to 
the noblest house in Spain, but because I was appre- 
hensive he would not let me marry till he saw what the 
duke would do for me. Don Ferdinand, with a pre- 
tended officiousness, proffered me to speak to my father, 
and persuade him to treat with Lucinda’s. Ungrateful 
man! deceitful friend! ambiticus Marius! cruel Catiline! 
wicked Sylla! perfidious Galalon! faithless Vellido! 
malicious Julian! treacherous, covetous Judas! thou all 
those fatal, hated men in one, false Ferdinand! What 
wrongs had that fond, confiding wretch done thee, who 
thus to thee unbosomed all his cares, all the delights 
and secrets of his soul? Whatinjury did I ever utter, 
or advice did I ever give, which were. not at all directed 
to advance thy honor and profit? But, oh! I rave, un- 
happy wretch! I should rather accuse the cruelty of 
stars, whose fatal influence pours mischiefs on me, 
which no earthly force can resist or human art prevent. 
Who would have thought that Don Ferdinand, whose 
quality and merit entitled him to the lawful possession 
of beauties of the highest rank, and whom I had en- 
gaged by a thousand endearing marks of friendship 
and services, should forfeit thus his honor and his truth, 
and such a treacherous design to deprive me of all the 
happiness of my life? But I must leave expostulating, 
to end my story. The traitor Ferdinand, thinking his 
project impracticable while I stayed near Lucinda, bar- 
gained for six fine horses the same day he promised to 
speak to my father, and presently desired me to ride 
away to his brother for money to pay for them. Alas! 
I was so far from suspecting his treachery, that I was 
glad of doing him a piece of service. Accordingly, I 
went that,very evening to take my leave of Lucinda, 
and to tell her what Don Ferdinand had promised to do. 
She bid me return with all the haste of an expecting 
lover, not doubting but our lawful wishes might be 
crowned, as soon as my father had spoke for me to be 
hers. When she had said this, I marked her trickling 


124 


tears, and a sudden grief so obstructed her speech, that, 
though she seemed to strive to tell me something more, 
she could not give it utterance. This unusual scene of 
of sorrow stangely amazed and distressed me; yet, be- 
cause I would not murder hope, I chose to attribute 
this to the tenderness of her affection, and unwilling- 
ness to part with me. In short, away I went, buried in 
deep melancholy, and full of fears and imaginations, for 
which I could give no manner of reason. I delivered 
Don Ferdinand’s letter to his brother, who received me 
with all the kindness imaginable, but did not dispatch 
me as I expected: for, to my sorrow, he enjoined me to 
tarry a whole week, and to take care the duke might 
not see me, his brother having sent for money unknown 
to his father: but this was only a device of false Ferdi- 
nand’s; for his brother did not want money, and might 
have dispatched me immediately, had he not been pri- 
vately desired to delay my return. 

“This was so displeasing an injunction, that I was 
ready to come away without the money, not being able 
to live so long absent from my Lucinda, principally 
considering in what condition I had left her. Yet, at 
last, I forced myself to stay, and my respect for my 
friend prevailed over my impatience; but, ere four 
tedious days were expired, a messenger brought me a 
letter, which I presently knew to be Lucinda's hand. 
I opened it with trembling hands and an aching heart, 
justly imagining it was no ordinary concern that could 
urge her to send thither to me; and, before I read it, 
I asked the messenger who had given it him. He an- 
swered me that, ‘going by accidentally in the street, 
about noon, in our town, a very handsome lady, all in 
tears, had called him to her window, and, with great 
precipitation, “Friend,” said she, “if you be a Christian, 
as you seem to be, take this letter, and deliver it with 
all speed into the person’s own hand to whom it is 
directed. Iassure you, in this you will do a very good 
action; and that you may not want means to do it, take 
what is wrapped up inthis.” And, saying so, she threw 
a handkerchief, wherein I found a hundred reals, this 
gold ring which you see, and the letter which I now 
brought you; which done, I having made her signs to 
let her know I would do as she desired, without so 
much as staying for an answer, she went from the grate. 
This reward, but much more that beautiful lady’s tears 
and earnest prayers, made me post away to you that 
very minute; and so, in sixteen hours, I have travelled 
eighteen long leagues.’ While the messenger spoke, I 
was seized with sad apprehensions of some fatal news; 
and such a trembling shook my limbs, that I could 
scarce support myself. At length, however, I ven- 
tured to read the letter, which contained these words :— 

“«Don Ferdinand, according to his promise, has de- 
sired your father to speak to mine; but he has done 
that for himself which you had engaged him to do for 
you, for he has demanded me for his wife; and my 
father, allured by the advantages which he expects 
from such an alliance, has so far consented that two 
days hence the marriage is to be performed, and with 
such privacy, that only Heaven and some of the family 
are to be witnesses. Judge of the affliction of my soul 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


by that concern, which, I guess, fills your own; and 
therefore haste to me, my dear Cardenio. The issue of 
this business will show you how much I love you: and 
grant, propitious Heaven! this may reach your hand 
ere mine is in danger of being joined with his who keeps 
his promises so ill!’ 

“I had no sooner read the letter,” added Cardenio, 
“but away I flew, without waiting for my dispatch; for 
then I too plainly discovered Don Ferdinand’s treach- 
ery, and that he had only sent me to his brother to take 
advantage of my ubsence. Revenge, love, and impa- 
tience gave me wings, so that I got home privately the 
next day, just when it grew duskish, in good time 
to speak with Lucinda; and, leaving my mule at the 
honest man’s house who brought me the letter, I went 
to wait upon my mistress, whom I luckily found at the 
window—the only witness of our loves. She presently 
knew me, and I her, but she did not welcome me as I 
expected, nor did I find her in such a dress as I thought 
suitable to our circumstances. But what man has as- 
surance enough but to pretend to know thoroughly the 
riddle of a woman’s mind, and who could ever hope to 
fix her mutable nature? ‘Cardenio,’ said Lucinda to 
me, ‘my wedding-clothes are on, and the perfidious 
Ferdinand, with my covetous father and the rest, stay 
for me in the hall, to perform the marriage rites. But 
they shall sooner be witness of my death than of my 
nuptials. Be not troubled, my dear Cardenio, but 
rather strive to be present at that sacrifice. I promise 
thee, if entreaties and words cannot prevent it, I have 
a dagger that shall do me justice; and my death, at 
least, shall give thee nudeniabe assurances of my love 
and fidelity.’ ‘Do, madam,’ cried I to her, with precipi- 
tation, and so disordered that I did not know what I 
said; ‘let your actions verify your words; let us leave 
nothing unattempted which may serve our common in- 
terests; and, I assure you, if my sword does not defend 
them well, I will turn it upon my own breast rather than 
outlive my disappointment.’ I cannot tell whether 
Lucinda heard me, for she was called away in great 
haste, the bridegroom impatiently expecting her. My 
spirit forsook me when she left me, and my sorrows and 
confusion cannot be expressed. Methought I saw the 
sun set for ever; and my eyes and senses partaking of 
my distraction, I could not so much as spy the door to 
go into the house, and seemed rooted to the place 
where I stood. But at last, the consideration of my 
love having roused me out of this stupefying astonish- 
ment, I got into the house without being discovered, 
everything being there in a hurry; and, going into the 
hall, I hid myself behind the hangings, where two 
pieces of tapestry met, and gave me liberty to see with- 
out being seen. Who can describe the various thoughts, 
the doubts, the fears, the anguish that perplexed and 
tossed my soul while I stood waiting there? Don Fer- 
dinand entered the hall not like a bridegroom, but in 
his usual habit, with only a cousin-german of Lucinda’s; 
the rest were the people of the house. Some time after 
came Lucinda herself, with her mother and two waiting- 
women. I perceived she was as richly dressed as was 
consistent with her quality, and the solemnity of the 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ceremony; but the distraction that possessed me lent 
me no time to note particularly the apparel she had on. 
I only marked the colors, that were carnation and white, 
and the splendor of the jewels that enriched her dress 
in many places: but nothing equalled the lustre of her 
beauty, that adorned her person much more than all 
those ornaments. Oh, memory! thou fatal enemy of my 
case! why dost thou now so faithfully represent to the 
eyes of my mind Lucinda’s incomparable charms? why 
dost thou not rather show me what she did then, that, 
moved by so provoking a wrong, I may endeavor to 
revenge it, or at least to die? Forgive me these tedious 
digressions, gentlemen; alas! my woes are not such as 
can or ought to be related with brevity, for to me every 
circumstance seems worthy to be enlarged upon.” 

The curate assured Cardenio that they attended every 
word with a mournful pleasure, that made them greedy 
of hearing the least passage. With that Cardenio went 
on. “All parties being met,” said he, “the priest 
entered, and, taking the young couple by the hands, he 
asked Lucinda whether she were willing to take Don 
Ferdinand for her wedded husband? With that, I 
thrust ont my head from between the two pieces of 
tapestry, listening with anxious heart to hear her an- 
swer, upon which depended my life and happiness. 
Dull, heartless wretch that I was! Why did I not then 
show myself? why did I not call to her aloud, ‘Con- 
sider what thou dost, Lucinda; thou art mine, and canst 
not be another man’s: nor canst thou now speak the 
fatal Yes, without injuring Heaven, thyself, and me, 
and murdering thy Cardenio? And thou, perfidious 
Ferdinand, who darest to violate all rights, both human 
and divine, to rob me of my treasure! canst thou hope 
to deprive me of the comfort of my life with impunity ? 
Or thinkest thou that any consideration can stifle my 
resentment when my honor and my love lie at stake ?” 
Fool that Iam! now that it is too late, and danger is 
far distant, I say what 1 should have done, and not 
what Idid then. After I have suffered the treasure of 
my soul to be stolen, I exclaim against the thief whom 
I might have punished for the base attempt, had I had 
but so much resolution to revenge as I have now to 
complain. Then let me rather accuse my faint heart, 
that durst not do me right, and let me die here like a 
wretch, void both of sense and honor, the outcast of 
society and nature. The priest stood waiting for Lu- 
cinda’s answer a good while before she gave it; and all 
that time I expected she would have pulled out her 
dagger, or unloosened her tongue to plead her former 
engagement to me. But, alas! to my eternal disap- 
pointment, I heard her at last, with a feeble voice, pro- 
nounce the fatal Yes; and then Don Ferdinand saying 
the same, and giving her the ring, the sacred knot was 
tied, which death alone can dissolve. Then did the 
faithless bridegroom advance to embrace his bride; but 
she, laying her hand upon her heart, in that very mo- 
ment swooned away in her mother’s arms. Oh! what 
confusion seized me ! what pangs, what torments racked 
me, seeing the falsehood of Lucinda’s promises, all my 
hopes shipwrecked, and the only thing that made me 
wish to live for ever ravished from me! Confounded 





125. 


and despairing, I looked upon myself as abandoned by 
Heaven to the cruelty of my destiny; and the violence. 
of my griefs stifling my sighs and denying a passage to 
my tears, I felt myself transfixed with killing anguish, 
and burning with jealous rage and vengeance. Jn the 
meantime the whole company was troubled at Lucinda’s 
swooning; and as her mother unclasped her gown before 
to give her air, a folded paper was found in her bosom, 
which Don Ferdinand immediately snatched; then, 
stepping a little aside, he opened it, and read it by the 
light of one of the tapers; and as soon as he had done, 
he as it were Jet himself fall upon a chair, and there he 
sate with his hand upon the side of his face, with all 
the signs of melancholy and discontent, as unmindful 
of his bride as if he had been insensible of her accident. 
For my own part, seeing all the house thus in an up- 
roar, I resolved to leave the hated place, without caring 
whether I were seen or not, and in case I were seen, I 
resolved to act such a desperate part in punishing the 
traitor Ferdinand, that the world should at once be in- 
formed of his perfidiousness and the severity of my just 
resentment; but my destiny, that preserved me for 
greater woes (if greater can be), allowed me then the 
use of the small remainder of my senses, which after- 
wards quite forsook me, so that I left the house, with- 
out revenging myself on my enemies, whom I could 
easily have sacrificed to my rage in this unexpected 
disorder; and I chose to inflict upon myself, for my 
credulity, the punishment which their infidelity de- 
served. I went to the messenger’s house where I had 
left my mule, and without so much as bidding him adieu, 
I mounted, and left the town like another Lot, without 

turning to give it a parting look; and as I rode along 
the fields, darkness and silence round me, I vented my 
passion in excrations against the treacherous Ferdinand, 

and in as Joud complaints of Lucinda’s breach of vows 
and ingratitude. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false, 

but above all, covetous and sordid, since the wealth of 
my enemy was what had induced her to forego her vows 
tome.’ ‘But then, again,’ said I to myself, ‘it is no 

strange thing for a young lady, that was so strictly 
educated, to yield herself up to the guidance of her 
father and mother, who had provided her a husband of 
that quality and fortune. But yet, with truth and jus- 
tice she might have pleaded that she was mine before.” 
In fine, I concluded that ambition had got the better of 
her love, and made her forget her promises to Cardenio. 
Thus abandoning myself to these tempestuous thoughts, 
Trode on all night, and about break of day I struck 
into one of the passes that lead into these mountains, 
where I wandered for three days together, without 
keeping any road, till at last, coming to a certain valley 
that lies somewhere hereabonts, I met some shepherds, 
of whom I enquired the way to the most craggy and 
inaccessible part of these rocks. They directed me, 
and I made all the haste I could to get thither, resolved 
to linger out my hated life far from the converse of 
false, ungrateful mankind. When I came among these 
deserts, my mule, through weariness and hunger, or 
rather te get rid of so useless a load asI was, fell down 
dead; and I myself was so weak, so tired and dejected, 


126 


being almost famished, and withal destitute and care- 
less of relief, that I soon laid myself down or rather 
fainted on the ground, where I lay a considerable while, 
I do not know how long, extended like a corpse. When 
I came to myself again, I got up, and could not perceive 
I had any appetite to eat: I found some goatherds by 
me, who, I suppose, had given me some sustenance, 
though I was not sensible of their relief; for they told 
me in what a wretched condition they found me—star- 
ing, and talking so strangely, that they judged I had 
quite lost my senses. I have indeed since that had but 
too much cause to think that my reason sometimes leaves 
me, and that Icommit those extravagances which are 
are only the effects of senseless rage and frenzy; tear- 
ing my clothes, howling through these deserts, filling 
the air with curses and lamentations, and idly repeating 
a thousand times Lucinda’s name; all my wishes at 
that time being to breathe out my soul with the dear 
word upon my lips: and when I come to myself, I am 
commonly so weak and so weary, that Iam scarce able to 
stir. As for my place of abode, itis usually some hol- 
low cork-tree, into which I creep at night; and there 
some few goatherds, whose cattle browse on the neigh- 
boring mountains, out of pity and Christian charity, 
sometimes leave some victuals for the support of my 
miserable life; for, even when my reason is absent, 
nature performs its animal functions, and instinct guides 
me to satisfy it. Sometimes these good people meet me 
in my lucid intervals, and chide me for taking that from 
them by force and surprise which they are always so 
ready to give me willingly: for which violence I can 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


make no other excuse but the extremity of my distrac- 
tion. Thus must I drag a miserable being, until Heaven, 
pitying my afflictions, will either put a period to my 
life or blot out of my memory perjured Lucinda’s beauty 
and ingratitude and Ferdinand’s perfidiousness. Could 
I but be so happy ere I die, I might then be able, in time, 
to compose my frantic thoughts; but if I must despair 
of such a favor, I have no other way but to recommend 
my soul to Heaven's mercy; forI am not able to extri- 
cate my body or my mind out of that misery into which 
Ihave unhappily plunged myself. 

“Thus, gentlemen, I have given youa faithful account 
of my misfortunes. Judge now whether it was possible 
I should relate them with less concern. And pray do 
not lose time to prescribe remedies to a patient who 
will make use of none. I will, and can, have no health 
without Lucinda; since she forsakes me, I must die. 
She has convinced me, by her infidelity, that she de- 
sires my ruin; and by my unparalleled sufferings to the 
last, I will strive to convince her I deserved a better 
fate Let me then suffer on, and may I be the only un- 
happy creature whom despair could not relieve, while 
the impossibility of receiving comfort brings cure to so 
many other wretches.” 

Here Cardenio made an end of his mournful story; 
and just as the curate was preparing to give him his 
best advice and consolation, he was prevented by a 
voice that saluted his ears, and in mournful accents 
pronounced what will be rehearsed in the following 
pages of this narration. 








CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE PLEASANT NEW ADVENTURE THE CURATE AND 


BARBER MET WITH IN SIERRA MORENA, OR BLACK 


MOUNTAIN. 


Most fortunate and happy was the age that ushered 
into the world that most daring knight, Don Quixote 
de la Mancha! for from his generous resolution to re- 
vive and restore the ancient order of knight-errantry, 
that was not only wholly neglected, but almost lost and 
abolished, our age, barren in itself of pleasant recrea- 
tions, derives the pleasure it reaps from his true his- 
tory, and the various tales and episodes thereof, in 
some respects no less pleasing, artful, and authentic 
than the history itself. We told you that as the curate 
was preparing to give Cardenio some seasonable con- 
solation, he was prevented by a voice, whose doleful 
complaints reached his ears. 

“Oh, heavens!” cried the unseen mourner, “is it possi- 
ble Ihave at last found out a place that will afford a 
private grave to this miserable body, whose load I so 
repine to bear? Yes, if the silence and solitude of 





these deserts do not deceive me, hereI may die con- 
cealed from human eyes. Ah! me; ah! wretched crea- 
ture! to what extremity has affliction driven me, re- 
duced to think these hideous woods and rocks a kind 
retreat! It is true, indeed, I may here freely complain 
to Heaven, and beg for that relief which I might ask in 
vain of false mankind; for it is vain, I find, to seek be- 
low either counsel, ease, or remedy :” 

The curate and his company, who heard all this dis- 
tinctly, justly conjectured they were very near the 
person who thus expressed his grief, and therefore rose 
to find him out. They had not gone about twenty 
paces, before they spied a youth in a country habit, 
sitting at the foot of a rock behind an ash-tree; but 
they could not well see his face, being bowed almost 
upon his knees, as he sat washing his feet in a rivulet 
that glided by. They approached him so softly that 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


he did not perceive them; and, as he was gently pad- 
dling in the clear water, they had time to discern that 
his legs were as white as alabaster, and so taper, so 
curiously proportioned, and so fine, that nothing of the 
kind could appear more beautiful. Our observers were 
amazed at this discovery, rightly imagining that such 
tender feet were not used to trudge in rugged ways, or 
measure the steps of oxen at the plough, the common 
employments of people in such apparel; and therefore 
the curate, who went before the rest, whose curiosity 
was heightened by this sight, beckoned to them to step 
aside and hide themselves behind some of the little 
rocks that were by; which they did, and from thence 
making a stricter observation, they found he had on a 
grey double-skirted jerkin, girt tight about his body 
with a linen towel. He wore also a puir of breeches, 
and gamashes of grey cloth, and a grey huntsman's 
cap on his head. His gamashes were now pulled up to 
the middle of his leg, which really seemed to be of 
snowy alabaster. Having made an end of washing his 
beauteous feet, he immediately wiped them with a 
handkerchief, which he pulled out from under his cap; 
and with that, looking up, he discovered so charming a 
face, so accomplished a beauty, that Cardenio could not 
forbear saying to the curate, that since this was not 
Lucinda, it was certainly no human form, but an angel. 
And then the youth, taking off his cap, and shaking 
his head, an incredible quantity of lovely hair flowed 
down upon his shoulders, and not alone covered them, 
but almost all his body; by which they were now con- 
vinced, that what they at first took to be a country lad 
was a young woman, and one of the most beautiful 
creatures in the world. Cardenio was not less sur- 


prised than the other two, and once more declared that 
no face could vie with hers but Lucinda’s. To part her 


dishevelled tresses, she only used her slender fingers, 
and at the same time discovered so fine a pair of arms, 
and hands so white and lovely, that our three admiring 
gazers grew more impatient to know who she was, and 
moved forward to accost her. At the noise they made, 
the pretty creature started; and peeping through her 
hair, which she hastily removed from before her eyes 
with both hands, she no sooner saw three men coming 
towards her, but in a mighty fright she snatched up a 
little bundle that lay by her, and fled as fast as she 
could, without so much as staying to put on her shoes, 
or do up her hair. But, alas! scarce had she gone six 
steps, when, her tender feet not being able to endure 
the rough encounter of the stones, the poor affrighted 
fair fell on the hard ground; so that those from whom 
she fled, hastening to help her, “Stay, madam,” cried 
the curate, “whoever you be, you have no reason to fly; 
we have no other design but to do you service.” 

With that, approaching her, he took her by the hand, 
and perceiving she was so disordered with fear and 
confusion that she could not answer a word, he strove 
to compose her mind with kind expressions. “Be not 
afraid, madam,” continued he; “though your hair has 
betrayed what your disguise concealed from us, we are 
but the more disposed to assist you, and do you all 
manner of service. Then pray tell us how we may best 





127 


do it. I imagine it was no slight occasion that made 
you obscure your singular beauty under so unworthy a 
disguise, and venture into this desert, where it was the 
greatest chance in the world that ever you met with 
us. However, we hope it is not impossible to find a 
remedy for your misfortunes; since there are none 
which reason and time will not at last surmount; and 
therefore, madam, if you have not absolutely renounced 
all human comfort, I beseech you tell us the cause of 
your affliction, and assure yourself we do not ask this 
out of mere curiosity, but a real desire to serve you, 
and either to condole or assuage your grief.” 

While the curate endeavored thus to remove the 
trembling fair one’s apprehension, she stood amazed, 
without speaking a word, staring sometimes upon one, 
sometimes upon another, like one scarce well ‘awake, 
or like an ignorant clown, who happens to see some 
strange sight. But at last the curate, having given her 
time to recollect herself, and persisting in his earnest 
and eivil entreaties, she fetched a deep sigh, and then 
unclosing her lips, broke silence in this manner:— 
“Since this desert has not been able to conceal me, 
and my hair has betrayed me, it would be needless now 
for me to dissemble with you; and since you desire to 
hear the story of my misfortunes, I cannot in civilty 
deny you, after all the obliging offers you have been 
pleased to make me: but yet, gentlemen, I am much 
afraid what I have to say will but make you sad, and 
attord you little satisfaction; for you will find my 
disasters are not to be remedied. There is one thing 
that troubles me yet more; it shocks my nature to think 
I must be forced to reveal to you some secrets which I 
had a design to have buried in my grave; but yet, con- 
sidering the garb and the place you have found me in, 
I fancy it will be better for me to tell you all, than to 
give occasion to doubt of my past conduct and my 
present designs, by an affected reservedness.” The 
disguised lady having made this answer, with a modest 
blush and extraordinary discretion, the curate and his 
company, who now admired her the more for her sense, 
renewed their kind offers and pressing solicitations: 
and then they modestly let her retire a moment to 
some distance to put herself in decent order, which 
done, she returned, and being all seated on the grass, 
after she had used no small violence to smother her 
tears, she thus began her story :— 

“I was born in a certain town of Andalusia, from 
which a duke takes his title, that makes him a grandee 
of Spain. This duke has two sons—the eldest heir to 
his estate, and, as it may be presumed, of his virtues; 
the youngest heir to nothing I know of, but the treach- 
ery of Vellido and the deceitfulness of Galalon. My 
father, who is one of his vassals, is but of low degree; 
but so very rich, that had fortune equalled his birth to 
his estate, he could have wanted nothing more, and I, 
perhaps had never been so miserable; for I verily be- 
lieve my not being of noble blood is the chief occasion 
of my ruin. True it is my parents are not so 
meauly born as to have cause to be ashamed of 
their original, nor so high as to alter the opinion 
I have that my misfortune proceeds from their 











iG 


AZ 











“ They spied a youth in a country habit, sitting at the foot of a rock behind an ash-tree,”—p. 126. 


7 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


lowness. It istrue they have been farmers from 
father to son, yet without any mixture or stain of 
infamous or scandalous blood. They are old rusty 
Christians (as we call our true primitive Spaniards), 
and the antiquity of their family, together with their 
large possessions, and the port they live in, raises them 
much above their profession, and has by little and little 
almost universally gained them the name of gentlemen, | 
setting them, in a manner, equal to many such in the 
world’s esteem. As I am their only child, they ever 
loved me with all the tenderness of indulgent parents; 
and their great affection made them esteem themselves 
happier in their daughter, than in the peaceable enjoy- 
ment of their large estate. Now, as it was my good 
fortune to be possessed of their love, they were pleased 
to trust me with their substance. The whole house and 
estate was left to my management, and I took such care 
not to abuse the trust reposed in me, that I never for- 
feited their good opinion of my discretion. The time 
I had to spare from the care of the family, I commonly 
employed in the usual exercises of young women, some- 
times making bone-lace, or at my needle, and now and 
then reading some good book, or playing on the harp; 
having experienced that music was very proper to 
recreate the wearied mind: and this was the innocent 
life I led. I have not descended to these particulars 
out of vain ostentation, but merely that when I come 
to relate my misfortunes, you may observe that I do not 
owe them to my ill conduct. While I thus lived the 
life of a nun, unseen, as I thought, by anybody but our 
own family, and never leaving the house but to go to 
church, which was commonly betimes in the morning, 
and always with my mother, and so close hid in a veil 
that I could scarce find my way; notwithstanding all 
the care that was taken to keep me from being seen, it 
was unhappily rumored abroad that I was handsome, 
and to my eternal disquiet, Jove intruded into my peace- 
ful retirement. Don Ferdinand, second son to the duke 
I have mentioned, had a sight of me——” Scarce had 
Cardenio heard Don Ferdinand named, but he changed 
color, and betrayed such a disorder of body and mind, 
that the curate and the barber were afraid he would; 
have fallen into one of those frantic fits that often used 
to take him; but by good fortune it did not come to 
that, and he only set himself to look steadfastly“ on the 
country maid, presently guessing who she was; while 
she continued her story, without taking »ny notice of 
the alteration of his countenance. a ‘ 

“No sooner had he seen me,” said she, “but, as he 
since told me, he felt in his breast that violent passion 
of which he afterwards gave me so many proofs. But, 
not to tire you with a needless relation ¡of Liven partic- 
ular, I will pass over all the means he. used, to inform 
me of his love: he purchased the good-will: of all our 
servants with private gifts; he made my father a thou- 
sand kind offers of service: every day seemed a day of 
rejoicing in our neighborhood, every evening ushered 
in some serenade, and the continual music was even a 
disturbance in the night. He got a number of love- 
letters transmitted to me, I do not know by whit means, 
every one full of the tenderest expressions, p»romisés, 

9——DON QUIX. 


129 


vows, and protestations. But all this assiduous court- 
‘ship was so far from inclining my heart to a kind 
return, that it rather moved my indignation; inso- 
much, that I looked upon Don Ferdinand as my 
greatest enemy, and one wholly bent on my ruin: 
not but that I was well enough pleased with his gallan- 
try, and took a secret delight in seeing myself thus 
courted by a person of his quality. Such demonstra- 
tions of love are never altogether displeasing to women, 
and the most disdainful, in spite of all their coyness, 
reserve a little complaisance in their hearts for their 
admirers. But the disproportion between our qualities 
was too great to suffer me to entertain any reasonable 
hopes, and his gallantry too singular not to offend me. 
Besides, my father, who soon made aright construction 
of Don Ferdinand's pretensions, with his prudent ad- 
monitions concurred with the sense I ever had of my 
honor, and banished from my mind all favorable 
thoughts of his addresses. However, like a kind 
parent, perceiving I was somewhat uneasy, and imag- 
ining the flattering prospect of so advantageous amatch 
might still amuse me, he told me one day he reposed 
the utmost trust in my virtue, esteeming it the strong- 
est obstacle he could oppose to Don Ferdinand’s dis- 
honorable designs; yet if I would marry, to rid me at 
once of his unjust pursuit, I should have liberty to 
make my own choice of a suitable match; and that he 
would do forme whatever could be expected from a 
loving father. I humbly thanked him for his kindness, 
and told him that as I had never yet had any thoughts 
of marriage, I would try to rid myself of Don Ferdinand 
some other way. Accordingly I resolved to shun him 
with so much precaution, that he should never have 
the opportunity to speak to me: butall my reserved- 
ness, far from tiring out his passion, strengthened it 
the more. In short, Don.-Férdinand, either hearing or 
suspecting I was to be married, thought of a contri- 
vance to cross a design that was likely to cut off all his 
hopes. , One night, therefore, when I was in my cham., 
ber, nobody with me but my maid, and the door double- 
locked and bolted, that I might be secured against the 
attempts of Don Ferdinand, whom I took to be a man 
who would stick at nothing to compass his designs, un- 
expectedly I saw him just before me; which amazing 
sight so surprised me, that I was struck dumb, and 
fainted away with fear. So I had not power to call for 
help, nor do I believe he would have given me time to 
have done it, had I attempted it; for he presently ran 
to me, and taking me in his arms, while I was sinking 
with the fright, he spoke to me in such endearing terms, 
and with so much address, and pretended tenderness 
and sincerity, that I did not dare to cry out when I came 
to myself. His sighs, and yet more his tears, seemed 
to me undeniahle proofs of his vowed integrity; and I 
being but young, bred up in perpetual retirement. 
from all society but my virtuous parents, and inexperi- 
enced in those affairs in which even the most knowing 
are apt to be mistaken, my reluctancy abated by de- 
grees, and I began to have some sense of compassion, 
yet none but what was consistent with my honor. How- 





ever, when I was pretty well recovered from my first 























full of the tenderest ex 


. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


fright, my former resolution returned; and then with 
more courage than I thought I should have had, ‘My 
lord, ' said I, ‘ifat the same time that you offer me your 
love, ‘and give me such strange demonstrations of it, 
you would also offer me poison, and leave to take my 
choice, I would soon resolve upon which to accept, and 
convince you by my death that my honor is dearer to 
me ‘than my life. To be plain, I can have no good 
opinion of a presumption that endangers my reputa- 
tion; and unless you leave me this moment, I will so 
effectually make you know how much you are mistaken 
in me, that if you have but the least sense of honor left, 
you will prevent the driving me to that extremity as 
long as you live. I was born your vassal, but not your 
slave; nor does the greatness of your birth privilege 
you to injure your inferiors, or exact from me more 
than the duties which all vassals pay; that excepted. 
I do not esteem myself less in my low degree than you 
have reason to value yourself in your high rank. Do 
not then think to awe or dazzle me with your grandeur, 


or fright or force me into a base compliance; I am not 


to be tempted with titles, pomp, and equipage; nor 
weak enough to.be moved with vain sighs and false 
tears. In short, my willis wholly at my father’s dis- 
posal, and I will not entertain any man as a lover, but 
by his appointment. Therefore, my lord, as you would 
have me believe you so sincerely love me, give over 
your vain and injurious pursuit; suffer me peaceably to 
enjoy the benefits of life in the free possession of my 
honor, the loss of which for ever embitters all life’s 
sweets; and since you cannot be my husband, do not 
expect from me that affection which I cannot pay to 
any other.’ ‘What do you mean, charming Dorothea?’ 
eried the perfidious lord. ‘Cannot I be yours by the 
sacred title of husband? Who can hinder me, if you’ll 
but consent to bless me on those terms? Too happy if 
I can have no other obstacle to surmount, I am yours 
this moment, beautiful Dorothea: see, I give you here 
my hand to be yours alone for eyer: and let all-seeing 
Heaven, and this holy image here on your oratory, wit- 
ness the solemn truth.” 

Cardenio, hearing her call herself Dorothea, was now 
fully satisfied she was the person whom he took her to 
be; however, he would not interrupt her story, being 
impatient to hear the end of it; only addressing him- 


self to her, “Is then your name Dorothea, madam?” |. 


cried he. “I have heard of a lady of that name, whose 
misfortunes have a great resemblance with yours. But 
proceed, I beseech you, and when you have done, 
I may perhaps surprise you with an account of things 
that have some affinity with those you relate.” 

With that Dorothea made a stop to study Cardenio’s 
face, and his wretched attire, and then earnestly desired 
him, if he knew anything that concerned her, to let her 
know it presently ; telling him. that all the happiness 
she had left was only the courage to bear with resigna- 
tion all thé disasters that might befall her, well assured 
that no one could make her more unfortunate than she 
was already. “Truly, madam.” replied Cardenio, “I 
would tell you all I know, were I sure my conjectures 
were true; but so far as I may judge by what I have 


131 


heard hitherto, I do not think it material to tell it you 
yet, and I shall find a more proper time to doit.” Then 
Dorothea resuming her discourse; “Don Ferdinand,” 
said she, “repeated his vows of marriage in the most 
serious manner; and giving me his hand, plighted me 
his faith i in the most binding words and sacred oaths. 
‘But before I would let him engage himself thus, I ad: 

vised him to have a care how he suffered an unruly 
passion to get the ascendant over his reason, to the en- 
dangering of his future happiness. ‘ My lord,’ said I, ‘let 
not a few transitory and imaginary charms, which could 
never excuse such an excessof love, hurry you to your 
ruin. Spare your noble father the shame and dis- 
pleasure of seeing you married to a person so much 
below your birth; and donotrashly do a thing of which 
you may repent, and that may make my life uncom- 
fortable.? I added several otlier reasons to dissuade 
him from that hasty match, but they were all unregard- 
ed. Don Ferninand, deaf to everything, engaged and 
bound himself like an inconsiderate lover, who sacri- 
fices all things to his passion, or rather like a cheat 
who does not value a breach of vows. When I saw 
him so obstinate, I began to consider what todo. ‘Iam 
not the first,’ thought I to myself, ‘whom marriage 
has raised to unhoped-for greatness, and whose beauty 
alone has supplied her want of birth and merit. 

Thousands besides Don Ferdinand have married mere- 
ly for love, without any regard to the inequality of 
wealth and birth.’ The opportunity was fair and tempt- 
ing; and as Fortune is not always favorable, I thought 
it an imprudent thing to let it slip. Thought I to my- 
self, ‘While she kindly offers me a husband who as- 
sures me of an inviolable affection, why should I, by an 
unreasonable denial, make myself an enemy of such a 
friend?’ And then there was one thing more: I ap- 
prehended it would be dangerous to drive him to de- 
spair by an ill-timed refusal. All these reasons, which 
in a moment offered themselves to my mind, shook my 
former resolves. I called my maid to be a witness to 
Don Ferdinand’s vows and sacred engagements, which 
he reiterated to me, and confirmed with new oaths and 
solemn promises; he called again on Heaven, and on 
many particular saints, to witness his sincerity, wish- 


¡ing a thousand curses ‘might fall on him, in caseche ever 


violated his word; and, as a further pledge, he pulled 
off a ring of great value from his finger, and put it upon 
mine. In time, he went away, and my maid, who, as 
she confessed it to me, let him in privately, took care 
to let him out into the street, while I remained so 
strangely concerned at the thoughts of all these pas- 
sages, that I cannot well tell whether I was sorry or 
pleased. I was in a manner quite distracted. I had 
told Don Ferdinand belore he went, that seeing I was 
now his own, he might come again to see me, till he 
found it convenient to do me the honor of owning. me 
publicly for his wife; but he came to me only the next 
day, and from that time I never could see him more, 
neither at the church nor in the street, though fora 
whole month together I tired myself endeavoring to 
find him out. Being credibly informed he was still 





near us, and went a-hunting almost every day, I leave 














AAA 
_————— 











DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


o 


you to think with what uneasiness I passed those te- 
dious hours, when I perceived his neglect, and had rea- 
son to suspect his breach of faith. So unexpected a 
slight, which I looked upon as the most sensible afilic- 
tion which could befall me, had like to have quite over- 
whelmed me. I exclaimed against Don Ferdinand, and 
exhausted my sighs and tears without assuaging my 
sorrow. What was worse, I found myself obliged to 
set a guard upon my very looks, for fear my father and 
mother should inquire into the cause of my discontent. 
But at last I perceived it was in vain to dissemble, and 
I gave a loose to my resentments; for I could no longer 
hold, when I heard that Don Ferdinand was married in 
a neighboring town to a young lady of rich and noble 
parentage, and extremely handsome, whose name is 
Lucinda.” : : 

Cardenio, hearing Lucinda named, felt his former 
disorder, but by good fortune it was not so violent as it 
used to be; and he only shrugged his shoulders, bit his 
lips, knit his brows, and a little while after let fall a 
shower of tears, which did not hinder Dorothea from go- 
ing on. ; 

“This news,” continued she, “instead of freezing up 
my blood with grief and astonishment, filled me with 
burning rage. Despair took possession of my soul, and 
in the transports of my fury I was ready to run raving 
through the streets, and publish Don’ Ferdinand’s dis- 
loyalty. I do not know whether a remainder of reason 
stopped these violent motions, but 1 found myself 
mightily eased as soon as I had pitched upon a design 
that presently came into my head. I discovered the 
cause of my grief to a young country fellow that 
served my- father, and desired him to lend me a 
suit of man’s apparel, and to go along with me 
to the town where I heard Don Ferdinand was. 
The fellow used the best arguments he had to 
hinder me from so strange an undertaking; but find- 
ing I was inflexible in my resolution, he assured me 
he was ready to serve me. Thereupon I put on this 
habit which you see, and taking with me some of my 
own clothes, together with some gold and jewels, not 
knowing but I might have occasion for them, I set out 
that very night, attended with that servant, and many 
anxious thoughts, without so much as acquainting my 
maid with my design. To tell you the truth, I did not 
well know myself what I went about; for as there could 
be no remedy, Don Ferdinand being actually married to 
another, what could I hope to get by seeing him, unless 
it were the wretched satisfaction of upbraiding him 
with his infidelity? In two days and a half we got to 
the town, where the first thing I did was to inquire 
where Lucinda’s father lived. That single question 
produced a great deal more than I desired to hear; for 
the first man I addressed myself to showed me the 
house, and informed me of all that had happened at 
Lucinda's marriage, which it seems was grown so pub- 
lic, that it-was the talk of the whole town. He told me 
how Lucinda had swooned away as soon as she had 
answered the priest, that she was contented to be Don 
Ferdinand’s wife; and how, after he had approached to 
open her dress, to give her more room to breathe, he 





133 


found a letter under her own hand, wherein she de- 
clared she could not be Don Ferdinand's wife, because 
she was already contracted to a considerable gentleman 
of the same town, whose name was Cardenio; and that 
she had only consented to that marriage in obedience 
to her father. He also told me, that it appeared by the 
letter, and a dagger which was found about her, that 
she designed to have killed herself after the ceremony 
was over; and that Don Ferdinand, enraged to see 
himself thus deluded, would have killed her himself 
with that very dagger, had he not been prevented by 
those that were present. He added, it was reported 
that upon this Don Ferdinand immediately left the 
town; and that Lucinda did not come to herself till 
next day, and then she told her parents that she was 
really Cardenio’s wife, and that he and she were con- 
tracted before she had seen Don Ferdinand. I heard 
also that this Cardenio was present at the wedding; 
and that as soon as he saw her married, which was a 
thing he never could have believed, he left the town 
in despair, leaving a letter behind him, full of com- 
plaints of Lucinda’s breach of faith, and to inform his 
friends of his resolution to go to some place where they 
Should never hear of him more. This was all the dis- 
course of the town when we came thithe1, and soon 
after we heard that Lucinda also was missing, and that 
her father and mother were grieving almost to dis- 
traction, not being able to learn what was become of 
her. For my part, this news revived my hopes, having 
reason to be pleased to find Don Ferdinand unmarried. 
I flattered myself that Heaven had perhaps prevented 
this second marriage, to make him sensible of violating 
the first, and to touch his conscience, in order to his 
acquitting himself in his duty like a Christian and a 
man of honor. So 1 strove to beguile my cares with an 
imaginary prospect of a far-distant change of fortune, 
amusing myself with vain hopes that I might not sink 
under the load of affliction, but prolong life; though 
this was only a lengthening of my sorrows, since I have 
now but the more reason to wish to be eased of the 
trouble of living. But while I stayed in that town, I 
heard a crier publicly describe my person, my clothes, 
and my age, in the open street, promising a consider- 
able reward to any one that could bring tidings of 
Dorothea. I also heard that it was rumored I was 
run away from my father’s house with the servant 
who attended me; and that report touched my soul 
as much as Don Ferdinand's perfidiousness; for thus 
I saw my reputation wholly lost, and that, too, for a 
subject so base and so unworthy of my nobler thoughts. 
Thereupon I made all the haste I could to get out of 
the town, and with more nimbleness than could be ex- 
pected from my surprise and weariness, I ran into the 
thickest part of the desert to secure myself. But as it 
iscommonly said that one evil follows upon another, 
and that the end of one disater is the beninning of a 
greater, so it befell me: my good servant, until then 
faithful and trusty, seeing me in this desert place, and 
incited by his own baseness rather than by any beauty 
of mine, resolved to lay hold of the opportunity this 
solitude seemed to afford him; and, with little shame, 

















“ With the little strength 1 had I pushed him down a precipice, where I left him."—p, 135. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


and less fear of God or respect to his mistress, began 
to make love to me. Finding that I answered him with 
such language as the impudence of his attempt deserv- 
ed, he laid aside entreaties, by which he first hoped to 
succeed, and began to use force. But just Heaven, 
that seldom or never fails to regard and favor righteous 
intentions, favored mine in such a manner that, with the 
little: strength I had, and without much difficulty, I 
pushed him down a precipice, where I left him, I know 
not whether alive or dead. The next day I met a coun- 
tryman, who took me to his house, amidst these moun- 
tains, and employed me ever since in quality of his 
shepherd. There I have continued some months, 


135 


making it my business to be as much as possible in the 
fields, the better to conceal my sex, But not with- 
standing all my care and industry, he at last discover- 
ed I was a woman, which made him presume to impor- 
tune me with offers; so that I left his house, and chose 
to seek asanctuary among these woods and rocks, there 
with sighs and tears to beseech Heaven to pity me, and 
to direct and relieve me in this forlorn condition; or at 
least to put an end to my miserable life, and bury in 
this desert the very memory of an unhappy, creature, 
who, more through ill fortune than ill intent, has given 
the idle world occasion to be too busy with her 





fame.” 








CHAPTER XXVIII. 


¿ss “Tats, gentlemen,” continued Dorothea, “is the true 
stóry of my tragical adventure; and now be you judges 
whether I had reason to make the complaint you over- 
heard, and whether so unfortunate and hopeless a 
creature be in a condition to admit of comfort. I have 
only one favor to beg of you: be pleased to direct me 
to some place where I may pass the rest of my life 
secure from the search and inquiry of my parents; not 
but their former affection is a sufficient warrant for my 
kind reception, could the sense I have of thé thoughts 
they- must have of my past conduct permit me to return 
to them; but when I think they must believe me guilty, 
and can now have nothing but my bare word to assure 
them ‘of my innocence, I can never. Fesolve sto. stand 
their sight.” 

Here Dorothea stopped, and ‘the ‘ushes that over- 
spread her cheeks were certain signs of the discompo- 
sure of her thoughts, and the unfeigned modesty of 
her soul. Those who had heard her story were deeply 
moved with compassion for her hard fate, and the 
curate would not delay any longer to give her some 
charitable comfort and advice. But scarce had he be-| 
gun to speak, when Cardenio, addressing himself to 
her; interrupted him, “How,-madam!” said-he, taking 
her by the hand, “are you then the beautiful Dorothea, 
the only daughter of the rich Cleonardo ? 

' Dorothea was stran gely. surprised to hear her father 
named, and by one in so tattered a garb. “And pray 
who are you, friend,” said she to him, “that know so 
well my father’s name? for I think I did not mention it 
onte throughout the whole narration of my afflictions.” 

¿“Lam Cardenio,” replied the other—“ that unfortunate 
person whom Lucinda, as you told us, declared to be her 
husband. I am that miserable Cardenio,whom the perfid- 
iousness of the man who has reduced you to this deplor- 
able condition has also brought to thiswretched state, to 
rags, to nakedness, to despair, nay, to madness itself, and 





AN ACCOUNT OF THE BEAUTIFUL DOROTHEA’S DISCRETION, WITH OTHER PLEASANT PASSAGES. 


all hardships and want of human comforts; only enjoying 
the privilege of reason by short intervals, to feel and 
bemoan my miseries the more. I am the man, fair 
Dorothea, who was the unhappy eye-witness of Don 
Ferdinand’s unjust nuptials, and who heard my Lucinda 
give her consent to be his wife; that heartless wretch, 
who, unable to bear so strange a disappointment, lost 
in amazement and trouble, flung out of the house, with- 
out staying to know what would follow her trance, and 
what the paper that was taken out of her bosom would 
produce. I abandoned myself to despair, and having 
left a letter with a person whom I charged to deliver it 
into Lucinda's own hands, 1 hastened to hide myself 
from the world in this desert, resolved to end there a 
life which from that moment I had abhorred as my 
greatest enemy. But fortune has preserved me, I see, 
that I may venture it upon a better cause; for from 
what you have told us now, which I have no reason to 
doubt, I am emboldened to hope that Providence may 
yet reserve us both to a better fate than we durst have 
expected. Heaven will restore you Don Ferdinand, 
who cannot be Lucinda’s, and to me Lucinda, who can- 
not be Don Ferdinand’s. For my part, though my in- 
terests-were-notlinked with yours, as they are, I have 
so deep a sense of your misfortunes, that I would ex- 
pose myself to any dangers to see you righted by Don 
Ferdinand; and here, on the word of a gentleman and 
a Ohristian, I vow and promise not to forsake you till 
he has done you justice, and to oblige him to do it at 
the hazard of my life, should reason and generosity 
prove ineffectual to force him to be blest with you.” _ 
Dorothea, ravished with joy, and not knowing how 
to express a due sense of Cardenio’s obliging offers, 
would have thrown herself at his feet, had he not civ- 
illy hindered it. At the same time the curate, discreetly 
speaking for them both, highly applauded Cardenio for 
his generous resolution, and comforted Dorothea. He 


























«Alas !” answered Sancho, ** 1 found him in his shirt, Jean, pale, and almost starved. sighing for his Lady Dulcinea.”—p. 137. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


also very heartily invited them to his house, where 
they might furnish themselves with necessaries, and 
consult together how to find out Don Ferdinand, and 
bring Dorothea home to her father, which kind offer 
they thankfully accepted. Then the barber, who had 
been silent all this while, put in for a share, and hand- 
somely assured them he would be very ready to do them 
. all the service that might lie in his power. After these 
civilities, he acquainted them with the design that had 
brought the curate and him to that place, and gave 
them an account of Don Quixote’s strange kind of mad- 
ness, and of their staying there for his squire. Carde- 
nio, hearing him mentioned, remembered something of 
the scuffle he had with them both, but only as if it had 
been a dream; so that though he told the company of 
it, he could not let them know the occasion. By this 
time they heard somebody call, and by the voice they 
knew it was Sancho Panza, who, not finding them where 
he had left them, tore his very lungs with hallooing. 
With that, they all went to meet him; which done, they 
asked him what was become of Don Quixote. 

“Alas!” answered Sancho, “I left him yonder, in an 
ill plight. I found him in his shirt, lean, pale, and al- 
most starved, sighing and whining for his Lady Dul- 
cinea. I told him how that she would have him come 
to her presently to Toboso, where she looked for him 
out of hand; yet for all this he would not budge a foot, 
but even told me he was resolved he would never set 
eyes on her sweet face again, till he had done some feats 
that might make him worthy of her goodness. So 
that,” added Sancho, “if he leads this life any longer, 
I fear me my poor master is never like to be an emperor, 
as heis bound to honor to be, nay, not so much as an 
archbishop, which is the least thing he can come off 
with; therefore good sir, see and get him away by all 
means, I beseech you!” 

The curate bid him be of good cheer, for they would 
make him leave that place whether he would or not; 
and then turning to Cardevio and Dorothea, he informed 
them of the design which he and the barber had laid, 
in order to his cure, or at least to get him home to his 
house. 

Dorothea, whose mind was much eased with the 
prospect of better fortune, kindly undertook to act the 
distressed lady herself, which she said she thought 
would become her better than the barber, having a dress 
very proper for that purpose; besides, she had read 
many books of chivalry, and knew how the distressed 
ladies used toexpress themselves when they came to 
beg some knight-errant’s assistance. 

“This is obliging, madam,” said the curate, “and we 
want nothing more; so let us to work as fast as we can; 
we may now hope to succeed, since you thus happily 
facilitate the design.” 

Presently Dorothea took out of her bundle a petti- 
coat of very rich stuff, and a gown of very fine green 
silk; also a necklace, and several other jewels out of a 
box; and with these in an instant she so adorned her- 
self, and appeared so beautiful and glorious, that they 
all stood in admiration that Don Ferdinand should be 
so injudicious as to slight so accomplished a beauty. 





137 


But he that admired her most was Sancho Panza; for 
he thought he had never set eyes on so fine a creature, 
and perhaps he thought right: which made him earnestly 
ask the curate who that fine dame was, and what wind 
had blown her thither among the woods and rocks. 

“Who that fine lady, Sancho?” answered the curate; 
“she is the only heiress in a direct line to the vast 
kingdom of Micomicon. Moved by the fame of your 
master's great exploits, that spreads itself over all 
Guinea, she comes to seek him out, and beg a boon of 
him; that is, to redress a wrong which a wicked giant 
has done her.” 

“Why, that’s well,” quoth Sancho; “a happy seeking, 
and a happy finding. Now, if my master be but so 
lucky as to right that wrong, by killing that giant you 
tell me of, IT am a made man. Yes, he will kill him, that 
he will, if he can but come at him, and he be not a hob- 
goblin; for my master can do no good with hobgoblins. 
But Mr. Curate, an it please you, I have a favor to ask 
of you. I beseech you put my master out of conceit 
with all archbishoprics, for that is what I dread; and 
therefore to rid me of my fears, put it into his head to 
clap up a match with this same princess; for by that 
means it will be past his power to make himself arch- 
bishop, and he will come to be emperor, and I a great 
man, a8 sure as a gun. I have thought well of the 
matter, and I find it is not at all fitting he should be an 
archbishop for my good; for what should I get by it? 
Iam not fit for church preferment, I am a married 
man; and now for me to go troubling my head with 
getting a licence to hold church livings, it would be an 
endless business; therefore, it will be better for him to 
marry this same princess, whose name I cannot tell, for 
I never heard it.” 

“They call her the Princess Micomicona,” said the 
curate; “for her kingdom being called Micomicon, it is 
a clear case she must be called so.” 

“Like enough,” quoth Sancho; “for I have known 
several men in my time go by the names of the places 
where they were born, as Pedro de Alcala, Juan de 
Ubeda, Diego de Valladolid; and mayhap the like is 
done in Guinea, and the queens go by the name of their 
kingdoms,” 

“It is well observed,” replied the curate. “As for 
the match, I'll promote it to the utmost of my power.” 

Sancho was heartily pleased with this promise; and, 
on the other side, the curate was amazed to find the 
poor fellow so strangely infected with his master’s mad 
notions, as to rely on his becoming an emperor. By 
this time Dorothea being mounted on the curate’s mule, 
and the barber having clapped on his ox-tail beard, 
nothing remained but to order Sancho to show them the 
way, and to renew their admonitions to him, lest he 
should seem to know them, and to spoil the plot, which, 
if he did, they told him it would be the ruin of all his 
hopes, and his master’s empire. As for Cardenio, he 
did nor think fit to go with them, having no business 
there; besides, he could not tell but that Don Quixote 
might remember their late fray. The curate, likewise, 
not thinking his presence necessary, resolved to stay to 
keep Cardenio company; so, after he had once more 

















“ They went on for about three quarters of u league, and then among the rocks they spied Don Quixote.”—p. 189. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


given Dorothea her cue, she and the barber went before 
with Sancho, while the two others followed on foot ata 
distance. 

Thus they went on for about three quarters of a 
league, and then among the rocks they espied Don 
Quixote, who had by this time put on his clothes, 
though not his armor. Immediately Dorothea, under- 
standing he was the person, whipped her palfrey, and 
when she drew near Don Quixote, her squire alighted 
and took her from the saddle. Whenshe was upon her 
feet, she gracefully advanced towards the knight, and, 
with her squire, falling on her knees before him, in 
spite of his endeavors to hinder her— : - 

“Thrice valorous and invincible knight,” said she, 
“never will I rise from this place, till your generosity 
has granted me a boon, which shall redound to your 
honor, and the relief of the most disconsolate and most 
injured damsel that the sun ever saw: and indeed if 
your valor and the strength of your formidable arm be 
answerable to the extent your immortal renown, you 
are bound by the laws of honor, and of the knighthood 
which you profess, to succor a distressed princess, who, 
led by the resounding fame of your marvellous and re- 
doubted feats of arms, comes from the remotest regions, 
to implore your protection.” 

“T cannot,” said Don Quixote, iii you any answer, 
most beautiful lady, nor will I hear a word more, unless 
you vouchsafe to rise.” — 

“Pardon me, noble knight,” replied the petitioning 
damsel; “my knees shall be first-rooted here, unless 
you will courteously condescend to grant me the boon 
which I humbly request.” j 

“T grant it then, lady,” said Don Quixote, “provided 
it be nothing to the disservice of my king, my country, 
and that beauty who keeps the key of my heart and 
liberty.” 

“Tt shall not tend to the prejudice or detriment of any 
of these,” cried the lady. 

With that Sancho, closing up to his master and |I 
whispering him in the ear, “ Grant it, sir,” quoth he, 
“orant it, I tell ye; it is but a trifle next to nothing, 
only to kill a great looby of a giant; and she that asks 
this is the high and mighty Princess Micomicona, queen 
of the hugé kingdom of Micomicon in Ethiopia.” 

“Let her be what she will,” cried Don Quixote; “I 


will discharge my duty, and obey the dictates of my. 


conscience, according to the rules of my profession.” 
With that, turning to the damsel, “Rise, lady, I beseech 
you,” cried he; “I grant you the boon which your 
beauty demands.” 

“Sir,” said the lady, “the boon I have to beg of 
your magnanimous valor is, that you will be pleased 


to go with me instantly wither I shall conduct you, and. 


promise not to engage in any other adventure, till you 
have revenged me on a traitor who usurps my king- 
dom.” . 

“I grant you all this, lady,” quoth Don Quixote, 
“and therefore, from this moment, shake off all de- 
sponding thoughts that sit heavy upon your mind, and 
study to revive your drooping hopes; for, by the as- 
sistance of Heaven, and my strenuous arm, you shall 


139 


see yourself restored to your kingdom, and seated on 
the throne of your ancestors, in spite of all the traitors 
that dare oppose your right. Let us then hasten our 
performance; delay always breeds danger; and to pro- 
tract a great design is often to ruin it.” 

The thankful princess, to speak her grateful sense of 
his generosity, strove to kiss the knight’s hand; how- 
ever, he who was in everything the most gallant and 
courteous of all knights, would by no means admit of 
such submission; but having gently raised her up, he 
embraced her with an awful grace and civility, and then 
called to Sancho for his arms. Sancho went immedi- 
ately, and having fetched them from a tree, where they 
hung like trophies, armed his master ina moment. And 
now the champion being completely accoutred, “Come 
on,” said he, “let us go and vindicate the rights of this 
dispossessed princess.” The barber was all this while 
upon his knees, and had enough to do to keep himself 
from laughing, and his beard from falling, which, if it: 
had dropped off, as it threatened, would have betrayed 
his face and their whole plot at once. But being re- 
lieved by Don Quixote’s haste to put on his armor, he 
rose up, and taking the princess by the hand, they both 
together set her upon her mule. Then the knight 
mounted his Rozinante, and the barber got on his beast. 
Only poor Sancho was forced to foot it, which made 
him fetch many heavy sighs for the loss of his dear 
Dapple. However, he bore his crosses patiently, see- 
ing his master in so fair a way of being next door to an 
emperors’ for he did not question but. he would marry 
that princess, and so be at least King of Micomicon. 
But yet it grieved him, to think his master’s dominions 
were to be in the land of the negroes, and that, conse- 
quently, the people, over whom he was to be | governor, 
were all to be black. But he presently bethought him- 
self of a good remedy for that. “What care I,” quoth 
he, “though they be blacks? bestof all; itis but load- 
me a ship with them, and having them into Spain, where 

shall find chapmen enow to take them off my hands, 
and pay me ready money for them; and so I'll raise a 
good round sum, and buy me a title or an office to live 
upon frank and easy all the days of my life. Hang him 
that has no shifts, say I; it is a sorry goose that will 
not baste itself. Why, what if am not so book- 
learned as other folks, sure I have a head-piece good 
enough to know how to sell thirty or ten thousand 
slaves in the turn of a hand. Let them even go hig- 
gledy-piggledy, little and great. Let them be never so 
black, I will turn them into white and yellow boys; sE 
think I know how to lick my own fingers.” ll aes 

Big with these imaginations, Sancho trudged along, 
so pleased and light-hearted that he forgot his pain of 
travelling a-foot. Curdenio and the curate had, beheld 
the pleasant scene through the bushes, and were at a 
loss what they should do to join companies. But the 
curate, who had a contriving head, at last bethought 
himself of an expedient; and pulling our a pair of scis- 
sors, which he used to carry in his pocket, he snipped. 
off Cardenio’s beard in a trice; and having pulled off 
his black cloak and a sad-colored riding-coat which he 





had on, he equipped Cardenio with them, while he him- 





i 
i 


A, 


i 














“Now, lady,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘let me entreat your greatness to tell me which way we must go, to do you service.”—p, 141. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


self remained in his doublet and breeches; in which 
new garb Cardenio was so strangely altered that he 
would not have known himself in alooking-glass. This 
done, they made to the highway, and there stayed till 
Don Quixote and bis company were got clear of the 
rocks and bad ways, which did not permit horsemen to 
go so fast as those on foot. When they came near, the 
curate looked very earnestly upon Don Quixote, as one 
that was in a study whether he might not know him; 
and then, like one that had made a discovery, he ran 
towards the knight with open arms, crying out, “Mirror 
of chivalry, my noble countryman Don Quixote de la 
Mancha! the cream and flower of gentility ! the shelter 
and relief of the afflicted, and quintessence of knight- 
errantry ! how overjoyed am I to have found you.” At 
the same time he embraced his left leg. 

Don Quixote, admiring what adorer of his heroic worth 
this should be, looked on him earnestly; and at last 
calling him to mind, would have alighted to have paid 
him his respects, not a little amazed to meet him there. 
But the curate hindered him. “Reverend sir,” cried 
the knight, “I beseech you let me not be so rude as to 
sit on horseback, while a person of your worth and 
character is on foot.” 

“Sir,” replied the curate, “you shall by no means 
alight. Let your excellency be pleased to keep your 
saddle, since, thus mounted, you every day achieve the 
most stupendous feats of arms and adventures that were 
ever seen in our age. It will be honor enough for an 
unworthy priest like me to get up behind some of your 
company; and I will esteem it as great a happiness as 
to be mounted on Pegasus, or the Zebra, or the fleet 
mare of the famous Moor Muzaraque, who to this hour 
lies enchanted in the dreary cavern of Zulema, not far 
distant from the grand city of Compluto.” 

“Truly, good sir, I did not think of this,” answered 
Don Quixote; “but I suppose my lady the princess will 
be so kind as to command her squire to lend you his 
saddle, and to ride behind himself, if his mule be used 
to carry double.” 

“I believe it will,” cried the princess; “and my 
squire, I suppose, will not stay for my commands to 
offer his saddle, for he is too courteous and well-bred 
to suffer an ecclesiastical person to go a-foot when we 
may help him to a mule.” 

“Most certainly,” cried the barber; and with that 
dismounting, he offered the curate his saddle, which 
was accepted without much entreaty. By ill-fortune 
the mule was a hired beast, and consequently vicious; 
so, as the barber was getting up behind the curate, the 
resty jade gave two or three jerks with her hinder legs, 
that, had they met with Master Nicholas’s skull or ribs, 
he would have bequeathed his rambling after Don 
Quixote to others. However, he flung himself nimbly 
off, and was more afraid than hurt; but yet, as he fell, 
his beard dropped off, and being presently sensible of 
that accident, he could not think of any better shift 
than to clap both of his hands before his cheeks, and 
cry out that he had broke his jawbone. Don Quixote 
was amazed to see such an overgrown bush of beard lie 
on the ground without jaws, and bloodless. “Bless 





141 


me!” cried he, “what an amazing miracle is this! here 
is a beard as cleverly taken off by accident, as if a 
barber had mowed it.” 

The curate, perceiving the danger they were in of 
being discovered, hastily caught up the beard, and, 
running to the barber, who lay all the while roaring 
and complaining, he pulled his head close to his own 
breast, and then muttering certain words, which he 
said were a charm appropriated to the fastening on of 
fallen beards, he fixed it on again so handsomely, that 
the squire was presently as bearded and as well as ever 
he was before; which raised Don Quixote’s admiration, 
and made him engage the curate to teach him the charm 
at his leisure, not doubting but its virtue extended fur- 
ther than to the fastening on of beards, since it was 
impossible that such a one could be torn off without 
fetching away flesh and all; and consequently such a 
sudden cure might be beneficial to him upon occasion. 
And now, everything being set to rights, they agreed 
that the curate should ride first by himself, and then 
the other two by turns, relieving one another, some- 
times riding, sometimes walking, till they came to their 
inn, which was about two leagues off. So Don Quixote, 
the princess, and the curate being mounted, and Car- 
denio, the barber, and Sancho ready to move forwards 
on foot, the knight, addressing himself to the distressed 
damsel, “Now, lady,” said he, “let me entreat your 
greatness to tell me which way we must go to do you 
service.” 

Before she could answer the curate said, “Pray 
madam, is it not towards the kingdom of Micomicon ? 
I am very much mistaken if that be not the part of the 
world whither you desire to go.” The ladythaving got 
her cue, presently understood the curate, and answered 
that he was in the right. “Then,” said the curate, 
“your way lies directly through the village where I 
live, whence we have a straight road to Carthagena, 
where you may take shipping; and, if you have a fair 
wind and good weather, you may, in something less 
than nine years, reach the vast Lake Meona—I mean 
the Palus Meotis—which lies somewhat more than a 
hundred days’ journey from your kingdom.” 

“Surely, sir,” replied the lady, “you are under a mis- 
take; for it is not quite two years since I left the place; 
and besides, we have had very little fair weather all 
the while; and yet I am already got hither, and have 
so far succeeded in my designs, as to have obtained the 
sight of the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, the 
fame of whose achievements reached my ears as soon as 
I landed in Spain, and moved me to find him out, to 
throw myself under his protection, and commit the 
justice of my cause to his invincible valor.” o 

“No more, madam, I beseech you,” cried Don Quix- 
ote; “spare me the trouble of hearing myself praised, 
for I mortally hate whatever may look like adulation; 
and though your compliments may deserve a better 
name, my ears are too modest to be pleased with any 
such discourse: it is my study to deserve and to avoid 
applause. All I will venture to say is, that, whether I 
have any valor or no, I am wholly at your service, even 
at the expense of the last drop of my blood; and there- 


























« Towards the kingdom of Micomicon.”—p. 141. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


fore, waiving all these matters till a fit opportunity, I 
would gladly know of this reverend clergyman what 
brought him hither, unattended by any of his servants, 
alone and so slenderly clothed; for I must confess I am 
not a little surprised to meet him in this condition.” 
“To tell you the reason in a few words,” answered 
the curate, “you must know that Master Nicholas, our 
friend and barber, went with me to Seville, to receive 
some money which a relation of mine sent me from the 
Indies, where he has been settled these many years. 
Neither was it a small sum, for it was no less than 
seventy thousand pieces of eight, and all of due weight, 
which is no common thing, you may well judge; but 
upon the road hereabouts we met four highwaymen, 
that robbed us of all we had, even to our very beards, 
so that the poor barber was forced to get him a 
chin-periwig. And for that young gentleman whom 
you see there,” continued he, pointing to Cardenio, 
“after they had stripped him to his shirt, they trans- 
figured him as you see. Now, everybody hereabouts 
says that those who robbed us were certainly a pack of 
rogues condemned to the galleys, who, as they were 
going to punishment, were rescued by a single man, 
not far from this place, and that with so much courage, 





143 


that in spite of the king’s officer and his guards, he alone 
set them all at liberty. Certainly this man was either 
mad or as great a rogue as any of them; for would any 
one that had a grain of sense or honesty have let loose 
a company of wolves among sheep, foxes among inno- 
cent poultry, and wasps among the honey-pots? He 
has hindered public justice from taking its course, 
broke his allegiance to his lawful sovereign, disabled 
the strength of his galleys, rebelled against him, op- 
posed his officers in contempt of the law, and alarmed 
the holy brotherhood, that had lain quiet so long; nay, 
what is yet worse, he has endangered his life upon 
earth and his salvation hereafter.” 

Sancho had given the curate an account of the adven- 
ture of the galley-slaves, and this made him lay it on 
thick in the relation, to try how Don Quixote would bear 
it! The knight changed color at every word, not daring 
to confess he was the pious knight-errant who had 
delivered those worthy gentlemen out of bondage. 

“These,” said the curate, by way of conclusion, “were 
the men that reduced us to this condition; and may 
Heaven in mercy forgive him who freed them from the 
punishment they so well deserved?” 











CHAPTER XXIX. ¡NS 


THE PLEASANT STRATAGEMS USED TO FREE THE ENAMOURED KNIGHT FROM THE RIGOROUS PENANCE 


WHICH HE HAD UNDERTAKEN. 


SOARCE had the curate made an end, when Sancho, 
addressing himself to him, “Faith and truth,” quoth 
he, “Master Curate, he that did that rare job was my 
master his own self, and that not for want of fair warn- 
ing; for I bid him have a care what he did, and told him, 
over and over, it would be a grevions sin to put such a 
gang of wicked wretches out of durance, and that they 
all went to the galleys for their roguery.” 


“You buffle-headed clown,” cried Don Quixote; “is it 


for a knight-errant, when he meets with people laden 
with chains, and under oppression, to examine whether 
they are in those circumstances for their crimes, or only 
through misfortune? We are only to relieve the afflict- 
ed, to look on their distress, and not on their crimes. 
I met a company of poor wretches, who went along 
sorrowful, dejected, and linked together like the beads 
of arosary; thereupon I did what my conscience and 
my profession obliged me to do. And what has any 
man to say to this? If any one dares say otherwise, 
saving this reverend clergyman’s presence and the holy 
character he bears, I say, he knows little of knight- 
errantry, and lies like a base-born villian; and this I 
will make him know more effectually, with the convinc- 
jing edge of my sword!” : 

This said with a grim look, he fixed himself in his 


stirrups, and pulled his helm over his brows; for the 
basin, which he took to be Mambrino’s helmet, hung at 
his saddle-bow, in order to have the damage repaired 
which it had received from the galley-slaves, There- 
upon Dorothea, by this time well acquainted with his 
temper, seeing him in such a passion, and that every- 
body, except Sancho Panza, made a jest of him, re- 
solved, with her native sprightliness and address, to 
carry on the humor. 

“T beseech you, sir,” cried she, “remember the pro- 
mise you have made me, and that you cannot engage in 
any adventure whatsoever till you have performed that 
we are going about. Therefore, pray assuage your 
anger ; for had Master Curate known the galley- 
slaves were rescued by your invincible arm, I am sure 
he would rather have stitched up his lips or bit off his 
tongue, than have spoken aword that should make him 
incur your displeasure.” : 

“Nay, I assure you,” cried the curate, “I would 
sooner have twitched off one of my mustachoes into 
the bargain.” 

“T am satisfied, madam,” cried Don Quixote, “and 
for your sake the flame of my just indignation is 
quenched; nor will I be induced to engage in any quar- 





rel, till I have fulfilled my promise to your highness. 


144 


Only, in recompense of my good intentions, I beg you 
will give us the story of your misfortunes, if this will 
not be too great a trouble to you; and let me know 
who, and what, and how many are the persons of whom 
I must have due and full satisfaction on your behalf.” 

“T am very willing to do it,” replied Dorothea; “but 
yet I fear a story like mine, consisting wholly of afflic- 
tions and disasters, will prove but a tedious entertain- 
ment.” 

“Never fear that, madam,” cried Don Quixote. 

“Since, then, it must be so,” said Dorothea, “be 
pleased to lend me your attention.” 

With that Cardenio and the barber gathered up to 
her, to hear what kind of a story she had provided so 
soon; Sancho also hung his ears upon her side-saddle, 
being no less deceived in her than his master; and the 
lady having seated herself well on her mule, after 
coughing once or twice, and other preparations, very 
gracefully began her story. 

“First, gentlemen,” said she, “you must know my 
name is”—here she stopped short, and could not call to 
mind the name the curate had given her; whereupon, 
finding her at a non-plus, he made haste to help her 
out. 

“Tt is not at all strange,” said he, “madam, that you 
should be so discomposed by your disasters, as to stum- 
ble at the very beginning of the account you are going 
to give of them; extreme affliction often distracts the 
mind to that degree, and so deprives us of memory, 
that sometimes we for a while can scarce think on our 
very names; no wonder, then, that the Princesss Mi- 
comicona, lawful heiress to the vast kingdom of Micom- 
icon, disordered with so many misfortunes, and per- 
plexed with so many various thoughts for the recovery 
of her crown, should have her imagination and memory 
so encumbered; but I hope you will now recollect your- 
self, and be able to proceed.” 

“T hope so, too,” said the lady, “and I will try to go 
through with my story, without any further hesitation. 
Know then, gentlemen, that the king, my father, 
who was called Tinacrio, the Sage, having great skill 
in the magic art, understood, by his profound knowledge 
in that science, that Queen Xaramilla, my mother, 
should die before him, that he himself should not sur- 
vive her long, and I should be left an orphan. But he 
often said that this did not so much trouble him as the 
foresight he had, by his speculations, of my being 
threatened with great misfortunes, which would be oc- 
casioned by a certain giant, lord of a great island near 
the confines of my kingdom; his name Pandatilando, 
surnamed of the Gloomy Sight; because, though his 
eye-balls are seated in their due place, yet he affects to 
squint and look askew, on purpose to fright those on 
whom he stares. My father, I say, knew that this giant, 
hearing of his death, would one day invade my king- 
dom with a powerful army, and drive me out of my ter- 
ritories, without leaving me so much as the least village 
for a retreat; though he knew withal that I might avoid 
that extremity, if I would but consent to marry him; 
but as he found out by his art, he had reason to think I 
never would incline to such a match. And, indeed, I 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


never had any thoughts of marrying this giant, nor 
really any other giant in the world, how immeasurably 
great and mighty soever he were. My father, therefore, 
charged me patiently to bear my misfortunes, and aban- 
don my kingdom to Pandafilando for a time, without 
offering to keep him out by force of arms, since this 
would be the best means to prevent my own death and 
the ruin of my subjects, considering the impossibility 
of withstanding the immense force of the giant. But 
withal, he ordered me to direct my course towards 
Spain, where I should be sure to meet with a powerful 
champion, in the person of a knight-errant, whose fame 
should at that time be spread over all the kingdom; 
and his name, my father said, should be, if I forget not, 
Don Azote, or Don Gigote.” 

“An’ it please you, forsooth,” quoth Sancho, “you 
would say Don Quixote, otherwise called the Knight 
of the Woful Figure.” 

“You are right,” answered Dorothea; “and my father 
also described him, and said he should be a tall, thin- 
faced man, and that on his right side, under the left 
shoulder, or somewhere thereabouts, he should have a 
tawny mole, overgrown with a tuft of hair, not much 
unlike that of a horse’s mane.” 

With that Don Quixote calling for his squire to come 
to him, “Here,” said he, “Sancho, help me off with my 
clothes, for T am resolved to see whether I be the knight 
of whom the necromantic king has prophesied.” 

“Pray, sir, why would you pull off your clothes?” 
eried Dorothea. 

“To see whether I have such a mole about me as your 
father mentioned,” replied the knight. 

“Your worship need not strip to know that,” quoth 
Sancho; “for, to my knowledge, you have just such a 
mark as my lady says, on the small of your back, which 
betokens you to be a strong-bodied man.” 

“That's enough,” said Dorothea; “friends may be- 
lieve one another without such a strict examination; 
and whether it be on the shoulder or on the back-bone, 
it is not very material. In short, I find my father aimed 
right in all his predictions, and so do I in recommend- 
ing myself to Don Quixote, whose stature and appear- 
ance so well agree with my father’s description, and 
whose renown is so far spread, not only in Spain, but 
over all La Mancha, that I had no sooner landed at 
Ossuna, but the fame of his prowess reached my ears; 
so that I was satisfied in myself he was the person in 
quest of whom I came.” 

“But pray, madam,” eried Don Quixote, “how did 
you do to land at Ossuna, since itis no sea-port town?” 

“Doubtless, sir,” said the curate, before Dorothea 
could answer for herself, “the princess would say, that 
after she landed at Malaga, the first place where she 
heard of your feats of arms was Ossuna.” 

“That is what I would have said,” replied Dorothea. 

“It is easily understood,” said the curate; “then 
pray let your majesty be pleased to go on with your 
story.” 

“T have nothing more to add,” answered Dorothea, 
“but that Fortune has at last so far favored me, as to 
make me find the noble Don Quixote, by whose valor I 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


look upon myself as already restored to the throne of 
my ancestors; since he has so courteously and magnan- 

Gmously vouchsafed to grant me the boon I begged, to 
go with me wheresoever 1 should guide him. For all 
I have to do is to show him this Pandafilando of the 
Gloomy Sight, that he may slay him, and restore that 
to me of which he has so unjustly deprived me. Forall 
this will certainly be done with the greatest ease in the 
world, since it was foretold by Tinacrio the Sage, my 
good and royal father, who has also left a prediction 
written in either Chaldean or Greek characters (for 1 
cannot read them), which denotes that after the knight 
of the prophecy has cut offthe giant's head, and re- 
stored me to the possesion of my kingdom, if he should 
ask me to marry him, J should by no means refuse him, 
but instantly put him in possession of my person and 
kingdom.” 

“Well, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, hearing 
this, and turning to the squire, “what thinkest thou 
now? Dost thou not hear how matters go? Did not I 
tell thee as much before? See now, whether we have 
not a kingdom which we may command, and a queen 
whom we may espouse.” 

“ Ah! marry you have,” replied Sancho; and to show 
his joy, he cut a couple of capers in the air, and turn- 
ing to Dorothea, laid hold on her mule by the bridle, 
and flinging himself down on his knees, begged she 
would be graciously pleased to let him kiss her hand, in 
token of his owning her for his sovereign lady. 

There was none of the beholders but was ready for 
laughter, having a sight of the master’s madness, and 
the servant’s simplicity. In short, Dorothea was obliged 
to comply with his entreaties, and promised to make 
him a grandee, when Fortune should favor her with the 
recovery of her lost kingdom. Whereupon Sancho 
gave her his thanks in such a manner as obliged the 
company to a fresh laughter. 

Then going on with her relation “Gentlemen,” said 
she, “this is my history; and among all my misrortunes, 
this only has escaped a recital, that not one of the 
numerous attendants I brought from my kingdom has 
survived the ruins of my fortune, but this good squire 
with the long beard; the rest ended their days in a great 
storm, which dashed our ship to pieces in the very 
sight of the harbor; and he and I had been sharers in 
their destiny, had we not laid hold of two planks, by 
which assistance we were driven to land, in a manner 
altogether miraculous, and agreeable to the whole series 
of my life, which seems, indeed, but one continued 
miracle. And if in any part of my relation I have been 
tedious, and not so exact as I should have been, you 
must impute it to what Master Curate observed to you, 
in the beginning of my story, that continual troubles 
oppress the senses and weaken the memory.” 

“Those pains and afflictions, be they ever so intense 
and difficult,” said Don Quixote, “shall never deter 
me; most virtuous and high-born lady, from adventuring 
for your service, and enduring whatever I shall suffer 
in it: and therefore I again ratify the assurances I have 
given you, and swear that I will bear you company, 
though to the end of the world, in search of this im- 





145 


placable enemy of yours, till I shall find him; whose 
insulting head, by the help of Heaven, and my own in- 
vincible arm, I am resolved to cut off, with the edge of 
this (I will not say good) sword; a curse on Gines de 
Passamonte, who took away my own!” This he spoke 
murmuring to himself, and then prosecuted his discourse 
in this manner: “And after I have divided it from the 
body, and left you quietly possessed of yout throne, it 
shall be left at your own choice to dispose of your per- 
son, a8 you shall think convenient: for as long as I 
shall have my memory full of her image, my will capti- 
vated, and my understanding wholly subjected to her, 
whom I now forbear to name, it is impossible I should 
in the least deviate from the affection I bear to her, or 
be induced to think of marrying, though it were a 
Phenix.” 

The close of Don Quixote’s speech, which related to 
his not marrying, touched Sancho so to the quick,. 
that he could not forbear bawling out his resentments. 
“Body o’ me, Sir Don Quixote,” cried he, “you are. 
certainly ont of your wits, or how is it possible you 
should stick at striking a bargain with so great alady as 
this? Do you think, sir, Fortune will put such dainty 
bits in your way at every corner? Ismy Lady Dulcinea 
handsomer, do you think? No, marry, she is not half 
so handsome: I could almost say she is not worthy to 
tie this lady’s shoe-latches. I am likely, indeed, to get 
the earldom I have fed myself with hopes of, if you 
spend your time in fishing for mushrooms in the bot- 
tom of the sea. Marry, marry out of hand: Lay hold 
of the kingdom which is ready to leap into your hands; 
and as soon as you are a king, e’en make me a marquis, 
or a peer of the land; and afterwards let things go at 
sixes and sevens; it will be all a case to Sancho.” 

Don Quixote, quite divested of all patience at the 
words which were spoken against his Lady Dulcinea, 
could bear with him no longer; and therefore, without 
so much as a word to give him notice of his displeasure, 
gave him two such blows with bis lance that poor Sancho 
measured his length on the ground, and had certainly 
there breathed his last had not the knight desisted, 
through the persuasions of Dorothea.  “Thinkest 
thou,” said he, after a considerable pause, “most 
infamous peasant, that I shall always have leisure 
and disposition to put up with thee; and that thy 
whole business shall be to study new offences, and 
mine to give thee new pardons? Dost thou not know, 
excommunicated traitor (for certainly excommunication 
is the least punishment can fall upon thee, after such 
profanation of the peerless Dulcinea’s name), and art 
thou not assured, vile slave and ignominious vagabond, 
that I should not have strength sufficient to kill a flea, 
did not she give strength to my nerves, and infuse 
vigor into my sinews? Speak, thou villian with the 
viper’s tongue; who dost thou imagine has restored the 
queen to her kingdom, cut off the head of a giant, and 
made thee a marquis (for I countall this as done already), 
but the power of Dulcinea, who makes use of my arm 
as the instrument of her act in me? She fights and 
overcomes in me, and I live and breathe in her, holding 
life and being from her. Thou base-born wretch! art 


146 


thou not possessed of the utmost ingratitude, thou who 
seest thyself exalted from the very dregs of the earth 
to nobility and honor, and yet dost repay so great a 
benefit with obloquies against the person of thy bene- 
factress ?” 

Sancho was not so mightily hurt but he could bear 

“what his master said well enough; wherefore, getting 
upon his legs in all baste, he ran for shelter behind 
Dorothea’s palfrey, and being got thither, “Hark you, 
sir,” cried he to him, “if you have no thought of marry- 
ing this sume lady, it is a clear case that the kingdom 
will never be vours; and if it be not, what good can you 
be able to do me? Then let any one judge whether 1 
have not cause to complain, Therefore, good your 
worship, marry her once for all, now we have her rained 
down, as it were, from heaven tous. As for beauty, 
do you see, I'll not meddle nor make; for, if I must say 
the truth, I like both the gentlewomen well enough in 
conscience; though now I think on it, I have never seen 
the Lady Dulcinea.” 

“How! not seen her, blasphemous traitor!” replied 
Don Quixote; “when just now thou broughtest me a 
message from her!” 

“T say,” answered Sancho, “I have not seen her so 
leisurely as to take notice of her features and good 
parts one by one; but yet, as I saw them at a blush, and 
all at once, methought I had no reason to find fault 
with them.” 

“Well, I pardon thee now,” quoth Don Quixote, “and 
thou must excuse me for what I have done to thee; for 
the first motions are not in our power.” 

“[ perceive that well enough,” said Sancho, “and 
that is the reason my first motions are always in my 
tongue; and I cannot for my life help speaking what 
comes uppermost.” 

“However, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou 
hadst best think before thou speakest; for the pitcher 
never goes so oft to the well—I need say no more.” 

“Well, what must be must be,” answered Sancho; 
“there is one above who sees all, and will one day judge 
which has most to answer for, whether I for speaking 
amiss or you for doing so.” 

“No more of this, Sancho,” said Dorothea; “but run 
and kiss your lord's hands, and beg his pardon; and, 
for the time to come, be more advised and cautious how 
you run into the praise or dispraise of any person ; but 
especially take care you do not speak ill of that lady of 
Toboso, whom I do not know, though I am ready to do 
her any service; and for your own part, trust in Heaven; 
for you shall infallibly have a lordship, which shall en- 
able you to live like a prince.” 

Sancho shrugged up his shoulders, and in a sneaking 
posture went and asked his master for his hand, which 
he held out to him with a grave countenance; and after 
the squire had kissed the back of it, the knight gave 
him his blessing, and told him he had a word or two 
with him, bidding him come nearer, that he might have 
the better convenience of speaking to him. Sancho 
did as his master commanded, and going a little from 
the company with him—“Since thy return,” said Don 
Quixote, applying himself to him, “I have neither had 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


time nor opportunity to inquire into the particulars ot 
thy embassy, and the answer thou hast brought; and 
therefore, since Fortune has now befrienlled us with 
convenience and leisure, deny me not the satisfaction 
thou mayest give me by the rehearsal of thy news.” 

“Ask what you will,” cried Sancho, “and you shall 
not want for an answer; but, good your worship, for the 
time to come, I beseech you do not be too hasty.” 

“What occasion hast thou, Sancho, to make this re- 
quest?” replied Don Quixote. 

“Reason good enough, truly,” said Sancho; “for the 
blows you gave me even now were rather given me on 
account of the quarrel which took place between your 
worship and me the other night, than for your dislike 
of anything which was spoken against my Lady Dul- 
cinea.” 

“Prythee, Sancho,” cried Don Quixote, “be careful 
of falling again into such irreverent expressions; for 
they provoke me to anger, and are highly offensive. I 
pardoned thee then for being a delinquent, but thou 
art sensible that a new offence must be attended with a 
new punishment.” 

As they were going on in such discourse as this, they 
saw at a distance a person riding up to them on an ass, 
who, as he came near enough to be distinguished, 
seemed to be w gipsy by his habit. But Sancho Panza, 
who, whenever he got sight of any asses, followed 
them with his eyes and his heart, as one whose thoughts 
were ever fixed on his own, had scarce given him half 
an eye, but he knew him to be Gines de Passamonte, 
and by the looks of the gipsy found out the visage of 
his ass; as really it was the very same which Gines had 
under bim; who, to conceal himself from the knowledge 
of the public, and have the better opportunity of 
making a good market of his beast, had clothed himself 
like a gipsy; the cant of that sort of people, as well as 
the languages of other countries, being as natural and 
familiar to him as hisown. Sancho saw him and knew 
him; and scarce had he seen and taken notice of him; 
when he cried out as loud as his tongue would permit 
him, “Ah! thou thief Genesillo, leave my goods and 
chattels behind thee: get off from the back of my own 
dear life: thou hast nothing to do with my poor beast, 
without whom I cannot enjoy a moment’s ease: away 
from my Dapple, wvay from my comfort; take to thy 
heels, thou villian; hence, thou hedge bird; leave what 
is none of thine!” 

He had no occasion to use so many words; for Gines 
dismounted as soon as he heard him speak, and taking 
to his heels, got from them, and was out of sight in 
an instant. 

Sancho ran immediately to his ass and embraced him. 
“How hast thou done,” cried he, “since I saw thee, my 
darling and treasure, my dear Dapple, the delight of 
my eyes, and my dearest companion.” 

And then he stroked and slobbered him with kisses, 
as if the beast had been a rational creature. The ass, 
for his part, was as silent as could be, and gave Sancho 
the liberty of as many kisses as he pleased, without the 
return of so much as one word to the many questions 
he had put to him. At sight of this the rest of the com- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


pany came up with him, and paid their compliments of 
congratulation to Sancho for the recovery of his ass, 
especially Don Quixote, who told him that though he 
had found his ass again, yet would not he revoke the 
warrant he. had given him for three asses; for which 
favor Sancho returned him a multitude of thanks. 

While they were travelling together and discoursing 
after this manner, the curate addressed himself to 
Dorothea, and gave her to understand that she had 
excellently discharged herself of what she had under- 
taken, as well in the management of the history itself, 
as in her brevity, and adapting her style to the particu- 
lar terms made use of in books of knight-errantry. 
She returned for answer, that she had frequently con- 
versed with such romances, but that she was ignorant 
of the situation of the provinces and the sea-ports, 
which occasioned the blunder she had made by saying 
that she had landed at Ossuna. 

“T perceived it,” replied the curate, “and therefore 
I put in what you heard, which brought matters to 
rights again. But is it not an amazing thing to see how 
ready this unfortunate gentleman is to give credit to 
these fictitious reports, enly because they have the air 
of the extravagant stories in books of knight-errantry?” 

Cardenio said that he thought this so strange a mad- 
ness, that he did not believe the wit of man, with all 
the liberty of invention and fiction, capable of hitting 
so extraordinary character. 

“The gentleman,” replied the curate, “has some 
qualities in him, even as surprising in a madman as his 
unparalleled frenzy; for, take him but off his romantic 
humor, discourse with him of any other subject, you 
will find him to handle it with a great deal of reason, 
and show himself, by his conversation, to have very clear 
and entertaining conceptions: insomuch, that if knight- 
errantry bears no relation to his discourse, there is no 
man but will esteem him for his vivacity of wit and 
strength of judgment.” 

While they were thus discoursing, Don Quixote, 
prosecuting his converse with his squire, “Sancho,” 
said he, “let us lay aside all manner of animosity; let 








147 


us forget and forgive injuries; and answer me as 
speedily as thou canst, without any remains of thy last 
displeasure, how, when, and where didst thou find my 
Lady Dulcinea? What was she doing when thou first 
paidst thy respects to her? How didst thou express 
thyself to her? What answer was she pleased to make 
thee? What countenance did she put on at the perusal 
of my letter? Who transcribed 16 fairly for thee? And 
everything else which has any relation to this affair 
without addition, lies, or flattery. On the other side, 
take care thou losest not a tittle of the whole matter by 
abbreviating it, lest thou rob me of part of that delight 
which I propose to myself from it.” 

“Sir,” answered Sancho, “if I must speak the truth, 
and nothing but the truth, nobody copied out the letter 
for me; for I carried none at all.” 

“That’s right,” cried Don Quixote, “for I found the 
pocket-book in which it was written two days after thy 
departure, which occasioned exceeding grief in me, be- 
cause I knew not what thou couldst do, when thou 
foundst thyself without the letter; and I could not but 
be induced to believe that thou wouldst have returned 
in order to take it with thee.” 

“T had certainly done so,” replied Sancho, “were it 
not for this head of mine, which kept it in remembrance 
ever since your worship read it to me, and helped me 
to say it over to a parish-clerk, who writ it out for me 
word for word so purely, that he swore, though he had 
written out many a letter of excommunication in his 
time, he never in all the days of his life had read or 
seen anything so well spoken as it was.” 

“And dost thou still retain the memory of it, my dear 
Sancho?” cried Don Quixote. 

“Not I,” quoth Sancho; “for as soon as I had given 
it her, and your turn was served, I was very willing to 
forget it. But if I remember anything, it is what was 
on the top; and it was thus: ‘ High and subterrene, I 
would say, sovereign lady;’ and at the bottom, ‘Yours 
until death, the Knight of the Woful Figure;’ and I 
put between these two things, three hundred souls and 
lives and dear eyes.” 


CHAPTER XXX, 


THE PLEASANT DIALOGUE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE CONTINUED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES. 


“ALL THIS is mighty well,” said Don Quixote; “pro- 
ceed therefore. You arrived, and how was that queen 
of beauty then employed? On my conscience, thou 
foundst her stringing of orient pearls, or embroidering 
some curious device in gold for me, her captive 
knight; was it not so, my Sancho?” 

“No, faith,” answered the squire; “I found her win- 
nowing a parcel of wheat very seriously in the back 
yard.” 

“Then,” said the Don, “you may rest assured that 
every corn of that wheat was a grain of pearl, since she 
did it the honor of touching it with her divine hand. 
Didst thou observe the quality of the wheat? was it 
not of the finest sort ?” 

“Very indifferent, I thought,” said the squire. 

“Well, this at least you must allow; it must make 
the finest whitest bread, if sifted by her white hands. 
But go on; when you delivered my letter, did she kiss 
it? Did she treasure itin her bosom, or what cere- 
mony did she use worthy of such a letter? How did 
she behave herself?” 

“Why, truly sir,” answered Sancho, “when I offered 
her the letter, she was very busy handling her sieve; 
‘and pr’ythee, honest friend,’ said she, ‘do so much as 
lay that letter down upon that sack there; I cannot 
read it till I have winnowed out what is in my hands.’ ” 

“Oh, unparalleled discretion!” cried Don Quixote; 
“she knew that a perusal required leisure, and therefore 
deferred it, for her more pleasing and private hours. 
But oh ! my squire, while she was thus employed, what 
conference passed? What did she ask about her 
knight, and what did you reply? Say all, say all, my 
dearest Sancho; let not the smallest circumstance es- 
cape the tongue; speak all that thought can frame, or 
pen describe.” 

“Her questions were easily answered, sir,” said San- 
cho, “for she asked me none at all: 1 told her, indeed, 
in what a sad pickle I had left you for her sake, naked 
to the waist; that you ate and slept like the brute 
beasts; that you would let a razor as soon touch your 
throat as your beard; that you were still blubbering 
and crying, or swearing and cursing your fortune.” 

“There you mistook,” replied Don Quixote; “I rather 
bless my fortune, and always shall, while life affords 
me breath, since I am thought to merit the esteem of so 
high a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso.” 

“There you hit it,” said Sancho; “she is a high lady 





indeed, sir, for she is taller than I am by a foot and a 
half.” 

“Why, how now, Sancho,” said the knight; “ hast 
thou measured with her?” 

“Ah! marry did I, sir,” said the squire; “for you 
must know that she desired me to lend hera hand in 
lifting a sack of wheat on an ass; so we buckled about 
it, and I came so close to her that I found she was taller 
than I am by a full span at least.” 

“Right,” answered Don Quixote; “but thou art also 
conscious that the uncommon stature of her person is 
adorned with innumerable graces and endowments of 
soul. But, Sancho, supposing the corn winnowed and 
dispatched to the mill, what did she after she had read 
my letter?” 

“Your letter, sir,” answered Sancho, “your letter was 
not read at all, sir; as for her part, she said, she could 
neither read nor write, and she would trust nobody 
else, lest they should tell tales, and so she cunningly 
tore your letter. She said that what I told her by 
word of mouth of your love and penance was enough; 
to make short now, she gave her service to you, and 
said she had rather see you than hear from you; and 
she prayed you, if ever you loved her, upon sight of 
me, forthwith to leave your madness among the bushes 
here, and come straight to Toboso (if you be at leisure), 
for she has something to say to you, and has a great de- 
sire to see you: she had liked to burst with laughing, 
when I called you the Knight of the Woful Figure. 
She told me the Biscayvan whom you mauled so was 
there, and that he was avery honest fellow; but that 
she heard no news at all of the galley-slaves.” 

“Thus far all goes well,” said Don Quixote; “but tell 
me, pray, what jewel did she present you at your de- 
parture, as a reward for the news you brought? for it 
is a enstom of ancient standing among knights and 
ladies errant, to bestow on squires. dwarfs, or damsels, 
who bring them good news of their ladies or servants, 
some precious jewel as a grateful reward of their wel- 
come tidings.” 

“Ah! sir,” said Sancho, “that was the fashion in the 
days of yore, and a very good fashion, I take it: but 
all the jewels Sancho got was a luncheon of bread and | 
a piece of cheese, which she handed to me over the wall 
when I was taking my leave; by the same token (I hope 
there’s no ill luck in it), the cheese was made of sheep’s 
milk.” 

148 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“It is strange,” said Don Quixote, “for she is liberal, 
even to profuseness; and if she presented thee not a 
jewel, she had certainly none about her at that time; 
but what is deferred is not lost, ‘sleeves are good after 
Laster.’ I shall see her, and matters shall be accommo- 
dated. Knowest thou, Sancho, what raises my aston- 
ishment? it is thy sudden return; for, proportioning 
thy short absence to the length of thy journey, Toboso 
being, at least, thirty leagues distant, thou must have 
ridden on the wing. Certainly the sagacious enchanter, 
who is my guardian and friend (for doubtless such a one 
there is and ought to be, or I should not be a true 
knight-errant), e rtainly, I say, that wise magician has 
furthered thee on thy journey unawares; for there are 
sages of such incredible power, as to take up a knight- 
errant sleeping in his bed, and waken him next morning 
a thousand leagues from the place where he fell asleep. 
By this power knights-errant succor one another in 
their most dangerous moments when and where they 
please. For instance, suppose me fighting in the moun- 
tains of Armenia, with some fearful monster, some 
dreadful sprite, or fierce gigantic knight, where per- 
haps I am like to be worsted (such a thing may happen), 
when just in the very crisis of my fate, when I least 
expect it, I behold on the top of a flying cloud, or riding 
in a flaming chariot, another knight, my friend, who, 
but a minute before, was in England, perhaps—he sus- 
tains me, delivers me from death, and returns that 
night to his own lodging, where he sups with a very 
good appetite after his journey, having rid you two or 
three thousand leagues that day; and all this performed 
by the industry and wisdom of these knowing magicians, 
whose only business and charge is glorious knight- 
errantry. Some such expeditious power, I believe, 
Sancho, though hidden from you, has promoted so great 
a dispatch in your late journey.” 

“T believe, indeed,” answered Sancho, “that there was 
witchcraft in the case, for Rozinante went without spur 
all the way, and was as mettlesome as though he had 
been a gipsy’s ass, with quicksilver in his ears.” 

“Quicksilver! you coxcomb,” said the knight, “aye, 
and a troop of devils besides; and they are the best 
horse-coursers in nature, you must know, for they must 
needs go whom the devil drives; but no more of that. 
What is thy advice as to my lady’s commands to visit 
her? I know her power should regulate my will. But 
then my honor, Sancho, my solemn promise has engaged 
me to the princess’s service that comes with us, and 
the law of arms confines me to my word. Love draws 
me one, and glory t'other*way: on this side Dulcinea’s 
strict commands, on the other my promised faith; but 
— it isresolved. I'll travel night and day, cut off 
this giant’s head, and, having settled the princess in 
her dominions, will presently return to see that sun 
which enlightens my senses. She will easily conde- 
scend to excuse my absence, when I convince her it 
was for fame and glory; since the past, present, and 
future success of my victorious arms depends wholly 
on the gracious influences of her favor, and the honor 
of being her knight.” 

“Oh, sad! oh, sad!” said Sancho; “I doubt your wor- 





149 


ship’s head is much the worse for wearing. Are you 
mad, sir, to take so long a voyage for nothing? why 
don't you catch at this preferment that now offers, 
where a fine kingdom is the portion, twenty thousand 
leagues round, they say; nay, bigger than Portugal 
and Castile both together? Good your worship, hold 
your tongue, 1 wonder you are not ashamed. Take 
a fool's counsel for once, marry her by the first priest 
you meet: here is our own curate can do the job most 
curiously. Come, master, I have hair enough in my 
beard to make a counsellor, and my advice is as fit for 
you as your shoe for your foot; ‘a bird in hand is worth 
two in the bush,’ and 


‘ He that will not when he may, 
When he would, he ehal) have nay.’" 


“Thou advisest me thus,” answered Don Quixote, 
“that I may be able to promote thee according to my 
promise; but that I can do without marrying this lady; 
for I shall make this the condition of entering into 
battle, that after my victory, without marrying the 
princess, she shall leave part of her kingdom at my 
disposal, to gratify whom I please; and who can claim 
any such gratuity but thyself?” 

“That’s plain,” answered Sancho; “but pray, sir, 
take care that you reserve some part near the sea-side 
for me; that if the air does not agree with me, I may 
transport my black subjects, make my profit of them, 
and go live somewhere else; so that I would have you 
resolve upon it presently, leave the Lady Dulcinea for 
the present, and go kill this same giant, and make an 
end of that business first; for I dare swear it will yield 
you a good market.” 

“I am fixed in thy opinion,” said Don Quixote; “but 
I admonish thee not to whisper to any person the least 
hint of our conference; for since Dulcinea is so cautious 
and secret, it is proper that I and mine should follow 
her example.” 

“Why, then,” said Sancho, “should you send every- 
body you overcome packing to Madam Dulcinea, to fall 
down before her, and tell her they came from you to pay 
their obedience, when this tells all the world that she 
is your mistress, as much as if they had it under your 
own hand?” 

“How dull of apprehensien and stupid thou art!” 
said the knight; “hast thou not sense to find that all 
this redounds to her greater glory? Know that, in pro- 
ceedings of chivalry, a lady’s honor is calculated from 
the number of her servants, whose services must not 
tend to any reward but the favor of her acceptance and 
the pure honor of performing them for her sake, and 
being called her servants.” - 

“TI have heard our curate,” answered Sancho, “preach 
up this doctrine of loving for love’s sake, and that we 
ought to love our Maker so for his own sake, without 
either hope of good or fear of pain.” 

“Thou art an unaccountable fellow,” cried Don 
Quixote; “thou talkest sometimes with so much sense, 
that one would imagine thee to be something of a 


scholar.” 
“A scholar, sir!” answered Sancho; “lack-a.day, I do 


not know, as I am an honest man, a letter in the book.” 


150 


Master Nicholas, seeing them so deep in discourse, 
called to them to stop and drink at a little fountain by 
the road. Don Quixote halted, and Sancho was very 
glad of the interruption, his stuck of lies being almost 
spent, and he stood in danger besides of being trapped 
in bis words, for he had never seen Dulcinea, though 
he knew she lived at Toboso. Cardenio by this had 
changed his clothes tor those Dorothea wore when they 
found her in the mountains; and though they made but 
an ordinary figure, they looked much better than those 
he had put off. They all stopped at the fountain, and 
fell aboard the curate’s provision, which was buta 
snap umong so many, for they were all very hungry. 
While they sat refreshing themselves, a young lad, 
travelling that way, observed them, and, looking ear- 
nestly on the whole company, ran suddenly aud fell 
down before Don Quixote, aldressing him in a very 
doleful maner. “Alas! good sir,” said he; don’t you 
know me? don’t youremember poor Andrew, whom you 
caused to be untied from the tree?” 

With that the knight knew him; and, raising him up, 
turned to the company: “That you may all know,” 
said he, “of how great importance, to the redressing of 
injuries, punishing vice, and the universal benefit of 
mankind, the business of knight-errantry may be, you 
must understand that, riding through a desert some 
days ago, I heard certain lamentable shrieks and out- 
cries. Prompted by the misery of the afflicted, and 
borne away by the zeal of my profession, 1 followed 
the voice, and found this boy, whom you all see, bound 
to a great oak: Iam glad he is present, because he can 
attest the truth of my relation. I found him, as I told 
you, bound to an oak; naked from the waist upwards, 
and a eruel peasant scourging his back unmercifully 
with the reins of a bridle. I presently demanded the 
cause of his severe chastisement. The rude fellow 
answered, that he had liberty to punish his own ser- 
vant, whom he thus used for some faults that argued 
him more knave than fool. ‘Good sir,’ said the boy, 
‘he can lay nothing to my charge, but demanding my 
wages.’ His master made some reply, which I would 
not allow as a just excuse, and-ordered him immediate- 
ly to unbind the youth, and took his oath that he would 
take him home, and pay him all his wages upon the 
nail, in good and lawful coin. Is not this literally true, 
Andrew ? did you not mark, besides, with what face of 
authority I commanded, and with how much humility 
he promised to obey all I imposed, commanded, and 
desired? Answer me, boy; and tell boldly all that 
passed to this worthy company, that it may appear how 
necessary the vocation of knights-errant is up and 
down the high roads.” 

“All you have said is true enough,” answered 
Andrew; “but the business did not end after that 
manner you and I hoped it would.” 

“How!” said the knight; “has not the peasant paid 
you?” 

“Ay, he has paid me with a vengence,” said the boy; 
“for no sooner was your back turned, but he tied me 
again to the same tree, and lashed me so cursedly, that 
I looked like St. Bartholomew flayed alive; and at every 


ó 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


blow he had some joke or another to laugh at you; axa 
had he not laid me on as he did, I faney I could not 
have helped laughing myself. At last he left me in so 
pitiful a case, that I was forced to crawl to an hospital, 
where I have Jain ever since to get cured, so wofully 
the tyrant had lashed me. And now, I may thank you 
for this, for had you rid on your journey, and neither 
meddled nor made, seeing nobody sent for yon, and it 
was none of your business, my master, perhaps, had 
been satisfied with giving me ten or twenty lashes, and 
after that would have paid me what he owed me; but 
you was so huffy, and called him so many names, that 
it made him mad, and so he vented all his spite against 
you upon my poor back, as soon as yours was turned, 
insomuch that I fear I shall never be mine own man 
again.” 

“The miscarriage,” answered the knight, “is only 
chargeable on my departure before 1 saw my orders ex- 
ecuted; for 1 might by experience have remembered 
that the word of a peasant is regulated not by honor, 
but by profit. But you remember, Andrew, how 1 
swore, if he disobeyed, that I would return and seek 
him through the universe, and find him, though hid in 
a whale’s belly.” 

“Ah! sir,” answered Andrew, “but that’s no cure for 
my poor shoulders.” 

“You shall be redressed,” answered the knight, 
starting fiercely up, and commanding Sancho immedi- 
ately to bridle Rozinante, who was baiting as fast as 
the rest of the company. Dorothea asked what he 
intended to do: he answered, that he intended to find 
out the villian, and punish him severely for his crimes, 
then force him to pay Andrew his wages to the last 
maravedi, in spite of all the peasants in the universe. 
She then desired him to remember his engagements to 
her, which withheld him from any new achievement 
till that was finished; that he must therefore sus- 
pend his resentments till his return from her king- 
dom. 

“Tt is but just and reasonable,” said the knight; “and 
therefore Andrew must wait with patience my return: 
but when 1 do return, I do hereby ratify my former 
oath and promise, never to rest till he be fully satisfied 
and paid.” 

“T dare not trust to that,” answered Andrew; “but 
if you will bestow on me as much money as will bear 
my charges to Seville, I shall thank your worship more 
than for all the revenge you tell me of. Give me a snap 
to eat, and a bit in my pocket, and so Heaven be with 
you and all other knights-errant, and may they prove 
as arrant fools in their own business as they have been 
in mine.” 

Sancho took a crust of bread and a slice of cheese, 
and reaching it to Andrew, “There, friend,” said he, 
“there is something for thee; on my word, we have all 
of us a Share of thy mischance.” 

“What share?” said Andrew. 

“Why, the mischance of parting with this bread and 
cheese to thee; for my head to a halfpenny, I may live 
to want it; for thou must know, friend of mine, that 





we, the squires of knights-errant, often pick our teeth 























y.—p. 154, 


force defended the passage of a bridge against a great army 


““« How Don Diego Garcia with his single 


152 


without a dinuer,and are subject to many other things, 
which are better felt than told.” 

Andrew snatched at the provender, and seeing no 
likelihood of any more, he made his leg and marched 
off. But, looking over his shoulder at Don Quixote, 
“Hark ye, you Sir Knight-errant,” cried he, “if ever 
you meet me again in your travels, which I hope you 
never shall, though I were torn in pieces, do not trouble 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


me with your help, but mind your own business; and 
so fare you well, with a curse upon you and all the 
knights-errant that ever were born.” 

The knight thought to chastise him, but the lad was 
tuo nimble for any there, and his heels carried him off, 
leaving Don Quixote highly incensed at his story, 
which moved the company to hold their laughter, lest 
they should raise his anger to a dangerous height. 





CHAPTER XXXI. 


WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE AND HIS COMPANY AT THE INN. 


WHEN they had eaten plentifully, they left that 
place und travelled all that day and the next, without 
meeting anything worth notice, till they came to the 
inn, which was so frightful a sight to poor Sancho, that 
he would willingly not have gone in, but could by no 
means avoid it. The innkeeper, the hostess, her daugh- 
ter, and Maritornes met Don Quixote and his squire 
with a very hearty welcome. The knight received 
them with a face of gravity and approbation, bidding 
them prepare him a better bed than their last enter- 
tainment afforded him. 

“Sir,” said the hostess, “pay us better than you did 
then, and you shall have a bed for a prince.” 

And upon the knight's promise that he would, she 
promised him a tolerable bed, in the large room where 
he lay before. He presently undressed, and, being 
heartily crazed in body as well as in mind, he went to 
hed. He was scarcely got to his chamber, when the 
hostess tlew suddenly at the barber, and, catching him 
by the beard, “On my life,” said she, “you shall use my 
tail no longer fora beard. Pray, sir, give me my tail; 
my husband wants it, and my tail will T have, sir.” 

The barber held tug with her till the curate advised 
him to return it, telling him that he might now undis- 
guise himself, and tell Don Quixote that after the gal- 
ley-slaves had pillaged him, he fled to that inn; and if 
he should ask for the princess’s squire, he should pre- 
tend that he was dispatched to her kingdom before her, 
to give her subjects an account of her arrival, and of 
the power she brought to free them all from slavery. 
The barber, thus schooled, gave the hostess her tail, 
with the other trinkets which he had borrowed, to de- 
coy Don Quixote out of the desert. Dorothea's beauty 
and Cardenio’s handsome shape surprised everybody. 
The curate bespoke supper, and the host, being pretty 
sure of his reckoning, soon got them a tolerable enter- 
tainment. They would not disturb the knight, who 
slept very soundly, for his distemper wanted rest more 
than meat; but they diverted themselves with the 
hostess's account of his encounter with the carriers, 
and of Sancho’s being tossed ina blanket. Don Quix- 
ote's unaccountable madness was the principal subject 





of their discourse; upon which the curate insisting, 
and arguing it to proceed from his reading romances, 
the innkeeper took him up. 

“Sir,” said he, “you cannot make me of your opin- 
ion; for, in my mind, it is the pleasantest reading that 
ever was. I have now in the house two or three books 
of that kind, and some other pieces, that have really 
kept me, and many others, alive. In harvest time, a 
great many of the reapers come to drink here in the 
heat of the day, and he that can read best among us 
takes up one of these books, and all the rest of us, 
sometimes thirty or more, sit round about him, and 
listen with such pleasure, that we think neither of sor- 
row nor care. As for my own part, when I hear the 
mighty blows and dreadful battles of those knights- 
errant, I have half a mind to be one myself, and am 
raised to such a life and briskiness that I could frighten 
away old age. I could sit and hear them from morning 
till night.” 

“TI wish you would husband,” said the hostess; “for 
then we should have some rest; for at all other times 
you are so out of humor, and so snappish, that we lead 
a dreadful life with you.” 

“That is true enough,” said Maritornes; “and, for 
my part, I think there are mighty pretty stories in 
those books, which I would often forego my dinner and 
supper to hear.” 

“And what think you of this matter, young miss? ” 
said the curate to the innkeeper’s daughter. 

“ Alack-a-day, sir!” said she; “1 do not understand 
those things, and yet I love to hear them; but I do not 
like that frightful ugly fighting that so pleases my 
father. Indeed, the sad lamentations of the poor 
knights, for the loss of their mistresses, sometimes 
makes me cry like anything.” 

“TI suppose, then, young gentlewoman,” said Doro- 
thea, “you will be tender-hearted, and will never let a 
lover die for you.” 

“Tdo not know what may happen as to that,” said 
the girl; “but this I know, that I will never give any- 
body reason to call me tigress and lioness, and I do not 
know how many other ugly names, as those ladies are 

















“How Felixmarte cut off five giants by the middle.”—p. 151. 


154 


often called ; and I think they deserve yet worse, so 
they do; for they can never have soul nor conscience, 
to let such fine gentlemen die or run mad for the sight 
of them. What signifies all their fiddling and coyness ? 
If they are civil women, why do not they marry them? 
for that is all their knights would be at.” 

“Hold your prating, mistress,” said the hostess; “how 
came you to know all this? It is not for such as you to 
talk of these matters.” 

“The gentleman only asked me a question,” said she, 
“and it would be uncivil not to answer him.” 

“Well,” said the curate, “do me the favor, good land- 
lord, to bring out these books, that I may have a sight 
of them.” 

“With all my heart,” said the innkeeper; and with 
that, stepping to his chamber, he opened a little port- 
manteau that shut with a chain, and took out three 
large volumes, with a parcel of manuscripts, in a fair 
" legible letter. The title of the first was “Don Ciron- 
gilio of Thrace;” the second, “Felixmarte of Hircania:” 
and the third was the “History of the great Captain 
Gonzalo Hernandes de Corduba,” and the “Life of 
Diego Garcia de Paredes,” bound together. 

The curate, reading the titles, turned to the barber, 
and told him they wanted now Don Quixote’s house- 
keeper and his niece. 

“T shall do as well with these books,” said the barber, 
“for I can find the way to the back-yard or to the chim- 
ney: there is a good fire that will do their business.” 

“Business!” said the innkeeper: “I hope you would 
not burn my books?” 

“Only two of them,” said the curate; “this same Don 
Cirongilio and his friend Felixmarte.” 

“I hope, sir,” said the host, “they are neither heretics 
nor phlegmatics.” ; 

“Schismatics, you mean,” said the barber. 

“T mean so,” said the innkeeper; “andif you must 
burn any, let it be this of ‘Gonzalo Hernandes,’ and 
‘Diego Garcia;’ for you should sooner burn one of my 
children than the others.” 

“These books, honest friend,” said the curate, “that 
you appear so concerned for are senseless rhapsodies 
of falsehood and folly; and this which you so despise 
is a true history, and contains a true account of two 
celebrated men. The first, by his bravery and courage, 
purchased immortal fame, and the name of the Great 
General by the universal consent of mankind; the 
other, Diego Garcia de Peredes, was of noble extrac- 
tion, and born in Truxillo, a town of Estremadura, and 
was a man of singular courage, aud of such mighty 
strength, that with one of his hands he could stop a 
mill-wheel in its most rapid motion; and with his single 
force defended the passage of a bridge against a great 
army. Several other great actions are related in the 
memoirs of his life, but all with so much modesty and 
unbiased truth, that they easily pronounce him his own 
historiographer; and had they been written by any one 
else, with freedom and impartiality, they might have 
eclipsed your Hectors, Achilles, and Orlandos, with all 
their heroic exploits.” 

“That’s a fine jest, faith!” said the innkeeper; “my 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


father could have told you another tale, sir. Holding 
a mill-wheel! why, is that such amighty matter? Odds 
fish, do but turn over a leaf of Felixmarte there; you 
will find how with one single back stroke he vut five 
Swinging giants off by the middle, as if they had been 
so many bean-cods, of which the children make little 
puppet-friars ; and read how, at another time, he charged 
a most mighty and powerful army of above a millioy 
and six hundred thousand fighting men, all armed cap 
a-pee, and routed them all like so many sheep. An 
what can you say of the worthy Cirongilio of Thrace? 
who, as you may read there, going by water one day, 
was assaulted by a fiery serpent in the middle of the 
river; he presently leaped nimbly upon her back, and, 
hanging by her scaly neck, grasped her throat fast with 
both his arms, so that the serpent, finding herself almost 
strangled, was forced to dive into the water to save 
herself, and carried the knight, who would not quit his 
hold, to the very bottom, where he found a stately pal- 
ace, and such pleasant gardens, that it was a wonder; 
and straight the serpent turned into a very old man, 
and told him such things as were never heard nor 
spoken. Now, a fig for your Great Captain, and yom 
Diego Garcia.” 

Dorothea, hearing this, said softly to Ca denio, that 
the host was capable of making a second part to Don 
Quixote. 

“T think so too,” cried Cardenio, “for it is plain he 
believes every tittle contained in those Looks; nor can 
all the Carthusian friars in the world persuade him 
otherwise.” 

“I tell thee, friend,” said the curate, “there were 
never any such persons as your books of chivalry men- 
tion, upon the face of the earth; your Felixmarte of 
Hircania, and your Cirongilio of Thrace are all but 
chimeras, and fictions of idle and luxuriant wits, who 
wrote them for the same reason that you read them, be- 
cause they had nothing else to do.” 

“Sir,” said the innkeeper, “you must angle with an- 
other bait, or you will catch no fish; I know what’s 
what, as well as another; I can tell where my own shoe 
pinches me; and you must not think, sir, to catch old 
birds with chaff. A pleasant jest, faith! that you should 
pretend to persuade me now that these notable books 
are lies and stories; why, sir, are they not in print? 
Are they not published according to order? licensed 
by authority from the Privy Council? And do you 
think that they would permit so many untruths to be 
printed, and such a number of battles and enchant- 
ments, to set us all a-madding ?” 

“T have told you already, friend,” replied the curate, 
“that this is licensed for our amusement in our idle 
hours; for the same reason that tennis, billiards, chess, 
and other recreations are tolerated, that men may find 
a pastime for those hours they cannot find employment. 
for. Neither could the Government foresee this incon- 
venience from such books that you urge, because they 
could not reasonably suppose any rational person would 
believe their absurdities. And were this a proper time, 
I could say a great deal in favor of such writings; and 
how, with some regulations, they might be made both 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


instructive and diverting. But I design, upon the first 
opportunity, to communicate my thoughts on this head 
to some that may redress it. In the meantime, honest 
landlord, you may put up your books, and believe them 
true if you please, and much good may they do you. 
And I wish you may never halt of the same foot as 
your guest, Don Quixote.” 

“There's no fear of that,” said the innkeeper, “for I 
never design to turn knight-errant; because I find the 
customs that supported the noble order are quite cut 
of doors.” 

About the middle of their discourse Sancho Panza 
came running out of Don Quixote’s chamber in a ter- 
rible fright, crying out, “Help, help, good people! help 
my master! he is just now at it, tooth and nail, with 
that same giant, the Princess Micomicona’s foe: I never 
saw a more dreadful battle in my born days. He has 
lent him such a sliver, that whip off went the giant’s 
head, as round as a turnip.” 

“You are mad, Sancho !” said the curate, interrupted 
in his conversation; “is thy master such a hero as to 
fight a giant at two thousand leagues’ distance ?” 

Upon this they presently heard a noise and bustle in 
the chamber, and Don Quixote bawling out, “Stay, vil- 
lain, robber! stay; since I have thee here, thy scimitar 
shall but little avail thee;” and with this they heard 
him strike with his sword, with all his force, against 
the walls. : 

“Good folks,” said Sancho, “my master does not want 
your hearkening; why do not you run in and help him? 
though I believe it is after meat mustard, for sure the 
giant is by this time gone to pot, and giving an account 
of his ill life; for I saw his blood run all about the 
house, and his head sailing in the middle on it; but 
such a head ! it is bigger than any wine-skin in Spain.” 

“TI will be cut like a cucumber,” cries the innkeeper, 
“if this Don Quixote has not been hacking my wine- 
skins that stood filled at his bed’s head: and this cox- 
comb has taken the spilt liquor for blood!” Then run- 
ning with the whole company into the room, they found 
the poor knight in the most comical posture imaginable. 

He wore on his head a little greasy cast night-cap of 
the innkeeper’s; he had wrapped one of the best blank- 
ets about his left arm for a shield; and wielded his 
drawn sword in the right, laying about him pell-mell, 
with now and then a start of some military expression, 
as if he had been really engaged with some giant. But 
the best jest of all, he was all this time fast asleep; for 
the thoughts of the adventure he had undertaken had 
so wrought on his imagination, that his depraved fancy 
had in his sleep represented to him the kingdom of 
Micomicon and the giant; and, dreaming that he was 
then fighting him, he assaulted the wine-skins so des- 
perately, that he set the whole chamber afloat with 
good wine. The innkeeper, enraged to see the havoc, 
flew at Don Quixote with his fists; and had not Carde- 
nio and the curate taken him off, he had proved a giant 
indeed against the knight. All this could not wake 
the poor Don, till the barber, throwing a bucket of cold 
water on him, wakened him from his sleep, though not 
from his dream. 





155 


Sancho ran up and down the room searching for the 
giant's head, till, finding his labor fruitless, “Well, 
well,” said he, “now I see plainly that this house is 
haunted, for when I was here before, in this very room 
was I beaten like any stock-fish, but knew no more than 
the man in the moon who struck me; and now the giant’s 
head that I saw cut off with these eyes is vanished; and 
and I am sure I saw the body spout blood like a pump.” 

“What a prating and a nonsense does this fellow keep 
about blood and a pump, and I know not what!” said 
the innkeeper: “I tell you, rascal, it is my wine-skins 
that are slashed, and my wine that runs about the floor 
here; and I hope to see him that spilt it swinging on a 
gibbet for his pains.” 

“Well, well,” said Sancho, “do not trouble me; I 
only tell you that I cannot find the giant’s head, and 
my earldom is gone after it, and so I am undone like 
salt in water.” And truly Sancho’s waking dream was 
as pleasant as his master’s when asleep. The inkeeper 
was almost mad to see the foolish squire harp so on the 
same string with his frantic master, and swore they 
should not come off now as before; that their chivalry 
should be no satisfaction for his wine, but that they 
should pay him sauce for the damage, and for the very 
leathern patches which the wounded wine-skins would 
want. 

Don Quixote, in the meanwhile, believing he had 
finished his adventure, and mistaking the curate, that 
held him by the arms, for the Princess Micomicona, fell 
on his knees before him, and with a respect due to a 
royal presence: “Now may your highness,” said he, 
“great and illustrious princess, live secure, free from 
any further apprehensions from your conquered enemy; 
and now I am acquitted of my engagement, since, by 
the assistance of Heaven and the influence of her favor 
by whom I live and conquer, your adventure is so 
happily achieved.” 

“Did not I tell you so, gentlefolks?” said Sancho: 
“who is drunk or mad now? See if my master has not 
already put the giant in pickle? Here are the bulls, 
and I am an earl.” The whole company (except the 
innkeeper, who was too vexed to laugh), were like to 
split at the extravagances of master and man. At last 
the barber, Cardenio, and the curate having with much 
ado, got Don Quixote to bed, he presently fell asleep, 
being heartily tired; and then they left him to comfort 
Sancho Panza for the loss of the giant’s head; but it 
was no easy matter to appease the innkeeper, who was 
at his wit’s end for the unexpected and sudden fate of 
his wine-skins. 

The hostess, in the meantime, ran up and down the 
house crying and roaring: “In an ill hour,” said she, 
“did this unlucky knight-errant come into my house; 
I wish, for my part, I had never seen him, for he has 
been a dear guest tome. Heand his man, his horse and 
his ass, went away last time without paying me a cross 
for their supper, their bed, their litter and provender; 
and all, forsooth, because he was seeking adventures. 
What have I to do with his statutes of chivalry? If 
they oblige him not to pay, they should oblige him not 
to eat neither. It was upon this score that the t’other 


156 


fellow took away my good tail; it is clear spoiled, the 
hair is all torn off, and my husband can never use it 
again. And now to come upon me again, with destroy- 
ing wine-skins and spilling my liquor! may somebody 
spill his heart's blood for it for me! But I will be paid, 
so I will, to the last maravedis, or I will disown my 
name and forswear the mother that bore me.” Her 
honest maid, Maritornes, seconded her fury; but Master 
Curate stopped their mouths by promising that he 
would see them satisfied for their wine and their skins, 





but especially for the tail which they kept up such a 
clatter about. Dorothea comforted Sancho, assuring , 
him that whenever it appeared that his master had! 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


killed the giant, and restored her to her dominions, he 
should be sure of the best earldom in her disposal. 
With this he huckled up again and swore that he him- 
self had seen the giant’s head, by the same token that 
it had a beard that reached down to his middle; and if 
it could not be found it must be hid by witchcraft, for 
everything went by enchantment in that house, as he 
had found to his cost when he was there before. 

Dorothea answered that she believed him; and desired 
him to pluck up his spirits, for all things would be 
well. All parties being quieted the company retired 
to rest. 








CHAPTER XXXII. 


CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF MANY SURPRISING ACCIDENTS IN THE INN. 


In the morning the innkeeper, who stood it the door, 
seeing company coming, “More guest,” cried he; “a 
brave, jolly troop, on my word. If they stop here we 
may sing, ‘Ob, be joyful!” “What are they?” said 
Cardenio. 

“Four men,” said the host, “on horseback, a la Gineta, 
with black masks on their faces and armed with lances 
and targets; a lady, too, all in white, that rides single 
and masked; and two running footmen; and they are 
just at the door.” 

Hearing this, Dorothea veiled herself, and Cardenio 
had just time enough to step into the next room, where 
Don Quixote lay, when the strangers came into the 
yard. The four horsemen, who made a very genteel 
appearance, dismounted and went to help down the 
lady, whom one of them, taking in his arms, carried 
into the house; where he seated her in a chair hy the 
chamber-door into which Cardenio had withdrawn. All 
this was done without discovering their faces, or speak- 
ing a word; only the lady, as she sat down in the chair, 
breathed out a deep sigh, and let her arms sink down 
ina weak and fainting posture. The curate, marking 
their odd behavior, which raised in hima curiosity to 
know who they were, went to their servants in the 
stable, and asked what their masters were. 

“We know nu more of her than the rest,” answered 
one of them; “for we could never see her face all the 
time, and it is impossible we should know her or them 
any otherwise. They picked us up on the road, my 
comrade and myself, and prevailed with us to wait on 
them to Andalusia, promising to pay us well for our 
trouble; so that, bating the two days’ travelling in their 
company, they are utter strangers to us.” 

“Could you not hear them name one another all this 
time ?” asked the curate. 





“No, truly, sir,” answered the footman, “for we 


heard them not speak a syllable all the way; the poor 
lady, indeed, used to sigh and grieve so piteously, that 
we are persuaded she has no stomach to this journey: 
whatever may be the cause we know not; by her garh 
she seems to be a nun, but by her grief and melancholy 
one might guess they are going to make her one, when 
perhaps the poor girl has not a bit of nun's flesh about 
her.” 

“Very likely,” said the curate; and with that, leav- 
ing them, he returned to the place where he left Doro- 
thea, who, hearing the masked lady sigh so frequently, 
moved hy the natural pity of the soft sex, could not for- 
bear inquiring the cause of her sorrow. 

“Pardon me, madam,” said she, “if I beg to know 
your grief; and assure yourself that my request does 
not proceed from mere curiosity, but an earnest incli- 
nation to serve and assist you, if your misfortune be 
any such as our sex is naturally subject to, and in the 
power of a woman to cure.” 

The melancholy lady made no return to her compli- 
ment, and Dorothea pressed her in vain with new 
reasons, when the gentleman, whom the footboy signi- 
fied to be the chief of the company, interposed; 
“Madam,” said he, “do not trouble yourself to throw 
away any generous offer on that ungrateful woman, 
whose nature cannot return an obligation; neither ex. 
pect any answer to your demands, for her tongue isa 
stranger to truth.” 

“Sir,” said the disconsolate lady, “my truth and 
honor have made me thus miserable, and my sufferings 
are sufficient to prove you the falsest and most base 
of men.” 

Cardenio being only parted from the company by Don 
Quixote’s chamber-door, overheard these last words very 
distinctly; and immediately cried out, “Good Heavea: 
what do I hear? what voice struck my ear just now?” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


The lady, startled at this exclamation, sprung from 
the chair, and would have rushed into the chamber 
whence the voice came; but the gentleman perceiving 
it, laid hold on her, to prevent her, which so disordered 
the lady that her mask fell off, and discovered an in- 
comparable face, beautiful as an angel's, though very 
pale, and strangely discomposed, her eyes eagerly roll- 
ing on every side, which made her appear distracted. 
Dorothea and the rest, not guessing what her eyes 
sought by their violent motion, beheld her with grief 
and wonder. She struggled so hard, and the gentle- 
man was so disordered by holding her, that his mask 
dropped off too, and discovered to Dorothea, who was 
assisting to hold the lady, the face of her husband, 
Don Ferdinand. Scarce had she known him, when, 
with a long and dismal “Oh!” she fell in a swoon, and 
would have reached the floor with all her weight, had 
not the barber, by good fortune, stood behind and sup- 
ported her. The curate ran presently to help her, and 
pulling off her veil to throw water in her face, Don 
Ferdinaud presently knew her, and was struck almost 
as dead as she at the sight; nevertheless, he did not 
quit Lucinda, who was the lady that struggled so hard 
to get out of his hands. Cardenio hearing Dorothea's 
exclamation, and imagining it to be Lucinda's voice, 
flew into the chamber in great disorder, and the first 
object he met was Don Ferdinand holding Lucinda, 
who presently knew him. They were all struck dumb 
with amazement: Dorothea gazed on Don Ferdinand; 
Don Ferdinand on Cardenio; and Cardenio and Lucinda 
on one another. 

At last Lucinda broke silence, and addressing Don 
Ferdinand, “Let me go,” said she; “unloose your hold, 
my lord: by the generosity you should have, or by your 
inhumanity, since it must be so, I conjure you, leave 
me, that I may cling like ivy to my old support; and 
from whom neither your threats, nor prayers, nor gifts, 
nor promises could ever alienate my love. Contend 
not against Heaven, whose power alone could bring me 
to my dear husband’s sight, by such strange and unex- 
pected means. You have a thousand instances to con- 
vince you that nothing but death can make me ever 
forget him; let this, at least, turn your love into rage, 
which may prompt you to end my miseries with my life, 
here before my dear husband, where I shall be proud to 
lose it, since my death may convince him of my un- 
shaken love and honor, till the last minute of my life.” 

Dorothea by this time recovered, and finding by 
Lucinda’s discourse who she was, and that Don Ferdi- 
nand would not loose her, she made a virtue of necessity, 
and falling at his feet, ‘My lord,” cried she, all bathed 
in tears, “if that beauty which you holdin your arms 
has not altogether dazzled your eyes, you may behold 
at your feet the once happy but now miserable Dorothea. 
I am the poor and humble villager whom your generous 
bounty, I dare not say your love, did condescend to 
raise to the honor of calling you her own: I am she 
who, once confined to peaceful innocence, led a con- 
tented life, till your importunity, your show of honor, 
and deluding words, charmed me from my retreat, and 
made me resign my freedom to your power. Howl am 





157 


recompensed may be guessed by my grief, and my being 
found here in this strange place whither I was led, 
not through any dishonorable ends, but purely by de- 
spair and grief to be forsaken of you. It was at your 
desire I was bound to you by the strictest tie; and 
whatever you do, you can never cease to be mine. 
Consider, my dear lord, that my matchless love may 
balance the beauty and nobility of the persou for whom 
you would forsake me; she cannot share your love, for 
it is only mine; and Cardenio’s interest in her will not 
admit a partner. It is easier far, my lord to recall 
your wandering desires, and fix them upon her that 
adores you, than to draw her to love who hates you. 
Remember how you did solicit my humble state, and 
conscious of my meanness, you paid a veneration to my 
innocence, which joined with the honorable condition 
of my yielding to your desires, pronounce me free from 
ill design or dishonor. Consider these undeniable 
truths: have some regard to your honor; remember you 
are a Christian. Why should you, then, make her life 
end so miserably, whose beginning your favor made so 
happy? If I must not expect the usage and respect 
of a wife, let me but serve you as a slave; so I belong 
to you, though in the meanest rank, I never shall com- 
plain, let me not be exposed to the slandering reflec- 
tions of the censorious world by so cruel a separation 
from my lord: afflict not the declining years of my poor 
parents, whose faithful services to you and yours have 
merited a more suitable return. If you imagine the 
current of your noble blood would be defiled by mixing 
with mine, consider how many noble houses have run 
in such a channel; besides, the woman’s side is not 
essentially requisite to ennoble descent; but chiefly 
think on this, that virtue is the truest nobility, which 
if you stain by basely wronging me, you bring a greater 
blot upon your family than marrying me could cause. 
In fine, my lord, you cannot, must not disown me for 
your wife: to attest which truth, I recall your own 
words, which must be true, if you prize yourself for 
honor, and that nobility whose want you so despise in 
me. Witness your oaths and vows, witness that 
Heaven which you so oft invoked to ratify your prom- 
ises; and if all these should fail, I make my last appeal 
to your own conscience, whose sting will always repre- 
sent my wrongs fresh to your thoughts, and disturb 
your joys amidst your greatest pleasures.” 

These, with many such arguments, did the mournful 
Dorothea urge, appearing so lovely in her sorrow, that 
Don Ferdinand’s friends, as well as all the rest, sympa- 
thised with her; Lucinda, particularly, as much admir- 
ing her wit and beauty as moved by the tears, the 
piercing sighs and moans that followed her entreaties; 
and she would have gone nearer to have comforted her, 
had not Ferdinand’s arms that still held her prevented 
it. He stood full of confusion, with his eyes fixed 
attentively on Dorothea a great while; at last, opening 
his arms, he quitted Lucinda. “Thou hast conquered,” 
cried he, “charming Dorothea; thou hast conquered 
me: it is impossible to resist so many united truths and 
charms.” 

Lucinda was still so disordered and weak that she 


158 


would have fallen when Ferdinand quitted her, had not 
Cardenio, withont regard to his safety, leaped forward 
and caught her in his arms, and embracing her with 
eagerness and joy, “Thanks, gracious Heaven!” cried 
he aloud; “my dear, my faithful wife! thy sorrows are 
now ended; for where canst thou rest more safe than in 
my arms, which now support thee, as once they did 
when my blessed fortune first made thee mine?” 

Lucinda then opening her eyes, and finding herself 
in the arms of her Cardenio, without regard to cere- 
mony, threw her arms about his neck, aud, laying her 
face to his, “Yes,” said she, “thou art he, thou art my 
lord indeed! It is even you yourself, the right owner 
of this poor, harassed captive. Now, fortune, act thy 
worse; nor fears nor threats shall ever part me from the 
sole support and comfort of my life.” 

This sight was very surprising to Don Ferdinand and 
the other spectators. Dorothea perceiving, by Don 
Ferdinand’s change of countenance. and laying his 
hand to his sword, that he was preparing to assault 
Cardenio, fell suddenly on her knees, and, with an; en- 
dearing embrace, held Don Ferdinand’s legs so fast, 
that he could not stir. “What means,” cried she, all in 
tears, “the only refuge of my hope? See here thy own 
and dearest wife at thy feet, and her you would enjoy 
in her true husband's arms. Think then, my lord, how 
unjustis your attempt to dissolve that knot which 
Heaven has tied so fast. Can you ever think or hope 
for success in your design on her who, contemning all 
dangers, and confirmed in strictest constancy and honor, 
before your face lies bathed in tears of joy and passion 
in her true lovers bosom? For Heaven's sake I entreat 
you, by your own words I conjure you, to mitigate your 
anger, and permit that faithful pair to consummate their 
joys, and spend their remaining days in peace. Thus 
may you make it appear that you are generous and 
truly noble, giving the world so strong a proof that you 
have your reason at command, and your passion in sub- 
jection.” 

All this while Cardenio, though he still held Lucinda 
in his arms, had a watehful eye on Don Ferdinand; re- 
solving, if he had made the least offer to his prejudice, 
to make him repent it and all his party, if possible, 
though at the expense of his life. But Don Ferdi- 
nand’s friend, the curate, the barber, and all the com- 
pany (not forgetting honest Sancho Panza), got together 
about Don Ferdinand, and entreated him to pity the 
beautiful Dorothea's tears; that, considering what she 
had said, the truth of which was apparent, it would be 
the highest injustice to frustrate her lawful hopes; 
that their strange and wonderful meeting could not be 
attributed to chance, but the peculiar and directing 
providence of Heaven; that nothing (as Mr. Curate 
very well urged) but death could part Cardenio from 
Lucinda; and that though the edge of his sword might 
separate them, he would make them happier by death 
than he could hope to be by surviving; that, in irrecov- 
erable accidents, a submission to fate, and a resignation 
of our wills, showed not only the greatest prudence, 
but also the highest courage and generosity; that he 
should not envy those happy lovers what the bounty 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


of Heaven had conferred on them, but that he should 
turn his eyes on Dorothea’s grief, view her incompar- 
able beauty, which, with her true and unfeigned love, 
made large amends for the meanness of her parentage: 
but principally it lay upon him, if he gloried in the 
titles of nobility and Christianity, to keep his promise 
unviolated; that the more reasonable part of mankind 
could not otherwise be satisfied, or have any esteem for 
him. Also, that it was the special prerogutive of 
beauty, if heightened by virtue, and adorned with 
modesty, to lay claim to any dignity, without dispar- 
agement or scandal to the person that raises it; and 
that the strong dictates of delight having been once 
more indulged, we are not to be blamed for following 
them afterwards, provided they are not unlawful. In 
short, to these reasons they added so many enforcing 
arguments, that Don Ferdinand, who was truly a gen- 
tleman, could so longer resist reason, but stooped 
down, and, embracing Dorothea, “Rise, madam,” said 
he, “it is not proper that she should lie prostrate at my 
feet who triumphs over my soul. If I have not hitherto 
paid yon all the respect I ought, it was perhaps so 
ordered by Heaven, that, having by this a stronger 
conviction of your constancy and goodness, I may 
henceforth set the greater value on your merit. Let 
the future respect and services I shall pay you plead a 
pardon for my past transgressions; and let the violent 
passions of my love, that first mude me yours, be an 
excuse for that which caused me to forsake you. View 
the now happy Lucinda’s eyes, and there read a thou- 
sand farther excuses; but [ promise henceforth never 
to disturb her quiet; and may she live long and con- 
tented with her dear Cardenio, as I hope to do with my 
dearest Dorothea.” 

Thus concluding, he embraced her again so lovingly, 
that it was with no small difficulty that Le kept in his 
tears, which he endeavored to conteal, being ashamed 
to discover so effeminate a proof of his remorse. 

Cardenio, Lucinda, and the greatest part of the com- 
pany could not so well command their passions, but all 
wept for joy; even Sancho Panza himself shed tears, 
though, as he afterwards confessed, it was not for 
downright grief, but becanse he found Dorothea not to 
be Queen of Micomicona, as he supposed, and of whom 
he expected so many favors and preferments. Cuar- 
denio and Lucinda fell at Don Ferdinand’s feet, giving 
him thunks, with the strongest expressions which grat- 
itude could suggest; he raised them up, and received 
their acknowledgments with much modesty; then he 
begged to be informed by Dorothea how she came to 
that place. She related to him all she had told Car- 
denio, but with such a grace, that what were misfor- 
tunes to her proved an inexpressible pleasure to those 
that heard her relation. When she had done, Don 
Ferdinand told all that had befallen him in the city, 
after he found the paper in Lucinda’s bosom, which de- 
clared Cardenio to be her husband; how he would have 
killed her, had not her parents prevented him; how 
afterwards, mad with shame and anger, he left the city, 
to wait a more convenient opportunity of revenge; how 
ina short time he learned that Lucinda was fed toa 











160 


nunnery, resolving to end her days there, if she could 
not spend them with Cardenio; that, having desired 
those three gentlemen to go with him, they went to the 
nunnery, and, waiting till they found the gate open, he 
left two of the gentlemen to secure the door, while he, 
with the other, entered the house, where they found 
Lucinda talking with a nun in the cloister. They fore- 
ibly brought her thence to a village, where they dis- 
guised themselves for their more convenient flight, 
which they more easily brought about, the nunnery 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


being situate in the fields, distant a good way from any 
town. He likewise added how Lucinda, finding herself 
in his power, fell into a swoon; and that after she came 
to herself she continually wept and sighed, but would 
not speak a syllable; and that, accompanied with 
Silence only and tears, they travelled till they came to 
that inn, which proved to him as his arrival at heaven, 
having puta happy conclusion to all his earthly mis- 
fortunes. 








CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE HISTORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA CONTINUED, WITH OTHER PLEASANT ADVENTURES. 


THE joy of the whole company was unspeakable by 
the happy conclusion of this perplexed business. Doro- 
thea, Cardenio, and Lucinda thought the sudden change 
in their affairs too surprising to be real; and through 
a disuse of good fortune, could hardly be induced to 
believe their happiness. Don Ferdinand thanked 
Heaven a thousand times for its propitious conduct in 
leading him out of a labyrinth, in which his honor and 
virtue were like to have been lost. The curate, as he 
was very instrumental in the general reconciliation, 
had likewise no small share in the general joy; and that 
no discontent might sour their universal satisfaction, 
Cardenio and the curate engaged to see the hostess 
satisfied for all the damages committed by Don Quix- 
ote: only poor Sancho drooped pitifully. He found his 
lordship and his hopes vanished into smoke, the Prin- 
cess Micomicona was changed to Dorothea, and the 
giant to Don Ferdinand. Thus, very musty and melan- 
choly, he slipped into his master's chamber, who had 
slept on, and was just awakened, little thinking of what 
had happened. 

“T hope your early rising will do you no hurt,” said 
he, “Sir Knight of the Woful Figure; but you may now 
sleep on till doomsday if you will; nor need you trouble 
your head any longer about killing any giant, or re- 
storing the princess, for all that is done to your hand.” 

“That is more than probable,” answered the knight; 
“for L have had the most extraordinary, the most pro- 
digious and bloody battle with the giant that I ever 
had, or shall have, during the whole course of my life. 
Yet with one cross stroke I laid his head thwack on the 
ground, whence the great effusion of blood seemed like 
a violent stream of water.” 

“Of wine, you mean,” said Sancho; “for you must 
know (if you know it not already) that your worship’s 
dead giant is a broached wine-skin; and the blood some 
thirty gallons of tent which it held in its belly; and so 
confusion take both giant and head, and all together, 
for Sancho.” 





“What sayest thou, madman?” said the Don; “thou 
art frantic, sure!” 

“Rise, rise, sir,” said Sancho, “and see what fine 
work you have cut out for yourself; here is the wine to 
pay for, and your great queen is changed into a private 
gentlewoman, called Dorothea, with some other such 
odd matters, that you will wonder with a vengeance.” 

“I can wonder at nothing here,” said Don Quixote, 
“where, you may remember, I told you all things ruled 
by enchantment.” 

“JT should believe it,” qnoth Sancho, “had my toss- 
ing in a blanket been of that kind; but sure it was the 
likest the tossing in a blanket of anything I ever knew 
in my life. And this same innkeeper, I remember very 
well, was one of those that tossed me into the air, and as 
cleverly and heartily he did it asa man could wish, I 
will say that for him; so that after all I begin to smell a 
rat, and do perilously suspect that all our enchantment 
will end in nothing but bruises and broken bones.” 

“Heaven will retrieve all,” said the knight; “I will 
therefore dress, and march to the discovery of these 
wonderful transformations.” 

While Sancho made him ready, the curate gave Don 
Ferdinand and the rest an account of Don Quixote's 
madness, and of the device he used to draw him from the 
Poor Rock, to which the supposed disdain of his mis- 
tress had banished him in imagination. Sancho's ad- 
ventures made also a part of the story, which proved 
very diverting to the strangers. He added, that since 
Dorothea's change of fortune had baulked their design 
that way, some other trick should be found to decoy 
him home. Cardenio offered his service in this affair, 
and that Lucinda should personate Dorothea. “No, 
no,” answered Don Ferdinand; “Dorothea shall humo1 
the jest still, if this honest gentleman's habitation be 
not very far off.” 

“Only two days’ journey,” said the curate. 

“T would ride twice as far,” said Don Ferdinand, “fo1 
the pleasure of so good and charitable an action.” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


By this Don Quixote had sallied out, armed cap-a-pie, 
Mambrino’s helmet (with a great hole in it) on his head; 
his shield on his left arm, and with his right he leaned 
on hislance  Hismeagre, yellow, weather-beaten face, 
of half aleague in length; the nnaccountable medley 
of his armor, together with his grave and solemn port, 
struck Don Ferdinand and his companions dumb with 
admiration; while the champion, casting his eyes on 
Dorothea, with great gravity and solidity, broke silence 
with these words :— 

“IT am informed by this my squire, beautiful lady, 
that your greatness is annihilated, and your majesty 
reduced to nothing; for of a queen and mighty princess, 
as you used to be, you are become a private damsel. If 
any express order from the necromantic king, your 
father, doubting the ability and success of my arm in 
reinstating you, has occasioned this change, I must tell 
him that he is no conjurer in these matters, and does 
not know one half of his trade; nor is he skilled in the 
revolutions of chivalry; for had he been conversant in 
the study of knight-errantry as I have been, he might 
have found that, in every age, champions of less fame 
than Don Quixote de la Mancha have finished more 
desperate adventures; since the killing of a pitiful 
giant, how arrogant soever he may be, is no such great 
achievement; for, not many hours past, I encountered 
one myself; the success I will not mention, lest the 
incredulity of some people might distrust the reality ; 
but time, the discoverer of all things, will disclose it 
when least expected.” 

“Hold there,” said the host; “it was with two wine- 
skins, but no giant that you fought.” 

Don Ferdinand silenced the innkeeper, and bid him 
by no means interrupt Don Quixote, who thus went 
on:—“To conclude, most high and disinherited lady, if 
your father, for the causes already mentioned, has 
caused this metamorphosis in your person, believe him 
not; for there is no peril on earth through which my 
sword shall not open a way; and assure yourself that. 
in a few days, by the overthrow of your enemy’s head, 
it shall fix on yours that crown which is your lawful 
inheritance.” Here Don Quixote stopped, waiting the 
princess’s answer; she, assured of Don Ferdinand’s 
consent to carry on the jest, till Don Quixote was got 
home, and assuming a face of gravity, “ Whosoever,” 
answered she, “has informed you, valorons Knight of 
the Woful Figure, that I have altered or changed my 
condition, has imposed upon you; for I am just the 
same to-day as yesterday. It is tine, some unexpected 
but fortunate accidents have varied some circumstances 
of my fortune, much to my advantage, and far heyond 
my hopes; but I am neither changed in my person nor 
altered in my resolution of employing the force of your 
redoubtable and invincible arm in my favor. I there- 
fore apply myself to your usual generosity, to have 
these words spoken to my father’s dishonor recalled, 
and believe these easy and infallible means to redress 
my wrongs, the pure effects of his wisdom and policy, 
as the good fortune I now enjoy, has been the conse- 
quence of your surprising deeds, as this noble presence 
can testify. What should hinder us then from setting 

11——DON QUIX. 





161 


forward to-morrow morning, depending for a happy and 
successful conclusion on the will of Heaven, and the 
power of your unparalleled courage?” 

The ingenious Dorothea having concluded, Don Quix- 
ote turning to Sancho, with all the signs of fury imag- 
inable: “Now must I tell thee, poor, paltry, hang- 
dog,” said he, “thou art the veriest rascal in all Spain; 
tell me, rogue, scoundrel, did not you just now inform 
me that this princess was changed into a private damsel 
called Dorothea, with a thousand other absurdities? 
Now, by all the powers of Heaven,” looking up and 
grinding his teeth together, “I have a mind so to use 
thee as to make thee appear a miserable example to all 
succeeding squires that shall dare to tell a knight- 
errant a lie.” 

«“Good enough, your worship,” cried Sancho, “have 
patience, I beseech you: mayhap I am mistaken or so 
about my lady Princess Micomicona’s concern there; 
but that the giant’s head came off the wine-skin’s 
shoulders, and that the blood was as good tent as ever 
was tipped over tongue, I will take my corporal oath 
on it; why, sir, are not the skins all hacked and slashed 
within there at your bed’s head, and the wine all in a 
puddle in your chamber? But you will guess at the 
meat presently by the sauce; “the proof of the pudding 
is in the eating,’ master; and if my landlord here do not 
let you know it to your cost, he is a very honest and 
civil fellow, that is all.” 

“Sancho,” said the Don, “I pronounce thee non com- 
pos; I therefore pardon thee, and have done.” 

“It is enough,” said Don Ferdinand; “we, therefore, 
in pursuance of the princess’s orders, will this night 
refresh ourselves, and to-morrow we will all of us set 
out to attend the lord Don Quixote, in the prosecution 
of this important enterprise he has undertaken, being 
all impatient to be eye-witnesses of his celebrated and 
matchless courage.” 

“T shall be proud of the honor of serving and waiting 
upon you, my good lord,” replied Don Quixote, “and 
reckon myself infinitely obliged by the favor and good 
opinion of so honorable a company; which I shall en- 
deavor to improve and contirm, though at the expense 
of the last drop of my blood.” 

Many other compliments had passed between Don 
Quixote and Don Ferdinand, when the arrival of a 
stranger interrupted them. His dress represented him 
as a Christian newly returned from Barbary: he was 
clad in a short-skirted coat of blue cloth, with short 
sleeves and no collar; his breeches were of blue linen, 
with a cap of the same color, a pair of date-colored 
stockings, and a Turkish scimitar hung by a scarf, in 
manner of a shoulder belt. There rode a woman in his 
company, clad in Moorish dress; her face was covered 
with aveil; she had on a little cap of gold-tissue, and 
a Turkish mantle that reached from her shoulders to 
her feet. The man was well-shaped and strong, his 
age about forty, his face somewhat tanned, his mus- 
tachios long, and his beard handsome. In short, his 
gentle mien and person were too distinguishable to let 
the gentlaman be hid by the meanness of his habit. He 
called presently for a room, and, being answered that 


162 


all were full, seemed a little troubled ; however, he 
went to the woman who came along with him, and took 
her down from her ass. The ladies, being all surprised 
at the oddness of the Moorish dress, had the curiosity 
to flock about the stranger; and Dorothea, very dis- 
creetly imagining that both she and her conductor were 
tired, and took it ill that they could not have a cham- 
ber, “T hope, madam, you will bear your ill fortune pa- 
tiently,” said she; “for want of room is an inconve- 
nience incident to all public inns; but if you please, 
madam, to tuke up with us,” pointing to Lucinda, “you 
may perhaps find that you have met with worse enter- 
tainment on the road than what this place affords.” 

The unknown lady made her no answer, but rising up, 
laid her hands across her breast, bowed her head, and 
inclined her body, as a sign that she acknowledged the 
favor. By her silence they conjectured her to be un- 
doubtedly a Moor, and that she could not speak 
Spanish. Her companion was now come back from the 
stable, and told them, “Ladies, I hope you will excuse 
this gentlewoman from answering any questions, for 
she is very much a stranger to our language.” 

“We are only, sir,” answered Lucinda, “making her 
an offer which civility obliges us to make to all strangers, 
especially of our own sex, that she would make us 
happy in her company all night, and fare as we do: we 
will make very much of her, sir, and she shall want for 
nothing that the house affords.” 

“T return you humble thanks, dear madam,” answered 
the stranger, “in the lady’s behalf and my own; and I 
infinitely prize the favor, which the present exigence 
and the worth of the donors make doubly engaging.” 

“Ts the lady, pray, sir, a Christian ora Moor?” asked 
Dorothea. “Ourcharity would make us hope she were 
the former; but by her attire and silence, we are afraid 
she is the latter.” 

“Outwardly, madam,” answers he, “she appears and 
is a Moor, but in her heart a zealous Christian, which 
her longing desires of being baptised have expressly 
testified. I have had no opportunity of having her 
christened since she left Algiers, which was her habi- 
tation and native country; nor has any imminent dan- 
ger of death as yet obliged her to be brought to the 
font, before she be better instructed in the principles of 
our religion; but I hope, by Heaven’s assistance, to 
have her shortly baptised with all the decency suiting 
her quality, which is much above what her equipage 
or mine seems to promise.” 

These words raised in them alla curiosity to be farther 
informed who the Moor and her conductor were; but 
they thought it improper then to put them upon any 
more particular relation of their fortunes, because they 
wanted rest and refreshment after their journey. 
Dorothea, placing the lady by her, begged her to take 
oft her veil. She looked on her companion, as if she 
required him to let her know what she said; which, 
when he had Jet her nnderstand in the Arabian tongue, 
joining his own request also, she discovered so charm- 
ing a face, that Dorothea imagined her more beautiful 
than Lucinda; she, on the other hand, fancied her hand- 
somer than Dorothea; and most of the company be- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


lieved her more beautiful than both ofthem. Asbeauty 
has always a prerogative, or rather charm, to attract 
men’s inclinations, the whole company dedicated their 
desires to serve thelovely Moor. Don Ferdinand asked 
the stranger her name; he answered, “Lela Zoraida;” 
she, hearing him, and guessing what they asked, sud- 
denly replied with great concern, though very grace- 
fully, “No, no Zoraido; Maria, Maria;” giving them to 
understand that her name was Maria, and not Zoraida. 
These words, spoken with so much eagerness, raised a 
concern in everybody, the ladies especially, whose 
natural tenderness showed itself by their tears; and 
Lucinda, embracing her very lovingly, “Ay, ay,” said 
she, “Maria, Maria;” which words the Moorish lady 
repeated by way of answer. “Zoraida macange,” add- 
ed she, as much as to say, “Not Zoraida, but Maria.” 
The night coming on, and the innkeeper, by order of 
Don Ferdinand’s friends, having made haste to provide 
them the best supper he could, the cloth was laid on a 
long table, there being neither round nor square in the 
house. Don Quixote, after much ceremony, was pre- 
vailed upon to sit at the head; he desired the Lady 
Micomicona to sit next him; and the rest of the com- 
pany having placed themselves according to their rank 
and convenience, they ate their supper very heartily. 
Don Quixote, to raise the diversion, never minded his 
meat, but inspired with the same spirit that moved him 
to preach so much to the goatherds, he began to hold 
forth in this manner:—“ Certainly, gentlemen, if we 
rightly consider it, those who make knight-errantry 
their profession often meet with most surprising and 
stupendous adventures. For what mortal in the world,- 
at this time entering within this castle, and seeing us 
sit together as we do, will imagine and believe us to be 
the same persons which in reality we are? Who is 
there that can judge that this lady by my side is the 
great queen we all know her to be, and that I am that 
Knight of the Woful Figure, so universally made known 
by fame? It is then no longer to be donbted but that 
this exercise and profession surpasses all others that 
have been invented by man, and is so much the more 
honorable as it is more exposed to dangers. Let none 
presume to tell me that the pen is preferable to the 
sword; for be they who they will, I shall tell them they 
know not what they say: for the reason they give, and 
on which chiefly they rely, is, that the labor of the mind 
exceeds that of the body, and that the exercise of arms 
depends wholly on the body, as if the use of them were 
the business of porters, which requires nothing but 
much strength; or, as if this, which we who profess it 
call chivalry, did not include the acts of fortitude,which 
depend very much upon the understanding; or else, as 
if that warrior, who commands an army or defends a 
city besieged, did not labor as much with the mind as 
with the body. If this be not so, let experience teach 
us whether it be possible by bodily strength to discover 
or guess the intentions of an enemy. The forming de- 
signs, the laying of stratagems, overcoming of difficul- 
ties, and shunning of dangers are all works of the un- 
derstanding, wherein the body has no share. It being 
therefore evident that the exercise of arms requires the 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


help of the mind as well as learning, let us see, in the 
next place, whether the scholar's or the soldier’s mind 
undergoes the greatest labor. Now this may be the 
better known by regarding the end each of them aims 
at; for that intention is to be most valued which makes 
the noblest end its object. The scope and end of learn- 
ing, I mean human learning (in this place I speak not 
of divinity, whose aim is to guide souls to heaven, for 
no other can equal a design so infinite as that), is to 
give a perfection to distributive justice, bestowing up- 
on every one his due, and to procure and cause good 
laws to be observed; an end really generous, great, and 
worthy of high commendation; but yet not equal to 
that which knight-errantry tends to, whose object and 
end is peace, which is the greatest blessing man can 
wish for in this life. And therefore the first good news 
that the world received was that the angels brought in 
the night, which was the beginning of our day, when 
they sang in the air, ‘Glory to God on high, peace upon 
earth, and to men good-will.’ And the only manner of 
salutation taught by the best Master in heaven or upon 
earth, to his friends and followers, was, that entering 
any house they should say, ‘Peace be to this house.’ 
And at other times he said to them, ‘My peace I give 
to you, my peace I leave to you, peace be among you:’ 
a jewel and a legacy worthy of such a donor—a jewel 
so precious, that without it there can be no happiness 
either in earth or heaven. This peace is the true end 
of war; for arms and war are one and the same thing. 
Allowing, then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, 
and that in this it excels the end of learning, let us now 
weigh the bodily labors the scholar undergoes against 
those the warrior suffers, and then see which are 
greatest.” 

The method and language Don Quixote used in de- 
livering himself were such, that none of his hearers at 
that time looked upon himasamadman. But, on the 





163 


contrary, most of them being gentlemen, to whom the 
use of arms properly appertains, they gave him a will- 
ing attention; and he proceeded in this manner:— 
“These, then, I say, are the sufferings and hardships a 
scholar endures. First, poverty (not that they are all 
poor, but to urge the worst that may be in this case); 
and having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing 
more need be urged to express his misery; for he that 
is poor enjoys no happiness, but labors under this pov- 
erty in all its parts, at one time in hunger, at another 
in cold, another in nakedness, and sometimes in all of 
them together, yet his poverty is not so great but still 
he eats, though it be later than the usual hour, and of 
the seraps of the rich, or, which is the greatest of a 
scholar’s misfortunes, what is called among them going 
a-sopping; neither can the scholar miss of somebody’s 
stove or fireside to sit by, where, though he be not thor- 
oughly heated, yet le may gather warmth, and at last 
sleep away the night under a roof. I will not touch 
upon other less material circumstances, as the want of 
linen and scarcity of shoes, thinness aud baldness of 
their clothes, and their surfeiting when good fortune 
throws a feast in their way: this is the difficult and un- 
couth path they tread, often stumbling and falling, yet 
rising again and pushing on, till they attain the prefer- 
ment they aim at; whither being arrived, we have seen 
many of them, who, having been carried by a fortunate 
gale through all these quicksands, from a chair govern 
the world; their hunger being changed into satiety, 
their cold into comfortable warmth, their nakedness 
into magnificence of apparel, and the mats they used to 
lie upon into stately beds of costly silks and softest 
linens—a reward due to their virtue. But yet their 
sufferings being compared to those the soldier endures, 
appear much inferior, as I shall in the next place make 
out.” 








CHAPTER XXXIV. 


A CONTINUATION OF DON QUIXOTE’S CURIOUS DISCOURSE UPON ARMS AND LEARNING. 


“SINCE, speaking of the scholar, we began with his 
poverty, and its several parts,” continued Don Quixote, 
“let us now observe whether the soldier be any richer 
than he; and we shall find that poverty itself is not 
poorer; for he depends on his miserable pay, which he 
receives but seldom, or perhaps never; or else on that. 
he makes by marauding, with the hazard of his life, and 
trouble of his conscience. Such is sometimes his want 
of apparel, that a slashed buff coat is all his holiday 
raiment and shirt; and in the depth of winter, being in 
the open field, he has nothing to cherish him against 
the sharpness of the season but the breath of his mouth, 





which, issuing from an empty place, Lam persuaded is 
itself cold, though contrary to the rules of nature. But 
now see how he expects night to make amends for all 
these hardships in the bed prepared for him, which, 
unless it be his own fault, never proves too narrow; for 
he may freely lay out as much of the ground as he 
pleases, and tumble to his contents without danger of 
losing the sheets. But, above all, when the day shall 
come wherein he is to put in practice the exercise of 
his profession, and strive to gain some new degree; 
when the day of battle shall come, then, as a mark of 
honor, shall his head be dignified with a cap made of 


164 


lint, to stop a hole made by a bullet, or be perhaps car- 
ried off maimed, at the expense of aleg or arm. And if 
this do not happen, but that merciful Heaven preserve 
his life and limbs, it may fall out that he shall remain 
as poor as before, and must run through many encoun- 
ters and battles, nay, always come off victorious, to ob- 
tain some little preferment; and these miracles, too, are 
rare. But, I pray tell me, gentlemen, if ever you made 
it your observation, how few are those who obtain due 
rewards in war, in comparison of those numbers that 
perish? Doubtless you will answer that there is no 
parity between them—that the dead cannot be reckoned 
up, whereas those who live and are rewarded may be 
numbered with three figures. It is quite otherwise 
with scholars—not only those who follow the law, but 
others also, who all, either by hook or by crook, get a 
livelihood—so that though the soldier’s sufferings be 
much greater, yet his reward is much less. To this it 
may be answered, that it is easier to reward two thou- 
sand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers, because the 
former are recompensed at the expense of the public, 
by giving them employments, which of necessity must 
be allowed on those of their profession, but the latter 
cannot be gratified otherwise than at the cost of the 
master that employs them; yet this very difficulty 
makes good my argument. But let us lay this matter 
aside as a point difficult to be decided, and let us return 
to the preference due to arms above learning, a subject 
as yet in debate, each party bringing strong reasons to 
make out their pretensions. Among others, learning 
urges that without it warfare itself could not subsist; 
because war, as other things, has its laws, and is gov- 
erned by them, and laws are the province of learning 
and scholars. To this objection the soldiers make an- 
swer, that without them the laws cannot be maintained, 
for it is by arms that commonwealths are defended, 
kingdoms supported, cities secured, the highway made 
safe, and the sea delivered from pirates. In short, 
were it not for them, commonwealths, kingdoms, mon- 
archies, cities, the roads by land, and the waters of the 
sea would be subject to the ravages and confusion that 
attend war while it lasts, and is at liberty to make use 
of its unbounded power and prerogative. Besides, it 
is past all controversy, that what costs dearest is, and 
ought to be, most valued. Now fora man to attain an 
eminent degree of learning costs him time, watching, 
hunger, nakedness, dizziness in the head, weakness in 
the stomach, and other inconveniences which are the 
consequences of these, of which I have already in part 
made mention. But the rising gradually to be a good 
soldier is purchased at the whole expense of all that is 
required for learning, and that in so surpassing a 
degree that there is no comparison betwixt them; be- 
cause he is every moment in danger of his life. To 
what danger or distress can a scholar be reduced equal 
to that of a soldier, who, being besieged in some strong 
place, and at his post or upon guard in some ravelin or 
bastion, perceives the enemy carrying on a mine under 
him, and yet must upon no account remove from thence, 
or shun tbe danger which threatens him so near? All 
he can do is to give notice to his commander that he may 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


countermine, but must himself stand still, fearing and 
expecting when on a sudden he shall soar to the clouds 
without wings, and be again cast down headlong against 
his will. If this danger seem inconsiderable, let us see 
whether that be not greater when two galleys shock one 
another with their prows in the midst of the spacious 
sea. When they have thus grappled, and are clinging 
together, the soldier is confined to the narrow beak, 
being a board not above two feet wide; and yet, though 
he sees before him so many ministers of death threaten- 
ing, as there are pieces of cannon on the other side 
pointing against him, and not half a pike’s length from 
his body; and being sensible that the first slip of his 
feet sends him to the bottom of Neptune’s dominions, 
still, for all this, inspired by honor, with an undaunted 

heart, he stands a mark to so much fire, and endeavors 
to make his way by that narrow passage into the ene- 

my’s vessel. But what is most to be admired is, that 
no sooner one falls, where he shall never rise till the 

end of the world, than another steps into the same 

place; and if he also drops into the sea, which lies in 

wait for him like an enemy, another and after him 

another, still fills up the place; without suffering any 

interval of time to separate their deaths—a resolution 

and boldness scarce to be paralleled in any other trials 

of war. Blessed be those happy ages that were stran- 

gers to the dreadful fury of these instruments of artil- 

lery, by which means very often a cowardly, base hand 

takes away the life of the bravest gentleman, and in 

the midst of that vigor and resolution which animates 

and inflames the bold, a chance bullet (shot perhaps by 

one that fled, and was frighted at the very flash the 

mischievous piece gave when it went off), coming no- 

body knows how or from whence, in a moment puts a 

period to the brave designs and the life of one that. 

deserved to have survived many years. This consid- 

ered, I vould almost say I am sorry at my heart for 

having taken upon me this profession of a knight-errant 

in so detestable an age: for though no danger daunts 

me, yet it affects me to think whether powder and lead 

may not deprive me of the opportunity of becoming 

famous, and making myself known throughout the world 

by the strength of my arm and dint of my sword. But 

let Heaven order matters as it pleases; for if I compass 

my designs, 1 shall be so much the more honored by 

how much the dangers I have exposed myself to are 

greater than those the knights-errant of former ages 

underwent.” 

All this long preamble Don Quixote made, whilst the 
company supped, never minding to eat a mouthful, 
though Sancho Panza had several times advised him to 
mind his meat, telling him there would be time enough 
afterwards to talk as he thought fit. Those who heard 
him were afresh moved with compassion to see a man 
who seemed, in all other respects, to have a sound judg- 
ment and clear understanding, so absolutely mad and 
distracted when any mention was made of knight- 
errantry. The curate told him he was much in the 
right in all he had said for the honor of arms; and that 
he, though a scholar and a graduate, was of the same 
opinion. Supper being ended and the cloth taken 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


away, whilst the innkeeper, his wife, his daughter, and 
Maritornes fitted up Don Quixote's loft for the ladies, 
Don Ferdinand entreated the slave to give them an 
account of his life; conscious the relation could not 
choose but be very delightful and surprising, as might 
be guessed by his coming with Zoraida. The slave 
answered he would most willingly comply with their 
desires, and that he only feared the relation would not 
give them all the satisfaction he could wish; but that, 
however, rather than.disobey, he would do it as well as 
he could. The curate and all the company thanked 





165 


him, and made fresh instances to the same effect. See- 
ing himself courted by so many, “There is no need of 
entreaties,” said he, “for what you may command ; 
therefore,” continued he, “give me your attention, and 
you shall hear a true relation, perhaps not to be par- 
alleled by those fabulous stories which are composed 
with much art and study.” This caused all the com- 
pany to seat themselves, and observe a very strict 
silence; and then, with an agreeable and sedate voice, 
he began in the manner following. 











CHAPTER XXXV. 


WHERE THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES. 


“IN THE mountains of Leon my family had its first 
original, and was more kindly dealt with by nature 
than by fortune, though my father might pass for rich 
among the inhabitants of those parts, who are but 
poorly provided for. To say truth, he had been so, had 
he had as much industry to preserve as he had inclina- 
tion to dissipate his income; but he had been a soldier, 
and the years of his youth spent in that employment 
had left him in his old age a propensity to spend, under 
the name of liberality. War is a school where the cov- 
etous grow free, and the free prodigal: to see a soldier 
a miser isa kind of prodigy which happens but seldom. 
My father was far from being one of them; for he 
passed the bounds of liberality, and came very near 
the excesses of prodigality—a thing which cannot suit 
well with a married life, where the children ought to 
succeed to the estate as well as the name of the family. 
We were three of us, all at man’s estate; and my fa- 
ther, finding that the only way (as he said) to curb his 
squandering inclination was to dispossess himself of 
that which maintained it, his estate (without which 
Alexander himself must have been put to it), he called 
us one day all three to him in his chamber, and spoke 
to us in the following manner:— 

“ “My sons, to persuade you that I love you, I need 
only tell you I am your father, and you my children; 
and on the other side, you have reason to think me un- 
kind, considering how careless I am in preserving what 
should one day be yours; but to convince you, how- 
ever, that I have the feelings of a parent, [ have taken 
a resolution, which I have well weighed and considered 
for many days. You are all now of an age to choose 
the kind of life you each of you incline to; or, at least, 
to enter upon some employment that may one day pro- 
cure you both honor and profit: therefore I design to 
divide all I have into four parts, of which I will give 
three among you, and retain the fourth for myself, to 
maintain me in my old age, as long as it shall please 





Heaven to continue me in this life. After that each of 
you shall have received his part, I could wish you 
would follow one of the employments I shall mention 
to you, every one as he finds himself inclined. There 
is a proverb in our tongue, which I take to contain a 
great deal of truth, as generally those sorts of sayings 
do, being short sentences framed upon observation and 
long experience. This proverb runs thus: “Either the 
church, the sea, or the court;” as if it should plainly 
say, that whosoever desires to thrive must follow one 
of these three; either be a churchman, or a merchant 
and try his fortune at sea, or enter into the service of 
his prince in the court: for another proverb says that 
“Kings’ chaff is better than other men's corn.” I say 
this, because 1 would have one of you follow his studies, 
another I desire should be a merchant, and the third 
should serve the king in his wars; because it is a thing 
of some difficulty to get an entrance at court; and 
though war does not immediately procure riches, yet it 
seldom fails of giving honor and reputation. Within 
eight days’ time I will give each of you your portion, 
and not wrong you out of a farthing of it, as you shall 
see by experience. Now, therefore, tell me if you are 
resolved to follow my advice about your settling in the 
world.’ And turning to me, as the eldest, he bid me 
answer first. 

“T told him that he ought not upon our account to di- 
vide or lessen his estate, or way of living; that we 
were young men, and could shift in the world; and at 
last I concluded that for my part 1 would be a soldier, 
and serve God and the king in that honorable profes- 
sion. My second brother made the same regardful 
offer, and chose to go to the Indies; resolving to lay 
out in goods the share that should be given him here. 
The youngest, and, I believe, the wisest of us all, said 
he would be a churchman; and in order to it, go to 
Salamanca, and there finish his studies. After this my 
father embraced us all three, and in a few days per- 


166 


formed what he had promised; and, as I remember, it 
was three thousand ducats a-piece, which he gave us 
in money; for we had an uncle who bought all the es- 
tate, and paid for it in ready money, that it might not 
go out of the family. A little after we all took leave 
of my father; and at parting I could not forbear think- 
ing it a kind of inhumanity to leave the old gentleman 
in so strait a condition: I prevailed with him therefore 
to accept of two thousand of my three, the remainder 
being sufficient to make up a soldier’s equipage, My 
example worked upon my other brothers, and they 
each of them presented him with a thousand ducots; 
so that my father remained with four thousand ducats 
in ready money, and three thousand more in land, 
which he chose to keep and not sell outright. To be 
short, we took our leave of my father aud the uncle I 
have mentioned, not without much grief and tears on 
all sides; they particularly recommending us to let 
them know by all opportunities our good or ill fortune. 
We promised to do so, and having received the blessing 
of our old father, one of us went straight to Salamanca, 
the other to Seville, and I to Alicant, where I was in- 
formed of a Genoese ship, which was loading wood for 
Genoa. 

“This yearmakes two-and-twenty since I first left my 
father’s house, and in all that time, though I have writ 
several letters, I have not had the least news, either of 
him or of my brothers. And nowI will relate, in a few 
words, my own adventures in all that course of years. 
I took shipping at Alicant, arrived safe and with a good 
passage at Genoa; from thence I went to Milan, where 
I bought my equipage, resolving to go enter myself in 
the army of Piedmont; but being come «us far as Alex- 
andria de Ja Paille, I was informed that the great Duke 
of Alva was passing into Flanders with an amy: this 
made me alter my first resolution. I followed him, and 
was present at all his engagements, as well as at the 
deaths of the Counts Egmont and Horne; and at last 1 
had a pair of colors under a famous captain of Guadala- 
jara, whose name was Diego de Urbina. Some time 
after my arrival in Flanders there came news of the 
league concluded hy Pope Pius V. of happy memory, in 
junction with Spain, against the commun enemy, the 
Turk, who at that time had taken the island of Cyprus 
from the Venetians; which was an unfortunate and 
lamentable loss to Christendom. It was also certain 
that the general of this holy league was the most serene 
Don Juan of Austria, natural brother to our good King 
Don Philip. The great fame of the preparations for 
this war excited in me a vehement desire of being present 
at the engagement which was expected to follow these 
preparations; and although I had certain assurance, and, 
as it were, an earnest of being advanced to be a cap- 
tain upon the first vacancy, yet I resolved to leave all 
those expectations, and return, as I did, to Italy. My 
good fortune was such, that I arrived just about the 
same time that Don Juan of Austria landed at Genoa, 
in order to go to Naples, and join the Venetian fleet, as 
he did at Messina. In short, I was at that great action 
of the battle of Lepanto, being a captain of foot, to 
which post my good fortune, more than my desert, had 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


now advanced me; and that day, which was so happy 
to all Christendom, because the world was then dis- 
abused of the error they had entertained, that the Turk 
was invincible by sea—that day, I say, in which the 
pride of the Ottomans was first broke, and which was 
so happy to all Christians, even to those who died in the 
fight—who were more so than those who remained alive 
and conquerors—I alone was the unhappy man; since 
instead of a naval crown, which I might have hoped 
for in the time of the Romans, I found myself that very 
night a slave, with irons on my feet, and manacles on 
my hands. The thing happened thus: Vehali, King of 
Algiers, a brave and bold pirate, having boarded and 
taken the Capitana galley of Malta, in which only three 
knights were left alive, and those desperately wounded, 
the galley of Joan Andrea Doria bore up to succor 
them: in this galley I was embarked with my company, 
and, doing my duty on this occasion, I leaped into the 
enemy’s galley, which, getting loose from ours, that in- 
tended to board the Algerine, my soldiers were hin- 
dered from following me, and I remained alone among 
a great number of enemies; whom not being able to 
resist, I was taken after having received several wounds, 
and as you have heard already, Vehali having escaped 
with all his squadron, I found myself his prisoner; and 
was the only afflicted man among so many joyful ones, 
and the only captive among so many free; for on that 
day above 15,000 Christians, who rowed in the Turkish 
galleys, obtained there long-wished-for liberty. I was 
carried to Constantinople, where the Grand Seignor 
Selim made Vehali, my master, general of the sea, he 
having behaved himself very well in the battle, and 
brought away with him the great flag of the order of 
Malta, as a proof of his valor. 

“The second year of my captivity I was a slave in the 
Capitana galley ut Navarino; and I took notice of the 
Christians’ fault, in letting slip the opportunity they 
had of taking the whole Turkish fleet in that port; and 
all the Janisaries and Algerine pirates did so expect to 
be attacked, that they had made all in readiness to es- 
cape on shore without fighting, so great was the terror 
they had of our fleet; Imt it pleased God to order it 
otherwise, not by any fault of the Christian general, 
but for the sins of Christendom, and because it is his 
will we should always have some enemies to chastise 
us. Vehali made his way to Modon, which is an island 
not far from Navarino, and there landing his men, for- 
tified the entrance of the harbor, remaining in safety 
there till Don Juan was forced to return home with his 
fleet. In this expedition the galley called La Presa, of 
which Barbarossa's own son was captain, was taken by 
the admiral galley of Naples, called the Wolf, which 
was commanded by that thunder-bolt of war, that father 
of the soldiers, that happy and never-conquered cap- 
tain, Don Alvaro de Bacan, Marquis of Santa Cruz; and 
I cannot omit the manner of taking this galley. The 
son of Barbarossa was very cruel, and used his slaves 
with great inhumanity. They perceiving that the Wolf 
galley gained upon them in the chase, all of a sudden 
laid by their oars, and seizing on their commander, as 
he was walking between them on the deck, and calling 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


to them to row hard, they passed him on from hand to 
hand to one another, from one end of the galley to the 
other, and gave him such blows in the handling him, 
that before he got back to the main-mast, his soul had 
left his body. This, as I said, was the effect of his 
cruelty and their hatred. 

“After this we returned to Constantinople; and the 
next year, which was 1573, news came that Don Juan 
of Austria had taken Tunis and its kingdom from the 
Turks, and given the possession of it to Muley Hamid, 
having thereby defeated all the hopes of reigning of 
Muley Hamida, one of the cruellest and withal one of 
the bravest Moors in the world. The Grand Seignor 
was troubled at this loss, and, using his wonted artifices 
with the Christians, he struck up a peace with the Ve- 
netians, who were much more desirous than he of it. 

“The year after, which was 1574, he attacked the 
Goletta, and the fort which Don Juan had begun, but 
not above half finished, before Tunis. All this while I 
was a galley slave, without any hopes of liberty; at 
least, I could not promise myself to obtain it by way of 
ransom; for I was resolved not to write my father the 
news of my misfortune. La Goletta and the fort were 
both taken, after some resistance; the Turkish army 
consisting of 75,000 Turks in pay, and above 400,000 
Moors and Arabs out of all Africa near the sea, with 
such provisions of war of all kinds, and so many pio- 
neers, that they might have covered the Goletta and 
the fort with earth by handfuls. The Goletta was first 
taken, though always before reputed impregnable; and 
it was not lost by any fault of its defenders, who did 
all that could be expected from them; but because it 
was found by experience, that it was practicable to 
make trenches in the sandy soil, which was found to 
have water under it within two feet: though the Turks 
sunk above two yards and found none. However, by 
filling sacks with sand, and laying them on one another, 
they raised them so high, that they over-topped and 
commanded the fort, in which none could be safe, nor 
show themselves upon the walls. It has been the 
opinion of most men that we did ill to shut ourselves 
up in the Goletta; and that we ought to have been 
drawn out to hinder their landing; but they who say 
so talk without experience, and at random, of such 
things; for if in all there were not above 7,000 men in 
the Goletta and the fort, how could so small a number, 
though never so brave, take the open field against such 
forces as those of the enemy’s? And how is it possible 
that a place can avoid being taken which can have no 
relief, particularly being besieged by such numbers, 
and those in their own country? But it seemed to many 
others, and that is also my opinion, that God Almighty 
favored Spain most particularly, in suffering that sink 
of iniquity and misery, as well as that sponge and per- 
petual drain of treasure to be destroyed. For infinite 
sums of money were spent there to no purpose, without 
any other design than to preserve the memory of one 
of the emperor’s (Charles the Fifth’s) conquests; as if 
it had been necessary to support the fume of his glory, 
which will be permanent, that those stones should re- 
main in being. The fort was likewise lost, but the 





167 


Turks got it foot by foot; for the soldiers who defended 
it sustained two-and-twenty assaults, and in them killed 
above 25,000 of those barbarians; and when it was taken, 
of 300 which were left alive, there was not one man un- 
wounded—a certain sign of the bravery of the garrison 
and of their skill in defending places. There was like- 
wise taken, by composition, a small fort in the midst of 
a lake, which was under the command of Don John 
Zanoguerra, a gentleman of Valencia, and a soldier of 
great renown. Don Pedro Puerto Carrero, General of 
the Goletta, was taken prisoner, and was so afflicted at 
the loss of the place, that he died of grief by the way, 
before he got to Constantinople, whither they were 
carrying him. They took also prisoner the commander 
of the fort, whose name was Gabriel Cerbellon, a Milan- 
ese, a great engineer, as well as a valiant soldier. 
Several persons of quality were killed in those two 
fortresses, and amongst the rest was Pagano Doria, the 
brother of the famous John Andrea Doria, a generous 
and noble-hearted gentleman, as well appeared by his 
liberality to that brother; and that which made his 
death more worthy of compassion was, that he received 
it from some Arabs, to whom he had committed his 
safety after the loss of the fort, they having promised 
to carry him disguised in a Moor’s habit to Tabarca, 
which is a small fort held on that coast by the Genoese, 
for the diving for coral; but they cut off his head, and 
brought it to the Turkish general, who made good to 
them our Spanish proverb, that ‘the treason pleases, 
but the traitors are odious;’ for he ordered them to be 
hanged up immediately for not having brought him 
alive. 

“Amongst the Christians which were taken in the 
fort, there was one Don Pedro de Aguilar, of some 
place in Andalusia, who had been an ensign in the 
place; avery brave and a very ingenious man, and one 
who had a rare talent in poetry. I mention him because 
it was his fortune to be a slave in the same gulley with 
me, and chained to the same bench. Before he left the 
port he made two sonnets, hy way of epitaph for the 
Goletta and the fort, which I must beg leave to repeat 
here, having learned them by heart, and I believe they 
will rather divert than tire the company.” 

When the captive named Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don 
Ferdinand looked upon his companions, and they all 
smiled; and when he talked of the sonnets, one of them 
said, “Before you go on to repeat the sonnets, I desire, 
sir, you would tell me what became of that Don Pedro 
de Aguilar whom you have mentioned.” 

“ All that I know of him,” answered the slave, “is, that 
after having been two years in Constantinople, he made 
his escape disguised like an Arnaut, and in company of 
a Greek spy; but I cannot tell whether he obtained his 
liberty or no, though I believe he did, because about a 
year after I saw the same Greek in Constantinople, but 
had not an opportunity to ask him about the success of 
his journey.” 

“Then I can tell you,” replied the gentleman, “that 
the Dou Pedro you speak of is my brother, and is at 
present at home, married, rich, and has three children.” 

“God be thanked,” said the slave, “for the favors he 






































“They cut off his head and brought it to the Turkish general.”—p. 167, 


has bestowed on him; for in my mind there is no felicity 
equal to that of recovering one's lost liberty.” 
“ And moreover,” added the same gentleman, “T can 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


169 


“Pray say them, then,” replied the slave, “for 1 
question not but you can repeat them better than 1.” 
“ With all my heart,” answered the gentleman. “That 


say the sonnets you mentioned, which my brother] upon the Goletta was as tollows.” 


made.” 








CHAPTER 


XXXVI. 


THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE CONTINUED. 


SONNET. 


Bugst souls, discharged of life’s oppressive weight, 
Whore virtue proved your passport to the skies; 
You there procured a more propitious fate, 
When for your faith you bravely fell to rise. 


When pious rage, diffused through every vein, 
On this ungrateful shore inflamed your blood, 
Each drop you lost was bought with erowds of slain, 
Whose vital purple swell’d the neighb’ring flood. 


Though crush'd by ruins, and by odds, you claim 
That perfect glory, that immortal fame, 

Which. like true heroes, nobly you pursued; 
On these you seized, even when of life deprived, 
For still your courage even your lives survived; 

And sure ‘tis conquest thus to be subdued. 


“T know itjs just as you repeat it,” said the captive. 
“Well, then,” said the gentleman, “I will give you 
now that which was made on the fort, if I can remem- 
der it.” 
A SONNET. 


Amidst these barren fields, and ruin’d tow’rs, 
The bed of honor of the fallen brave, 

Three thousand champions of the Christian powers 
Found a new life, and triumph in the grave. 


Long did their arms their haughty foes repel, 

Yet strew'd the fields with slaughter'd heaps in vain; 
O’ercome by toils, the pious heroes fell, 

Or but survived more nobly to be slain. 


This dismal soil, so famed in ills of old, 
In every age was fatal to the bold, 
The seat of horror, and the warrior's tomb; 
Yet hence to heaven more worth was ne'er resign'd 
Than these display’d; nor has the earth combined 
Resumed more noble bodies in her womb. 

The sonnets were applauded, and the captive was 
pleased to hear such good news of his friend and com- 
panion. After that he pursued his relation in these 
terms: — 

“The Turks ordered the dismantling of the Goletta, 
the fort being razed to their hand by the siege; and yet 
the mines they made could not blow up the old walls, 
which, nevertheless, were always thought the weakest 
part of the place; but the new fortification, made by 
the engineer Fratin, came easily down. In fine, the 
Turkish fleet returned in triumph to Constantinople, 
where, not long after, my master Vehali died, whom the 
Turks used to call Vehali Fartax, which, in Turkish, 
signifies the renegado, as indeed he was; and the Turks 
give names among themselves, cither from some virtue 
or some defect thatisin them; and this happens because 





there are but four families descended from the Ottoman 
family; all the rest, as 1 have said, take their names 
from some defect of the body or some good quality of 
the mind. This slave was at the oar in one of the 
Grand Seignior’s galleys for fourteen years, till he was 
four-and-thirty years old; at which time he turned 
renegade, to be revenged of a Turk, who gave him a 
box on the ear, as he was chained to the oar—forsaking 
his religion for revenge; after which he showed so much 
valor and conduct, that he came to be King of Algiers, 
and admiral of the Turkish fleet, which is the third 
command in the whole empire. He was a Calabrian by 
birth, and of a mild disposition towards his slaves, as 
also of good morals to the rest of the world. He had 
above 3,000 slaves of his own, all of which, after his 
death, were divided, as he had ordered by his will, be- 
tween the Grand Seignior, his sons, and his renegades. 
“T fell to the share of a Venetian renegade, who was 
acabin-boy in a Venetian ship which was taken by 
Vehali, who loved him so, that he was one of his favorite 
boys; and he came at last to prove one of the cruellest 
renegades that ever was known. His name was 
Azanaga, and he obtained such riches, as to rise by 
them to be King of Algiers; and with him I left Constan 
tinople, with some satisfaction to think, at least, 
that I was in a place so near Spain, not because I could 
give advice to any friend of my misfortunes, but because 
Thoped to try whether I should succeed better in Algiers 
than T had done in Constantinople, where I had tried a 
thousand ways of running away, but could never execute 
any of them, which I hoped I should compass better in 
Algiers, for hope never forsook me upon all the disap- 
pointments I met with in the design of recovering my 
liberty. By this means I kept myself alive, shut up in 
a prison or house which the Turks call a bagnio, where 
they keep their Christian slaves, as well those of the 
king as those who belong to private persons, and also 
those who are called #7 Almacen, that is, who belong to 
the public, and are employed by the city in works that 
belong to it. These latter with great difficulty obtain 
their liberty; for having no particular master, but be- 
longing to the public, they can find nobody to treat 
with about their ransom, though they have money to 
pay it. The king's slaves, which are ransomable, are 








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J 


1 





> 


==> 
== 
==> 





« At last I resolved to trust a renegade of Murcia, who had shown me gre. : proofs of his kindness.” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


not obliged to go out to work as the others do, except 
their ransom stays too long before it comes; for then, to 
hasten it, they make them work, and fetch wood with 
the rest, which is no small labor. I was one of those 
who were to be ransomed; for when they knew I had 
been a captain, though I told them the impossibility I 
was in of being ransomed, because of my poverty, yet 
they put me among the gentlemen that were to be ran- 
somed, and to that end they put me on a slight chain, 
rather as a mark of distinction than to restrain me by 
it; and so I passed my life in that bagnio, with several 
other gentlemen of quality who expected their ransom; 
and, though hunger and nakedness might, as it did 
often, afflict us, yet nothing gave us such affliction as 
to hear and see the excessive cruelties with which our 
master used the other Christian slaves. He would hang 
one one day, then impale another, cut off the ears of a 
third; and this upon such slight occasions that often 
the Turks would own that he did it only for the pleas- 
ure of doing it, and because he was naturally an enemy 
to mankind. Only one Spanish soldier knew how to 
deal with him: his name was Saavedra; who, though he 
had done many things which will not easily be forgot- 
ten by the Turks, yet all to gain his liberty, his master 
never gave him a blow, nor used him ill, either in word 
or deed; and yet we were always afraid that the least 
of his pranks would make him be impaled; nay, he 
himself sometimes was afraid of it too: and, if it were 
not for taking up too much of your time, I could tell 
such passages of him as would divert the company 
much better than the relation of my adventures, and 
cause more wonder in them. 

“But to goon. I say that the windows of a very rich 
Moor’s house looked upon the court of our prison; 
which, indeed, according to the custom of the country, 
were rather peeping holes than windows, and yet they | 
had also lattices or jalonsies on the inside. 

“Tt happened one day that being upon a kind of ter- 
race of our prison, with only three of my comrades, 
diverting ourselves as well as we could, by trying who 
could leap farthest in his chains, all the other Christians 
being gone out to work, I chanced to look up to those 
windows, and saw that out of one of them there ap- 
peared a long cane, and to it was a bit of linen tied; and 
the cane was moved up and down, as if it was expected 
that some of us should lay hold of it. We all took 
notice of it, and one of us went and stood just under 
it, to see if they would let it fall; but just as he came 
to it the cane was drawn up, and shook to and fro 
sideways, as if they had made the same sign as people 
do with their head when they deny. He retired upon 
that, and the same motion was made with it as before. 
Another of my comrades advanced, and had the same 
success as the former; the third man was used just as 
the rest; which I seeing, resolved to try my fortune 
too; and as I came under the cane it fell at my feet. Im- 
mediately I untied the linen, within which was a knot, 
which, being opened, showed us about ten zianins, 
which is a sort of gold of base alloy used hy the Moors, 
each of which is worth about two crowns of our money. 





It is not to be much questioned whether the discovery 


171 


was not as pleasant as surprising; we were in admira- 
tion, and I more particularly, not being able to guess 
whence this good fortune came to us, especially to me; 
for it was plain I was more meant than any of my com- 
rades, since the cane was let go to me when it was re- 
fused to them. J took my money, broke the cane, and 
going upon the terrace, saw a very fine white hand that 
opened and shut the window with haste. By this we 
imagined that some woman who lived in that house Lad 
done us this favor; and, to return our thanks, we bowed 
ourselves after the Moorish fashion, with our arms across 
our breasts. A little after there appeared out of the 
same window a little cross made of cane, which imme- 
diately was pulled in again. This confirmed us in our 
opinion that some Christian woman was a slave in that 
house, and that it was she that took pity on us; but 
the whiteness of the hand, and the richness of the 
bracelets upon the arm, which we had a glimpse of, 
seemed to destroy that thought again; and then we be- 
lieved it was some Christian woman turned Mahom- 
etan, whom their masters often marry, and think them- 
selves very happy; for our women are more valued by 
them than the women of their own country. But in all 
this guessing we were far enough from finding out the 
truth of the case; however, we resolved to be very dil- 
igent in observing the window, which was our north 
star. There passed above fifteen days before we saw 


‘either the hand or cane, or any other sign whatsoever; 


though in all that time we endeavored to find out who 
lived inthat house, and if there were in it any Chris- 
tian woman who was a renegade; yet all we could dis- 
cover amounted to only this, that the house belonged 
to one of the chief Moors, a very rich man, called Agi- 
morato, who had been Alcayde of the Bata, which is an 
office much valued among them. But when we least 
expected our golden shower would continue, out of 
that window we saw on a sudden the cane appear again 
with another piece of linen and a bigger knot; and this 
was just at the time when the bagnio was without any 
other of the slaves in it. We all tried our fortunes as 
the first time, and it succeeded accordingly, for the 
cane was let go to none but me. I untied the knot, and 
found in it forty crowns of Spanish gold, with a paper 
written in Arabic, and at the top of the paper was a 
great cross. I kissed the cross, took the crowns, and, 
returning to the terrace, we all made our Moorish rev- 
erences; the hand appeared again, and I having made 
signs that I would read the paper, the window was 
shut. We remained all overjoyed and astonished at 
what had happened, and were extremely desirous to 
know the contents of the paper; but none of us under- 
stood Arabic, and it was yet more difficult to find out a 
proper interpreter. At last I resolved to trust a rene- 
gade of Murcia, who had shown me great proofs of his 
kindness. We gave one another mutual assurances, and 
on his side he was obliged to keep secret all that I 
should reveal to him; for the renegades, who have 
thoughts of returning to their own country, use to get 
certificates from such persons of quality as are slaves 
in Barbary, in which they make a sort of an affidavit 
that such a one, arenegade, is an honest man, and has 


172 


always been kind to the Christians, and has a mind to 
make his escape on the first occasion. Some there are 
who procure these certificates with an honest design, 
and remain among Christians as long as they live; but 
others get them on purpose to make use of them when 
they go a-pirating on the Christian shores; for then if 
they are shipwrecked or taken, they show these certifi- 
cates, and say that thereby may be seen the intention 
with which they came in the Turks' company—to wit, to 
get an opportunity of returning to Christendom. By this 
means they escape the first fury of the Christians, and 
are seemingly reconciled to the Church without being 
hurt; afterwards they take their time, and return to 
Barbary to be what they were before. 

“One of these renegades was my friend, and he had 
certificates from us all, by which we gave him much 
commendation; but if the Moors had caught him with 
those papers about him they would have burnt him 
alive. I knew that not only he understood the Arabic 
tongue, but also that he could both speak and write it 
fluently. But yet, before I resolved to trust him entire- 
ly, I bid him read me that paper, which I had found by 
chance. He opened it, and was a good while looking 
upon it, and construing it to himself. I asked him if 
he understood it. He said ‘Yes, very well; and that if 
I would give him pen, ink, and paper, he would trans- 
late it word for word.’ We furnished him with what he 
desired, and he went to work. Having finished his 
translation, he said, ‘ All I have here put into Spanish 
is word for word what is in the Arabic; only where the 
paper says Lela Marien, it means our Lady the Virgin 
Mary.’ The contents were thus:— 


“When I was a child my father had a slave who 
taught me in my tongue the Christian worship, and 
told me a great many things of Lela Marien. The 
Christian slave died, and I am sure she went not to the 
fire, but is with Allah, for I have seen her twice since; 
and she bid me go to the land of the Christians to see 
Lela Marien, who had a great kindness for me. I do 
not know what is the matter; but though I have seen 
many Christians out of this window, none has appeared 
to me so much a gentleman as thyself. Iam very hand- 
some and young, and ean carry with me a great deal of 
money and other riches. Consider whether thou canst 
bring it to pass that we may escape together, and then 
thou shalt be my husband in thy own country, if thou 
art willing; but if thou art not, it is all one; Lela Marien 
will provide me ahusband. I wrote this myself. Have 
a care to whom thou givest it to read; do not trust any 
Moor, because they are all treacherous. And in this I 
am much perplexed, and could wish there were not a 
necessity of trusting any one; because, if my father 
should come to know it, he would certainly throw me 
into a well, and cover me over with stones. I will tie 
a thread to a cane, and with that thou mayest fasten 
thy answer; and if thou canst not find any one to write 
in Arabic, make me understand thy meaning by signs, 
for Lela Marien will help me to gness it. She and 
Allah keep thee, as well as this cross, which I often 
kiss, as the Christian slave bid me do.’ 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“You may imagine, gentlemen, that we were in admi- 
ration at the contents of this y. per, and withal over- 
joyed at them, which we expressed so openly that the 
renegade came to understand that the paper was not 
found by chance, but that it was really written by some 
one among us; and accordingly he told us his suspicion, * 
and desired us to trust him entirely, and that he would 
venture his life with us to procure us our liberty. Hav- 
ing said this, he pulled a brass crucifix out of his bosom, 
and, with many tears, swore by the God which it repre- 
sented, and in whom he, though a wicked sinner, did 
firmly believe, to be true and faithful to us, with all se- 
crecy in what we should impart to him; for he guessed 
that by the means of the woman who had written that 
letter, we might all of us recover our lost liberty; and 
he, in particular, might obtain what he had so long 
wished for, to be received again into the bosom of his 
mother the Church, from whom, for his sins, he had 
been ent off as a rotten member. The renegade pro- 
nounced all this with so many tears, and such signs of 
repentance, that we were all of opinion to trust him, 
and tell him the whole truth of the business. We 
showed him the little window out of which the cane 
used to appear, and he from thence took good notice of 
the house, in order to inform himself who lived in it. 
We next agreed that it would be necessary to answer 
the Moorish lady's note. So immediately the renegade 
wrote down what I dictated to him, which was exactly 
as I shall relate; for I have not forgot the least material 
circumstance of this adventure, nor can forget them as 
long as I live. The words then were these :— 


“The true Allah keep thee, my dear lady, and that 
blessed Virgin, which is the true mother of God, and 
has inspired thee with the design of going to the land 
of the Christians. Do thou pray her that she would be 
pleased to make thee understand how thou shalt exe- 
cute what she has commanded thee; for she is so good 
that she will doit. On my part, and on that of the 
Christians who are with me, I offer to do for thee all 
we are able, even to the hazard of our lives. Fail not 
to write to me, and give me notice of thy resolution, for 
J will always answer thee; the great Allah having 
given us a Christian slave who can read and write thy 
language, as thou mayest perceive by this letter; so 
that thou mayest, without fear, give us notice of all thy 
intentions. As for what thou sayest, that as soon as 
thou shalt arrive in the land of the Christians thou de 
signest to be my wife, I promise thee, on the word of a 
good Christian, to take thee for my wife; and thou may- 
est be assured that the Christians perform their prom- 
ises better than the Moors. Allah and his mother Mary 
be thy guard, my dear lady.” 


“Having written and closed this note, I waited two 
days till the bagnio was empty, and then I went up on 
the terrace, the ordinary place of our conversation, to 
see if the cane appeared, and it was not long before it 
was stirring. As soon as it appeared I showed my 
note, that the thread might be put to the cane, 
but J found that was done to my hand; and the cane 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


being let down, I fastened the note to it. Not long 
after the knot was let fall, and I, taking it up, found 
in it several pieces of gold and silver, above fifty 
crowns, which gave us infinite content, and fortified 
our hopes of obtaining at last our liberty. That even- 
ing our renegade came to us, and told us he had found 
out that the master of that house was the same Moor 
we had been told of, called Agimorato, extremely rich, 
and who had one only daughter to inherit all his estate; 
that it was the report of the whole city that she was 
the handsomest maid in all Barbary; having been de- 
manded in marriage by several bassas and viceroys, but 
that she had always refused to marry. He also told us 
that he had learned she had had a Christian slave who 
was dead, all which agreed with the contents of the 
letter. We immediately held a council with the rene- 
gade about the manner we should use to carry off the 
Moorish lady, and go all together to Christendom; when 
at last-we agreed to wait for the answer of Zoraida—for 
that is the name of the lady who now desires to be 
called Mary—as well knowing she could best advise 
the overcoming all the difficulties that were in our 
way; and after this resolution, the renegade assured us 
again that he would lose his life or deliver us out of 
captivity. 

“The bagnio was four days together full of people, 
and all that time the cane was invisible; but as soon as 
it returned to its solitude, the cane appeared, with a 
knot much bigger than ordinary; having untied it, I 
found in it a letter, and a hundred crowns in gold. The 
renegade happened that day to be with us, and we gave 
him the letter to read, which he said contained these 
words :— 


““1 cannot tell, sir, how to contrive that we may go 
together to Spain; neither has Lela Marien told it me, 
though I have earnestly asked it of her. All I can do 
is to furnish you out of this window with a great deal 
of riches. Buy your ransom and your friends’ with 
that, and let one of you go to Spain, and buy a barque 
there, and come and fetch the rest. As for me, you 
shall find me in my father’s garden out of town, by the 
seaside, not far from the Bab-Ayoun gate, where l am 
to pass all the summer with my father and my maids; 
from which you may take me without fear, in the night- 
time, and carry me to your barque; but remember thou 
art to be my husband, and if thou failest in that I will 
desire Lela Marien to chastise thee. If thou canst not 
trust one of thy friends to go for the barque, pay thy 
own ransom and go thyself; for I trust thou wilt return 
sooner than another, since thou art a gentleman and a 
Christian. Find ont my father’s garden, and I will take 
care to watch when the bangio is empty, and let thee 
lave more money. Allah keep my dear lord.’ 


“These were the contents of the second letter we 
received. Upon the reading of it every one of us offered 
to be the man that should go and buy the barque, prom- 
ising to return with all speed; but the renegade opposed 
that proposition, and said he would never consent that 
any one of us should obtain his liberty before the rest, 





173 


because experience had tanglit him that people once 
free do not perform what they promise when captives, 
and that some slaves of quality had often used that 
remedy to send one either to Valencia or Majorca, with 
money to buy a barque, and come back and fetch the 
rest, but that they never returned; because the joy of 
having obtained their liberty, and the fear of losing it 
again, made them forget what they had promised, and 
cancel the memory of all obligations. To confirm which 
he related to us a strange story, which had happened in 
those parts, where every day the most surprising and 
wonderful things come to pass. After this he said that 
all that could be done was for him to buy abarque with 
the money which should redeem one of us; that he 
could buy one in Algiers, and pretend to turn merchant, 
and deal between Algiers and Tetuan; by which means 
he, being master of the vessel, might easily find out 
some way of getting us out of the bagnio, and taking 
us on board; and especially if the Moorish lady did 
what she promised, and gave us money to pay all our 
ransoms; for, being free, we might embark even at 
noon-day; but the greatest difficulty would be, that the 
Moors do not permit renegades to keep any barques 
but large ones, fit to cruise upon Christians; for they 
believe that a renegade, particularly a Spaniard, seldom 
buys a barque but with a design of returning to his 
own country. That, however, he knew how to obviate 
that difficulity, by taking a Tagarin Moor for his part- 
ner both in the barque and trade, by which means he 
should still be master of her, and then all the rest 
would be easy. We durst not oppose this opinion, 
though we had more inclination every one of us to go 
to Spain for a barque, as the lady had advised; but 
were afraid that if we contradicted him, as we were at 
his mercy, he might betray us, and bring our lives to 
danger, particularly if the business of Zoraida should 
be discovered, for whose liberty and life we would have 
given all ours; so we determined to put ourselves under 
the protection of God and the renegade. At the same 
time we answered Zoraida, telling her that we would do 
all she advised, which was very well, and just as if 
Lela Marien herself had instructed her; and that now 
it depended on her alone to give us the means of bring- 
ing this design to pass. I promised her once more to 
be herhusband. After this, in two days that the bagnio 
happened to be empty, she gave us, by the means of the 
cane, two thousand crowns of gold, and withal a letter, 
in which she let us know that the next Juma, which is 
their Friday, she was to go to her father’s garden, and 
that, before she went, she would give us more money; 
and if we had not enough, she would, upon our letting 
her know it, give us what we should think sufficient; 
for her father was so rich that he would hardly miss it, and 
so much the less, because he entrusted her with the 
keys of all his treasure. We presently gave the rene- 
gade five hundred crowns to buy the barque, and I paid 
my own ransom with eight hundred crowns, which I put 
into the hands of a merchant of Valencia, then in Al- 
giers, who made the bargain with the king, and had me 
to his house upon parole, to pay the money upon the 
arrival of the first barque from Valencia; forif he had 


174 


paid down the money immediately, the king might have 
suspected the money had been ready, and lain some time 
in Algiers, and that the merchant for his own profit 
had concealed it; and, in short, I durst not trust my 
master with ready money, knowing his distrustful and 
malicious nature. The Thursday preceding that Friday 
that Zoraida was to to go the garden, she let us have a 
thousand crowns more; desiring me, at the same time, 
that if I paid my ransom, I would find out her father’s 
garden, and contrive some way of seeing her there. 
lanswered in a few words, that I would doas she desired, 
and she should only take care to recommend us to Lela 
Marien, by those prayers which the Christian slave had 
taught her. Having done this, order was given to have 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA 





MANCHA. 


the ransom of my three friends paid also; lest they, seeing 
me at liberty, and themselves not so, though there was 
money to set them free, should be troubled in mind, and 
give way to the temptation of the devil, in doing some- 
thing that might redound to the prejudice of Zoraida; 
for though the consideration of their quality ought to 
have given me security of their honor, yet I did not 
think it proper to run the least hazard in the matter; 
so they were redeemed in the same manner, and by the 
same merchant, that I was, who had the money before- 
hand; but we never discovered to him the remainder of 
our intrigue, as not being willing to risk the danger 
there was in so doing.” 








CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE ADVENTURES OF THE CAPTIVE CONTINUED. 


OUR renegade had in a fortnight’s time bought a 
very good barque, capable of carrying above thirty 
people; and, to give no suspicion of any other design, 
he undertook a voyage to a place upon the coast called 
Sargel, about thirty leagues to the eastward of Algiers 
towards Oran, where there is a great trade for dried 
figs. He made his voyage two or three times in com- 
pany with the Tagarin Moor, his partner. Those 
Moors who were driven out of Arragon are called in 
Barbary Tagarins; as they call those of Granada Muda- 
jares; and the same in the kingdom of Fez are called 
Elches, and are the best soldiers that prince has. 

“Every time he passed with his barque along the 
coast he used to cast anchor in a little bay that was 
not above two bow-shots from the garden where Zo- 
raida expected us; and there he used to exercise the 
Moors that rowed, either in making the sala, which is a 
ceremony among them, or in some other employment; 
by which he prasticed in jest what he was resolved to 
execute in earnest. So sometimes he would go to the 
garden of Zoraida and beg some fruit, and her father 
would give him some, though he did not know him. 
He had a mind to find an occasion to speak to Zoraida, 
and tell her, as he since owned to me, that he was the 
man who by my order was to carry her to the land of 
the Christians, and that she might depend upon it; but 
he could never get an opportunity of doing it, hecause 
the Moorish and Turkish women never suffer themselves 
to be seen by any of their own nation, but by their 
husband, or by his or their father's command; but as 
for the Christian slaves, they let them see them, and 
that more familiarly than perhaps could be wished. I 
should have been very sorry that the renegade had 
seen or spoken to Zoraida, for it must needs have tron- 
bled her infinitely to see that her business was trusted 
to afenegade; and God Almighty, who governed our 
design, ordered it so that the renegade was disappoint- 





ed. He, in the meantime, seeing how securely and 
without suspicion he came and went along the coast, 
staying where and when he pleased by the way, and 
that his partner, the Tagarin Moor, was of his mind in 
all things; that I was at liberty, and that there wanted 
nothing but some Christians to help us to row, bid me 
consider whom I intended to carry with me besides 
those who were ransomed, and that I should make sure 
of them for the first Friday, because he had fixed on 
that day for our departure. Upon notice of this resolu- 
tion I spoke to twelve lusty Spaniards, good rowers, 
and those who might easiest get out of the city. It was 
a great fortune that we got so many in such a conjune- 
ture, because there were above twenty sail of rovers 
gone out, who had taken aboard most of the slaves fit 
for the oar; and we had not had these, but that their 
master happened to stay at home that summer to finish 
a galley be was building to cruise with, which was then 
upon the stocks. I said no more to them than only they 
should steal out of the town in the evening upon the 
next Friday, and stay for me upon the way that led to 
Agimorato’s garden. I spoke to every one by himself, 
and gave each of them orders to say no more to any 
other Christian they should see than that they stayed 
for me there. Having done this, I had another thing 
of the greatest importance, to bring to pass, which was 
to give Zoraida notice of our design, and how far we had 
carried it, that she might be ready at a short warning, 
and not to be surprised if we came upon the house ona 
sudden, and even before she conld think that the Chris- 
tian barque could he come. This made me resolve to 
go to the garden to try if it were possible to speak to 
her; so one day, upon pretence of gathering a few 
herbs, I entered the garden, and the first person I met 
was her father, who spoke to me in the language used 
all over the Turkish dominions—which is a mixture of 
all the Christian and Moorish languages, by which we 


| nit 
a 
dul | 


ae 
ie 
iH 





“Her father came hastily to us, and seeing his daughter in this condition, asked her what was the matter.”—p. 176. 


176 


understand one another from Constantinople to Algiers 
—and asked me what I looked for in his garden, and 
who I belonged to. I told him I was a slave of Arnaut 
Mami (who I knew was his intimate friend), and that 1 
wanted a few herbs to make up asalad. He then asked 
me if I were a man to be redeemed or no, and how much 
my master asked forme. During these questions the 
beautiful Zoraida came out of the garden-house hard 
by, having descried me a good while before; and as the 
Moorish women make no difficulty of showing them- 
selves to the Christian slaves, she drew near, without 
scruple, to the place where her father and I were talk- 
ing; neither did her father show any dislike of her 
coming, but called to her to come nearer. It would 
be hard for me to express here the wonderful sur- 
prise and astonishment that the beauty, the rich 
dress, and the charming air of my beloved Zoraida 
put me in; she was all bedecked with pearls, which 
hung thick upon her head and about her neck and 
arms. Her feet and legs were bare, after the cus- 
tom of that country, and she had upon her ankles a 
kind of a bracelet of gold, and set with such rich dia- 
monds that her father valued them, as she has since 
told me, at 10,000 pistoles a pair; and those about her 
wrists were of the same value. The pearls were of the 
best sort, for the Moorish women delight much in them, 
aud have more pearls of all sorts than any nation. Her 
father was reputed to have the finest in Algiers, and to 
be worth, besides, above 200,000 Spanish crowns, of all 
which the lady you here see was then mistress, but 
now is only so of me. What she yet retains of beauty, 
after all her sufferings, may help you to guess at her 
wonderful appearance in the midst of her prosperity. 
The beauty of some ladies has its days and times, and 
is more or less according to accidents or passions, 
which naturally raise or diminish the lustre of it, and 
sometimes quite extinguish it. All I can say is, at that 
time she appeared to me the best dressed and most 
beautiful woman I had ever seen; to which adding the 
obligations I had to her, she passed with me for a god- 
dess from heaven, descended upon earth for my relief 
and happiness. 

“As she drew near, her father told her, in his coun- 
try language, that I was a slave of his friend Arnaut 
Mami, and came to pick a salad in his garden. She 
presently took the hint, and asked me, in lingua Fran- 
ca, whether I was a gentleman, and if IJ was, why 
I did not ransom myself. I told her I was already ran- 
somed, and that by the price she might guess the value 
my master set upon me, since be had bought me for 
1,500 pieces of eight. To which she replied, ‘If thou 
hadst been my father’s slave, I would not have let him 
part with thee for twice as much; for,’ said she, ‘you 
Christians never speak truth in anything you say, and 
make yourselves poor to deceive the Moors.’ 

“That may be, madam,’ said I, ‘but in truth I have 
dealt by my master sincerely aud honorably, and do in- 
tend to deal so by all those I shall have to deal with.’ 

“¢ And when dost thou go home?’ said she. 

“eTo-morrow, madam, for here is a French barque that 
sails to-morrow, and I intend not to lose that opportunity.’ 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“«Ts it not better,’ replied Zoraida, ‘to stay till there 
come some Spanish barque, and go with them, and not 
with the French, who, I am told, are no friends of 
yours?’ 

“«No,’ said I; ‘yet if the report of a Spanish barque’s 
coming should prove true, I would perhaps stay for it, 
though it is more likely I shall take the opportunity of 
the French, because the desire I have of being at home, 
and with those persons I love, will hardly let me wait 
for any other conveniency.’ 

“<«Without doubt,’ said Zoraida, ‘thou art married in 
Spain, and impatient to be with thy wife.’ 

“«T am not,’ said I, ‘married, but I have given my 
word to a lady to be so as soon as I can reach my own 
country.’ 

“« And is the lady handsome that has your promise?’ 
said Zoraida. 

“<«She is so handsome,’ said I, ‘that, to describe her 
rightly and tell truth, I can only say she is like you.’ 

“At this her father laughed heartily, and said, ‘On 
my word, Christian, she must be very charming if she 
be like my daughter, who is the greatest beauty of all 
this kingdom; look upon her well, and thou wilt say I 
speak truth.’ 

“Zoraida’s father was our interpreter for the most of 
what we talked; for though she understood the lingua 
Franca, yet she was not used to speak it, and so ex- 
plained herself more by signs than words. 

“While we were in this conversation, there came a 
Moor running hastily, and cried aloud that four Turks 
had leaped over the fence of the garden, and were 
gathering the fruit, though it was notripe. The old 
man started at that, and so did Zoraida, for the Moors 
do naturally stand in awe of the Turks, particularly of 
the soldiers, who are so insolent on their side that they 
treat the Moors as if they were their slaves. This made 
the father bid his daughter go in and shut herself up 
close, ‘whilst,’ said he, ‘I go and talk with these dogs; 
and for thee, Christian, gather the herbs thou wantest, 
and go thy way in peace, and God conduct thee safe to 
thy own country.’ I bowed to him, and he left me with 
Zoraida, to go aud find out the Turks; she made also as 
if she were going away, as her father had bid her; but 
she was no sooner hid from his sight by the trees of the 
garden, but she turned towards me with her eyes full 
of tears, and said, in her language, Atameji, Christiano, 
Atameji; which is, ‘Thon art going away, Christian, 
thou art going.’ To which I answered, ‘Yes, madam, 1 
am, but by no means without you; you may expect me 
next Friday, and be not surprised when you see us, for 
we will certainly go to the land of the Christians.’ I 
said this so passionately that she understood me; and 
throwing one of her arms about my neck, she began to 
walk softly and with trembling towards the house. It 
pleased fortune that as we were in this posture walking 
together (which might have proved very unlucky to 
us) we met Agimorato coming back from the Turks, and 
we perceived he had seen us as we were; but Zoraida, 
very readily and discreetly, was so far from taking 
away her arm about my neck, that, drawing still nearer 
to me, she leaned her head upon my breast, and, letting 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


her knees give way, was in the posture of one that 
swoons: I at the same time made as if I had much ado 
to bear her up against my will. Her father came hasti- 
ly to us, and, seeing his daughter in this condition, 
asked her what was the matter. But she not answer- 
ing readily, he presently said, ‘Without doubt those 
Turks have frightened her, and she faints away;’ at 
which he took her in his arms. She, as it were, coming 
to herself, fetched a deep sigh, and, with her eyes not 
yet dried from tears, she said, in the language she had 
used before, ‘Begone, Christian; begone.’ To which 
her father replied, ‘It is no matter, child, whether he 
go or no, he has done thee no hurt; and the Turks, at 
my request, are gone.’ 

“It is they who frightened her,’ said I; ‘but since 
she desires I should be gone, I will come another time 
for my salad, by your leave; for my master says the 
herbs of your garden are the best of any he can have.’ 

“Thou mayest have what and when thou wilt,’ said 
the father, ‘for my daughter does not thnk the Christian 
troublesome; she only wished the Turks away, and by 
mistake bid thee begone too.’ With this I immediately 
took leave of them both; and Zoraida, showing trouble 
in her looks, went away with her father. I, in the 
meantime, upon pretence of gathering my herbs here 

* and there, walked all over the garden, observing ex- 
actly all the places of coming in and going out, and 
every corner fit for my purpose, as well as what 
strength there was in the house, with all other conve- 
niences to facilitate our business. Having done this, I 
went my ways, and gave an exact account of all that 
had happened to the renegade and the rest of my 
triends, longing earnestly for the time in which I might 
promise myself my dear Zoraida’s company, without 
any fear of disturbance. At last the happy hour came, 
and we had all the success we could promise ourselves 
of a design so well laid, for the Friday after my dis- 
course with Zoraida, towards the evening, we came to 
an anchor with our barque, almost over against the 
place where my loved mistress lived; the Christians 
who were employed at the oar were already at the ren- 
dezvous, and hid up and down thereabouts. They were 
all in expectation of my coming, and very desirous to 
seize the barque which they saw before their eyes, for 
they did not know our agreement with the renegade, 
but thought they were by main force to gain their con- 
veyance and their liberty by killing the Moors on 
board. As soon as I and my friends appeared, all the 
rest came from their hiding-places to us. By this time 
the city gates were shut, and no soul appeared in all 
the country near us. When we were all together, it 
was a question whether we should first fetch Zoraida, 
or make ourselves masters of those few Moors in the 
barque. As we were in this consultation the renegade 
came to us, and, asking if we meant to stand idle, told 
us his Moors were all gone to rest, and most of them 
asleep. We told him our difficulty, and he immediately 
said that the most important thing was to secure the 
barque, which might easily be done, and without dan- 
ger, and then we might go for Zoraida. 

“We were all of his mind, and so, without more ado, 

12——_DON QUIX. 





177 


he marched at the bead of us to the barque, and, leap- 
ing into it, he first drew a scymitar, and cried aloud, in 
the Moorish language, ‘Let not a man of you stir, ex- 
cept he means it should cost him his life;’ and while he 
said this all the other Christians were got on board. 
The Moors, who are naturally timorous, hearing the 
master use this language, were frightened, and, with- 
out resistance, suffered themselves to be manacled, 
which was done with great expedition by the Chris- 
tians, who told them, at the same time, that if they 
made the least noise they would immediately cut their 
throats. This being done, and half of our number being 
left to guard them, the remainder, with the renegade, 
went to Agimorato’s garden; and our good fortune was 
such that, coming to force the gate, we found it open 
with as much facility as if it had not been shut at all. 
So we marched on with great silence to the house, with- 
out being perceived by anybody. The lovely Zoraida, 
who was at the window, asked softly, upon hearing us 
tread, whether we were Nazarini—that is, Christians. 
I answered ‘Yes;’ and desired her to come down. As 
soon as she heard my voice she stayed not a minute; 
but, without saying a word, came down and opened the 
door, appearing to us like a goddess, her beauty 
and the richness of her dress not being to be de- 
scribed. As soon as I saw her I took her by the hand, 
which I kissed; the renegade did the same, and then 
my friends; the rest of the company followed the same 
ceremony, so that we all paid her a kind of homage for 
our liberty. The renegade asked her, in Morisco, 
whether her father was in the garden. She said ‘ Yes,’ 
and that he wasasleep. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘we must 
awake him, and take him with us, as also all thatis val- 
uable in the house.’ 

“«No, no,’ said Zoraida; ‘my father must not be 
touched; and in the house there is nothing so rich as 
whatI shall carry with me, which is enough to make you 
all rich and content.’ Having said this she stepped 
into the house, bid us be quiet, and she would soon 
return. , 

“Tasked the renegade what had passed between them, 
and he told me what he had said; to which I replied, 
that by no means was anything to be done otherwise 
than as Zoraida should please. She was already com- 
ing back with a small trunk so full of gold that she 
could hardly carry it, when, to our great misfortune, 
while this was doing, her father awoke, and, hearing a 
noise in the garden, opened a window and looked out: 
having perceived that there were Christians in it, he 
began to cry out, in Arabic, ‘Thieves, Thieves! Chris- 
tians, Christians!’ 

“These cries of his put us all into a terrible disorder 
and fear; but the renegade, seeing our danger, and how 
much it imported us to accomplish our enterprise be- 
fore we were perceived, ran up to the place where 
Agimorato was, and took with him some of our com- 
pany; for I durst by no means leave Zoraida, who had 
swooned away in my arms. Those who went up be- 
stirred themselves so well that they brought down 
Agimorato with his hands tied behind him, and his mouth 
stopped with a handkerchief, which hindered him from 





if 


a AN ) 


im 











vil 
HO 


« Zornida showing trouble in her looks, went away with her father.”—p. 177. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


so much as speaking a word; and threatening him, be- 
sides, that if he made the least attempt to speak, it 
should cost him his life. When his daughter, who was 
come to herself, saw him, she covered her eyes to avoid 
the sight, and her father remained the more astonished, 
for he knew not how willingly she had put herself into 
our hands. Diligence on our side being the chief thing 
requisite, we came as speedily as we could to our barque, 
where our men began to be in pain for us, as fearing 
that we had met with some ill accident. We goton 
board about two hours after it was dark; where the 
first thing we did was to untie the hands of Zoraida’s 
father, and to unstop his mouth, but still with the same 
threatenings of the renegade, in case he made any noise. 
When he saw bis daughter there he began to sigh most 
passionately, and more when he saw me embrace her 
with tenderness, and that she, without any resistance 
or struggling, seemed to endure; he, for all this, was 
silent, for fear the threatenings of the renegade should 
be put in execution. Zoraida, seeing us aboard, and 
that we were ready to handle our oars to be gone, bid 
the renegade tell me she desired I would set her father 
and the other Moors, our prisoners, on shore; for else 
she would throw herself into the sea rather than see 
a father, who had used her so tenderly, be carried away 
captive for her sake before her eyes. The renegade 
told me what she said, to which I agreed; but the rene- 
gade was of another opinion; saying, thatif we set them 
on shore there they would raise the country, and give 
the alarm to the city, by which some light frigates might 
be dispatched in quest of us, and, getting between us 
and the sea, it would be impossible for us to make 
our escape; and all that could be done was to set 
them at liberty in the first Christian land we could 
reach. This seemed so reasonable to us all that Zoraida 
herself, being informed of the motives we had not to 
obey her at present, agreed to it. Immediately, with 
great silence and content, we began to ply our oars, 
recommending ourselves to Providence with all our 
hearts, and endeavored to make for Majorca, which is 
the nearest Christian land; but the north wind rising a 
little, and the sea with it, we could not hold that course, 
but were forced to drive along shore towards Oran, not 
without great fear of being discovered from Sargel, up- 
on the coast, about thirty leagues from Algiers. We 
were likewise apprehensive of meeting some of those 
galliots which came from Tetuan with merchandise: 
though, to say truth, we did not so much fear these 
last; for, except it were a cruising galliot, we all of us 
wished to meet such a one, which we should certainly 
take, and so get a better vessel to transport usin. Zo- 
raida all this while hid her face between my hands, that 
shé might not see her father; and I could hear her call 
upon Lela Marien to help us. By the time we had got 
about thirty miles the day broke, and we found our- 
selves within a mile of the shore, which appeared to us 
a desert, solitary place, but yet we rowed hard to get off 
to sea, for fear of being discovered by somebody. When 
we were got about two leagues out to sea, we proposed 
the men should row by turns, that some might refresh 
themselves; but the men at the oar said it was not time 





179 


yet to rest, and that they could eat and row too, if those 
who did not row would assist them, and give them meat 
and drink; this we did, and a little while after, the 
wind blowing fresh, we ceased rowing, and set sail for 
Oran, not being able to hold any other course. We 
made above eight miles an hour, being in no fear of 
anything but meeting some cruisers. We gave victuals 
to our Moorish prisoners, and the renegade comforted 
them, and told them they were not slaves, but that they 
should be set at liberty upon the first opportunity. The 
same was said to Zoraida’s father, who answered, ‘I 
might expect from your courtesy anything else perhaps, 
O Christians; but that you should give me my liberty 
Iam not simple enough to believe it; for you never 
would have run the hazard of taking it from me, if you 
intended to restore it me so easily, especially since you 
know who I am, and what you may get for my ransom, 
which, if you will but name, I do from this moment ofter 
you all that you can desire for me and for that unfortu- 
nate daughter of mine, or for her alone, since she is the 
better part of me.’ 

“When he had said this, he burst out into tears so 
violently that Zoraida could not forbear looking up at 
him, and indeed he moved compassion in us all, but in 
her particularly; insomuch as, starting from my arms, 
she flew to her father’s, and, putting her head to his, 
they began again so passionate and tender a scene that 
most of us could not forbear accompanying their grief 
with our tears; but her father, seeing her so richly 
dressed, and so many jewels about her, said to her in 
his language, ‘ What is the meaning of this, daughter ? 
For last night, before this terrible misfortune befell us, 
thou wert in thy ordinary dress; and now, without 
scarce having had the time to put on such things, I see 
thee adorned with all the fineries that I could give thee, 
if we were at liberty and in full prosperity. This gives 
me more wonder and trouble than even our sad misfor- 
tunes; therefore, answer me.’ The renegade interpreted 
all that the Moor said, and we saw that Zoraida answered 
not one word; but, on a sudden, spying the little casket 
in which she used to put her jewels, which he thought 
had been left in Algiers, he remained yet more aston- 
ished, and asked her how that trunk could come into 
our hands, and what was in it; to which the renegade, 
without expecting Zoraida’s answer, replied, ‘Do not 
trouble thyself to ask thy daughter so many questions, 
for with one word I can satisfy them all. Know then 
that she is a Christian, and it is she that has filed off 
our chains, and given us liberty; she is with us by her 
own consent, and I hope well pleased, as people should 
be who come from darkness into light, and from death 
to life.’ 

“<Ts this true, daughter?’ said the Moor. 

““It is,’ replied Zoraida. 

“How then,’ said the old man, “art thou really a 
Christian? and art thou she that has put thy father into 
the power of his enemies ?” 

“To which Zoraida replied, ‘I am she that is a Chris- 
tian, but not she that has brought thee into this condi- 
tion, for my design never was to injure my father, but 
only to do myself good.” 


























DON QUIXOTE DE LA: MANCHA. 


““ And what good hast thou done thyself?’ said the 
Moor. 

“¢ Ask that of Lela Marien,’ repled Zoraida, ‘for she 
can tell thee best. 

“The old man had no sooner heard this but he threw 
himself, with incredible fury, into the sea, where, with- 
out doubt, he had been drowned, had not his garments, 
which were long and wide, kept him some time above 
water. Zoraida cried out to us to help him, which we all 
did so readily, that we pulled him out by his vest, but 
half drowned, and without any sense. This so troubled 
Zoraida that she threw herself upon her father, and 
began to lament and take on as if he had been really 
dead. We turned his head downwards, and by this 
means, having disgorged a great deal of water, he re- 
covered a little in about two hours’ time. The wind in 
the meanwhile was come about, and forced us towards 
the shore, so that we were obliged to ply our oars not 
to be driven upon the land It was our good fortune 
to get into a small bay, which is made by a promontory 
called the Cape of the Caba Rumia—which, in our 
tongue, is ‘the Cape of the wicked Christian woman;’ 
and itis a tradition among the Moors that Caba, the 
daughter of Count Julian, who was the cause of the 
loss of Spain, lies buried there; and they think it omi- 
nous to be forced into that bay, for they never go in 
otherwise than by necessity: but to us it was no un- 
lucky harbor, but a safe retreat, considering how high 
the sea went by this time. We posted our sentries on 
shore, but kept our oars ready to be plied upon occa- 
sion, taking in the meantime some refreshment of what 
the renegade had provided, praying heartily to God 
and the Virgin Mary to protect us, and help us to bring 
our design to a happy conclusion. Here, at the desire 
of Zoraida, we resolved to set her father on shore with 
all the other Moors, whom we kept fast bound; for she 
had not courage, nor could her tender heart suffer any 
longer to see her father and her countrymen ill used 
before her face; but we did not think to do it before 
we were just ready to depart, and then they could not 
much hurt us, the place being a solitary one, and no 
habitations near it. Our prayers were not in vain; the 
wind fell and the sea became calm, inviting us thereby 
to pursue our intended voyage: we unbound our prison- 
ers, and set them on shore one by one, which they were 
mightily astonished at. 

“When we came to. put Zoraida’s father on shore, 
who by this time was come to himself, he said, ‘Why 
do you think, Christians, that this wicked woman de- 
sires I should be set at liberty? do you think it is for 
any pity she takes of me? No, certainly, but itis be- 
cause she is not able to bear my presence, which hind- 
ers the prosecution of her ill desires. I would not have 
you think neither that she has embraced your religion 
because she knows the difference between yours and 
ours, but because she has heard that she may live more 
loosely in your country than at home.’ And then turn- 
ing himself to Zoraida, while I and another held him 
fast by the arms, that he might commit no extravagance, 
he said, ‘Oh, infamous and blind young woman, where 
art thou going, in the power of these dogs, our natural 





181 


enemies? Cursed be the hour in which I begot thee, 
and the care and affection with which I bred thee!’ 

“But I, seeing he was not like to make an end of his 
exclamations soon, made haste to set him on shore, 
from whence he continued to give us his curses and im- 
precations; begging, on his knees, of Mahomet to beg 
of God Almighty to confound and destroy us. And 
when, being under sail, we could no longer hear him, 
we saw his actions, which were tearing his hair and 
beard, and rolling himself upon the ground: but he 
once strained his voice so high that we heard what he 
said, which was, ‘Come back, my dear daughter, for I 
forgive thee all; let those men have the treasure which 
is already in their possession, and do thou return to 
comfort thy disconsolate father, who must else lose his 
life in these sandy deserts !’ 

“All this Zoraida heard, and shed abundance of tears, 
but could answer nothing but beg that Lela Marien,who 
had made her a Christian, would comfort him. ‘God 
knows,’ said she, ‘I could not avoid doing what I have 
done; and that these Christians are not obliged to me, 
for I could not be at rest till I had done this, which to 
thee, dear father, seems so ill a thing.’ All this she 
said when we were got so far out of his hearing that 
we could scarce so much as see him. So I eomforted 
Zoraida as well as I could, and we all minded our voy- 
age. The wind was now so right for our purpose that 
we made no doubt of being the next morning upon the 
Spanish shore; but asit seldom happens that any felic- 
ity comes so pure as not to be tempered and alloyed by 
some mixture of sorrow, either our ill fortune or the 
Moor’s curses had such an effect—for a father’s curses 
are to be dreaded, let the father be what he will—that 
about midnight, when we were under full sail, with our 
oars laid by, we saw, by the light of the moon, hard by us 
around-sterned vessel, with all her sails out, coming 
a-head of us, which she did so close to us that we were 
forced to strike our sail, not to run foul of her; and the 
vessel likewise seemed to endeavor to let us go by. 
They had come so near as to ask from whence we came, 
and whither we were going. But, doing it in French, 
the renegade forbade us to answer, saying, ‘ Without 
doubt these are French pirates, to whom everything is 
prize.’ This made us all be silent; and, as we sailed 
on, they being under the wind, fired two guns at us, 
both, as it appeared, with chain-shot, for one brought 
our mast by the board, and the other went through us 
without killing anybody; but we, perceiving we were 
sinking, called to them to come and take us, for we 
were going to be drowned. They then struck their 
own sails, and, putting out their boat, there came about a 
dozen French on board us, all well armed, and with their 
matches lighted. When they were close to us, seeing 
we were but a few, they took us a-board their boat, 
saying that this had happened to us for not answering 
their questions. 

“When we were on board their vessel, after having 
learnt from us all they could, they began to strip us, as 
if we had been their mortal enemies; they plundered 
Zoraida of all the jewels and bracelets she had on her 
hands and feet; and even took our slave’s clothes. 




















DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


They then consulted what to do with us: some were of 
opinion to throw us overboard, wrapped up in a sail, 
because they intended to put into some of the Spanish 
ports, under the notion of being of Brittany; and if 
they carried us with them they might be punished, and 
their roguery come to light: but the captain, who 
thought himself rich enough with Zoraida’s plunder, 
said he would not touch at any port of Spain, but make 
his way through the Straits by night, and so return to 
Rochelle from whence he came. This being resolved, 
they bethought themselves of giving us their long boat, 
and what provision we might want for our short passage. 
As soon as it was day, and we had descried the Spanish 
shore—at which sight, so desirable a thing is liberty, 
all our miseries vanished from our thoughts in a 
moment—they began to prepare things, and about noon 
they put us on board, giving us two barrels of water, 
and a small quantity of biscuit; and the captain, touched 
with some remorse for the lovely Zoraida, gave her, at 
parting, about forty crowns in gold, and would not 
suffer his men to take from her those clothes which now 
she has on. We went aboard, showing ourselves rather 
thankful than complaining. They got out to sea, mak- 
ing for the Straits, and we, having the land before us 
for our north star, plied our oars, so that about sunset 
we were near enough to have landed before it was quite 
dark; but considering the moon was hid in clouds, and 
the heavens were growing dark, and we ignorant of the 
shore, we did not think it safe to venture on it, though 
many among us were so desirous of liberty, and to be 
out of all danger, that they would have landed, though 
on a rock; and by that means, at least, we might avoid 
all little barques of the pirates of the Barbary coast, 
such as those of.Tetuan, who come from home when it 
is dark, and by morning are early upon the Spanish 
coast, where they often make a prize, and go home to 
bed the same day. But the other opinion prevailed, 
which was to row gently on, and, if the sea and shore 
gave leave, to land quietly where we could. We did 
accordingly, and about midnight we came under a great 
hill, which had a sandy shore, convenient enough for 
our landing. Here we ran our boat in as far as we 
could, and, being got on land, we all kissed it for joy, 
and thanked God with tears for our deliverance. This 
done, we took out the little provision we had left, and 
climbed up the mountain, thinking ourselves more in 
safety there; for we could hardly persuade ourselves 
nor believe that the land we were upon was the Chris- 
tian shore. 

“We thought the day long a-coming, and then we got 
to the top of the hill, to see if we could discover any 
habitations; but we could nowhere descry either house, 
or person, or path. We resolved, however, to go farther 
on, thinking we could not miss at last of somebody to 
inform us where we were. That which troubled me 
most was to see my poor Zoraida go on foot among the 
sharp rocks, and I would sometimes have carried her 
on my shoulders; but she was as mucb concerned at 
the pains I took as she could be at what she en- 
dured, so, leaning on me, she went on with much 
patience and content. When we were gone about a 





183 


quarter of a league we heard the sound of a little pipe, 
which we took to be a certain sign of some flock near 
us; and, looking well about, we perceived at last, at the 
foot of a cork-tree, a young shepherd who was cutting 
a stick with his knife with great attention and serious- 
ness. We called to him, and he, having looked up, ran 
away as hard as he could. It seems, as we afterwards 
heard, the first he saw were the renegade and Zoraida, 
who, being in the Moorish dress, he thought all the 
Moors in Barbary were upon him; and, running into the 
wood, cried all the way as loud as he could, ‘ Moors, 
Mcors! arm, arm! the Moors are landed!’ We, hear- 
ing this outcry, did not well know what to do; but, 
considering that the shepherd’s roaring would raise the 
country, and the horse-guard of the coast would be up- 
on us, we agreed that the renegade should pull off his 
Turkish habit, and put on a slave's coat, which one of 
us lent him, though he that lent it him remained in his 
shirt. Thus, recommending ourselves to God, we went 
on by the same way that the shepherd ran, stil! expect- 
ing when the horse would come upon us; and we were 
not deceived, for in less than two hours, as we came 
down the hills into a plain, we discovered about fifty 
horse coming up on a half-gallop towards us: when we 
saw that, we stood still, expecting them. 

“As soon as they came up, and, instead of so many 
Moors, saw so many poor Christian captives, they were 
astonished. One of them asked us if we were the occa- 
sion of the alarm that a young shepherd had given the 
country. ‘Yes,’ said I, and upon that began to tell him 
who we were, and whence we came; but one of our 
company knew the horseman that had asked us the 
question, and, without letting me go on, said, ‘God be 
praised, gentlemen, for bringing us to so good a part of 
the country, for, if I mistake not, we are near Velez 
Malaga; and if the many years of my captivity have 
not taken my memory from me too, I think that you, 
sir, who ask us these questions, are my uncle Don Pe- 
dro Bustamente.’ 

“The Christian slave had hardly said this, but the 
gentleman, lighting from his horse, came hastily to em- 
brace the young slave, saying, ‘Dear nephew! my joy! 
my life! I know thee, and have often lamented thy loss, 
and so has thy mother and thy other relations, whom 
thou wilt yet find alive. God has preserved them that 
they may have the pleasure of seeing thee. We had 
heard thou wert in Algiers, and, by what I see of thy 
dress, and that of all this company, you must all have 
had some miraculous deliverance.’ ‘It is so,’ replied 
the young man; ‘and we shall have time enough now to 
tell all our adventures.” 

“The rest of the horsemen, hearing we were Chris- 
tians escaped from slavery, lighted likewise from their 
horses, offering them to us to carry us to the city of 
Velez Malaga, which was about a league and a half off. 
Some of them went where we had left our boat, and got 
it into the port, while others took us up behind them; 
and Zoraida rode behind the gentleman, uncle to 
our captive. All the people, who had already heard 
something of our adventure, came out to meet us. 
They did not wonder to see captives at liberty, nor 














DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Moors prisoners, for on all that coast they are used to 
it; but they were astonished at the beauty of Zoraida, 
which at that instant seemed to be at its point of per- 
fection; for, what with the agitation of travelling, and 
what with the joy of being safe in Christendom, with- 
out the terrible thought of being re-taken, she had 
such a beautiful color in her countenance, that were it 
not for fear of being too partial, I durst say there was 
not a more beautiful creature in the world, at least that 
I had seen. We went straight to church, to thank God 
for his mercy to us; and when we came into it, and 
Zoraida had looked upon the pictures, she said there 
were several faces there that were like Lela Marien's. 
We told her they were her pictures, and the renegade 
explained to her, as well as he could, the story of them; 
and she, who has a good and clear understanding, com- 

w prehended immediately all that was said about the 
pictures and images. 

“After this we were dispersed, and lodged in differ- 
ent houses of the town; but the young slave of Velez 
carried me, Zoraida, and the renegade to his father's 
house, where we were accommodated pretty well, ac- 
cording to their ability, and used with as much kind- 
ness as their own son. After six days’ stay at Velez, 
the renegade, having informed himself of what was 





185 


needful for him to know, went to Granada, there to be 
re-admitted by the Holy Inquisition into the bosom of 
the Church. The other Christians, being at liberty, 
went each whither he thought fit. Zoraida and I re- 
mained without other help than the forty crowns the 
pirate gave her, with which I bought the ass she rides 
on, and, since we landed, have acted towards heras a 
father and a friend: We are now going to see whether 
my father be alive, or if either of my brothers has had 
better fortune than I; though, since it hath pleased 
Heaven to give me Zoraida, and make me her compan- 
ion, I reckon no better fortune could befall me. The 
patience with which she bears the inconvenience of 
poverty, the desire she shows of being made a Christian, 
do give me subjects of continual admiration, and oblige 
me to serve and love her all the days of my life. I con- 
fess the expectation of being hers is not a little alloyed 
with the uncertainties of knowing whether I shall find 
in my country any one to receive us, or acorner to pass 
my life with her; and perhaps time will have altered 
the affairs of our family, that I shall not find anybody 
that will know me, if my father and brothers are dead. 

“That is, gentlemen, the sum of my adventures, 
which, whether or no they are entertaining, you_are 
best judges.” 








CHAPTER 


XXXVIII. 


AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED IN THE INN WITH SEVERAL OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTH NOTICE. 


HERE the stranger ended his story, and Don Ferdi- 
nand, by way of compliment, in the behalf of the whole 
company said, “Truly, captain, the wonderful and 
surprising turns of your fortune are not only entertain- 
ing, but the pleasing and graceful manner of your re- 
lation is as extraordinary as the adventures themselves. 
We are all bound to pay you our acknowledgements, 
and I belleve we could be delighted with a second re- 
cital, though it were to last till to-morrow, provided it 
it were made by you.” 

Cardenio and the rest of the company joined with him 
in offering their utmost service in the re-establishment 
of his fortune, and that with so much sincerity and 
earnestness, that the captain had reason to be satisfied 
of their affection. Don Ferdinand particularly pro- 
posed to engage the marquis, his brother, to stand god- 
father to Zoraida, if he would return with him; and, 
further, promised to provide him with all things neces- 
sary to support his figure and quality in town: but the 
captain, making them a very handsome compliment for 
their obliging favors, excused himself from accepting 
those kind offers at that time. 

It was now growing towards the dark of the evening, 
when a coach stopped at the inn, and with it some horse- 





men, who asked for a lodging. The hostess answered 
they were as full as they could pack. 

“Were you ten times fuller,” answered one of the 
horseman. “there must be room made here for my Lord 
Judge, who is in this coach.” 

The hostess, hearing this, was very much concerned: 
said she, “The case, sir, is plain: we have not one bed 
empty in the house; but if his lordship brings a bed 
with him, as perhaps he may, he shall command my 
house with all my heart, and I and my husband will 
quit our own chamber to serve him.” 

“Do so, then,” said the man; and by this time a gen- 
tleman alighted from the coach, easily distinguishable 
for a man of dignity and office, by his long gown and 
great sleeves. He led a young lady by the hand, about 
sixteen years of age, dressed in a riding suit; her 
beauty and charming air attracted the eyes of every- 
body with admiration, and had not the other ladies been 
present, any one might have thought it difficult to have 
matched her outward graces. 

Don Quixote, seeing them come near the door, “Sir,” 
said he, “you may enter undismayed, and refresh your- 
self in this castle, which, though little, and indifferently 
provided, must nevertheless allow a room, and afford 


186 


accommodation to arms and learning; aud more espec- 
ially to arms and learning that, like yours, bring beauty 
for their guide and conductor. For, certainly, at the 
approach of this lovely damsel, not only castles ought 
to open and expand their gates, but even rocks divide 
their solid bodies, ind mountains bow their ambitious 
crests and stoop to entertain her. Come in, therefore, 
sir; enter this paradise, where you shall find a bright. 
constellation worthy to shine in conjunction with that 
heaven of beauty which you bring. Here shall you 
find arms in their height. and beauty in perfection.” 

Don Quixote’s speech, mien, and garb put the judge 
to a strange nonplns; and he was not a little surprised, 
on the other hand, at the sudden appearance of the 
three ladies, who being informed of the judge’s coming, 
and the young lady’s beauty, were come ont to see and 
entertain her. But Don Ferdinand, Cardenio, and the 
eurate, addressing him in a style very different from 
the knight, soon convinced him that he had to with 
gentlemen, aud persons of note, though Don Qnixote’s 
figure and behavior put him to a stand, and not being 
able to make any reasonable conjecture of his extrava- 
gance. After the usual civilities passed on both sides, 
they found, upon examination, that the women must all 
lie together in Don Quixote’s apartment, and the men 
remain without to guard them. The judge consented 
that his daughter should go with the ladies, and so, 
with his own bed, and what with the innkeeper's, be 
and the gentlemen made a shift to pass the night. 

The captain, upon the first sight of the judge, had a 
strong presumption that he was one of his brothers, and 
presently asked one of his servants his name and coun- 
try. The fellow told him his name was Juan Peres de 
Viedma, and that, as he was informed, he was born in 
the Highlands of Leon. This, with his owu observa- 
tion, confirmed his opinion that this was the brother 
who had made study his choice; whereupon, calling 
aside Don Ferdinand, Cardenio, and the curate, he told 
them, with great joy, what he had learned, with what 
the servant further told him, that his master, being 
made a judge of the court of Mexico, was then upon his 
journey to the Indies; that the young lady was his only 
daughter, whose mother settled her dowry upon her 
daughter for her portion, and that the father had still 
lived a widower, and was very rich. Upon the whole 
matter he asked their advice, whether they thought it 


proper for him to discover himself presently to his; 


brother, or whether he should by some means try how 
his pulse beat first in relation to his Joss, by which he 
might guess at his reception. 

“Why should you doubt of a kind one, sir?” said the 
curate. + 

“Becanse I am poor, sir,” said the captain, “and 
would therefore by some device fathom his affections; 
for, should he prove ashamed to own me, 1 should be 
more ashamed to discover myself.” 

“Then leave the management to me,” said the curate. 
“The affable and courteous behavior of the judge seems 
to me so very far from pride, that you need not doubt a 
welcome reception; but, however, because you desire 
it, I will engage to find a way to sound him.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Supper was now upon the table, and all the gentlemen 
sat down but the captain, who ate with the ladies in the 
nextroom. When the company had half supped, “My 
Lord Judge,” said the curate, “1 remember that some 
years ago Iwas happy in the acquaintauce and friend- 
ship of a gentleman of your name, when I was a pris- 
oner in Constantinople. He was a captain of as much 
worth and courage as any in the Spanish infantry, but 
as unfortunate as brave.” 

“What was his name, pray, sir?” said the judge. 

“Ruy Peres de Viedma,” answered the curate, “of 
a town in the mountains of Leon. Tremembher he told 
me a very odd passage between his father, his two 
brothers, and himself; and truly, had it come from any 
man of Jess credit and reputation, I should have 
thought it no more than astory. He said that his father 
made an equal dividend of his estate among his three 
sons, giving them such advice as might have fitted the 
mouth of Cato; that he made arms his choice, and with 
such success, that within a few years, by the pure 
merit of his bravery, he was made captain of a foot 
company, and had a fair prospect of being advanced to 
« colonel; but his fortune forsook bim where he had 
most reason to expect her favor, for in the memorable 
battle of Lepanto, where so many Christians recovered 
their liberty, he, unfortunately, lost bis. I was taken 
at Goletta, and, after different turns of fortune, we be- 
came companions at Constantinople; thence we were 
carried to Algiers, where one of the strangest adven- 
tures in the world befell this gentleman.” The curate 
then briefly ran throngh the whole story of the captain 
and Zoraida (the judge sitting all the time more atten- 
tive than he ever did on the bench), to their being 
taken and stripped by the French; and that he had 
heard nothing of them after that, nor could ever learn 
whether they came into Spain, or were carried prisoners 
into France. 

The captain stood listening in a corner, and observed 
the motions of his brother's countenance while the 
curate told his story; which, when he had finished, the 
judge breathing out a deep sigh, and the tears standing 
in his eves, “Oh, sir,” said he, “if you knew how near- 
ly your relation touches me, you would easily excuse 
the violent eruption of these tears. The captain you 
spoke of is my eldest brother, who, being of a stronger 
constitution of Jody, and more elevated soul, made the 
glory and fame of war his choice, which was one of the 
three proposals made by my fatber, as your companion 
told you. lapplied myself to study, and my younger 
brother has purchased a vast estate in Peru, out of 
which he has transmitted to my father enough to sup- 
port his liberal disposition, and to me wherewithal to 
continue my studies and advance myself to the rank 
and authorit, which I now maintain. My father is still 
alive, but dies daily for grief that he can learn nothing 
of his eldest son, and importunes Heaven incessantly 
that he may once more see him hefore death close his 
eyes. Itis very strange, considering his discretion in 
other matters, that neither prosperity nor adversity 
could draw one line from him, to give his father an ac- 
count of his fortunes. For had he or we had the least 


ge 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


hint of his captivity, he needed not have stayed for the 
miracle of the Moorish lady's cane for his deliverance. 
Now am I in the greatest uneasiness in the world, lest 
the French, the better to conceal their robbery, may 
have killed him; the thoughts of this will damp the 
pleasure of my voyage, which I thought to prosecute 
so pleasantly. Could I but guess, dear brother,” con- 
tinued he, “where you might be found, I would hazard 
life and fortune for your deliverance! Could our aged 
father once understand you were alive, though hidden 
in the deepest and darkest dungeon in Barbary, his es- 
tate, mine, and my brother’s, all should fly for your 
ransom! And for the fair and liberal Zoraida what 
thanks, what recompense could we provide? Oh, might 
I see the happy day of her special birth and baptism; 
to see her joined to him in faith and marriage, how 
should we all rejoice!” These and such like expres- 
sions the judge uttered with so much passion and vehe- 
mency that he raised a concern in everybody. 

The curate, foreseeing the happy success of his de- 
sign, resolved to prolong the discovery no farther; and, 
to free the company from suspense, he went to the 
ladies’ room, and, leading out Zoraida, followed by the 
rest, he took the captain by the other hand, and, pre- 
senting them to the judge, “Suppress your grief, my 
lord,” said he, “and glut your heart with joy. Behold 
what you so passionately desired, your dear brother 
and his fair deliverer; this gentleman is Captain Vied- 
ma, and this the beautiful Algerine. The French have 
only reduced them to this low condition to make room 
for your generous sentiments and liberality.” 

The captain then approaching to embrace the judge, 
he held him off with both his hands to view him well, 
but, once knowing him, he flew into his arms with such 
affection, and such abundance of tears, that all the 
spectators sympathized in his passions. The brothers 
spoke so feelingly, and their mutual affection was so 
moving, the surprise so wonderful, and their joy so 
transporting, that it must be left purely to imagination 
to conceive. Now they tell one another the strange 
turns and mazes of their fortunes, then renew their 
caresses to the height of brotherly tenderness. Now 
the judge embraces Zoraida, then makes her an offer of 
his whole fortune; next makes his daughter embrace 


. 





187 


her; then the sweet and innocent converse of the beau- 
tiful Christian and the lovely Moor so touched the whole 
company that they all wept for joy. 

In the meantime Don Quixote was very solidly atten- 
tive, and wondering at these strange occurrences, 
attributed them purely to something answerable to the 
chimerical notions which are incidentto chivalry. The 
captain and Zoraida, in concert with the whole com- 
pany, resolved to return with their brother to Seville, 
and thence to advise their father of his arrival and 
liberty, that the old gentleman might make the best 
shift he could to get so far to see the baptism and mar- 
riage of Zoraida, while the judge took his voyage to 
the Indies, being obliged to make no delay, because the 
Indian fleet was ready at Seville, to set sail ina month 
for New Spain. 

Everything being now settled to the universal satis- 
faction of the company, and being very late, they all 
agreed for bed, except Don Quixote, who would needs 
guards the castle while they slept lest some tyrant or 
giant, covetous of the great treasure of beauty which 
it enclosed, should make some dangerous attempt. He 
had the thanks of the house; and the judge, being fur- 
ther informed of his humor, was not a little pleased. 
Sancho Panza was very uneasy and waspish for want of 
sleep, though the best provided with a bed, bestowing 
himself on his pack-saddle; but he paid dearly for it, 
as we Shall hear presently. 

The ladies having gone to their chamber, and every- 
body else retired to rest, and Don Quixote planted sen- 
tinel at the castle gate, a voice was heard of a sudden 
singing so sweetly that it allured all their attentions, 
but chiefly Dorothea’s, with whom the judge’s daughter, 
Donna Clara de Viedma, lay. None could imagine who 
could make such pretty music without an instrument. 
Sometimes it sounded as from the yard, sometimes as 
from the stable. With this Cardenio knocked softly at 
their door. 

“Ladies, ladies!” said he, “are you awake? Can you 
sleep when so charmingly seranaded? Do not yon 
hear how sweetly one of the footmen sings?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Dorothea, “we hear plainly.” Then 
Dorothea, hearkening as attentively as she could, heard 
this song. 








CHAPTER XXXIX. 


THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE YOUNG MULETEER, WITH OTHER STRANGE ADVENTURES THAT HAPPENED 


IN THE INN. 


A SONG. 
I. 

Toss'd in doubts and fears I rove 
On the stormy seas of love; 
Far from comfort, far from port, 
Beauty's prize and fortune's sport: 
Yet my heart disclaims despair, 
While I trace my leading star. 


IL. 
But reservedness, like a cloud, 
Does too oft her glories shroud 
Pierce to the yloom, reviving light! 
Be auspicious as you're bright, 
As you hide or dart your beams, 
Your adorer sinks or swims, 


Dorothea thought it would not be much amiss to give 


188 


Donna Clara the opportunity of hearing so excellent a 
voice, wherefore, jogging her gently, first on one side, 
and then on the other, and the young lady waking, “I 
ask your pardon, my dear,” cried Dorothea, “for thus 
interrupting your repose; and I hope you will easily 
forgive me, since I only wake you that you may have 
the pleasure of hearing one of the most charming 
voices that possibly you ever heard in your life.” 

Donna Clara, who was bardly awake, did not perfectly 
understand what Dorothea said, and therefore desired 
her to repeat what she had spoken to her. Dorothea 
did so; which then obliged Donna Clara to listen; but 
scarce had ske heard the early musician sing two verses 
ere she was taken with a strange trembling, as if she 
had been seized with a violent fit of a quartan-ague, 
and then closely embracing Dorothea, “Ah! dear 
madam,” cried she, with a deep sigh, “why did you 
wake me? Alas! the greatest happiness I could now 
have expected Lad beer to have stopped my ears. 
That unhappy musician!” 

“How is this, my dear?” cried Dorothea; “have you 
not heard that the young lad who sung now is but a 
muleteer?” 

“Ok, no, he is nc such thing,” replied Clara; “but a 
young lord, heir tv a great estate, and has such a full 
possession of my heart that, if he does vot slight it, it 
must be his forever.” 

Dorothea was strangely suprised at the young lady’s 
passionate expressions, that seemed far to exceed those 
of persons of her tender yeare. “You speak so mys- 
teriously, madam,” replied she, “that I cannot rightly 
understand yeu, unless you will please to let me know 
more plainly what you would say of hearts and sighs, 
and this young musician, whose voice has cansed so 
great an alteration in you. However, speak no more 
of them now; for I am resolved I will not lose the 
pleasure of hearing him sing. Hold,” continued she, 
“IT fancy he is going to entertain us with another 
song.” 

“With all my heart,” returned Clara; and with that 
she stopped her ears that she might not hear him; at 
which again Dorothea could not choose but wonder; 
but, listening to his voice, she heard the following 
song :— 

HOPE. 
i 


Unconquer'd Hope! thou bane of fear, 
And last deserter of the brave; 
Thou soothing ease of mortal care, 
Thou traveller beyond the grave, 
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, flatt'ring joy, 
Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart. 
I. 
The phenix, Hope, can wing her flight 
Through the vast deserts of the skies, 
And still denying fortune’s spite, 
Revive, and from her ashes rise. 
Then soar, and promise, though in vain, 
What reason’s self despairs to gain. 
Thou only, oh, presuming trust, 
Canst feed us still, yet never cloy; 
And even a virtue when unjust, 
Postpone our pain, and antedate our joy. 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Im, 
No lave, to lazy ease resign'd, 
Ever triumph'd over noble foes; 

The monarch, Fortune, most is kind 
To him who bravely dares oppose. 
They say, Love sets his blessings high; 

But who would prize an easy joy? 
Then 1'1] my scornful! fair pursue, 
Though the coy beauty still denies, 
I grovel now on earth, *tis true, 
But rais'd by her, the humble slave may rise. 

Here the voice ended, and Donna Clara’s sighs began, 
which caused the greatest curiosity imaginable in Dor- 
othea, to know the occasion of so moving a song, and of 
so sad a complaint; wherefore she again entreated her 
to pursue the discourse she had begun before. Then 
Clara, fearing Lucinda would over-hear her, getting 
as near Dorothea as was possible, laid her mouth so 
close to Dorothea’s ear, that she was out of danger of 
being understood by any other, and began in this man- 
ner:—“He who sung is a gentleman’s son of Arragon; 
his father is a great lord, and dwelt just over against 
my father’s at Madrid; aud though he had always can- 
vass windows in winter and lattices in summer, yet, I 
cannot tell by what accident, this young gentleman, 
who then went to school, had a sight of me, and whether 
it were at church, or at some other place, I cannot 
justly tell you; but, in short, he fell in love with me, 
and made me sensible of his passion from his own win- 
dows, which were opposite to mine, with so many signs, 
and such showers of tears, that at once torced me both 
to believe and to love him, without knowing for what 
reason I did so. Amongst the usual signs that he made 
me, one was that of joining his hands together, inti- 
mating by that his desire to marry me; which, though 
I heartily wished it, 1 could not communicate to any 
one, being motherless, and having none near me whom 
I might trust with the managemeut of such an affair; 
and was therefore constrained to bear it in silence, 
without permitting him any other favor, more than to 
let him gaze on me, by lifting up the lattice or oiled 
cloth a little, when my father and his were abroad; at 
which he would be so transported with joy, that you 
would certainly have thought he had been distracted, 
At last my father’s business called him away; yet not 
so soon, but that the young gentleman had notice of it 
some time before his departure; whence he had it I 
know not, for it was impossible for me to acquaint 
him with it. This so sensibly afflicted him, as far as 
Tunderstand that he fell sick; so that I could not get 
a sight of him all the day of our departure, so much as 
to look a farewell on him. But after two days’ travel, 
just as we came into an inn, in a village a days’ journey 
hence, I saw him at the inn-door, dressed so exactly 
like a muleteer, that it had been utterly impossible for 
me to have known him, had not his perfect image been 
stamped in my soul. Yes, yes, dear madam, I knew 
him, and was amazed and overjoyed at the sight of him; 
and he saw me unknown to my father, whose sight he 
carefully avoids, when we cross our ways in our journey, 
and when we come to any inn: «nd now, since J know 
who he is, and what pain and fatigue it must necessarily 
be to him to travel thus afvot, I am ready to die myself 
with the thought of what he suffers on my account; 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


and wherever he sets his feet there I set my eyes. I 
cannot imagine what he proposes to himself in this 
attempt: nor by what means he could thus make his 
escape from his father, who loves him beyond expres- 
sion, both because he has no other son and heir, and 
because the young gentleman's merits oblige him to it; 
which you must needs confess when you see him: and 
I dare affirm, beside, that all he has sung was his own 
immediate composition; for, as I have heard, he is an 
excellent scholar and a great poet. And now when- 
ever I see him, or hear him sing, I start and tremble, as 
at the sight of a ghost, lest my father should know 
him, and so be informed of our mutual affection. I 
never spoke one word to him in my life; yet I love 
him so dearly, that it is impossible I should live with- 
out him. This, dear madam, is all the account I can 
give you of this musician, with whose voice you have 
been so well entertained, and which alone might con- 
vince you that he is no muleteer, as you were pleased 
to say, but one who is master of a great estate, and of 
my poor heart, as I have already told you.” 

“Enough, dear madam,” replied Dorothea, kissing 
her a thousand times: “itis very well; compose your- 
self till day-light, and then I trustin heaven I shall so 
manage your affairs, that the end of them shall be as 
fortunate as the beginning was innocent.” 

“Alas! madam,” returned Clara, “what end can I 
propose to myself, since his father is so rich, and of so 
noble a family, that he will hardly think me worthy to 
be his son’s servant, much less his wife? And then 
again, I would not marry without my father’s consent, 
for the universe. All I can desire is, that the young 
gentleman would return home, and leave his pursuit of 
me: happily, by a long absence, and the great distance 
of place, the pain, which now so much afflicts me, may 
be somewhat mitigated; though I fear what I now pro- 
pose as a remedy would rather increase my distemper: 
yet I cannot imagine whence, or by what means, this 
passion for him seized me, since we are both so young, 
being much about the same age, I believe ; and my 
father says I shall not be sixteen till next Michaelmas.” 

Dorothea could not forebear laughing to hear the 
young lady talk so innocently. “My dear,” said Doro- 
thea, “let us repose ourselves the little remaining part 
of the night, and when day appears we will put a happy 
period to your sorrows, or my judgment fails me.” Then 
they addressed themselves again to sleep, and there 
was a deep silence throughout all the inn; only the 
innkeeper's daughter and Maritornes were awake, who, 
knowing Don Quixote's blind side very well, and that 
he sat armed on horseback, keeping guard without 
doors, a faney took them, and they agreed to have a 
little pastime with him, and hear some of his fine out- 
of-the-way speeches. 

You must know, then, that there was but one window 
in all the inn that looked outinto the field, and that 
was only a hole out of which they used to throw their 
straw : to this same hole, then, came these two ladies, 
whence they saw Don Quixote mounted and leaning on 
his lance, and fetching such mournful and deep sighs, 
that his very soul seemed to be torn from him at each 





189 


of them: they observed besides, that he said, in a soft 
amorous tone—  ' 

“Oh, my divine Dulcinea del Toboso! the heaven of 
all perfections! the end and quintessence of discretion! 
the treasury of sweet aspect and behavior! the maga- 
zine of virtue! and, in a word, the idea of all that is 
profitable, modest, or delightful in the universe! What 
noble thing employs thy excellency at this present ? 
May I presume to hope that thy soul is entertained 
with the thoughts of thy captive-knight, who voluntar- 
ily exposes himself to so many dangers for thy sake ? 
Oh, thou triformed luminary, give me some account of 
her! perhaps thou art now gazing with envy on her, as 
she is walking either through some stately gallery of 
her sumptuous palaces, or leaning on her happy win- 
dow, there meditating how, with safety of her honor 
and grandeur, she may sweeten and alleviate the tor- 
ture which my poor afflicted heart suffers for love 
of her; with what glories she shall crown my pains, 
what rest she shall give to my cares, what life to my 
death, and what reward to my services. And thou, 
more glorious planet, which by this time, I presume, art 
harnessing thy horses to pay thy earliest visit to my 
adorable Dulcinea, I entreat thee, as soon as thou dost 
see her, to salute her with my most profound respects: 
but take heed, when thou lookest on her, and address- 
est thyself to her, that thou dost not kiss her face; for 
if thou dost, I shall grow more jealous of thee than ever 
thou wert of the swift ingrate who made thee run and 
sweat so over the plains of Thessaly, or the banks of 
Peneus; I have forgotten through which of them thou 
rannest, so raging with love and jealousy.” 

At these words the innkeeper’s daughter began to 
call to him softly: “Sir Knight,” said she, “come a 
little nearer this way, if you please.” 

At these words Don Quixote turned his head, and the 
moon shining then very bright, he perceived somebody 
called him from the hole, which he fancied was a large 
window full of iron bars, all richly gilt, suitable to the 
stately castle, for which he mistook the inn; and all on 
a sudden, he imagined that the beautiful damsel, 
daughter to the lady of the castle, overcome by the 
charms of his person, returned to court him, as she did 
once before. In this thought, that he might not appear 
uncivil or ungrateful, he turned Rozinante and came to 
the hole; where seeing the two lasses, “Fair damsels,” 
said he, “I cannot but pity you for your misplaced 
affection, since it is altogether impossible you should 
meet with any return from the object of your wishes 
proportionable to your great merits and beauty; but 
yet you ought not by any means to condemn this un- 
happy knight-errant for his coldness, since love has 
utterly incapacitated him to become a slave to any 
other but to her who, at first sight, made herself abso- 
lute mistress of his soul. Pardon me therefore, excel- 
lent lady, and retire to your apartment. Let not, I 
beseech you, any farther arguments of love force me 
to be less grateful or civil than I would: butif, in the 
passion you have for me, you can bethink yourself of 
anything else wherein Imay do you any service, love 
alone excepted, command it freely; and I swear to you 


190 


by my absent, vet most charming enemy, to sacrifice it 
to you immediately, though it be a lock of Medusa's 
hair, which «re all snakes, or the very sunbeams en- 
closed in a glass phial.” 

“My lady needs none of those things, Sir Knight,” 
replied Maritornes. 

“What then would she command ?” asked Don Quix- 
ote. 

“Only the honor of one of your fair hands,” returned 
Maritornes, “to satisfy, in some measure, that violent 
passion which has obliged her to come hither with the! 
great hazard of her honor: for if my lord, her father, 
should know it, the cutting off one of her beautiful: 
ears were the least thing he would do to her.” 

“Oh! that he durst attempt it!” eried Don Quixote; 
“but l know he dare not, unless he has a mind to die 
the most unhappy death that ever father sutlered, for 
sacrilegiously depriving his lovely daughter of one of 
her delicate members.” Maritornes made no doubt 
that he would comply with her desire, und having al- 
ready laid her design, got in a trice to the stable, and 
brought Sancho Panza’s ass's halter to the hole, just as 
Don Quixote was got on his feet upon Rozinante's sad- 
dle, more easily to reach the barricadoed window, 
where he imagined the enamored lady stayed; and litt- | 
ing np his hands to her, said, “Here, madam, take the 
hand, or rather, as I may say, the executioner of all 
earthly miscreants; take, I say, that hand, which never 
woman touched before; no, not even she herself who 
has entire possession of my whole body; nor do T hold 
it up to you that you may kiss it, but that you may ob- 
serve the contexture of the sinews, the ligament of the 
muscles, and the largeness and dilataion of the veins; | 
whence you may conclude how strong that arm must be, 
to which such « hand is joined.” 

“We shall see that presently,” replied Maritornes, ; 
and cast the noose she had made in the halter on bis 
wrist; and then descending from the hole, she tied the 
other end of the halter very fast to the lock of the 
door. Don Quixote being sensible that the bracelet 
she had bestowed on him was very rough, cried, “You 
seem rather to abuse than complimeut my hand; but I 
beseech you to treat it not so unkindly, since thatis not 
the cause why Ido not entertain a passion for you; nor 
is it just or equal you should discharge the whole tem- 
pest of your vengeance on so small a part. Consider, 
those who love truly can never be so cruel in their re- 
venge.” But not «a soul regarded what he said; for as 
Soon as Maritornes had fastened him, she and her con- 
federate, almost dead with laughing, ran away, and left 
him so strongly fastened, that it was impossible he 
should disengage himself. 

He stood then, as I said, on Rozinante’s saddle, with 
all his arm drawn into the hole, and rope fastened to 
the lock, being under a fearful apprehension that if 
Rozinante moved but never so little on any side, he 








” 





should slip and hang by the arm, and therefore durst | 
not use the least motion in the world, though he might | 
reasonably have expected from Rozinante’s patience | 


and gentle temper, that if he were not urged, he o 
never have moved for a whole age together of his own 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


accord. In short, the knight, perceiving himself fast, 
and that the ladies had forsaken him, immediately con- 
eluded that all this was done by way of enchantment, 
as in the last adventure in the very same castle, when 
the enchanted Moor (the carrier) did so fearfully maul 
him. Then he began to curse within himself his want 
of discretion and conduct, since having once made his 
escape out of that castle in so miserable a condition, 
he should venture intoita second time; for, hy the way, 
it was an observation among all knights-errant, that if 
they were once foiled in an adventure, it was a certain 
sign it was not reserved for them, but for some other 
to finish; wherefore they would never prove it aguin. 
Yet, for all this, he ventured to draw back his arm, to 
try if he could free himself; but he was so fast bound, 
that his attempt proved fruitless. It is trne, it was 
with care and deliberation he drew it, for fear Roznante 
should stir: and then fair would he have seated him- 
self on the saddle; but he found he must either stand, 
or leave his arm for a ransom. <A hundred times he 
wished for Amadis’ sword, on which no enchantment 
had power; then he fell a-cursing his stars; then re- 
flected on the great loss the world would sustain all the 
time he should continue under bis enchantment, as le 
really believed it; then his adorable Dulcinea came 
afresh into his thoughts; many a time did he call to 
his trusty squire Sancho Panza, who, buried in « pro- 
found sleep, lay stretched at length on his ass’s pannel; 
then the aid of the necromancers Ligandeo and Alquife 
was invoked by the unhappy knight. And, in fine, the 
morning surprised him, racked with despair and confu- 
sion, bellowing like a bull; for he could not hope from 
daylight any cure, or mitigation of his pain, which he be- 
lieved would be eternal, being absolutely persuaded he 
was enchanted, since he perceived that Rozinante moved 
no more than x mountain; and therefore he was of opin- 
ion, that neither he nor his horse would be able to eat, 
drink, or sleep, but remain in that state till the malig- 
nancy of the stars were o’er-past, or till some more 
powerful magician should break the charm. 

But it was an erroueous opinion; for it was scarce 
daybreak, when four horsemen, very well accoutred, 
their firelocks hanging at the pommels of their saddles, 
cume thither, aud finding the inn-gate shut, called and 
knocked very loud and hard; which Don Quixote per- 
ceiving from the post where he stood sentinel, cried 
out with a rough voice and a haughty mien, “Knights, 
or squires, or of whatsoever other degree you are, 
knock no more at the gates of this castle, since you may 
asswre yourselves that those who ure within at such an 
hour as this are either taking their repose or not acens- 
tomed to open their fortress till Phoebus has displayed 
himself upon the globe: retire, therefore, and wait till 
it is clear day, and then we will see whether it is just 
or no that they should open their gates to you.” 

“What do you mean ?” cried one of them; “what cas- 
tle or fortress is this, that we should be obliged to 
observe so long a ceremony? Pr’ythee, friend, if thou 
art the innkeeper, bid them open the door to us; for 
we ride post, and can stay no longer than just to bait 
our horses.” 














Al 














E y '"—p. 192 
R Pp. 
v y Tl pe. 
to the ro 
tened 
ly fas 
ecure 
ist been s 
had not his wris 
d 
round, 
to the g 
len 
itably fa 
inevita 
had in 
“He 


192 


“Gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, “do 1 look like an 
innkeeper, then ?” 

“I cannot tell what thou art like,” replied another; 
“but [am sure thou talkest like a madman to call this 
a castle.” 

“It is a castle,” returned Don Quixote, “ay, and one 
of the best in the province, and contains one who has 
held a sceptre in her hand, and wore a crown on her 
head.” 

“Tt might more properly have been said exactly con- 
trary,” replied the traveller; “a sceptre in her tail, 
and a crown in her hand: yet it is not unlikely that 
there may be a company of strollers within, and those 
do frequently hold such sceptres and wear such crowns 
as thou pratest of: for certainly no person worthy to 
sway a sceptre or wear a crown would condescend to 
take up a lodging in such a paltry inn as this, where 1 
hear so little noise.” 

“Thou hast not been much conversant in the world,” 
said Don Quixote, “since thou art so miserably ignorant 
of accidents so frequently met with in knight-errantry.” 

The companions of him that held this tedious dis- 
course with Don Quixote were tired with their foolish 
chattering so long together, and therefore they returned 
with greater fury to the gate, where they knocked so 
violently, that they woke both the innkeeper and his 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


guests; and so the host rose to ask who was at the 
door. 

In the meantime Rozinante, pensive and sad, with 
ears hanging down and motionless, bore up his out- 
stretched lord, when one of the horses those four men 
rode upon walked toward Rozinante, to smell him; and 
he, truly being real flesh and blood, though very like a 
wooden block, could not choose but be sensible of it, 
nor forbear turning to smell the other, which so season- 
ably came to comfort and divert him; but he had hardly 
stirred an inch from his place, when Don Quixote’s feet, 
which were close together, slipped asunder, and, tum- 
bling from the saddle, he had inevitably fallen to the 
ground, had not his wrist been securely fastened to the 
rope; which put him to so great a torture, that he 
could not imagine but that his hand was cutting off, or 
his arm tearing from his body; yet he hung so near the 
ground, that he could just reach it with the tips of his 
toes, which added to his torment; for, perceiving low 
little he wanted to the setting his feet wholly on the 
ground, he strove and tugged as much as he could to 
effect it—not much unlike those that suffer the strap- 
ade, who put themselves to greater pain in striving to 
stretch their limbs, deluded by the hopes of touching 
the ground, if they could but inch themselves out a 
little longer. 








CHAPTER XL. 


A CONTINUATION OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURES IN THE INN. 


THE miserable outeries of Don Quixote presently 
drew the innkeeper to the door, which he hastily open- 
ing, was strangely affrighted to hear such a terrible 
roaring, and the strangers stood no less surprised. Mar- 
itornes, whom the cries had also roused, guessing the 
cause, ran straight to the loft, and, sipping the halter, 
released the Don, who made her a very prostrate ac- 
knowledgment by an unmereiful fall on the ground. 
The innkeeper and strangers crowded immediately 
round him to know the cause of his misfortune. He, 
without regard to their questions, unmanacled his 
wrist, bounces from the ground, mounts Rozinante, 
braces his target, couches his lance, and, taking a large 
circumference in the field, came up with a hand-gallop: 
“Whoever,” said he, “dare affirm, assert, or declare 
that I have been justly enchanted, in case my lady the 
Princess of Micomicona will but give me leave, I will 
tell him he lies, and will maintain my assertion by im- 
mediate combat.” The travellers stood amazed at Don 
Quixote's words, till the host removed their wonder, 
by informing them of his usual extravagance in this 
kind, and that his behavior was not to be minded. They 
then asked the innkeeper if a certain youth, near the 
age of fifteen, had set up at his house, clad like a 





muleteer; adding withal some farther marks and toh. 
ens, denoting Donna Clara's lover. 

He told them that among the number of bis guests 
such a person might pass him undistinguished ; but 
one of them accidentally spying the coach which the 
judge rode in, called to his comjmions, “Oh, gentle- 
wen, gentlemen, here stands the coach which we were 
told my young muster followed, and here he must he, 
that is certain. Let us lose no time: one guard the 
door, and the rest enter into the house to look for him. 
Hold—stay,” continued he; “ride one about to the 
other side of the house, lest he escape us through the 
back-yard.” 

“ Acreed,” says another, and they posted themselves 
accordingly. The innkeeper, though he might guess 
that they songht the young gentleman whom they had 
described, was nevertheless puzzled asto the canse of 
their so diligent search. By this time the daylight and 
the outcries of Don Quixote had raised the whole 
house, particularly the two ladies Clara and Dorothea, 
who had slept but little, the one with the thoughts her 
lover was so near her, and the other through an earnest 
desire she had to see him. Don Quixote, seeing the 
travellers neither regard him nor his challenge, was 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ready to burst with fury and indignation; and could 
he have dispensed with the rules of chivalry, which 
oblige a knight-errant to the finishing one adventure 
before his embarking in another, he had assaulted thém 
all, and forced them to answer him to their cost; but 
being unfortunately engaged to reinstate the Princess 
Micomicona, his hands were tied up, and he was com- 
pelled to desist, and to wait to see where the search 
and diligence of the four travellers would terminate. 
One of them found the young gentleman fast asleep be- 
side a muleteer, little dreaming of being followed or 
discovered. The fellow, lugging him by the arm, cries 
out, “Ay, ay, Don Lewis, these are very fine clothes 
you have got on, and very becoming a gentleman of 
your quality; indeed, this scurvy bed, too, is very suit- 
able to the care and tenderness your mother brought 
you up with.” The youth, having rubbed his drowsy 
eyes, and fixed them steadfastly on the man, knew him 
presently for one of his father’s servants, which struck 
him speechless with surprise. The fellow went on: 
“There is but one way, sir; pluck up your spirits, and 
return with us to your father, who is certainly a dead 
man unless you be recovered.” 

“How came my father to know,” answered Don 
Lewis, “that I took this way and this disguise ?” 

“One of your fellow-students,” replied the servant, 
“whom you communicated your design to, moved by 
your father’s lamentation at your loss, discovered it. 
The good old gentleman dispatched away four of his 
men in search of you;’and here we are all at your ser- 
vice, sir, and the joyfullest men alive; for our old mas- 
ter will giveus a hearty welcome, having so soon re- 
stored him what he loved so much.” 

“That, next to Heaven, is as I please,” said Don 
Lewis. 

“What would you, or Heaven either, please, sir, but 
return to your father? Come, come, sir, talk no more 
of it; home you must go, and home you shall go.” The 
muleteer that lay with Don Lewis, hearing this dis- 
pute, rose, and related the business to Don Ferdinand, 
Cardenio, and the rest, who were now dressed; adding 
withal how the man gave him the title of Don, with 
other circumstances of their conference. They, be- 
ing already charmed with the sweetness of his voice, 
were curious to be informed more particularly of his 
circumstances, and resolving to assist him, in case any 
violence should be offered him, went presently to the 
place where he was still contending with his father’s 
servant. 

By this Dorothea had left her chamber, and with her 
Donna Clara in great disorder. Dorothea, beckoning 
Cardenio aside, gave him a short account of the musi- 
cian and Donna Clara; and he told her that his father’s 
servants were come for him. Donna Clara overhearing 
him, was so exceedingly surprised, that had not Doro- 
thea run and supported her, she had sunk to the ground. 
Cardenio, promising to bring the matter to a fair and 
successful end, advised Dorothea to retire with the in- 
disposed lady to her chamber. All the four that pur- 
sued Don Lewis were now come about him, pressing his 
return without delay, to comfort his poor father. He 

1383——DON QUIX. 





193 


answered it was impossible, being engaged to put a 
business in execution first, on which depended no less 
than his honor and his present and future happiness. 
They urged that since they had found him, there was 
no returning for them without him, and if he would not 
go he should be carried. “Not unless you kill me,” 
answered the young gentleman; upon which all the 
company were joined in the dispute—Cardenio, Don 
Ferdinand and his companions, the judge, the curate, 
the barber, and Don Quixote, who thought it needless 
now to guard the castle any longer. Cardenio, who 
knew the young gentleman’s story, asked the fellows 
upon what pretence or by what authority they could 
carry the youth away against his will. 

“Sir,” answered one of them, “we have reason good 
for what we do; no less than his father’s life depends 
upon his return.” 

“Gentlemen,” said Don Lewis, “it is not proper, per- 
haps, to trouble you with a particular relation of my 
affairs; only thus much, I am a gentleman, and have no 
dependence that should force me to anything beside 
my inclination.” 

“Nay, but sir,” answered the servant, “reason, I hope, 
will force you; and though it cannot move you, it must 
govern us, who must execute our orders, and force you 
back. We only act as we are ordered, sir.” 

“Hold,” said the judge, “and let us know the whole 
state of the case.” 

“Oh, sir,” answered one of the servants, that knew 
him, “my lord judge, does not your worship know your 
next neighbor’s child? See here, sir; he has run away 
from his father’s house, and has put on these dirty, 
tattered rags, to the scandal of his family, as your wor- 
ship may see.” The judge then, viewing him more 
attentively, knew him, and saluting him, “What jest is 
this, Don Lewis?” cried he; “what mighty intrigue are 
you carrying on, young sir, to occasion this metamor- 
phosis so unbecoming your quality?” The young gen- 
tleman could not answer a word, and the tears stood in 
his eyes. The judge, perceiving his disorder, desired 
the four servants to trouble themselves no farther, but 
leave the youth to his management, engaging his word 
to act to their satisfaction; and retiring with Don 
Lewis, he begged to know the occasion of his flight. 

During their conference they heard a great noise at 
the inn door, occasioned by two strangers, who, hav- 
ing lodged there over night, and seeing the whole 
family so busied in a curious inquiry into the four 
horsemen’s business, thought to have made off with- 
out paying their reckoning; but the innkeeper, who 
minded no man’s business more his own, stopped 
them in the nick, and, demanding his money, upbraided 
their ungenteel design very sharply: they returned the 
compliment with kick and cuff so roundly, that the poor 
host cried out for help. His wife and daughter saw 
none so idle as Don Quixote, whom the daughter ad- 
dressing, “I conjure you, Sir Knight,” said she, “by 
that virtue delivered to you from Heaven, to succor my 
distressed father, whom two villians are beating to 
jelly.” 

“Beautiful damsel!” answered Don Quixote, with a 


194 


slow tone and profound gravity, “your petition cannot 
at the present juncture prevail, I being withheld from 
undertaking any new adventure by promise first to fin- 
ish what Jam engaged in; and all the service you can 
expect is only my counsel in this important affair. Go 
with all speed to your father, with advice to continue 
and maintain the battle with his utmost resolution, till 
I obtain permission from the Princess Micomicona to 
reinforce him, which, once granted, you need make no 
donbt of his safety.” 

“Unfortunate wretch that I am!” said Maritornes, 
who overheard him; “before you can have this leave, 
my master will be sent to the other world.” 

“Then, madam,” said he, “procure me the permission 
I mentioned, and though he were sent into the other 
world, I will bring him back in spite of all that they 
may do, or at least so revenge his fall on his enemies, 
as shall give ample satisfaction to his surviving friends.” 
Whereupon, breaking off the discourse, he went and 
threw himself prostrate before Dorothea, imploring 
her, in romantic style, to grant him a commission to 
march and sustain the governor of that castle, who was 
just fainting in a dangerous engagement. The princess 
dispatched him very willingly: whereupon presently 
buckling on his target, and taking up his sword, he ran 
to the inn door, where the two guests were still hand- 
ling their landlord very unmercifully. He there made 
a sudden stop, though Muritornes and the hostess 
pressed him twice or thrice to tell the cause of his de- 
lay in his promised assistance to his host. 

“[ make a pause,” said Don Quixote, “because I am 
commanded by the law of arms to use my sword against 
none under the order of knighthood. But let my squire 
be called; this affair is altogether his province.” 

In the meantime drubs and bruises were incessant at 
the inn gate, and the poor host soundly beaten. His 
wife, daughter, and maid, who stood by, were like to 
run mad at Don Quixote's hanging back, and the inn- 
keeper’s unequal combat; where we shall leave him, 
with a design to return to his assistance presently, 
thongh his fool-hardiness deserves a sound beating, for 
attempting a thing he was not likely to go through 
with. We now return to hear what Don Lewis an- 
swered the judge, whom we left retired with him, and 
asking the reason of his travelling on foot, and in so 
mean a disguise. The young gentleman, grasping his 
hands very passionately, made this reply, not without 
giving a proof of the greatness of his sorrow by his 
tears :— 

“Without ceremony or preamble I must tell you, dear 
sir, that from the instant that Heaven made us neigh- 
bors, and I saw Donna Clara, your daughter and my 
mistress, I resigned to her the whole command of my 
affections; and unless you, whom I most truly call my 
father, prevent it, she shall be my wife this very day. 
For her sake I abandoned my father’s house; for her 
have I thus disgnised my quality; her would I thus 
have followed through the world: she was the north 
star to guide my wandering course, and the mark at 
which my wishes flew. Her cars indeed are utter 
strangers to my passion; but yet her eyes may guess, 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


by the tears she saw flowing from mine. You know my 
fortune and my quality: if these can plead, sir, I lay 
them at her feet. Then make me this instant your 
happy son; and if my father, biassed by contrary de- 
signs, should not prove my choice, yet time may pro- 
duce some favorable turn, and alter his mind.” 

The amorous youth having done speaking, the judge 
was much surprised at the handsome discovery he 
made of his affections, but was not a little puzzled how 
to behave himself in so sudden and unexpected a mat- 
ter. He therefore, without any positive answer, ad- 
vised him only to compose his thoughts, to divert him- 
self with his servants, and to prevail with them to allow 
him that day to consider on what was proper to be done. 
Don Lewis expressed his gratitude by forcibly kissing 
the judge’s hands, and bathing them with his tears, 
enough to move a heart of a cannibal, much more a 
judge’s, who, being a man of the world, had presently 
the advantage of the match and preferment of his 
daughter in the wind; though he much doubted the 
consent of Don Lewis’s father, who he knew designed 
to match his son into the nobility. 

3y this time Don Quixote's entreaties more than 
threats had parted the fray at the inn door; the strang- 
ers paying their reckoning went off, and Don Lewis’s 
servants stood waiting the result of the judge's dis- 
course with their young master; when, most singular to 
relate, who should come into the inn but the barber 
whom Don Quixote had robbed of Mambrino’s helmet, 
and Saucho of the pack-saddle. As he was leading his 
beast very gravely to the stable, he spies Sancho mend- 
ing something about the pannel; he knew him presently, 
and setting npon him very roughly, “Ay, master thief, 
master rogue,” said he, “have I caught you at last, und 
albany ass’s furniture in your hands too?” 

Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assaulted, 
and nettled at the dishonorable terms of his language, 
laying fast hold on the pannel with one hand, gave the 
barber such a blow on the mouth with the other as set 
wl his teeth a-bleeding. For all this the barber stuck 
by his hold, and cried out so loud that the whole house 
was alarmed at the noise and scuffle. “J command you, 
gentlemen,” continued he, “to assist me in the king’s 
name; for this rogue has rubbed me on the king’s high- 
way, and would now murder me, because I seize upon 
my goods.” 

“That is a lie!” cried Sancho; “it was no robbery on 
the king’s highway, but lawful plunder, won by my 
lord Don Quixote fairly in the field.” 

The Don himself was now come up, very proud of his 
squire’s behavior on this occasion, accounting him 
thenceforth a man of spirit, and designing him the 
honor of Knighthood on the first opportunity, thinking 
his conrage might prove a future ornament to the order. 

Among other things which the barber urged to prove 
his claim, “Gentlemen,” said he, “this pack-saddle is 
as certainly my pack-saddle as I hope to die in my bed; 
I know it as well as if it had been bred and borne with 
me. Nay, my very ass will witness for me; do but try 
the saddle on him, and if it does not fit him as close as 
can be, call me then a liar. Nay, more than that, gen- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


tlemen, that very day when they robbed me of 
my pack -saddle, they took away a special new 
basin which was never used, and which cost me a 
crown.” 

Here Don Quixote could no longer contain himself, 
but, thrusting between them, he parted them; and hav- 
ing caused the pack-saddle to be deposited on the ground 
to open view, till the matter came to a final decision, 
“That this honorable company may know,” cried he, 
“in what a manifest error this honest squire persists, 
take notice how he degrades that with the name of 
basin which was, is, and shall be, the helmet of Mam- 
brino, which I fairly won in the field, and lawfully made 
myself lord of by force ofarms. As to the pack-saddle, 
it is a concern that is beneath my regard; all I have to 
urge in that affair is, that my squire begged my per- 
mission to strip that vanquished coward’s horse of bis 
trappings, to adorn his own. He had my authority for 
the deed, and he took them. And now for his convert- 
ing it from a horse's furniture to a pack-saddle, no 
other reason can be brought, but that such transforma- 
tions frequently occur in the affairs of chivalry. For 
a confirmation of this despatch, run, Sancho, and pro- 





195 


duce the helmet, which tbis squire would maintain to 
be a basin.” 

“©? my faith, sir,” said Sancho, “if this be all you 
can say for yourself, Mambrino's helmet will prove as 
arrant a basin as this same man's furniture is a mere 
pack-saddle.” 

“Obey my orders!” said Don Quixote; “I cannot be- 
lieve that everything in this castle will be guided by 
enchantment.” 

Sancho brought the basin, which Don Quixote, hold- 
ing up in his hands, “Behold, gentlemen,” continued 
he, “with what face can this impudent squire affirm 
this to be a basin, and not the helmet I mentioned ? 
Now, I swear before you all, by the order of knight- 
hood which I profess, that thatis the same individual 
helmet which I won from him, without the least ad- 
dition or diminution,” 

“That I will swear,” said Sancho; “for since my lord 
won it, he never fought but once in it, and that was the 
battle wherein he freed those ungracious galley slaves, 
who, by the same token, would have knocked out his 
brains with a shower of stones, had not this same honest 
basin-helmet saved his skull.” 








CHAPTER XLI. 


THE CONTROVERSY ABOUT MEMBRINO'S HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE DISPUTED AND DECIDED ; WITH 


OTHER ACCIDENTS, NOT MORE STRANGE THAN TRUE. 


“Pray, good gentlemen,” said the barber, “let us 
have your opinion in this matter; I suppose you will 
grant this same helmét to be a basin.” 

“We that dares grant any such thing,” said Don 
Quixote, “must know that he lies plainly, if a knight; 
but if a squire, he lies abominably.” 

Our barber, who was privy to the whole matter, to 
humor the jest and carry the diversion a little higher, 
took up the other shaver: “Master Barber—you must 
pardon me, sir, if I do not give you your titles—I must 
let you understand,” said he, "that I have served an 
apprenticeship to your trade, and have been a freeman 
in the company these thirty years, and therefore am 
not to learn what belongs to shaving. You must like- 
wise know that I have been a soldier too in my younger 
days, and consequently understand the differences be- 
tween a helmet, a morion, and a close helmet, with all 
other accoutrements belonging to a man of-arms. Yet 
I say, with submission still to better judgment, that this 
piece, here in dispute before us, is as far from being a 
basin as light is from darkness. Withal I affirm, on the 
other hand, that although it be a helmet, it is nota 
complete one.” 

“Right,” said the Don; “for the lower part and the 
beaver are wanting.” 





“A clear case, a clear case!” said the curate, Car- 
denio, Don Ferdinand, and his companions; and the 
judge himself, had not Lewis's concern made him 
thoughtful, would have humored the matter. 

“Have mercy upon us now!” said the poor barber, 
half distracted; “is it possible that so many honorable 
gentlemen should know a basin or a helmet no better 
than this comes to? I defy the wisest university in 
Spain, with all their scholarship, to show me the like. 
Well, if it must be a helmet, it must be a helmet, that 
is all. And, by the same rule, my pack-saddle must 
troop too, as this gentleman says.” 

“T must confess,” said Don Quixote, “as to outward 
appearance it is a pack-saddle; but, as I have already 
said, I will not pretend to determine the dispute as to 
that point.” 

“Nay,” said the curate “if Don Quixote speak not, 
the matter will never come to adecision; because in all 
affairs of chivalry we must all give him the prefer- 
ence.” 

“I swear, worthy gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, 
“that the adventures I have encountered in this castle 
are so strange and supernatural, that I must infallibly 
conclude them the effects of pure magic and enchant- 
ment. The first time I ever entered its gates, I was 


196 DON 
strangely embarrassed by an enchanted Moor that in- 
habited it, and Sancho himself had no better entertain- 
ment from his attendants; and last night 1 hung 
suspended almost two hours by this arm, without the 
power of helping myself, or of assigning any reason- 
able cause of my misfortune: so that for me to meddle 
or give my opinion in such confused and intricate events 
would appear presumption. lhavealready given my final 
determination as to the helmet in controversy, but dare 
pronounce no definitive sentence on the pack-saddle, 
but shall remit it to the discerning judgment of the 
company; perhaps the power of enchantment may not 
prevail on you that are not dubbed knights, so that 
yonr understandings may be free, and your judicial 
faculties more piercing to enter into the true nature of 
these events, and not conclude upon them from their 
appearances.” 

“Undoubtedly,” answered Don Ferdinand, “the de- 
cision of this process depends upon our sentiments, 
according to Don Quixote's opinion; that the matter, 
therefore, may be fairly discussed, and that we may 
proceed upon solid and firm grounds, we will put it to 
the vote. Let every one give me his suffrage in my 
ear, and I will oblige myself to report them faithfully 
to the board.” 

To those that knew Don Quixote this proved excel- 
lent sport; but to others unacquainted with his humor, 
as Don Lewis and his four servants, it appeared the 
most ridiculous stuff in nature; three other travellers 
too that happened to call in by the way, and were 
found to be officers of the holy brotherhood, or pursui- 
vants, thought the people were all bewitched in good 
earnest. But the barber was quite at his wit’s end, to 
think that his basin, then and there present before his 
eyes, was become the helmet of Mambrino; and that 
his pack-saddle was likewise going to be changed 
into rich horse-furniture. Everybody laughed very 
heartily to see Don Ferdinand whispering each par- 
ticular person very gravely, to have his vote upon 
the important contention of the pack-saddle. When 
he had gone the rounds among his own faction, 
that were all privy to the jest, “Honest fellow,” 
said he very loudly, “I grow weary of asking so many 
impertinent questions; every man has his answer at 
at his tongue’s end, that it is mere madness to call 
this a pack-saddle, and that it is positively, nemine con- 
tradicente, right horse-furniture, and great horse-furni- 
ture, too; besides, friend, your allegations and proofs 
are of no force; therefore, in spite of your ass and you 
too, we give it for the defendant, that this is and will 
continue the furniture of a horse, nay, and of a great 
horse too.” 

“Now,” said the barber, “you are all deceived; for 
my conscience plainly tells me it is a downright pack- 
saddle; but I have lost it according to law, and so fare 
it well. Butlam neither mad nor drunk, sure, for lam 
fresh and fasting this morning from everything but sin.” 

The barber’s raving was no less diverting than Don 
Quixote’s clamors. ‘Sentence is passed,” cried he; 
“and let every man take possession of his goods and 
chattels, and Heaven give him joy.” 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“This is a jest, a mere jest,” said one of the four ser- 
vants; “certainly, gentlemen, you cannot be in earnest; 
you are too wise to talk at this rate; for my part, I say 
and will maintain it, for there is no reason the barber 
should be wronged, that this is a basin, and that the 
pack-saddle of a he ass.” 

“May not it be a she ass’s pack-saddle, friend ?” said 
the curate. 

“That is all one, sir,” said the fellow; “the question 
is not whether it be a he or a she ass’s pack-saddle, but 
whether it be a pack-saddle or not; that is the matter, 
sir.” 

One of the officers of the holy brotherhood, who had 
heard the whole controversy, very angry to hear such 
an error maintained, “Gentlemen,” said he, “this is no 
more 2 horse’s saddle than it is my father, and he that 
says the contrary is drunk or mad.” 

“You lie like an unmannerly rascal,” suid the knight; 
and at the same time with his lance, which he had al- 
ways ready for such occasions, he offered such a blow 
at the officer’s head, that had not the fellow leaped 
aside, it would have laid him flat. The lance flew into 
pieces, and tne rest of the officers, seeing their comrade 
so abused, cried out for help, charging every one to aid 
and assist the holy brotherhood. The innkeeper being 
one of the fraternity, ran for his sword and rod, and 
then joined his fellows. Don Lewis’s servants got 
round their master to defend him from harm, and se- 
cure him lest he should make his escape in the scuffle. 
The barber, seeing the whole house turned topsy-turvy, 
laid hold againon his pack-saddle; but Sancho, who 
watched his motions, was as ready as he, and secured 
the other end of it. 

Don Quixote drew and assaulted the officers pell- 
mell. Don Lewis called to his servants to join Don 
Quixote and the gentlemen that sided with him; for 
Cardenio, Don Ferdinand, and his other friends had 
engaged on his side. The curate cried out, the land- 
lady shrieked, her daughter wept, Maritornes howled, 
Dorothea was distracted with fear, Lucinda could 
not tell what to do, and Donna Clara was strangely 
frightened ; the barber pommelled Sancho, and San- 
cho belabored the barber. One of Don Lewis's ser- 
vants went to hold him, but he gave him such a 
rebuke on his jaws, that his teeth bad like to have for- 
sook their station; and then the judge took him into 
his protection. Don Ferdinand had got one of the offi- 
cers down, and laid on him back and side. The inn- 
keeper still cried out, “Help the holy brotherhood!” so 
that the whole house was a medley of wailings, cries, 
shrieks, confusions, fears, terrors, disasters, slashes, 
puffets, blows, kicks, cuffs, battery, and bloodshed. 

In the greatest heat of this hurly-burly it came into 
Don Quixote’s head that he was certainly involved in 
the disorder and confusion of King Agramant’s camp; 
and calling out with a voice that shook the whole 
house; “Hold, valorous knights!” said he, “all hold 
your furious hands, sheathe all your swords, let none 
presume to strike on pain of death, but hear me speak.” 
The loud and monstrous voice surprised everybody in- 
to obedience, and the Don proceeded: “I told you be. 


il DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


fore, gentlemen, that this castle was enchanted, and 
that some legion of spirits did inhabit it: now let your 
own eyes confirm my words: do not you behold the 
strange and horrid confusion of King Agramant's army 
removed hither, and put in execution among us? See, 
see how they fight for the sword, and yonder for the 
horse; behold how some contend for the helmet, and 
here others battle it for the standard; and all fight we 
do not know how, nor can tell why. Let therefore my 
Lord Judge, and his reverence, Master Curate, repre- 
sent, one King Agramant, and the other King Sobrino, 
and by their wisdom and conduct appease this tumult ; 
for, by the powers divine, it were a wrong to honor, 
and a blot on chivalry, to let so many worthies as are 
here met kill one another for such trifles.” 

Don Quixote’s words were Hebrew to the officers, 
who, having been roughly handled by Cardenio, Fer- 
dinand, and his friends, would not give it over so. But 
the barber was content; for Sancho had demolished his 
beard and pack-saddle both in the scuffle; the squire 
dutifully retreated at the first sound of his. master’s 
voice; Don Lewis’s servants were calm, finding it their 
best way to be quiet; but the innkeeper was refractory, 
He swore that madman ought to be punished for his ill 
behavior, and that every hour he was making some dis- 
turbance or another in his house. But at last the mat- 
ter was made up, the pack-saddle was agreed to be 
horse-furniture, the basin a helmet, and the inn a castle, 
till the end of time, if Don Quixote would have it so. 
Don Lewis’s business came next in play. The judge, 
in concert with Don Ferdinand, Cardenio, and the cu- 
rate, resolved that Don Ferdinand should interpose his 
authority on Don Lewis’s behalf, and let his servauts 
know that he would carry him to Andalusia, where he 
should be entertained according to his quality by his 
brother the marquis; and they should not oppose this 
design, seeing Don Lewis was positively resolved not 
to be forced to go back to his father yet. Don Ferdi- 
nand’s quality, and Don Lewis’s resolution, prevailed 
on the fellows to order matters so, that three of them 
might return to acquaint their old master, and the 
fourth wait on Don Lewis. Thus this monstrous heap 
of confusion and disorder was digested into form, by 
the authority of Agramaut, and wisdom of King 
Sobrino. 

But the enemy of peace finding his project of setting 
them all by the ears so eluded, resolved once again to 
have another trial of skill, and play his game with them 
all the second bout; for though the officers, under- 
standing the quality of their adversaries, were willing 
to desist, yet one of them, whom Don Ferdinand had 
kicked most unmercifully, remembering that among 
other warrants, he had one to apprehend Don Quixote, 
for setting free the galley-slaves, as Sancho had been 
sadly afraid would come about, resolved to examine if 
the marks and tokens given of Don Quixote agreed 
with this person; then drawing out a parchment, and 
opening his warrant, he made a shift to read it, and at 





197 


every other word looked cunningly on Don Quixote’s 
face; whereupon having folded up the parchment, and 
taking his warrant in his left hand, he clapped his 
right hand fast in the knight’s collar, crying, “You are 
the king’s prisoner! Gentlemen, I am an officer, here’s 
my warrant. I charge you all to aid and assist the holy 
brotherhood.” Don Quixote, finding himself used so 
rudely, by one whom he took to be a pitiful scoundrel, 
kindled up into such a rage, that he shook with indig- 
nation, and catching the fellow by the neck with both 
his hands, squeezed him so violently, that if his com- 
panions had not presently freed him, the knight would 
certainly have throttled him before he had quitted his 
hold. 

The innkeeper being obliged to assist his brother 
officer, presently joined him: the hostess seeing her 
husband engaging a second time, raised a new outcry, 
and her daughter and Maritornes raised the same tune, 
sometimes praying, sometimes crying, sometimes scold- 
ing. Sancho, seeing what passed, “I believe,” said he, 
“my master is in the right; this place is haunted, that 
is certain; there is no living quietly an hour together.” 
At last Don Ferdinand parted Don Quixote and the 
officer, who were both pretty well pleased to quit their 
bargain. However, the officers still demanded their 
prisoner, and to have him delivered bound into their 
hands, commanding all the company a second time to 
help and assist them in securing that public robber up- 
on the king’s high road. 

Don Quixote smiled at the supposed simplicity of the 
fellows; at last, with solemn gravity, “Come hither,” 
said he, “you scoundrel! dare you call loosing the fetter- 
ed, freeing the captive, helping the miserable, raising 
the fallen, and supplying the indigent; dare you, I say, 
base- spirited rascals, call these actions robbery? Your 
thoughts, indeed, are too grovelling and servile to 
understand or reach the pitch of chivalry, otherwise 
you had understood that even the shadow of a knight- 
errant had claim to youradoration. You a band of offi- 
cers! you are apack of rogues indeed, and robbers on 
the highway by authority. What blockhead of a 
magistrate durst issue out a warrant to apprehend a 
knight-errant like me? Could not his ignorance find 
out that we are exempt from all courts of judicature ? 
that our valortis the bench, our will the common law, 
and our sword the executioner of justice? Could not 
his dulness inform him that no rank of nobility or peer- 
age enjoys more immunities and privileges? Has he 
any precedent that a knight-errant ever paid taxes, 
subsidy, poll-money, or so much as fare or ferry? 
What tailor ever had money for his clothes, or what 
constable ever made him a reckoning for lodging in his 
castle? What kings are not proud of his company; 
and what damsels of his love? And lastly, did you 
ever read of any knight-errant that ever was, is, or shall 
be, that could not, with his single force, cudgel four 
hundred such rogues as you to pieces, if they have the 
impudence to oppose him?” 


CHAPTER XLII. 


THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY BROTHERHOOD, WITH DON QUIXOTE’S GREAT 


FEROCITY AND 


WniLsT Don Qutxote talked at this rate, the curate 
endeavored to persuade the officers that he was dis- 
tracted, as they might easily gather from his words 
and actions; and therefore, though they should carry 
him hefore a magistrate, he would be presently acquit- 
ted, as being amadman. He that had the warrant made 
auswer, that it was uot his business to examine whether 
he were mad or not; he was an cflicer in commission, 
and must obey orders; and accordingly was resolved to 
deliver him up to the superior power, which once done, 
they might acquit him five hundred times if they would. 

¿nt for all that, the eurate persisted they should not 
earry Don Quixote away with them this time, adding, 
that the knight himself would by uo means be brought 
to it; and in short, said so much, that they bad been 
greater fools than he, could they not have plainly seen 
his madness. They therefore not only desisted, but 
offered their service in compounding the difference be- 
tween Sancho and the barber. Their mediation was 
accepted, they being officers of justice, and succeeded 
so well, that both parties stood to their arbitration, 
though not entirely satisfied with their award, which 
ordered them to change their pannels, but not their 
halter nor the girths. The curate made up the business 
of the basin, paying the barber, underhand, eight reals 
for it, and getting a general release under his hand of 
all claims or actions concerning it, and all things else. 
These two important differences being so happily de- 
cided, the only obstacles to a general peace were Don 
Lewis’s servants and the innkeeper; the first were pre- 
vailed upon to accept the proposals offered, which 
were, that three of them should go home, and the 
fourth attend Don Lewis, where Don Ferdinand should 
appoint. Thus this difference was made up, to the un- 
speakable joy of Donna Clara. Zoraida, not well 
understanding anything that passed, was sad and cheer- 
ful by turns, as she observed others to be by their 
countenances, especially her heloved Spaniard, on 
whom her eyes were more particularly fixed. The inn- 
keeper made a hideous bawling, having discovered 
that the barber had received money for his basin. He 
knew no reason, he said, why he should not be paid as 
well as other folks, and swore that Rozinante and San- 
cho's ass should pay for their master's extravagance 
before they should leave his stable. The curate paci- 
fied him, and Don Ferdinand paid him his bill. All 


ENCHANTMENT. 


things thus accommodated, the inn no longer resem- 
bled the confusion of Agramaut’s camp, but rather the 
universal peace of Augustus's reign; upon which the 
curate and Don Ferdinand had the thanks of the house, 
as a just acknowledgement for their so effectual media- 
tion. 


Don Quixote being now free from the difficulties and 
delays that lately embarrassed him, held it high time 
to prosecute his voyage, and bring to some decision the 
general enterprise which he had the voice and election 
tor. He therefore fully resolved to press his departure, 
and fell on his knees before Dorothea, but she would 
not hear him in that posture, but prevailed upon him 
to rise: he then addressing her in his usual forms, 
“Most heantiful lady,” said he, “it is a known proverb, 
that ‘diligence is the mother of success;’ and we have 
found the greatest successes in war still to depend on 
expedition and dispatch, hy preventing the enemy’s 
design, and forcing a victory before an assault is ex- 
pected. My inference from this, most high and illus- 
trivus lady, is, that our residence in this castle appears 
nothing conducive to our desigus, but may prove dan- 
gerous; for we may reasonably suppose that our enemy, 
the giant, may learn by spies, or some other secret 
intelligence, the scheme of our intentions, and conse- 
quently to fortify himself in some inexpugnable fortress 
against the power of our utmost endeavors, and so the 
strength of my invincible arm may be ineffectual. Let 
us therefore, dew madam, by our diligence and sudden 
departures hence, prevent any such designs, and force 
our good fortune, by missing no opportunity that we 
may lay hold of.” 

Here he stopped, waiting the princess’s answer. She, 
with a grave aspect, and style suiting his extravagance, 
replied, “The great inclination and indefatigable desire 
you show, worthy knight, in assisting the injured, and 
restoring the oppressed, Jay a fair claim to the praises 
and universal thanks of mankind; but your singular 
concern and industrious application in assisting me, 
deserve my particular acknowledgments and gratifica- 
tion; and I shall make it my peculiar request to 
Heaven, that your generous designs in my favor may 
be soon accomplished, that 1 may be enabled to con- 
vince you of the honor and gratitude that may be found 
in some of our sex. As to our departure, 1 shall depend 





upon your pleasure, to whose management I have not 
198 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


only committed the care of my person, but also resigned 
the whole power of command.” 

“Then, by the assistance of the Divine Power,” an- 
swered he, “1 will lose no opportunity of reinstating 
your highness, since you condescend to humble your- 
self to my orders. Let our march be sudden, for the 
eagerness of my desires, the length of the journey, and 
the dangers of delay, are great spurs to my dispatch. 
Since therefore Heaven has not created nor hell seen, 
the man I ever feared, fly Sancho, saddle Rozinante, 
harness your ass, and make ready the lady’s palfrey ; 
let us take leave of the governor here, and these other 
lords, and set out from hence immediately.” 

Poor Sancho, hearing all that passed, shook his head. 
“Stay, stay, master,” said he; “there is always more 
tricks in a town than are talked of, with reverence be 
it spoken.” 

“Ho, villian!” cried Don Quixote, “what tricks can 
any town or city show to impair my credit?” 

“Nay, sir,” quoth Sancho, “if you grow angry, I can 
hold my tongue; but there are some things which you 
ought to hear, and I should tell, as becomes a trusty 
squire and honest servant.” 

“Say what thou wilt,” said the knight, “so it tend not 
to cowardice; for if thou art afraid, keep it to thyself, 
and trouble not me with the mention of fear, which my 
soul abhors.” 

“Pshaw ! hang fear !” answered Sancho; “that is not 
the matter; but I must tell you, sir, that which is as 
certain and plain as.the nose on your face. This same 
madam here, that calls herself the queen of the great 
kingdom of Micomicon, is no more a queen than my 
grandam. For, do but consider, sir, if she were such a 
fine queen as you believe, can you imagine she would 
always be kissing a certain person, that shall be name- 
less, in this company?” Dorothea blushed at Sancho’s 
words, for Don Ferdinand had, indeed, sometimes, in 
private, taken the freedom with his lips to re1p some 
part of the reward his affection deserved; which San- 
cho, spying by chance, put constructions upon it to the 
disadvantage of her royalty. She, nevertheless, took 
no notice of his aspersion, but let him goon. “I say 
this, sir,” continued he, “because after our trudging 
through all weathers, fair and foul, day after night, 
and night after day, this same person in the inn here is 
like to divert himself at our expense, and to gather the 
fruit of our labors. I think therefore, master, there is 
no reason, do you see, for saddling Rozinante, harness- 
ing my ass, or making ready the lady’s palfrey; for we 
had better stay where we are; and let every woman 
brew as she bakes, and every man that is hungry go to 
dinner.” 

Heavens! into what a fury did these disrespectful 
words of Sancho put the knight! His whole body 
shook, his tongue faltered, his eye glowed. “Thou villan- 
ous, ignorant, rash, unmannerly, blasphemous detract- 
or!” said he, “how darest thou entertain such base and 
dishonorable thoughts, much more utter thy rude and 
contemptible suspicions before me and this honorable 
presence? Away from my sight, thou monster of 
nature, magazine of lies, cupboard of deceits, granary 





199 


of guile, publisher of follies, foe of all honor! Away, 
and never let me see thy face again, on pain of my most 
furious indignation!” Then bending his angry brows, 
puffing his cheeks, and stamping on the ground, he 
gave Sancho such a look as almost frightened the poor 
fellow to annihilation. 

In the height of this consternation, all that the poor 
squire could do was to turn his back, and sneak out of 
the room. But Dorothea, knowing the knight’s tem- 
per, undertook to mitigate his anger. “Sir Knight of 
the Woful Figure,” said she, “assuage your wrath, I 
beseech you;.itis below your dignity to be offended at 
these id.3 words of your squire; and I dare not affirm 
but that h: aas some color of reason for what he said; 
for it were uncharitable to suspect his sincere under- 
standing and honest principles of any false or malicious. 
slander or accusation. We must therefore search deeper 
into this affair, and believe that, as you have found all 
transactionsin this castle governed by enchantment, so 
some diabolical illusion has appeared to Sancho, and 
represented to his enchanted sight what he asserts to 
my dishonor.” 

“Now, by the powers supreme,” said the knight, 
“your highness has cut the knot This misdemeanor 
of that poor fellow must be attributed purely to en- 
chantment, and the power of some malicious apparition; 
for the good nature and simplicity of the poor wretch 
could never invent a lie, or be guilty of an aspersion to 
any one’s disadvantage.” 

“Tt is evident,” said Don Ferdinand; “we therefore: 
all intercede in behalf of honest Sancho, that he may 
be again restored to your favor, sicut erat in principio, 
before these illusions had imposed upon his sense.” 
Don Quixote complied, and the curate brought in poor 
Sancho trembling, who on his knees made an humble 
acknowledgement of his crime, and begged to have his 
pardon confirmed by a gracious kiss of his master’s 
hand. Don Quixote gave him his hand and his blessing. 
“Now, Sancho,” said he, “will you hereafter believe 
what I so often have told you, that the power of en- 
chantment overrules everything in this castle?” 

“T will, an it like your worship,” quoth Sancho, “all 
but my tossing in a blanket; for really, sir, that hap- 
pened according to the ordinary course of things.” 

“Believe it not, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “for 
were I not convinced of the contrary, you should have 
plentiful revenge; but neither then nor now could I 
ever find any object to wreak my fury or resentment 
on.” 

Every one desired to know what was the business in 
questien; whereupon the innkeeper gave them an ac- 
count of Sancho’s tossing, which set them all a-laugh- 
ing, and would have made Sancho angry, had not his 
master afresh assured him that it was only a mere illu- 
sion, which, though the squire believed not, he held 
his tongue. The whole company having passed two 
whole days in the inn, bethought themselves of depart- 
ing; and the curate and barber found outa device to 
carry home Don Quixote, without putting Don Ferd- 
inand and Dorothea to the trouble of humoring his 
impertinence any longer. They first agreed with 











C 


































































































« Be not impatient, O Knight of the Woful Figure, at your imprisonment.”—p. 201. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


a wagoner that went by with his team of oxen to 
carry him home: then they had a kind of wooden 
cage made, so large that the knight might conveniently 
sit or lie in it. Presently after all the company of the 
inn disguised themselves, some with masks, others by 
disfiguring their faces, and the rest by change of apparel 
so that Don Quixote should not take them to be the 
same persons. This done, they all silently entered his 
chamber, where he was sleeping very soundly after his 
late fatigues: they immediately laid hold on him so 
forcibly, and held his arms and legs so hard, that he 
was not able to stir, or do anything but stare on those 
odd figures which stood around him. This instantly 
confirmed him in the strange fancy that had so long 
disturbed his crazed understanding, and made him be- 
lieve himself undoubtedly enchanted, and those fright- 
ful figures to be the spirits and demons of the enchanted 
castle. So far the curate’s invention succeeded to his 
expectation. Sancho being the only person there in 
his right shape and senses, beheld all this very patient- 
ly, and though he knew them all very well, yet was re- 
solved to see the end of it, ere he ventured to speak his 
mind. His master likewise said nothing, patiently ex- 
pecting his fate, and waiting the event of his misfor- 
tune. They had by this lifted him out of bed, and 
placing him in the cage, they shut him in, and nailed 
the bars of it so fast, that no small strength could force 
them open. Then mounting him on their shoulders, as 
they conveyed him out of the chamber-door they heard 
as dreadful a voice as the barber’s lungs could bellow 
speak these words :— 

“Be not impatient, O Knight of the Woful Figure, 
at your imprisonment, since it is ordained by the Fates, 
for the more speedy accomplishment of that most noble 
adventure which your incomparable valor has intended. 
For accomplished it shall be, when the rampant Man- 
chegan lion and the white Tobosian dove shall be 
united, from whose wonderful union shall be produced 
brave whelps, which shall imitate the rampant paws of 
their valorous sire. And this shall happen before the 
bright pursuer of the fugitive nymph shall, by his 
rapid and natural course, take a double circumference 
in visitation of the luminous signs. And thou, the 
most noble and faithful squire that ever had sword on 
thigh, beard on face, or sense of smell in nose, be not 





201 


dispirited or discontented at this captivity of the flower - 
of all chivalry; for very speedily, by the eternal will of 
the world’s Creator, thou shalt find thyself ennobled 
and exalted beyond the knowledge of thy greatness. 
And I confirm to thee, from the sage Mentironiana, that 
thou shalt not be defrauded of the promises made by 
thy noble lord. I therefore conjure thee to follow 
closely the steps of the courageous and enchanted 
knight; for it is necessarily enjoined that you both go 
where you both shall stay. The Fates have command- 
ed me no more; farewell. For I now return, I well 
know whither.” 

The barber managed the cadence of his voice so arti- 
ficially towards. the latter end of his prophecy, that 
even those who were made acquainted with the jest had 
almost taken it for supernatural. 

Don Quixote was much comforted at the prophecy, 
apprehending presently the sense of it, and applying 
it to his marriage with Dulcinea del Toboso, to the 
eternal glory of La Mancha; upon the strength of 
which belief, raising his voice, and heaving a profound 
sigh; “Whatsoever thou art,” said he, “whose happy 
prognostication I own and acknowledge, I desire thee 
to implore, in my name; the wise magician, whose charge 
I am, that this power may protect me in this captivity, 
and not permit me to perish before the fruition of these 
grateful and incomparable promises made to me. For 
the confirmation of such hopes, I would think my prison 
a palace, my fetters freedom, and this hard field-bed on 
which I lie more easy than the softest down, or most 
luxurious lodgings. And as to the consolation offered 
my squire Sancho Panza, I am so convinced of his hon- 
esty, and he has proved his honor in so many adven- 
tures, that I mistrust not his deserting me, through any 
change of fortune. And though his or my harder stars 
should disable me from bestowing on him the island I 
have promised, or some equivalent, his wages at least 
are secured to him by my lastwill and testament, though 
what he will receive is more answerable, I confess, to 
my estate and ability, than to his services and great 
deserts.” Sancho Panza made him three or four very 
respectful bows, and kissed both his hands, for one 
alone he could not, being both tied together; and in 
an instant the plotters hoisted up the cage, and yoked 
it very handsomely to the team of oxen. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


PROSECUTING THE COURSE OF DON QUIXOTE'S ENCHANTMENT, WITH OTHER MEMORABLE OCCURRENCES. 


Don QUIXOTE was not so much amazed at his en- 
chantment as at the manner of it. “Among all the 
volumes of chivalry that I have turned over,” said he, 
“T never read before of knights-errant drawn in carts, 
or tugged along so leisurely, by such slothful animals 
asoxen. For they used to be hurried along with pro- 
digious speed, enveloped in some dark and dusky cloud; 
or in some fiery chariot drawn by winged griffins, or 
some such expeditions creatures; but I must confess, to 
be drawn thus hy ateam of oxen, staggersmy understand- 
ing not alittle; though perhaps the enchanters of our 
times take a different method from those in former ages. 
Or rather, the wise magicians have invented some 
course in their proceedings for me, being the first re- 
viver and restorer of arms, which have so long been 
lost in oblivion, and rusted through the disuse of chiv- 
alry. What is thy opinion, my dear Sancho ?” 

“Why, truly, sir,” said Sancho, “I cannot tell what 
to think, being not so well read in these matters as your 
worship; vet for all that, Tam positive and can take my 
oath on it, that these same phantoms that run up and 
down here are not orthodox.” 

“Orthodox, my friend?” said Don Quixote; “how can 
they be orthodox, when they are spirits, and have only 
assumed these fantastical bodies to surprise us into this 
condition? To convince you, endeavor to touch them, 
and you will find their substances are not material, but 
only subtle air, and outward appearance.” 

“Bless you, sir,” said Sancho, “E have tonched them, 
and touched them again, sir; and I find this same busy 
spirit here, that is fiddling about, is as plump and fat 
as a capon: besides, he has another property very dif- 
ferent from a spirit; for the evil ones, they say, smell 
of brimstone and other filthy things; and this spark 
has such a fine scent of essence about him, that you 
may smell him at least half a league”—meaning Don 
Ferdinand, who, in all probability, like other gentlemen 
of his quality, had his clothes perfumed. 

“Alas! honest Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; “the 
cunning of these fiends is above the reach of thy sim- 
plicity; for you must know, the spirits, as spirits, have 
no scent at all; and if they should, it must necessarily 
be some unsavory stench, because they still carry their 
hell about them, and the least of a perfume or grateful 
odor were inconsistent with their torments; so that this 
mistake of yours must be attributed to some farther 
delusion of your sense.” 





Don Ferdinand and Cardenia, upon these discourses 
between master and man, were afraid that Sancho would 
spoil all, and therefore ordered the innkeeper privately 
to get ready Rozinante and Sancho’s ass, while the 
curate agreed with the officers for so much a day to 
conduct them home. Cardenio having hung Don Quix- 
ote's target on the pommel of Rozinante’s saddle, and 
the basin on the other side, he signified to Sancho by 
signs that he should mount his ass, and lead Rozinante 
by the bridle; and then placed two officers with their 
firelocks on cach side of the cart. 

Being just ready to march, the hostess, her daughter, 
and Maritornes, came to the door to take their leave of 
the knight, pretending insupportable grief for his mis- 
fortune. “Restrain your tears, most honorable ladies,” 
said Don Quixote, “for these mischances are incident 
to those of my profession; and from these disasters it 
is we date the greatness of owr glory and renown; they 
they are the effects of envy, which still attends virtuous 
and great actions, and brought upon us by the indirect 
means of such princes and knights as are emulous of 
our dignity and fame; but spite of all oppression, spite 
of all the magic that everits first inventor, Zoroaster, 
understood, virtue will come off victorious; and tri- 
tnphing over every danger, will at last shine out in its 
proper Justre, like the sun to enlighten the world. 
Pardon me, fair ladies, if through ignorance or omission 
of the respects due to your qualities, I have not be- 
haved myself to please you; for, to the best of my 
knowledge, I never committed a wilful wrong. And I 
crave the assistance of your prayers, towards my en- 
largement from this prison, which some malicious magi- 
cian has confined me to; and the first business of my 
freedom shall be a grateful acknowledgment for the 
many and obliging favors conferred upon me in this 
your castle.” 

Whilst the Jadies were thus entertained by Don 
Quixote, the curate and barber were busy takiug their 
leaves of their company; and after mutual compliments 
and embraces, they engaged to acquaint one another 
with their sncceeding fortunes. Don Ferdinand en- 
treated the curate to give him a particular relation of 
Don Quixote’s adventures, assuring him that nothing 
would be a greater obligation, and at the same time 
engaged to inforn him of his own marriage and Lucin- 
da’s return to her parents; with an account of Zoraida’s 
baptisn and Don Lewis’s success in his amour. 

202 








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——S 253 


222 => 


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“Don Quixote was not so much amazed at his enchantment as at the manner of it.”—p. 202. 


204 


The curate, having given his word and honor to sat- 
isfy Don Ferdinand, and the last compliments being 
past, Was just going, when the innkeeper made him a 
protier of a bundle of papers found iu the folds of a 
cloak-bag, telling him withal that they were all at his 
service; because, since the owner was not like to come 
and demand them, and he could not read, they could 
not better be disposed of. The curate thanked him 
heartily, and opening the papers, found them entitled, 
“The Story of Rinconete and Cortadillo.” The title 
showing it to be a novel, he put it in his pocket, with a 
resolution to peruse it the very first opportunity; then 
mounting with his friend the barber, and both putting 
on their masks, they followed the procession, which 
marched in this order. The carter led the van, and 
next his cart, flanked on right and left with two officers 
with their firelocks; then followed Sancho on his ass, 
leading Rozinante; and lastly the curate and barber on 
their mighty mules brought up the rear of the body, 
all with a grave and solemn air, marching no faster 
than the heavy oxen allowed. Don Quixote sat leaning 
against the back of the cage, with his hands tied and 
his legs at length; but so silent and motionless, that 
he seemed rather a statue than a man. 

They had travelled about two leagues this slow and 
leisurely pace, when their conductor stopping in « little 
valley, proposed it as a fit place to bait in; but he was 
prevailed upon to defer halting a little longer, being 
informed by the barber of a certain valley beyond a 
little hill in their view, better stored with grass, and 
more convenient for their purpose. They had not trav- 
elled much farther when the curate spied coming a 
round pace after them six or seven men very well ac- 
contred; they appeared, hy their brisk riding, to be 
monnted on churchmen's mules, not carried us the Don 
was, by a team of sluggish oxen: they endeavored be- 
fore the heat of the day to reach their inn, which was 
about aleague farther. In short, they soon came up with 
our slow itinerants; and one of them, who was a canon 
of Toledo, and master of those that came along with 
him, marking the formal procession of the cart, guards, 
Sancho, Rozinante, the curate, and the barber, but 
chiefly the in-caged Don Quixote, could not forbear 
asking what meant their strange method of securing 
that man; though he already believed, having observed 
the guards, that he was some notorious criminal in 
custody of the holy brotherhood. One of the fraterni- 
ty told him that he could not tell the cause of that 
knight’s imprisonment, but that he might answer for 
himself, because he best could tell. 

Don Quixote over-hearing their discourse, “Gentle- 
men,” said he, “if you are conversant and skilled in 
matters of knight-errantry, I will communicate my 
misfortunes to you; if you are not, I have no reason to 
give myself the trouble.” 

“Truly, friend,” answered the canon, “I am better ac- 
quainted with books of chivalry than with Villalpan- 
do's divinity; and if that be all your objection, you may 
safely impart to me what you please.” 

“With Heaven's permission be it so,” said Don Quis- 
ote. “You must, then, understand, sir knight, tha I am 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


borne away in this cage by the force of enchantments, 
through the envious spite and malice of some cursed 
magicians; for virtue is more zealously persecuted by 
ill men than it is beloved by the good. I am by profes- 
sion a knight-errant, and none of those, I assure you, 
whose deeds never merited a place in the records of 
fame; but one who, in spite of Envy’s self, in spite of 
all the magi of Persia, the Brahmins of India, or the 
gymnosophists of Ethiopia, shall secure to his name a 
place in the temple of immortality, as a pattern and 
model to following ages, that ensuing knights-errant, 
following my steps, may be guided to the top and 
highest pitch of heroic honor.” 

“The noble Don Quixote de la Mancha speaks truth,” 
said the curate, coming up to the company; “he is in- 
deed enchanted in this cart, pot through his own de- 
merits or offences, but the malicious treachery of those 
whom virtue displeases and valor offends. This is, sir, 
the Knight of the Woful Figure, of whom you have un- 
doubtedly heard, whose mighty deeds shall stand en- 
graved in lasting brass and time-surviving marble, till 
envy grows tired with laboring to deface his fame, and 
malice to conceal him.” 

The canon hearing the prisoner and his guard talk 
thus in the sume style, was in amaze, and blessed him- 
self for wonder, as did the rest of the company, till 
Sancho Panza coming up to mend the matter— 

“Look ye, sirs,” said he, “I will speak the truth, 
take it well or take itill. My master here is no more 
enchanted than my mother: he is in his sober senses, 
he eats and drinks, like other folks, and as he used to 
do; and yet they would persuade me that a man who 
can do this is enchanted forsooth! He can speak too, 
for if they will let him alone, be will prattle yon more 
than thirty attorneys.” 

Then turning towards the curate, “Oh, Master Cu- 
rate, Master Curate,” continued he, “do you think I do 
not know you, and that 1 do not guess what all these 
new enchantments drive ut? Yes, I know you well 
enough, for all you bide your face; and understand 
your design, for all your sly tricks, sir. But it is an 
old saying, ‘There is no striving against the stream y 
and the weakest still goes to the wall. Confusion take 
the luck on it; had not your reverence spoiled our 
sport, my master had been married betore now to the 
Princess Micomicona, ana 1 nad been an earl at least; 
nay, that I was sure ot, naa toe worst come to the worst; 
but the old proverb is true again, ‘Fortune turns round 
like a mill-wheel, and he that was yesterday at the top 
lies to-day at the bottom.’ I wonder, Master Curate, 
you that area clergyman should not have more con- 
science; consider, sir, that I have a wife and family, 
who expect all to be great folks, and my master here is 
to do a world of good deeds: and do not you think, sir, 
that you will be made to answer for all this one day?” 

“Snuff me those candles,” said the barber, hearing 
Sancho talk at this rate: “what! fool, are you brain- 
sick of your master’s disease, too? If you be, you are 
like to bear him company in his cage, assure you, friend. 
What enchanted island is this that fioats in your 
skull?” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Y may be Pope of Rome, much less governor of an 
island,” said Sancho; “especially considering my mas- 
ter may gain so many as he may want persons to bestow 
them on. Therefore, pray, Master Barber, mind what 
you say; for all consists not in shaving of beards, and 
there is some difference between a hawk and a hand- 
saw. Isay so, because we all know one another, and 
nobody shall put a false card upon me. As to my 
master’s enchantment, let it stand as it is.” 

The barber thought. silence the best way to quiet 
Sancho’s impertinence; and the curate, fearing that he 
might spoil it all, entreated the canon to go on a little 
before, and he would unfold the mystery of the encaged 
knight, which, perhaps, he would find one of the pleas- 
antest stories he had ever heard. The canon rode for- 
ward with him, and his men followed, while the curate 
made them a relation of Don Quixote’s life and quality, 
his madness and adventures, with the original cause of 
his distraction, and the whole progress of his affairs, 
till his being shut up in the cage, to get him home in 
order to have him cured. They all wondered at this 
strange account; and then the canon, turning to the 
curate — 

“Believe me, Master Curate,” said he, “I am fully 
convinced that these they call books of knight-errantry 
are very prejudicial to the public. And though I have 
been led away with an idle and false pleasure, to read 
the beginnings of almost as many of them as have been 
printed, I could never yet persuade myself to go 
through with any one to the end; for to me they all 
seem to contain one and the same thing; and there is 
as much in one of them as in all the rest. The whole 
composition and style resemble that of the Milesian 
fables, which are a sort of idle stories, designed only 
for diversion, and not for instruction. It is not so with 
those fables which are called apologues, that at once 
delight and instruct. But though the main design of 
such books is to please, yet I cannot conceive how it is 
possible they should perform it, being filled with such 
a multitude of unaccountable extravagances. For the 
pleasure which strikes the soul must be derived from 
the beauty and congruity it sees or conceives in those 
things the sight or imagination lay before it; and noth- 
ing in itself deformed or incongruous can give us any 
real satisfaction. Now what beauty can there be, or 
what proportion of the parts to the whole, or of the 
whole to the several parts in a book or fable, where a 
stripling of sixteen years of age at one cut of a sword 
cleaves a giant as tall as a steeple, through the middle, 
as easily as if he were made of pasteboard? Or when 
they give us the relation of a battle, having said the 
enemy’s power consisted of a milion of combatants, yet 
provided the hero of the book be against them, we must 
of necessity, though never so much against our inclina- 
tion, conceive that the said knight obtained the victory 
only by his own valor and the strength of his powerful 
arm. And what shall we say of the great ease and 
facility with which an absolute queen or empress casts 
herself into the arms of an errant and unknown knight? 
What mortal, not altogether barbarous and unpolished. 
can be pleased to read, that a great tower, full of armed 





205 


knights, cuts through the sea like a ship before the 
wind, and setting out in the evening from the coast 
of Italy, lands by break of day in Prester John’s 
country, or in some other, never known to Ptolemy or 
seen by Marcus Paulus? If it should be answered 
that the persons who compose these books write them 
as confessed lies, and therefore are not obliged to ob- 
serve niceties or to have regard to truth, I shall make 
this reply, that falsehood is so much the more com- 
mendable by how much more it resembles truth, and is 
the more pleasing the more it is doubtful and possible. 
Fabulous tales ought to be suited to the reader’s under- 
standing, being so contrived, that all impossibilities 
ceasing, all great accidents appearing feasible, and the 
mind wholly hanging in suspense, they may at once 
surprise, astonish, please, and divert; so that pleasure 
and admiration may go hand in hand. This cannot be 
performed by him that flies from probability and imita- 
tion, which is the perfection of what is written. I have 
not seen any book of knight-errantry that composes an 
entire body of a fable with all its parts so that the mid- 
dle is answerable to the beginning, and the end to the 
beginning and middle; but on the contrary, they form 
them of so many limbs, that they rather seem a chimera 
or monster than a well-proportioned figure. Besides all 
this, their style is uncouth, their exploits incredible, 
their love immodest, their civility impertinent, their 
battles tedious, their language absurd, their voyages 
preposterous; and in short, they are altogether void of 
solid ingenuity, and therefore ought to be banished a 
Christian commonwealth as useless and prejudicial.” 
The curate was very attentive, and believed hima 
man of a sound judgment, and much in the right in all 
he had urged; and therefore told him, that being of the 
same opinion, and an enemy to the books of knight- 
errantry, he had burnt all that belonged to Don Quix- 
ote, which were a considerable number. Then he 
recounted to him the scrutiny he had made among 
them, what he had condemned to the flames, and what 
spared; at which the canon laughed heartily, and said, 
that notwithstanding all he had spoken against those 
books, yet he found one good thing in them, which was 
the subject they furnished a man of understanding 
with to exercise his parts, “because they allow a large 
scope for the pen to dilate upon without any check, 
describing shipwrecks, storms, skirmishes, and battles; 
representing to us a brave commander, with all the 
qualifications requisite in such a one, showing his 
prudence in disappointing the designs of the enemy, 
his eloquence in persuading or dissuading his soldiers, 
his judgment in council, his celerity in execution, and 
his valor in assailing or repulsing an assault; laying 
before us sometimes a dismal and melancholy accident, 
sometimes a delightful and unexpected adventure; in 
one place, a beautiful, modest, discreet, and reserved 
lady; in another, a Christian-like, brave, and courteous 
gentleman; here a boisterous, inhuman, boasting ruffian; 
there an affable, warlike, and wise prince; clearly ex- 
pressing the fidelity and loyalty of subjects, the gene- 
rosity and bounty of sovereigns. He may no less, at 
times, make known his skill in astrology, cosmography, 


206 DON 
music, and policy; and if he pleases, he cannot want an 
opportunity of appearing knowing even in necromancy. 
He may describe the subtilty of Ulysses, the piety of 
Eneas, the valor of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hec- 
tor, the treachery of Simon, the friendship of Euryalus, 
the liberality of Alexander, the valor of Cesar, the 
clemency and sincerity of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopy- 
rus, the prudence of Cato; and in fine, all those actions 
that make up a complete hero; sometimes attributing 
them all to one person, and at other times dividing 
them among many. This being performed in a grace- 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ful style, and with ingenious invention, approaching as 
much as possible to truth, will doubtless compose so 
beautiful and various a work, that, when finished, its 
excellency and perfevtion must attain the best end of 
writing, which is at once to delight and instruct, as I 
have said before: for the loose method practised in 
these books gives the author liberty to play the epic, 
the lyric, and the dramatic poet, and to run through 
all the parts of poetry and rhetoric; for epics may be 
as well written in prose as in verse.” 











CHAPTER XLIV. 


CONTAINING A CONTINUATION OF THE CANON’S DISCOURSE UPON BOOKS OF KNIGHT-ERRANTY, AND OTHER 


CURIOUS 


“You are much in the right, sir,” replied the curate; 
“and therefore those who have hitherto published books 
of that kind are the more to be blamed, for having had 
no regard to good sense, art, or rules, by the observation 
of which they might have made themselves as famous 
in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry 
are in verse.” 

“T must confess,” said the canon,“I was once tempted 
to write a book of knight-errantry myself, observing all 
those rules; and, to speak the truth, I wrote above one 
hundred pages, which, for the better trial, whether 
they answered my expectation, I communicated with 
some learned and judicious men fond of those subjects, 
as well as to some of those ignorant persons who are 
only delighted with extravagances; and they all gave 
me a satisfactory approbation. And yet I made no far- 
ther progress, as well in regard I look upon it asa 
thing no way agreeable with my profession, as because 
l am sensible the illiterate are much more numerous 
than the learned; and though it were of more weight 
to be commended by the small number of the wise, 
than scorned by the ignorant multitude, yet would 1 
not expose myself to the confused judgment of the 
giddy vulgar, who principally are those who read such 
books. But the greatest motive Ihad to lay aside, and 
think no more of finishing it, was the argument I 
formed to myself deduced from the plays now usually 
acted; ‘for,’ thought I, “if plays now in use, as well 
those which are altogether of the poet’s invention as 
those that are grounded upon history, be all of them, 
or, however, the greatest part, made up of most absurd 
extravagances and incoherencies ; things that have 
neither head nor foot, side nor bottom; and yet the 
multitude sees them with satisfaction, esteems and ap- 
proves them, though they are so far from being good; 
and if the poets who write, and the players who act 
them, say they must be so contrived and no otherwise, 





MATTER. 


because they please the generality of the audience; 
and if those which are regular and according to art, 
serve only to please half a score of judicions persons 
who understand them, whilst the rest of the company 
cannot reach the contrivance, nor know anything of the 
matter; then may I conclude the same will be the 
success of this book, so that when I have racked my 
brains to observe the rules, I shall reap no other ad- 
vantage than be laughed at for my pains. 

“T have sometimes endeavored to convince the actors 
that they are deceived in their opinion, and that they 
will draw more company and get more credit by regu- 
lar plays, than by thuse preposterous representations 
now in use; but they are so positive in their humor, 
that no strength of reason, nor even demonstration, can 
beat this opinion into their heads. I remember I once 
was talking to one of those obstinate fellows. ‘Do you 
not remember,’ said I, ‘that within these few years, 
three tragedies were acted in Spain, written by a 
famous poet of ours, which were so excellent, that they 
surprised, delighted, and raised the admiration of all 
that saw them, as well the ignorant and ordinary peo- 
ple as the judicious and men of quality; and the actors 
got more by those three than by thirty of the best that 
have been written since?’ ‘Doubtless, sir,’ said the 
actor, ‘you mean the tragedies of Isabella, Phillis, and 
Alexandria.’ ‘The very same,’ I replied, ‘and do you 


judge whether they observed the rules of the drama, 


and whether by doing so they lost anything of their 
esteem, or failed of pleasing all sorts of people. So 
that the fault lies not in the audience desiring absurdi- 
ties, but in those who know not how to give them any- 
thing else. Nor was there anything preposterous in 
several other plays; as for example, “Ingratitude Re- 
venged,” “Numancia,” and “The Amorous Merchant;” 
nor in some others, composed by judicious poets to their 
honor and credit, and to the advantage of those that 


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208 


acted them.’ Much more I added, which did indeed 
somewhat confound him, but nv way satistied or con- 
vinced him, so as to make him change his erroneous 
opinion.” 

“You have hit upon a subject, sir,” said the curate, 
“which has stirred up in me an old aversion I have for 
the plays now in use, which is not inferior to that I 
bear to books of knight-errantry. For whereas plays, 
aceerding to the opinion of Cicero, ought to be mirrors 
of human life, patterns of good manners, and the very 
representatives of truth, those now acted are mirrors of 
absurdities, patterns of follies, and images of ribaldry. 
For instance, what can be more absurd than for the sume 
person to be brought on the stage a child in swaddling- 
bands, in the first scene of the first act, and to appear 
in the second grown aman? What can be more ridic- 
ulous than to represent to us a fighting old fellow, a 
cowardly youth a rhetorical footman, a politic page, a 
churlish king, and an unpolished princess? What shall 
J say of their regard to the time in which those actions 
they represent either might or ought to have happened? 
for I have seen a play in which the first act began in 
Europe, the second was in Asia, and the third ended in 
Africa. Probably, if there had been another act, they 
would have carried it into America; and thus it would 
have been acted in the four parts of the world. Butif 
imitation is to be a principal part of the drama, how can 
any tolerable judgment be pleased, when, representing 
an action that happened in the time of King Pepin or 
Charlemagne, they shall attribute it to the Emperor 
ITeraclius, and bring him in carrying the cross into Jeru- 
salem, and recovering the Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey 
of Bouillon, there being a vast distance of time betwixt 
these actions? Thus they will clap together pieces of 
true history in a play of theirown framing, and ground- 
ed upon fiction, mixing in it relations of things that 
have happened to different people, aud in several ages. 
This they do without any contrivance that might make 
it appear probable, and with such visible mistakes as 
are altogether inexcusable; but the worst of it is, that 
there are idiots who look upon this as perfection, and 
think everything else to be mere pedantry. But if we 
look into the pious plays, what a multitude of false 
miracles shall we find in them! How many errors and 
contradictions, how ofteu the miracles wrought by one 
saint attributed to another! Nay, even in the profane 
plays, they presume to work miracles upon the imagina- 
tion, and suppose that such a supernatural work, or 
amachine, as they call it, will be ornamental, and draw 
the common sort to see the play. These things are a 
reflection upon truth itself, a lessening and deprecia- 
ting of history, and a reproach to all Spanish wits; be- 
cause strangers, who are very exact in observing the 
rules of the drama, look upon us as an ignorant people, 
when they see the absurdities and extravagances of 
our plays. 

“Nor would it be any excuse to allege that the prin- 
cipal design of all good governments, in permitting 
plays to be publicly acted, is to amuse the commonalty 
with some lawful recreation, and so to divert those ill 
humors which idleness is apt to breed: and that since 
this end is attained by any sort of plays, whether good 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


or bad, it is needless to prescribe laws to them, or 
oblige the poets or actors to compose and represent 
such as are strictly conformable to the rules. To this I 
would answer, that this end would he infinitely better 
attained by good plays than by bad ones. He who sees 
a play that is regular and answerable to the rules of 
poetry, is pleased with the comic part, informed by the 
serious, surprised at the variety of accidents, improved 
by the language, warned by the frauds, instructed by 
examples, incensed against vice, and enamored with 
virtue; for a good play must cause all these emotions 
in the soul of him that sees it, though he were never so 
insensible and unpolished. And it is absolutely impos- 
sible that a play which has these qualifications should 
not infinitely divert, satisfy, and please, beyond another 
that wants them, as most of them do which are now 
usually acted. Neither are the poets who write them 
in fault, for some of them are very scusible of their 
errors, and extremely capable of performing their duty; 
but plays being now altogether becoming venal and a 
sort of merchandise, they say, and with reason, that the 
actors would not purchase them, unless they were of 
that stamp; and therefore the poet endeavors to suit 
the humor of the actors, who are to pay him for his 
labor. For proof of this, let any man observe that in- 
finite number of plays composed by an exuberant Span- 
ish wit, so full of gaiety and humor, in such elegant 
verse and choice language, so sententious, and to con- 
clude, in such a majestic style, that his fame is spread 
through the universe; yet because he suited himself to 
the fancy of the actors, many of his pieces have fallen 
short of their due perfection, though some have 
reached it. Others write plays so inconsideratel y, that 
after they have appeared on the stage, the actors have 
been forced to fly and abscond, for fear of being pun- 
ished, as it has often happened, for having affronted 
kings, and dishonored whole families. These and many 
other ill consequences, which I omit, would cease, by 
appointing an intelligent and judicious person at court 
to examine all plays before they were acted; that is, 
net only those which are represented at court, but 
throughout all Spain: so that, without his license, no 
magistrate should suffer any play to appear in public. 
Thus players would be careful to send their plays to 
court, and might then act them with safety, and those 
who write would be more circumspect, as standing in 
awe of an examiner that could judge of their works. 
By these means we should be furnished with good 
plays, and the end they are designed for would be at- 
tained, the people diverted, the Spanish wit esteemed, 
the actors safe, and the government spared the trouble 
of punishing them. Andif the same person, or another, 
were entrusted to examine all the new books of knight- 
errantry, there is no doubt but some might be published 
with all that perfection you, sir, have mentioned, to the 
increase of eloquence in our language, to the utter ex- 
tirpation of the old books, which would be borne down 
hy the new; and for the innocent pastime, not only of 
idle persons, but even of those who have most employ- 
ment; for the bow cannot always stand bent, nor can 


human frailty subsist without some lawful recrea- 


tion.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 


A RELATION OF THE WISE CONFERENCE BETWEEN SANCHO AND HIS MASTER. 


THE canon and curate were come to this period, when 
the barber overtaking them, told the latter that this 
was the place he had pitched on for baiting during the 
heat of the day. The canon, induced by the pleasant- 
ness of the valley, and the satisfaction he found in the 
curate's conversation, as well as to be farther informed 
of Don Quixote, bore them company, giving order to 
some of his men to ride to the next inn, and if his 
sumpter-mule were arrived, to send him down provis- 
ions to that valley, where the coolness of the shade, 
and the beauty of the prospect, gave him such a fair 
invitation to dine; and that they should make much of 
themselves and their mules with what the inn could 
afford. 

In the meantime, Sancho having disengaged himself 
from the curate and barber, and finding an opportunity 
to speak to his master alone, he brushed up to the cage 
where the knight sat. “That I may clear my con- 
science, sir,” said he, “it is fitting that I tell you the 
plain truth of your enchantment here. Who, would 
you think now, are these two fellows that ride with 
their faces covered? Even the parson of our parish 
and the barber; none else, I will assure you, sir. And 
they are in a plot against you, out of mere spite because 
your deeds will be more famous than theirs: this being 
supposed, it follows that you are not enchanted, but 
only cozened and abused.” 

“As to thy assertion,” said the knight, “that those 
who guard us are my old companions, the curate and 
barber, it is illusion all. The power of magic indeed, 
as it has an art to clothe anything in any shape, may 
have dressed these demons in their appearances to in- 
fatuate thy sense, and draw thee into such a labyrinth 
of confusion, that even Theseus’s clue could not extri- 
cate thee out of it; and this with a design, perhaps, to 
plunge me deeper into doubts, and make me endanger 
my understanding, in searching into the strange con- 
trivance of my enchantment, which in every circum- 
stance is so different from all I ever read. Therefore 
rest satisfied that these are no more what thou imagin- 
est than I am a Turk.” 

“Come, sir,” said Sancho, “you cannot deny that 
when anybody is out of sorts, so as not to eat, or drink, 
or sleep, then we say commonly they are bewitched or 
so; from whence may be gathered, that those who can 
eat their meat, drink their drink, and speak when they 
are spoken to, are not bewitched or enchanted.” 

“Your conclusion is good,” answered Don Quixote, 

1 ——DON QUIX. 





“as to one sort of enchantment; but, as I said to thee, 
their is a variety of enchautments, and the changes in 
them, through the alterations of times and customs, 
branch them into so many parts, that there is no argu- 
ing from what has been to what may be now. For my 
part I am verily persuaded of my enchantment, and this 
suppresses any uneasiness in my conscience, which 
might arise upon any suggestions to the contrary. To 
see myself thus idly and dishonorably borne about in a 
cage, and withheld, like a lazy, idle coward, from the 
great offices of my function when at this hour, perhaps, 
hundreds of wretches may want my assistance, would 
be insupportable, if I were not enchanted.” 

“Yet, for all that, your worship should try to get 
your heels at liberty,” said Sancho. “Come, sir, let me 
alone, I will set you free, I warrant you; and then get 
you on your trusty Rozinante’s back, and a fig for them 
all. The poor thing here jogs on as drooping and 
heartless as if he were enchanted too. Take my ad- 
vice for once now, and if things do not go as your heart 
could wish, you have time enough to creep into your 
cage again; aud on the word of a lawful squire I will 
go in with you, and be content to be enchanted as long 
as you please.” 

“T commit the care of my freedom to your manage- 
ment,” said Don Quixote; “lay hold on the opportu- 
nity, friend Sancho, and thou shalt find me ready to be 
governed in all particulars, though I am still afraid 
thou wilt find thy cunning strangely over-reached in 
thy pretended discovery.” 

The knight and squire had laid their plot when they 
reached the place that the canon, curate, and barber 
had pitched upon to alight in. The cage was taken 
down, and the oxen unyoked to graze; when Sancho, 
addressing the curate, “Pray,” said he, “will you do so 
much as let my lord and master come out a little to 
take the air?” 

The curate understanding him, answered that he 
would comply, but that he feared Don Quixote, finding 
himself once more at liberty, would give them the slip. 

“T will be bail for him,” said Sancho, “body for body, 
sir.” 

“And J,” said the canon, upon his bare parole of 
honor.” 

“That you shall have,” said the knight; “besides, 
yon need no security beyond the power of art, for en- 
chanted bodies have no power to dispose of themselves, 
nor to move from one place to another, without permis- 

209 











«A vast lake of boiling pitch, in which an infinite multitude of fierce and terrible creatures are traversing.” —p. 212. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 


sion of the necromancer, in whose charge they are: the 
magical charms might rivet them for three whole cen- 
turies to one place, and fetch them back swift as the 
wind, should the enchanted have fled to some other 
région.” Before long they gave him his liberty; and 
the first use he made of it was to stretch his benumbed 
limbs three or four times; then marching up to Rozin- 
ante, and slapping him twice or thrice on the quarters, 
“J trust in Heaven, thou flower and glory of horse- 
flesh,” said he, “that we shall soon be restored to our 
former circumstances; I mounted on thy back, and thou 
‘between my legs, while I exercise the function for 
which Heaven has bestowed me on the world.” 
. The canon gazed on him, admiring his unparalleled 
sort of madness, the rather because in all his words and 
answers he displayed an excellent judgment; and as we 
have already observed, he only raved when the dis- 
course fell upon knight-errantry: which moving the 
canon to compassion, when they had all seated them- 
selves on the grass, expecting the coming up of his 
sumpter mule, “Is it possible, sir,” said he, addressing 
himself to Don Quixote, “that the unhappy reading of 
books of knight-errantry should have such an influence 
over you as to destroy your reason, making you believe 
you are now enchanted, and many other such extrava- 
gances, as remote from truth as truth itself is from 
falsehood? How isit possible that human sense should 
conceive there ever were in the world such multitudes 
of famous knights-errant, so many Emperors of Trebi- 
zond, so many Amadises, Felixmartes of Hircania, pal- 
freys, rambling damsels, serpents, monsters, giants, 
unheard-of adventures, so many sorts of enchantments, 
so many battles, terrible encounters, pompous habits 
and tournaments, amorous princesses, earls, squires, 
‘and jesting dwarfs, so many love-letters and gallantries, 
“so many Amazonian ladies, and, in short, such an in- 
“credible number of extravagant passages, as are con- 
tained in books of knight-errantry? As for my own 
_ particular, I confess, that while I read them, and do not 
reflect that they are nothing but falsehood and folly, 
they give me some satisfaction; but I no sooner remem- 
ber what they are but I cast the best of them from me, 
and would deliver them up to the flames if I had a fire 
near me, as well deserving that fate, because, like im- 
postors, they act contrary to the common course of 
“nature. They are like broachers of new sects and a 
new manner of living, that seduce the ignorant vulgar 
to give credit to all their absurdities; nay, they pre- 
sume to disturb the brains of ingenious and well-bred 
gentlemen, as appears by the effect they have wrought 
on your judgment, baving reduced you to such a condi- 
tion, that it is necessary to shut you up in a cage, and 
“carry you in a cart drawn by oxen, like some lion or 
tiger that is carried about from town to town to be 
shown. Have pity on yourself, good Don Quixote, re- 
trieve your lost judgment, and make use of those abili- 
ties Heaven has blest you with, applying your excellent 
talent to some other study, which may be safer for your 
conscience, and more for your honor; but if, led away 
by your natural inclination, you will read books of 
heroism and great exploits, read in the Holy Scripture 


211 


the Book of Judges, where you will find wonderful 
truths and glorious actions not to be questioned. Lusi- 
tania had a Viriatus, Rome a Cesar, Carthage an Han- 
nibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan 
Gonzalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia a Gonzalo Fer- 
nandes, Estremadura a Diego Garcia de Peredez, Xerez 
a Gracia Perez de Vargas, Toledo a Garcilasso, and 
Seville a Don Manuel de Leon, the reading of whose 
brave actions diverts, instructs, pleases, and surprises 
the most judicious readers. This will be a study worthy 
your talent, and by which you will become well read 
in history, in love with virtue, knowing in goodness, 
improved in manners, brave without rashness, and cau- 
tious without cowardice; all which will redound to the 
glory of God, your own advancement, and the honor of 
the province of La Mancha, whence I understand you 
derive your original.” 

Don Quixote listened with great attention to the 
canon’s discourse, and perceiving he had done, after he 
had fixed his eyes on him fora considerable space, 
“Sir,” said he, “all your discourse, I find, tends to sig- 
nify to me there never were any knights-errant; that 
all the books of knight-errantry are false, fabulous, use- 
less, and prejudicial to the public; that I have done ill 
in reading, erred in believing, and been much to blame 
in imitating them, by taking upon me the most painful 
profession of chivalry. And you deny that ever there 
were any Amadises of Gaul or Greece, or any of those 
knights mentioned in those books?” 

“Even as you have said, sir,” quoth the canon. 

“You also were pleased to add,” continued Don 
Quixote, “that those books had been very hurtful to 
me, having deprived me of my reason, and reduced me 
to be carried in a cage; that therefore it would be for 
my advantage to take up in time, and apply myself to 
the reading of other books, where I might find more 
truth, more pleasure, and better instruction.” 

“You are in the right,” said the canon. 

“Then I am satisfied,” replied Don Quixote, “you 
yourself are the man that raves and is enchanted, since 
you have thus boldly blasphemed against the truth so 
universally received, that whosoever presumes to con- 
tradict it, as you have done, deserves the punishment 
you would inflict on those books, which in reading 
offend and tire you. For it were as easy to persuade 
the world that the sun does not enlighten, the frost 
cool, and the earth bear us, as that there never was an 
Amadis, or any of the other adventurous knights, 
whose actions are the subjects of so many histories. 
What mortal man can persuade another that there is no 
truth in what is recorded of the Intanta Floripes, and 
Guy of Burgundy; as also of Fierabras at the bridge of 
Mantible in the reign of Charlemagne? which passages, 
I dare swear, are as true as that now it is day. But if 
this be false, you may as well say there was no Hector 
nor Achilles; nor a trojan war, nor twelve peers of 
France, nor a King Arthur of Britain, who is now con- 
verted into a crow, and hourly expected in his king- 
dom. Some also may presume to say that the history of 
Guerino Meschino, and the attempt of St. Grial, are both 





false; that the amours of Sir Tristan and Queen Iseult are 


212 


apocryphal, as well as those of Guinever and Sir Lance- 
lot of the Lake; whereas there are people living who can 
almost remember they have seen the old Lady Quinta- 
nona, who had the best hand at filling a glass of wine of 
any woman in all Britain. This lam so well assured of, 
that I can remember my grandmother, by my father’s 
side, whenever she saw an old waiting-woman with her 
reverend veil, used to say to me, ‘Look yonder, grand- 
son, there is a woman like the old Lady Quintanona;’ 
whence I infer she knew her, or at least had seen her 
picture. Now, who can deny the veracity of the history 
of Peter, and the lovely Malagona, when to this day 
the pin, with which the brave Peter turned his wooden 
horse that carried him through the air, is to be seen in 
the king’s armory ? which pin is somewhat bigger than 
the pole of a coach, by the same token it stands just by 
Babieca’s saddle. At Roncesvalles they keep Orlando’s 
horn, which is as big as a great beam: whence it fol- 
lows that there were twelve peers, that there were such 
men as Peter and the famous Cid, besides many other 
adventurous knights, whose names are in the mouths 
of all people. You may as well tell me that the brave 
Portuguese, John de Merlo, was no knight-errant; that 
he did not go into Burgundy, where, in the city of Ras, 
he fought the famous Moses Pierre, Lord of Charney; 
and in the city of Basil, Moses Henry de Ramestan, 
coming off in both victorious, and loaded with honor. 
You may deny the adventures and combats of the two 
heroic Spaniards, Pedro Barba and Gutierre Quixada, 
from whose male line I am lineally descended, who in 
Burgundy overcame the sons of the Earl of St. Paul. 
You may tell me that Don Ferdinand de Guevara never 
went into Germany to seek adventures, where he fought 
Sir George, a knight of the Duke of Austria’s court. 
You may say the tilting of Suero de Quinnones del 


Passo, and the exploits of Moses Lewis de Falces, 


against Don Gonzalo de Guzman, a Castilian knight, 
are mere fables; and so of many other brave actions 
performed by Christian knights, as well Spaniards as 
foreigners; which are so authentic and true, that I say 
it over again, he who denies them has neither sense 
nor reason.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 


The canon was much astonished at the medley Don 
Quixote made of truths and fables, and no less to see 
how well read he was in all things relating to the 
achievements of knights-errant. “I cannot deny, sir,” 
answered he, “but that there is some truth in what you 
have said, especially in what relates to the Spanish 
knights-errant; and I will grant there were twelve 
peers of France, yet I will not believe they performed 
all those actions Archbishop Turpin ascribes to them: 
I rather imagine they were brave gentlemen made choice 
of by the kings of France; and called peers, as being all 
equal in valor and quality; or if they were not, atleast 
they ought to have been so; and these composed a sort 
of military order, like those of St. Jago or Calatrava 
among us, into which all that are admitted are supposed, 
or ought to be, gentlemen of birth and known valor. And 
as now we say a knight of St. John or of Alcantara, so 
in those times they said a knight one of the twelve peers, 
because there were but twelve of this military order. 
Nor is it to be doubted but that there were such men 
as Barnardo del Carpio and the Cid, yet we have reason 
to question whether ever they performed those great 
exploits that are ascribed to them. As to the pin, 
Count Peter's pin which you spoke of, and which you say 
stands by Babieca’s saddle, I own my ignorance, and 
confess I was so short-sighted, that though I saw the 
saddle, yet I did not perceive the pin, which is 
somewhat strange, if it be so large as you describe 
it.” 

“It is there without doubt,” replied Don Quixote; 
“by the same token, they say it is kept in a leathern 
case to keep it from rusting.” 

“That may very well be,” said the canon; “but upon 
the word of a priest, I do not remember I ever saw it: 
yet grant it were there, that does not enforce the belief 
of so many Amadises, nor of such a multitude of 
knights-errant as the world talks of; nor is there any 
reason so worthy a person, so judicious, and so well 
qualified as you are, should imagine there is any truth 
in the wild extravagances contained in all the fabulous, 
nonsensical books of knight-errantry.” 











CHAPTER XLVI. 


THE NOTABLE DISPUTE BETWEEN THE CANON AND DON QUIXOTE; WITH OTHER MATTERS. 


“Very well,” cried Don Quixote, “then all those 
books must be fabulous, though licensed by kings, ap- 
proved by the examiners, read with general satisfaction, 
and applauded by the better sort and the meaner, rich 
aud poor, learned and unlearned, gentry and common- 
alty; and, in short, by all sorts of persons of what state 
and condition soever, und though they carry such an 
appearance of truth, setting down the father, mother, 
country, kindred, age, place, and actions to a tittle, and 





day by day, of the knight and knights of whom they 
treat? For shame, sir,” continued he; “forbear utter- 
ing such blasphemies; and believe me, in this I advise 
you to behave yourself as becomes a man of sense, or 
else read them and see what satisfaction you will re- 
ceive. As, for instance, pray tell me, can there be any- 
thing more delightful than to read a lively description, 
which, as it were, brings before your eyes the following 
adventure? A vast lake of boiling pitch, in which an 














““ The sky appears to him more transparent. and the sun seems to shine with redoubled brightness, ”—p. 2143 


214 


infinite multitude of serpents, snakes, crocodiles, and 
other sorts of fierce and terrible creatures, are swim- 
ming and traversing backwards and forwards, appears 
to a knight-errant's sight. Then from the midst of the 
lake a most doleful voice is heard to say these words: 
“Oh, knight, whoever thou art, who gazest ou this dread- 
ful lake, if thou wilt purchase the bliss concealed under 
these dismal waters, make known thy valor, by casting 
thyself into the midst of these black, burning surges; 
for unless thou dost so, thou art not worthy to behold 
the mighty wonders enclosed in the seven castles of 
the seven fairies, that are seated under these gloomy 
waves.’ And no sooner have the last accents of the 
voice reached the knight’s ear, but he, without making 
any further reflection, or considering the danger to 
which he exposes himself, and even without laying 
aside his ponderous armor, only recommending himself 
to Heaven and to his lady, plunges headlong into the 
middle of the burning lake; and wien least he imagines 
it, or can guess where he shall stop, he finds himself 
on a sudden in the midst of verdant fields, to which the 
Elysian bear no comparison. There the sky appears to 
him more transparent, and the sun seems to shine with a 
redoubled brightness. Next he discovers a most de- 
lightful grove made up of beautiful shady trees, whose 
verdure and variety regale his sight, while his ears 
are ravished with the wild and yet melodious notes of 
an infinite number of pretty painted birds, that hop, 
and bill, and sport themselves on the twining boughs. 
Here he spies a pleasant rivulet, which, through its 
flowery banks, glides along over the brightest sand, 
and re-murmers over the whitest pebbles that bedimple 
its smooth surface, while that other, through its liquid 
crystal, feasts the eye with a prospect of gold and 
orient pearl. There he perceives an artificial fountain, 
formed of party-colored jasper and polishsd marble; 
and hard by another, contrived in grotesque, where the 
small cockle-shells, placed in orderly confusion among 
the white and yellow shells, and mixed with pieces of 
bright crystal and counterfeit emeralds, yield a delec- 
table sight; so that art, imitating nature, seems bere to 
out-do her. At a distance, on a sudden, he casts his 
eyes upon a strong castle, or stately palace, whose 
walls ave of massy gold, the battlements of diamonds, 
and the gates of hyacinths; in short, its structure is so 
wonderful, that though all the materials are no other 
than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies, pearls, gold, and 
emeralds, yet the workmanship exceeds them in value. 

“But having seen all this, can anything be so charm- 
ing as to behold a numerous train of beautiful damsels 
come out of the castle, in such glorious and costly ap- 
parelas would be endless for me to describe, were I to 
relate these things as they are to be found in history ? 
Then to see the beauty that seems the chief of all the 
damsels, take the bold knight, who cast himself into 
the burning lake, by the hand, and without speaking 
one word, lead him into a sumptuous palace, where he 
is put into a delicious bath, and perfumed with pre- 
cious essences and odoriferous oils; after which he 
puts on a fine shirt, deliciously scented ; and this done, 
another damsel throws over his shoulders a magnificent 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


robe, worth at least a whole city, if not more. Whata 
sight is it, when in the next place they lead him into 
another room of state, where he finds the tables so 
orderly covered, that he is surprised and astonished ? 
There they pour over his hands water distilled from 
amber and odoriferous flowers; he is seated in an ivory 
chair ; und while all the damsels that attend him ob- 
serve a profound silence, such variety of dainties is 
served up, and all so incomparably dressed, that his 
appetite is at a stand, doubting on which to satisfy its 
desire; at the same time his ears are sweetly entertained 
with variety of excellent music, none perceiving who 
makes it, or from whence it comes. But above all, what 
shall we say to see, after the dinner is ended, and tables 
taken away, the knight left leaning back in his chair, 
perhaps picking his teeth, as is usual; and then another 
damsel, much more beautiful than any of the former, 

comes unexpectedly into the room, and sitting down by 
the knight, begins to inform him what castle that is, 
and low she is enchanted in it; with many other par- 

ticulars, which surprise the knight, and astonish those 
that read his history. I will enlarge no more upon this 
matter, since, from what has been said, it may suffi- 
ciently be inferred that the reading of any passage in 

any history of knight-errantry must be very delightful 

and surprising to the reader. Believe me, good sir; as 

I said to you before, read these books, which you will 

find will banish all melancholy, if you are troubled with 

it, and sweeten your disposition, if it be harsh. This 

I can say for myself, that since I have been a knight- 

errant, I am brave, courteous, bountiful, well-bred, gen- 

erous, civil, bold, affable, patient, a sufferer of hardships, 

imprisonment, aud enchantment. And though I have 

so lately been shut up in a cage, like a mad man, I 

expect, through the valor of my arm, Heaven favoring, 

and fortune not opposing my designs, to be a king of 
some kingdom in a very few days, that so I may give 

proofs of my innate gratitude and liberality. For on 

my word, sir, a poor man is incapable of exerting his 

liberality, though he be naturally never so well inclined. 

Now, that gratitude which only consists in wishes may 

be said to be dead, as faith without good works is dead. 

Therefore it is, 1 wish fortune would soon offer some 

opportunity for me to become an emperor, that I might 

give proofs of my generosity, by advancing my friends, 

but especially this poor Sancho Panza, my squire, who 

is the most harmless fellow in the world; and I would 

willingly give him an earldom, which I have long since 

promised him, but that I fear he has not sense and 

judgment enough to manage it.” 

Sancho, hearing his master’s last words, “Well, well, 
sir,” said he, “never do you trouble your head about 
that matter; all you have to do is to get me this same 
earldom, and let me alone to manage it: I can do as my 
betters have done before me; I can put in a deputy or 
a servant, that shall take all trouble off my hands, while 
J, as a great man, should loll at my ease, receive my 
rents, mind no business, live merrily, and so let the 
world rub for Sancho.” 

“As to the management of your revenue,” said the 
canon, “a deputy or steward may do well, friend; but 


A i} 
ll 





ee — 
Anothe 
r damsel 
comes into 
the room 
, and begi i 
gins to inform him wh 
at castle th 
at is and 
how she i 
e is encha: 
uted in i 

t? 

.’—p, 214, 


216 


the lord himself is obliged to stir in the administration 
of justice, to which there is not only an honest, sincere 
intention required, but a judicious head also, to distin- 
guish nicely, conclude justly, and choose wisely; for 
if this be wanting in the principal, all will be wrong in 
the medium, and pa 

“I do not understand your philosophy,” quoth 
Sancho; “all I said, and I will say it again, is, that 
I wish I had as good an earldom as I could govern; 
for I have as great a soul as another man, and as great 
a body as most men. And the first thing 1 would do 
in my government, I would have nobody to control me; 
I ¿would be absolute. Now, he that is absolnte can 
do what be likes; he that can do what he likes can 
take his pleasure; he that can take his pleasure can be 
content: and he that can be content has no more to 
desire; so the matter’s over, and come what will come, 
Iam satisfied: if an island, welcome; if no island, fare 
it well; *we shall see ourselves in no worse a condi- 
tion,” as one blind man said to another.” 

“This is no ill reasoning of yours, friend,” said the 
canon, “though there is much more to be said on the 
topic of earldoms than you imagine.” 

“Undoubtedly,” said Don Quixote; “but I suit my 
actions to the example of Amadis de Gaul, who made 
his squire Gandalin earl of the Firm Island; which is 
a fair precedent for preferring Sancho to the same 
dignity, to which his merit also lays an unquestionable 
claim.” 

The canon stood amazed at Don Quixote's methodical 
and orderly madness, in describing the adventure of 
the Knight of the Lake, and the impression made on 
him by the fabulous conceits of the books he had read; 
as likewise at Sancho’s simplicity in so eagerly con- 
tending for his earldom, which made the whole com- 
pany very good sport. 

By this time the canon’s servants had brought the 
provision, und spreading a carpet on the grass under 
the shady trees, they sat down to dinner; when pres- 
ently they heard the tinkling of a little bell among the 
copses close by them, and immediately afterwards they 
saw bolt out of the thicket a very pretty she-goat, 
speckled all over with black, white, and brown spots, 
and a goatherd running after it; who, in his familiar 
dialect called to it to stay and return to the fold; but 
the fugitive ran toward the company, frightened and 
panting, and stopped close by them, as if it had begged 
their protection. The goatherd overtaking it, caught 
it by the horns, and in a chiding way, as if the goat 
understood his resentments, “You little wanton nan- 
ny,” said he, “you spotted elf, what has made you trip 
it so much ot late? what wolf has scared you thus, 
hussy? tell me, little fool, what is the matter? Turn 
back, my love, tura back, and though thou canst not be 
content with thy fold, yet there thou mayast he safe 








DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


est guide and direct the flock, lovest wandering thus, 
what must they do? what will become of them?” 

The goatherd’s talk to his goat was entertaining 
enough to the company, especially to the canon, who 
calling to him, “Prythee, honest fellow,” said he, “have 
a little patience, and let your goat take its liberty a 
while; come and take a bit, and a glass of wine with 
us: you may be better humored after that.” He then 
reached him the leg of a cold rabbit, and, ordering him 
a glass of wine, the goatherd drank it off, and returning 
thanks, was pacified. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I would 
not have you think me a fool, because I talk so seriously 
to this senseless animal, for my words bear a mysterious 
meaning, Tam, indeed, as you see, rustical and unpol- 
ished, though not so ignorant but that I converse with 
men as well as brutes.” 

“That is no miracle,” said the curate, “for I have 
known the woods breed learned men, and simple sheep- 
cotes contain philosophers.” 

“At least,” said the goatherd, “they harbor men that 
have some knowledge of the world; and to make good 
this truth, if I thought not the offer impertinent, or my 
company troublesome, you should hear an adventure, 
which but too well confirms what you have said.” 

“For my part,” answered Don Quixote, “I will hear 
you attentively, because, methinks, your coming has 
something in it that looks like an affair of knight- 
errantry; and I dare answer, the whole company will 
not so much bring their parts in question, as to refuse 
to hear a story so pleasing, surprising, and amusing, as 
I fancy yours will prove. Then prythee, friend, begin, 
for we willall give you our attention.” 

“You must excuse me for one,” said Sancho; “I must 
have a word or two in private with this same pasty at 
yon little brook; for I design to fill my belly for to- 
morrow and next day; having often heard my master 
Don Quixote say, that whenever a knight-errant's 
squire finds good belly-timber, he must fall to and feed 
till his sides are ready to burst, because they may hap- 
pen to be bewildered in a thick wood for five or six 
days together; so that if a man has not his belly full 
beforehand, or his wallet well provided, he may chance 
fo be crows’ meat himself, as many times it falls out.” 

“You are in the right, Sancho,” said the knight; “but 
I have, for my part, satisfied my bodily appetite, and 
now want only refreshment for my mind, which I hope 
this honest fellow’s story will aftord me.” 

All the company agreed with Don Quixote: the goat- 
herd, then stroking his pretty goat once or twice, “Lie 
down, thou speckled fool,” said he; “lie by me here; 
for we shall have time enough to return home.” 

The creature seemed to understand him, for as soon 
as her master sat down, she stretched herself quietly 
by his side, and looked up in his face as if she would 
let him know that she minded what he said; and then 


among the rest of thy fellows; for if thou, that should-!he began his story. 











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‘There was not that country upon the face of the earth which he had not seen, nor battle which he had not been engaged in””-—218 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


THE GOATHERD'S TALE. 


“ABOUT three leagues from this valley there is a vil- 
lage, wbich, though small, yet is one of the richest 
hereabouts. In it there lived a farmer in very great 
esteem; and, though it is common for the rich to be 
respected, yet was this person more considered for his 
virtue than for the wealth he possessed. But what he 
accounted himself happiest in was a daughter of such 
extraordinary beauty, prudence, wit, and virtue, that 
all who knew or beheld her could not but admire to 
see how Heaven and Nature had done their utmost to 
embellish her. When she was but little she was hand- 
some, but at the age of sixteen she was most completely 
beautiful. The fame of her beauty began to extend to 
the neighboring villages; but why say I neighboring 
villages? it extended to the remotest cities, and entered 
the palaces of kings, and the ears of all manner of per- 
sons, who from all parts flocked to see her, as some- 
thing rare, or as a sort of prodigy. Her father was 
strictly careful of her, nor was she less careful of her- 
self; for there are no guards, bolts, or locks which 
preserve a young woman like her own care and caution. 

“The father’s riches and the daughter’s beauty drew 
@ great many, as well strangers as inhabitants of that 
country, to sue for her in marriage; but such was the 
vast number of the pretenders, that it did but the more 
confound and divide the old man in his choice upon 
whom to bestow so valuable a treasure. Among the 
crowd of admirers was I: having good reason to hope 
for success, from the knowledge her father had of me, 
being a native of the same place, of a good family, and 
in the flower of my years, of a considerable estate, and 
not to be despised for my understanding. With the 
very same advantages, there was another person of our 
village who made court to her at the same time. This 
put the father to a stand, and held him in suspence, 
till his daughter should declare in favor of one of us; 
to bring this affair, therefore, to the speedier issue, he 
resolved. to acquaint Leandra, for so was this fair one 
called, that since we were equals in all things, he left 
her entirely free to choose which of us was most agree- 
able to herself—an example worthy of being imitated 
by all parents, who have any regard for their children. 
I don't mean that they should be allowed to choose in 
things mean and mischievous; but only that proposing 
to them ever those things which are good, they should 
be allowed in them to gratify their inclination. 

“I do not know how Leandra approved this propo- 





sal; this I only know, that her father put us both off, 
with the excuse of his daughter's being too young to: 
be yet disposed of; and that he treated us both in such 
general terms as could neither well please nor displease 
us. My rival's name is Anselmo, mine Eugenio; for it 
is necessary you should know the names of the persons. 
concerned in this tragedy, the conclusion of which, 
though depending yet, may easily be perceived likely 
to be unfortunate. About that time there came to our 
village one Vincent de la Rosa, the son of a poor labor- 
ing man of the neighborhood. This Vincent came out 
of Italy, having been a soldier there, and in other for- 
eign parts. When he was but twelve years old, a cap- 
tain who happened to pass by here with his company 
took him out of this country, and at the end of other 
twelve years he returned hither, habited like a soldier, 
all gay and glorious, in a thousand various colors, be- 
decked with a thousand toys of crystal, and chains. of 
steel. To-day he put on one piece of finery, to-morrow 
another; but all false, counterfeit, and worthless. The 
country people, who by nature are malicious, and who, 
living in idleness, are still more inclined to malice, ob- 
served this presently, and counting all his fine things, 
they found that indeed he had but three suits of 
clothes, which were of a very different color from the 
stockings and garters belonging to them; yet did he 
manage them with so many tricks and inventions, that 
if one had not counted them, one would have sworn he 
had above ten suits, and above twenty plumes of 
feathers. 5 
“Let it not seem impertinent that I mention this par- 
ticular of his clothes and trinkets, since so much of the 
story depends upon it. Seating himself upon a bench, 
under a large spreading poplar-tree which grows in our 
street, he used to entertain us with his exploits, while 
we stood gaping and listening at the wonders he recount- 
ed: there was not that country, as he said, upon the 
face of earth, which he had not seen, nor battle which 
he had not been engaged in; he had killed more Moors, 
for his own sharc, than were in Morocco and Tunis 
together; and had fought more duels than Gante, Luna, 
Diego, Garcia de Peredez, or a thousand others that he 
named, yet in all of them had the better, and never got 
a scratch, or lost a drop of blood. Then again he pre- 
tended to show us the scars of wounds he had received, 
which, though they were not to be perceived, yet he 
gave us to understand they were so many musket-shots, 
218 


—p. 220. 


** A party with officers is sent out, who find the poor fond Leandra in a cave of one of the mountai 
ains.”. 


Wg ES 


SUMMA EA j , TES S 
1 IL z a Ml paid i pgpplt atl td AER 





220 


which he had got in several skirmishes and encounters. 
In short, he treated all his equals with an unparalleled 
arrogance, and even to those who knew the meanness 
of his birth, he did not stick to affirm that his own arm 
was his father, his actions were his pedigree, and that 
except his being a soldier, he owed no part of his qual- 
ity to the king himself, and in being a soldier he was as 
good as the king. 

“Besides these assumed accomplishments, he was a 
piece of a musician, and could thrum a guitar a little; 
but what his excellency chiefly lay in was poetry: and 
so fond was he of showing his parts that way, that upon 
every trifling occasion he was sure to make a copy of 
verses a league and a half long. This soldier whom I 
have described—this Vincent de la Rosa, this hero, this 
gallant, this musician, this poet—wuas often seen and 
viewed by Leandra, from a window of her house which 
looked into the street: she was struck with the tinsel 
of his dress; she was charmed with his verses, of which 
he took care to disperse a great many copies; her ears 
were pleased with the exploits he related of himself; 
and in short, she fell in love with him, before ever he 
had the confidence to make his addresses to her; and, 
as in all affairs of love, so was it here no hard thing for 
Leandra and Vincent to have frequent meetings to con- 
cert their matters; and before ever any one of her many 
suitors had the least suspicion of her inclination, she 
had left her father’s house, for she had no mother, and 
had run away with the soldier, who came off with 
greater triumph in this enterprise than in any of the 
rest he made his boast of. 

“The whole village was surprised at this accident, as 
was every one that heard it. I was amazed, Anselmo 
distracted, her father in tears, her relations outrageous; 
justice is demanded; a party with officers is sent out, 
who traverse the roads, search every wood, and, at 
three days’ end, find the poor fond Leandra in a cave of 
one of the mountains, robbed of a great deal of money 
and jewels which she took from home. They bring and 
present her to her father. Upon inquiry made, she 
confessed ingenuously that Vincent de la Rosa, upon 
promise of marriage, had prevailed with her to leave 
her father’s house, with the assurance of carrying her 
to the richest and most delicious city of the world, 
which was Naples; that she foolishly had given credit 
to him, and, robbing her father, had put herself into 
his hands; that he carried her up a steep, wild, craggy 
mountain, and put her in that cave where she was 
found. The very same day that Leandra appeared 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


again, she also disappeared from us, for her father im- 
mediately clapped her up in a monastery, in a town not 
far off, in hopes that time might wear away something 
of her disgrace. 

“Since the imprisonment of Leandra, Anselmo’s 
eyes could never meet with an object which could give 
him either ease or pleasure; I, too, could find nothing 
but what looked sad and gloomy to me in the absence 
of Leandra. Our melancholy increased as our patience 
decreased. We cursed a thousand times the soldier’s 
finery and trinkets, and railed at the father’s want of 
precaution. At last we agreed, Anselmo and JI, to 
leave the village, and to retire to this valley, where, 
he feeding a large flock of sheep, and 1 as large a herd 
of goats, all our own, we pass our time under the trees, 
singing in consort the praises or reproaches of the 
beauteous Leandra, or else, sighing alone, make our 
complaints to Heaven on owr misfortune. In imitation 
of us, a great many more of Leandra’s lovers have 
come hither into these steep mountains, and are alike 
employed. On the top of that hill there is such a num- 
ber of shepherds and their cottages, that there is no 
part of it in which is not to be heard the name of Lean- 
dra. Nay, so far does this extravagance prevail, that 
here are those who complain of her disdain who never 
spoke to her. There is not a hollow place of a rock, a 
bank of a brook, or a shady grove, where there is not 
some or other of these amorous shepherds telling their 
doleful stories to the air and winds. Echo has learnt 
to repeat the name of Leandra; Leandra all the hills re- 
sound; the brooks murmur Leandra; and it is Leandra 
that holds us all enchanted, hoping without hope, and 
fearing without knowing what we fear. 

“Of all these foolish people, the person who shows 
the least and yet has the most sense, is my rival Ansel- 
mo, who, forgetting all other causes of complaint, com- 
plains only of her absence; and to his lute, which he 
touches to admiration, he joins his voice in verses of 
his own composing, which declare the greatness of his 
genius. For my part, I take another course—I think a 
better, I am sure an easier: which is to say all the ill 
things I can of women’s levity, inconstancy, their 
broken vows, and vain, deceitful promises, their fond- 
ness of show and disregard of merit. This, gentlemen, 
was the occasion of those words which, at my coming 
hither, I addressed to this goat. Hard by is my cot- 
tage, where I have some good fresh milk-and excellent 
cheese, with several sorts of fruits, which I hope you 
will find agreeable both to the sight and taste,” 


"egg A—.¿'UBUIPBUI B OXI] POABI PUB “ITOP 09 J[OSWIIY P9JJ91J ‘paxea SVM QUOTE PZUBL ONDURO, 





























CHAPTER XLVIII. 


OF THE COMBAT BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE 


GOATHERD ; WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE 


PENITENTS, WHICH THE KNIGHT HAPPILY ACCOMPLISHED WITH THE SWEAT OF HIS BROWS. 


THE goatherd’s story was mightily liked by the 
whole company, especially by the canon, who particu- 
larly minded the manner of his relating it, which had 
more of a scholar and gentleman than of arude goat- 
herd; this made him conclude the curate had reason to 
say that even the mountains bred scholars and men of 
sense. They all made large proffers of their friendship 
and services to Eugenio, but Don Quixote exceeded 
them all; and addressing himself to him, “Were I,” 
said he, “at this time in a capacity of undertaking any 
adventure, I would certainly begin from this very mo- 
ment to serve you. I would soon release Leandra 
out of this nunnery, where undoubtedly she is detained 
against her will; and in spite of all the opposition that 
could be made by the lady abbess and her adherents, I 
would return her to your hands, that you might have 
the sole disposal of her—so far, I mean, as is consistent 
with the laws of knighthood, which expressly forbid 
that any man should offer the least violence to a dam- 
sel; yet I trust in Heaven that the power of a friendly 
magician will prevail against the force of a malicious 
enchanter; and whenever this shall happen, you may 
assure yourself of my favor and assistance, to which I 
am obliged by my profession, that enjoins me to relieve 
the oppressed.” 

The goatherd, who till then had not taken the least 
notice of Don Quixote in particular, now looking earn- 
estly on him, and finding his dismal countenance and 
wretched habit were no great encouragement for him 
to expect a performance of such mighty matters, whis- 
pered the barber, who sat next him: “Pray, sir,” said 
he, “who is this man that talks so extravagantly ? for 
I protest I never saw so strange a figure in all my life.” 

“Whom can you imagine it should be,” replied the 

_ barber, “but the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the 
establisher of justice, the avenger of injuries, the pro- 
tector of damsels, the terror of giants, and the invinci- 
ble gainer of battles?” 

“The account you give of this person,” returned the 
goatherd, “is much like what we read in romances and 
books of chivalry of those doughty dons who, for their 
mighty prowess and achievements, were called knights- 
errant; and therefore I dare say you do but jest, and 
that this gentleman’s brains have deserted their 
quarters.” 





“Thou art an impudent, insolent varlet!” cried Don 
Quixote. “It is thy paper skull is full of empty 
rooms.” 

With that, snatching up a loaf that was near him, he 
struck the goatherd so furious a blow with it, that he 
almost levelled his nose with his face. The other, not 
accustomed to such salutations, no sooner perceived 
how scurvily he was treated, but without any respect 
to the table-cloth, napkins, or to those who were eating, 
he leaped furiously on Don Quixote, and grasping him 
by the throat with both his hands, had certainly stran- 
gled him, had not Sancho Panza come in that very nick 
of time, and gripping him fast behind, pulled him 
backwards on the table, bruising dishes, breaking 
glasses, spilling and overturning all that lay upon it. 
Don Quixote, seeing himself freed, fell violently again 
upon the goatherd, who, all besmeared with blood, and 
trampled upon under Sancho’s feet, groped here and 
there for some knife or fork to take a fatal revenge; 
but the canon and curate took care to prevent his pur- 
pose, and in the meanwhile, by the barber’s contrivance, 
the goatherd got Don Quixote under him, on whom he 
let fall such a tempest of blows as caused as great a 
shower of blood to pour from the poor knight’s face as 
had streamed from his own. The canon and curate 
were ready to burst with laughing; the officers danced 
and jumped at the sport; every one cried “Halloo!” as 
men use to do when two dogs are snarling or fighting. 
Sancho Panza alone was vexed, fretted himself to death, 
and raved like a,madman, because he could not get 
from one of the canon's serving-men, who kept him 
from assisting his master. In short, all were exceed- 
ingly merry, except the poor combatants, who had 
mauled one another most miserably, when on a sudden 
they heard the sound of a trumpet so doleful, that it 
made them turn to listen towards that part from whence 
it seemed to come. But he who was most troubled 
at this dismal alarm was Don Quixote; therefore, 
though he lay under the goatherd, full sore against his 
will, and was most lamentably bruised and battered, 
“Evil one,” cried he to him—“for sure nothing less 
could have so much valor and strength as to subdue my 
forces—let us have a cessation of arms but for a single 
hour; for the dolorous sound of that trumpet strikes 
my soul with more horror than thy hard fists do my 

222 






























A AAA 





«The rafullaccenta of the squire’s voice at last re-called Duu Quixote to hims 


elf,” —225. 








224 DON 
ears with pain, and methinks excite me to some new 
adventure.” 

With that the goatherd, who was as weary of beating 
as Of being beaten, immediately gave him a truce; and 
the knight, once more getting on his feet, directed his 
then not hasty steps to the place whence the mournful 
sound seemed to come, and presently saw a number of 
men all in white, like penitents, descending from a 
rising ground. The real matter was this:—The people 
had wanted rain for a whole year together; wherefore 
they appointed rogations, processions, and disciplines 
throughout all that country, to implore Heaven to open 
its treasury, and shower down plenty upon them; and 
to this end, the inhabitants of a village near that place 
came in procession to a devout hermitage built on one 
of the hills which surrounded that valley. 

Don Quixote, taking notice of the strange habits of 
the penitents, and never reminding himself that he had 
often. seen the like before, fancied immediately it 
wits some new adventure, and he alone was to engage 
in it, as he was obliged by the laws of knight-errantry ; 
and that which the more increased his frenzy was his 
mistaking an image which they carried (all covered 
with black) for some great lady, whom these miscreant 
and disconrteous knights, be thought, were carrying 
away against her will. As soon as this whimsy took 
him in the head, he moved with what expedition he 
could towards Rozinante, who was feeding up and down 
upon the plains, and whipping off his bridle from the 
pommel, and his target which hung hard by, he bridled 
him in an instant; then, taking his sword from Sancho, 
he got ina trice on Rosinante’s back, where, bracing 
his target, and addressing himself aloud to all there 
present, “Oh, valorous company,” cried he, “you shall 
now perceive of how great importance it is to mankind 
that such illustrious persons as those who profess the 
order of knight-errantry should exist in the world; now, 
I say, you shall see, by my freeing that noble lady, who is 
there basely and barbarously carried away captive, that 
knight-adventurers ought to be held in the highest and 
greatest estimation.” 

So saying, he pushed Rozinante with his heels for 
want of spurs, and, forcing him to a hand gallop (for it 
was never read in any part of this true history that Ro- 
zinante did ever run full speed), he posted to encounter 
the penitents, in spite of all the curate, canon, and 
barber could do to hinder him; much less Sancho Pan- 
za's outeries detain him. 

“Master! Sir! Don Quixote!” bawled out the poor 
squire, “whither are you posting? Are you bewitched? 
What can drive and set you on, thus to run against the 
Church? Ah! wretch that lam! See, sir! this is a 
procession of penitents, and the lady they carry is the 
image of the immaculate Virgin, our blessed lady. Take 
heed what you do, for at this time it may be certainly 
said you are out of your wits!” But Sancho might as 
well have kept his breath for another use, for the 
knight was urged with so vehement a desire to en- 
counter the white men, and release the mourning lady, 
that he heard not a syllable he said; and if he had, he 
would not have turned back, even at the king’s express 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


command. At last, being come near the procession, 
and stopping Rozinante, who already had a great desire 
to rest a little, in a dismal tone, and with a hoarse voice, 
“Ho!” cried he, “you there, who cover your faces— 
perhaps because you are ashamed of yourselves, and 
of the crime you are are now committing—give leed 
and attention to what I have to say.” 

The first who stopped at this alarm were those who 
carried the image; when one of the four priests who 
sung the litanies, seeing the strange figure that Don 
Quixote made, and the leanness of Rozinante, with 
other circumstances which he observed in the knight 
sufficient to have forced laughter, presently made him 
this answer: “Good sir, if you have anything to say to 
us, speak it quickly, for these poor men whom you see 
are very much tired; therefore we neither can, nor is it 
reasonable we should, stand thus in pain, to hear any- 
thing that cannot be delivered in two words.” 

“T will say it in one,” replied Don Quixote, “which 
is this: I charge you immediately to release that beau- 
tiful lady, whose tears and looks full of sorrow evi- 
dently show you carry her away by violence, and have 
done her some unheard-of injury; this do, or I, who 
was born to punish such outrages, will not suffer you 
to advance one step with her, till she is entirely pos- 
sessed of that liberty she so earnestly desires, and so 
justly deserves.” 

This last speech made them all conclude that the 
knight was certainly distracted, and caused a general 
laughter; but this proved like oil to fire, and so inflamed 
Don Quixote, that, laying his hand on his sword, with- 
out more words, he presently assaulted those who 
carried the image. At the same time one of them quit- 
ting his post, came to encounter our hero with a wooden 
fork, on which he supported the bier whenever they 
made a stand, and warding with it a weighty blow 
which Don Quixote designed and aimed at him, the 
fork was cut in two: but the other, who had the re- 
maining piece in his hand, returned the knight such a 
thwack on his left shoulder, that, his target not being 
able to resist such rustic force, the poor unfortunate 
Don Quixote was struck to the ground and miserably 
bruised. 

Sancho Panza, who had followed him as fast as his 
breath and legs would permit, seeing him fall, cried out 
to his adversary to forbear striking him, urging that he 
was a poor enchanted knight and one who in his whole 
life had never done any man harm. But it was not 
Sancho’s arguments that held the country fellow’s 
hand’s; the only motive was, that he feared he had 
killed hin, since he could not perceive he stirred either 
hand or foot; wherefore, tucking his coat up to bis 
girdle, with all possible expedition, he scoured over the 
fields like a greyhound. Meanwhile Don Quixote's 
companions hastened to the place where he lay, when 
those of the procession, seeing them come running to- 
wards them, attended by the officers of the holy bother- 
hood, with their cross-bows along with them, began to 
have apprehensions of some disaster from the approach- 
ing party; wherefore, drawing up ina body about the 
image, the disciplinants lifting up their hoods, and 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


grasping fast their whips, as the priests did their 
tapers, they awaited the assanlt with the greatest 
bravery, resolving to defend themselves and offend 
their enemy as long and as much as possible. But 
Providence had ordered the matter much better than 
they could hope; for while Sancho, who had thrown 
himself on his master’s body, was lamenting his loss, 
and the supposed death of so noble and generous a lord, 
in the most ridiculous manner that ever was heard, the 
curate of the knight’s party was come up with the other 
who came in the procession, and was immediately known 
by him, so that their acquaintance put an end to the 
fears which both sides were in of an engagement. Don 
Quixote's curate, in a few words, acquainted the other 
with the knight’s circumstances; whereupon he, and 
the whole squadron of penitents, went over to see 
whether the unfortunate knight were living or dead, 
and heard Sancho Panza, with tears in his eyes, bewail- 
ing over his master: “Oh, flower of knighthood,” cried 
he, “that with one single perilous knock art come to an 
untimely end! Thou honor of thy family, and glory of 
all La Mancha! nay, and of all the ’varsal world beside, 
which, now it has lost thee, will be over-run by mis- 
creants and outlaws, who will no longer be afraid to be 
mauled for their misdeeds. Oh, bountiful above all the 
Alexanders in the world! thou who hast rewarded me 
but for poor eight months’ service with the best island 
that is washed by salt water! thou who wert humble to 
the proud, and haughty to the humble! thon who didst 
undertake perils, and patiently endure affronts! thou 
who wert in love, nobody knows why! true patron of 
good men, and scourge to the wicked! sworn foe to all 
reprobates! and, to say all at once that man can say, 
thou knight-errant!” 

The woful accents of the squire’s voice at last re-eall- 
ed Don Quixote to himself; when, after a deep sigh, 
the first thing he thought of was his absent Dulcinea. 

“Oh, charming Dulcinea,” cried he, “the wretch that 
lingers banished from thy sight endures far greater 
miseries than this!” And then, looking on his faithful 
squire, “Good Sancho,” said he, “help me once more 
into the enchanted car: for Iam not in a condition to 
press the hack of Rozinante; this shoulder is all broke 
to pieces.” 

“With all my heart, my good lord,” replied Sancho, 
“and pray let me advise you to go back to our village 
with these gentlemen, who are your special friends. 
At home we may think of some other journey, that may 
be more profitable and honorable than this.” 

“With reason hast thou spoken, Sancho,” replied 
Don Quixote; “it will become our wisdom to be inactive, 
till the malevolent aspects of the planets which now 
reign be over.” 

This grave resolution was highly commended by the 
canon, curate, and barber, who had been sufficiently 
diverted by Sancho Panza’s ridicnlous lamentation. 
Don Quixote was placed in the wagon as before, the 
processioners recovered their former order, and passed 
on about their business. The goatherd took his leave 
of the whole company. The curate satisfied the officers 
for their attendance, since they would stir no farther. 

15-—_DON QUIX. 





225 


The canon desired the curate to send him an account 
of Don Quixote’s condition from that time forward, 
having a mind to know whether his frenzy abated or 
increased, and then took his leave, to continue his 
journey. Thus the curate, the barber, Don Quixote, 
and Sancho Panza were left together, as also the good 
Rozinante, who bore all these passeges as patiently as 
his master. The wagouer then yoked his oxen, und, 
having set Don Quixote on a truss of hay, jogged on, 
after his slow accustomed pace, the way the curate had 
directed. In six days’ time they reached the knight’s 
village. It was about noon when they entered the 
town; and as it happened to be on a Sunday, all the 
people were in the market-place, through the middle of 
which Don Quixote’s car must of necessity pass. 
Everybody was curious to know what was in it; and the 
people were strangely surprised when they saw and 
knew their townsmen. While they were gaping and 
wondering, a little boy ran to the knight’s house, and 
gave intelligence to the housekeeper and niece that 
their master and uncle was returned, and very lean, 
pale, and frightful as a ghost, stretched out at length 
on a bundle of hay, in a wagon, and drawn along by a 
team of oxen. 

It was a piteous thing to hear the wailings of those 
two poor creatures; the thumps, too, which they gave 
their faces, with the curses and execrations they thun- 
dered out against all books of chivalry, were almost as 
numerous as their sighs and tears. But the height of 
their lamenting was when Don Quixote entered the 
door. Upon the noise of his arrival, Sancho Panza’s 
wife made haste thither to inquire after her good man, 
who, she was informed, went a-squiring with the 
knight. As soon as ever she set eyes on him, the ques- 
tion she asked him was this, “Is the ass in health, or 
no?” 

Sancho answered that he was come back in better 
health than his master, 

“Well,” said she, “Heaven be praised for the good 
news. But hark you, my friend,” continued she, 
“what have you got by this new squireship? Have you 
brought me home ever a gown or petticoat, or shoes 
for my children?” 

“In troth, sweet wife,” replied Sancho, “I have 
brought thee none of those things; I am loaded with 
better things.” 

“Ay,” said his wife, “that's well. Pi’ythee let me 
see some of them fine things, for 1 vow I have a great 
desire to see them; the sight of them will comfort my 
poor heart, which has been like to burst with sorrow 
and grief ever since thou wentest away.” 

“DP show them thee when we come home,” returned 
Sancho. “In the meantime rest satisfied; for if Heaven 
see good that we shonld once again go abroad in search 
of other adventures; within a little time after, at my 
return, thou shalt find me some earl, or the governor 
of some island—ay, of one of the very best in the whole 
world.” 

“T wish with all my heart this may come to pass,” 
replied the good wife; “for, hy my troth, husband, we 
want it sorely. But what do yon mean by that same 


226 


word island? for believe me I don’t understand it.” 

“All in good time, wife,” said Sancho. ‘“‘ Honey is 
not made from an ass's mouth:’ I'll tell thee what it is 
hereafter. Thou wilt be amazed to hear all thy serv- 
ants and vassals never speak a word to thee without 
‘An’t please you, madam;’ ‘An’t your ladyship;’ and 
‘Your Honor.’” 

“What dost thou mean, Sancho, by ladyship, islands, 
and vassals ?” quoth Joan Panza, for so she was called, 
though her husband and she were nothing a-kin; only 
itis a custom in La Mancha that the wives are there 
called by their husbands’ sirnames. 

“Py’ythee, Joan,” said Sancho, “do not trouble thy 
head to know these matters all at once and in a heap, 
as a body may say; it is enough I tell thee the truth, 
therefore hold thy tongue. Yet, by the way, one thing 
I will assure thee, that nothing in the ’varsal world is 
better for an honest man than to be squire to a knight- 
errant, while he is hunting of adventures. It is true, most 
adventures he goes about do not answer a man’s ex- 
pectations so much as he could wish; for of a hundred 
that are met with, ninety-nine are wont to be crabbed 
and unlucky ones. This I know to my cost: I myself 
have got well kicked and tossed in some of them, and 
soundly drubbed and belabored in others; yet, for all 
that, it is a rare sport to be watching for strange chances, 
to cross forests, to search and beat up and down in woods, 
to scramble over rocks, to visit castles, and to take up 
quarters in an inn at pleasure, and all the while no- 
thing to pay.” 

These were the discourses with which Sancho Panza 
and his wife Joan entertained one another, while the 
housekeeper and niece undressed Don Quixote, and put 
him into his bed, where he lay looking on them, but 
could not imagine where he was. The curate charged 
the niece to be very careful and tender of her uncle, 
and to be very watchful, lest he should make another 
sally; telling her the trouble and charge he had been 
at to get him home. Here the women began their out- 
cries again: for they were still almost distracted with 
the fear of losing their master and uncle so soon as 
ever he recovered; which indeed fell out according to 
their fear. 

But though the author of this history has been very 
curious and diligent in his inquiry after Don Quixote’s 
achievements in his third expedition in quest of ad- 
ventures, yet he could never learn a perfect account of 
them, at least from any author of credit; fame and tra- 
dition alone have preserved some particulars of them 
in the memoirs and antiquities of La Mancha; as, that 
after the knight’s third sally, he was present at certain 
famous tilts and tournaments made in the city of Sara- 
gosa, where be met with occasions worthy the exercise 
of his sense and valor: but how the knight died, our 
author neither could nor ever should have learned, if, 
by good fortune, he had not met with an ancient physi- 
cian, who had a leaden box in his possession, which, as 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


he averred, was found in the ruins of an old hermitage 
as it was re-building. 

In this box were certain scrolls of parchment written 
in Gothic characters, but containing verses in the Span- 
ish tongue, in which many of Don Quixote’s noble acts 
were sung, and Dulcinea del Toboso's beauty celebrated, 
Rozinante’s figure described, and Sancho Panza’s fidel- 
ity applauded. They likewise gave an account of the 
knight’s sepulchre, with several epitaphs and enconi- 
ums on his life and conversation. 

Those that could be thoroughly read and transcribed 
are here added by the faithful author of this new and 
incomparable history; desiring no other recompense or 
reward of the readers, for all his labor and pains, in 
searching all the numerous and old records of La Man- 
cha to perfect this matchless piece, but that they will 
be pleased to give it as much credit as judicious men 
use to give to books of knight-errantry, which are now- 
a-days so generally taking. Thisis the utmost of his 
ambition, and will be sufficient satisfaction for him, aud 
likewise encourage him to furnish them with other 
matter of entertainment, which, though possibly not 
altogether so true as this, yet, it may be, as well con- 
trived and diverting. 

The first words in the parchment found in the leaden 
box are these :— 


Monicongo, Academic of Aramgasilla, on Don Quizote's Monument 


EPITAPH. 

Here lies a doughty knight, 
Who, bruised, and il) in plight, 
Jogg'd over many a track 
On Rozinante's back. 

Close by him Sancho's laid; 
Whereat iet none admire ; 

He was a clown, ‘tis said, 
But ne’er the worse a squire. 


Paniaguadio, Academic of Aramgasilla, on Dulcinea del Toboso’s 
Monument. 


EPITAPH. 


Here Dulcinea lies, 

Once brawny, plump, and lusty; 
But now to death a prize, 

And somewhat lean and musty. 
For her the country-fry, 

Like Quixote, long stood steady; 
Well might she carry't high; 

Far less has made a lady. 


These were the verses that could be read: as for the 
rest, the characters being defaced and almost eaten 
away, they were delivered to a university student, in 
order that he might give us his conjectures concerning 
their meaning. And we are informed that after many 
lucubrations and much pains, he has effected the work, 
and intends to oblige the world with it, giving us at 
the same time some hopes of Don Quixote’s third sally. 





Forse altri canterá con mighor plettro. 


EN 


DON 


QUIXOTE. 





PART IL 





PROLOGUE.—TO THE READER. 


VERILY, gentle or it may be simple reader, with what 
impatience must you now be waiting for this prologue, 
expecting to find in it resentments, railings, and in- 
vectives against the author of the second Don Quixote. 
But in truth, it is not my design to give you that eatis- 
faction; for, though injuries are apt to awaken choler 
in the humblest breasts, yet in mine this rule must 
admit of an exception. You would have me, perhaps, 
call him ass, madman and coxcomb; but I have no such 
design. Let his own sin be his punishment; let him 
eat it with his food, and much good may it do him. 

What I cannot forbear resenting is, that he upbraids 
me with my age, and with having lost my hand, as if it 
were in my power to have hindered time from passing 
over my head, or as if my injury had been got in some 
druken quarrel at a tavern, and not on the noblest occa- 
sion that past or present ages have seen, or future can 
ever hope to see. If my wounds do not reflect a lustre 
in the eyes of those who barely behold them, they will, 
however, be esteemed by those who know how I came 
by them; for a soldier makes a better figure dead in 
battle, than alive and at liberty in running away. I 





am so firmly of this opinion, that could an impossibility 
be rendered practicable, and the same opportunity be 
recalled, I would rather be again present in that pro- 
digious action, than whole and sound without having 
shared the glory of it. The scars a soldier shows in his 
face and breast are stars which guide others to the 
haven of honor and the desire of just praise. And it 
must be observed that men do not write with grey hairs, 
but with the understanding which is usually improved 
by years. 

Say no more to him, nor will I say more to you. Only 
I will let you know that this second part of “Don 
Quixote,” which I offer you, is cut by the same hand, 
and out of the same piece as the first. Herein I present 
you with Don Quixote at his full length, and at last 
fairly dead and buried, that no one may presume to 
bring fresh accusation against him, those already being 
enough. Let it suffice also that a writer of some credit 
has given an account of his ingenious follies, resolving 
not to take up the subject any more. Too much even 
of a good thing lessens it in our esteem, and scarcity, 


leven of an indifferent, makes it of some estimation. 


227 


CHAPTER 


WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE CURATE, THE BARBER, 


Crp HAMET BENENGELI relates in the second part of 
this history, and Don Quixote’s third sally, that the 
curate and the barber were almost a whole month with- 
out paying him a visit, lest, calling to mind his former 
extravagances, he might take occasion to renew them. 
However, they failed not every day to see his niece and 
his housekeeper, whom they charged to treat and cherish 
him with great care, and to give him such diet as might 
be most proper to cheer his heart, and comfort his 
brain, whence, in all likelihood, his disorder wholly 
proceeded. They answered that they did so, and 
would continue it to their utmost power; the rather, 
pecause they observed that sometimes he seemed to 
be in his right senses. This news was very welcome to 
the curate and the barber, who looked on this amend- 
ment as an effect of their contrivance in bringing him 
home in the enchanted wagon, as it is recorded in the 
last chapter of the first part of this most important and 
no less faithful history. Thereupon they resolved to 
pay him avisit, and make trial themselves of the pro- 
gress of a cure, which they thonght almost impos- 
sible. They also agreed not to speak a word of knight- 
errantry, lest they should endanger a wound so 
lately closed, and so tender. In short, they went 
to see him, and found him sitting up in his bed, 
in a waistcoat of green baize, and a red Toledo cap on 
his head; but the poor gentleman was so withered and 
wasted, that he looked like a mere mummy. He re- 
ceived them very civilly, and when they inquired of 
his health, gave them an account of his condition, ex- 
pressing himself very handsomely, and with a great 
deal of judgment. After they had discoursed a while 
of several matters, they fell at last on state affairs and 
forms of government, correcting this grievances and 
condemning that; reforming one custom, rejecting an- 
other, and establishing new laws, as if they had been 
the Lycurguses or Solons of the age, till they had re- 
fined and new modelled the commonwealth at such a 
rate, that they seemed to have clapped it into a forge, 
and drawn it out wholly different from what it was be- 
fore. Don Quixote reasoned with so munch discretion 
on every subject, that his two visitors now undoubtedly 
believed him in his right senses. 

His niece and housekeeper were present at these dis- 
courses, and hearing him give so many marks of sound 
understanding, thought they could never return Heaven 
sufficient thanks for so extrordinary a blessing. But 





I. 


AND DON QUIXOTE, CONCERNING HIS INDISPOSITION. 


the curate, who wondered at this strange amendment, 
being resolved to try whether Don Quixote was per- 
fectly recovered, thought tit to alter the resolution he 
had taken to avoid entering into any discourse of knight- 
errantry, and therefore began to talk to him of news, 
and, among the rest, that it was credibly reported at 
court, that the Grand Seignior was advancing with a 
vast army, and nobody knew where the tempest would 
fall; that all Christendom was alarmed, as it used to be 
almost every year; and that the king was providing for 
the security of the coasts of Sicily and Nuples, and the 
island of Malta. 

“His majesty,” said Don Quixote, “acts the part of a 
most prudent warrior, in putting his dominions be- 
times in a posture of defence, for by that precaution he 
prevents the surprises of the enemy ; but yet, if my 
counsel were to be taken in this matter, I would advise 
another sort of preparation, which, 1 fancy, his majesty 
little thinks of at present.” 

“Now Heaven assist thee, poor Don Quixote!” said 
the curate to himself, hearing this; “I am afraid thou 
art now tumbling from the top of thy madness to the 
very bottom of simplicity.” 

Thereupon the barber, who had presently made the 
same reflection, desired Don Quixote to communicate 
to them this mighty project of his; “for,” said he, 
“who knows but, after all, it may be one of those that 
ought only to find a place in the list of impertinent ad- 
monitions usually given to princes ?” 

“No, Goodman Shaver,” answered Don Quixote, 
“my projects are not impertinent,but highly advisable.” 

“T meant no harm in what I said, sir,” replied the 
barber; “only we generally find most of those projects 
that are offered to the king are either impracticable or 
whimsical, or tend to the detriment of the king or 
kingdom.” 

“But mine,” said Don Quixote, “is neither impossi- 
ble nor ridiculous; far from that, it is the most easy, 
the most thoroughly weighed, and the most concise, 
that ever can be devised by man.” 

“Methinks you are too long before you let us know 
it, sir,” said the curate. 

“To deal freely with you,” replied Don Quixote, “I 
should be loth to tell it you here now, and have it reach 
the ear of some privy-councillor to-morrow, and so after- 
wards see the fruit of my invention reaped by some- 
body else.” 

228 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“As for me,” said the barber, “I give you my word 
here, and in the face of Heaven, ‘never to tell it either 
to king, queen, rook, pawn, or knight, or any earthly 
man’ an oath I learned out of the romance of the curate, 
in the preface of which he tells the king who it was 
that robbed him of his hundred doubloous and his 
unbling mule.” 

“T know nothing of the story,” said Don Quixote, 
“but I have reason to be satistied with the oath, be- 
cause I am confident Master Barber is an honest man.” 

“Though he were not,” said the curate, “I will be 
his surety in this matter, and will engage for him that 
he shall no more speak of it than if he were dumb, 
under what penalty you please.” 

“And who shall answer for you, Master Curate?” 
asked Don Quixote. 

“My profession,” replied the curate, “which binds 
me to secresy.” 

“Bless me, then!” cried Don Quixote, “what has the 
king to do more but to cause public proclamation to be 
made, enjoining all the knights-errant that are dispers- 
ed in this kingdom to make their personal appearance 
at court upon a certain day? For though but half a 
dozen should meet, there may be some one among them 
who, even alone, might be able to destroy the whole 
united force of Turkey. For pray observe well what I 
say, gentlemen, and take me along with ye. Do you 
look upon it as a new thing for one knight-errant alone 
to rout an army of 200,000 men, with as much ease as if 
all of them joined together had but one throat, or were 
made of sugar-paste? You know bow many histories 
are full of these wonders. Were but the renowned 
Don Belianis living now, or some knight of the innu- 
merable race of Amadis de Gaul, and he met with these 
Turks, what a woful condition would they be in! How- 
ever, I hope Providence will in pity look down upon 
his people, and raise up, if not so prevalent a champion 
as those of former ages, at least some one who may per- 
haps rival them in courage. Heaven knows my mean- 
ing; I say no more.” 

“Alas!” said the niece, hearing this, “I will lay my hfe 
my uncle has still a hankering after knight-errantry.” 

“T will die a knight-errant,” cried Don Quixote; 
“and so let the Turks land where they please, how they 
please, and when they please, and with all the forces 
they can muster; once more I say, Heaven knows my 
meaning.” 

“Gentlemen,” said the barber, “I beg leave to tell 
you a ahort story of something that happened at Se- 
ville; indeed, it falls out as pat as if it had been made 
for our present purpose, and so I have a great desire to 
tell it.” 

Don Quixote gave consent, the curate and the rest of 
the company were willing to hear; and thus the barber 
began :— 

“A certain person being distracted, was put into the 
madhouse at Seville by his relations. He had studied 
the civil law, and taken his degrees at Ossuna, 
though, had he taken them at Salamanca, many are of 
opinion that he would have been mad too. After he 
had lived some years in this confinement, he was pleased 





229 


to fancy himself in his right senses, and, upon this con- 
ceit, he wrote to the archbishop, beseeching him, with 
great earnestness, and all the color of reason imagina- 
ble, to release him out of his misery by his authority, 
since, hy the mercy of Heaven, he was wholly freed 
from any disorder in his mind; only his relations, he 
said, kept him in still, to enjoy his estate, and designed, 
in spite of the truth, to have him mad to his dying day. 
The archbishop, persuaded by many letters which he 
wrote to him on that subject, all penned with sense and 
judgment, ordered one of his chaplains to inquire of 
the governor of the house into the truth of the matter, 
and also to discourse with the purty, that he might set 
him at large, in case he found him free from distraction. 
Thereupon the chaplain went, and having asked the 
governor what coudition the graduate was in, was an- 
swered that he was still mad; that sometimes, indeed, 
he would talk like a man of excellent sense, but pre- 
sently after he would relapse into his former extrava- 
gances, which, at least, balanced all his rational talk, 
as he might find if he pleased to discourse with him. 
The chaplain, being resolved to make the experiment, 
went to the madman, and conversed with him above an 
hour, and in all that time could not perceive the 
least disorder in his brain; far from that, he deliv- 
ered himself with so much sedateness, and gave 
such direct and pertinent answers to every ques- 
tion, that the chaplain was obliged to believe him 
sound in his understanding; nay, he went so far as 
to make a plausible complaint against his keeper, 
alleging that, for the lucre of those presents which his 
relations sent him, he represented him to those who 
came to see him as one who was still distracted, and 
had only now and then lucid intervals; but that, after 
all, his greatest enemy was his estate, the possession of 
which his relations being unwilling to resign, they 
would not acknowledge the mercy of Heaven, that had 
once more made him a rational creature. In short, he 
pleaded in such a manner, that the keeper was suspect- 
ed, his relations were censured as vovetous and unnat- 
ural, and he himself was thought master of so much 
sense, that the chaplain resolved to take him along 
with him, that the archbishop might be able to satisfy 
himself of the truth of the whole business. In order to 
this, the credulous chaplain desired the governor to 
give the graduate the habit which he had brought with 
him at his first coming. The governor used all the argu- 
ments which he thought might dissuade the chaplain 
from his design, assuring him that the man was still 
frantic and disordered in his brain. But he could not 
prevail with him to leave the madman there any longer, 
and therefore was forced to comply with the arch- 
bishop’s order, and returned the man his habit, which 
was neat and decent. 

“Having now put off his madman’s weeds, and find- 
ing himself in the garb of rational creatures, he begged 
of the chaplain, for charity’s sake, to permit him to take 
leave of his late companions in affliction. The chaplain 
told him he would bear him company, having a mind to 
see the mad folks in the house. So they went up-stairs, 
and with them some other people that stood by. Pres- 


23 


ently the graduate came to a kind of cage, where lay aj 


man that was outrageously mad, though at that instant 
still and quiet; and addressing himself to him— 
‘Brother,’ said he, ‘lave you any service to command 
me? I am just going to my own house, thanks be to 
Heaven, which, of its infinite goodness and mercy, has 
restored me to my senses. Be of good comfort, and 
put your trust in the Father of Wisdom, who will, I 
hope, be as merciful to you as he has been to me. I 
will be sure to send you some choice victuals, which I 
would have yon eat by all means; for I must needs tell 
you that I have reason to imagine, from my own expe- 
rience, that all our madness proceeds from keeping our 
stomachs empty of food, and our brains full of wind. 
Take heart, then, my friend, and be cheerful; for this 
desponding in misfortunes impairs our health, and hur- 
ries us to the grave.’ 

“Just over against that room lay another madman, 
who, having listened with an envious attention to all 
this discourse, starts up from an old mat on which he 
lay. ‘Who is that,’ cried he aloud, ‘that is going away 
so well recovered and so wise?’ 

“«Itis I, brother, that am going,’ replied the gradu- 
ate; ‘I have now no need to stay here any longer; for 
which blessing I can never cease to return my humble 
and hearty thanks to the infinite goodness of Heaven.’ 

“<Toctor,’ quoth the madman, ‘have a care what you 
say, and let not the devil delude you. Stir not a foot, 
but keep snug in your old lodging, and save yourself 
the vexation of being brought back to your kennel.’ 

“<«Nay,’ answered the other, ‘I will warrant you there 
will be no oceasion for my coming hither again; I know 
I am perfectly well.’ 

“<You well!’ cried the madman; ‘we shall soon see 
that. 
majesty I represent on earth, for this very crime alone 
that Seville has committed in setting thee at large, 
affirming that thou art sound in thy intellects, I will 
take such a severe revenge on the whole city, that it 
shall be remembered with terror from age to age, for 
ever and ave. Amen. Dost thou know, my poor brain- 
less thing in a guwn, that this is in my power—1 that 
am the thundering Jove, that grasp in my hands the 
red-hot bolts of Heaven, with which I keep the threat- 
ened world in awe, and might reduce it all to ashes? 
But stay, I will commute the fiery punishment, which 
this ignorant town deserves, into another: I will only 
shut up the flood-gates of the skies, so that there shall 
not fall a drop of rain upon this city, nor on all the 
neighboring country round about it, for three years to- 
gether, to begin from the very moment that gives date 
to this my inviolable execration. Thou free! thou well, 
and in thy senses! and I here mad, distempered, and 
confined! By my thunder, I will no more indulge the 
town with rain than I would hang myself.’ 

“As every one there was attentive to these loud and 
frantic threats, the graduate turned to the chaplain, 
and taking him by the hand, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘let not 
that madman's threats trouble you. Never mind him; 
for, if he be Jupiter, and will not let it rain, I am Nep- 
tune, the parent.and god of the waters; and it shall 


Farewell; but by the sovereign Jupiter, whose; 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


rain as often asI please, whenever necessity shall re- 
quire it.” 

“<« However,’ answered the chaplain, ‘good Mr. Nep- 
tune, it is not convenient to provoke Mr. Jupiter; there- 
fore be pleased to stay here a little longer, and some 
other time, at convenient leisure, I may chance to find 
a better opportunity to wait on you, and bring you 
away.’ 

“The keeper and the rest of the company could not 
forbear laughing, which put the chaplain almost out of 
countenance. In short, Mr. Neptune was disrobed 
again, stayed where he was, and there is an end of the 
story.” 

“Well, Master Barber,” said Don Quisote, “and this 
is your tale which you said came so pat to the present 
purpose, that you could net forbear telling it? Ah! 
Goodman Cut-beard, Goodman Cut-beard! how blind 
must he be that cannot see through a sieve! Is it pos- 
sible your pragmatical worship should not Know that 
the comparisons made between wit and wit, courage and 
courage, beauty and beauty, birth and birth, are always 
odious and ill taken? Iam not Neptune, the god of the 
waters, good Master Barber: neither do I pretend to set 
up for a wise man when I am not so. AllI aim atis only 
to make the world sensible how much they are to 
blame, in not laboring to revive those most happy times 
in which the order of knight-errantry was in its full 
glory. But, indeed, this degenerate age of ours is un- 
worthy the enjoyment of so great a happiness, which 
former ages could boast, when knights-errant took upon 
themselves the defense of kingdoms, the protection of 
damsels, the relief of orphans, the punishment of pride 
and oppression, and the reward of humility. Most of 
your knights, now-a-days, keep a greater rustling with 
their sumptuous garments of damask, gold brocade, and 
other costly stuffs, than with the coats of mail, which 
they should glory to wear. No knight now will lie on 
the hard ground in the open field, exposed to the inju- 
rious air, from head to foot enclosed in ponderous arm- 
or. Where are those now, who, without taking their 
feet out of the stirrups, and only leaning on their lances, 
like the knights-errant of old, strive to disappoint in- 
vading sleep, rather than indulge it? Where is that 
knight, who, having first traversed a spacious forest, 
climbed up a steep mountain, and journeyed over a dis- 
mal barren shore, washed by a turbulent, tempestuous 
sea, and finding on the brink a little skiff, destitute of 
sails, oars, mast, or any kind of tackling, is yet so bold 
as to threw himself into the boat with an undaunted 
resolution, and resign himself to the implacable billows 
of the main, that now mount him to the skies, and 
then hurry him down to the most profound recesses 
of the waters; till with his insuperable courage sur- 
mounting at last the hurricane, even in its greatest fury, 
he finds himself above three thousand leagues from the 
place where he first embarked, and, leaping ashore in a 
remote and unknown region, meets with adventures 
that deserves to be recorded, not only on parchment 
but on Corinthian brass? But now, alas! sloth and 
effeminacy triumph over vigilance and labor; idleness 
over industry; vice over virtue; arrogance over valor, 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


and the theory of arms over the practice—that true 
practice, which only lived and flourished in those golden 
days, and among those professors of chivalry. For 
where shall we hear of a knight more valiant and more 
honorable than the renowned Amadis de Gaul? Who 
more discreet than Palmerin of England? Who more 
affable and complaisant than Tirante the White? Who 
more gallant than Lisuarte of Greece? Who more cut 
and hacked, or a greater cutter and hacker than Don 
Belianis? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? 
Who more daring than Felixmarte of Hyrcania? Who 
more sincere than Esplandian? Who more courteous 
than Ciriongilio of Thrace? Who more brave than 
Rodomont? Who more prudent than King Sobrino? 
Who more desperate than Rinaldo? Who more invin- 
cible than Orlando? And who more agreeable or more 
affable than Rogero, from whom (according to Turpin, 
in his cosmography) the Dukes of Ferrara are descend- 
ed? All these champions, Master Curate, and a great 
many more that I could mention, were knights-errant, 
and the very light and glory of chivalry. Now, such 
as these are the men I would advise the king to employ; 
by which means his majesty would be effectually served, 
and freed from a vast expense, and the Turk would tear 
his very beard for madness. For my part, I do not 
design to stay where I am, because the chaplain will 
not fetch me out; though, if Jupiter, as Master Barber 
said, will send no rain, here stands one that will and 
can rain, when he pleases. This I say, that Goodman 
Basin here may know I understand his meaning.” 

“Truly, good sir,” said the barber, “I meant no ill; 
Heaven is my witness, my intent was good: and there- 
fore I hope your worship will take nothing amiss.” 

“Whether I ought to take it amiss or no, ””replied Don 
Quixote, “is best known to myself.” 

“Well,” said the curate, “I have hardly spoken a 
word yet; and before I go I would gladly be eased of a 
scruple, which Don Quixote’s words have started within 
me, and which grates and gnaws my conscience.” 

“Master Curate may be free with me in greater mat- 
ters,” said Don Quixote, “and so may well tell his 
seruple; for it is no pleasure to have a burden upon 
one’s conscience.” 

“With your leave then, sir,”said the curate, “I must 
tell you, that I can by no means prevail with myself to 
believe that all this multitude of knights-errant, which 
your,worship has mentioned, were ever real men of this 
world, and true, substantial flesh and blood; but rather 
that whatever is said of themis all fable and fiction, 
lies and dreams, related by menrather half asleep than 
awake.” 

“This is indeed another mistake,” said Don Quixote, 
“into which many have been led, who do not believe 
there ever were any of those knights in the world. 
And in several companies I have many times had occa- 
sion to vindicate that manifest truth from the almost 
universal error that is entertained to its prejudice. 
Sometimes my success has not been answerable to the 
goodness of my cause, though at others it has; being 
supported on the shoulders of truth, which is so appar- 
ent, that I dare almost say I have seen Amadis de Gaul 





231 


with these very eyes. He was atall, comely personage, 
of a good and lively complexion; his beard well order- 
ed, though black; his aspect at once awful and affable: 
a man of few words, slowly provoked and quickly 
pacified. And as I have given you the picture of Ama- 
dis, I fancy I could readily delineate all the knights- 
errant that are to be met with in history: for once 
apprehending, as I do, that they were just such as 
their histories report them, it is an easy matter to guess 
their features, statures, and complexions, by the rules 
of ordinary philosophy, and the account we have of 
their achievements and various humors.” 

“Pray, good sir,” quoth the barber, “how tall then. 
might the giant Morgante be ?” 

“Whether there ever were giants or no,” answered. 
Don Quixote, “is a point much controverted among the- 
learned. However, Holy Writ, that cannot deviate an 
atom from truth, informs us there were some, of which 
we have an instance in the account it gives us of that 
huge Philistine, Goliath, who was seven cubits and a 
half high, which is a prodigious stature. Besides, in 
Sicily thigh-bones and shoulder-bones have been found 
of so immense a size, that from thence of necessity we 
must conclude, by the certain rules of geometry, that 
the men to whom they belonged were giants, as big as 
huge steeples. But, for all this, I cannot positively tell 
you how big Morgante was; though I am apt to believe 
he was not very tall, and that which makes me inclina- 
ble to believe so is, that in the history which gives us 
a particular account of his exploits we read that he 
often used to lie under a roof. Now, if there were any 
house that could hold hin, it is evident he could not be 
of an immense bigness.” 

“That must be granted,” said the curate, who took 
some pleasure in hearing him talk at that strange rate, 
and therefore asked him what his sentiments were of 
the faces of Rinaldo of Montalban, Orlando, and the 
rest of the twelve peers of France, who had all of them 
been knights-errant. 

“As for Rinaldo,” answered Don Quixote, “I dare 
venture to say he was broad-faced, of a ruddy com- 
plexion, his eyes sparkling and large, very captious, 
extremely choleric, and a favorer of robbers and 
profligate fellows. As for Rolando, Rotolando, or Or- 
lando(for all these several names are given him in his- 
tory), I am of opinion, and assure myself, that he was 
of the middling stature, broad-shouldered, somewhat 
bandy-legged, brown-visaged, red-bearded, surly-look- 
ed, no talker, but yet very civil and good-humored.” 

“If Orlando was no handsomer than you tell us,” 
said the curate, “no wonder the fair Angelica slighted 
him, and preferred the brisk, pretty, charming young 
Moor before him; neither was she to blame to neglect 
the one for the other.” 

“That Angelica, Mr. Curate,” said Don Quixote, 
“was a dissolute damsel, a wild, flirting, wanton crea- 
ture, and somewhat capricious to boot. She left the 
world as full of her impertinences as of the fame of her 
beauty. She despised a thousand princes, a thousand 
of the most valiant and discreet knights in the world, 
and took up with a paltry page, that had neither estate 


232 


nor honor, and who could lay claim to no other reputa- 
tion but that of being grateful, when he gave a proof 
of his affection to his friend Dardinel. And, indeed, 
even that great extoler of her beauty, the celebrated 
Ariosto, either not daring, or rather not desiring, to 
prehearse what happened to Angelica, after her dis- 
graceful intrigue (which passages doubtless could not 
be very much to her reputation), that very Ariosto, I 
say, dropped her character quite, and left her with 
these lines: 


‘Perhaps some better lyre shall sing, 
How love and she made him Cataya's king.’ 


And without doubt that was a kind of a prophecy; for 
the denomination of Vates, which signifies a prophet, 
is common to those whom we otherwise call poets. 
Accordingly, indeed, this truth has been made evident; 
for in process of time, a famous Andalusian poet wept 
for her, and celebrated her tears in verse; and another 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


eminent and choice poet of Castile made her beauty his 
theme.” 

“But pray, sir,” said the barber, “among so mans 
poets that have written in that lady Angelica's praise, 
did none of them ever write a satire upon her?” 

“Had Sacripante or Orlando been poets,” auswered 
Don Quixote, “I make no question but they would have 
mentioned her to some purpose; for there is nothing 
more common than for poets, when disdained by their 
feigned or false mistresses, to revenge themselves with 
satires and lampoons—a proceeding certainly unworth y 
a generous spirit. However, I never yet did hear of 
any defamatory verses on the Lady Angelica, though 
she made so much mischief in the world.” 

“That is a miracle indeed,” cried the curate. But 
here they were interrupted by a noise below in the 
yard, where the niece and the housekeeper, who had left 
them some time before, were very obstreperous, which 
made them all hasten to know what was the matter. 





CHAPTER U1. 


OF THE MEMORABLE QUARREL BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER ; 


WITH OTHER PLEASANT PASSAGES. 


THE history informs us that the occasion of the noise 
which the niece and housekeeper made was Sancho 
Panza’s endeavoring to force his way into the house, 
while they at the same time held the door against him 
to keep bim out. 

“What have you to do in this house ?” cried one of 
them. “Go, gv, keep to your own home, trieud. It is 
all because of you, and nobody else, that my poor 
master is distracted, debauched, and carried a-rambling 
all the country over.” 

“What next?” replied Sancho; “itis I that am dis- 
tracted, debauched, and carried a-rambling, and not 
your master! It was he led me the jaunt; so you are 
wide of the matter. It was he that inveigled me from 
my house and home with his talk, promising he would 
give me an island, which is not come yet, and I still 
wait for.” 

“Mayest thou be filled with thy islands!” cried the 
niece. “And what are your islands? anything to eat, 
ha?” 

“Hold you there!” answered Sancho, “they are not to 
eat, but to govern; and better governments than any four 
cities, or as many heads of the king’s best corporations.” 

“For all that,” quoth the housekeeper, “thou comest 
not within these doors, thou bundle of wickedness, 
and sackful of roguery! Go, govern your own house! 
Work, you lazy rogue! To the plough, and never 
trouble vour head about islands.” 

The curate and the barber had a great deal of pleasure 
in hearing this dialogue. But Don Quixote fearing lest 





Sancho should not keep within bounds, but blunder out 
some discoveries prejudicial to his reputation, while he 
ripped up a pack of little foolish slander, called him in, 
and enjoined the women to be silent. Sancho entered, 
and the curate aud the barber took leave of Don Quix- 
ote, despairing of his cure, considering how deep his 
folly was rooted in his brain, and how bewitched he 
was with his silly knight-errantry. 

“Well, neighbor,” said the curate to the barber, “now 
do Lexpect nothing better of our gentleman than to 
hear shortly he is gone upon another ramble.” 

“Nor J neither,” answered the barber; “but I do not 
wonder so much at the knight’s madness as at the silli- 
ness of the squire, who thiuks himself so sure of the 
island, that I fancy all the art of man can never beat it 
out of his skull.” 

“Heaven mend them!” said the curate. “Ih the 
meantime let us observe them: we shall see what will 
be the event of the extravagance of the knight, and 
the foolishness of the squire. One would think they 
had been cast in one mould; and indeed the master’s 
madness without the man’s impertinence were not 
worth a rush.” 

“Right,” said the barber. “ And now they are together, 
Ilong to know what passes between them. I do not 
doubt but the two women will be able to give au ac- 
count of that, for they are not of a temper to withstand 
the temptation of listening.” 

Meanwhile, Don Quixote having locked himsel up 
with his squire, they had the following colloquy :— 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“T take it very ill,” said he, “Sancho, that you 
should report, us you do, that I enticed you out of your 
paltry hut, when you know that [ myself left my own 
mansion-house. We set out together, continued to- 
gether, and travelled together. We ran the same for- 
tune, and the same hazards together. If thou hast 
been tossed in a blanket once, 1 hive been battered and 
bruised a hundred times; and that is all the advantage 
I have had above thee.” 

“And reason good,” answered Sancho; “for you 
yourself used to say that ill-luck and cross-bitings are 
oftener to light on the knights than on the squires.” 

“Thou art mistaken, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; 
“for the proverb will tell thee that quando caput dolet, 
Sie.” 

“Nay,” quoth Sancho, “I understand no language 
but my own.” 

“T mean,” said Don Quixote, “that when the head 
aches, all the members partake of the pain. So then, 
as Tam thy master, I am also thy head; and as thou art 
my servant, thou art one of my members; it follows, 
therefore, that I cannot be sensible of pain, but thou, 
too, oughtest to be affected with 1t; and likewise, that 
nothing of ill can befall thee, but 1 must bear a share.” 

“Right,” quoth Sancho; “but when I, as alimb of you, 
was tossed in a blanket, my head was pleased to stay 
at the other side of the wall, and saw me frisking in the 
air, without taking part in my bodily trouble.” 

“Thou art greatly mistaken, Sancho,” answered Don 
Quixote, “if thou thinkest I was not sensible of thy 
sufferings. For I was then more tortured in mind than 
thou wast tormented in body; but let us adjourn this 
discourse till some other time, which doubtless will 
afford us an opportunity to redress past grievances. I 
pray tell me now, what does the town say of me? 
What do the neighbors, what do the people think of 
me? What say the gentry, and the better sort? How 
do the knights discourse of my valor, my high feats of 
arms, and my courteous behavior? What thoughts do 
they entertain of my design to raise from the grave of 
oblivion the order of kuight-errantry, und restore it to 
the world? In short, tell me freely and sincerely 
whatever thou hast heard, neither enlarged with flatter- 
ing commendations or lessened by any omission of my 
dispraise; for it is the duty of faithful servants to lay 
truth before their masters in its honorable nakedness. 
And I would have thee know, Sancho, that if it were 
to appear before princes in its native simplicity, and 
disrobed of the odious disguise of flattery, we should 
see happier days; this age would be changed into an 
age of gold, and former times, compared to this, would 
be called the iron age. Remember this, and be advised, 
that I may hear thee impart a faithful account of these 
matters.” 

“That I will, with all my heart,” answered Sancho, 
“so your worship will not take it amiss, if I tell what I 
have heard, just as I heard it, neither better nor worse.” 

“Nothing shall provoke me to anger,” answered Don 
Quixote; “speak freely, and without any circumlocu- 
tion.” 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “first and foremost you 





233 


are to know that the common people take you for a 
downright madman, and me for one who has not much 
good in his brains. The gentry say, that not being 
content to keep within the bounds of gentility, you 
have taken upon you to be a Don, and set up for a knight 
and a right worshipful, with a small vineyard and two 
acres of land, atatter before and another behind. The 
knights, forsooth, take pepper in the nose, and say they 
do not like to have your small gentry think themselves 
as good as they, especially your old-fashioned country 
squires, who meud and lampblack their own shoes, and 
darn their old black stockings themselves with a needle- 
ful of green silk.” 

“All this does not atfect me,” said Don Quixote, 
“for I always wear good clothes, and never have them 
patched. It is true, they may be a little torn some- 
times, but that is more with my armor than by long 
wearing.” 

“As for what relates to your prowess,” said Sancho, 
proceeding, “together with your feats of arms, your 
courteous behavior, and your undertaking, there are 
several opinions about it. Some say, ‘He is mad, but a 
pleasant sort of a madman:’ others say, ‘He is valiant 
but his luck is naught;’ others say, ‘He is courteous, 
but sometimes rude.’ And thus they pass so many ver- 
dicts upon you, and take us both so to pieces, that they 
leave neither you nor me a sound bone in our skins.” 

“Consider, Saucho,” said Don Quixote, “that the 
more eminently virtue shines, the more it is exposed to 
the persecution of envy. Few or none of those famous 
heroes of antiquity could escape the venomous arrows 
of calumny. Julius Ciesar, that most courageous, pru- 
dent, and valiant captain, was marked as being ambi- 
tious, and neither so clean in his apparel nor in his 
manners as he ought to have been. Alexander, whose 
mighty deeds gained him the title of ‘the Great,’ was 
charged with being addicted to drunkenness. Hercules, 
after his many heroic labors, was accused of voluptu- 
ousness and effeminacy. Don Galaor, the brother of 
Amadis de Gaul, was taxed with being quarrelsome, 
and his brother himself with being a whining, blubber- 
ing lover. And, therefore, my Sancho, since so many 
worthies have not been free from-the assaults of de- 
traction, well may I be content to bear my share of that 
epidemical calamity, if it be no more than thou hast 
told me now.” 

“Ah!” quoth Sancho, “there is the business; but 
they don’t stop here.” 

“Why,” said Don Quixote, “what can they say 
more ?” 

“More!” cried Sancho; “you have yet to hear the 
worst. You have had nothing yet but apple-pies aud 
sugar-plums. But if you have a mind to hear all those 
slanders and backbitings that are about town concern- 
ing yonr worsbip, 1 will bring you one anon that shall 
tell you every kind of thing that is said of you, without 
bating you an ace on it! Bartholomew Carrasco’s son, 
I mean, who has been a scholard at the ’versity of Sala- 
manca, and is got to be a bachelor of arts. He came 
last night, you must know, and as I went to bid him 
welcome home, he told me that your worsbip’s history 


234 


is already in books, by the name of the most renowned 
Don Quixote de la Mancha. He says I am in too, by 
my own name of Sancho Panza, and also my Lady Dul- 
cinea del Toboso; nay, and many things that passed 
betwixt nobody but us two, which I was amazed to hear, 
and could not imagine how he that set them down could 
have come hy the knowledge of them.” 

“J dare assure thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
“that the author of our history must be some sage en- 
chanter, and one of those from whose universal knowl- 
edge none of the things which they have a mind to 
record can be concealed.” 

“How should he be a sage and an enchanter,” quoth 
Sancho. “The bachelor Samson Carrasco—for that is 
the name of my tale’s master—tells me he that wrote 
the history is called Cid Hamet Berengenas.” 

“That is a Moorish name,” said Don Quixote. 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Like enough,” quoth Sancho; “your Moors are great 
lovers of Lerengenas. ” 

“Certainly, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou art 
mistaken in the surname of that cid: that lord, I mean; 
for cid, in Arabic, means lord.” 

“That may very well be,” answered Sancho: “but if 
you will have me fetch you the young scholar, I will fly 
to bring him hither.” 

“Truly, friend,” said Don Quixote, “thou wilt do me 
a particular kindness; for what thou hast already told 
me has so filled me with doubts and expectations, that 
I shall not eat a bit that will do me good till I am in- 
formed of the whole matter.” 

“T will go and fetch him,” said Sancho. With that, 
leaving his master, he went to look for the bachelor, 
and having brought him along with him a while after, 
they all had a very pleasant dialogue. 








CHAPTER III. 


THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO. 


DON QUIXOTE remained strangely pensive, expecting 
the bachelor Carrasco, from whom he hoped to hear 
news of himself, recorded aud printed in a book, as 
Sancho had informed him. He could not be persuaded 
that there was such a history extant, while yet the 
blood of those enemies he had cut off had searce done 
reeking on the blade of his sword; so that they could 
not have already finished and printed the history of his 
mighty feats of arms. However, at last he concluded 
that some learned sage had, by the way of enchantment, 
been able to commit them to the press, either as a friend, 
to extol his heroic achivements above the noblest per- 
formances of the most famous knights-errant, or as an 
enemy, to sully and annihilate the lustre of his great 
exploits, and debase them below the most inferior actions 
that ever were mentioned of any of the meanest squires. 
“Though,” thought he to himself, “the actions of squires 
were never yet recorded; and after all, if there were 
such a book printed, since it was the history of a knight- 
errant, it could not choose but be pompons, lofty, mag- 
nificent, and authentic.” 

This thought yielded him a while some small consola- 
tion; but then he relapsed into melancholic doubts and 
anxieties when he considered that the author had used 
the title of cid, and consequently must be a Moor—a 
nation from whom no truth could be expected, they all 
being given to impose on others with lies and fabulous 
stories, to falsify and counterfeit, and very fond of 
their own chimeras. 

He was not less uneasy lest that writer should have 
been too lavish in treating of his amours, to the preju- 
dice of his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso’s honor. He 
earnestly wished that he might find his own inviolable 
fidelity celebrated in the history, and the reservedness 





which he had always so religiously observed in his 
passion for her; slighting queens, empresses, and dam- 
sels of every degree for her sake. Sancho and Carrasco 
found him thus agitated and perplexed with a thousand 
melancholic fancies, which yet did not hinder him from 
receiving the stranger with a great deal of civilty. 

This bachelor, though his name was Sansom, was 
none of the biggest in body, but a very great man at all 
manner of drollery; he had a pale and bad complexion, 
but good sense. He was about four-and-twenty years 
of age, round visaged, flat nosed, and wide mouthed— 
all signs of a malicious disposition, and of one that 
would delight in nothing more than in making sport for 
himself by ridiculing others, as he plainly discovered 
when he saw Don Quixote. For, falling on his knees 
before him, “Admit me to kiss your honor’s hand,” 
cried he, “most noble Don Quixote; for by the habit of 
St. Peter, which I wear—though, indeed, I have as yet 
taken but the four first of the holy orders—you are cer- 
tainly one of the most renowned knights-errant that 
ever was, or ever will be, through the whole extent of 
the habitable globe. Blest may the sage Cid Hamet 
Benengeli be for enriching the world with the history 
of your mighty deeds; and more than blest that curious 
virtuoso, who took care to have it translated out of the 
Arabic into our vulgar tongue, for the universal enter 
tainment of mankind!” 

“Sir,” said Don Quixote, making him rise, “is it then 
possible that my history is extant, and that it was a 
Moor, and one of the sages, who penned it ?” 

“It is so notorious a truth,” said the bachelor, “that 
I do not in the least doubt but at this day there have 
already been published above twelve thousand copies 
of it. Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia. where they 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


have been printed, can witness that, if there were oc- 
casion. It is said that it is also now in the press at 
Antwerp. And I verily believe there is scarce a lan- 
guage into which it is not to be translated.” 

“Truly, sir,” said Don Quixote, “one of the things 
that ought to yield the greatest satisfaction to 4 person 
of eminent virtue, is to live to see himself in good 
reputation in the world, and his actions published in 
print. I say in good reputation; for otherwise there is 
no death but would be preferable to such a life.” 

“As for a good name and reputation,” replied Car- 
rasco, “your worship has gained the palm from all the 
knights-errant that ever lived: for both the Arabian, 
in his history, and the Christian, in his version, have 
been very industrious to do justice to your character, 
your peculiar gallantry, your intrepedity and greatness 
of spirit in confronting danger, your constancy in ad- 
versities, your patience in suffering wounds and afflic- 
tions, your modesty and continence in that amour, so 
very platonic, between your worship and my Lady 
Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.” 

“Heyday!” cried Sancho; “I never heard her called 
so before. That donna is a new name; for she used to 
be called only my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso: in that, 
the history is out already.” 

“That is no material objection,” said Carrasco. 

“No, certainly,” added Don Quixote; “but pray, 
good Mr. Bachelor, on which of all my adventures does 
the history seem to lay the greatest stress of re- 
mark ?” 

“As to that,” answered Carrasco, “the opinions of 
men are divided according to their taste: some cry up 
the adventure of the windmills, which appeared to 
your worship so many Briareuses and giants. Some 
are for that of the fulling-mills; others stand up for the 
description of the two armies, that afterwards proved 
two flocks of sheep. Others prize most the adventure 
of the dead corpse that was carrying to Segovia. One 
says, that none of them can compare with that of the 


galley-slaves; another, that none can stand in competi- |. 


tion with the adventure of the Benedictine giants and 
the valorous Biscayner.” 

“Pray, Mr. Bachelor,” quoth Sancho, “is there noth- 
ing said of that of the Yanguesians, an please you, 
when our precious Rozinante was so mauled ?” 

“There is not the least thing omitted,” answered 
Carrasco. “The sage has inserted all, with the nicest 
punctuality imaginable; so much as the capers which 
honest Sancho fetched in the blanket.” 

“T fetched none in the blanket,” quoth Sancho, “but 
in the air; and that, too, oftener than I could have 
wished, and more to my sorrow.” 

“In my opinion,” said Don Quixote, “there is no 
manner of history in the world where you shall not 
find variety of fortune, much less any story of knight- 
errantry, where aman cannot always be sure of good 
success.” 

“However,” said Carrasco, “some who have read 
your history wish that the author had spared himself 
the pains of registering some of that infinite number of 
drubs which the noble Don Quixote received.” 





235 


“There lies the truth of the history,” quoth Sancho. 

“Those things in human equity,” said Don Quixote, 
“might very well have been omitted; for actions that 
neither impair nor alter the history ought rather to be 
buried in silence than related, if they redound to the 
discredit of the hero of the history. Certainly Aineas 
was never so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses 
so prudent as he is made by Homer.” 

“Tam of your opinion,” said Carrasco; “but it is one 
thing to write like a poet, and another thing to write 
like an historian. It is sufficient for the first to deliver 
matters as they ought to have been, whereas the last 
must relate them as they were really transacted, with- 
out adding or omitting anything upon any pretence 
whatever.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “if this same Moorish lord be 
once got into the road of truth, a hundred to one but 
among my master’s rib-roastings he has not forgot mine: 
for they never took measure of his worship’s shoulders, 
but they were pleased to do as much for my whole body; 
but it was no wonder; for it is his own rule that if once 
his head aches, every limb must suffer too.” 

“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “you are an arch, un- 
lucky knave. Upon my honor you can find memory 
when you have a mind to have it.” 

“Nay,” quoth Sancho, “though I were minded to for- 
get the rubs and drubs I have suffered, the bumps and 
tokens that are yet fresh on my ribs would not let 
me.” 

“Hold your tongue,” said Don Quixote, “and let the 
learned bachelor proceed, that I may know what the 
history says of me.” 

“And of me too,” quoth Sancho; “for they tell me I 
am one of the top parsons in it.” 

“Persons, you should say, Sancho,” said Carrasco, 
“and not parsons.” 

“Heyday!” quoth Sancho; “have we got another 

corrector of hard words? If this be the trade, we shall 
never have done.” 
“JT assure you,” said Carrasco, “that you are the 
second person in the history, honest Sancho; nay, and 
some there are who had rather hear you talk than the 
best there; though some there are again that will say 
you were horribly credulous, to flatter yourself with 
having the government of that island which your master 
here present promised you.” 

“While there is life there is hope,” said Don Quixote: 
“when Sancho is grown mature with time and experi- 
ence, he may be better qualified for a government than 
he is yet.” 

“Well, sir,” quoth Sancho, “if I be not fit to govern 
an island at these years, I shall never be a governor, 
though I live to the years of Methusalem; but there 
the mischief lies: we have brains enough, but we want 
the island.” 

“Come, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “hope for the 
best; trust in Providence; all will be well, and, per- 
haps, better than you imagine: but know, there is not 
a leaf on any tree that can be moved without the per- 
mission of Heaven.” 

“That is very true,” said Carrasco; “and I dare say 


236 


Sancho shall not want a thousand islands to govern,' 


much less one; that is, if it be Heaven's will.” 

“Why not?” quoth Sancho; “I have seen governors 
in my time who, to my thinking, could not come up to 
me passing the sole of my shoes, and yet, forsooth, they 
called them ‘your honor,’ and eat their victuals all in 
silver.” 

“Ay,” said Carrasco, “but these were none of your 
governors of islands, but of other easy governments: 
why, man, these ought, at least, to know their gram- 
mar.” 

“Trust me for that,” quoth Sancho; “give me but a 
grey mare once, and I shall know her well enough, [’ll 
wairant ye. Butleaving the government in the hands 
of him that will best provide for me, I must tell you, 
Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, I am very glad that, 
as your author bas not forgot me, so he has not given 
an ill character of me; for by the faith of a trusty 
squire, had he said anything that did not become an old 
Christian as Lam, I had rung him such a peal that the 
deaf should have heard me.” 

“That were a miracle,” said Carrasco. 

“Miracle or no miracle,” cried Sancho, “let every 
man take care how he talks, or how he writes of other 
men, and not set down at randon, higgle-de-piggledy, 
whatever comes into his noddle.” 

“Now,” said Don Quixote, “I perceive that he who 
attempted to write my history is not one of the sages, 
but some ignorant, prating fool, who would needs he 
meddling, and set up for a scribbler without the least 
grain of judgment to help him out; and so he has done 
like Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, who, being asked 
what he painted, answered, ‘As it may hit; and when 
he had scrawled ont a mis-shapen cock, was forced to 
write underneath, in Gothic letters, ‘This is a cock.’ 
At this rate, I believe, he has performed in my history, 
so that it will require « commentary to explain it.” 

“Not at all,” answered Carrasco; “for he has made 
everything so plain, that there is not the least thing in 
it but what any one may understand. Children handle 
it, youngsters read it, grown men understand it, and 
old people applaud it. In short, it is universally so 
thunbed, so gleaned, so studied, and so known, that if 
the people do but see a lean horse they presently ery, 
‘There goes Rozinante. But none apply themselves 
to the reading of it more than your pages; there is 
never a nobleman’s ante-chamber where you shall not 
find a ‘Don Quixote.’ No sooner has one laid it down 
but another takesit up. One asks for it here, and there 
itis snatched up by another. In a word, it is esteemed 
the most pleasant and least dangerous diversion that 
ever was seen, as being a book that does not betray the 
least indecent expression, nor so much as a profane 
thought.” 

“To write after another manner,” said Don Quixote, 
“were not to write truth, but falsehood; and those his- 
torians who are guilty of that should be punished like 
those who counterfeit the lawful coin. But I cannot 
conceive what could move the author to stuff his history 
with foreign novels and adventures, not at all to the 





purpose, while there was a sufficient number of my own 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


to have exercised his pen. But, without doubt, we may 
apply the proverb, ‘With hay or with straw,’ &c.; for 
verily, had he altogether confined himself to my 
thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my laudable designs, my 
adventures, he might yet have swelled his book to as 
great a bulk, at least, as all Tostatus’s works. JI have 
also reason to believe, Mv. Bachelor, that to compile a 
history, or write any book whatsoever, is a more difficult 
task than men imagine. There is need of a vast judg- 
ment, and a ripe understanding. It belongs to none 
but great geniuses to express themselves with grace 
and elegance, and to draw the manners and actions of 
others to the life. The most artful part in a play is the 
fool's, and therefore a fool must not attempt to write it. 
On the other side, history is in a manner a sacred thing, 
so far as it contains truth; for where truth is, the su- 
preme Father of it may also be said to be, at least, in 
as much as concerns truth. However, there are men 
that will make you books, and turn them loose into the 
world, with as much dispatch as they would do a dish 
of fritters.” 

“There is no book so bad,” said the bachelor, “but 
something good may he found in it.” 

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “yet it is quite a 
common thing for men who have gained a very great 
reputation by their writings, before they printed them, 
to lose it afterwards quite, or at least the greatest 
part.” 

“The reason is plain,” said Carrasco; “their faults 
are more easily discovered after their books are printed, 
as being then more read, and more narrowly examined, 
especially if the author had been much cried up before, 
for then the severity of the scrutiny is so much the 
greater. All those that have raised themselves a name 
by their ingenuity— great poets and celebrated histor- 
jians—are most commonly, if not always, envied by a 
sort of men who delight in censuring the writings of 
others, though they never publish any of their own.” 

“That is no wonder,” said Don Quixote; “for there 
are many divines that would make but very duli 
preachers, and yet are very quick at finding faults and 
supertluities in other men’s sermons.” 

“ All this is truth,” replied Carrasco; “and therefore 
I could wish these censurers would be more merciful 
and less scrupulous, and not dwell ungenerously upon 
small spots, that are in a manner but so many atoms on 
the face of the clear sun, which they murmur at. And 
if aliguando bonus dormitat Homerus, let them consider 
how many nights he kept himself awake to bring his 
noble works to light as little darkened with defects as 
might be. Nay, many times it may happen that what 
is censured for a fault is rather an ornament, like moles 
that sometimes add to the beauty of the face. And 
when all is said, he that publishes a book runs a very 
great hazard, since nothing can be more impossible than 
to compose one that may secure the approbation of 
every reader.” 

“Sue,” said Don Quixote, “that which treats of me 
can have pleased but few.” 

“Quite contrary,” said Carrasco; “for as Stultorum 
infinitus est numerus, so an infinite number have admir- 


DON QUIXOTE DE 


ed your history. But some there are who have taxed 
the author with want of memory or sincerity, because 
he forgot to give an account of who it was that stole 
Sancho's Dapple, for that particular is not mentioned 
there: only we find, by the story, that it was stolen; 
and yet, by-and-by, we find him riding the same ass 
again, without any previous light given us into the 
matter. Then they say that the author forgot to tell 
the reader what Sancho did with those hundred pieces 
of gold he found in the portmanteau in the Sierra 
Morena; for there is not a word said of them more; and 
many people have a great wish to know what he did 
with them, and how he spent them; which is one of 
the most material points. in which the work is de- 
fective.” 

“Master Samson,” quoth Sancho, “Iam not now in 
a condition to call up the accounts; for I am taken ill of 





LA MANCHA, 237 
a sudden with such a fainting feeling, and find myself 
so mawkish, that if I do not see and alterit with a sup 
or two of good drink, I shall waste like the snuff of a 
farthing candle. I have that cordial at home, and my 
wife stays for me. When l have had dinner, I am for 
you, and will satisfy you, or any man that wears ahead, 
about anything in the world, either as to the loss of the 
ass or the laying out of those same pieces of gold.” 

This said, without a word more, or waiting for a re- 
ply, away he went. Don Quixote desired and entreated 
the bachelor to stay and do penance with him. The 
bachelor accepted his invitation and stayed. A couple 
of pigeons were got ready to mend their commons. All 
dinner time they discoursed about knight-errantry, 
Carrasco humoring him all the while. After they had 
slept out the heat of the day, Sancho came back, and 
they renewed their former discourse. 








CHAPTER IV. 


SANCHO PANZA SATISFIES THE BACHELOR, SAMSON CARRASCO, IN HIS DOUBTS AND QUERIES ; WITH OTHER 


PASSAGES FIT TO BE KNOWN AND RELATED. 


SANCHO returned to Don Quixote’s house, and begin- 
ning again where he left off, “Now,” quoth he, “as to 
what Master Samson wanted to know—that is, when, 
where, and by whom my ass was stolen. I answer that 
the very night that we marched off to the Sierra Mo- 
rena, to avoid the hue and cry of the holy brotherhood, 
after the rueful adventure of the galley-slaves, and 
that of the dead body that was carrying to Segovia, my 
master and I slunk into a wood, where he, leaning on 
his lance, and I, without alighting from Dapple, both 
sadly bruised and tired with our late skirmishes, fell 
fast asleep, and slept as soundly as if we had four 
feather-beds under us; but I especially was as serious 
at it as any doormouse; so that the thief, whoever he 
was, had leisure enough to clap four stakes under the 
four corners of the pack-saddle, and ‘then, leading 
away the ass from between my legs, without being per- 
ceived by me in the least, there he fairly left me 
mounted.” 

“This is no new thing,” said Don Quixote; “nor is it 
difficult to be done. With the same stratagem Sacre- 
pante had his steed stolen from under him by that 
notorious thief, Brunelo, at the siege of Albraca.” 

“It was broad day,” said Sancho, going on, “when I, 
half awake and half asleep, began to stretch myself in 
my pack-saddle; but with my stirring, down came the 
stakes, and down came I flat, with a confounded blow, 
on the ground. Presently I looked for my ass, but no 
ass was to be found. Oh, how thick the tears trickled 
from my eyes, and what a piteous moan J made! If he 
that made our history has forgot to set it down word 
for word, I would not give a rush for his book, I will 





tell him that. Some time after—I cannot just tell you 
how long it was—as we were going with my lady, the 
Princess Micomicona, I knew my ass again, and he that 
rid him, though he went like a gipsy: and who should 
it be, do you think, but Gines de Passamonte, that son 
of mischief, that crack rope, whom my master and I 
saved from the galleys?” 

“The mistake does not lie there,” said Carrasco; “but 
that the author sets you upon the same ass that was 
lost, before he gives an account of his being found.” 

“As to that,” replied Sancho, “I do not know very 
well what to say. If the man made a blunder, who can 
help it? But, mayhap, it was a fault of the printer.” 

“TI make no question of that,” said Carrasco; “but 
pray what became of the hundred pieces? Were they 
sunk ?” 

“T have fairly spent them on myself,” quoth Sancho, 
“and on my wife and children: they helped me to lay 
my spouse's clack, and made her take so patiently my 
rambling and trotting after my master, Don Quixote; 
for had I come back with my pockets empty, and with- 
out my ass, I must have looked for a rueful greeting. 
And now, if you have any more to say to me, here amI, 
ready to answer the king himself; for what has anybody 
to meddle or make whether 1 found or found not, or 
spent or spent not? If the knocks and swaddlings that 
have been bestowed on my carcasein ourjaunts were 
to be rated but at three maravedis apiece, and I to be 
satisfied ready cash for every one, a hundred pieces of 
gold more would not pay for half of them; and there- 
fore let every man lay his finger on his mouth, and not 
run hand over head, and mistake black for white, and 











“We slept as soundly as if we had four feather-beds under us.”—p. 237. 


DON QUIXOTE 


white for black; forevery man is as Heaven made him, 
and sometimes a great deal worse.” 

“Well,” said the bachelor, “if the author prints 
another edition of the history I will take special care 
he shall not forget to insert what honest Sancho has 
said, which will make the book as good again.” 
“Pray, good Mr. Bachelor,” asked Don Quixote, 
“are there any emendations requisite to be made in this 
history?” 

“Some there are,” answered Carrasco, “but none 
of so much importance as those already mention- 
ed.” 

“Perhaps the author promises a second part?” said 
Don Quixote. 

“He does,” said Carrasco; “but he says he cannot 
find it, neither can he discover who has it: so that we 
doubt whether it will come out or no, as well for this 
reason as because some people say that second parts 
are never worth anything; others cry, “There is enough 
of Don Quixote already :' however, many of those that 
love mirth better than melancholy cry out, ‘Give us 
more Quixotery, let but Don Quixote appear, and San- 
cho talk, be what it will, we are satisfied.’ ” 

“And how stands the author affected?” said the 
knight. 

“Truly,” answered Carrasco, “as soon as ever he can 
find out the history, which he is now looking for with 
all imaginable industry, he is resolved to send it imme- 
diately to the press, though more for his own profit 
than through any ambition of applause.” 

“What!” quoth Sancho, “does he design to do it to 
get apenny by it? Nay, then we are like to have a 
rare history indeed; we shall have him botch and whip 
it up, like your tailors on Easter Eve, and give usa 
huddle of flim flams that will never hang together; for 
your hasty work can never be done as it should be. 
Let Mr. Moor take care how he goes to work: for, my 
life for his, I and my master will stock him with such a 
heap of stuff, in matter of adventures and odd chances, 
that he will not have enough only to write a second 
part, but a hundred. The poor fellow, belike, thinks 
we do nothing but sleep on a hay-mow; but let us once 
put foot into the stirrup, and he will see what we are 
about: this, at least, I will be bold to say, that if my 
master would be ruled by me, we had been in the field 
by this time, undoing of misdeeds and righting of 
wrongs, as good knights-errant used to do.” 

_ Scarce had Sancho made an end of his discourse, 
when Rozinante’s neighing reached their ears. Don 
Quixote took it for a lucky omen, and resolved to take 
another turn within three or four days. He discovered 
his resolution to the bachelor, and consulted him to 
know which way to steer his course. The bachelor ad- 
vised him to take the road of Saragosa, in the kingdom 
of Aragon, a solemn tournam nt being shortly to be 
performed at that city on St. George’s Festival; where, 
by worsting all the Aragonian champions, he might win 
immortal honor, since to out-tilt them would be to out- 
rival all the knights in the universe. He applauded 
his noble resolution, but withal admonished him not to 
be so desperate in exposing himself to dangers, since 





DE LA MANCHA. 239 
his life was not his own, but theirs who in distress 
stood in want of his assistance and protection. 

“That is it now,” quoth Sancho, “that makes me 
sometimes ready to run mad, Mr. Bachelor; for my 
master makes no more to set upon a hundred armed 
men, than a young hungry tailor to swallow half a 
dozen of cucumbers. Bless me! Mr. Bachelor, there is 
a time to retreat as well as a time to advance. ‘Saint 
Jago and forward, Spain!’ must not always be the cry; 
for I have heard somebody say, and, if I am not mis- 
taken, it was my master himself, that valor lies just 
between rashness and cow-heartedness; and if it be so, 
T would not have him run away without there isa reason 
for it, nor would I have him fall on when there is no 
good to be got by it. But above all things I would have 
him to know, if he has a mind I should go with him, 
that the bargain is he shall fight for us both, and that 
I am tied to nothing but to look after him and his 
victuals and clothes; so far as this comes to, I will fetch 
and carry like any water-spaniel; but to think I will 
lug out my sword, though it be but against poor rogues, 
and sorry shirks, and hedge-birds, y’troth 1 must beg 
his diversion. For my part, Mr. Bachelor, it is not the 
fame of being thought valiant that I am at, but that of 
being deemed the very best and trustiest squire that 
ever followed the heels of a knight-errant. And if, 
after all my services, my master Don Quixote will be so 
kind as to give me one of those many islands which his 
worship says he shall light on, I shall be much beholden 
to him; but if he does not, why then I am born, do ye 
see, and one man must not live to rely on another, but 
on his Maker. Mayhaps the bread I shall eat without 
government will go down more savorily than if I were 
a governor; and what doI know but that some one is 
providing me one of those governments for a stumbling- 
block, that I may stumble and fall, and so break my 
jaws and knock out my butter-teeth? I was born San- 
cho, and Sancho I mean to die: and yet for all that, if 
fairly and squarely, with little trouble and less danger, 
Heaven would bestow on me an island, or some such 
like matter, I am no such fool neither, do ye see, as to 
refuse a good thing when it is offered me. No; I re- 
member the old saying, ‘When the ass is given thee, 
run and take him by the halter: and when good luck 
knocks at the door let him in, and keep him there.’” 

“My friend Sancho,” said Carrasco, “you have spoken 
like any university professor. However, trust in 
Heaven’s bounty, and the noble Don Quixote, and he 
may not only give thee an island, but even a king- 
dom.” 

“One as likely as the other,” quoth Sancho; “and 
yet let me tell you, Mr. Bachelor, the kingdom which 
my master is to give me, you shall not find thrown into 
an old sack; for I have felt my own pulse, and find my- 
self sound enough to rule kingdoms and govern islands; 
Ihave told my master as much before now.” 

“ Have a care, Sancho,” said Carrasco; “ honors 
change manners; perhaps, when you come to be a gov- 
ernor, you will scarce know your own mother.” 

“This,” said Sancho, “may happen to those who were 
born in a ditch, but not to those whose souls are cov- 


240 


ered, as mine is, four fingers thick with good old Chris- 
tian fat. No; do but think how good-conditioned I be, 
and then you need not fear [ should do badly to any 
one.” 

“Grant it, good Heaven!” said Don Quixote; “we 
shall see when the government comes, and methinks I 
have it already befure my eyes.” 

After this he desired the bachelor, if he were a poet, 
to oblige him with some verses on his designed depar- 
ture from his mistress, Dulcinea ael Toboso ; every 
verse to begin with one of the letters of her name, su 
that, joining every first letter of every verse together, 
they might make Dulcinea del Toboso. The bachelor 
told him that though he were none of the famous poets 
of Spain, who, they say, were but three and a half, he 
would endeavor to make that acrostic; though he was 
sensible this would be no easy task, there being seven- 
teen letters in the name; so thatif he made four stanzas 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


of four verses apiece, there would be a letter too much 3 
and if he made his stunzas of tive lines, su as to make a 
double Decima or a Redondilla, there would be three 
letters too little; however, he would strive to drown a 
letter, und take in the whole name in sixteen verses. 

“Let it be so by any means,” said Don Quixote; “for 
n0 woman will believe that those verses were made for 
her where her name is not plainly to be discerned.” 

After this it was agreed they should set out within a 
week. Don Quixote charged the bachelor not to speak 
a word of all this, especially to the curate, Mr. Nicolas 
the barber, his niece, and his housekeeper, lest they 
should obstruct his honorable and valorous design. 
Carrasco gave him his word, and having desired Don 
Quixote to send an account of his good or bad success 
at his vonveniency, immediately took his leave, and 
Sancho went to get every thing ready for his jour- 
ney. 








CHAPTER V. 


TEE WISE AND PLEASANT DIALOGUE BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND TERESA PANZA, HIS WIFE : TOGETHER 


WITH OTHER PASSAGES WORTHY OF HAPPY MEMORY. 


Tuk translator of this history, being come to this fifth 
chapter, thinks fit to inform the reader that he holds it 
to be apoeryphal, because it introduces Sancho speak- 
ing in another style tha» could be expected from his 
slender capacity, and saying things of so refined a 
nature that it seems impossible he could do it. How- 
ever, he thought himself obliged to render it in our 
tongue, to maintain the character of a faithful trans- 
lator, and therefore he goes on in this manner. 

Sancho came home so cheerful and so merry, that his 
wife read his joy in his looks a bow-shot off. Being 
impatient to know the cause, “My dear,” cried she, 
“what makes you so merry ?” 

“T should be more merry, my dear,” quoth Sancho, 
“would but Heaven so order it that I were not so well 
pleased as I seem to be.” 

“You speak riddles, husband,” quoth she; “I don't 
know what you mean by saying vou shonld he more 
merry if you were not so well pleased; for, though I 
am silly enough, I cannot think a man can take pleasure 
in not being pleased.” 

“Look ve, Teresa,” quoth Sancho, “I am merry be- 
cause Tam once more going to serve my master, Don 
Quixote, who is resolved to have another frolic, and go 
a-hunting after adventures, and I must go with him; 
for he needs must run whom fortune drives. What 
should I lie starving at home for? The hopes of finding 
another parcel of gold like that we spent rejoices my 
heart: but then it grieves me to leave thee, and those 
sweet babes of ours; and would Heaven but be pleased 
to let me live at home dry-shod, in peace and quietness, 





without gadding over hill and dale, through brambles 
and briars, why then it isa clear case that my mirth 
would be more firmand sound, since my present glad- 
ness is mivgled with a sorrow to part with thee. And 
so I think 1 have made out what I have said, that I 
should be merrier if I did not seem so well pleased.” 
“Look you, Sancho,” quoth the wife, “ever since you 
have been a member of a knight-errant, you talk so 
round about the bush that nobody can understand you.” 
“Itis enough,” quoth Sancho, “that he understands 
me who understands all things; and so seatter no 
more words about it, spouse. But be sure you look 
carefully after Dapple for these three days, that he may 


‘be in good case and fit to bear arms; double his pittance, 


look out his pannel and all his harness, and Jet every- 
thing be set to rights; for we are not going to a wedding, 
but to roam about the world, and to have now and then 
a set-to with giants, and dragons, and hobgoblins, and 
to hear nothing bunt hissing, and yelling, and roaring, 
and howling, and bellowing: all which would be but 
sugar-plums, if we were not to meet with the Yangue- 
sian carriers and enchanted Moors.” 

“Nay, as for that, husband,” quoth Teresa, “I am apt 
to think you squire-errants don’t eat their masters’ 
bread for nothing; and therfore itshall be daily prayer, 
that you may quickly be free from that plaguy trouble.” 

“Troth, wife,” quoth Sancho, “were I not in hopes to 
see myself ere long governor of an island, 0’ my con- 
science I should drop down dead on the spot.” 

“Not so,” quoth the wife. “Do thou live, and let all 
the governments in the world go. Thou camest into 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


the world without government, thou hast lived hitherto 
without government, and thou mayest be carried to thy 
long home without government, when it shall please 
the Lord. How many people in this world live without 
government, yet do well enough, and are well looked 
upon! There is no sauce in the world like hunger, and 
as the poor never want that, they always eat with a 
good stomach. But look ye, my precious, if it should 
be thy good luck to get a government, pr’ythee do not 
forget thy wife and children. Take notice that little 
Sancho is already full fifteen, and it is high time he 
went to school, if his uncle the abbot mean to leave him 
something in the Church. Then there is Mary Sancho, 
your daughter; I dare say she longs as much to be well 
married as you do for a government.” 

“I” good sooth! wife,” quoth Sancho, “if it be 
Heaven's blessed will that I get anything by govern- 
ment, I will see and match Mary Sancho so well, that 
she shall, at least, be called ‘my lady.” 

“By no means, husband,” cried the wife; “let her 
match with her match: if from clouted shoes you set 
her upon high heels, and from her coarse russet coat 
you put her into a fardingale, and from plain ‘ Moll’ and 
‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ go to call her ‘madam,’ and ‘your 
ladyship,’ the poor girl won't know how to behave her- 
self, but will every foot make a thousand blunders, and 
show her homespun country breeding.” 

“Tush! fool,” answered Sancho; “it will be but two 
or three years’ ’prenticeship; and then you will see how 
strangely she will alter; ‘your ladyship’ and keeping 
of state will become her, as if they had been made for 
her; and suppose they should not, what is it to anybody? 
Let her be but a lady, and let what will happen.” 

“Good Sancho,” quoth the wife, “don’t look above 
yourself; I say, keep to the proverb, that says, ‘Birds 
of a feather flock together.” It would be a fine thing, 
e’trow! for us to go and throw away our child on one of 
your lordlings, or right worshipfuls, who, when the toy 
should take him in the head, would find new names for 
and call her ‘country Joan,’ ‘plough-jobher’s bearn,’ 
and ‘spinner’s web.’ No, no, husband, [have not bred 
the girl up as 1 have done to throw her away at that 
rate, I will assure ye. Do thee but bring home money, 
and leave me to get her ahusband. Why there is Lope 
Tocho, old Joan Tocho’s son, ahale, jolly young fellow, 
and one whom we all know; J have observed he casts a 
sheep’s eye at the wench; he is one of our inches, and 
will be a good match for her; then we shallalways have 
her under our wings, and be all as one, father and 
mother, children and grand grandchild, and Heaven’s 
peace and blessing will always be with us. But never talk 
to me of marrying her at your courts and great men’s 
houses, where she will understand nobody, and nobody 
will understand her.” 

“Why, thou good-for-nothing,” cried Sancho, “thou 
wife of Barabbas, why dost thou hinder me from marry- 
ing my daughter to one whose grandchildren may he 
called ‘ your honor’ and ‘your lordship? Have I not 
always heard my betters say, that 


‘He who will not when he may, 
When he will he shall have nay?” * 





241 


When good luck is knocking at our door, is it fit to shut 
him out? No, no, let us ‘make hay while the sun shines,’ 
and spread our sails before this prosperous gale.” 

[This mode of allocution, and the following huddle of 
reflections and apophthegms, said to have been spoken 
by Sancho, made the translator of this history say he 
held this chapter apocryphal. ] 

“Canst thou not perceive, thou senseless animal,” 
said Sancho, going on, “that I ought to venture over 
head and ears to light on some good, painful govern- 
ment, that may free our ankles from the clogs of necessi- 
ty, and marry Mary Sancho to whom we please? Go to, 
let us have no more of this; little Sancho shall be a 
countess in spite of thy teeth, I say.” 

“Well, well, husband,” quoth the wife, “have a care’ 
what you say, for I fear me these high kicks will be my 
Molly’s undoing. Yet do what you will, make her a 
duchess or a princess, but I will never give my consent. 
Look ye, yoke-fellow, for my part I ever love to see 
everything upon the square, and cannot abide to see 
folks take upon them when they should not. I was 
christened plain Teresa without any fiddle-faddle, or 
addition of ‘madam,’ or ‘your ladyship.’ My father’s 
name was Cascajo; and because I married you they call 
me Teresa Panza, though indeed by right, I should be 
called Teresa Cascajo. But where the kings are, there 
are the laws, and T am e’en contented with that. name 
without a flourish before it, to make it longer and more 
tedious than it is already; neither will I make myself 
anybody’s laughing-stock. 1 will give them no cause 
to cry, when they see me go like a countess, or a gover- 
nor’s madam, ‘Lovk, look, how Madam Hog-Wash 
struts along! It was but the other day she’d tug yea 
distaff, capped with hemp, from morning till night, 
and would go to mass with her coat over her head for 
want of a hood; vet now, look how she goes in her far- 
dingale, and her rich trimmings and fallals, no less than 
a whole tradesman’s shop about her back, as if every- 
body did not know her.’ No, husband, if it please 
Heaven but to keep me in my seven senses, or my five, 
or as many as I have, I will take care to tie up people's 
tongues from setting me out at this rate. You may go, 
and be a governor, or an islander, and look as big as 
bull-beef an you will; but by my grandmother’s dangh- 
ter, neitherI nor my girl will budge a foot from our 
thatched house, for the proverb says— 

‘The wife that expects to have a good name, 

Is always at home, as if she were lame; 

And the maid that is honest, her chiefest delight 

Is still to be doing from morning to night.’ 
March you and your Don Quixote together, to your 
islands and adveutures, and leave us here to our sorry 
fortune; I will warrant you Heaven will better it, if we 
live as we ought to do. J wonder, though, who made 
him a Dou; neither his father nor his grandsire ever 
had that feather in their caps.” 

“Heaven help thee, woman !” quoth Sancho; “what 
a heap of stuft hast thou twisted together without head 
or tail! What have thy Cascajos, thy fardingales and 
fallals, thy old saws, and all this tale of a roasted horse, 
to do with what I have said? Hark thee me, Gammer 


242 


Addlepate—for I can find no better name for thee, since 
thou art such a blind buzzard as to miss my meaning, 
and stand in thy own light—should I have told thee 
that my girl was to throw herself head foremost frum 
the top of some steeple, or to trot about the world like 
a gipsy, as the Infanta Donna Urraca did, then thou 
mightest have some reason not to be of my mind. But 
if, in the twinkling of an eye, and while one might toss 
a pancake, I can equip her with « Don and a Ladyship; 
if I fetch her out of her straw, to sit under a stately 
bed's tester, and squat her down on more velvet cush- 
ions than there Almohadas in Morocco, why shouldest 
thou be against it, and not be pleased with what pleases 
me?” 

“T do not understand you, husband,” quoth Teresa; 
“even follow your own inventions, and do not puzzle 
my brains with your harangues and retricks. If you 
are so devolved to do as ye say Aas 

“Resolved, you should say, wife,” quoth Sancho, 
“and not devolved.” 

“Py ythee, husband,” said Teresa, “let us have no 





words about that matter: I speak as Heaven is pleased . 
I should; and for hard words, I give my share to the 
All I have to say now is this, if you hold still! 


curate. 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


up to your trade of governing; for it is but fitting that 
the son should be brought up to the father’s calling.” 

“When once I am governor,” quoth Sancho, “I will 
send for him by the post, and I will send thee money 
withal; for I dare say I shall want none; there never 
wants those thut will lend governors money when they 
have none. But then be sure you clothe the boy so, 
that he may look not like what he is, but like what he 
is to be.” 

“Send you but money,” quoth Teresa, “and 1 will 
make him «s fine as a May-day garland.” 

“So then, wife,” quoth Sancho, “J suppose we are 
agreed that our Moll shall be a countess.” 

“The day I see her a countess,” quoth Teresa, “I 
reckon I lay her in her grave. However, 1 tell you 
again, eveu follow your own inventions; you men will 
be masters, and we poor women are born to bear the 
clog of obedience, though our husbands have no more 
sense than a cuckvo.” 

Here she fell a-weeping as heartily as if she had seen 
her daughter already dead and buried. Sancho com- 
forted her, and promised her, that though he was to 
make her a countess, yet he would see and put it off as 
long as he could. Thus ended their dialogue, and he 


in the mind of being a governor, pray even take your, went back to Don Quixote, to dispose everything for 
son Sancho along with you, and henceforth traía himla march. 








CHAPTER VI. 


WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, HIS NIECE, AND THE NOUSEKEEPER: BEING ONE OF THE MOST 


IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY. 


WHILE Sancho Panza and his wife, Teresa Cascajo, | fore, pray trouble not his majesty with anything con- 


had the foregoing important dialogue, Don Quixote's 
niece and housekeeper were not idle, guessing by a 
thousand signs that the knight intended a third sally. 
Therefore they endeavored by all possible means to di- 
vert him from his foolish design, but all to no purpose; 
for this was but preaching to a rock, and hammering 
cold stubborn steel. But among other arguments, “In 
short, sir,” quoth the housekeeper, “if you will not be 
ruled, but will needs run wandering over hill and dale, 
seeking for mischief, for so I may well call the hopeful 
adventures which you go about, I will never leave 
complaining to Heaven and the king, until there isa 
stop put to it some way or other.” 

“What answer Heaven will vouchsafe to give thee, I 
know not,” answered Don Quixote; “neither can I tell 
what return his majesty will make to thy petition. 
This 1 know, that were I king I would excuse myself 
from answering the infinite number of impertinent me- 
morials that disturb the repose of princes. I tell thee, 
woman, among the many other fatigues that royalty 
sustains, it is one of the greatest to be obliged to hear 
every one, and to give answer to all people. There- 





cerning me.” 

“But pray, sir, tell me,” replied she, “are there not 
a many knights in the king’s court ?” 

“T must confess,” said Don Quixote, “that for the 
ornament, the grandeur, and the pomp of royalty, many 
knights are, and ought to be, maintained there.” 

“Why, then,” said the woman, “would it not be bet- 
ter for your worship to be one of those brave knights, 
who serve the king their master on foot in his court ?” 

“Hear me, sweetheart,” answered Don Quixote, “all 
knights cannot be courtiers, nor can all courtiers be 
knights-errant. For your courtiers, without so much 
as stirring out of their chambers, or the shade and shel- 
ter of the court, can journey over all the universe in a 
map, Without the expense and fatigue of travelling, 
without suffering the inconveniences of heat, cold, 
hunger, and thirst; while we who are the true knights- 
errant, exposed to those extremities, and all the inclem- 
encies of heaven, by night and by day, on foot as well 
us on horseback, measure the whole surface of the earth 
with our own feet. Nor are we only acquainted with 
the pictures of our enemies, but with their very per- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


sons, read y upon all occasions and at all times to engage 
them, without standing upon trifles, or the ceremony of 
measuring weapons, stripping, or examining whether 
our opponents have any holy relics or other secret 
charms about them, whether the sun be duly divided, 
or any other punctilios and circumstances observed 
among private duelists—things which thou understand- 
est not, but I do, and must further let thee know that 
the true knight-errant, though he met ten giants,whose 
tall aspiring heads not only touch but overtop the 
clouds, each of them stalking with prodigious legs like 
huge towers, their sweeping arms like masts of mighty 
ships, each eye as large as a mill-wheel, and more fiery 
than a glass furnace, yet he is so far from being afraid 
to meet them, that he must encounter them with a gen- 
tle countenance and an undaunted courage, assail them, 
close with them, and if possible vanquish and destroy 
them all in an instant; nay, though they came armed 
with the scales of a certain fish, which they say is 
harder than adamant, and instead of swords had dread- 
ful sabres of keen Damascus steel, or mighty maces 
with points of the same metal, as I have seen more than 
a dozen times.” 

“Ah! sir,” said the niece, “havea care what you say; 
the stories of knights-errant are nothing but a pack of 
lies and fables; and if they are not burnt, they ought 
at least to wear a sanbentto, the badge of heresy, or 
some other mark of infamy, that the world may know 
them to be wicked, and perverters of good manners.” 

“Now, by the powerful sustainer of my being,” cried 
Don Quixote; “wert thou not so nearly related to me, 
wert thou not my own sister’s daughter, I would take 
such revenge for the blasphemy thou hast uttered, as 
would resound through the whole universe. Who ever 
heard of the like impudence? What would Sir Amadis 
have said, had he heard this? But he undoubtedly 
would have forgiven thee, for he was the most cour- 
teous and complaisant knight of his time, especially to 
the fair sex, being a great protector of damsels; but 
thy words might have reached the ears of some that 
would have sacrificed thee to their indignation, for all 
knights are not possessed of civilty or good nature; 
some are rough and revengeful; and neither are all 
those that assume the name of a disposition suitable to 
the function. Some indeed are of the right stamp, but 
others are either counterfeit or of such an alloy as can- 
not bear the touchstone, though they deceive the sight. 
Inferior mortals there are, who aim at knighthood, and 
strain to reach the height of honor; and high-born 
knights there are, who seem fond of grovelling in the 
dust, and being lost in the crowd of inferior mortals. 
The first raise themselves by ambition or by virtue; the 
last debase themselves by negligence or by vice; so 
that there is need of a distinguishing understanding to 
judge between these two sorts of knights, so nearly 
allied in name, and so different in actions.” 

“Bless me! dear uncle,” cried the niece, “that you 
should know so much as to be able, if there was occa- 
sion, to get up into a pulpit, or preach in the streets, 
and yet be so strangely mistaken, so grossly blind of 
understanding, as to fancy a man of your years and 





243 


infirmity can be strong and valiant; that you can set 
everything right, and force stubborn malice to bend, 
when you yourself stoop beneath the burden of age; 
and what is yet more odd, that you are a knight, when 
it is well known you are none! For though some gen- 
tlemen may be knights, a poor gentleman can hardly 
be so, because he cannot buy it.” 

“You say well, niece,” answered Don Quixote; “and 
as to this last observation, I could tell you things that 
you would wonder at concerning families; but because 
I will not mix sacred things with profane, I waive the 
discourse. However, listen both of you, and for your 
farther instruction know that all the lineages and 
descents of mankind are reducible to these four heads :— 
First, those who, from a very small and obscure begin- 
ning, have raised themselves to a spreading and pro- 
digious magnitude. Secondly, those who, deriving 
their greatness from a noble spring, still preserve the 
dignity and character of their original splendor. A 
third are those who, though they had large foundations, 
have ended in a point like a pyramid, which by little 
and little dwindles, as it were, into nothing, or next to 
nothing, in comparison of its basis. Others there are 
(and those are the bulk of mankind) who have neither 
had a good beginning nor a rational continuance, and 
whose ending shall therefore be obscure; such are the 
common people, the plebeian race. The Ottomun family 
is an instance of the first sort, having derived their 
present greatness from the poor beginning of a base- 
born shepherd. Of the second sort, there are many 
prinees who, being born such, enjoy their dominions by 
inheritance, and leave them to their successors without 
addition or diminution. Of the third sort there is an 
infinite number of examples: for all the Pharaohs and 
Ptolemies of Egypt, your Cesars of Rome, and all the 
swarm (if I may use that word) of princes, monarchs, 
lords—Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and barba- 
rians--all these families and empires have ended in a 
point, as well as those who gave rise to them: for it 
were impossible at this day to find any of their descend- 
ants; or if we could find them, it would be in a poor, 
grovelling condition. As for the vulgar, I say nothing 
of them, more than that they are thrown in as ciphers 
to increase the number of mankind, without deserving 
any other praise. Now, my good-natured souls, you 
may at least draw this reasonable inference from what 
I have said of this promiscuous dispensation of honors, 
and this uncertainty and confusion of descent, that 
virtue and liberality in the present possessor are the 
most just and indisputable titles to nobility; for the 
advantages of pedigree, without these qualifications, 
serve only to make vice more conspicuous. The great 
man that is vicious will be greatly vicious, and the 
rich miser is only a covetous beggar; for, not he who 
possesses, but who spends and enjoys his wealth, 
is the rich and the happy man; nor he neither 
who barely spends, but who does it with discretion. 
The poor knight, indeed, cannot show he is one by his 
magnificence; but yet by his virtue, affability, civility, 
and courteous behavior, he may display the chief in- 
gredients that enter into the composition of knight- 


244 


hood ; and though he cannot pretend to liberality, 
wanting riches to support it, his charity may recom- 
pense that defect; for an alms of two maravedis cheer- 
fully bestowed upon an indigent beggar, by a man in 
poor circumstances, proves him as liberal as the larger 
donative of a vainglorious rich man before a fawning 
crowd. These accomplishments will always shine 
through the clouds of fortune, and at last break 
through them with splendor and applause. There are 
two paths to dignity and wealth—arts and arms. Arms 
I have chosen; and the influence of the planet Mars, 
that presided at my nativity, led me to that adventur- 
ous road: so that all your attempts to shake my resolu- 
tion are in vain; for in spite of all mankind, I will pur- 
sue what Heaven has fated, fortune ordained, reason 
requires, and (which is more) my inclination demands. 
Tam sensible of the troubles and dangers that attend 
the prosecution of knight-errantry, but I also know 
what infinite honors and rewards are the consequences 
of the performance. The path of virtue is narrow, and 
the way of vice easy and open; but their ends and rest- 
ing-places ire very different. For I know, as our great 
Castilian poet expresses it, that 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


‘Through steep ascents, through strait and rugged ways, 
Ourselves to glory’s lofty seats we raise; 

in vain we hope to reach the bless'd abode, 

Who leaves the narrow path for the more easy road.” 


“ Alack a-day!” cried the niece, “my uncle is a poet, 
too! He knows everything. I will lay my life be 
might turn mason in case of necessity. If he would 
but undertake it, he could build a house as easy asa 
bird-cage.” 

“Why truly, niece,” said Don Quixote, “were not my 
understanding wholly involved in thoughts relating to 
the exercise of knight-errantry, there is nothing which 
I durst not engage to perform; no curiosity should 
escape my hands, especially bird-cages and tooth- 
picks.” 

By this somebody knocked at the door, and being 
asked who it was, Sancho answered it was he; where- 
upon the housekeeper slipped out of the way, not wish- 
ing to see him, and the niece let himin. Don Quixote 
received him with open arms; and locking themselves 
both in the closet, they had another dialogue as pleasant 
as the former. 








CHAPTER “VIL 


AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE'S CONFERENCE WITH HIS SQUIRE, AND OTHER MOST FAMOUS PASSAGES. 


THE housekeeper no sooner saw her master and San- 
cho locked up together, but she presently surmised the 
drift of that close conference. and concluding that no 
less than villanous knight-errantry and another sally 
would prove the result of it, she flung her veil over 
her head, and quite cast down with sorrow and vexa- 
tion, trudged away to seek Samson Carrasco, the bach- 
elor of arts; depending on his wit and eloquence to 
persuade his friend Don Quixote from his frantic reso- 
lution. She found him walking in the yard of his 
house, and fell presently on her knees before him in a 
cold sweat, and with all the marks of a disordered mind. 

“Whatis the matter, woman?” said he, somewhat sur- 
prised at her posture and confusion; “what has befallen 
you, that you look as if you were ready to give up the 
ghost?” 

“Nothing,” said she, “dear sir, but that my master 
is departing! he is departing, that is most certain.” 

“How!” cried Carrasco, “what do you mean? Is his 
soul departing out of his body?” 

“No,” answered the woman, “but all his wits are 
quite and clean departing. He means to be gadding 
again into the wide world, and is upon the spur now 
the third time to hunt after ventures, as he calls them, 
though I don't know why he calls those chances so. 
The first time he was brought home was athwart anass, 
and almost cudgelled to pieces. The other bout he was 


forced to ride home in a wagon, cooped up in a cage, 
where he would make us believe he was enchanted; 
and the poor soul looked so dismally, that his own 
mother would scarcely have known her child—so mea- 
gre, wan and withered, and his eves so sunk and hid in 
the utmost nook and corner of his brain, that I am sure 
I used abeut six hundred eggs to fatten him up again; 
ay, and more too, as Heaven and all the world is my 
witness; and the hens that laid them cannot deny it.” 

“That I believe,” said the bachelor, “for your hens 
are so well bred, so fat, and so good, that they won’t 
say one thing and think another for the world. But is 
this all? Has no other ill luck befallen you, besides 
this of your master’s intended ramble?” 

“No other, sir,” quoth she. 

“Then trouble your head no farther,” said he, “but 
get yon home; and as you go, say me the prayer of St. 
Apollonia, if you know it; then get me some warm bit 
for breakfast, and I will come to you presently, and you 
shall see wonders.” 

“Dear me !” quoth she, “the prayer of St. Polonia;! 
Why, itis only good for the toothache; but his ailing 
lies in his skull.” 

“Mistress,” said he, “do not dispute with me: I know 
what I say. Have I not commenced bachelor of arts at 
Salamanca, and do you think there is any bachelorising 





beyond that ?” 


DON QUIQOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


With that away she goes, and be presently to find 
the curate, to consult with him about what shall be de- 
clared in due time. 

When Sancho and his master were locked up together 
in the room, there passed some discourse between them, 
of which the history gives a very punctual and impar- 
tial account. 

“Sir,” quoth Sancho to his master, “I have at last 
reluced my wife to let me go with your worship wher- 
ever you will have me.” 

“Reduced, you would say, Sancho,” said Don Quix- 
ote, “and not reluced.” 

“Look yon, sir,” quoth Sancho; “if I am not mis- 
taken, TI have wished you once or twice not to stand 
correcting my words, if you understand my meaning: 


if you do not, why then do but say to me, ‘Sancho,’ or, 


what you please, *I understand thee not;” and if I do 
not make out my meaning plainly, then take me up; for 
I am so forcible a 

“T understand you not,” said Don Quixote, interrupt- 
ing him; “for I cannot guess the meaning of your 
forcible.” 

“Why, so forcible,” quoth Sancho, “is as much as to 
say, forcible; that is, I am so and so, us it were.” 

“Less and less do I understand thee,” said the 
knight. 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “there is an end of the 
matter; it must even stick there for me, for I can speak 
no better.” 

“Oh! now,” quoth Don Quixote, “I fancy I guess 
your meaning; you mean docible, I suppose, implying 
that you are so ready and apprehensive, that you will 
presently observe what I shall teach you.” 

“T will lay an even wager now,” said the squire, 
“vou understood me well enough at first, but you had a 
mind to put me out, merely to hear me put your fine 
words out 0’ joint.” 

“That may be,” said Don Quixote, “but pr’ythee, 
tell me what says Teresa?” 

“Why, an’t please you,” quoth Sancho, “Teresa bids 
me make sure work with your worship, and that we 
may have ‘less talking and more doing;’ that “a man 
must not be his own cuarver;’ that ‘he who cuts does 
not shuffle;’ that ‘it is good to be certain;’ that‘ paper 
speaks when beards never wag;’ that ‘a bird in hand 
is worth two in the bush.’ ‘One hold-fast is better 
than two I will give thee.? Now, I say a woman’s coun- 
sel is not worth much, yet he that despises it is no 
wiser than he should be.” 

“Tsay so too,” said Don Quixote; “but pray, good 
Sancho, proceed; for thou art in an excellent strain; 
thou talkest most sententiously to-day!” 

“I say,” quoth Sancho, “as you know better yourself 
than I do, that we are all mortal men, here to-day and 
gone to-morrow; ‘as soon goes the young lamb to the 
spit as the old wether;’ no man can tell the length of 
his days; for Death is deaf, and when he knocks at the 
door, mercy on the porter! He is in post-haste; neither 
fair words nor foul, crowns nor mitres, can stay him, as 
the report goes, and as we are told from the pul- 
pit.” 








245 


“All this I grant,” said Don Quixote; “but what 
would you infer from hence ?” 

“Why, sir,” quoth Sancho, “all I would be ut is, that 
your worship allow me so much a month for my wages, 
whilst I stay with you, and that the aforesaid wages be 
puid me out of your estate. For I will trust no longer 
to rewards, that mayhaps may come late, and may- 
haps not at all. T would be glad to know what I get, 
be it more or less. “A little in one’s own pocket is bet- 
ter than much in another man’s purse.’ ‘It is good to 
keep a nest egg.’ ‘Many little makes a mickle.’ 
‘While a man gets he never can lose.’ Should it hap- 
pen, indeed, that your worship should give me this 
same island, which you promised me, though it is what 
I dare not so muchas hope for, why then I ain't such an 
ungrateful nor so unconscionable a muckworm, but 
that I am willing to strike off upon the income, for 
what wages I receive, cantity for cantity.” 

“Would not quantity have been better than can- 
tity?” asked Don Quixote. 

“Ho! I understand you now,” cried Sancho: “I 
dare lay a wager I should have said quantity and not 
cantity: but no matter for that, since you knew what I 
meant.” . 

“Yes, Sancho,” quoth the knight, “I have dived to the 
very bottom of your thought, and understand now the 
aim of all your numerous shot of proverbs. “Look you, 
friend Sancho, I should never scruple to pay thee 
waves, had I any example to warrant such a practice. 
Nay, could | find the least glimmering of a precedent 
through all the books of chivalry that ever I read, for 
any yearly or monthly stipend, your request should be 
granted. But I have read all, or the greatest part of 
the histories of knights-errant, and find that all their 
squires depended purely on the favor of their masters 
for a subsistence, till by some surprising turn in the 
knight’s fortune, the servants were advanced to the 
government of some island, or some equivalent gratuity ; 
at least, they had honor and a title conferred on them 
as a reward. Now, friend Sancho, if you will depend 
on these hopes of preferment, and return to my service, 
itis well; if not, get you home, and tell your imperti- 
nent wife that I will not break through all the rules 
and customs of chivalry, to satisfy her sordid diffidence 
and yours; and so let there be no more words about the 
matter, but let us part friends; and remember this, that 
if there be vetches in my dove-houso, it will want no 
pigeons. ‘Good arrears are better than ill pay;’ and 
“a fee in reversion is better than a farm in possession.’ 
Take notice too, there is proverb for proverb, to let you 
know that I can pour out a volley of them as well as 
you. In short, if you will not go along with me upon 
courtesy, and run the same fortune with me, Heaven be 
with you, and make voua saint; I do not question but 
I shall get me a squire, more obedient, more carefnl, 
and less saucy and talkative than you.” 

Sancho hearing his master’s firm resolution, it was 
cloudy weather with him in an instant; he was struck 
dumb with disappointment, and down sunk at once his 
heart to his girdle; for he verily thought he could have 
brought him to any terms, through a vain opinion that 


246 


the knight would not for the world go without him. 
While he was thus dolefully buried in thought, in came 
Samson Carrasco and the niece, very eager to hear the 
bachelor’s arguments to dissuade Don Quixote from his 
intended sally. But Samson, who wasa rare comedian, 
presently embracing the knight, and beginning in a high 
strain, soon disappointed her. “Oh, flower of chivalry!” 
eried he, “refulgent glory of arms, living honor and 
mirror of our Spanish nation, may all those who pre- 
vent the third expedition which thy heroic spirit medi- 
tates be lost in the labyrinth of their perverse desires, 
and find no thread to lead them to their wishes!” Then 
turning to the housekeeper, “You have no need now to 
say the prayer of St. Apollonia,” said he, “for I find it 
written in the stars that the illustrious champion must 
no longer delay the prosecution of glory; and I should 
injure my conscience should I presume to dissuade him 
from the benefits that shall redound to mankind by ex- 
erting the strength of his formidable arm, and the in- 
nate virtues of his heroic soul. Alas! his stay deprives 
the oppressed orphans of a protector, damsels of a 
deliverer, champions of their honor, widows of an 
obliging patron, and married women of a vigorous com- 
forter; nay, also delays a thousand other important ex- 
ploits und achievements, which are the duty and neces- 
sary consequences of the honorable order of knight- 
errantry. Goon then, my graceful, my valorous Don 
Quixote, rather this very day than the next; let your 
greatness be upon the wing, and if anything be wanting 
towards the completing of your equipage, I stand forth 
to supply you with my life and fortune, and ready, if it 
be thougbt expedient, to attend your excellence as a 
squire—an honor which I am ambitious to attain.” 

“Well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, hearing this, and 
turning to his squire, “did I not tell thee I should not 
want squires? behold who offers me his service! the 
most excellent bachelor of arts, Samson Carrasco, the 
perpetual darling of the Muses, and glory of the Sala- 
manca schools, sound and active of body, patient of 
labor, inured to abstinence, silent in misfortune, and, 
in short endowed with all the accomplishments that 
constitute a squire. But forbid it, Heaven! that to in- 
dulge my private inclinations 1 should presume to 
weaken the whole body of learning, by removing from 
it so substantial a pillar, so vast a repository of sciences, 
and so eminent a branch of the liberal arts. No, my 
friend, remain thou another Samson in thy country; be 
the honor of Spain, and the delight of thy ancient 
parents; I shall content myself with any squire, since 
Sancho does not vouchsafe to go with me.” 

“T do, 1 do,” cried Sancho, relenting with tears in 
his eyes; “I do vouchsafe; it shall never be said of 
Sancho Panza, ‘No longer pipe, no longer dance.’ Nor 
have I heart of flint, sir; for all the world knows, and 
especially our town, what the whole generation of the 
Panzas has ever been. Besides, I well know, and have 
already found by many good turns, and more good 
words, that your worship has had a good will towards 
me all along: and if I have done otherwise than I 
should, in standing upon wages or so, it was merely to 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


humor my wife, who, when once she is set upon a thing, 
stands digging and hammering at a man, like a cooper 
at a tub, till she clinches the point. But I am the hus- 
band, and will be her husband; and she is but a wife, 
and shall be awife, None can deny but I am a man 
every inch of me, wherever I am, and J will bea man at 
home, in spite of anybody; sothat you have no more 
to do but to make your will and testament; but be sure 
you make the conveyance so firm that it cannot be re- 
buked, and then let us be gone as soon as you please, 
that Master Samson's soul may be at rest; for he says 
his conscience won’t let him be quiet till he has set you 
upon another journey through the world: and here I 
again offer myself to follow your worship, and promise 
to be faithful and loyal, as well, nay, and better, than 
all the squires that ever waited on knights-errant.” 

The bachelor was amazed to hear Sancho Panza ex- 
press himself after that manner; and though he had 
read much of him in the first part of his history, he 
could not believe him to be so pleasant a fellow as he 
is there represented. But hearing him now talk of re- 
buking instead of revoking testaments and conveyan- 
ces, he was induced to credit all that was said of him, 
and to conclude him one of the oddest compounds of 
the age; nor could he imagine that the world ever saw 
before so extravagant a couple as the master and 
man. 

Don Quixote and Sancho embraced, becoming as good 
friends as ever; and so, with the approbation of the 
grand Carrasco, who was then the knight's oracle, it 
was decreed that they should set out at the expiration 
of three days; in which time all necessaries should be 
provided, especially a whole helmet, which Don Quix- 
ote said he was resolved by all means to purchase. 
Samson offered him one which he knew he could easily 
get of a friend, and which looked more dull with the 
mould and rust, than bright with the lustre of the steel. 
The niece and the housekeeper made a woful outery; 
they tore their hair, seratched their faces, and howled 
like common mourners at funerals, lamenting the 
knight’s departure, as if it had been his real death, 
and cursing Carrasco most unmercifully, though his 
behavior was the result of « contrivance plotted he- 
tween the curate, the barber, and himself. In short, 
Don Quixote and his squire having got all things in 
readiness, the one having pacified his wife, and the 
other his niece and housekeeper, towards the evening, 
without being seen by anybody but the bachelor, who 
would needs accompany them about half a league from 
the village, they set forward for Toboso. The knight 
mounted his Rozinante, and Sancho his trusty Dapple, 
his wallet well stuffed with provisions, and his purse 
with money, which Don Quixote gave him to defray 
expenses. At last Samson took his leave, desiring the 
champion to give him, from time to time, an account of 
his success, that, according to the laws of friendship, 
he might sympathize in his good or evil fortune. Don 
Quixote made him a promise, and then they parted; 
Samson went home, and the knight and squire con- 
tinued their journey for the great city of Toboso. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DON QUIXOTE’S SUCCESS IN HIS JOURNEY TO VISIT THE LADY DULCINEA DEL. TOBOSO. 


“ BLESSED be the mighty Allah!” says Hamet Benen- 
geli, at the beginning of his eighth chapter; “blessed 
be Allah?” which ejaculation he thrice repeated, in 
consideration of the blessing that Don Quixote and 
Sancho had once more taken the field again, and that 
from this period the readers of their delightful history 
may date the knight’s achievements and the squire’s 
pleasantries; and he entreats them to forget the former 
heroical transactions of the wonderful knight, and fix 
their eyes upon his future exploits, which take birth 
from his setting out for Toboso, as the former began in 
the fields of Montiel. Nor can so small a request be 
thought unreasonable, ecnsidering what he promises, 
which begins in this manner. 

Don Quixote and his squire were no sooner parted 
from the bachelor, but Rozinante began to neigh, and 
Dapple to bray; which both the knight and the squire 
interpreted as good omens, and most fortunate presages 
of their success; though the truth of the story is, that 
as Dapple’s braying exceeded Rozinante’s neighing, 
Sancho concluded that his fortune should out-rival and 
eclipse his master’s; which inference I will not say he 
drew from some principles in judicial astrology, in 
which he was undoubtedly well grounded, though the 
history is silent in that particular; however, it is re- 
corded of him that oftentimes upon the falling or 
stumbling of his ass, he wished he had not gone abroad 
that day, and from such accidents prognosticated no- 
thing but dislocation of joints and breaking of ribs; 
and notwithstanding his foolish character, this was no 
bad observation. “Friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote 
to him, “I find the approaching night will overtake us 
ere we can reach Toboso, where, before I enter upon any 
expedition, lam resolved to pay my vows, receive my 
benediction, and take my leave of the peerless Dul- 


cinea; being assured after that of happy events, in the’ 


most dangerous adventures; for nothing in this world 
inspires a knight-errant with so much valor as the 
smiles and favorable aspects of his mistress.” 

“I amof your mind,” quoth Sancho; “but I am afraid, 
sir, you will hardly come at her, to speak with her, at 
least not to meet her in a place where she may give you 
her blessing, unless she throw it over the mud wall of 
the yard, where I first saw her, when I carried her 
the news of your mad pranks in the midst of Sierra 
Morena.” 

“Mud wall! dost thou say?” cried Don Quixote: “mis- 





taken fool! that wall could have no existence but in thy 
muddy understanding: it isa mere creature of thy dirty 
fancy; for that never-duly-celebrated paragon of beauty 
and gentility was then undoubtedly in some court, in 
some stately gallery or walk, or, as it is properly called, 
in some sumptuous and royal palace.” 

“Tt may be so,” said Sancho, “though, so far as I can 
remember, it seemed to me neither better nor worse than 
a mud wall.” 

“It is no matter,” replied the knight, “let us go 
thither; I will visit my dear Dulcinea; let me but see 
her, though it be over a mud wall, through a chink of a 
cottage, or the pales of a garden, at a lattice, or any- 
where, which way soever the least beam from her bright 
eyes reaches mine, it will so enlighten my mind, so 
fortify my heart, and invigorate every faculty of my 
beiny, that no mortal will be able to rival me in pru- 
dence and valor.” 

“Troth, sir,” quoth Sancho, “when I beheld that 
same sun of a lady, methought it did not shine so bright 
as to cast forth any beams at all; but, mayhaps, the 
reason was, that the dust of the grain she was winnow- 
ing raised a cloud about her face, and made her look 
somewhat dull.” 

“T tell thee again, fool,” said Don Quixote, “thy im- 
agination is dusty and foul. Will it never be beaten 
out of thy stupid brain, that my Lady Dulcinea was 
winnowing? Are such exercises used by persons of 
her quality, whose recreations are always noble, and 
such as display an air of greatness suitable to their 
birth and dignity? Canst thou not remember the 
verses of our poet, when he recounts the employments 
of the four nymphs at their crystal mansions, when 
they advanced their heads above the streams of the 
lovely Tagus, and sat upon the grass, working those 
rich embroideries, where silk and gold, and pearl em- 
bossed, were so curiously interwoven, amd which that 
ingenious bard so artfully describes? So was my 
princess employed when she blessed thee with her 
sight; but the envious malice of some base necroman- 
cer fascinated thy sight, as it represents whatever is 
most grateful to me in different and displeasing shapes. 
And this makes me fear that if the history of my 
achievements, which they tell me is in print, has been 
written by some magician who is no well-wisher to my 
glory, he has undoubtedly delivered many things with 
partiality, and misrepresented my life, giving a hun- 

247 


= ===. 


= 


===> 














DON QUIXOTE 


dred falsehoods for one truth, and diverting himself 
with the relation of idle stories, foreign to the purpose, 
and unsuitable to the continuation of a true history. 
Oh, envy! envy! thou gnawing worm of virtue, and 
spring of infinite mischiefs! there is no other vice, my 
Sancho, but pleads some pleasure in its excuse; but 
envy is always attended by disgust, rancor, and dis- 
tracting rage.” 

“TI am much of your mind,” said Sancho; “and I 
think, in the same book which neighbor Carrasco told 
us he had read of our lives, the story makes bold with 
my credit, and has handled it in a strange manner, 
dragging it about the kennels, as a body may suy. 
Well, now, as I am an honest man, I never spoke an ill 
word of a magician in my born days; and I think they 
need not envy my condition so much. The truth is, I 
am somewhat malicious; I have my roguish tricks now 
and then; but I was ever counted more fool than knave, 
for all that, and so indeed I was bred and born; and if 
there were nothing else in me but my religion—for I 
firmly believe whatever our holy Roman Catholic 
Church believes, and I hate the Jews mortally— these 
same historians should take pity on me, and spare 
me alittle in their books. But let them say on to the 
end of the chapter; naked I came into the world; and 
naked must go out. Itis alla case to Sancho; I can 
neither win nor lose by the bargain: and so my name 
be in print, and handed about, I care not a fig for the 
worst they can say of me.” 

“What thou sayest, Sancho,” answered Don Quix- 
ote, “puts me in mind of a story. A celebrated poet of 
our time wrote a very scurrilous and abusive lampoon 
upon all the intriguing ladies of the court, forbearing 
to name one, as not being sure whether she deserved 
to be put into the catalogue or no; but the lady, not 
finding herself there, was not a little affronted at the 
omission, and made a great complaint to the poet, ask- 
ing him what he had seen in her, that he should leave 
her out of his list; desiring him, at the same time, to 
enlarge his satire, and put her in, or expect to hear 
further from her. 
and gave her a character with a vengeance, and, to her 
great satisfaction, made her as famous for infamy as 
any other. Such another story is that of Diana’s Tem- 
ple, one of the seven wonders of the world, burnt by 
an obscure fellow merely to eternize his name; which, 
in spite of an edict that enjoined all people never to 
mention it, either by word of mouth or in writing, yet 
is still known to have been Erostratus. The story of 
the great Emperor Charles V., and a Roman knight, 
upon a certain occasion, is much the same. The em- 
peror had a great desire to see the famous temple once 
called the Pantheon, but now more happily the Church 
of All Saints. It is the only entire edifice remaining of 
heathen Rome, and that which best gives an idea of the 
glory and magnificence of its great founders. Itis built 
in the shape of a half orange, of a vast extent, and very 
lightsome, though it admits light but at one window, 
or, to speak more properly, at a round aperture on the 
top of the roof. The emperor being got up thither, 
and looking down from the brink upon the fabric, with 


The author obeyed her commands, | 


DE LA MANCHA. 249 


a Roman knight by him, who showed all the beauties 
of that vast edifice, after they were gone from the 
place, the knight said, addressing the emperor ‘It 
came into my head a thousand times, sacred sir, to 
embrace your majesty, and cast myself, with you, 
from the top of the church to the bottom, that I 
might thus purchase an immortal fame.’ ‘I thank 
you,’ said the emperor, ‘for not doing it; and 
for the future, I will give you no opportunity to put 
your loyalty to such a test. Therefore I banish you 
my presence for ever;’ which done, he bestowed some 
considerable favor on him. I tell thee, Sancho, this 
desire of honor is a strange, bewitching thing. What 
dost thou think made Horatius, armed at all points, 
plunge headlong from the bridge into the rapid Tiber? 
What prompted Curtius to leap into the profound flam- 
ing gulf? What made Mutius burn his hand? What 
forced Cesar over the Rubicon, spite of all the omens 
that dissuaded his passage? And to instance a 
more modern example, what made the undaunted 
Spaniards sink their ships, when under the most conr- 
teous Cortez, but that, scorning the stale honor of this 
so often conquered world, they sought a maiden glory 
in a new scene of victory ? These and a multiplicity of 
other great actions are owing to the immediate thirst 
and desire of fame, which mortals expect as the proper 
price and immortal recompense of their great actions. 
But we that are Christian catholic knights-errant must 
fix our hopes upon a higher reward, placed in the 
eternal and celestial regions, where we may expect a 
permanent honor and complete happiness; not like the . 
vanity of fame, which, at best, is but the shadow of 
great actions, and must necessarily vanish, when de- 
structive time has eaten away the substance which it 
followed. So, my Sancho, since we expect a Christian 
reward, we must suit our actions to the rules of Chris- 
tianity. In giants we must kill pride and arrogance: 
but our greatest foes, and whom we must chiefly com- 
bat, are within. Envy we must overcome with gen- 
erosity and nobleness of soul; anger, by a reposed and 
easy mind; riot and drowsiness, by vigilance and tem- 
perance; lasciviousness, by our inviolable fidelity to 
those who are mistresses of our thoughts; and sloth, 
by our indefatigable peregrinations through the uni- 
verse, to seek occasions of military as well as Christian 
honors. This, Sancho, is the road to lasting fame, and 
a good and honorable renown.” 

“J understand passing well every tittle you have 
said,” auswered Sancho; “but, pray now, sir, will you 
dissolve me of one doubt, that is just come into my 
head——” 

“Resolve, thou wouldst say, Sancho,” replied Don 
Quixote: “well, speak, and I will endeavor to satisfy 
thee.” 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “pray tell me these 
same Julys, and these Augusts, and all the rest of the 
famous knights you talk of that are dead, where are 
they now ?” 

“Without doubt,” answered Don Quixote, “the hea- 
thens are in hell. The Christians, if their lives were 





answerable to their professions, are in heaven.” 


250 


“So far so good,” said Sancho; “but pray tell me, 
the tombs of these lordlings, have they any silver lamps 
still burning before them, and are their chapel walls 
hung about with crutches, winding-sheets, old periwigs, 
legs, and wax-eyes? or with what are they hung?” 

“The monuments of the dead heathens,” said Don 
Quixote, “were for the most part sumptuous pieces of 
architecture. The ashes of Julius Cesar were deposit- 
ed on the top of an obelisk, all of one stone of a pro- 
digious bigness, which is now called Aguglia di San 
Pietro—St. Peter’s Needle. The Emperor Adrian’s 
sepulchre was a vast structure as big as an ordinary 
village, and called Moles Adriani, and now the castle 
of St. Angelo in ‘Rome. Queen Artemisia buried her 
husband Mausolus in so curious and magnificent a pile, 
that his monument was reputed one of the seven won- 
ders of the world. But none of these, nor any other of 
the heathen sepulchres, were adorned with any wind- 
ing-sheets, or other offering, that might imply the per- 
sons interred were saints.” 

“Thus far we are right,” quoth Sancho; “now, sir, 
pray tell me, which is the greatest wonder—to raise a 
dead man, or kill a giant?” 

“The answer is obvious,” said Don Quixote; “to raise 
a dead man, certainly.” 

“Then, master, I have nicked you,” saith Sancho; 
“for he that raises the dead, makes the blind see, the 
lame walk, and the sick healthy, who has lamps burn- 
ing night and day before his sepulchre, and whose 
chapel is full of pilgrims. who adore his relics on their 
knees—that man, I say, has more fame in this world 
and in the next than any of your heathenish emperors 
or knights-errant ever had, or will ever have.” 

“T grant it,” said Don Quixote. 

“Very good,” quoth Sancho; “I will be with you 
anon. This fame, these gifts, these rights, privileges, 
and what do you call them, the bodies and relics of these 
saints have; so that by the consent and good liking of 
our holy mother, the Church, they have their lamps, 
their lights, their winding-sheets, their crutches, their 
pictures, their heads of hair, their legs, their eyes, and 
I know not what else, by which they stir up people’s 
devotion and spread their Christian fame. Kings will 
vouchsafe to carry the bodies of saints or their relics 
on their shoulders, they will kiss the pieces of their 
bones, and spare no cost to set off and deck their shrines 
and chapels.” 

“And what of all this?” said Don Quixote; “what is 
your inference?” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Why, truly; sir,” quoth Sancho, “that we turn 
saints as fast as we can, and that is the reudiest and 
cheapest way to get this same honor you talk of. It was 
but yesterday or the other day, or I cannot tell when 
—Í am sure it was not long since—that two poor bare- 
footed friars were sainted; and you cannot think what 
a crowd of people there is to kiss the iron chains they 
wore about their waists instead of girdles. to humble 
the flesh. JI dare say they are more reverenced than 
Orlando’s sword, that hangs in the armory of our sov- 
reign lord the king, whom Heaven grant long to reign! 
So that for aught I see, better it is to be a friar, though 
but of a beggarly order, than a valiant errant-knight; 
and a dozen or two of sound lashes, well meant, and as 
well laid on, will obtain more of Heaven than two thou- 
sand thrusts with a lance, though they be given to 
giants, dragons, or hobgoblins.” 

“All this is very true,” replied Don Quixote, “but 
all men cannot be friars; we have different parts allotted 
us, to mount to the high seat of eternal felicity. Chiv- 
alry is a religious order, and there are knights in the 
fraternity of saints in heaven.” 

“However,” quoth Sancho, “I have heard say 
are more friars there than knights-errant.” 

“That is,” said Don Quixote, “because there is a 
greater number of friars than of knights.” 

“But are there not a great many knights-errant too?” 
said Sancho. 

“There are many indeed,” answered Don Quixote, 
“but very few that deserve the name.” 

In such discourses as these the knight and squire 
passed the night, and the whole succeeding day, with- 
out encountering any occasion to signalize themselves; 
at which Don Quixote was very much concerned. At 
last, towards evening the next day, they discovered 
the goodly city of Toboso, which revived the knight’s 
spirits wonderfully, but had quite a contrary eftect on 
his squire, because he did not know the house where 
Dulcinea lived, no more than his master. So that the 
one was mad till he saw her, and the other very melan- 
cholic and disturbed in mind, because he had never 
seen her; nor did he know what to do, should his mas- 
ter send him to Toboso. However, as Don Quixote 
would not make his entry in the day time, they spent 
the evening among some oaks not far distant from the 
place, till the prefixed moment came; then they enter- 
ed the city, where they met with adventures in 
deed. 


there 


CHAPTER 


1%, 


THAT GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THINGS WHICH YOU WILL KNOW WHEN YOU READ IT. 


THE sable night had spun out half her course, when 
Don Quixote and Sancho descended from a hill, and en- 
tered Toboso. A profound silence reigned over all the 
town, and all the inhabitants were fast asleep, and 
stretched out at their ease. The night was somewhat 
clear, though Sancho wished it dark, to hide his mas- 
ter’s folly and his own. Nothing disturbed the general 
tranquillity, but now and then the barking of dogs, 
that wounded Don Quixote’s ears, but more poor San- 
cho’s heart. Sometimes an ass braved, hogs grunted, 
cats mewed; which jarring mixture of sounds was not 
a little augmented by the stillness and serenity of the 
night, and filled the enamored champion’s head with a 
thousand inauspicious chimeras. However, turning to 
his squire, “My dear Sancho,” said he, “show me the 
way to Dulcinea’s palace; perhaps we shall find her 
still awake.” 

“Bless me,” cried Sancho, “what palace do you mean? 
When I saw her highness, she was in a little paltry 
cot.” 

“Perhaps,” replied the knight, “she was then retired 
into some corner of the palace, to divert herself in pri- 
vate with her damsels, as great ladies and princesses 
sometimes do.” 

“Well, sir,” said Sancho, “although it must be a pal- 
ace whether I will or no, yet can you think this a time 
of night to find the gates open, or a seasonable hour to 
thunder at the door, till we raise the house and alarm 
the whole town? Are we going to a lodging-honse, 
think you, like your travellers, that can rap at a door 
any hour of the night, and knock people up when they 
list ?” 

“Let us once find the palace,” said the knight, “and 
then I will tell thee what we ought to do. But stay! 
either my eyes delude me, or that lofty, gloomy struc- 
ture which I discover yonder is Dulcinea's palace.” 

“Well, lead on, sir,” said the squire; “and yet, 
though l were to see it with my eyes, and feel it with 
my ten fingers, I should believe it even as much as I 
Delieve it is now noon-day.” 

The knight led on, and having rode about two hun- 
clred paces, came at last to the building which he took 
for Dulcinea’s palace, but found it to be the great 
church of the town.” 

“We are mistaken, Sancho,” said he; “I find this is 
a church.” 





“T see it is,” said the squire; “and I pray Heaven 
we have not found our graves; for it is a plaguy ill 
sign to haunt churchyards at this time of night, espe- 
cially when I told you, if l am not mistaken, that this 
lady’s house stands in a little blind alley, without any 
thoroughfare.” : 

“A curse on thy distempered brain!” cried Don 
Quixote. “Where, blockhead, where didst thou ever 
see royal edifices and palaces built in a blind alley, 
without a thoroughfare ?” 

“Sir,” said Sancho, “every country has its several 
fashions; and, for ought you know, they may build 
their great houses and palaces in blind alleys at To- 
boso: and therefore, good your worship, let me alone 
to hunt up and down in what by-lanes and alleys I may 
strike into—mayhap in some nook or corner we may 
light upon this same palace. Would any one had it 
for me, for leading us such a jaunt, and plaguing a 
body at this rate !” 

“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “speak with greater 
respect of my mistress’s concerns. Be merry and wise, 
and do not throw the helve after the hatchet.” 

“Cry mercy, sir ” quoth Sancho, “but would it not 
make any mad, to have you put me upon finding readily 
our dame’s house at all times, which I never saw but 
once in my life?—nay, and to find it at midnight, when 
you yourself cannot find it, that have seen it a thou- 
sand times!” 

“Thou wilt make me desperately angry,” said the 
knight. “Hark you, heretic! have I not repeated ita 
thousand times that I never saw the peerless Dulcinea, 
nor ever entered the portals of her palace, but that I 
am in love with her purely by hearsay, and upon the 
great fume of her beauty and rare accomplishments?” 

“T hear you say so now,” quoth Sancho; “and since 
you say you never saw her, I must needs tell you I 
never saw her either.” 

“That is impossible,” said Don Quixote; “at least, 
you told me you saw her winnowing wheat, when you 
brought me an answer to the letter which I sent by 
you.” 

“That is neither here nor there, sir,” replied Sancho; 
“tor to be plain with you, I saw her but by heresay too, 
and the answer I brought you was by hearsay as well 
as the rest, and I know the Lady Dulcinea no more than 
the man in the moon.” 

251 


252 DON QUIXOTE DE 

“Sancho! Sancho!” said Don Quixote, “there is a time 
for all things; unseasonable mirth always turns to sor- 
row. What! because I declare that I have never seen 
nor spoken to the mistress of my soul, is it for you to 
trifle and say so too, when you are so sensible of the 
contrary?” 

Here the discourse was interrupted, a fellow with 
two mules happening to pass by them; and by the noise 
of the plough which they drew along, they guessed it 
might be some country laborer going out before day to 
his husbandry; and so, indeed, it was. He went sing- 
ing the doeful ditty of the defeat of the French at 
Roncesvalles: “Ye Frenchmen! all must rue the woful 
day.” 

“Let me die,” said Don Quixote, hearing what the 
fellow sung, “if we may have any good success to-night. 
Dost thou hear what this peasant sings, Sancho ?” 

“Ay, marry do I,” quoth the squire. “But what is the 
rout at Roncesvalles to us? it concerns us no more than 
if he had sung the ballad of *Colly my Cow?’ we shall 
speed neither the better nor the worse for it.” 





LA MANCHA. 


By this time, the ploughman being come up to them 
—“ Good morrow, honest friend!” cried Don Quixote to 
him. “Pray, can you inform me which is the palace of 
the peerless princess, the Lady Dulcinea del To- 
boso ?” 

“Sir,” said the fellow, “I am a stranger, and but 
lately come into this town; I am ploughman to a rich 
farmer. But here, right over against you, live the 
curate and the sexton; they are the likeliest to give 
you some account of that lady princess, as having a 
list of all the folks in town, though I fancy there is no 
princess at all lives here. There be, indeed, a power 
of gentle-folk, and each of them may be princess in her 
own house for aught I know.” 

“Perhaps, friend,” said Don Quixote, “we shall find 
the lady for whom I inquire among those.” 

“Why, truly, master,” answered the ploughman, “as 
you say, such a thing may be, and so speed you well! 
‘Tis break of day.” With that, switching his mules, 
he stayed for no more questions. 











CHAPTER X. 


SANCHO PANZA CUNNINGLY FOUND OUT A WAY TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, WITH OTHER PASSAGES 


NO LESS CERTAIN THAN RIDICULOUS. 


SANCHO, perceiving his master in suspense and not 
very well satisfied, “Sir,” said he, “the day comes on 
apace, and I think it will not be very handsome for us 
to stay to be stared at, and sit sunning ourselves in the 
street. We had better slip out of town again, and be- 
take ourselves to some wood hard by, and then I will 
came back and search every hole and corner in town 
for this same house, castle, or palace of my lady’s, and 
it will go hard if 1 do not find it out at long run; then 
will I talk to her highness, and tell her how you do, 
and how I left you hard by, waiting her orders and in- 
structions about talking to her in private, without 
bringing her name in question.” 

“Dear Sancho,” said the knight, “thou hast spoke and 
included a thousand sentences in the compass of a few 
words. I approve and lovingly accept thy advice. 
Come, my child; let us go and in some neighboring 
grove find out a convenient retreat; then, as thou say- 
est, thou shalt return to seek, to see, and to deliver my 
embassy to my lady, from whose discretion and most 
courteous mind I hope for a thousand favors that may 
be counted more than wonderful.” 

Sancho sat upon thorns till he had got his master out 
of town, lest he should discover the falsehood of the 
account he brought him in Sierra Morena, of Dulcinea’s 
answering his letter; so, hastening to be gone, they 
were presently got two miles from the town into a wood, 
where Don Quixote took covert, and Sancho was dis- 





patched to Dulcinea, in which negotiation some acci- 
dents fell out that require new attention and a fresh 
belief. 

The author of this important bistory being come to 
the matters which he relates in this chapter, says he 
would willingly have left them buried in oblivion, in a 
manner despairing of his reader's belief. For Don 
Quixote's madness flies here to so extravagant a piteh, 
that it may be said to have outstripped, by two how- 
shots, all imaginable credulity. However, notwith- 
standing this mistrust, he has set down every particular, 
just as the same was transacted, without adding or 
diminishing the least atom of truth through the whole 
history, not valuing in the least such oljections as may 
be raised to impeach him of breach of veracity—a pro- 
ceeding which ought to be commended; for truth, in- 
deed, rather alleviates than hurts, and will always bear 
up against falsehood, as oil does above water. And so, 
continuing his narration, he tells us that when Don 
Quixote was retired into the wood or forest, or rather 
into the grove of vaks near the Grand Toboso, he 
ordered Sancho to go back to the city, and not to return 
to his presence till he had an audience of his lady, be- 
seeching her that it might please her to be seen by her 
captive knight, and vouchsafe to bestow her benedic- 
tion on him, that by the virtne of that blessing he 
might hope for a prosperous event in all his onsets and 
perilous attempts and adventures. Sancho undertook 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


the charge, engaging him as successful a return of this 
as of his former message. 

“Go, then, child,” said the knight, “and have a care 
of being daunted when thou approachest the beams of 
that refulgent sun of beauty. Happy thou, above all 
the squires of the universe! Observe and engrave in 
thy memory the manner of thy reception; mark whether 
her color changes upon the delivery of thy commission ; 
whether her looks betray any emotion or concern when 
she hears my name; whether she does not seem to sit 
on her cushion with a strange uneasiness, in case thou 
happenest to find her seated on the pompous throne of 
her authority. And if she be standing, mind whether 
she stands sometimes upon one leg, and sometimes on an- 
other; whether she repeats three or four times the answer 
which she gives thee, or changes it from kind to cruel, 
and then again from cruel to kind; whether she does 
not seem to adjust her hair, though every lock appears 
in perfect order. In short, observe all her actions, 
every motion, every gesture; for by the accurate rela- 
tion which thou givest of these things I shall divine 
the secrets of her breast, and draw just inferences in 
relation to my amour. Go, then, my trusty squire! thy 
own better stars, not mine, attend thee, and meet with 
a more prosperous event than that which in this dole- 
ful desert, tossed between hopes and fears, I dare ex- 
pect.” 

“T will go, sir,” quoth Sancho, “and I will be back in 
a trice: meanwhile cheer up, I beseech you; come, sir, 
comfort that little heart of yours, no bigger than a 
hazel-nut! Don’t be cast down, I say; remember the 
old sayings, ‘Faint heart never won fair lady;’ * Where 
there is no hook, to be sure there will hang no bacon;’ 
‘The hare leaps out of the bush where we least look 
for her.” Ispeak this to give you to understand that 
though we could not find my lady’s castle in the night, 
I may light on it when I least think on it now it is day; 
and when I have found it, let me alone to deal with 
her.” 

“Well Sancho,” said the knight, “thou hast a rare 
talent in applying thy proverbs ; Heaven give thee 
better success in thy designs!” 

This said, Sancho turned bis back, and switching his 
Dapple, left the Don on horseback, leaning on his 
lance, and resting on his stirrups, full of melancholy 
and confused imaginations. Let us leave him too, to 
go along with Sancho, who was no less uneasy in his 
mind. 

No sooner was he got out of the grove, but turning 
about, and perceiving his master quite out of sight, he 
dismounted, and laying himself down at the foot of a 
tree, thus began to hold a parley with himself. 

“Friend Sancho,” quoth he, “pray let me ask you 
whither your worship is a-going? Is it to seek some 
asses you have lost?” “No, by my troth.” “What is 
it, then, thou art hunting after?” “Why, Iam looking, 
you must know, for a thing of nothing, only a princess, 
and in her the sun of beauty, forsooth, and all heaven 
together.” “Well, and where dost thou think to find 
all this, friend of mine?” “Where? why, in the great 
city of Toboso.” “And pray, sir, who set you to work?” 





253 


“Who set me to work? There is a question! Why, 
who but the most renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha? 
he that rights the wrong, that gives drink to the hun- 
gry, and meat to those that are dry.” “Very good, sir; 
but pray dost know where she lives?” “NotI, indeed; 
but my master says it is somewhere in a king’s palace 
or stately castle.” “And hast thou ever seen her, 
trow?” “No, marry, han' I; why, my master himself 
never set eyes on her in his life.” “But tell me, San- 
cho, what if the people of Toboso should know that you 
are come to inveigle their princesses, and make their 
ladies run astray, and should baste your carcase hand- 
somely, and leave you never a sound rib—do you not 
think they would be mightily in the right on it?” 
“Why, troth, they would not be much in the wrong, 
though methinks they should consider, too, that I am 
but a servant, and sent on another body’s errand, and 
so Lam not at all in fault.” “Nay, never trust to that, 
Sancho, for your people of La Mancha are plaguy hot 
and toucheous, and will endure no tricks to be put upon 
them: bless me! if they but touch thee, they will maul 
thee after a strange rate.” “No, no; ‘fore-warned, fore- 
armed.’ Why dol go about to look for more feet than 
a cat has for another man's maggot? Besides, when all 
is done, 1 may perhaps as well look for a needle in a 
bottle of hay, or for a scholar at Salamanca, as for Dul- 
cinea all over the town of Toboso. Well, itis mischief, 
and notbing else, that has put me upon this trouble- 
some piece of work.” 

This was the dialogue Sancho had with himself; and 
the consequence of it was the following soliloquy: 
“Well, there is a remedy for all things but death, 
which will be sure to lay us flat one time or other. 
This master of mine, by a thousand tokens I have seen 
is a downright madman, and I think I come within an 
inch of him; nay, lam the greatest cod's-head of the 
two to serve and follow him as I do, if the proverb be 
not a liar—‘Show me thy company, I will tell thee 
what thou art;’ and the other old saw, ‘Birds of a 
feather flock together.’ Now, then, my master being 
mad, and so very mad as to mistake sometimes one 
thing for another, black for white, and white for black 
—as when he took the windmills for giants, the friars’ 
mules for dromedaries, and the flock of sheep for armies, 
and much more to the same tune—I guess it will be no 
hard matter to pass upon him the first country wench I 
shall meet with for the Lady Dulcinea. If he won’t 
believe it, I will swear it; if he swear again, I will out- 
swear him; and if he be positive, I will be more positive 
than he, and to stand to it, and outface him in it, come 
what will on it; so that when he finds I won’t flinch, he 
will either resolve never to send me more of his sleeve- 
less errands, seeing what a lame account I bring him, 
or he will think some of those wicked wizards who he 
says, owe him a grudge, has transmogrified her into 
some other shape out of spite.” 

This happy contrivance helped to compose Sancho’s 
mind, and now he looked on his grand affair to be as 
good as done. Having, therefore, stayed till the even- 
ing, that his master might think he had employed so 
much time in going and coming, things fell out very 





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DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


luckily for him; for as he arose to mount his Dapple, 
he spied three country wenches coming towards him 
from Toboso, upon three young asses; whether male or 
female, the author has left undetermined, though we 
may reasonably suppose they were she asses, such being 
most frequently used to ride on by country lasses in 
those parts. But this being no very material circum. 
stance, we need not (lwell any longer upon the decision 
of that point. It is sufficient they were asses, and dis- 
covered by Sancho; who thereupon made all the haste 
he could to get to his master, and found him breathing 
out a thousand sighs and amorous lamentations. 

“Well, my Sancho!” said the knight, immediately 
upon his approach, “what news? are we to mark this 
day with a white or a black stone?” 

“Even mark it rather with red ochre,” answered 
Sancho, “as they de church chairs, that everybody may 
kuow who they belong to.” 

“Why, then,” said Don Quixote, “I suppose thou 
bringest good news.” 

“Ay, marry do 1,” quoth Sancho; “you have no more 
to do but to clapspurs to Rozinante, and get into the 
open fields, and you will see my Lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso, with a brace of her damsels, coming to see your 
worship.” 

“Blessed heavens!” cried Don Quixote, “what art 
thou saying, my dear Sancho? Take heed, and do not 
presume to beguile my real grief with a delusive joy.” 

“Bless me, sir!” said Sancho, “what should I get by 
putting a trick upon you, and being found out the next 
moment? Seeing is believing, all the world over. 
Come, sir! put on, put on, and you will see our lady 
princess coming, dressed up and bedecked like her own 
sweet self indeed. Her damsels and she are all one 
spark of gold; all pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all 
cloth of gold above ten inches high; their hair spread 
over their shoulders like so many sunbeams, and dang- 
ling and dancing in the wind; and what is more, they 
ride upon three gambling hags; there is not a piece of 
horseflesh can match them in three kingdoms.” 

“Ambling nags, thou meanest, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote. 

“Gambling hags, or ambling nags,” quoth Sancho, 
“there is no such difference methinks; but be they 
what they will, l am sure I never set eyes on finer crea- 
tures than those that ride upon their backs, especially 
_ my lady Dulcinea; it would make one swoon away but 
to look upon her.” 

“Let us move, then, my Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
“and as a gratification for these unexpected happy 
tidings, I freely bestow on thee the best spoils the next 
adventure we meet with shall afford; and if that con- 
tent thee not, take the colts which my three mares thou 
knowest of are now ready to foal on our town common.” 

“Thank you for the colts,” said Sancho; “but as for 
the spoils, I am not sure they will be worth anything.” 

They were now got out of the wood, and discovered 
the three country lasses at a small distance. Don 
Quixote casting his eyes toward Toboso, and seeing no- 
body on the road but the three wenches, was strangely 
troubled in mind; and turning to Sancho, asked him 





255 


whether the princess and her damsels were come out 
of the city when he left them. 

“Out of the city!” cried Sancho; “why, where are 
your eyes? are they in your heels, in the name of won- 
der, that you cannot see them coming towards us, shin- 
ing as bright as the sun at noon-day ?” 

“T see nothing,” returned Don Quixote, “but three 
weuches upon as many asses.” 

“Now heaven deliver me from all evil ” quoth San- 
cho. “Is it possible your worship should mistake three 
what d'ye-calls them—three ambling nags, I mean, as 
white as driven snow, for three ragged ass colts? J will 
even pull off my beard by the roots an’t be so.” 

“Take it from me, friend Sancho,” said the knight; 
they are either he or she asses, as sure as I am Don Quix- 
ote and thou Sancho Panza; at least, they appear to be 
such.” 

“Come, sir” quoth the squire, do not talk at that rate, 
but snuff your eyes, and go pay your homage to the 
mistress of your soul, for she isnear athand.” And so 
saying, Sancho hastens up tothe three country wenches; 
and, alighting from Dapple, took bold of one of the 
asses by the halter, and falling on his knees, “Queen 
and princess, und duchess of beauty? an’t please your 
haughtiness and greatness ” quoth he, “vouvhsafe to 
take into your good grace and liking yonder knight, 
your prisoner and captive, who is turned of a sudden 
into cold marble stone, and struck all of a heap, to see 
himself before your high and mightiness. I am Sancho 
Panza, his squire, and he himself the wandering, 
weather-beaten knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
otherwise called the Knight of the Woful figure.” 

By this time, Don Quixote, having placed himself 
down on his knees by Sancho, gazed with dubious and 
disconsolate eyes on the creature whom Sancho called 
queen and lady; and, perceiving her to be no more than 
a plain country wench, so far from being well-favored 
that she was blubber-cheeked and flat-nosed, he was 
lost inastonishment, and could not utter one word. On 
the other side, the wenches were no less surprised to 
see themselves stopped by two men in such different 
outsides, and on their knees. But at last, she whose 
ass was held by Sancho took courage, and broke silence 
in an angry tone. 

“Come,” cried she, “get out of our way, and let us 
go about our business, for we are in haste.” 

“Oh, princess, and universal Lady of Toboso!” 
answered Sancho, “why does not that great heart of 
yours melt to see the post and pillar of knight-errantry 
fall down before your high and mighty presence ?” 

“Heyday!” quoth another of the females, hearing 
this, “what is here to do? Look how your small gen- 
try come to jeer and flout poor country girls, as if we 
could not give them as good as they bring. Go, get 
about your business, and let us go about ours, and 
speed you well!” 

“Rise, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, hearing this, “for 
Tam now convinced that my malicious stars, not yet 
satisfied with my past misfortunes, still shed their 
baleful influence, and have barred all the passages that 
could convey relief to my miserable soul in this frail 


256 


habitation of animated clay. Oh, thou extremity of all 
that is valuable, masterpiece of all human perfection, and 
only comfort of this afflicted heart, thy adorer, though 
now a spiteful enchanter persecutes me and fascinates 
my sight, hiding with mists and cataracts from me, and 
me alone, those peerless beauties under the foul dis- 
guise of rustic deformity, if he has not transformed thy 
faithful knight into some ugly shape, to make me loath- 
some to thy sight look on me with a smiling, loving 
eye; and in the submission and genuflection which I 
pay to thy beauty, even under the fatal cloud that ob- 
secures it, read the humility with which my soul adores 
thee.” 

“Tittle-tattle!” quoth the country wench; “spare 
your breath to cool your porridge, and rid me of your 
idle gibberish. Get you on, sir, and let us go; and we 
shall think it a kindness.” 

This said, Sancho mad : way for her, and let her pass, 
overjoyed his plot had succeeded so well. The imagin- 
ary Dulcinea was no sooner at liberty, but punching 
her ass with the end of a staff which she had in her 
hand, she began to scour along the plain; but the angry 
beast, not being used to such smart instigations, fell 
a-kicking and wincing at such arate, that down came my 
Lady Dulcinea. Presently, Don Quixote ran to help 
her up, and Sancho to re-settle and gird her pack-sad- 
dle, that hung under the ass’s belly; which being done, 
the knight, very courteously, was going to take his en- 
chanted mistress in his arms, to set her on her saddle; but 
she, being now got on her legs, took a run, and clapping 
her hands upon the ass’s crupper, at one jump leaped 
into her pannel as swift as a hawk, and there she sat. 

“Well, I declare !” quoth Sancho, “our lady mistress 
is as nimble as an eel. Let me be hanged if I don’t 
think she might teach the best jockey in Cordova or 
Mexico to mount on horseback. At one jump she was 
vaulted into the saddle, and, without spurs, makes her 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


nag smoke it away like a greyhound ! her damsels are 
notable whipsters too; they do.w’t come much short of 
her, for they fly like the wind.” 

Indeed, he said true, for when Dulcinea was once 
mounted, they both made after her full speed, without 
so much as looking behind them for above half a 
league. 

Don Quixote followed them, as far as he could, with 
his eyes; and when they were quite out of sight, turn- 
ing to his squire, “Now, Sancho,” said he, “what 
thinkest thou of this matter? Are not these base en- 
chanters inexorable? How extensive is their spite, 
thus to deprive me of the happiness of seeing the ob- 
ject of my wishes in her natural shape and glory! Sure, 
I was doomed to be an example of misfortunes, and the 
mark against which those caitiffs are employed to shoot 
all the arrows of their hatred. But tell me, Sancho, 
that saddle, which appeared to me to he the pannel of 
an ass, was it a pillion or side saddle ?” 

“It was a pad saddle,” answered Sancho, “with a 
field covering, and so rich that it might purchase half 
a kingdom.” 

“And could not I see all this?” cried Don Quixote. 
“Well, I have said it, and must repeat it a thousand 
times: I am the most unfortunate man in the universe.” 

The cunning rogue of a squire, hearing his master 
talk at that rate, could hardly keep his countenance 
and refrain from laughing, to see how admirably he had 
fooled him. At last, after a great deal of discourse of 
the same nature, they both mounted again, and took 
the road for Saragosa, designing to be present at the 
most celebrated festivals and sports that are solemnized 
every year in that noble city. But they met with many 
accidents by the way, and those so extraordinary and 
worthy the reader’s information, that they must not 
be passed over unrecorded nor unread, as shall appear 
from what follows. 








CHAPTER XI. 


OF THE STUPENDOUS ADVENTURE THAT REFELL THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE, WITH THE CHARIOT OR CART 


OF THE COURT OR PARLIAMENT OF DEATH. 


Don QUIXOTE rode on very melancholic; the malice 
of the magicians, in transforming his Lady Dulcinea, 
perplexed him strangely, and set his thoughts upon 
the rack how to dissolve the enchantment, and restore 
her to her former beauty. In this disconsolate condi- 
tion, he went on abandoned to distraction, carelessly 
giving Rozinante the reins; and the horse, finding him- 
self at liberty, and tempted by the goodness of the 
grass, took the opportunity to feed very heartily; which 
Sancho perceiving, “Sir,” said he, rousing him from 
his waking dream, “sorrow was never designed for 
beasts, but men; but yet, let me tell you, if men give 





way to it too much, they make beasts of themselves. 
Come, sir, awake, awake by any means! pull up the 
reins, and ride like a man; cheer up, and show yourself 
a knight-errant. What is it that ails you? Was ever 
a man so moped? ‘Are we here, or are we in France?” 
as the saying is. Let all the Dulcineas in the world be 
doomed to poverty, rather than one single knight 
errant be cast down at this rate.” 

“Hold, Sancho !” cried Don Quixote, with more spirit 
than one would have expected; “hold, I say ! not a de- 
tracting word against that beanteous enchanted lady; 
for all her misfortunes ure chargeable on the unhappy 


DON QUIQOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Don Quixote, and flow from the envy which those nec- 
romancers bear to me.” 

“So say I, sir,” replied the squire; “for would it not 
vex any one that had seen her before to see her now as 
you saw her?” 

“Ah! Sancho,” said the knight, “thy eyes were 
blessed with a view of her perfections in their entire 
lustre; thou hast reason to say so. Against me— 
against my eyes only—is the malice of her transforma- 
tion directed. But now I think on it, Sancho, thy de- 
scription of her beauty was a little absurd in that 
particular of comparing her eyes to pearls. Sure, such 
eyes are more like those of a whiting or a sea-bream, 
than those of a fair lady; and in my opinion, Dulcinea’s 
eyes are rather like two verdant emeralds, railed in 
with two celestial arches, which signify her eye-brows. 
Therefore, Sancho, you must take your pearls from her 
eyes, and apply them to her teeth, for I verily believe 
you mistook the one for the other.” 

“Troth, sir, it might be so,” replied Sancho; “for her 
beauty confounded me as much as her ugliness did you. 
But let us leave all to Heaven, that knows all things 
that befall us in this vale of misery—this wicked, trou- 
blesome world, where we can be sure of nothing with- 
out some spice of knavery or imposture. In the mean- 
time, there is a thing comes into my head that puzzles 
me plaguily. Pray, sir, when you get the better of any 
giant or knight, and send them to pay homage to the 
beauty of your lady and mistress, how will the poor 
knight or giant be able to find this same Dulcinea? I 
cannot but think how they will have to seek, how they 
will saunter about, gaping and staring all over Toboso 
town; and if they should meet her full butt in the mid- 
dle of the king’s highway, yet they will know her no 
more than they can know my father.” 

“Perhaps, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “the 
force of her enchantment does not extend so far as to 
«lebar vanquished knights and giants from the privi- 
lege of seeing her in her unclouded beauties. I will 
try the experiment on the first I conquer, and will com- 
mand them to return immediately to me, to inform me 
of their success.” 

“Tlike what you say main well,“ quoth Sancho; “we 
may chance to find out the truth by this means: and if 
so be my lady is only hid from your worship, she has 
not so much reason to complain as you may have. 
But when all comes to all, so our mistress be safe and 
sound, let us make the best of a bad market, and even 
go seek adventures. The rest we will leave to time, 
which is the best doctor in such cases—nay, in worse 
diseases.” 

Don Quixote was going to return an answer, but was 
interrupted by a cart that was crossing the road. He 
that drove it was a hideous being, and the cart being 
open, without either tilt or boughs, exposed a number 
of the most surprising and different shapes imaginable. 
The first figure that appeared to Don Quixote was no 
less than Death itself, though with a human counte- 
mance. On the one side of Death stood an angel, with 
large wingsof different colors; on the other side was 
placed an emperor, with a crown that seemed to be of 

17——DON QUIX. 





257 


gold; at the feet of Death lay Cupid, with his bow, 
quiver, and arrows, but not blindfolded. Next to these 
a knight appeared, completely armed except his head; 
on which, instead of a helmet, he wore a hat, whereon 
was mounted u large plume of party-colored feathers. 
There were also several other persons in strange and. 
various dresses. This strange appearance at first some- 
what surprised Don Quixote, and frighted the poor 
squire out of his wits; but presently the knight cleared 
up on second thoughts, imagining it some rare and 
hazardous adventure that called on his courage. 
Pleased with his conceit, and armed with a resolution 
able to confront any danger, he placed himself in the 
middle of the road, and ‘with a loud and menacing 
voice, “You carter, coachman, or whatever you be,” 
cried he, “let me know immediately whence you come, 
and whither you go, and what strange figures are those 
which load that carriage, which, by the freight, rather 
seems to be Charon’s boat than any terrestrial vehicle.” 

“Sir,” answered the man very civilly, stopping his 
cart, “we are strolling players, that belong to Angulo’s 
company, and it being Corpus-Christi tide, we have 
this morning acted a tragedy, called The Parliament of 
Death, in a town yonder behind the mountain, and this 
afternoon we are to play it again in the town you see 
before us; which being so near, we travel to it in the 
same clothes we act in, to save the trouble of new dress- 
ing ourselves. That young man plays Death ; that 
other an angel; this woman, sir, plays the queen; there 
is one acts a soldier; he next to him an emperor; and I 
myself play the evil one: and you must know, that is 
the best part in the play. If you desire to be satisfied 
in anything else, I will resolve you.” 

“Now, by the faith of my function,” said Don Quix- 
ote, “I find we ought not to give credit to appearances, 
before we have made the experiment of feeling them; 
for at the discovery of such a scene, I would have 
sworn some strange adventure had been approaching. 
Iwish you well, good people. Drive on to act your 
play, and if I can be serviceable to you in any particu- 
lar, believe me ready to assist you with all my heart; 
for in my very childhood I loved shows, and have been 
a great admirer of dramatic representations from my 
youthful days.” 

During this friendly conversation, it unluckily fell 
out that one of the company, antiquely dressed, being 
the fool of the play, came up frisking with his morrice 
bells, and three full-blown cows’ bladders fastened to 
the end of a stick. In this odd appearance he began 
to flourish his stick in the air, and bounce his bladders 
against the ground just at Rozinante’s nose. The jing- 
ling of the bells and the rattling noise of the bladders 
so startled and affrighted the quiet creature, that Don 
Quixote could not hold him in; and having got the 
curb betwixt his teeth, away the horse hurried his un- 
willing rider up and down the plain, with more swift- 
ness than his feeble bones seemed to promise. Sancho, 
considering the danger of his master being thrown, 
presently alighted, and ran as fast as he could to his 
assistance; but before he could come up to him, Rozi 
nante had made a false step, and laid his master and 








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DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


himself on the ground, which was, indeed, the common 
end of Rozinante's mad tricks and presumptuous rac- 
ing. On the other side, the fool no sooner saw Sancho 
slide off to help his master, but he leaped upon poor 
Dapple, and rattling his bladders over the terrified an- 
imal's head, made him fly through the field towards the 
town where they were to play. 

Sancho beheld his master’s fall and his ass’s flight at 
the same time, and stood strangely divided in himself, 
not knowing which to assist first, his master or his 
beast. At length, the duty of a good servant and a 
faithful squire prevailing, he ran to his master, though 
every obstreperous bounce with the bladders upon Dap- 
ple’s hind-quarters struck him to the very soul, and he 
could have wished every blow upon his own eye-balls 
rather than on the least hair of his ass’s tail. In this 
agony of spirits he came to Don Quixote, whom he 
found in far worse circumstances than the poor knight 
could have wished; and helping him to remount, “Oh, 
sir!” cried he, “the fool is run away with Dapple.” 

“What fool?” asked Don Qnixote. 

“The one with the bladders,” answered Sancho. 

“No matter,” said Don Quixote; “I will force the 
traitor to restore him, though he were to lock him up 
in the most profound and gloomy caverns of earth. 
Follow me, Sancho; we may easily overtake the wagon, 
and the mules shall atone for the loss of the ass.” 

“You need not be in such haste now,” quoth Sancho, 
“for I perceive the fool has left Dapple already, and is 
gone his ways.” 

What Sancho said was true, for both ass and man 
tumbled for company, in imitation of Don Quixote and 
Rozinante: and Dapple, having left his new rider to 
walk on foot to the town, now came himself running 
back to his master. 

“All this,” said Don Quixote, “shall not hinder me 
from revenging the affront put upon us by that unman- 
nerly fellow, at the expense of some of his companions, 
though it were the emperor himself.” 

“Oh, good your worship!” cried Sancho; “never 
mind it. I beseech you take my counsel, sir: never 
meddle with players, there is never anything to be got 
by it; they are a sort of people that always find many 
friends. I have known one of them taken up for two 
murders, yet escape the gallows. You must know that, 
as they are a parcel of merry wags, and make sport 
wherever they come, everybody is fond of them, and is 
ready to stand their friend, especially if they be the 
king’s players, or some of the noted gangs, who go at 
such a tearing rate that one might mistake some of 
them for gentlemen or lords.” 

“T care not,” said Don Qnixote; “though all mankind 
unite to assist them, that buffooning fellow shall never 
escape unpunished, to make his boast that he has 
affronted me.” Whereupon, riding up to the wagon, 
which was now got pretty near the town, “Hold, hold!” 
he cried; “stay, my pretty sparks! I will teach you to 





259 


be civil to the beast that is entrusted with the honor- 
able burden of a squire to a knight-errant.” 

This loud salutation having reached the ears of the 
strolling company, though at a good distance, they 
presently understood what it imported; and resolving 
to be ready to entertain him, Death presently leaped 
out of the cart; the emperor, the driver, and the angel 
immediately followed; and even the queen and the good 
Cupid, as well as the rest, having taken up their share 
of flints, stood ranged in battle array, ready to receive 
their enemy as soon as he should come within stone- 
cast. Don Quixote, seeing them drawn up in such ex- 
cellent order, with their arms lifted up and ready to let 
fly at him a furious volley of shot, made a halt to con- 
sider in what quarter he might attack this dreadful 
battalion with least danger to his person. 

Thus pausing, Sancho overtook him, and seeing him 
ready to charge, “For goodness’ sake, sir,” cried he, 
“what d’ye mean? Are you mad, sir? There is no 
fence against the players’ bullets, unless you could fight 
with a brazen bell over you. Is it not rather rashness 
than true courage, think you, for one man to offer to 
set upon a whole army? where Death is too, and where 
emperors fight in person—nay, and where good and bad 
angels are against you? But if all this weighs nothing 
with you, consider, I beseech you, that though they 
seem to be kings, princes, and emperors, yet there is 
not so much as one knight-errant among them all.” 

“Now thou hast hit upon the only point,” said Don 
Quixote, “that could stop the fury of my arm; for, in- 
deed, as I have often told thee, Sancho, I am bound up 
from drawing my sword against any below the order of 
knighthood. It is thy business to fight in this cause, 
if thou hast a just resentment of the indignities offered 
to thy ass; and I from this post will encourage and 
assist thee with salutary orders and instructions.” 

“No, I thank you, sir,” quoth Sancho; “I hate re- 
venge. A true Christian must forgive and forget; and 
as for Dapplo, I don’t doubt but to find him willing to 
leave the matter to me, and stand to my verdict in the 
case, which is to live peaceably and quietly as long as 
Heaven is pleased to let me.” 

“Nay, then,” said Don Quixote, “if that be thy reso- 
lution, good Sancho, prudent Sancho, Christian Sancho, 
downright Sancho, let us leave these idle apparitions, 
and proceed in search of more substantial and honor- 
able adventures, of which, in all probability, this part 
of the world will afford us a wonderful variety.” 

So saying, he wheeled off, and Sancho followed him. 
On the other side Death, with all his flying squadron, 
returned to their cart and went on their journey. 

Thus ended the most dreadful adventure of the 
chariot of Death, much more happily than could have 
been expected, thanks to the laudable counsels which 
Sancho Panza gave his master, who, the day following, 
had another adventure no less remarkable, with one * 
that was a knight errant and a lover too. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE’S STRANGE ADVENTURE WITH THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS. 


Don QUIXOTE passed the night that succeeded bis 
encounter with Death under the covert of some lofty 
trees; where, at Sancho's persuasion, he refreshed him- 
self with some of the provisions which Dapple carried. 
As they were at supper, “Well, sir,” quoth the squire, 
“what a rare fool 1 had been, had I chosen for my good 
news the spoils of your first venture, instead of the 
breed of the three mares! Troth! commend me to the 
saying, ‘A bird in hand is worth two in the bush.” 

“However,” answered Don Quixote, “hadst thou let 
me fall on, as I would have done, thou mightest have 
shared at least the emperor’s golden crown, and Cupid’s 
painted wings; for I would have plucked them off, and 
put them into thy power.” 

“Ah! but,” said Sancho, “your strolling emperors’ 
crowns and sceptres are not of pure gold, but tinsel and 
copper.” 

“T grant it,” said Don Quixote; “nor is it fit the 
decorations of the stage should be real, but rather imi- 
tations, and the resemblance of realities, as the plays 
themselves must be, which, by the way, I would have 
you love and esteem, Sancho, and consequently those 
that write and also those that act them; for they are all 
instrumental to the good of the commonwealth, and set 
before our eyes those looking-glasses that reflect a live- 
ly representation of human life—nothing being able to 
give us more just idea of Nature, and what we are or 
ought to be, than comedians and comedies. Prithee 
tell me, hast thou never seen a play acted, where kings, 
emperors, prelates, knights, ladies, and other charac- 
ters are introduced on the stage? One acts a ruffian, 
another a soldier; this man a cheat, and that a merchant; 
one plays a designing fool, and another a foolish lover: 
but the play done, and the actors undressed, they are 
all equal, and as they were before.” 

“All this I have seen,” quoth Sancho. 

“Just such a comedy,” said Don Quixote, “is acted 
on the great stage of the world, where some play the 
emperors, others the prelates, and, in short, all the 
parts that can be brought into a dramatic piece; till 
death, which is the catastrophe and end of the action, 
strips the actors of all their marks of distinction, and 
levels their quality in the grave.” 

“ A rare comparison,” quoth Sancho, “though not so 
new but that I have heard it over and over. Just such 
another as that of a game at chess, where, while the 
play lasts, every piece has its particular office; but 





when the game is over, they are all mingled and hud. 
died together, and clapped into a bag, just as, when life 
is ended, we are laid in the grave.” 

“Truly, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thy simplicity 
lessens, and thy sense improves every day.” 

“And good reason why,” quoth Sancho; “some of 
your worship’s wit must needs stick to me; for your 
dry, unkindly Jand, with good dunging and tilling, will 
in time yield a good crop. I mean, sir, that your con- 
versation being thrown on the barren ground of my wit, 
together with the time I have served your worship and 
kept you company, which is, as a body may say, the 
tillage, I must needs bring forth blessed fruit at last, 
so as not to shame my master, but keep in the paths of 
good manners, which you have beaten into my sodden 
understanding.” 

Sancho’s affected style made Don Quixote laugh, 
though he thought his words true in the main; and he 
could not but admire his improvement. But the fellow 
never discovered his weakness so much as by endeay- 
oring to hide it, being most apt to tumble when he 
strove to soar too high. His excellence lay chiefly in 
a knack of drawing proverbs into his discourse, 
whether to the purpose or not, as any one that has ob- 
served his manner of speaking in this history must 
have perceived. 

In such discourses they passed a great part of the 
night, till Sancho wanted to drop the portcullices of 
his eyes, which was his way of saying he had a mind to 
go to sleep. Thereupon he unharnessed Dapple, and 
set him grazing; but Rozinante was condemned to stand 
saddled all night, by his master’s injunction and pre- 
scription, used of old by all knights-errant, who never 
unsaddled their steeds in the field, but took off their 
bridles and hung them at the pummel of the saddle. 
However, he was not forsaken by faithful Dapple, 
whose friendship was so unparalleled and inviolable, 
that unquestioned tradition has handed it down from 
father to son that the author of this true history com- 
posed particular chapters of the united affection of 
these two beasts, though, to preserve the decorum to 
so heroic a history, he would not insert them in the 
work. Yet sometimes he cannot forbear giving us 
some new touches on that snbject; as when he writes 
that the two friendly creatures took a mighty pleasure 
in being together, to scrub and lick one another; and 
when they had had enough of that sport, Rozinante 

260 














“In such discourses they passed a great part of the night.”—p 260. 


262 


would gently lean his head at least half a yard over 
Dapple’s neck, and so they would stand very lovingly 
together, looking wistfully on the ground for some 
time, unless somebody made them leave that contem- 
plative posture, or hunger compelled them to a separa- 
tion. Nay, I cannot pass by what is reported of the 
author, how he left in writing that he had compared 
their friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus, and that 
of Pylades und Orestes, which, if it were so, deserves 
universal admiration; the sincere affection of these 
quiet animals being a just reflection on men, who are so 
guilty of breaking their friendship to one another. 
From hence came the sayings, “There is no friend, all 
friendship is gone;” “Now men hug, then fight anon;” 
and thatother, “Where you see your friend, trust to 
yourself.” Neither should the world take it ill that 
the cordial affection of these animals was compared by 
our author to that of men, since many important prin- 
ciples of prudence and morality have been learnt from 
irrational creatures. The crane gave mankind an ex- 
ample of vigilance; the ant, of providence; the ele- 
phant, of honesty; and the horse, of loyalty. 

At last, Sancho fell asleep at the root of a cork-tree, 
and his master went to slumber under a spacious oak. 
But it was not long ere he was disturbed by a noise 
behind him, and starting up he looked and hearkened 
on the side whence he thought the voice came, and 
discovered two men on horseback, one of whom, let- 
ting himself carelessly slide down from the saddle, and 
calling to the other—“ Alight, friend,” said he, “and 
unbridle your horse, for methinks this place will supply 
them plentifully with pasture, aud me with silence and 
solitude to indulge my amorous thoughts.” 

While he said this he laid himself down on the grass; 
in doing which the armor he had on made a noise—a 
sure sign—that gave Don Quixote to understand he 
was some knight-errant. Thereupon going to Sancho, 
who slept on, he plucked him by the arm, and having 
waked him with much ado—“ Friend Sancho,” said he, 
whispering him in his ear, “here is an adventure.” 

“Heaven grant it be a good one!” quoth Sancho. “But 
where is that same lady adventure’s worship ?” 

“Where! dost thou ask, Sancho? why, turn thy head, 
man, and look yonder. Dost thou not see a knight- 
errant there lying on the ground? I have reason to 
think he is in melancholy circumstances, for I saw him 
fling himself off from his horse, and stretch himself on 
the ground in a disconsolate manner, and his armor 
clashed as he fell.” 

“What of all that?” quoth Sancho. 
make this to be an adventure?” 

“JT will not yet affirm,” answered Don Quixote, “that 
it is an adventure; but a very fair rise to one as ever 
was seen. But, hark! he is tuning some instrument, 
and by his coughing and spitting he is clearing his 
throat to sing.” 

“Troth now, sir,” quoth Sancho, “itis even so in good 
earnest; and I fancy it is some knight that is in 
love.” 

“Al knight-errants must be so,” answered Don 
Quixote; “but let us hearken, and if he sings, we shall 


“How do you 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


know more of his circumstances presently, ‘for out of 
the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.’ ” 

Sancho would have answered, but the Knight of the 
Wood's voice, which was but indifferent, interrupted 
him with the following 


SONG. 
L 


Bright queen, how shali your loving slave 
Be sure not to displease? 

Some rule of duty let him crave: 
He begs no other ease. 


I. 
Say, must I die, or hopeless live? 
Pl act as you ordain: 
Despair a silent deuth shall give, 
Or Love himself complain. 
mn, 
My heart, though soft as wax, will prove 
Like diamonds firm and true: 
For what th' impression can remove 
That's stamp'd by love and you? 

The Knight of the Wood concluded his song with a 
sigh, that seemed to be fetched from the very bottom 
of his heart; and after some pause, with a mournful 
and disconsolate voice, “Oh, most beautiful, but most 
ungrateful of womankind,” cried he, “how is it possi- 
ble, most serene Casildea de Vandalia, your heart 
should consent that a knight who idolizes your charms 
should waste the flower of his youth, and kill himself 
with continual wanderings and hard fatigues? Is it 
not enough that I have made you to be acknowledged 
the greatest beauty in the world by all the knights of 
Navarre, all the knights of Leon, all the Tartesians, all 
the Castilians, and, in fine, by all the knights of La 
Mancha?” 

“Not so neither,” said Don Quixote then: “for I my- 
self am of La Mancha, and never acknowledged, nor 
ever could nor ought to acknowledge, a thing so injuri- 
ous to the beauty of my mistress; therefore, Sancho, it 
is a plain case, this knight is out of his senses. But 
let us hearken; perhaps we shall discover something 
more.” 

“That you will, I warrant you,” quoth Sancho, “for 
he seems in tune to moan a month together.” 

But it happened otherwise; for the Knight of the 
Wood overhearing them, ceased his lamentations, and 
raising himself on his feet, in a loud but courteous tone 
called to them “Who is there? Whatare ye? Are ye 
of the number of the happy or the miserable ?” 

“Of the miserable,” answered Don Quixote. 

“Repair tome then,” said the Knight of the Wood, 
“and be assured you have met misery and affliction 
itself.” Upon so moving and civil an invitation, Don 
Quixote and Sancho drew near to him; and the mourn- 
ful knight taking Don Quixote by the hand, “Sit 
down,” said he, “Sir Knight; for that your profession 
is chivalry I need no other conviction than to have 
found youin this retirement, where solitude and the 
cold night dews are your companions, and the proper 
stations and reposing places of knights-errant.” 

“Tam a knight,” answered Don Quixote, “and of the 
order you mention: and though my sorrows and disas- 
ters and misfortunes usurp the seat of my mind, I have 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 


still a heart disposed to entertain the afflictions of 
others. Yours, as I gather by your complaints, is de- 
rived from love, and, as I suppose, owing to the ingrat- 
itude of that beauty you now mentioned.” 

While they were thus parleying, they sat close by 
one another on the hard grouud, very peaceably and 
lovingly, and not like men that by break of day were 
to break one another’s heads. 

“And is it your fortune to be in love?” asked the 
Knight of the Wood. 

“It is my misfortune,” answered Don Quixote; 
“though the reflection of having placed our affections 
worthily sufficiently balances the weight of our disas- 
ters, and turns them to a blessing.” 

“This might be true,” replied the Knight of the 
Wood, “if the disdain of some mistresses were not often 
so galling as to inspire us with something like the spirit 
of revenge.” 

“For my part,” said Don Quixote, “I never felt my 
mistress’s disdain.” 

“No, truly,” quoth Sancho, who was near them; “for 
my lady is as gentle as a lamb.” 


268 


“Is that your squire?” said the Knight of the Wood. 

“Tt is,” answered Don Quixote. 

“T never saw a squire,” said the Knight of the Wood, 
“that durst presume to interrupt his master when he 
was speaking himself. There is my fellow, yonder; he 
is as big as his father, and yet no man can say he 
was so saucy as to open his lips when I spoke.” 

“Well, well,” quoth Sancho, “I have talked, and may, 
talk again, and before as, and perhaps—but I have 
done.” : 

At the same time the Squire of the Wood, pulling 
Sancho by the arm, “Come, brother,” said he, “let us 
two go where we may chat freely by ourselves, like 
downright squires as we are, and let our masters get 
over head aud ears in the stories of their loves.” 

“With all my heart,” quoth Sancho; “and then I will 
tell you who I am and what I am, and you shall judge 
if I am not fit to make one among the talking 
squires.” 

With that the two squires withdrew, and had a dia- 
logue as comical as that of their masters was seri- 





ous. 








CHAPTER XIII. 


THE ADVENTURE WITH THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD 


CONTINUED, WITH THE WISE, RARE AND PLEASANT 


DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES. 


THE knights and their squires thus divided—the lat- 
ter to tell their lives, and the former to relate their 
amours—the story begins with the Squire of the Wood. 

“Sir,” said he to Sancho, “this is atroublesome kind 
of life that we squires of knights-errant lead. Well 
may we say we eat our bread with the sweat of our 
brows, which is one of the curses laid on our first 
parents.” 

“Well may we say, too,” quoth: Sancho, ‘we eat it 
with a cold shivering of our bodies; for there are no 
poor creatures that suffer more by heat or cold than we 
do. Nay, if we could but eat all, it would never vex 
one, for ‘good fare lessens care;’ but sometimes we 
Shall go a day or two, and never so much as breakfast, 
unless it be upon the wind that blows.” 

“ After all,” said the Squire of the Wood, “we may 
bear with this, when we think of the reward we 
are to expect; for that same knight-errant must be ex- 
cessively unfortunate that has not, some time or other, 
the government of some island, or some good, handsome 
earldom, to bestow on his squire.” 

“ As for me,” quoth Sancho, “I have often told my 
master I would be contented with the government of 
any island; and he is so noble and free-hearted, that he 
has promised it over and over.” 

“For my part,” quoth the other squire, “I should 
think myself well paid for my services with some good 
eanonry, and I have my master’s word for it too.” 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “belike your master is 





some church-knight, and may bestow such livings on 
his good squires. But mine is purely laic; some of his 
wise friends, indeed (no thanks to them for it), once 
upon a time counselled him to be an archbishop—I 
fancy they wished him no good—but he would not, for 
he will be nothing but an emperor. I was plaguily 
afraid he might have had a hankering after the Church, 
and so have spoiled my preferment, [ not being gifted 
that way; for between you and me, though I look like 
a man in a doublet, I should make but an ass in a 
cassock.” 

“Let me tell you, friend,” quoth the Squire of the 
Wood, “that you are out in your politics; for these 
island governments bring more cost than worship; 
there is‘a great cry, but little wool;’ the best will 
bring more trouble and care than they are worth, and 
those that take them on their shoulders are ready to 
sink under them. I think it were better for us to quit 
this confounded slavery, and e’en jog home, where we 
may entertain ourselves with more delightful exercises, 
such as fishing and hunting, and the like; for he is a 
sorry country squire indeed that wants bis horse, his 
couple of hounds, or his fishing-tackle, to live pleas- 
antly at home.” 

“All this I can have at will,” quoth Sancho; “indeed, 
I have never a nag, but I have an honest ass here worth 
two of my master's horses any day in the year. A bad 
Christmas be my lot, and may it be the next, if I would 
change beasts with him, though he gave me four bush- 


264 


els of barley to boot—no, marry would not 1. Laugh 
as much as you will at the value I set on my Dapple; 
for Dapple, you must know, is his color. Now, as for 
hounds, we have enough to spare in our town; and 
there is no sport like hunting at another man's 
cost.” 

“Faith and troth! brother squire,” quoth the Squire 
of the Wood, “I am fully set upon it. These vagrant 
knights may e'en seek their mad adventures by them- 
selves; for me, I will home, and bring up my children, 
as it behooves me; for I have three, as precious as three 
orient pearls.” : 

“T have but two,” quoth Sancho, “but they might be 
presented to the Pope himself, especially my girl, that 
I bring up to be a countess (Heaven bless her!) in spite 
of her mother’s teeth.” 

“ And how old, pray,” said the Squire of the Wood, 
“may this same young lady countess be ?” 

“Why, she is about fifteen,” answered Sancho, “a 
little over or a little under; but she is as tall as a pike, 
as fresh as an April morning, and strong as a por- 
ter.” 

“With these parts,” quoth the other, “she may set 
up not only for a countess, but for one of the wood- 
nymphs!” 

“Heaven send me once more to see them!” quoth 
Sancho, in a grumbling tone; “and deliver me out of this 
mortal sin of squire-erranting, which I have been drawn 
into a second time by the wicked bait of a hundred 
ducats, which the tempter threw in my way in Sierra 
Morena, and which he still haunts me with, and brings 
before my eyes here and there and everywhere. Oh, 
that plaguy purse! it is still running in my head; me- 
thinks I am counting such another over and over. Now 
I hug it, now I carry it home, now I am buying land 
with it; now I let leases, now I am receiving my rents, 
and live like a prince. Thus I pass away the time, and 
this lulls me on to drudge on to the end of the chapter, 
with this dunderheaded master of mine, who, to my 
knowledge, is more a madman than a knight.” 

“Truly,” said the Squire of the Wood, “this makes 
the proverb true, ‘Covetousness breaks the sack.’ And 
now you talk of madmen, I think my master is worse 
than yours; for he is one of those of whom the proverb 
says, ‘Fools will be meddling;’ and ‘Who meddles with 
another man’s business, milks his cows into a sieve.’ 
In searching after another knight’s wits, he loses his 
own, and hunts up and down for that which may make 
him rue the finding.’ ” 

“ And is not the poor man in love ?” quoth Sancho. 

“Ay, marry,” said the other, “and with one Casildea 
de Vandalia, one of the oddest pieces in the world; she 
will neither roast nor boil, and is neither fish, flesh, nor 
good red-herring. But thatis not the thing that plagues 
his noddle now. He has some other crotchets in his 
crown, and you will hear more of it ere long.” 

“There is no way so smooth,” quoth Sancho, “but it 
has a hole or rub in it to make a body stumble. In 
some houses they boil beans, and in mine are whole 
kettles full. So madness has more need of good attend- 
ants than wisdom. But if this old saying be true, that 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


‘it lightens sorrow to have companions in our grief,’ 
you are the fittest to comfort me—you serve one fool, 
and I another.” 

“My master,” qouth the Squire of the Wood, “is 
more stout than foolish, but more knave than either.” 

“Mine is not like yours, then,” quoth Sancho; “he 
has not one grain of knavery in him; he is as dull as an 
old cracked pitcher, hurts nobody, does all the good he 
can to everybody; a child may persuade him it is night 
at noon-day; and he is so simple, that I cannot help 
loving him with all my heart avd soul, and cannot leave 
him, in spite of all his follies.” 

“Have a care, brother!” said the Squire of the Wood; 
“when the blind leads the blind, both may fall into the 
ditch. Itis better to wheel about fair and softly, and 
steal home again to our own firesides.” 

Here the Squire of the Wood observing that Sancho 
spoke as if he was very dry, “I fancy, brother,” said 
he, “that our tongues stick to the palates of our mouths 
with talking; but to cure that disease I have something 
that hangs to the pommel of my saddle, as good as ever 
was tipped over tongue.” Then he went and took 
down a leather bottle of wine, and a cold pie at least 
half a yard long; which is no fiction, for Sancho him- 
self, when he laid his hands on it, took it rather for a 
baked goat than a kid, though it was indeed but an 
overgrown rabbit. A 

“What!” said Sancho, at the sight, “did you bring 
this too abroad with you?” 

“What d'ye think?” said the other; “do you take 
me for one of your fresh-water squires? I’d have you 
know, I carry as good provisions at my horse’s crupper 
as any general upon his march.” 

Sancho did not stay for an invitation, but fell to in 
the dark, cramming down morsels as big as his fist. 
“Ay, marry, sir,” said he, “you are a squire, every inch 
of you, a true and trusty, round and sound, noble and 
free-hearted squire. This good cheer is a proof of it, 
which I do not say jumped hither by witchcraft, but 
one would almost think so. Now, here sits poor 
wretched J, that have nothing in my knapsack but a 
crust of cheese—so hard, a giant might break his grind- 
ers in ’t—and a few acorns, walnuts, and filberts; a 
shame on my master’s niggardly temper, in fancying 
that all knights-errant must be content to live on a little 
dried fruit and salads !” 

“Well, well, brother,” replied the Squire of the Wood, 
“our masters may diet themselves by rules of chivalry, 
if they please; your thistles and your herbs and roots 
do not at all agree with my stomach; I must have good 
meat, i’ faith, and this bottle here still at hand at the 
pommel of my saddle. It is my joy, my life, the com- 
fort of my soul; I hug and kiss it every moment, and 
now recommend it to you as the best friend in the 
world.” 

Sancho took the bottle, and rearing it to his thirsty 
lips, with his eyes fixed upon the stars, kept himself in 
that happy contemplation for a quarter of an hour to- 
gether. At last, when he had taken his draught, with 
a deep groan, a nod on one side, and a cunning leer, 
“Now, by the remembrance of her you love best, 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


pr’ythee, tell me, is not this your right Ciudad Real 
wine ?” 

“Thou bast a rare palate,” answered the Squire of 
the Wood; “it is the very same, and of a good age 
too.” 

“T thought so,” said Sancho; “but is it not strange 
now, that turn me but loose among a parcel of wines, I 
shall find the difference? Ah! sir, I no sooner clap my 
nose to any kind of wine, but 1 can tell the place, the 
grape, the flavor, the age, the strength; and all the 
qualities of the parce]; and all this is natural to me, sir, 
for I had two relations, by the father’s side, that were 
the nicest tasters that were known for a long time in 
La Mancha, of which two I will relate you astory that 
makes good what I said. It fell out on a time that 
some wine was drawn fresh out of a hogshead, and 
given to these same friends of mine to taste; and they 
were asked their opinions of the condition, the quality, 
the goodness, the badness of the wine, and all that. 
The one tried it with the tip of his tongue; the other 
only smelled it. The first said the wine tasted of iron; 
the second said it rather had a tang of goat’s leather. 
The vinter swore his vessel was clean, and the wine 





265 


neat, and so pure that it could have no taste of any 
such thing. Well, time ran on, the wine was sold, and 
when the vessel came to be emptied, what do you think 
sir, was found in thecask? A little key, with a bit of 
leathern thong tied to it. Now, judge you by this 
whether he that comes of such a generation has not 
reason to understand wine ?” 

“More reason than to understand adventures,” 
answered the other; “therefore since we have enough, 
let us not trouble ourselves to look after more, but e'en 
jog home to our little cots, where Heaven will find us, 
if it be its will.” 

“T intend,” said Sancho, “to wait on my master till 
we come to Saragosa, but then 1 will turn over a new 
leaf.” 

To conclude: the two friendly squires having talked 
and drank, and held out almost as long as their bottle, 
it was high time that sleep should lay their tongues 
and assuage their thirst, for to quench it was impossi- 
ble. Acecrdingly, they soon fell fast asleep, both keep- 
ing their hold on their almost empty bottle, where we 
shall for a while leave them to their rest, and see what 
passed between their masters. 








CHAPTER XIV. 


A CONTINUATION OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD. 


Many were the discourses that passed between Don 
Quixote and the Knight of the Wood; amongst the 
rest, “You must know, Sir Knight,” said the latter, 
“that by the appointment of Fate, or rather by my own 
choice, I became enamored of the peerless Casildea de 
Vandalia. I call her peerless, because she is singular 
in the greatness of her stature, as well as in that of her 
state and beauty. But this lady has been pleased to 
take no other notice of my honorable passion than em- 
ploying me in many perilous adventures, like Hercules’ 
stepmother; still promising me, after I had put an hap- 
py end to one, that the performance of the next should 
put me in possession of my desires. But after a suc- 
cession of numberless labors, I do not know which of 
her commands will be the last and will crown my lawful 
wishes. Once, by her particular injunction, I chal- 
lenged that famous giantess, La Giralda of Seville, who 
is as strong and undaunted as one that is made of brass, 
and who, without changing place, is the most change- 
able and inconstant woman in the world. I went, I 
saw, and overcame; I made her stand still, and fixed 
her in a constant point, for the space of a whole 
week, no wind having blown in the skies during all 
that time but the north. Another time she enjoined 
me to remove the ancient stones of the sturdy bulls 
of Guisando, a task more suitable to the arms of 
porters than those of knights. Then she commanded 





me to descend and dive into the cavern or den 
of Cabra (a terrible and unheard-of attempt), and to 
bring her an account of all the wonders in that dismal 
profundity. I stopped the motion of La Giralda; I 
weighed the bulls of Guisando; and, with a precipitated 
fall, plunged and brought to light the darkest secrets 
of Cabra’s black abyss. But still, ah! still my hopes 
are dead. How dead? How! because her disdain still 
lives, still lives to enjoin me new labors, new exploits; 
for, lastly, she has ordered me to traverse the remotest 
provinces of Spain, and exact a confession from all the 
knights-errant that roam about the land that her beau- 
ty alone excels that of all other women, and that I am 
the most valiant and most enamored knight in the 
world. 1 have already journeyed over the greatest 
part of Spain on this expedition, and overcome many 
knights who had the temerity to contradict my asser- 
tion. But the perfection of my glory isthe result of 
my victory over the renowned Don Quixote de la Man- 
cha, whom I conquered in single combat, and compelled 
to submit his Dulcinea’s tomy Casildea’s beauty. And 
now I reckon the wandering knights of the whole uni- 
verse all vanquished by my prowess; their fame, their 
glory, and their honors being all vested in this great 
Don Quixote, who had before made them the spoils of 
his valorous arm, though now they must attend the 
triumphs of my victory, which is the greater, since the 


266 


reputation of the victor rises in proportion to that of 
the vanquished, and all the latter’s laurels are trans- 
ferred to me.” 

Don Quixote was amazed to hear the knight run on 
at this rate, and had the lie ready at his tongue’s end 
to give him a thousand times; but designing to make 
him own his falsity with his own mouth, he strove to 
contain his choler; and arguing the matter very calmly, 
“Sir Knight,” said he, “that your victories have ex- 
tended over all the knights in Spain, and perhaps over 
the whole world, I will not dispute; but that you have 
vanquished Don Quixote de la Mancha you must give 
me leave to doubt. It might be somebody like him, 
though he is a person whom but very few can resem- 
ble.” 

“What do you mean ?” answered the Knight of the 
Wood. “By yon spangled canopy of the skies, I 
fought Don Quixote hand to hand, vanquished him, 
and made him submit. He is a tall, wither-faced, 
leathern-jaw fellow, scragged, grizzle-haired, hawk- 
nosed, and wears long, black, lank mustachios; he is 
distinguished in the field by the title of the Knight of 
the Woful Figure; he has for his squire one Sancho 
Panza, a laboring man; he bestrides and manages that 
far-famed courser Rozinante, and has for the mistress 
of his affection one Dulcinea del Toboso, sometimes 
called Aldonso Lorenzo; as mine, whose name was 
Casildea, and who is of Andalusia, is now distinguish- 
ed by the denomination of Casildea de Vandalia; and 
if all these convincing marks be not sufficient to prove 
this truth, I wear a sword that shall force even incre- 
dulity to credit it.” 

“Not so fast, good Sir Knight,” said Don Quixote; 
“pray, attend to what I shall deliver upon this head. 
You must know that this same Don Quixote is the 
greatest friend I have in the world, insomuch that 1 
may say I love him as well as I do myself. Now, the 
tokens that you have described him by are so agreeable 
to his person and circumstances, that one would think 
he should be the person you subdued. On the other 
hand, I am convinced, by the more powerful argument 
of undeniable sense, that it cannot be he. But thus 
far I will allow you, as there are many enchanters that 
arehis enemies, especially one whose malice hourly 
persecutes him, perhaps one of them has assumed his 
likeness, thus, by a counterfeit conquest, to defraud 
him of the glory contracted by his signal chivalry over 
all the universe. In confirmation of which, I can far- 
ther tell you it is but two days ago that these envious 
magicians transformed the figure and the person of the 
beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso into the base and sordid 
likeness of arustic wench. And if this will not con- 
vince you of your error, behold Don Quixote himself in 
person, and here stands ready to maintain his words 
with his arms, either a-foot or on horseback, or in what 
other manner you may think convenient.” 

As he said this, up he started, and laid his hand on 
his sword, waiting the motions and resolutions of the 
Knight of the Wood. But with a great deal of calm- 
ness, “Sir,” said he, “a good pay-master grudges no 
surety; he that could once vanquish Don Quixote when 
transformed needs not fear him in bis proper shape. 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


But since darkness is not proper for the achievements of 
knights, but rather for robbers and ruffians, let us await 
the morning light, that the sun may be witness of our 
valor. The conditions of our combat shall be, that the 
conquered shall be wholly at the mercy of the conqueror, 
who shall dispose of him at discretion; provided always 
he abuses not his power by commanding anything un- 
worthy the honor of knighthood.” 

“Content,” said Don Quixote, 
very well.” 

With that they both went to look out their squires, 
whom they found snoring very soundly in just the same 
posture as when they first fell asleep. They roused 
them up, and ordered them to get their steeds ready; 
for the first rays of the rising sun must behold them 
engage in a fearful and unparalleled single combat. 

This news thunder-struck Sancho, and put him to his 
wits’ end for his master’s danger, having heard the 
Knight of the Wood’s courage strangely magnified by 
his squire. However, without the least reply, he went 
with his companion to seek their beasts, who by this 
time had found out one another, and were got lovingly 
together. 

“Well, friend,” said the squire to Sancho, as they 
went, “1 find our masters are to fight: so you and I are 
like to have a brush too; for it is the way among us 
Andalusians not to let the seconds stand idly by, with 
arms across, while their friends are at it.” 

“This,” said Sancho, “may be a custom in your coun- 
try; but, let me tell you, it is a foolish custom, Sir 
Squire, and none but ruffians and evil-minded fellows 
would stand up forit; but there is no such practice 
among squires-errant, else my master would have mind- 
ed me of it ere this, for he has all the laws of knight- 
errantry by heart. But suppose there be such a law, I 
will not obey it, that is flat; I will rather pay the pen- 
alty that is laid on such peaceable squires. I do not 
think the fine can be above two pounds of wax, and 
that will cost me less than the lint would to make tents 
for my skull, which, methinks, is already cleft down to 
my chin. Besides, how would you have me fight? I 
have ne’er a sword, nor ever wore any.” 

“No matter,” quoth the Squire of the Wood; “I have 
a cure for that sore. Ihave got here a couple of linen 
bags, both of a size; you shall take one, and I the 
other, and so we will let drive at one another with 
these weapons, and fight at bag-blows.” 

“Ay, ay, with all my heart,” quoth Sancho; “this 
will dust our jackets purely, and won't hurt our 
skins.” 

“Not so, neither,” replied the Squire of the Wood; 
“for we will put half a dozen of smooth stones into 
each bag, that the wind may not blow them to and fro, 
and that they may play the better, and so we may 
brush one another’s coats cleverly, and yet do our- 
selves no great hurt.” 

“Smooth stones, indeed !” quoth Sancho; “what soft 
sable fur, what dainty carded cotton and lamb’s wool 
he crams into the bags, to hinder our making pap of our 
brains, and touch-wood of our bones! But I say again 
and again, I am notin a humor to fight, though they 
were only full of silk balls. Let our masters fight, and 


“T like these terms 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


hear on’t hereafter; but let us drink and live while we 
may; for why should we strive to end our lives before 
their time and season, and be so eager to gather the 
plums that will drop of themselves when they are 
ripe?” 

“Well,” said the Squire of the Wood, “for all that, 
we must fight half an hour or so.” 

“Not a minute,” replied Sancho; “I haven’t the 
heart to quarrel with a gentleman with whom I have been 
eating and drinking. I ain’t angry with you in the 
least, and were I to be hanged for it, I could never 
fight in cold blood.” 

“Nay, if that be all,” said the Squire of the Wood, 
“you shall be angry enough, I’ll warrant you; for be- 
fore we go to it, d’ye see, I'll walk up very handsomely 
to you, and lend your worship three or four sound slaps 
o’ the chaps, and knock you down, which will be sure 
to waken your choler, though it slept as sound as a 
doormouse.” 

“Nay, then,” quoth Sancho, “I have a trick for your 
trick, if that be all, and you shall have as good as you 
bring; for I will take me a pretty middling lever (you 
understand me), and before you can awaken my choler, 
will I lay yours asleep so fast, that it shall never wake 
more. ‘Let every man look before he leaps;’ ‘many 
come for wool that go home shorn;’ no man knows what 
another can do; so, friend, let every man’s choler sleep 
with him. ‘Blessed are the peace-makers,’ and cursed 
are the peace-breakers. ‘A baited cat may turn as 
fierce as alion.’ Who knows, then, what I, that am a 
man, may turn to if I am provoked? Take it, there- 
fore, for a warning from me, squire, that all the mischief 
you may be hatching in this manner shall lie at your 
door.” 

“Well,” said the other, ‘it will be day anon, and 
then we shall see what is to be done.” 

And now a thousand sorts of pretty birds began to 
warble in the trees, and with their various cheerful 
notes seemed to salute the fresh Aurora, who then 
displayed her rising beauties through the gates and 
arches of the east, and gently shook from her 
dewy locks a shower of liquid pearls, sprinkling 
and enriching the verdant meads with that reviving 
treasure that seemed to spring and drop from the bend- 
ing leaves. The willows distilled their delicious 
manna, the rivulets fondly murmured, the fountains 
smiled, the woods were cheered, the fields enriched, at 
her approach. But no sooner had the dawning light 
recalled distinction, than the first thing that presented 
itself to Sancho’s view was the Squire of the Wood’s 
nose, which was so big, thatit overshadowed almost 
his whole body. In short, it is said to have been of a 
monstrous size, crooked in the middle, studded with 
warts and carbuncles, tawny as a russet-pippin, and 
hanging down some two fingers below his mouth. The 
unreasonable bulk, dismal hue, protuberancy, and 
crookedness of that nose so disfigured the squire, that 
Sancho was seized with a trembling at the sight, like 
a child in convulsions. 

As for Don Quixote, he fixed his eyes upon his an- 
tagonist; but as his helmet was on, and he had pulled 
down the beaver, his face could not be seen; however, 





267 


he observed him to be strong-limbed, though not very 
tall. Over his armor he wore a coat that looked like 
cloth of gold, overspread with looking-glasses (mirrors), 
cut into half-moons, which made a very glittering 
show; a large plume of yellow, green, and white feath- 
ers waved about his helmet; and his lance, which he 
had set up against a tree, was very thick and long, 
with a steel head a foot in length. Don Quixote sur- 
veyed every particular, and, from his observations, 
judged him to bea man of great strength. But all 
this was so far from daunting his courage, like Sancho, 
that, with a gallant deportment, “Sir Knight of the 
Mirrors,” said he, “if your eager desire of combat has 
not made you deaf to the entreaties of civility, be 
pleased to lift up your beaver a while, that I may see 
whether the gracefulness of your face equals that of 
your body.” 

“Whether you be vanquished or victorious in this 
enterprise,” answered the Knight of the Mirrors, “you 
shall have leisure enough to see my face. I cannot at 
present satisfy your curiosity; for every moment of 
delay is a wrong done to the beautiful Casildea de 
Vandalia.” 

“However,” replied Don Quixote, “while we get a- 
horseback, you may tell me whether I be the same Don 
Quixote whom you pretend to have overcome.” 

“To this 1 answer you,” said the Knight of the Mir- 
rors, “you are as like the knight I vanquished as one 
egg is like another. But considering what you tell me, 
that you are persecuted by enchanters, I dare not 
affirm that you are the same.” 

“Tt is enough,” said Don Quixote, “that you believe 
you may be in error; but that I may entirely rid your 
doubts, let us to horse: for if Providence, my mistress, 
and my arm assist me, I will see your face in less time 
than it would have cost you to have lifted up your 
beaver, and make you know that I am not the Don 
Quixote whom you talked of having vanquished.” 

This said, they mounted. Don Quixote wheeled 
about with Rozinante, to take ground for the career; 
the Knight of the Mirrors did the like. But before 
Don Quixote rode twenty paces, he heard him call to 
him. So meeting each other half way, “Remember, 
Sir Knight,” cried he, “the condition op which we 
fight; the vanquished, as I told you before, shall be at 
the mercy of the conqueror.” 

“T grant it,” answered Don Quixote, “provided the 
victor imposes nothing on him that derogates from the 
laws of chivalry.” 

“TI mean no otherwise,” replied the Knight of the 
Mirrors. 

At the same time Don Quixote happened to cast his 
eyes on the squire's strange nose, and wondered no less 
at the sight of it than Sancho, taking him to be rather 
a monster than a man. Sancho, seeing his master set 
out to take so much distance as was fit to return on his 
enemy with greater force, would not trust himself 
alone with Squire Nose, fearing the greater should be 
too hard for the less, and either that or fear should 
strike him to the ground. This made him run after his 
master, till he had taken hold of Rozinante's stirrup- 
leathers; and when he thought him ready to turn back 


268 


to take his career, “Good, your worship,” cried he, 
“before you run upon your enemy, help me to getup into 
yon cork tree, where I may better see your brave battle 
with the knight.” 

“T rather believe,” said Don Quixote, “thou wantest 
to be perched up yonder as on a scaffold, to see the 
bull-baiting without danger.” 

“To tell you the truth,” quoth Sancho, “that fellow’s 
unconscionable nose has so frighted me, that I dare not 
stay within his reach.” 

“It is, indeed, such a sight,” said Don Quixote, “as 
might affect with fear any other but myself,:and there- 
fore come, I will help thee up.” 

Now, while Sancho was climbing the tree with his 
master’s assistance, the Knight of the Mirrors took as 
much ground as he thought proper for his career; and 
imagining Don Quixote had done the same, he faced 
about, without expecting the trumpet’s sound or any 
other signal for a charge, and with his horse’s full speed, 
which was no more than a middling trot, he went to en- 
counter his enemy; but seeing him busy in helping up 
his squire, he held in his steed, and stopped in middle 
career, for which the horse was mightily obliged ‘to 
him, being already scarce able to stir a foot farther. 

Don Quixote, who thought his enemy was flying upon 
him, set spurs to Roxinante, and so wakened his mettle, 
that the story says this was the only time he was known 
to gallop a little, for at all others downright trotting 
was his best. With this unusual fury, he soon got to 
the place where his opponent was striking his spurs 
into his horse’s sides up to the very rowels, without 
being able to make him stir an inch from the spot. Now, 
while he was thus goading him on, and at the same time 
encumbered with his lance, either not knowing how to set 
it in the rest, or wanting time to do it, Don Quixote, who 
took no notice of his disorder, encountered him without 
danger so furiously, that the Knight of the Mirrors was 
hurried, in spite of his tecth, over his horsé's crupper, 
and was so hurt with falling to the ground, that he lay 
without motion or any sign of life. Sancho no sooner 
saw him fallen, but down he comes sliding from the 
tree and runs to his master, who, having dismounted, 
was got upon the Knight of the Mirrors, and was un- 
lacing his helmet, to see if he were dead or alive, and 
give him air. But who can relate what he saw when he 
beheld the face of the Knight of the Mirrors, without 
raising wonder, amazement, or astonishment in those 
that shall hear it? “He saw,” says the historian, “in 
that face the very visage, the aspect, the very physi- 
ognomy, the very make, the very features, the very 
effigy of the bachelor Samson Carrasco!” 

“Come, Sancho!” cried he, as he saw it, “come hither, 
look, and admire what thou mayest see, yet not believe! 
Haste, my friend, and mark the power of magic—what 
sorcerers and enchanters can do!” 

Sancho drew near, and seeing the bachelor Samson 
Carrasco’s face, began to cross himself a thousand 
times, and bless himself as many more. 

The poor defeated knight all this while gave no sign 
of life. 

“Sir,” quoth Sancho to his master, “if you will be 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ruled by me, make sure work. Right or wrong, e’en 
thrust your sword down this fellow’s throat that is so 
like the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and so mayhap in 
him you may chance to murder one of those bitter dogs 
—those enchanters that haunt you so.” 

“That thought is not amiss,” said Don Quixote; and 
with that, drawing his sword, he was going to put San- 
cho’s advice in execution, when the knight’s squire 
came running without the nose that so disguised him 
before, and calling to Don Quixote, “Hold, noble Don 
Quixote!” cried he; “take heed! beware! ’tis your friend 
Samson Carrasco that now lies at your worship’s mercy; 
and I am his squire.” 

“ And where is your nose ?” quoth Sancho, seeing him 
now without disguise. 

“Here, in my pocket,” answered the squire; and, 
so saying, he pulled out the nose of a varnished paste- 
board vizor, such as it has been described. 

Sancho having more and more stared him in the face 
with great earnestness, “Blessed Virgin, defend me !” 
quoth he; “who is this? Thomas Cecial, my friend and 
neighbor !” 

“The same, friend Sancho,” quoth the squire. “I 
will tell youanon by what tricks and wheedles he was in- 
veigled to come hither. Meanwhile desire your master 
not to misuse, nor slay, nor meddle in the least with the 
knight that now lies at his mercy, for there is nothing 
more sure than that it is our ill-advised countryman, 
Samson Carrasco, and nobody else.” 

By this time the Knight of the Mirrors began to come 
to himself, which, when Don Quixote observed, setting 
the point of his sword to his throat, “Thou diest, 
knight,” cried he, “if thou refuse to confess that the 
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels thy Casildea de 
Vandalia in beauty. Besides this, thou shalt promise 
(if thou escape with life from this combat), to go to the 
city of Toboso, where, as from me, thou shalt present 
thyself before the mistress of my desires, and resign 
thy person to her disposal; if she leaves thee to thy 
own, then thou shalt come back to me (for the track of 
my exploits will be thy guide), and thou shalt give me an 
account of the transaction between her and thee.” 

“T do confess,” said the discomfited knight, “that the 
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso’s ripped and dirty shoe is 
preferable to the clean, though ill-combed locks of Ca- 
sildea; and I promise to go to her, and come from her 
presence to yours, and bring you a full and true relation 
of all you have enjoined me.” 

“You shall also confess and believe,” added Don 
Quixote, “that the knight you vanquished neither was 
nor could be Don Quixote de la Mancha, but somebody 
else in his likeness; as I, on the other side, do confess 
and believe that though you seem to be the bachelor 
Samson Carrasco, you are not he, but some other, whom 
my enemies have transformed into his resemblance, to 
assuage the violence of my wrath, and make me enter- 
tain with moderation the glory of my victory.” 

“All this I confess, believe, and allow,” said the 
knight; “and now, I beseech you, let me rise; for I find 
myself very much bruised.” 

Don Quixote helped him to rise, by the aid of his 


DON QUIQOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


squire, Thomas Cecial, on whom Sancho fixed his eyes 
all the while, asking him a thousand questions, the 
answers to which convinced him that he was the real 
Thomas Cecial, as he said, though the conceit ot what 
was told him by his master, that the magicians had 
transformed the Knight of the Mirrors into Samson 
Carrasco, had made such an impression on his fancy, 
that he could not believe the testimony of his own eyes. 





269 


The Knight of the Mirrors and his squire, much out of 
humor and much out of order, left Don Quixote, to go 
to some town where he might get some ointments and 
plaisters for his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho con- 
tinued their progress for Saragosa, where the history 
leaves them, to relate who the Knight of the Mirrors 
and his squire were. 








CHAPTER XV. 


GIVING AN ACCOUNT WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS SQUIRE WERE. 


Don QUIXOTE went on extremely pleased and joyful, 
glorying in the victory he had got over so valiant a 
knight as the Knight of the Mirrors, and relying on his 
parole of honor, that he would return to give him an 
account of his reception, by which means he expected 
to hear whether his mistress continued under the bonds 
of enchantment. But Don Quixote dreamed of one 
thing, and the Knight of the Mirrors thought of an- 
other—his only care for the present was how to get 
cured of his bruises. 

Here the history relates that when the bachelor Car- 
rasco advised Don Quixote to proceed in his profession of 
knight-errantry, it was the result of a conference which 
he had with the curate and the barber about the best 
means to prevail with him to stay at home, for Carrasco 
thought, and so did the rest, that it was in vain to pre- 
tend to hinder him from going abroad again, and there- 
fore the best way would be to let him go, and that he 
should meet him by the way, equipped like a knight- 
errant, and should fight and overcome him, which he 
might easily do; first making an agreement that the 
vanquished should submit to the victor’s discretion; so 
that, after the bachelor had vanquished him, he should 
command him to return to his house, and not offer to 
depart from thence for two years, without permission; 
which it was not doubted but Don Quixote would relig- 
iously observe, for fear of infringing the laws of chiv- 
alry; and in this time they hoped he might be weaned 
of his frenzy, or they might find some means to cure 
him of his madness. Carrasco undertook this task, and 
Thomas Cecial, a brisk, pleasant fellow, Sancho’s 
neighbor and gossip, proffered to be his squire. Sam- 
son equipped himself, as you have heard, and Thomas 
Cecial fitted a huge pasteboard nose to his own, that 
his gossip Sancho might not know him when they met. 
Then they followed Don Quixote so close, that they 
had like to have overtaken him in the midst of his ad- 





venture with the Chariot of Death; and at last, they 
found him in the wood that was the scene of their en- 
counter, which might have proved more fatal to the 
bachelor, and had spoiled him for ever from taking an- 
other degree, had not Don Quixote been so obstinate, 
in not believing him to be the same man. 

And now Thomas Cecial, seeing the ill success of 
their journey, “By my troth,” said he, “Master Carras- 
co, we have been served well enough. It is easy to 
begin a business, but a hard matter to go through. 
Don Quixote is mad, and we think ourselves wise; yet 
he goes away sound, and laughing in his sleeve; and 
your worship is left here well banged, and in the dumps. 
Now, pray, who is the greatest madman? he that is so 
because he cannot help it, or he that is so for his 
pleasure?” 

“The difference is,” answered the bachelor, “that he 
cannot help being mad will always be so; but he that 
only plays the fool for his fancy may give over when he 
pleases.” 

“Well, then,” quoth Cecial, “I, who was pleased to 
play the fool in going a squire-erranting with your 
worship, for the selfsame reason will give it over now, 
and even make the best of my way home again.” 

“Do as you will,” replied Carrasco, “but it is a folly 
to think I ever will go home till I have thoroughly paid 
that madman. Itis not that he may recover his wits 
neither; no, itis pure 1evenge now, for the pain in my 
bones won’t give me leave to have any manner of char- 
ity for him.” 

Thus they went on discoursing, till at last they got 
to a town, where, by good fortune they met with a bone- 
setter, who gave the bruised bachelor some ease. 
Thomas Cecial left him, and went home, while the other 
stayed tomeditate revenge. In due time the history 
will speak of him again, but must not now forget to 
entertain you with Don Quixote’s joy. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WITH A SOBER GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA. 


Don QUIXOTE pursued his journey, full, as we said 
before, of joy and satisfaction; his late victory made 
him esteem himself the most valiant knight-errant of 
the age. He counted all his future adventures as al- 
ready finished and happily achieved. He defied all 
enchantments and enchanters. No longer did he re- 
member the innumerable blows he had received in the 
course of his errantry, nor the shower of stones that 
had dashed out half of his teeth, nor the ingratitude of 
the galley-slaves, nor the insolence of the Yanguesian 
carriers, who had so abominably battered his ribs with 
their pack-staves. In short, he concluded with him- 
self, that if he could butby any manner of means dis- 
solve the enchantment of bis adored Dulcinea, he should 
have no need to envy the greatest felicity that ever 
was or could be attained by the most fortunate knight 
in the habitable globe. 

While he was wholly employed in these pleasing 
imaginations, “Sir,” quoth Sancho to him, “is it nota 
strange thing that I cannot, for the life of me, put out 
of my mind that unconscionable nose of Thomas Cecial, 
my gossip?” 

“How! Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “dost thou 
still believe that the Knight of the Mirrors was the 
bachelor Carrasco, and that Thomas Cecial was his 
squire?” 

“T do not know what to say to it,” quoth Sancho, 
“but this I am sure of, that nobody but he could give 
me those items of my house, and of my wife and chil- 
dren, as he did. Besides, when his huge nose was off, 
he had Tom Cecial’s face to a hair. I ought to know it, 
I think; I have seen it a hundred and a hundred times, 
for we are but next door neighbors; and then he had 
his speech to a title.” 

“Come on,” returned Don Quixote; “let us reason 
upon this business. How can it enter into any one’s 
imagination, that the bachelor Samson Carrasco should 
come armed at all points like a knight-errant, on pur- 
pose to fight with me? Have I ever been his enemy, or 
given him any occasion to be mine? am I his rival? or 
has he taken up the profession of arms, in envy of the 
glory which I have purchased by my sword ?” 

“Ay, but then,” replied Sancho, “what shall we say 
to the resemblance between this same knight, whoever 
he be, and the bachelor Carrasco, and the likeness be- 
tween his squire and my gossip? If it is an enchant- 





ment, as your worship says, were there no other people 
in the world but they two, to make them like ?” 

“All, all,” cried Don Quixote, “is the artifice and de- 
lusion of those malevolent magicians that persecute 
me, who, foreseeing that I should get the victory, dis- 
guised their vanquished property under the resem- 
blance of my friend the bachelor, that at the sight my 
friendship might interpose between the edge of my 
sword, and moderate my just resentment, and so rescue 
him from death, who basely had attempted my life. 
But thou, Sancho, by experience, which could not de- 
ceive thee, knowest how easy a matter it is for magi- 
cians to transmute the face of any one into another re- 
semblance, fair into foul, and foul again into fair; 
since, not two days ago, with thine own eyes thou be- 
heldest the peerless Dulcinea in her natural state of 
beauty and proportion, when 1, the olject of their envy, 
saw her in the homely disguise of a country wench. 
Why, then, shouldest thou wonder so much at the 
frightful transformation of the bachelor and thy neigh- 
bor Cecial? But, however, this is a comfort to me, 
that I got the better of my enemy, whatsoever shape he 
assumed.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “Heaven knows the truth of 
all things.” 

This was all the answer he thought fit to make; for 
as he knew that the transformation of Dulcinea was 
only a trick of his own, he was willing to waive the 
discourse, thongh he was the less satisfied in his mas- 
ter’s chimeras; but feared to drop some word that 
might have betrayed his roguery. 

While they were in this conversation, they were 
overtaken by a gentleman, mounted on a very fine mare. 


. | He had on a riding-coat of beautiful green cloth, faced 


with murrey-colored velvet, and a hunter's cap of the 
same. The furniture of his mare was country-like, and 
after the jennet fashion, and also murrey and green. 
By his side hung a Moorish scimitar in a large belt of 
green and gold. His buskins were of the same work 
with his belt; his spurs were not gilt, but burnished so 
well with a certain green varnish, that they looked 
better to suit with the rest of his equipage than if they 
had been of pure gold. As he came up with them, he 
very civily saluted them, and, clapping spurs to his 
mare, began to leave them behind him. Thereupon Don 
Quixote called to him: “Sir, if you are not in too much 
270 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 


haste, we should be glad of the favor of your company, 
so far as you travel this road.” 

Upon this the traveller stopped his mare, and did 
not a little gaze at the figure and countenance of our 
knight, who rode without his helmet, which, like a 
wallet, hung at the saddle-bow of Sancho’sass. If the 
gentleman ‘in green gazed on Don Quixote, Don Quix- 
ote looked no less on him, judging him to be some man 
of consequence. His age seemed about fifty; he had 
some gray hairs, a sharp look, and a grave yet pleasing 
aspect. In short, his mien and appearance spoke him 
aman of quality. When he looked on Don Quixote, he 
thought he had never beheld before such a strange 
appearance of a man. He could not but wonder at the 
lankness of his horse; he considered then the long- 
backed, raw-boned thing that bestrid him; his wan, 
meagre face; his air, his gravity, his arms and equip- 
age; such a figure as perhaps had not been seen in that 
country time out of mind.” , 

Don Quixote observed how intent the travelling gen- 
tleman had been in surveying him, and reading his de- 
sire in his surprise, as he was the very pink of courtesy, 
and fond of pleasing every one, without staying till he 
should question him, he thought fit to prevent him. 

“Sir,” said he, “that you are surprised at this figure 
of mine, which appears so new and exotic, I do not 
wonder in the least; but your wonder will cease when 
T have informed you that 1 am one of those knights who 
go in quest of adventures. I have left my country, 
mortgaged my estate, quitted my pleasures, and thrown 
myself into the arms of fortune. My design was to give 
a new life to knight-errantry, that so long has been lost 
to the world; 'and thus, after infinite toils and hard- 
ships, sometimes stumbling, sometimes falling, casting 
myself headlong in one place and rising again in another, 
I have compassed a great part of my desire—relieving 
widows, protecting damsels, assisting married women 
and orphans, the proper and natural office of knights- 
errant: and so, by many valorous and Christian-like 
achievements, I have merited the honor of being in 
print in alnost all the nations of the world. Thirty 
thousand volumes of my history have been printed al- 
ready, and thirty thousand millions more are like to be 
printed, if Heaven prevent not. In short, to sum up all 
in one word, know I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
otherwise called the Knight of the Woful Figure. I 
own it lessens the value of praise to be the publisher of 
its own self, yet it is what I am sometimes forced to 
when there is none present to do me justice. And now, 
good sir, no longer let this steed, this lance, this shield, 
this armor, this squire, the paleness of my looks, nor 
my exhausted body, move your wonder, since you know 
who [am and the profession I follow.” 

Having said this, Don Quixote was silent, and the 
gentleman in green, by his delaying to answer him, 
seemed as if he did not intend to make any return. But 
at last, after some pause, “Sir Knight,” said he, “you 
were sensible of my curiosity by my looks, and were 
pleased to say my wonder would cease when you had 
informed me who you were; but I must confess, since 
you have done that, I remain no less surprised and 





271 


amazed than ever. For is it possible there should be 
at this time any knights-errant in the world, or that 
there should be a true history of a living knight-errant 
in print? I cannot persuade myself there is anybody 
now upon earth that relieves widows, protects damsels, 
or assists married women and orphans; and I should 
still have been of the same mind, had not my eyes af- 
forded me a sight of such a person as yourself. Now, 
Heaven be praised! for this history of your true and 
noble feats of arms, which you say is in print, will blot 
out the memory of all those idle romances of pretended 
knights-errant that have so filled and pestered the 
world, to the detriment of good education, and the 
prejudice and dishonor of true history.” 

“There is a great deal to be said,” answered Don 
Quixote, “for the truth of histories of knight-errantry, 
as well as against it.” 

“How ?” returned the gentleman in green; “is there 
anybody living who makes the least scruple but that 
they are false ?” 

“Yes, sir; myself for one,” said Don Quixote. “But 
let that pass; if we continue any time together on the 
road, I hope to convince you that you have been to 
blame in suffering yourself to be carried away with the 
stream of mankind, who generally disbelieve them.” 

The traveller, at this discourse, began to have a sus- 
picion that Don Quixote was distracted, and expected 
the next words would confirm him in that opinion; but 
before they entered into any further conversation, Don 
Quixote begged him to acquaint him who he was, since 
he had given him some account of his own life and 
condition. 

“Sir Knight of the Woful Figure,” answered the 
other, “I am a gentleman, born at a village, where, God 
willing, we shall dine by-and-by. My name is Don 
Diego de Miranda. I have a reasonable competency; I 
pass my time contentedly with my wife, my children, 
and my friends; my usual diversions are hunting and 
fishing, yet I keep neither hawks nor hounds, but some 
tame partridges and a ferret; I have about three or 
four score books—some Spanish, some Latin, some of 
history, others of divinity; but for books of knight- 
errantry, none ever came within my doors. I am more 
inclinable to read those that are profane than those of 
devotion, if they be such as yield am innocent amuse- 
ment, and are agreeable for their style, and surprising 
for their invention, though we have but few of them in 
our language. Sometimes I eat with my neighbors and 
friends, and often I invite them to do the like with me. 
My treats are clean and handsome, neither penurious 
nor superfluous. I am not given to murmur and back- 
bite, nor do I love to hear others doit. Iam no curious 
inquirer into the lives and actions of other people. 
Every day I hear divine service, and give to the poor, 
without making a show of it, or presuming on my good 
deeds, lest I should give way to hypocrisy and vain- 
glory—enemies that too easily possess themselves of 
the best guarded hearts.. I endeavor to reconcile those 
that are at variance. I pay my devotion tothe blessed 
Virgin, and ever trust in Heaven’s infinite mercy.” 

Sancho listened with great attention to this relation 


272 


of the gentleman's way of living, and believing that a 
person who had led so good and pious a life was able 
to work miracles, he jumped in haste from his ass, and 
catching hold of his right stirrup, with tears in his 
eyes and devotion in his heart, fell to kissing his foot. 

“What is the matter, friend?” cried the gentleman, 
wondering at his proceeding; “what is the meaning of 
this kissing?” 

“Oh, good sir?” quoth Sancho, “let me kiss that dear 
foot of yours, I beseech you; for you are certainly the 
first saint on horseback I ever saw in my born days.” 

“ Alas!” replied the gentleman, “I am no saint, but a 
great sinner; you, indeed, friend, I believe, are a good 
soul, as appears by your simplicity.” 

With that Sancho returned to his pack-saddle, hav- 
ing by this action provoked the profound gravity of his 
master to smile, and caused new admiration in Don 
Diego. And now Don Quixote inquired of him how 
many children he had, telling him, at the same time, 
that among the things in which the ancient philoso- 
phers, who had not the true knowledge of God, made 
happiness consist, as the advantages of nature and for- 
tune, one was, to have many friends and a numerous 
and virtuous offspring 

“T have a son, Sir Knight,” answered the gentleman; 
“and perhaps if I had him not I should not think my- 
self the more unhappy; not that he is so bad neither, 
but because he is not so good as I would have him. He 
is eighteen years of age; the last six he has spent at 
Salamanea, to perfect himself in his Latin and Greek. 
But when I would have him to have proceeded to the 
study of other sciences, I found him so engaged in that 
of poetry, if it may be called a science, that it was im- 
possible to make him look either to the study of the 
law, which I intended him for, or of divinity, the no- 
blest part of all learning. I was in hopes he might 
have become an honor to his family, living in an age 
in which good and virtuous literature is highly favored 
and rewarded by princes; for learning without virtue 
is like a pearl upon a dunghill. He now spends whole 
days in examining whether Homer, in such a verse of 
his ‘Iliad,’ says well or no; whether such an epigram 
in Martial ought not to be expunged; and whether such 
and such verses in Virgil are to be taken in such a 
sense or otherwise. In short, his whole converse is 
with the celebrated poets—with Horace and Persius, 
Juvenal and Tibullus. But as for modern rhymers, he 
has but an indifferent opinion of them. And yet for 
all this disgust of Spanish poetry, he is now breaking 
his brain upon a paraphrase or gloss on four verses 
that were sent him from the university, and which, I 
think, are designed for a prize.” 

“Sir,” replied Don Quixote,“ children are the flesh and 
plood of their parents, and whether good or bad, are to 
be cherished as part of ourselves. Itis the duty of a 
father to train them up from their tenderest years in 
the path of virtue, in good discipline and Christian 
principles, that when they advance in years they may 
become the staff and support of their parents’ age, and 
the glory of their posterity. But as for forcing them 
to this or that study, it is a thing I do not so well 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 


approve. Persuasionis all, I think, that is proper in 
such a case; especially when they are so fortunate as to 
be above studying for bread, they ought, in mf opinion, 
to be indulged in the pursuit of that science to which 
their own genius gives them the mostinclination. For 
though the art of poetry is not so profitable as delight- 
ful, vet it is none of those that disgrace the ingenious 
professor. Poetry, sir, in my judgment, is like a tender 
virgin in her bloom, beautiful and charming to amaze- 
ment; all the other sviences are so many virgins, whose 
care it is to enrich, polish, and adorn her; as she is to 
make use of them all, so are they all to have from her a 
grateful acknowledgement. But this virgin must not be 
roughly handled, nor dragged along the streets, nor 
exposed at every market-place and corner of great 
men's houses. A good poet is a kind of an alchymist, 
who can turn the matter he prepares into the purest 
gold and an inestimable treasure. But he must keep 
his muse within the rules of decency, and not let her 
prostitute her excellency in lewd satires and lampoons, 
nor in licentions sonnets. She must not be mercenary, 
though she need not give away the profits she may 
claim for heroic poems, deep tragedies, and pleasant 
and artful comedies. She is not to be attempted by 
buttoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar, whose capacity 
can never reach to a due sense of the treasures that are 
locked up in her. And know, sir, that when I mention 
the vulgar, I do not mean only the common rabble; for 
whoever is ignorant, be he lord or prince, is to be 
reckoned in the number of the vulgar. But whoever 
shall apply himself to the muses with those qualifica- 
tions which, as I said, are essential to the character of 
a good poet, his name shall be famous, and valued in all 
the polished nations of the world. And as to what you 
say, sir, that your son does not much esteem our modern 
poetry, in my opinion, he is somewhat to blame; and 
my reason is this: Homer never wrote 1n Latin, because 
he wasa Grecian; nor did Virgil write in Greek, be- 
cause Latin was the language of his country. In short, 
all your ancient poets wrote in their mother-tongues, 
and did not seek other languages to express their lofty 
thoughts. And thus it would be well that custom 
should extend to every nation; there being no reason 
that a German poet should be despised, because he 
writes in his own tongue, or a Castilian or Biscayan, 
because they write in theirs. But I suppose your son 
does not mislike modern poetry, but such modern poets 
as have no tincture of any other language or science, 
that may adorn, awaken, and assist their natural im- 
pulse. Though even in this, too, there may be error. 
For it is believed, and not without reason, that a poet 
is naturally a poet from his birth, and that with the 
talent which Heaven has infused into him, without the 
help of study or art, he may produce those compositions 
that verify that saying, Est Deus in nobis, Sc. Not but 
that a natural poet, who improves himself by art, shall 
be much more accomplished, and have the advantage 
of him that has no title to poetry but by his knowledge 
in the art; because art cannot go beyond nature, but 
only adds to its perfection: from which it appears that 
the most perfect poet is he whom nature and art com- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


bine to qualify. Let, then, your son proceed and follow 
the guidance of his stars, for being so good a student 
as I understand he is, and already gone up the first 
step of the sciences—the knowledge of the learned 
tongues—he will easily ascend to the pinnacle of learn- 
ing, which is no less an honor and an ornament to a 
gentleman than a mitre is to a bishop, or the long robe 
is to a civilian. Should your son write satires to lessen 
the reputation of any person, you would do well 
to take him to task, and destroy his defamatory 
rhymes; but if he studies to write such discourses 
in verse, to ridicule and explode vice in general, 
as Horace so elegantly did, then encourage him: for 
a poet's pen is allowed to inveigh against envy and 
envious men, and so against other vices, provided 
it aim not at particular persons. But there are poets 
so abandoned to the love of scurrility, that rather 
than lose a villianous jest, they will venture being 
banished to the islands of Pontus. If a poet is modest 
in his manners, he will be so in his verses. The pen is 
tue tongue of the mind; the thoughts that are formed 
in the one, and those that are traced by the other, will 
bear a near resemblance. And when kings and princes 
see the wonderful art of poetry shine in prudent, vir- 





273 


tuous, and solid subjects, they honor, esteem, and en- 
rich them, and even crown them with leaves of that 
tree which is never offended by the thunderbolt, as a 
token that nothing shall offend those whose brows are 
honored and adorned with such crowns.” 

The gentleman, hearing Don Quixote express himself 
in this manner, was struck with so much admiration, 
that he began to lose the bad opinion he had conceived 
of his understanding. As for Sancho, who did not 
much relish this fine talk, he took an opportunity to 
slink aside in the middle of it, and went to get a little 
milk of some shepherds that were hard by, keeping 
their sheep. Now when the gentleman was going to 
renew his discourse, mightily pleased with these judi- 
cious observations, Don Quixote, lifting up his eyes, 
perceived a wagon on the road, set around with little 
flags, that appeared to be the king’s colors; and believ- 
ing it to be some new adventure, he called out to Sancho 
to bring him his helmet. Sancho hearing him call 
aloud, left the shepherds, and, clapping his heels vig- 
orously to Dapple’s sides, came trotting up to his 
master, to whom there happened a most terrifying and 
desperate adventure. 








CHAPTER XVII. 


WHERE YOU WILL FIND SET FORTH THE HIGHEST AND UTMOST 


PROOF THAT GREAT DON QUIXOTE EVER 


GAVE, OR COULD GIVE, OF HIS INCREDIBLE COURAGE, WITH THE SUCCESSFUL ISSUE OF THE ADVENTURE 


OF THE LIONS. 


THE history relates that Sancho was chaffering with 
the shepherds for some curds, when Don Quixote called 
to him; and finding that his master was in haste, he did 
not know what to do with them, nor what to bring them 
in; yet loth to lose his purchase (for he had already 
paid for them), he bethought himself at last of clapping 
them into the helmet, where having them safe, he went 
“to know his master’s pleasure. Assoon as he came up 
to him, “Give me that helmet, friend,” said the knight, 
“for if I understand anything of adventures, I descry 
one yonder that obliges me to arm.” 

The gentlemen in green, hearing this, looked about 
to see what was the matter, but could perceive nothing 
but a wagon, which made towards them; and by the 
little flags about it, he judged it to be one of the king’s 
carriages, and so he told Don Quixote. But his 
head was too much possessed with notions of ad- 
ventures to give any credit to what the gentleman 
said. “Sir,” answered he, “‘forewarned, forearmed y 
a man loses nothing by standing on his guard. I 
know by experience that I have enemies visible 
and invisible, and I cannot tell when or where, or 
in what shape they may attack me.” At the same time 

18——DON QUIX. 





he snatched the helmet out of Sancho’s hands, before 
he could discharge it of the curds, and clapped it on 
lis head, without examining the contents. Now, the 
curds being squeezed between his bare crown and the 
iron, the whey began to run all about his face and 
beard, which so surprised him, that, calling to Sancho 
in great disorder, “What's this,” cried he, “Sancho ? 
What's the matter with me? Sure, my skull is grow- 
ing soft, or my brains are melting, or else I sweat from 
head to foot! TButifI do, lam sure it is not for fear. 
This certainly must be a very dreadful adventure that 
is approaching. Give me something to wipe my face 
if thou canst, for I am almost blinded with the torrent 
of sweat.” 

Sancho did not dare to say a word, but giving him a 
cloth, blessed his stars that his master had not found 
him out. Don Quixote dried himself, and taking off 
the helmet to see what it should be that felt so cold on 
his head, perceiving some white stuff, and putting it to 
his nose, soon found whatit was. “Now, by the life 
of my Lady Dulcinea Toboso,” cried he, “thou hast 
put curds in my helmet, vile traitor, and unmannerly 
squire!” 


274 


“Nay,” replied Sancho cunningly, and keeping his 
countenance, “if they be curds, good your worship, 
give them me hither, and I will eat them. But hold, 
now I think on it, [had better not, for some enchanter 
must have put them there. What! I offer to do such 
a trick! Do you think I have no more manners? As 
sure as I am alive, sir, I have got my enchanters too, 
that owe me a grudge, and plague me as a limb of your 
worship; and I warrant they have put that stuff there 
on purpose to set you against me, and make you fall 
foul on my bones. But I hope they have missed their 
aim this time, i’ troth! My master is a wise man, and 
must needs know that I had neither curds nor milk, nor 
anything of that kind; and if I had met with curds, I 
should sooner have put themin my mouth than his 
helmet.” 1 

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “there may be something 
in that.” 

The gentleman had observed these passages, and 
stood amazed, but especially at what immediately fol- 
lowed; for the knight-errant, having put on the helmet 
again, fixed himself well in the stirrups, tried whether 
his sword were loose enough in his scabbard, and rested 
his lance. “Now,” cried he, ‘come what will come; 
here am I, who dare encounter any enchanter in propria 
persona.” By this time the wagon was come up with 
them, attended only by the carter, mounted on one of 
the mules, and another man who sat on the forepart of 
the wagon. Don Quixote making up to them, “ Whither 
go ye, friends?” said he. “What wagon is this? What 
do you convey in it? And what is the meaning of these 
colors ?” 

“The wagon is mine,” answered the wagoner: “I 
have there two brave lions, which the general of Oran 
is sending to the king our master, and these colors are 
to let the people understand that what goes here be- 
longs to him.” 

“And are the lions large ?” inquired Don Quixote. 

“Very large,” answered the man in the forepart of 
the wagon: “there never came bigger from Africa into 
Spain. I am their keeper,” added he, “and have had 
charge of several others, but I never saw the like of 
these before. In the foremost cage is a lion, and in the 
other behind a lioness. By this time they are very 
hungry, for they have not eaten to-day; therefore, pray, 
good sir, ride out of the way, for we must make haste 
to get to the place where we intend to feed them.” 

“What!” said: Don Quixote, with a scornful smile, 
“lion whelps against me! Against me, those puny 
beasts! And at this time of day? Well, I will make 
those gentlemen, that sent their lions this way, know 
whether Iam a man to be scared with lions. Get off, 
honest fellow; and since youare the keeper, open their 
cages and let them both out; for, despite of those en- 
chanters that have sent them to try me, I will make the 
creatures know, in the midst of this very field, who 
Don Quixote de la Mancha is.” 

“So,” thought the gentleman to himself, “now has 
our poor knight discovered what he is; the curds, I 
find, have softened his skull, and mellowed his brains.” 

While he was making this reflection, Sancho came up 

It 


” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


to him, and begged him to dissuade his master from his 
rash attempt. “Oh, good, dear sir!” cried he, “for pity 
sake, hinder my master from falling upon these lions, 
by all means, or we shall be torn in pieces.” 

“Why,” said the gentleman, “is your master so arrant 
a madman then, that you should fear he would set upon 
such furious beasts ?” 

“Ah, sir!” said Sancho, “he is not mad, but very 
venturesome.” 

“Well,” replied the gentleman, “I will take care 
there shall be no harm done;” and with that, advancing 
to Don Quixote, who was urging the lion-keeper to 
open the cage, “Sir,” said he, “knights-errant ought to 
engage in adventures from which there may be some 
hopes of coming off with safety, but not in such as are 
altogether desperate; for that courage which borders 
on temerity is more like madness than true fortitude. 
Besides, these lions are not come against you, but are 
sent as a present to the king, and therefore it is not the 
best way to detain them, or stop the wagon.” 

“Pray, sweet sir,” replid Don Quixote, “go home and 
amuse yourself with your tame partridges and your 
ferrets, and leave every one to his own business. This 
is mine, and I know best whether these worthy lions 
are sent against me or no.” Then turning about to the 
keeper, “Sirrah! you rascal you ” said he, “open your 
cages immediately, or I vow I will pin thee to the wagon 
with this lance.” 

“Good sir,” cried the wagoner, seeing this strange 
apparition in armor so resolute, “for mercy’s sake, do 
but let me take out our mules first, and get out of 
harm's way as fast as I can, before the lions get out; 
for if they should once set upon the poor beasts, I 
should be undone forever, as that cart and they are all 
I have in the world to get a living with.” 

“Thou man of little faith!” said Don Quixote, “take 
them out quickly then, and go with them where thou 
wilt; though thou shalt presently see that thy precau- 
tion was needless, and thou mightest have spared thy 
puins.” 

The wagoner on this made all the haste he could to 
take out his mules, while the keeper cried out as loud 
as he was able, “Bear witness, all ye that are here 
present, that it is against my will I am forced to open 
the cages and let loose the lions; and I protest to this 
gentleman here, that he shall be answerable for all the 
mischief and damage they may do, together with the 
loss of my salary and fees. And now, sirs, shift for 
yourselves as fast as you can, before I open the cages; 
for as for myself, I know the lions will do me no harm.” 

Once more the gentlemen tried to dissuade Don 
Quixote from doing so mad a thing, telling him that he 
tempted Heaven, in exposing himself without reason to 
so great a danger. 

To this Don Quixote made no other answer but that 
he knew what he had to do. 

“Consider, however, what you do,” replied the gen- 
tleman, “for it is most certain that you are very much 
mistaken.” 

“Well, sir,” said Don Quitote, “if you care not to be 
spectator of an action which you think is likely to be 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


tragical, e’en put spurs to your mare and provide for 
your safety.” 

Sancho, hearing this, came up to his master with 
tears in his eyes, and begged him not to go about this 
fearful undertaking, to which the adventure of the 
windmills and the fulling-mills and all the brunts he 
had ever borne in his life, were but children's play. 
“Good your worship,” cried he, “do but mind; here is 
no enchantment in the case, nor anything like it. Alack 
a-day! sir, I peeped even now through the grates of the 
cage, and J am sure I saw the claw ofa true lion, and 
such a claw asmakes me think the lion that owns it 
must be as big as a mountain.” 

“ Alas! poor fellow!” said Don Quixote, “thy fear will 
make him as big as half the world. Retire, Sancho, and 
leave me; and if I chance to fail here, thou knowest our 
old agreement; repair to Dulcinea—I say no more.” 
To this he added some expressions, which cut off all 
hopes of his giving over his mad design. 

The gentleman in green would have opposed him; but 
considering the other much better armed, and that it was 
not prudence to encounter a madman, he even took the 
opportunity, while Don Quixote was storming at the 
keeper, to march off with his mare, as Sancho did with 
Dapple, and the carter with his mules, every one mak- 
ing the best of his way to get as far as he could from 
the wagon, before the lions were let loose. Poor San- 
cho at the same time made sad lamentations for his 
master’s death; for he gave him up for lost, not ques- 
tioning but the lions had already got him in their 
clutches. He cursed his ill fortune, and the hour he 
came again to his service; but for all his wailing and 
lamenting, he punched on poor Dapple, to get as far as 
he could from the lions. 

The keeper, perceiving the persons who fled to be at 
a good distance, fell to arguing and entreating Don 
Quixote as he had done before. But the knight told 
him again that all his reasons and entreaties were in 
vain, and bid him say no more. 

Now while the keeper took time to open the foremost 
cage, Don Quixote stood debating with himself whether 
he had best make his attack on foot or on horseback; 
and upon mature deliberation, he resolved to do it on 
foot, lest Rozinante, not used to lions, should be put into 
disorder. Accordingly he quitted his horse, threw 
aside his lance, grasped his shield, and drew his sword; 
then advancing with a deliberate motion, and an un- 
daunted heart, he posted himself just before the door 
of the cage, commending himself to Heaven, and after- 
wards to his Lady Dulcinea. 

Here the author of this faithful history could not for- 
bear breaking the thread of his narration, and raised 
by wonder to rapture and enthusiasm, makes the follow- 
ing exclamation: “Oh, thou most magnanimous hero! 
Brave and unutterably bold Don Quixote de la Mancha! 
Thou mirror and grand exemplar of valor! Thou sec- 
ond and new Don Emanuel de Leon, the late glory and 
honor of all Spanish cavaliers! What words, what 
colors shall I use to express, to paint in equal lines, 
this astonishing deed of thine? What language shall 
I employ to convince posterity of the truth of this thy 





275 


more than human enterprise? What praises can be 
coined, and eulogies invented, that will not be outvied 
by thy superior merit, though hyperboles were piled 
on hyperboles? Thou, alone, on foot, intrepid and 
magnanimous, with nothing but a sword, and that none 
of the sharpest, with thy single shield, and that none 
of the brightest, stoodest ready to receive and en- 
counter the savage force of two huge lions, as fierce as 
ever roared within the Lybian deserts. Then let thy 
own unrivalled deeds, that best can speak thy praise, 
amaze the world, and fill the mouth of fame, brave 
champion of La Mancha; while Iam obliged to leave 
off the high theme, for want of vigor to maintain the 
flight.” Here ended the author’s exclamation, and the 
history goes on. 

The keeper observed the posture Don Quixote had 
put himself in, and that it was not possible for him to 
prevent letting out the lions, without incurring the re- 
sentment of the desperate knight set the door of the 
foremost cage wide open; where, as I have said, the 
male lion lay, who appeared of a monstrous bigness, 
and of a hideous, frightful aspect. The first thing he 
did was to roll and turn himself round in his cage; in 
the next place, he stretched out one of his paws, put 
forth his claws, and roused himself. After that he 
gaped and yawned for a good while, and showed his 
dreadful fangs, and then thrust out half a yard of 
broad tongue, and with it licked the dust out of his 
eyes and face. Having done this, he thrust his head 
quite out of the cage, and stared about with his eyes, 
which looked like two live coals of fire; a sight and 
motion enough to have struck terror into temerity itself. 

But Don Quixote only regarded the lion with atten- 
tion, wishing his grim adversary would leap out of his 
hold, and come within his reach, that he might exercise 
his valor, and cut the monster piecemeal. To this 
height of extravagance had his folly transported him; 
but the generous lion, more generous than arrogant, 
taking no notice of him, after he had looked about him 
awhile, turned his tail, and very contentedly Jay down 
again in his apartment. 

Don Quixote, seeing this, commanded the keeper to 
rouse him with his pole, and force him out, whether he 
would or no. 

“Not I indeed, sir,” answered the keeper; “I dare 
not do it for my life; for if I provoke him, I am sure to 
be the first he will tear to pieces. Let me advise you, 
sir, to be satisfied with your day’s work. "Tis as much 
as the bravest that wears a head can pretend to do. 
Then pray go no farther, I beseech you. The door 
stands open, the lion is at his choice, whether he will 
come ont or no. You have waited for him, you see he 
does not care to look you in the face; and since he did 
not come out at the first, I dare engage he will not stir 
out this day. You have shown enough the greatness of 
your courage. No man is obliged to do more than 
challenge his enemy, and wait for him in the field. If 
he comes not, that is his own fault, and the scandal is 
his, as the honor the challenger’s.” 

“Tis true,” replied Don Quixote. “Come, shut the 
cage door, honest friend, and give me a certificate un- 








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“ He posted himself just before the door of the cage,”—p. 275, 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


der thy hand, in the amplest form thou canst devise, 
of what thou hast seen me perform; how thou didst 
open the cage for the lion; how I expected his coming, 
and he did not come out; how, upon his not coming out 
then, I stayed his own time, and instead of meeting me, 
he turned tail and lay down. I am obliged to do no 
more. So, enchantments avaunt! and Heaven prosper 
truth, justice, and knight-errantry!” 

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote clapping on the 
point of his lance the handkerchief, with which he had 
wiped off the curds from his face, waved it in the air, 
and called as loud as he was able to the fugitives, who 
fled nevertheless, looking behind them all the way, 
and trooped on in abody, with the gentleman in green 
at the head of them. 

At last Sancho observed the signal of the white flag, 
and calling out to the rest, “Hold,” cried he, “my 
master calls to us; I will be hanged if he has not got 
the better of the lions.” 

At this they all faced about, and perceived Don 
Quixote fiourishing his ensign; whereupon recovering 
a little from their fright, they leisurely rode back, till 
they could plainly distinguish Don Quixote’s voice; 
and then they came up to the wagon. As soon as they 
were got near it— 

“Come on, friend,” said he to the carter; “put thy 
mules to the wagon again, and pursue thy journey; 
and, Sancho, do thou give him two ducats for the lion- 
keeper ‘and himself, to make them amends for the time 
I have detained them.” 

“Ay, that I will with all my heart,” quoth Sancho; 
“but what is become of the lions? Are they dead or 
alive?” 

Then the keeper very formally related the whole ac- 
tion, not failing to exaggerate, to the best of his skill, 
Don Quixote’s courage; how at his sight alone the lion 
was so terrified, that he neither would nor durst quit his 
stronghold, though for that end his cage-door was kept 
open for a considerable time; and how at length, upon 
his remonstrating to the knight, who would have 
had the lion forced out, that it was presuming too 
much upon Heaven, he had permitted, though with 
great reluctance, that the lion should be shut up 
again. 

“Well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote to his squire, 
“what dost thou think of this? Can enchantment pre- 
vail over true fortitude? No; these magicians may 
perhaps rob me of success, but never of my invincible 
greatness of mind.” 

In short, Sancho gave the wagoner and the keeper 
the two pieces. The first harnessed his mules, and the 
last thanked Don Quixote for his noble bounty, and 
promised to acquaint the king himself with his heroic 
action when he came to court. 

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “if his majesty should 
chance to inqnire who the person was that did this 
thing, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions, a name I 
intend henceforth to take up, in lieu of that which I 
hitherto assumed—the Knight of the Woful Figure: in 
which proceeding I do but conform to the ancient cus- 
tom of knights-errant, who changed their names as 


277 


often as they pleased, or as it suited with their ad- 
vantage.” 

After this the wagon made the best of its way, as 
Don Quixote, Sancho, and the gentleman in green did 
of theirs. The latter for a great while was so taken up 
with making his observations on Don Quixote, that he 
had not time to speak a syllable; not knowing what 
opinion to have of a person in whom he discovered such 
a mixture of good sense and extravagance. “For,” 
said he to himself, “can there be anything more foolish 
than for this man to put on bis helmet full of curds, and 
then believe them conveyed there by enchanters; or 
anything more extravagant than forcibly to endeavor 
to fight with lions ?” 

In the midst of this soliliquy, Don Quixote inter- 
rupted him. 

“Without doubt, sir,” said he, “you take me for a 
downright madman, and, indeed, my actions may seem 
to speak me no less. But for all that, give me leave to 
tell you Iam not so mad, noris my understanding so 
defective, as I suppose you may fancy. What a noble 
figure does the gallant knight make who, in the midst 
of some spacious place, transfixes a furious bull with 
nis lance in the view of his prince! What a noble 
figure makes the knight who, before the ladies, at a 
harmless tournament, comes prancing through the lists 
enclosed in shining steel; or those court champions 
who, in exercises of martial kiud, show their activity; 
and though all they do is merely but for recreation, are 
thought the ornament of a prince’s court! But a much 
nobler figure is the knight-erraut who, fired with the 
thirst of a glorious fame, wanders through deserts, 
through solitary wildernesses, through woods, through 
cross-ways, over mountains and valleys, in quest of 
perilous adventures, resolved to bring them to a happy 
conclusion. Yes, I say, a nobler figure is a knight-er- 
rant succoring a widow in some depopulated place, than 
the court-knight making his addresses to the city 
dames. Every knight has his particular employment. 
Let the courtier wait on the ladies; let him with splen- 
did equipage adorn his prince’s court, and with a mag- 
nificent table support poor gentlemen; let him give 
birth to feasts and tournaments, and show his grandeur, 
and liberality, and munificence, and especially his 
piety; in all these things he fulfils the duty of his sta- 
tion. But as for the knight-errant, let him search into 
all the corners of the world, enter into the most intri- 
cate labyrinths, and every hour be ready to attempt im- 
possibility itself; let him in desolate wilds baffle the 
rigor of the weather, the scorching heat of the sun’s 
fiercest beams, and the inclemency of winds and snow; 
let lions never fright him, dragons daunt him, nor evil 
spirits deter him. Since, then, my stars have decreed 
me to be one of those adventurous knights, I think my- 
self obliged to attempt everything that seems to come 
within the verge of my profession. This, sir, engaged me 
to encounter those lions just now; and in attempting ad- 
ventures, believe me, Signor Don Diego, it is better to ex- 
ceed the bounds a little, and overdo rather than under- 
do the thing; because it sounds better in people’s 





ears to hear it said how that such a knight is rash and 


278 


hardy, than such a knight is dastardly and timor- 
ous.” 

“For my part, sir” answered Don Diego, “I think all 
you have said and done is agreeable to the exactest 
rules of reason; and I believe, if the ordinances of 
knight-errantry were lost, they might be all recovered 
from you, your breast seeming to be the safe repository 
where they are lodged. But it grows late; let us make 
a little more haste to get to our village, and to my hab- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


itation, where you may rest yourself after the fatigues 
which doubtless you have sustained, if not in body, at 
least in mind, whose pains often afflict the body 
too.” 

“Sir,” answered Don Quixote, “I esteem your offer 
as a Singular favor.” And so, pushing ona little faster, 
about two in the afternoon they got to the house of 
Don Diego, whom now Don Quixote called the Knight 
of the Green Coat. 








CHAPTER XVIII. 


HOW DON QUIXOTE WAS ENTERTAINED AT THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GREEN COAT, 


WITH OTHER EXTRAVAGANT PASSAGES. 


Don QUIXOTE found that Don Diego de Miranda’s | 
house was spacious, after the: country manner. The 
arms of the family were over the gate in rough stone, 
the buttery in the fore-yard, the cellar under the porch, 
and all around several great jars of that sort commonly 
made at Toboso; the sight of which bringing to his re- 
membrance his enchanted and transformed Dulcinea, 
he heaved a deep sigh, and neither minding what he 
said, nor who was by, broke out into the following ex- 
clamation :— 

“*Oh, pledges! once my comfort and relief, 
Though pleasing still, discovered now with grief.’ 
Oh, ye Tobosian urns! that awaken in my mind the 
houghts of the sweet pledge of my most bitter sor- 
rows!” 

Don Diego’s son, who, as it has been said, was a 
student and poetically inclined, heard these words as 
he came wlth his mother to welcome him home, and, as 
well as she, was not a little surprised to see what a 
strange creature his father had ‘brought with him. Don 
Quixote alighted from Rozinante, and very courteously 
desired to kiss her ladyship’shands. “Madam,” said 
Don Diego, “this gentleman is the noble Don Quixote 
de la Mancha, the wisest and most valiant knight-errant 
in the world; pray let him find a welcome suitable to 
his merit and your usual civility.” 

Thereupon Donna Christina (for that was the lady’s 
name) received him very kindly, and with great marks 
of respect, to which Don Quixote made a proper and 
handsome return; and then almost the same compli- 
ments passed between him and the young gentleman, 
whom Don Quixote judged by his words to be a man of 
wit and sense. 

Here the author inserts a long description of every 
particular in Don Diego’s house, giving us an inven- 
tory of all the goods and chattels and every circum- 
stance peculiar to the house of a rich country gentle- 
man. But the translator presumed that it would be 
better to omit these little things and such like insig- 





nificant matters, being foreign to the main subject of 
this history, which ought to be more grounded on ma- 
terial truth than cold and insipid digressions. 

Don Quixote was brought into a fair room, where 
Sancho took off his armor, and then the knight ap- 
peared in a pair of close breeches and a doublet of 
chamois-leather, all besmeared with the rust of his 
armor. About his neck he wore a plain band, un- 
starched, after the manner of astudent; about his legs, 
sad-colored spatterdashes; and on his feet, a pair of 
wax-leather shoes. He hung his trusty sword by his 
side in a belt of a sea-wolf's skin, which makes many 
of opinion he had been long troubled with a pain in the 
kidneys. Overall this he clapped on along cloak of 
good russet-cloth. But first of all, he washed bis head 
and face in five kettlefuls of water, if not in six (for as 
to the exact number there is some dispute), and it is 
observable that the water still retained a tincture of 
whey, thanks to Sancho’s gluttony, which had made 
him clap into his master’s helmet those dismal curds 
that so contaminated his awful head and face. 

In this dress the knight, with a graceful and spright- 
ly air, walked into another room, where Don Lorenzo, 
the young gentleman whom we have already men- 
tioned, waited his coming, to keep him company till the 
cloth was laid; the mistress of the house being gone, 
in the meantime, to provide a handsome entertainment, 
that might convince her guest she understood how to 
make those welcome that came to her house. But be- 
fore the knight was ready, Don Lorenzo had leisure to 
talk with his father about him. 

“Pray, sir,” said he, “who is the gentleman you have 
brought with you? Considering his name, his aspect, 
and the title of knight-errant which you give him, 
neither my mother nor J can tell what to think of him.” 

“Truly, son,” answered Don Diego, “I do not know 
what to say to you. All that I can inform you of is 
that I have seen him play the maddest pranks in the 
world, and yet say a thousand sensible things that con- 








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ne 
a cary) 


oy Cty, 
; 





280 


tradict his actions. But talk with him yourself, and 
feel the pulse of his understanding; make use of your 
sense to judge his, though, to tell you the truth, 1 be- 
lieve his folly exceeds his discretion.” 

Don Lorenzo then went to entertain Don Quixote, 
and after some discourse had passed between them, 
“Sir,” said the knight, “I am not wholly a stranger to 
your merit; Don Diego de Miranda, your father, has 
given me to understand you are a person of excellent 
parts, and especially a great poet.” 

“Sir,” answered the young gentleman, “I may per- 
haps pretend to poetry, but never to be a great poet. 
It is true, I am somewhat given to rhyming, and love to 
read good authors, but I am very far from deserving to 
be thought one of their number.” 

“T do not dislike your modesty,” replied Don Quix- 
ote; “itis a virtue not often found among poets, for al- 
most every one of them thinks himself the greatest in 
the world.” 

“There is no rule without an exception,” said Don 
Lorenzo; “and it is not impossible but there may be 
one who may deserve the name, though he does not 
think so himself.” 

That is very unlikely,” replied Don Quixote. “But, 
pray, sir, tell me what verses are those that your father 
says you are so puzzled about? If it shonld be what 
we call a gloss ora paraphrase, I understand something 
of that way of writing, and should be glad to see it. 
If the composition be designed for a poetical prize, 1 
would advise you only to put in forthe second; for the 
first always goes by favor, and is rather granted to the 
great quality of the author than to his merit; but as to 
the next, it is adjudged to the most deserving; so that the 
third may in a manner be esteemed the second, and the 
first no more than the third, according to the methods 
used in our universities of giving degrees. And yet, 
after all, it is no small matter to gain the honor of being 
called the first.” 

“Hitherto all is well,” thought Don Lorenzo to him- 
self; “I cannot think thee mad yet; let us go on.” 
With that, addressing himself to Don Quixote, “Sir,” 
said he, “you seem to me to have frequented the 
schools; pray, what science has been your particular 
study?” 

“That of knight-errantry,” answered Don Quixote, 
“which is as good as that of poetry, and somewhat 
better, too.” 

“I do not know what sort of science that is,” said 
Don Lorenzo, “nor, indeed, did 1 ever hear of it be- 
fore.” 

“It is a science,” answered Don Quixote, “that in- 
cludes in itself all the other sciences in the world, or at 
least the greatest part of them. Whoever professes it 
ought to be learned in the law, and understand dis- 
tributive and commutative justice, in order to right all 
mankind. He ought to be a divine, to give a reason of 
his faith and vindicate his religion by dint of argument. 
He ought to be skilled in physic, especially in the 
botanic part of it, that he may know the nature of sim- 
ples, and have recourse to those herbs that can cure 
wounds; for a knight-errant must not expect to find 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


surgeons in the woods and deserts. He must bean 
astronomer, to understand the motions of the celestial 
orbs, and find out by the stars the hour of the night, 
and the longitude and latitude of the climate in which 
fortune throws him; and he ought to be well instructed 
in all the other parts of the mathematics, that science 
being of constant use to a professor of arms, ou many 
accounts, too numerous to be related. I need not tell 
you that all the dvine and moral virtues must centre in 
his mind. To descend to less material qualifications: 
he must be able to swim like a fish, know how to shoe 
a horse, mend a saddle or bridle, and, returning to 
higher matters, he ought to be invioably devoted to 
Heaven and his mistress, chaste in his thoughts, modest 
in words, liberal and valiant in deeds, patient in afflic- 
tions, charitable to the poor, and, finally, a maintainer 
of truth, though it cost him his life to defend it. These 
are the endowments to constitute a good knight-errant ; 
and now, sir, be you a judge whether the professors of 
chivalry have an easy task to perform, and whether 
such a science may not stand in competition with the 
most celebrated and best of those that are taught in 
colleges.” 

“If it be so,” answered Don Lorenzo, “I say it de 
serves the pre-eminence over «ll other sciences.” 

“What do you mean, sir, by that ‘if it be so?’” cried 
Don Quixote. 

“I mean, sir,” cried Don Lorenzo, “that I doubt 
whether there ure now, or ever were, any knights- 
errant, especially with so many rare accomplishments.” 

“This makes good what I have often said,” answered 
Don Quixote; “most people will not be persuaded there 
ever were any knights-errant in the world. Now, sir, 
because I verily believe that, unless Heaven will work 
some miracle to convince them that there have been, 
and still are, knights-errant, those incredulous persons 
are too much wedded to their opinion to admit such a 
belief, I will not now lose time to endeavor to let you 
see how much you and they are mistaken; all I design 
to do is only to beseech Heaven to convince you of 
your being in an error, that you may see how useful 
knights-errant were in former ages, and the vast ad- 
vantages that would result in ours from the assistance 
of men of that profession. But now effeminacy, sloth, 
luxury, and ignoble pleasures triumph, for the punish- 
ment of our sins.” 

“Now,” said Lorenzo to himself, “our gentleman has 
already betrayed his blind side; but yet he gives a 
color of reason to his extravagance, and I were a fool 
should I think otherwise.” 

Here they were called to dinner, which ended the 
discourse. And at that time Don Diego, taking his son 
aside, asked him what he thought of the stranger. 

“I think, sir,“ said Don Lorenzo, “that it is not in 
the power of all the physicians in the world to cure his 
distemper. He is mad past recovery, but yet he has 
lucid intervals.” 

In short, they dined, and their entertainment proved 
such as the old gentleman had told the knight Le used 
to give his guests—neat, plentiful, and well-ordered. 
But that which Don Quixote most admired was the 


DON QUIQOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


extraordinary silence he observed through the whole 
house, as if it had been a monastery of mute Carthu- 
sians. 

The cloth being removed, grace sail, and hands 
washed, Don Quixote earncstly desired Don Lorenzo to 
show him the verses he had written for the poetical 
prize. 

“Well, sir,” answered he, “because I will not be like 
those poets that are unwilling to show their verses 
when entreated to do it, but will tire you with them 
when nobody desires it, I will show you my gloss of 
paraphrase, which I did not write with a design to get 
a prize, but only to exercise my muse.” 

“T remember,” said Don Quixote, “a friend of mine, 
a man of sense, once told me he would not advise any 
one to break his brains about that sort of composition; 
and he gave me this reason for it, that the gloss or 
comment could never come up to the theme; so far 
from it, that most commonly it left it altogether, and 
ran contrary to the thought of the author. Besides, he 
said that that the rules to which custom ties up the 
composers of those elaborate amusements are too strict, 
allowing no interrogations, no such interjections as 
‘said he,’ or ‘shall I say,’no changing of nouns into 
verbs, nor any altering of the sense; besides several 
other confinements that cramp up those who puzzle 
their brains with such a crabbed way of glossing, as 
you yourself, sir, without doubt, must know.” 

“Really, Signior Don Quixote,” said Don Lorenzo, 
“T would fain catch you tripping, but you still slip 
from me like an eel.” 

“T do not know, sir,” replied Don Quixote, “what 
you mean by your slipping.” 

“T will tell you another time,” answered the young 
gentleman; “in the meanwhile be pleased to hear the 
theme and paraphrase, which is this:— 

THE THEME. 


* Could I recall departed joy, 
Though barred the hopes of greater gain, 
Or now the future hours employ, 
That must succeed my present pain!” 


THE GLOSS, OR PARAPHRASE. 
I. 
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 ficeting pleasure’s past! 
How iong the lingering sorrows last! 
Unconstant goddess, through thy hate, 
Do not thy prostrate slave destroy, 
I'd ne’er complain, but bless my fate, 
Could I recall departed joy. 
il. 
“Of all thy gifte I beg but this, 
Glut all mankind with more; 
Transport them with redoubled bliss, 
But only mine restore. 
With thought of pleasure once possess'd, 
I’m now as curst as I was blest; 
Oh, would the charming hour return, 
How pleased T'd live, how free from pain; 
1 ne'er would pine, I ne'er,wonld mourn, 
Though barr d the hopes of greater gain. 
Ul. 
But, oh, the blessings I implore, 
Not fate itself can give. 
Since time elapsed exists no more, 
No power can bid it live. 





281 


Our days soon vanish into nought, 
And have no being but in thonght. 
Whate'er began must end at last; 
In vain we twice would youth enjoy; 
In vain would we recall the past, 
Or now the future hours employ. 


Iv. 


“* Deceived by hope, and rack'd by fear, 

No longer life can please, 

TI) then no more its torments bear, 
Since death so soon can ease. 

This hour I'll die!—But let me pause— 

A rising doubt my courage awes. 
Assist, ye powers, that rule my fate! 

Alarm my thoughts, my rage refrain, 
Convince my soul there's yet a state 

That must succeed my present pain.” 


As soon as Don Lorenzo had read over his paraphrase, 
Don Quixote rose from his seat, and taking him by the 
hand, “By the highest mansions in the universe,” cried 
the knight aloud, “noble youth! you are the best poet in 
the world, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, not 
at Cyprus or Gueta, as a certain poet said—whom 
Heaven forgive!—but at the University of Athens, 
were it stillin being, and at those of Paris, Bologna, 
and Salamanca. May those judges that deny you the 
honor of the first prize, be shot with arrows by the god. 
of verse, and may the Muses abhor to come within their 
houses! Pray, sir, if I may beg that favor, let me hear 
you read one of your loftiest productions, for I desire 
to have a full taste of your admirable genius.” 

I need not tell you that Don Lorenzo was mightily 
pleased to hear himself praised by Don Quixote, 
though he believed him to be mad; so bewitching and 
welcome a thing is adulation, even from those we at 
other times despise. Don Lorenzo verified this truth 
by his ready compliance with Don Quixote’s request, 
and recited to him the follcwing sonnet, on the story of 
Pyramus and Thisbe!— 


PYRAMUS AND THISBE. 
A SONNET. 


“ See how, to bless the loving boy, 
The nymph, for whom he burns with equal fires, 
Pierces the wall that parts them from their joy, 
While hovering love prompts, gazes, and admires, 


“ The trembling maid in whispers and in sighs 
Dares hardly breathe the passion she betrays: 
But silence speaks, and love through ravish'd eyes, 
Their thoughts, their flames, their very gouis convey. 


“Wild with desires, they sally ont at last, 
But quickly find their ruin in their haste: 
And rashly lose all pleasure in despair, 


“Oh, strange mischance | But do not fortune blame; 
Love joined them first, then death, the grave, and fame; 
What loving wretch a nobier fate would share ? ”* 


“Now, Heaven be praised! ” said Don Quixote, when 
Don Lorenzo had made anend. “Among the infinite 
number of insipid men of rhyme, I have at last found 
aman of rhyme and reason, and, in a word, an absolute 
poet...” 

Don Quixote stayed four days at Don Diego’s house, 
and, during all that time, met with a very generous 
entertainment. However, he then desired his leave to 
go, and returned him a thousand thanks for his kind 
reception; letting him know that the duty of his pro- 
fession did not admit of his staying any longer out of 


282 DON QUIXOTE DE 
action, and therefore he designed to go in quest of ad- 
ventures, which he knew were plentifully to be found 
in that part of Spain; and that he would employ his 
time in that till the tilts and tournaments began at 
Saragosa, to which place it was now his chief intent to 
go. However, he would first go to the cave of Monte- 
sinos, about which so many wonderful stories were 
told in those parts; and there he would endeavor to 
explore and discover the source of the original springs 
of the seven lakes, commonly called the lakes of Ruy- 
dera. Don Diego and his son highly commended his 
noble resolution, and desired him to command what- 
ever their house afforded, assuring him he was sin- 
cerely welcome to do it; the respect he had for his 
honorable profession, and his particular merit, obliging 
them to do him all manner of service. 

In short, the day of his departure came, a day of joy 
and gladness to Don Quixote, but of grief and sadness 
to poor Sancho, who had no mind to change his quar- 
ters, and liked the good cheer and plenty at Don Die- 
go’s house much better than his short hungry commons 
in forests and deserts, or the sorry pittance of his ill- 
stored wallets, which he, however, crammed with what 
he thought could best make the change of his condi- 
tion tolerable. 

And now Don Quixote taking his leave of Don Lo- 
renzo, “Sir,” said he, “I do not know whether I have 
already said it to you, but if I have, give me leave to 
repeat it once more, that if you are ambitious of climb- 





LA MANCHA. 


ing up to the difficult, and in a manner inaccessible, 
summit of the Temple of Fame, your surest way is to 
leave the narrow path of poetry, aud follow the nar- 
rower track of knight-errantry, which in a trice may 
raise you to an imperial throne.” With these words 
Don Quixote seemed to have summed up the whole 
evidence of his madness. However, he could not con- 
clude without adding something more. “Heaven 
knows,” said he, “how willingly I would take Don 
Lorenzo with me, to instruct him in those virtues that 
are annexed to the employment I profess, to spare the 
humble, and crush the proud and haughty. But since 
his tender years do not qualify him for the hardships 
of that life, and his laudable exercises detain him, I 
must rest contented with letting you know that one way 
to acquire fame in poetry is to be governed by other 
men’s judgment more than your own; for it is natural 
to fathers and mothers not to to think their own chil- 
dren ugly; and this error is nowhere so common as in 
the offspring of the mind.” 

Don Diego and his son were again surprised to hear 
this medley of good seuse and extravagance, and to find 
the poor gentleman so strongly bent on the quest or 
these unlucky adventures, the only aim and object of 
his desires. 

After this, and many compliments and mutual reiter- 
ations of offers of service, Don Quixote having taken 
leave of the lady of the castle, he on Rozinante, and 
Sancho on Dapple, set out and pursued their journey. 








CHAPTER XIX. 


THE ADVENTURE OF THE AMOROUS SHEPHERD, AND OTHER TRULY COMICAL PASSAGES. 


Don QUIXOTE had not travelled far, when he was 
overtaken by two men that looked like students or 
ecclesiastics, with two farmers, all mounted upon asses. 
One of the scholars had behind him a small bundle of 
linen and two pairs of stockings, trussed up in green 
buckram like a portmanteau; the other had no other 
luggage but a couple of foils and a pair of fencing 
pumps. And the husbandmen had a parcel of other 
things, which showed that having made their market at 
some adjacent town, they were now returning home 
with their ware. They all wondered (as indeed all 
others did that ever beheld him) what kind of a fellow 
Don Quixote was, seeing him make a figure so different 
from anything they had ever seen. The knight saluted 
them, and perceiving their road lay the same way, 
offered them his company, entreating them, however, to 
move an easier pace, because their asses went faster 
than his horse; and to engage them the more, he gave 
them a hint of his circumstance and profession—that 
he was a knight-errant, travelling round the world in 
quest of adventures; that his proper name was Don 





Quixote de la Mancha, but his titular denomination the 
Knight of the Lions. 

All this was Greek, or pedlar’s French, to the coun- 
trymen; but the students presently found out his blind 
side. However, with a respectful distance, “Sir 
Knight,” said one of them, “if you are not fixed to any 
set stage, as persons of your function seldom are, let us 
beg the honor of your company; and you shall be en- 
tertained with one of the finest and most sumptuous 
weddings that ever was seen, either in La Mancha or 
many leagues round it.” 

“The nuptials of some young prince, I presume?” 
said Don Quixote. 

“No, sir,” answered the other, “but of a yeoman’s 
son and a neighbor’s daughter; he the richest in all 
this country, and she is the handsomest you ever saw. 
The entertainment at the wedding will be new and 
extraordinary ; it is to be kept in ameadow near the vil- 
lage where the bride lives. They call her Quiteria the 
Handsome, by reason of her beauty; and the bride- 
groom Camacho the Rich, on account of his wealth. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


They are well matched as to age, for she draws towards 
eighteen, and he is about two-and-twenty, though some 
nice folks, that have all the pedigrees in the world in 
their heads, will tell ye that the bride comes of a better 
family than he; but that is not minded now-a-days, for 
money, you know, will hide many faults. And, indeed, 
this same Camacho is as free as a prince, and designs to 
spare no cost upon his wedding. He has taken a fancy 
to get the meadow shaded with boughs, that are to 
cover it like an arbor, sothat the sun will have much 
ado to peep through and visit the green grass under- 
neath. There are also provided for the diversion of 
the company several sorts of antics and morrice-dan- 
cers, some with swords, and some with bells; for there 
are young fellows in his village can manage them clev- 
erly. I say nothing of those that play tricks with the 
soles of their shoes when they dance, leaving that to 
the judgments of their guests. But nothing that I 
have told or might tell you of this wedding is like to 
make it soremarkable as the things which I imagine 
poor Basil’s despair will do. This Basil is a young fel- 
low that lives next door to Quiteria’s father. Hence 
love took occasion to give birth to an amour, like that 
of old between Pyramus and Thisbe; for Basil’s love 
grew up with him from a child, and she encouraged his 
passion with all the kind return that modesty could 
grant; insomuch, that the mutual affection of the two 
little ones was the common talk of the village. But 
Quiteria coming to years of maturity, her father began 
to deny Basil the usual access to the house; and to cut 
oft his further pretence, declared his resolution of mar- 
rying her to Camacho, who is indeed his superior in 
estate, though far short of him in all other qualifica- 
tions; for Basil, to give him only his due, is the clever- 
est fellow we have; he will pitch ye a bar, wrestle, or 
play at tennis with the best in the country; he runs 
like a stag, leaps like a buck, plays at nine-pins so well 
you would think he tips them down by witchcraft; 
sings like a lark; touches a guitar so skillfully, he even 
makes it speak; and to complete his perfections, he 
handles a sword like a fencer.” 

“For that very single qualification,” said Don Quix- 
ote, “he deserves not only Quiteria the Handsome, but 
a princess; nay, Queen Guinever herself, were she now 
living, in spite of Sir Lancelot and all that would op- 
pose it.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, who had been silent and list- 
ening all the while, “my wife used to tell me she would 
have every one marry with their match. ‘Like to like,’ 
quoth one to the collier, and ‘every sow to her own 
trough,’ as the other saying is. As for my part, all I 
would have is, that honest Basil e’en marry her; for, 
methinks, I have a huge liking to the young man; and 
so Heaven bless them together, say I, and a murrain 
seize those that will spoil a good match between those 
that love one another!” 

“Nay,” said Don Quixote, “if marriage should be 
always the consequence of mutual love, what would be- 
come of the prerogative of parents, and their authority 
over their children? If young girls might always 
choose their own husbands, we should have the best 





283 


families intermarry with coachmen and grooms, and 
young heiresses would throw themselves away upon 
the first wild young fellows, whose promising outsides 
and assurance make them set up for fortunes, though 
all their stock consists in impudence. For the under- 
standing, which alone should distinguish and choose 
in these cases as in all others, is apt to be be blinded or 
biassed by love and affection; and matrimony is so nice 
and critical a point, that it requires not only our own 
cautious management, but even the direction of a 
superior power to choose right. Whoever undertakes 
a long journey, if he be wise, makes it his business to 
find out an agreeable companion. How cautious, then, 
should he be who is to take a journey for life, whose 
fellow-traveller must not part with him but at the 
grave; his companion at bed and board, and sharer of 
all the pleasures and fatigues of his journey, as the 
wife must be to the husband! She is no such sort of 
ware that a man can be rid of when he pleases. When 
once that is purchased, no exchange, no sale, no alien- 
ation can be made; she is an inseparable accident to 
man. Marriage is a noose, which, fastened about the 
neck, runs the closer and fits more uneasy by our 
struggling to get loose: it is a Gordian knot, which 
none can untie, and being twisted with our thread of 
life, nothing but the scythe of death can cut it. I 
could dwell longer on this subject, but that I long to 
know from the gentleman whether he can tell us any- 
thing more of Basil.” 

“All I can tell you,” said the student, “is, that he is 
in the case of all desperate lovers. Since the moment 
he heard of this intended marriage, he has never been 
seen to smile or talk rationally; he is in a deep melan- 
choly, that might indeed rather be called a dozing 
frenzy; he talks to himself, and seems out of his senses; 
he hardly eats or sleeps, and lives like a savage in the 
open fielas—his only sustenance a little fruit, and his 
only bed the hard ground; sometimes he lifts up his 
eyes to heaven, then fixes them on the ground, and in 
either posture stands like a statue. In short, he is re- 
duced to that condition that we who are his acquaint- 
ance verily believe that this wedding to-morrow will be 
attended by his death.” 

“Heaven forbid, marry and amen!” cried Sancho. 
“Who cap tell what may happen? ‘He that givesa 
broken head can give a plaister.’ ‘This is one day, but 
to-morrow is another,’ and ‘strange things may fall out 
in the roasting of an egg.’ ‘After a storm comes a 
calm.’ Many a man that went to bed well has found 
himself dead in the morning when he awaked. ‘Who 
can put a spoke in Fortune's wheel?” nobody here, I 
am sure. Between a woman’s yea and nay, I would not 
engage to put a pin’s point, so close they be one to an- 
other. If Mrs. Quiteria love Mr. Basil, she will give 
Camacho the bag to hold: for this same love, they say, 
looks through spectacles that make copper like gold, a 
cart like a coach, and a shiimp like a lobster.” 

“Whither, in the name of ill-luck, art thou running 
now, Sancho ?” said Don Quixote. “When thou fallest 
to threading thy proverbs and old wives’ sayings, it is 
impossible for any one to stop thee. What dost thou 


284 


know, poor animal, of Fortune, or her wheel, or any- 
thing else ?” 

“Why, truly, sir,” quoth Sancho, “if you don't un- 
derstand me, no wonder if my sentences be thought 
nonsense. But let that pass, I understand myself; and 
I am sure I have not talked so much like aninny. But 
you, forsooth, are so sharp a cricket.” 

“A critic, blockhead !” said Don Quixote, “thou con- 
founded corrupter of human speech !” 

“By yea and by nay,” quoth Sancho, “what makes 
you so angry, sir? Iwas never brought up at school 
nor ’varsity, to know when I murder a hard word. I 
was never at court to learn to spell, sir. Some are born 
in one town, some in another; one at St. Jago, another 
at Toledo; and even there all are not so nicely 
spoken.” 

“You are in the right, friend,” said the student; 
“those natives of that city, who live among the tan- 
ners, or about the market of Zocodover, are confined 
to mean conversation, and cannot speak as well as 
those that frequent the polite part of the town, and yet 
they are all of Toledo. But propriety, purity, and ele- 
gance of style may be found among men of breeding 
and judgment, let them be born where they will; for 
their judgment is in the grammar of good language, 
though practice and example will go a good way. As 
for my part, I have had the happiness of good educa- 
tion; it has been my fortune to study the civil law at 
Salamanca, and I have made it my business all along 
to express myself properly, neither like a rustic nor a 
pedant.” 

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the other student, “your parts 
might have qualified you for a master of arts degree, 
had you not misemployed them in minding so much 
those foolish foils you carry about with you, and that 
make you lag behind your juniors.” 

“Look you, good Sir Bachelor,” said the other, 
“your mean opinion of these foils is erroneous and ab- 
surd; for I can deduce the usefulness of the art of 
fencing from several undeniable axioms.” 

“Pshaw,” said Corchuelo, for so was the other called, 
“don’t talk of axioms. I will fight vou, sir, at your 
weapons. Here am I that understand neither quart 
nor tierce; but I have an arm, I have strength, and I 
have courage. Give me one of your foils, and in spite 
of all your distances, circles, falsities, angles, and all 
other terms of your art, I will show you there is no- 
thing in it, and will make reason glitter in your eyes. 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


That man breathes not vital air that I will turn my back 
on; and he must have more than human force that can 
stand his ground against me.” 

“As for standing ground,” said the artist, “I won’t 
be obliged to it. But have a care, sir, how you press 
upon a man of skill, for ten to one, at the very first ad- 
vance, but he is in your body up to the hilt.” 

“Y will try that presently,” said Corchuelo; and 
springing briskly from his ass, snatched one of the 
foils which the student carried. 

“Hold, hold, sir,” said Don Quixote, “1 will stand 
judge of the field; and see fair play on both sides;” and 
interposing with his lance, he alighted, and gave the 
artist time to put himself in his posture and take his 
distance. 

Then Corchuelo flew at him like a fury, helter-skelter, 
cut and thrust, back-stroke and fore-stroke, single and 
double, and laid on like any lion. But the student 
stopped him in the middle of his career with such a 
blow in the teeth, that he made Corchuelo foam at the 
mouth. He made him kiss the button of his foil, as if 
it had been a relic, though not altogether with so much 
devotion. In short, he told all the buttons of his short 
cassock with pure clean thrusts, and made the skirts of 
it hang about him in rags like fish-tails. Twice he 
struck off his hat, and in fine so mauled and tired him, 
that through perfect vexation Corchuelo took the foil 
by the hilt, and hurled it from him with such violence, 
that one of the countrymen that were by, happening to 
be a notary public, has it upon record to this day, that 
he threw it almost three-quarters of a league; which 
testimony has served and yet serves to let posterity 
know that strength is overcome by art. 

At last Corchuelo, puffing and blowing, sat down to 
rest himself, and Sancho, coming up to him, “Mr. 
Bachelor,” quoth he, “henceforward take a fool’s ad- 
vive, and never challenge a man to fence, but to wrestle 
or pitch the bar; you seem cut out for those sports: but 
this fencing is a ticklish point, sir; meddle no more 
with it, for I have heard some of your masters of the 
science say they can hit the eye of a needle with the 
point of a sword.” 

Corchuelo acknowledged himself convinced of an error 
hy experience, and embracing the artist, they became 
the better friends for this tilting. So, without staying 
for the notary that went for the foil, and could not be 
back in a great while, they put on to the town where 
Quiteria lived, they all dwelling in the same village. 


CHAPTER XX. 


AN ACCOUNT OF RICH CAMACHO S WEDDING, AND WHAT BEFELL POOR BASIL. 


SCARCE had the fair Aurora given place to the reful- 
gent ruler of the day, and allowed him time, with the 
heat of his prevaling rays, to dry the liquid pearls on 
his golden locks when Don Quixote, shaking off slug- 
gish sleep from his drowsy limbs, arose and called his 
squire; but finding him still snoring, “Oh, thou most 
happy mortal upon earth,” said he “how sweet is thy 
repose! envied by none, and envying no man’s great- 
ness, secure thou sleepest, thy soul composed and calm; 
no power of magic persecutes thee, nor are thy thoughts 
affrighted by enchantments. Sleep on, sleep on, a 
hundred times, sleep on. Those jealous cares that 
break a lover’s heart do not extend to thee; neither the 
dread of craving creditors, nor the dismal foresight of 
inevitable want, or care of finding bread for a helpless 
family, keep thee waking. Ambition does not make 
thee uneasy, the pomp and vanity of this world do not 
perplex thy mind; for all thy care’s extent reaches but 
to thy ass. Thy person and thy welfare thou hast com- 
mitted to my charge—a burden imposed on masters by 
nature and custom, to weigh and counterpoise the 
offices of servants. Which is thy greatest slave? The 
servant’s business is performed by a few manual duties, 
which only reconcile him more to rest, and make him 
sleep more sound; while the anxious; master has not 
leisure to close his eyes, but must labor day and night 
to make provision for the subsistence of his servant, 
not only in time of abundance, but even when the 
heavens deny those kindly showers that must supply 
this want.” a 

To all this fine expostulation Sancho answered not a 
word, but slept on, and was not to be waked by his 
master’s calling, or otherwise, till he pricked him with 
the sharp end of his lance. At length, opening his 
eyelids half way, and rubbing them, after he had gaped 
and yawned, and stretched his drowsy limbs, he looked 
about him, and sniffing up his hose, “I am much mis- 
taken,” quoth he,“if from this same arbor there come not 
a pure steam of a good broiled rasher, that comforts my 
nostrils more than all the herbs and rushes hereabouts; 
and a wedding that begins so savorly must be a dainty 
one.” 

“Away, comorant!” said Don Quixote; “rouse and 
let us go see it, and learn how it fares with the disdain- 
ed Basil.” 

“Fare!” quoth Sancho; “why, if he be poor, he must 





e’en be so still, and not think to marry Quiteria. It is 
a pretty fancy, i’ faith! for a fellow who has not a cross, 
to run madding after what is meat for his betters. I 
will lay my neck that Camacho covers this same Basil 
from head to foot with white sixpences, and will spend 
ye more at a breakfast than the other is worth, and be 
never the worse. And do you think that Madam Qui- 
teria will quit her fine rich gowns and petticoats, her 
necklaces of pearl, her jewels, her finery and bravery, 
and all that Camacho has given her, and may afford to 
give her, to marry a fellow with whom she must knit or 
spin for her living? What signifies his bar-pitching 
and fencing? Will that pay for a pint of wine ata 
tavern? If all those rare parts won’t go to market, and 
make the pot boil, any one may take them for me: 
though were they light on a man that has wherewithal, 
may I never stir if they do not set him off rarely. 
With good materials on a good foundation, a man may 
build a good house, and money is the best foundation 
in the world.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, Dear Sancho,” said Don Quix- 
ote, “bring thy tedious harangue to a conclusion. For 
my part, I believe, wert thou let alone when thy clack 
is once set a going, thou wouldest scarce allow thyself 
time to eat or sleep, but wouldest prate on to the end 
of the chapter.” 

“Troth, master,” replied Sancho, “your memory must 
be very short not to remember the articles of our agree- 
ment before I came this last journey with you. I was 
to speak what I would, and when I would, provided I 
said nothing against my neighbor or your worship’s 
authority; and I don’t see that I have broken my in- 
dentures yet.” 

“I remember no such article,” said Don Quixote; 
“and though it were so, it is my pleasure you now be 
silent and attend me; for the instruments we heard last 
night begin to cheer the valleys, and doubtless the 
marriage will be solemnized this morning, ere the heat 
of the day prevent the diversion.” 

Thereupon Sancho said no more, but saddled Rozi- 
nante, and clapped his pack-saddle on Dapple’s back; 
then, both mounting, away they rode fair and softly 
into the arbor. The first thing that blessed Sancho’s 
sight there was a whole steer spitted on a large elm, 
before a mighty fire made of a pile of wood, that seemed 
a flaming mountain. Round this bonfire were placed 

285 


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“Oh, ye Tobosoian urns ! that awaken in my mind the thoughts of the sweet pledge of mv most bitter sorrows !"—p. 278. 


/ 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


six capacious pots, cast in no common mould, or rather 
six ample coppers, every one containing a whole 
shamble of meat, and entire sheep were sunk and lost 
m them, and soaked as conveniently as pigeons. The 
branches of the trees round were all garnished with an 
infinite number of cased hares and plucked fowls of 
several sorts: 
above threescore skins of wine, each of which con- 
tained above two arrobas, and, as it afterwards proved, 
sprightly liquor. A goodly pile of white loaves made 
a large rampart on the one side, and a stately wall of 
cheeses, set up like bricks, made a comely bulwark on 
the other. Two pans of oil, each bigger than a dyer’s 
vat, served to fry their pancakes, which they lifted out 
with two strong peels when they were fried enough, 
and then they dipped them in as large a kettle of honey 
prepared for that purpose. To dress all this provision, 
there were above fifty cooks, men and women, all clean- 
ly, diligent, and cheerful. In the ample belly of the 
steer, they had stewed up twelve little suckling pigs 
embowelled, to give it the more savory taste. Spices 
of all sorts lay about in such plenty, that they appeared 
to be bought by wholesale. In short, the whole provi- 
sion was indeed country-like, but plentiful enough to 
feast an army. 

Sancho beheld all this with wonder and delight. The 
first temptation that captivated his senses was the 
goodly pots; his bowels yearned, and his mouth wat- 
ered at the dainty contents; by-and-by he fell desper- 
ately in love with the skins of wine; and lastly, his 
affections were fixed on the frying-pans, if such honor- 
able kettles may accept of the name. The scent of the 
fried meat put him into such a commotion of spirit that 
he could hold out no longer, but accosting one of the 
busy cooks with all the smooth and hungry reasons he 
was master of, he begged his leave to sop a luncheon of 
bread i in one of the pans. 

“Friend,” quoth the cook, “no hunger must be felt 
near us to-day, thanks to the founder. Light, "light, 
man, and if thou canst find ever a ladle there, aa out 
a pullet or two, and much good may they do you.” 

, “Alack-a-day!” quoth Saneho, “I see no ladle, 
sir.” - 

“Blood and suet!” cried the cool, “what a silly, 
helpless fellow thouart? Let me see.” With that he 
took a kettle, and sousing it into one of the pots, he 
fished out three hens and couple of geese at one time. 
“Here, friend,”. said he to Sancho, “take this, and make 
shift to stay your stomach with that till dinner be 
ready. a: 

“Heaven reward you!” cried Sancho, “but where 
shall I put it?” 

. “Here,” answered the cook, “take ladle and all, and 
thank the founder, once more, I say; nobody will grudge 
it thee.” 

- While. Sancho was thus employed, Don Quixote saw 
twelve ‘young farmers’ sons, all dressed very gay, enter 
upon stately mares, as richly and gaudily equipped as 
the country could afford, with little bells fastened to 
their furniture. These, 1n a close body, made several 
careers up and down the meadow, merrily shouting and 


and then for drink, Sancho counted | 





281 


crying out, “Long live Camacho and Quiteria! he as 
rich as she is fair, and she the fairest in the world!” 

“Poor ignorants!” thought Don Quixote, overhearing 
them, “you speak'as you know; but had you ever seen 
my Dulcinea del Toboso, you would not be so lavish of 
your praises here.” 

In a while, at seversl other partsof the spacious ar- 
bor entered a great number of dancers, and, amongst 
the rest twenty-four young active country-lads, in their 
fine holland shirts, with their handkerchiefs wrought 
with several colors of fine silk, wound about their 
heads, each of them with sword in hand. They danced 
a military dance, and skirmished with one another, 
mixing and intermixing with their naked swords, with 
wonderful sleight and activity, without hurting each 
other in the least. 

This dance pleased Don Quixote mightily, and though 
he was no stranger to such sort of dances, he thought 
itthe best he had ever seen. There was another he 
also liked very well, performed by most beautiful young 
maids, between fourteen and eighteen years of age, 
clad in light green, with their hair partly filleted up 
with ribbons, and partly hanging loose about their 
shoulders, as bright and lovely as the sun’s golden 
beams. Above all they wore garlands of roses, jasmine, 
amaranth and honeysuckles. They were led up by a 
reverend old man and a matronly women, both much 
more light and active than their years seemed to promise. 
They danced to the music of Zamora bagpipes; and 
such was the modesty of their looks, and the agility of 
their feet, that they appeared the prettiest dancers in 
the world. 

After these came in an artificial dance or masque, 
consisting of eight nymphs, cast into two divisions, of 
which Love led one, and Wealth the other; one with 
his wings, his bow, his arrows, and his quiver; the 
other arrayed in several gaudy colors of gold and silk 
The nymphs of Cupid’s party had their names inscribed 
in large characters behind their backs. The first was 
Poesy, Prudence was the next, the third Nobility, and 
Valor was the fourth. Those that attended Wealth 
were Liberality, Reward, Treasure, and Peaceable Pos- 
session. Before them came a pageant representing a 
castle drawn by four savages clad in green, covered 
over with ivy, and grim surly vizards on their faces, so 
to the life that they had almost frightened Sancho. On 
the frontispiece, and on every quarter of the edifice, 
was inscribed, “The Castle of Wise Reservedness.” 
Four expert musicians played to them on pipe and 
tabor. Cupid began the dance, and, after two move- 
ments, he cast up his eyes and bent his bow against a. 
virgin that stood upon the battlements of the castle, 
addressing himself in this manner:— 

** My name is Love, supreme my Bway; 
The greatest good und greatest pain. 


Air, earth, and seas my power obey, 
And gods themselves must drag my chain. 


“In every heart my throne I keep, 
Fear ne'er could daunt my daring soul: 
I fire the bosom of the deep, 
And the profoundest hell control.” 


Having spoken these verses, Cupid shot an arrow 





ith 
Al 
A Ni 





“Toral this fine expostulation Sancho answered not a word.”—p. 285. 


over the castle, and retired to his station. Then Wealth 
advanced and performed two movements; after which 
the music stopped, and he expressed himself thus :— 
*“Love's my incentive and my end, 
But I'm a greater power than Love; 


Though earthly born, I earth transcend, 
For Wealth’s a blessing from above. 


“Bright maid, with me receive and bless 
The surest pledge of all success; 
Desired by all, used right by few, 
But best bestow'd, when graced by you.” 

Wealth withdrew, and Poesy came forward, and after 
she had performed her movements like the rest, fixing 
her eyes upon the lady of the castle, repeated these 
lines :— : 


“Sweet Poesy in moving lays 
Love into hearts, sense into souls conveys; 
With sacred rage can tune to bliss or woe, 
Sways all the man, and gives him heaven below. 


‘Bright nymph, with every grace adorn'd, 
Shall noble verse by thee be scorn'd ? 
"Tis wit can best thy beauty prize; . 
Then rnise the Muse, and thou by her ehalt rise.” 


Poesy retired, and Liberality advanced from Wealth’s 
side, and, after the dance, spoke thus :— 
“Behold that noble golden mien 
Betwixt the sparing and profuse! 


Good sense and merit must be seen 
Where Liberality’s in use. 


**But I for thee will lavish seem; 
For thee profuseness I’ll approve: 
For, where the merit is extreme, 
Who'd not be prodigal of love?” 

In this manner all the persons of each party advanced 
and spoke their verses, of which some were pretty and 
some foolish enough. Then the two divisions joined 
into a very pretty country-dance; and still as Cupid 
passed by the castle, he shot a flight of arrows, and 
Wealth battered it with golden balls; then drawing out 
a great purse of Roman cat's-skin, that seemed full of 
money, he threw it against the castle, the boards of 
which were presently disjointed, and fell down, leaving 
the virgin discovered without any defence. Thereupon 
Wealth immediately entered with his party, and throw- 
ing a golden chain about her neck, made a show of 
leading her prisoner. But then Cupid with his attend- 
ants came to her rescue; and both parties engaging, 
were parted by the savages, who joined the boards to- 
gether, enclosing the virgin as before; and all was per- 
formed with measure and to the music that played all 
the while. 

When all was over, Don Quixote asked one of the 
nymphs who it was that composed the entertainment. 
She answered that it was a certain clergyman who lived 
in their town. pe 

“I dare lay a wager,” said Don Quixote, “he was 
more a friend to Basil than to Camacho, and knows 
better what belongs to a playthan to a prayer-book. 
He has expressed Basil's parts and Camacho's estate 
very naturally in the design of your dance.” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 





289: 


“God bless the king and Camacho! say I,” quoth 
Sancho who heard this. 

“Well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou art a white- 
livered rogue to change parties as thou dost; thou art 
like the rabble, which always cry, ‘Long live the con- 
queroy!’” 

“I know not what I am like,” replied Sancho; “but 
this I know, that this kettle full of geese and hens is a 
bribe for a prince. Camacho has filled my belly, and 
therefore has won my heart. When shall I ladle such 
dainty scum out of Basil's porridge-pots?” added he, 
showing his master the meat, and falling on lusily; 
“therefore, a fig for his abilities say I. As he sows so 
let him reap, and as he reaps so let him sow. My old 
grandam was wont to say there were but two families 
in the world—Have-Much and Have-Little; and she 
had ever a great kindness for the family of the Have- 
Much. A doctor gives his advice by the pulse of your 
pocket; and an ass covered with gold looks better than 
a horse with a pack-saddle; so, once more I say, Cama- 
cho for my money!” 

“Well!” said Don Quixote, “thou wilt never be silent 
till thy mouth is full of clay; when thou art dead I 
hope I shall have some rest.” 

“Faith and troth, now, master! ” quoth Sancho, “you 
did ill to talk of death; Heaven bless us! it is no 
child’s play. Death eats up all things, both the young 
lamb and old sheep; and I have heard our parson say, 
“Death values a prince no more than aclown;’ all is 
fish that comes to his net; he throws at all, and sweeps 
stakes; he is no mower that takes a nap at noon-day, 
but drives on, fair weather or foul, and cuts down the 
green grass as well as the ripe corn.” 

“Hold, hold! ” cried the knight, “go no farther, for 
thou art come to a very handsome period. Thou hast 
said as much of death in thy home-spun cant, as a good 
preacher could have done. Thou hast got the knack 
of preaching, man! I must get thee a pulpit and 
benefice.” 

“He preaches well that lives well,” quoth Sancho; 
“that is all the divinity I understand.” 

“Thou hast divinity enough,” said the Don; “only I 
wonder at one thing: it is said the beginning of wis- 
dom proceeds from the fear of Heaven; how happens 
it, then, that thou, who fearest a lizard more than Om- 
nipotence, shouldst be so wise ?” 

“Pray, sir,” said Sancho, “judge you of your knight- 
errantry, and don’t meddle with other men’s fears, for 
I am as pretty a fearer of Heaven as any of my neigh- 
bors; and so let me dispatch this scum, and much good 
may it do thee, honest Sancho!” 

With that he attacked it with so courageous an appe- 
tite, that he sharpened his master’s, who would cer- 
tainly have kept him company, had he not been pre- 
vented by that which necessity obliges me to relate at 
this instant. 





Wee A 
oe 

















Arrival of Don Quixote at the wedding of Camacho and Quiteria.—p. 286. 








CHAPTER XXI. 


THE PROGRESS OF CAMACHO'S WEDDING, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL ACCIDENTS. 


WHILE Don Quixote and Sancho were discoursing, 
as the former chapter has told you, they were inter- 
rupted by a great noise of joy and acclamations raised 
by the horsemen, as, shouting and galloping, they 
went to meet the young couple, who, surrounded by a 
thousand instruments and devices, were coming to the 
arbor, accompanied by the curate, their relations, and 
all the better sort of the neighborhood, set out in their 
holiday clothes. 

“Hey-day!” quoth Sancho, as soon as he saw the 
bride; “what have we here? Ah! this is no country 
lass, but a fine court lady, all in her silks and satins, 1 
declare! Look, look ye, master! see if, instead of glass 
necklaces, she have not on fillets of rich coral, and 
instead of green serge of Cuencha, a thirty-piled vel- 
vet. I'll warrant her lacing is white linen, too; but 
hold, may I never squint if it be not satin! Bless us! 
see what rings she has on her fingers! no jet, no pewter 
baubles—pure, beaten gold, as I am a sinner! and set 
with pearls, too! if every pearl be not as white asa 
syllabub, and each of them as precious as an eye! 
How she is bedizened, and glistens from top to toe! 
And now, yonder again, what fine long locks the girl 
has got! if they be not false, I never saw longer in my 
born days. Well, I say no more, but happy is the man 
that has thee!” 

Don Quixote could not help smiling to hear Sancho 
set forth the bride after his rustic way, though, at the 
same time, he beheld her with admiration, thinking her 
the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, except his 
mistress Dulcinea. However, the fair Quiteria ap- 
peared somewhat pale, probably with the ill rest which 
brides commonly have the night before their marriage, 
in order to dress themselves to advantage. There was 
a large scaffold erected on one side of the meadow, and 
adorned with carpets and boughs, for the marriage cer- 
emony, and the more convenient prospect of the shows 
and entertainments. 

The procession was just arrived to this place, when 
they heard a piercing outery, and a voice calling out, 
“Stay, rash and hasty people, stay!” Upon which all 
turning about, they saw a person coming after them in 
a black coat, bordered with crimson, powdered with 
flames of fire. On his head he wore a garland of 
mournful cypress, and alarge truncheon in his hand, 
headed with an iron spike. As soon as he drew near, 








they knew him to be the gallant Basil, and the whole 
assembly began to fear some mischief would ensue, see- 
ing him come thus unlooked-for and with such an out- 
ery and behavior. He came up, tired and panting, 
before the bride and bridegroom; then, leaning on his 
truncheon, he fixed his eyes on Quiteria, turning pale 
and trembling at the same time, and, with a fearful, 
hollow voice, “Too well you know,” cried he, “unkind 
Quiteria, that, by the ties of truth and law of that 
Heaven which we all revere, while I have life you can- 
not be married to another. You, forgetting all the ties 
between us, are going now to break them, and give my 
right to another, whose large possessions, though they 
can procure him all other blessings, I had never envied 
if they had not purchased you. But no more. The 
Fates have ordained it, and I will further their design, 
by removing this unhappy obstacle out of your way. 
Live, rich Camacho, live happy with the ungrateful 
Quiteria many years, and let the poor, the miserable 
Basil die, whose poverty has clipped the wings of his 
felicity, and laid him in the grave !” 

Saying these last words, he drew out of his supposed 
truncheon a short tuck that was concealed in it, and 
setting the hilt of it to the ground, he fell upon the 
point in such a manner, that it came out all bloody at 
his back, the poor wretch weltering on the ground in 
blood. His friends, confounded by this strange acci- 
dent, ran to help him, and Don Quixote, forsaking 
Rozinante, made haste to his assistauce, and taking him 
up in his arms, found there was still lifein him. They 
would fain have drawn the sword out of his body, but 
the curate urged it was not convenient till he had made 
confession and prepared himself for death, which would 
immediately attend the effusion of blood, upon pulling 
out the tuck. 

While they were debating this point, Basil seemed 
to come a little to himself, and calling on the bride, 
“0 Quiteria!” said he, with a faint and doleful voice, 
“now, now, in this last and departing minute of my life, 
even in this dreadful agony of death, would you but 
vouchsafe to give me your hand and own yourself my 
wife, I would die contented.” 

The curate hearing this, very earnestly recommended 
to him the care of his soul’s health, which at the pres- 
ent juncture was more proper than any gratification of 
his outward man; that his time was but short, and he 

291 




















“ Make shift to stay your stomach with that till dinner be ready.”—p. 287. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 


ought to be very earnest with Heaven, in imploring its 
mercy and forgiveness for all his sins, but especially 


for this last desperate action. To which Basil answered |. 


that he could think of no happiness till Quiteria yielded 
te=be his; but if she would do it, that satisfaction 
would calm his spirits, and dispose him to confess him- 
self heartily. 

¿Don Quixote, hearing this, cried out aloud that Basil's 
demand was just and reasonable, and Signior Camacho 
might as honorably receive her as the worthy Basil’s 
widow as if he had received her at her father’s hands. 
“Say but the word, madam,” continued he; “pronounce 
it: once, to save a man from despair; you will not be 
long bound to it, Ends the only bed of this bridegroom 
must be the grave.” Camacho stood all this while 
strangely confounded, till, at last, he was prevailed on, 
by:the repeated importunities ‘of Basil’s friends, to con- 
sent that Quiteria should humor the dying man, know- 
ing her own happiness would thereby be deferred but 
a Lew minutes longer. Then they all bent their en- 
treaties to Quiteria, some with tears in their eyes, others 
with all the engaging arguments their pity could sug- 
gest. She stood a long time inexorable, and did not 
return any answer, till at last the curate came to her 
and bid her Tesolve what she would do, for Basil was 
just ready. to give up the ghost. But then the poor 
virgin, trembling and dismayed, without speaking a 
word, came to poor Basil, who lay gasping for breath, 
with his eyes fixed in his head, as if he were just expir- 
ing. She kneeled down by him, and with the most 
manifest signs of grief, beckoned to him for his hand. 
Then Basil, opening his eyes, and fixing them on her, 
“0 Qhitaria! ” said he; “your heart at last relents, 
when your pity comes too late. Thy arms are now 
extended to relieve me, when those of death draw me 
to their embraces; and they, alas! are much too strong 
for thine. All I desire of thee, oh, fatal beauty! is this: 
let not that fair hand deceive me now, as it has done 
before, but confess that what you do is free and volun- 
tary, without constraint, or in compliance to any one’s 
commands; declare me openly thy true and lawful hus- 
band; thou wilt not, sure, dissemble with one in death, 
and deal falsely with. his departing soul, that all his 
life has been true to thee?” 

In the midst of this discourse he fainted away, and 
all the bystanders thought him gone. The poor Quite- 
tia, with a blushing modesty, a kind of violence upon 
herself, took him by the hand, and with a great deal of 
emotion, “No force,” said she, “could ever work upon 
my will to this degree; therefore, believe it purely my 
own free will and inclination that I here publicly de- 
clare you my only lawful husband; here is my hand i in 
pledge, and I expect yours as freely in return, if your 
paiñs a OS sudden ea have not bereft you of 
all sense.” - 

4] give it you,” said Basil, “and here I own myself 
thy husband: ee ee 

“And I thy rife, ” said aie, “  Hellda thy life be long 
or whether from my arms they bear thee this instant to 
the grave.” 

“Metbinks,” quoth Sancho, “this young. man talks 





293 


too much for a man in his condition. Pray, advise him 
to leave off his wooing, and mind his soul’s health.” 
Now, when Basil and Quiteria had thus plighted 
their faith to each other, while yet their hands were 
joined together, the tender-hearted curate, with tears 
in his eyes, poured on them both the nuptial blessing, 
beseeching Heaven, at the same time, to have mercy 
on the new-married man's soul, and in a manner mixing 
the burial service with the matrimonial. 

As soon as the benediction was pronounced, up starts 
Basil briskly from the ground, and, with an unexpected 
activity, whips the sword out of his body, and caught 
his dear Quiteria close in his arms. All the spectators 
stood amazed, and some of the simpler sort stuck not to 
ery out, “A miracle! a miracle!” 

“No! no!” cried Basil; “no miracle, no miracle, but 
a stratagem, a stratagem!” 

The curate, more astonished and concerned than all 
the rest, came with both his hands to feel the wound, 
and discovered that the sword had nowhere passed 
through the cunning Basil’s body, only through a tin 
pipe full of blood, artfully fitted to his body, and, as it 
was afterwards known, so prepared, that the blood 
could not congeal. In short, the curate, Camacho, and 
the company, found they had all been egregiously im- 
posed upon. As for the bride, she was so far from be- 
ing displeased, that, hearing it urged that the marriage 
could not stand in law because it was fraudulent and 
deceitful, she publicly declared that she again con- 
firmed it to be just, and by the free consent of both 
parties. 

Camacho and his friends, judging by this that the 
trick was premeditated, and that.she was privy to the 
plot, enraged at this horrid disappointment, had recourse 
to a stronger argument, and drawing their swords, set 
furiously on Basil, in whose defence almost as many 
were immediately unsheathed. Don Quixote immedi- 
ately mounting, with his lance couched, and covered 
with his shield, led the van of Basil’s party, and falling 
in with the enemy, charged clear through the gross of 
their battalia. Sancho, who never liked any dapgerous 
work, resolved to stand neuter, and so retired under 
the walls of the mighty pot whence he had got the 
precious skimmings, thinking that would be respected 
whatever side gained the battle. : 

Don Quixote, addressing himself to Camacho’s party, 
“Hold, gentlemen!” cried he; “it is not just thus with 
arms to redress the injuries of love. Love and war are 
the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allow- 
able in the one as in the other. Quiteria was designed 
for Basil, and he for her, by the unalterable decrees of 
Heaven. Camacho’s riches may purchase him a bride 
and more content elsewhere. Those whom heaven has 
joined let no man put asunder. Basil had but this one 
lamb. Let none, therefore, offer to take his single de- 
light from him, though presuming on his power; for 
here I solemnly declare, that he who first attempts it 
must pass through me, and this lance through him.” 
At which he shook his lance in the air with so much 
vigor and dexterity, that he cast a sudden terror into 





those that beheld him. 











jt 
ae 
"| 


tht E 
Wy I ARS 


We 


Ws 


( NEG 
e EA y 
a 









“* They were led up by a reverend old man and a matronly woman "—p. 287. 








DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


In short, Don Quixote's words, the good curate's 
diligent mediation, together with Quiteria’s incon- 
stancy, brought Camacho to a truce; and he then dis- 
creetly considered that, since Quiteria loved Basil 
before marriage, it was probable she would love him 
afterwards, and that therefore he had more reason to 
thank Heaven for so good a riddance than to repine at 
losing her. This thought, improved by some other 
considerations, brought both parties to a fair accommo- 
dation; and Camacho, to show he did not resent the 
disappointment, blaming rather Quiteria’s levity than 
Basil’s policy, invited the whole company to stay and 


295 


take share of what he had provided. But Basil, whose 
virtues, in spite of his poverty, had secured him many 
friends, drew away part of the company to attend him 
and his bride to her own town, and among the rest, Don 
Quixote, whom they all honored as a person of extraor- 
dinary worth and bravery. Poor Sancho followed his 
master with a heavy heart; he could not be reconciled 
to the thoughts of turning his back so soon upon the 
good cheer and jollity at Camacho’s feast. So he sul- 
lenly paced on after Rozinante, very much out of 
humor, though he had just filled his belly. 














CHAPTER XXII. 


AN ACCOUNT OF THE GREAT ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS, SITUATED IN THE HEART OF LA 


MANCHA, WHICH THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE SUCCESSFULLY ACHIEVED. 


THE new-married couple entertained Don Quixote 
very nobly, in acknowledgment of his readiness to de- 
fend their cause; they esteemed his wisdom equal to 
his valor, and thought him both a Cid in arms anda 
Cicero in arts. Honest Sancho, too, recruited himself 
to the purpose, during the three days his master stayed, 
and so came to his good humor again. Basil then in- 
formed them that Quiteria knew nothing of his strata- 
gem; but being a pure device of his own, he had made 
some of his nearest friends acquainted with it, that 
they should stand by him if occasion were, and bring 
him off upon the discovery of the deceit. 

“Tt deserves a handsomer name,” said Don Quixote, 
“since conducive to so good and honorable an end as 
the marriage of a loving couple. By the way, sir, you 
must know that the greatest obstacle to love is want 
and a narrow fortune; for the continual bands and ce- 
ments of mutual affection are mirth, content, satisfac- 
tion, and jollity. These, managed by skilful hands, 
can make variety in the pleasures of wedlock, prepar- 
ing the same thing always with some additional circum- 
stance to render it new and delightful. But when 
pressing necessity and indigence deprive us of those 
pleasures that prevent satiety, the yoke of matrimony 
is often found very galling, and the burden intolerable.” 

These words were chiefly directed by Don Quixote to 
Basil, to advise him, by the way, to give over those 
airy sports, which, indeed, might feed his youth with 
praise, but not his old age with bread, and to bethink 
himself of some grave and substantial employment, that 
might afford him a competency for his declining years. 
Then, pursuing his discourse, “The honorable poor 
man,” said he, “ when he has a beautiful wife, is 
blessed with a jewel. He that deprives him of her 
robs him of his honor, and may be said to deprive him 
of his life. The woman that is beautiful, and keeps 
her honesty when her husband is poor, deserves to be 





crowned with laurel, as the conquerors were of old. 
Beauty is a tempting bait, that attracts the eyes of all 
beholders, and the princely eagles and the most high- 
flown birds stoop to its pleasing lure. But when they 
find it in necessity, then kites, and crows, and other 
ravenous birds, will all be grappling with the alluring 
prey. She that can withstand these dangerous attacks 
well deserves to be the crown of her husband. How- 
ever, sir, take this along with you, as the opinion of a 
wise man, whose name I have forgot; he said there was 
but one good woman in the world; and his advice was, 
that every married man should think his own wife was 
her, as being the only way to live contented. For my 
own part, I need not make the application to myself, for 
I am not married, nor have I as yet any thoughts that 
way; but if I had, it would not be a woman’s fortune, 
but her character, should recommend her; for public 
reputation is the life of a lady’s virtue, and the out- 
ward appearance of modesty is, in one sense, as good 
as the reality; since a private sin is not so prejudicial 
in this world as a public indecency. If you bring an 
honest woman to your home, it is easy keeping her so, 
and perhaps you may improve her virtues. If you take 
an unchaste partner, it is hard mending her; for the 
extremities of vice and virtue are so great in a woman, 
and their points so far asunder, that it is very improba- 
ble, I won't say impossible, they should ever be recon- 
ciled.” 

Sancho and his master tarried three days with the 
young couple, and were entertained like princes. On 
taking his leave, Don Quixote entreated the student, 
who fenced so well, to help him to a guide that might 
conduct him to the cave of Montesinos, resolving to go 
down into it, and prove by his own eyesight the won- 
ders that were reported of it round the country. The 
student recommended a cousin-german of his for his 
conductor, who, he said, was an ingenious lad, a good 





=> 


e 
\ li r 
Ji 









s SES S 
Fire RE 


ESA 
DEL LU 


AV, 


i AO 
"] ey 
(33 























“The poor virgin, trembling and dismayed, without speaking a word, came to poor Basil.”—p. 293. 








DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


scholar, and a great admirer of books of knight-errantry, 
abd could show him the famous lake of Ruydera, too; 
adding that he would be very good company for the 
knight, as being one that wrote books for the booksellers, 
in order ‘to ‘dedicate them to great men. Aci tmel 
his pack: ‘saddle covered with an old carpet or ama 
packing- cloth. Thereupon, Sancho having got ready 
Rozinante amd Dapple, well stuffed his wallet, and the 
student's knapsack to boot, they all took their leave, 
steering the nearest course to the cave of Montesinos. 

To pass the time on the road, Don®Quixote asked the 
guide to what course a study he chiefly applied him- 
self. - ] 

Sir,” answered the da “my Panel is ina: 
and copy-money my. “chief study. 1 have published 
some things with the general approbation of the world, 
and much to my own advantage. Perhaps, sir, you 
may have heard of one of my books, called ‘The 
Treatise of Liveries and Devices,’ in which I have 
obliged the public with no less than seven hundred and 


three sorts of liveries. and devices, with their colors, | 


mottoes, and ciphers, so that. any courtier may furnish 
himself there, upon any extraordinary appearance, with 
what may suit his fancy or circumstances, without rack- 
ing his own invention to find what is agreeable to his 
inclination. I can furnish the jealous, the forsaken, the 
disdained, with what will fit them to a hair. Another 
piece, which I now have on the anvil, 1 design. to call 
«The Metamorphosis; or, The Spanish Ovid,’ an inven- 
tion very new and extraordinary; itis, in short, Ovid 
burlesqued, wherein I discover who the Giralda of 
Seville was; who the angel of Magdalen; 14 ll ye what 
was the pipe of Vecinguerra of Cordova, what the bulls 
of Guisando, the Sierra Morena, the fountains of Laga- 
nitos and Lavapies at Madrid; not forgetting that of 
Piojo, nor those of the golden pipe, and the abbey; and 
I'embellish the fables with allegories, metaphors, and 
translations, that will both delight and instruct. An- 
other work, which I soon design for the press, I call 
<A Supplement to Polydore Virgil, concerning the 
invention of things; a piece, I will assure you, sir, that | 
shows the great pains and learning of the compiler, and 
perhaps in a better style than the old author.” 
: Sancho having hearkened with great attention all 
this while, “Pray, sir,” quoth he to him, “so Heaven 
guide your right hand in all you write, let me ask you 
who was the first man that scratched his head?” 
“Scratched his head, friend?” answered the author. 
- “ Ay, sir, scratched hishead,” quoth Sancho. “Sure, 
you, that know all things can tell me that. What think 
you ‘of old tather Adam?” .. 
“- “Old father Adam?” answered the scholar; “et me 
see, Father Adam had a head; he had hair, he had 
hands, and he could scratch; but father Adam was the 
tirst man—ergo, father ‘Adam was the first man that 
scratched hishead. It is ‘plain you are in the right.” 
“Oh, ho! am I so, sir?” quoth Sancho. “Another 
question, by your leave, sir. Who was the first tumbler 
in the world?” 


“Truly, friend,” answered the student, “that is a 





297 


point I cannotresolve you without consulting my books; 
but, as soon as ever I get home, I will study day and 
night to find it out.” 

“For two fair words;” quoth Sancho, “I will save 
you that trouble.” 

“Can you resolve that doubt?” asked the author. 

“Ay, marry, can 1,” said Sancho. “The firsttumbler 
in the world was Lucifer; when he was cast out of 
heaven he tumbled into hell.” 

“You are positively in the right,” said the scholar. 

“Where did you get that, Sancho?” said Don Quix- 
ote; for I dare swear it is none of your own.” 

' “Mum!” quoth Sancho. “In asking of foolish ques- 
tions, and selling of bargains, let Sancho alone, quoth 
I; I do not want the help of my neighbors.” 

“Truly,” said Don Quixote, “thou hast given thy 
question a better epithet than thou art aware of; for 
there are some men who busy their heads, and lose a 
world of time in making discoveries, the knowledge of 
which is good for nothing upon the earth, unless it be 
to make the discoverers laughed at.” 

- With these, and such diverting discourses, they 
passed their journey, till they came to the cave the 
next day, having lain the night before in an inconsider- 
able village on the road. There they bought a hun- 
dred fathoms of cordage to hang Don Quixote by, and 
let him down to the lowest part of the cave; he being 
resolved te go to the very bottom. The mouth of it was 
inaccessible, being quite stopped up with weeds, 
bushes, brambles, and wild fig-trees, though the entrance 
was wide and spacious. Don Quixote was no sooner 
come to the place, but he prepared for his expedition 
into that under world, telling the scholar that he was 
resolved to reach the bottom; and all having alighted, 
the squire and his guide accordingly girt him fast with 
a rope. 

While this was doing, “Good, sweet sir,” quoth San- 
cho, “consider what you do. Do not venture into such 
a black hole! Look before you leap, sir, and be not so 
wilful as to bury yourself alive. Do not hang yourself 
like a bottle or a bucket, that is let down to be soused 
in a well. Alack-a-day! sir, it is none of your business 
to pry thus into every hole.” . 

“Peace, coward,” said the knight, “and bind me fast; 
for surely for me such an enterprise as this is reserved.” 

“Pray, sir,” said the student, “when you are in, be 
very vigilant in exploring and observing all the rarities 
in the place. Let nothing escape your eyes; perhaps 
you may discover there some things worthy to be in- 
serted in my ‘Metamorphoses.’ ” 

“Let him alone,” quoth Sancho; “he will go through 
with it, I will warrant you.” 

Don Quixote being well bound, not over his armor, 
but his doublet, bethought himself of one thing they 
had forgot. 

“We did ill,” said he, “not to provide ourselves with 
a little bell, that I should have.carried down with me, 
to ring for more or less rope as I may have occasion for, ‘ 
and inform you of my being alive. But since there is no 
remedy, Heaven prosper me!” Then, kneeling down, 
he in a low voice recommended himself to the Divine 








iO 
- 
N 


we 
N 


ll 
P Zul 
wi Yh 
ip “it Y) 
E oie 
DA 
Ple: 


E 





Ze NA 


“ Poor Sancho followed his master with a heavy heart.”—p. 295, 








DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Providence for assistance and success in an adventure 
so strange, and, to all appearances, so dangerous. Then, 
raising his voice, “Oh, thou mistress of my life and 
motions!” cried he, “most illustrious and peerless 
Dulcinea del Toboso ! if the prayers of an adventurous 
absent lover may reach the ears of the far distant ob- 
ject of his wishes, by the power of thy unspeakable 
beauty I conjure thee to grant me thy favor and protec- 
tion in this plunge and precipice of my fortune. I am 
now going to cast myself into this dismal profundity, 
that the world may know nothing can be impossible to 
him who, influenced by thy smiles, attempts, under the 
banner of thy beauty, the most difficult task.” 

This said, he got up again, and approaching the en- 
trance of the cave, he found it stopped up with brakes 
and bushes, so that he must make his way by force. 
Whereupon, drawing his sword, he began to cut and 
slash the brambles that stopped up the mouth of the 
cave, when presently an infinite number of overgrown 
crows and daws came rushing and fluttering out of the 
cave about his ears so thick, and with such an impetu- 
osity, as overwhelmed him to the ground.. He was not 
superstitious enough to draw any ill omen from the 
flight of the birds; besides, it was no small encourage- 
ment to him that he spied no bats nor owls, nor other 
ill-boding birds of night among them. He therefore 
rose-aguin with an undaunted heart, and committed 
himself tothe black and dreadful abyss. But Sancho 
first gave him his benediction and making a thousand 
crosses over him, “Heaven be thy guide!” quoth he, 
“and our Lady of the Rock in France, with the Trinity 
of Gaeta, thou flower and cream of all knights-errant ! 
Go thy ways, thou hackster of the world, heart of steel, 
and arms of brass! and mayest thou come back sound 
out of this dreadful hole which thou art running into, 
once more to see the warm sun which thou art now 
leaving.” 

The scholar, too, prayed to the same effect for the 
knight’s happy return. Don Quixote then called for 
more rope, which they gave him by degrees, till his 
voice was drowned in the winding of the cave, and their 
cordage was run out. -That done, they began to con- 
sider whether they should hoist him up again immedi- 
ately or no; however, they resolved to stay half an 
hour, and then they began to draw up the rope, but 
were strangely surprised to find no weight upon ‘it, 





299 


which made them conclude the poor gentleman was 
certainly lost. Sancho, bursting into tears, made a 
heavy lamentation., and began hauling up the rope as 
fast as he could, to be thoroughly satisfied. But after 
they had drawn up about fourscore fathoms, they felt 
a weight again, which made them take heart; and at 
length they plainly saw Don Quixote. 

“Welcome!” cried Sancho to him, as soon as he came 
in sight; “welcome, dear master! I am glad you are 
come back again; we were afraid you had been pawned 
for the reckoning.” 

But-Sancho had no answer to his compliment; and 
when they had pulled the knight quite up, they found 
that his eyes were closed, 4s if he had been fast asleep. 
They laid him on the ground, and unbound him, yet he 
made no sign of waking; and all the turning and shak- 
ing was little enough to make him come to him- 
self.. 

At lasthe began to stretch his limbs, as if he had 
woke out of the most profound sleep, and staring wildly 
about him, “Heaven forgive you, friends!” cried he, 
“for you have raised me from one of the sweetest lives 
that ever mortal led, and most delightful sights that 
ever eyes beheld. Now I perceive how fleeting are all 
the joys of this transitory life; they are but an imper- 
fect dream, they fade like a flower, and vanish like a 
shadow. Oh, ill-fated Montesinos! oh, Durandarte, 
unfortunately wounded! oh, unhappy Belerma! oh, de- 
plorable Guadiana! and you the distressed daughters 
of Ruydera, whose flowing waters show what streams 
of tears once trickled from your lovely eyes!” 

These expressions, uttered with great passion and 
concern, surprised the scholar and Sancho, and they 
desired to know his meaning, and what he had seen in 
that dreadful place. 

“Call it not that,” answered Don Quixote, “for it de- 
serves a better name, as I shall soon let you know.. But 
first give me something to eat, for I am prodigiously 
hungry.” 

They then spread the scholar’s coarse ‘saddle- cloth 
for a carpet; and examining their old cupboard, the 
knapsack, they all three sat down on the grass, and ate 
heartily together, like men who were a meal or two 
behind-hand. When they had done, “Let no man 
stir,” said Don Quixote; “sit still, and hear me with 
attention.” 














le 
Pol | 


p | 
i) 


il Y 
pt 


l 
y 































































































“ Sancho and his master tarried three days with the young couple, and were entertained like princes. ”—p. 295. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS WHICH THE UNPARALLELED DON QUIXOTE DECLARED HE BAD SEEN IN THE 


DEEP CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE GREATNESS AND IMPOSSIBILITY OF WHICH MAKES THIS ADVENTURE 


PASS FOR APOCRYPHAL. 


It was now past four in the afternoon, and the sun 
was opportunely hid behind the clouds, which, inter- 
posing between his rays, invited Don Quixote, without 
heat or trouble, to relate to his illustrious auditors the 
wonders he had seen in the cave of Montesinos. 

“About twelve or fourteen men’s depth,” said he, 
“in the profundity of this cavern, on the right hand 
there is a concavity wide enough to contain a large 
wagon, mules and all... This place is not wholly dark, 
for through some chinks and narrow holes, that reach 
to the distant surface of the earth, there comes a glim- 
mering light. I discovered this recess, being already 
weary of hanging by the loins, discouraged by the pro- 
found darkness of the region below me, destitute of a 
guide, and not knowing whither I went: resolving 
therefore to rest myself there a while, I called to you 
to give me no more rope, but it seems you did not hear 
me. I therefore entered, and coiling up the cord, sat upon 
it very melancholy, and thinking how I should most 
conveniently get: down to the bottom, having nobody to 
guide or support me. While thus I sat pensive and 
lost in thought, insensibly, without any previous drow- 
‘siness, I found myself surprised by sleep; and after 
that, not knowing how nor which way I wakened, I un- 

expectedly found myself in the finest, the sweetest, and 
most delightful meadow that ever Nature adorned with 
her beauties, or the most inventive fancy could ever 
imagine. Now, that I might be sure this was neither a 
dream nor an illusion, I rubbed my eyes, felt several 
parts of my body, and convinced myself that I was 
really awake, with the use of all my senses, and all the 
faculties of my understanding sound and active as at 
this moment. 

- “Presently I discovered a royal and sumptuous 
palace, of which the walls and battlements seemed all 
of clear and transparent crystal. At the same time, 
the spacious gates opening, there came out towards me 
a venerable old man, clad in a sad-colored robe, so long 
that it swept the ground; on his breast and shoulders 


he had a green satin tippet after the manner of those |' 


worn in colleges. Onbis head he wore a black Milan 
cap, and his broad hoary beard reached down below 
his middle, He had no kind of weapon in his hands, 





but a rosary of beads about the bigness of walnuts, and 
his credo beads appeared as large as ordinary ostrich- 
eggs. The awful and grave aspect, the pace, the port 
and goodly presence of this old man, each of them 
apart, and much more all together, struck me with 
veneration and astonishment. He came up to me, and, 
without any previous ceremony, embracing me close, 
‘It is a long time,’ said he, ‘most renowned knight, 
Don Quixote de la Mancha, that we who dwell in this 
enchanted solitude have hoped to see you here; that 
you may inform the upper world of the surprising 
prodigies concealed from human knowledge in this 
subterranean hollow, called the cave of Montesinos: an 
enterprise reserved alone for your insuperable heart, 
and stupendous resolution. Go with me, then, thou 
most illustrious knight, and behold the wonders en- 
closed within the transparent castle, of which I am the 
perpetual governor and chief warden, being the same 
individual Montesinos, from whom this cavern took its 
name.’ ft 

“No sooner had the reverend old man let me ‘know 
who he was, but I entreated him, to tell me whether it 
was true or no that, at his friend Durandarte's dying 
request, he had taken out his heart with a small dag- 
ger the very moment he expired, and carried it to his 
mistress Belerma, as the story was current in the 
world. ‘It is literally true,’ answered the old gentle- 
man, ‘except that single circumstance of the dagger; 
for I used neither a small noralarge dagger on this 
occasion, but a well-polished poniard, as sharp as an 
awl. >,” 

“I will be hanged,” quoth Sancho, “if it was not’ one 
of your Seville poniards, of Heo qe Hoze's 
making.” 

-“That cannot be,” said Don Gua “for that cutler 
lived but the other day, and the battle of Ronces- 
valles, where this accident happened, was fought 
many ages ago; but End is of no AO IAneA to. the 
story. ” 

“You are in the right, sir,” said the student, “ana 
pray go on, for I hearken to your relation with the 
greatest satisfaction imaginable.” 

“That, sir,” said the knight, “increases my pleasure 

301 





























“An infinite number of overgrown crows and daws came rushing and fluttering out of the cave.”—p. 299. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


in telling it. But to proceed; the venerable Monte- 
sinos, having conducted me into the crystal palace, led 
me into a spacious ground-room, exceeding cool, and 
all of alabaster. In the middle of it stood a stately 
marble tomb, that seemed a masterpiece of art, upon 
which lay a knight extended all at length, not of stone 
or brass, as on other monuments, but pure flesh and 
bones. He covered the region of his heart with his 
right hand, which seemed to be somewhat hairy and 
very full of sinews—a sign of the great strength of the 
body to which it belonged. Montesinos, observing 
that I viewed this spectacle with surprise, ‘ Behold,’ 
said he, ‘the flower and mirror of all the amorous and 
valiant knights of his age, my friend Durandarte, who, 
together with me and many others of both sexes, are 
kept here enchanted by Merlin, that British magician, 
who, they say, was the son of the devil, though I can- 
not believe it; only his knowledge was so great that he 
might be said to know more than the devil. Here, I 
say, we are enchanted, but how and for what cause no 
man can tell, though time, I hope, will shortly reveal 
it. Butthe most wonderful part of my fortune is this: 
I am as certain as that the sun now shines, that Duran- 
darte died in my arms, and that with these hands I 
took out his heart, by the same token that it weighed 
above two pounds—a sure mark of his courage; for, by 
the rules of natural philosophy, the most valiant men 
have still the biggest hearts. Nevertheless, though 
this knight really died, be still complains and sighs 
sometimes as if he were alive.’ 

“Scarce had Montesinos spoke these words, but the 
miserable Durandarte cried out aloud, ‘Oh, cousin 
Montesinos! the last and dying request of your depart- 
ing friend was to take my heart out of my breast with 
a poniard or a dagger, and carry it to Belerma.’ The 
venerable Montesinos, hearing this, fell on his knees 
before the afflicted knight, and with tears in his eyes, 
‘Long, long ago,’ said he, ‘ Durandarte, thou dearest of 
my kinsmen, have I performed what you enjoined me 

-on that bitter, fatal day when you expired. I took out 
your heart with all imaginable care, not leaving the 
least particle of it in your breast; I gently wiped it 
with a laced handkerchief, and posted away with it to 
France, as soon as I had committed your dear remains 
to the bosom of the earth, having shed tears enough to 
have washed my hands clear of the blood they had 
gathered by plunging in your entrails. To confirm this 
truth yet farther, at the first place where I stopped from 
Roncesvalles, I laid a little salt upon your heart, to 
preserve it from putrefaction, and keep it, if not fresh, 
at least free from any ill smell, till I presented it into 
the hands of Belerma, who, with vou and me, and Gua- 
diana your squire, as also Ruydera (the lady’s woman) 
with her seven daughters, her two nieces, and many 
others of your friends and acquaintance, is here con- 
fined by the necromantic charms of the magician Mer- 
lin; and though it be now above five hundred years 
since we were first conveyed into this enchanted castle, 
we are still alive, except Ruydera, her daughters, and 
nieces, who, by the favor of Merlin that pitied their 
tears, were turned into so many lakes, still extant in the 





303 


world of the living, and in the province of La Mancha, 
distinguished by the name of the Lakes of Ruydera; 
seven of them belonged to the kings of Spain, and the 
two nieces to the Knights of the Most Holy Order 
of St. John. Your squire Guadiana, lamenting his 
hard fate, was in like manner metamorphosed into a 
river that bears his name, yet still so sensible of 
your disaster, that when he first arose out of the 
bowels of the earth to flow along its surface, and 
saw the sun in a strange hemisphere, he plunged 
again under ground, striving to hide his melting 
sorrows from the world; but the natural current of his 
waters forcing a passage up apain, he is compelled to 
appear where the sun and mortals may see him. Those 
lakes mixing their waters in his bosom, he swells and 
glides along in sullen state to Portugal, often express- 
ing his deep melancholy by the muddy and turbid color 
of his streams, which, as they refuse to please the sight, 
so likewise deny to indulge mortal appetite by breeding 
such fair and savory fish as may be found in the golden 
Tagus. All this I have often told you, my dearest 
Durandarte; and since you return me no answer, I must 
conclude you believe me not, or that you do not hear 
me, for which (witness it, Heaven!) I am extremely 
grieved. But now I have other news to tell ye, which, 
though perhaps it may not assuage your sorrows, yet, 
I am sure, it will not increase them. Open your eyes, 
and behold in your presence that mighty knight of 
whom Merlin the sage has foretold so many wonders— 
that Don Quixote de la Mancha, I mean, who has not 
only restored to the world the function of knight-errantry 
that has lain so long in oblivion, but advanced it to 
greater fame than it could boast in former ages, the 
nonage of the world. It is by his power we may expect 
to see the fatal charm dissolved that keeps us here con- 
fined; for great performances are properly reserved for 
great personages.’ ‘And should it not be so?’ answered 
the grieving Durandarte, with a faint and languishing 
voice. ‘Should it not be so, I say? Oh, cousin! pa- 
tience, and shuffle the cards.’ Then turning on one 
side, without speaking a word more, he relapsed into 
his usual silence. 

“ After this I was alarmed with piteous howling and 
crying, which, mixed with lamentable sighs and groans, 
obliged me to turn about, to see whence it proceeded. 
Then through the crystal wall I saw a mournful pro- 
cession of most beautiful damsels, all in black, march- 
ing in two ranks, with turbans on their heads after the 
Turkish fashion; and last of all came a majestic lady, 
dressed also in mourning, with along white veil, that 
reached from her head down to the ground. Her tur- 
ban was iwice as big as the biggest of the rest; she was 
somewhat beetle-browed, her nose was flattish, her 
mouth wide, but her lips red; her teeth, which she 
sometimes discovered, seemed to be thin and snaggy, 
but indeed as white as blanched almonds. She held a 
fine handkerchief, and within it I could perceive a 
heart of flesh, sodry and withered, that it looked like 
mummy. Montesinos informed me that the procession 
consisted of Durandarte’s and Belerma’s servants, who 
were enchanted there with their master and mistress: 









































“«They found tbat his eyes were closed, as if he had been fast asleep.”—p. 301, 


DON OUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


but that the last was Belerma herself, who, with her 
attendants, used four days in the week constantly thus 
tossing, or rather howl their dirges over the heart and 
body of his cousin; and that though Belerma appeared 
a little haggard at that juncture, occasioned by the 
grief she bore in her own heart for that which she car- 
ried in her hand, yet had I seen her before her misfor- 
tunes had sunk her eyes and tarnished her complexion, 
I must have owned that even the celebrated Dulcinea 
dei Toboso herself, so famous in La Mancha, and over 
the whole universe, could scarce have vied with her 
jn gracefulness and beauty. 

“« Hold there, good Signior Don Montesinos,’ said I. 
* You know that comparisons are odious, therefore no 
more comparing, I beseech you; but go on with your 
story. The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she 
is, and the lady Belerma is what she is, and has been: 
so no more upon that subject.’ ‘I beg your pardon,’ 
answered Montesinos, ‘Signior Don Quixote: I might 
have guessed indeed that you were the Lady Dulcinea’s 
knight, and therefore I ought to have bit my tongue off, 
sooner than to have compared her to anything lower 
than heaven itself.’ This satisfaction, which I thought 
sufficient from the great Montesinos, stifled the resent- 
ment I else had shown, for hearing my mistress com- 
pared to Belerma.” 

“Nay, marry,” quoth Sancho, “I wonder you did not 
catch the old doating hunks by the weasand, and maul 
and thresh him thick and three-fold! How could you 
leave one hair on his chin ?” 

“No, no, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “there is 
always a respect due to our seniors, though they be no 
knights; but most when they are such, and under the 
impression of enchantment. However, Il am satisfied 
that in what discourse passed between us I took care 
not to have anything that looked like an affront fixed 
upon me.” 

“But, sir,” asked the scholar, “how could you see 
and hear so many strange things in so little time? I 
cannot conceive how you could do it.” 

“How long,” said Don Quixote, “do you reckon that 
T have been in the cave ?” 

“A little above an hour,” answered Sancho. 

“That is impossible,” said Don Quixote, “for I saw 
morning and evening, and evening and morning, three 
times since; so that I could not be absent less than 
three days from this upper world.” 

“Ay, ay,” quoth Sancho, “ my master is in the right; 
for these enchantments, that have the greatest share in 
all his concerns, may make that seem three days and 
three nights to him which is but an hour to other 
people.” 

“It must be so,” said Don Quixote. 

“T hope, sir,” said the scholar, “you have eaten 
something in all that time.” 

“Not one morsel,” replied Don Quixote, “neither 
have had the least desire to eat, or so much as thought 
of it all the while.” 

“Do not they that are enchanted sometimes eat?” 
asked the scholar. 

“They never do,” answered Don Quixote, “though it 

20——DON QUIX. 





305 


is not unlikely that their nails, their beards, and hair 
still grow.” 

“Do they never sleep neither?” said Sancho. 

“Never,” said Don Quixote; “at least, they never 
closed their eyes while I was among them, nor I 
neither.” 

“This makes good the saying,” quoth Sancho, “ ‘ Tell 
me thy company, and I will tell thee what thou art.’ 
Troth! you have all been enchanted together. No won- 
der you neither eat nor slept, since you were in the 
land of those that always watch and fast. But, sir, 
would you have me speak as I think? and pray do not 
take it in ill part, for if I believe one word of all you 
have said——” 

“What do you mean, friend ?” said the student. “Do 
you think the noble Don Quixote would be guilty of a 
lie? and if he had a mind to stretch a little, could he, 
think you, have had leisure to frame such a number of 
stories in so short a time ?” 

“Ido not think that my master would lie neither,” 
said Sancho. 

“What do ye think then, sir?” said Don Quixote. 

“Why truly, sir,” quoth Sancho, “I do believe that 
this same cunning man, this Merlin, that bewitched, or 
enchanted, as you call it, all that rabble of people you 
talk of, may have crammed and enchanted into your 
noddle, some way or other, all that you have told us, 
and have yet to tell us.” 

“It is not impossible but such a thing may happen,” 
said Don Quixote, “though I am convinced it was 
otherwise with me; for I am positive that I saw with 
these eyes, and felt with these hands, all I have men- 
tioned. But what will you think when I tell you, 
among many wonderful things, that I saw three country 
wenches, leaping and skipping about those pleasant 
fields like so many wild goats; and at first sight knew 
one of them to be the peerless Dulcinea, and the other 
two the very same we spoke to not far from Toboso? I 
asked Montesinos if he knew them. He answered in 
the negative; but imagined them some enchanted ladies, 
who were newly come, and that the appearance of 
strange faces was no rarity among them, for many of 
the past ages and the present were enchanted there, 
under several disguises; and that, among the rest, he 
knew Queen Guinever and her woman Quintaniona, 
that officiated as Sir Lancelot’s cup-bearer, as he came 
from Britain.” 


Sancho, hearing his master talk at this rate, had like 
to have forgot himself, and burst out a-laughing; for 
he well knew that Dulcinea’s enchantment was a lie, 
and that he himself was the chief magician and raiser 
of the story; and thence, concluding his master stark 
mad, “In an ill hour,” quoth he, “dear master of mine, 
and in a woful day, went your worship down to the 
other world; and in a worse hour met you with that 
plaguy Montesinos, that has sent you back in this rue- 
ful pickle. You went hence in your right senses; could 
talk prettily enough now and then; had your handsome 
proverbs and wise sayings overy foot, and would give 
wholesome counsel to all that would take it; but now, 














“The venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before the affiicted knight. ”—p. 303 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


bless me! you talk as if you had left your brains in the 
cave.” 

“TI know thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and 
therefore I regard thy words as little as possible.” 

“And I yours,” replied Sancho: “nay, you may crip- 
ple, lame, or kill me, if you please, either for what I 
have said or mean to say; I must speak my mind, 
though I die for it. But before your blood is up, pray, 
sir, tell me how did you know it was your mistress? 
Did you speak to her? What did she say to you? and 
what did you say to her?” 

“T knew her again,” said Don Quixote, “by the same 
clothes she wore when thou showedst her to me. I 
spoke to her; but she made no answer, suddenly turned 
away, and fled from me like a whirlwind. I intended 
to have followed her, had not Montesinos told me it 
would be to no purpose; warning me, besides, that it 
was high time to return to the upper air; and, chang- 
ing the discourse, he told me that I should hereafter be 
made acquainted with the means of disenchanting them 
all. But while Montesinos and I were thus talking to- 
gether, a very odd accident, the thoughts of which 
trouble me still, broke off our conversation. For, as we 
were in the height of our discourse, who should come 
to me but one of the unfortunate Dulcinea’s compan- 
ions, and, before I was aware, with a faint and doleful 
voice, ‘ Sir,’ said she, ‘my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso 
gives her service to you, and desires to know how you 
do; and, being a little short of money at present, she 
desires you, of all love and kindness, to lend her six 
reals upon this new fustian petticoat, or more or less, 
as you can spare it, sir, and she will take care to re- 
deem it very honestly in a little time.’ 

“The message surprised me strangely; and therefore, 
turning to Montesinos, ‘Is it possible, sir,’ said I, ‘ that 
persons of quality, when enchanted, are in want?’ ‘Oh! 
very possible, sir,’ said he; ‘poverty rages every where, 
and spares neither quality enchanted nor unenchanted; 
and therefore, since the Lady Dulcinea desires you to 
lend her these six reals, and the pawn is a good pawn, 
let her have the money; for sure it is very low with her 
at this time.’ ‘I scorn to take pawns,’ said I; ‘but my 
misfortune is, that I cannot answer the full request; for 








307 


I have but four reals about me;’ and that was the money 
thou gavest me the other day, Sancho, to distribute 
among the poor. However, I gave her all I had, and 
desired her to tell her mistress I was very sorry for her 
wants; and that if I had all the treasures which Croesus 
possessed, they should be at her service; and withal, 
that I died every hour for want of her reviving com- 
pany; and made it my humble and earnest request, that 
she would vouchsafe to see and converse with her cap- 
tive servant, and weather-beaten knight. ‘Tell her,’ 
continued I, ‘when she leasts expects it, she will come 
to hear how I made an oath, as the Marquis of Mantua 
did, when he found his nephew Baldwin ready to ex- 
pire on the mountain, never to eat upon a table-cloth, 
and several other particulars, which he swore to ob- 
serve, till he had revenged his death; so, in the like 
solemn manner will I swear never to desist from tra- 
versing the habitable globe, and ranging through all 
the seven parts of the world, more indefatigably than 
ever was done by Prince Pedro of Portugal, till I have 
freed her from her enchantment.’ “All this and more 
you owe my mistress,’ said the damsel; and then, hav- 
ing got the four reals, instead of dropping me a curt- 
sey, she cut me a caper in the air two yards high.” 

“Now, Heaven defend us!” cried Sancho. “Who 
could ever have believed that these enchanters and 
enchantments should have so much power as to bewitch 
my master at this rate, and craze his sound understand- 
ing in this manner! Alas! sir, for the love of Heaven, 
take care of yourself. What will the world say? Rouse 
up your dozing senses, and do not dote upon those 
whimsies that have so wretchedly cracked that rare 
headpiece of yours.” 

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “I cannot be angry at thy 
ignorant tittle-tattle, because it proceeds from thy love 
towards me. Thou thinkest, poor fellow! that what- 
ever is beyond the sphere of thy narrow comprehen- 
sion must be impossible; but, as I have already said, 
there will come a time when I shall give thee an ac- 
count of some things I have seen below, that will con- 
vince thee of the reality of those I told thee now, the 
truth of which admits of no dispute.” 











CHAPTER XXIV. 


WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF A THOUSAND FLIMFLAMS AND STORIES, AS IMPERTINENT AS NECESSARY TO 


THE RIGHT 


THE translator of this famous history declares that, 
at the beginning of the chapter which treats of the 
adventure of the cave of Montesinos, he found a mar- 
ginal annotation, written with the Arabian author's 
own hand, in these words:— 

“I cannot be persuaded, nor believe, that all the 
wonderful accidents said to have happened to the 


UNDERSTANDING OF"THIS GRAND HISTORY. 


valorous Don Quixote in the cave, so punctually befell 
him as he relates them; for the course of his adven- 
tures hitherto has been very natural, and bore the face 
of probability, but in this there appears no coherence 
with reason, and nothing but monstrous incongruities. 
But, on the other hand, if we consider the honor, worth, 
and integrity of the noble Don Quixote, we have not 








i 


Ll ee 


ie 


a 


Ma quis 
AR | | ar | a 














“Gin 
a 





i ”—p. 305. 
ful procession of most beautiful damsels, all in black. 
© T saw a mournfu 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


the least reason to suspect he would be guilty of a lie, 
but rather that he would sooner have been transfixed 
with arrows. Besides, he has been so particular in his 
relation of that adventure, and given so many circum- 
stances, that I dare not declare it absolutely apocry- 
phal; especially when I consider that he had not time 
enough to invent such a cluster of fables. I therefore 
insert it among the rest, without offering to determine 
whether it is true or false, leaving it to the discretion 
of the judicious reader; though I must acquaint him, 
by the way, that Don Quixote, upon his death-bed, 
utterly disowned this adventure, as a perfect fable, 
which, he said, he had invented purely to please his 
humor, being suitable to such as he had formerly read 
in romances.” And so much by the way of digression. 
The scholar thought Sancho the most saucy servant, 
and his master the calmest madman that ever he saw, 
though he attributed the patience of the latter to a 
certain good humor and easiness of temper, infused into 
him by the sight of his mistress Dulcinea, even under 
enchantment; otherwise he would have thought his not 
checking Sancho a greater sign of madness than his 
discourse. “Noble Don Quixote,” said he, “for four 
principal reasons J am extremely pleased with having 
taken this journey with you. First, it has procured me 
the honor of your acquaintance, which I shall always 
esteem a singular happiness. In the second place, sir, 
the secrets of the cave of Montesinos, and the trans- 
formations of Guadiana and Ruydera’s lakes have been 
revealed to me, which may look very great in my 
Spanish Ovid. My third advantage is, to have dis- 
covered the antiquity of card-playing, which I find to 
have been a pastime in use even in the Emperor Charles 
the Great’s time, as may be collected from the words of 
Durandarte, who, after a long speech of Montesinos,” 
said, as he waked, ‘Patience, and shuffle the cards,’ 
which vulgar expression he could never have learned 
in his enchantment. It follows, therefore, that he must 
have heard it when he lived in France, which was in 
the reign of that emperor; which observation is nicked, 
I think, very opportunely for my supplement to Poly- 
dore Virgil, who, as I remember, has not touched upon 
card-playing: The fourth part of my good fortune is to 
know the certain and true source of the river Guadiana, 
which has hitherto disappointed all human inquiries.” 
“There is a great deal of reason in what you say,” 
answered Don Quixote; “ but, under favor, sir, pray 
tell me, should you happen to geta license to publish 
your book, which I somewhat doubt, whom will you 
pitch upon for your patron ?” 
“Oh, sir,” answered the author, “there are grandees 
enough in Spain, sure, that I may dedicate to.” 
“Truly, not many,” said Don Quixote; “there are, 
indeed, several whose merits deserve the praise of a 
dedication, but very few whose generosity will reward 
the pains and civility of the author. I must confess, I 
know a prince whose generosity may make amends for 
what is wanting in the rest, and that to such a degree, 
that, should I make bold to come to particulars, and 
speak of his great merits, it would be enough to stir up 
a noble emulation in above four generous breasts; but 





309 


more of this some other time—it 1s late now, and there. 
fore convenient to think of a lodging.” 

“Hard by us here, sir,” said the author, “1s a hermit- 
age, the retirement of a devout person, who, as they 
say, was once a soldier, and is looked upon as a good 
Christian, and so charitable, that he has built there a 
little house at his own expense, purely for the enter 
tainment of strangers.” 

“But does he keep hens there, trow?” asked Sancho. 

“Few hermits in this age are without them,” said 
Don Quixote; “tor their way of living now falls short 
of the strictness and austerity of those in the deserts of 
Egypt, who went clad only with palm-leaves, and fed 
on the roots of the earth. Now, because I speak well 
of those of old, I would not have you think I reflect on 
the others. No,I only mean that their penances are 
not so severe as in former days; yet this does not 
hinder but that the hermits of the present age may be 
good men. I look upon them to be such; at least their 
dissimulation secures them from scandal; and the 
hypocrite that puts on the form of holiness does cer- 
tainly less harm than the barefaced sinner.” 

As they went on in their discourse, they saw aman 
following them at a great pace on foot, and switching 
up a mule laden with lances and halberts. He present- 
ly overtook them, gave them the time of day, and pass- 
ed by. 

“Stay, honest fellow!” cried Don Quixote, seeing 
him go so fast, “make no more haste than is consistent 
with good speed.” 

“T cannot stay, sir,” said the man; “for these 
weapons that you see must be used to-morrow morning; 
so, sir, I am in haste—good bye—I shall lodge to-night 
at the inn beyond the hermitage; if you chance to go 
that way, there you may find me, and I well tell you 
strange news; so, fare ye well.” Then, whipping his 
mule, away he moved forwards; so fast that Don Quix- 
ote had not leisure to ask him any more questions 

The knight, who had always an itching ear after 
novelties, to satisfy his curiosity, immediately pro- 
posed their holding straight on to the inn, without 
stopping at the hermitage, where the scholar designed 
to have stayed all night. Well, they all consented, and 
made the best of their way; however, when they came 
near the hermitage, the scholar desired Don Quixote 
to call with him for a moment, and drink a glass of 
wine at the door. Sancho no sooner heard this pro- 
posed, but he turned Dapple that way, and rode thither 
before; but, to his grief, the hospitable hermit was 
abroad, and nobody at home bnt the hermit’s com- 
panion, who, being asked whether he had any liquor 
within, made answer that he could not come at any, 
but as for water, he might have plenty. 

“Bless me!” quoth Sanch, “were mine a water-thirst, 
or had I a liking to your cold comfort, there are wells 
enough upon the road where I might have taken my 
fill. Oh, the good cheer of Don Diego’s house, and the 
savory scum at Camacho’s wedding! when shall I find 
your fellow?” 

They now spurred on towards the inn, and soon over- 
took on the road a young fellow, beating it on the hoof 


310 


pretty leisurely. He carried his sword over his shoul- 
der, with a bundle of clothes hanging upon it, which, 
to all appearance, consisted of a pair of breeches, a 
cloak, and a shirt ortwo. He had on a tattered velvet 
jerkin, with a ragged satin lining, and his shirt hung 
out. His stockings were of silk, and his shoes square 
at the toes, after the court fashion. He seemed about 
eighteen or nineteen years of age, a good, pleasant- 
looking lad, and of a lively and active disposition. To 
pass the fatigue of his journey the best he could, he 
sung all the way; and, as they came near him, was just 
ending the last words of a ballad, which the scholar 
got by heart, and were these :— 


“A plague on illluck! now my ready's all gone, 
To the wars poor pilgarlick must trudge; 
Though had I but money to rake as I’ve done, 
The devil a foot would I budge.” 


“So, young gentleman,” said Don Quixote to him, 
“methinks you go very light and airy. Whither are 
you bound, I pray you, if a man may be so bold?” 

“Tam going to the wars, sir; and for my travelling 
thus, heat and poverty will excuse it.” 

“T admit the heat,” replied Don Quixote; “but why 
poverty, I beseech you?” 

“Because I have no clothes to put on but what I carry 
in this bundle; and if I should wear them out upon the 
road, I should have nothing to make a handsome figure 
with in any town; for I have no money to buy new ones 
till l overtake a regiment of foot that lies some twelve 
leagues off, where I design to enlist myself, and thenI 
shall not want a conveniency to ride with the baggage 
till we come to Carthagena, where, I hear, they are 
to embark; for I had rather serve the king abroad 
than any beggarly courtier at home.” 

“But pray,” said the scholar, “have not you laid up 
something while you were there?” 

“Had I served any of your grandees,” said the 
young man, “I might have done well enough, and have 
had a commission by this time; for their foot-boys are 
presently advanced to captains and lieutenants, or some 
other good post; but, sir, it was always my ill fortune 
to serve pitiful upstarts and younger brothers; and my 
allowance was commonly so ill paid and so small, that 
the better half was scarce enough to wash my linen; 
how then should a poor page come to any good in such 
a miserable service?” 

“But,” said Don Quixote, “how comes it about that 
in all this time you could not get yourself a whole 
livery ?” 

“ Alack-a-day, sir,” answered the lad, “I had a couple; 
but my masters dealt with me as they do with novices 
in monasteries; if they go off before they profess, the 
fresh habit is taken from them, and they return them 
their own clothes. For you must know that such as I 
served only buy liveries for a little ostentation; so, 
when they have made their appearance at court, they 
sneak down into the country, and then the poor serv- 





DON QUIQOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ants are stripped, and must even betake themselves to 
their rags again.” 

“A sordid trick !” said Don Quixote. “However, you 
need not repine at leaving the court, since you do it 
with so good a design; for there is nothing in the world 
more commendable than to serve God in the first place, 
and the king in the next, especially in the profession of 
arms, which, if it does not procure a man so much 
riches as learning, may at least entitle him to more 
honor. It is true that more families have been 
advanced by the gown, but yet your gentlemen of 
the sword, whatever the reason of it is, have always 
I know not what advantage above the men of learn- 
ing; and something of glory and splendor attends 
them that makes them outshine the rest of mankind. 
But take my advice along with you, child; if you in- 
tend to raise yourself by military employment, I would 
not have you be uneasy with the thoughts of what mis- 
fortunes may befall you; the worst can be but to die, 
and if it be an honorable death, your fortune is made, 
and you are certainly happy. Julius Cesar, that val- 
iant Roman emperor, being asked what kind of death 
was best, ‘That which is sudden and unexpected,’ said 
he; and though his answer had a relish of paganism, 
yet, with respect to human infirmities, it was very judi- 
cious; for suppose you should be cut off at the very 
first engagement by a cannon-ball, or the spring of a 
mine, what matters it? it is all but dying, and there is 
an end of the business. As Terence says, ‘a soldier 
makes a better figure dead in the field of battle, than 
alive and safe in flight.’ The more likely he is to rise 
in fame and preferment, the better discipline he keeps; 
the better he obeys, the better he will know how to 
command; and pray observe, my friend, that it is more 
honorable for a soldier to smell of gunpowder than of 
musk and amber; or if old age overtakes you in this 
noble employment, though all over scars, though 
maimed and lame, you will still have honor to support 
you and secure you from the contempt of poverty, nay, 
from poverty itself, for there is care taken that vet- 
erans and disabled soldiers may not want; neither are 
they to be used as some men do their negro slaves, 
who, when they are old and past service, are turned 
naked out of doors, under pretence of freedom, to be 
made greater slaves to cold and hunger; a slavery 
from which nothing but death can set the wretches 
free. But I will say no more to you on the subject at 
this time. Get up behind me, and I will carry you to 
the inn, where you shall sup with me, and to-morrow 
make the best of your way; and may Heaven prosper 
your good designs!” 

The page excused himself from riding behind the 
knight, but accepted of his invitation to supper very 
willingly. In a short time they arrived at the inn, 
where Don Quixote alighting, asked presently for the 
man with the lances and halberts. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


WHERE YOU FIND THE GROUNDS OF THE BRAYING ADVENTURES, THAT OF THE PUPPET-PLAYER, AND THE 


MEMORABLE DIVINING OF THE FORTUNE-TELLING APE. 


Don QUIXOTE was on thorns to know the strange 
story that the fellow upon the road engaged to tell 
him; so that, going into the stable, he reminded him of 
his promise, and pressed him to relate the whole matter 
to him that moment. 

“My story will take up some time,” quoth the man, 
“and is not to be told standing; have a little patience, 
master of mine; let me make an end of serving my mule, 
then I will serve your worship, and tell you such things 
as will make you stare.” 

“Do not let that hinder you,” replied Don Quixote, 
“for I will help you myself.” 

And so saying, he lent him a helping hand, cleansing 
the manger and sifting the barley, which humble com- 
pliance obliged the fellow to tell his tale the more will- 
ingly; so that, seating himself upon a bench, with Don 
Quixote, the scholar, the page, Sancho, and the inn- 
keeper about him, for his full auditory, he began in this 
manner :— 

“It happened on a time, that, in a borough about 
some four leagues and a half from this place, one of the 
aldermen lost his ass. They say it was by the roguery 
of a waggish jade that was his maid; but that is neither 
here nor there—the ass was lost and gone, that is cer- 
tain; and what is more, it could not be found neitner 
high norlow. This same ass had been missing about a 
fortnight, some say more, some less, when another 
alderman of the same town, meeting this same losing 
alderman in the market-place, ‘Brother,’ quoth he, 
“pay me well, and I will tell you news of your ass.’ 

“¢Troth,’ replied the other, ‘that I will; but then let 
me know where the poor beast is.’” 

“cWhy,’ answered the other, ‘this morning what 
should I meet upon the mountains yonder but he, with- 
out either pack-saddle or furniture, and so lean that it 
grieved my heart to see him; but yet so wild and skit- 
tish, that when I would have driven him home before 
me, he ran away and gotinto the thickest of the wood. 
Now, if you please, we will both go together and look 
for him; I will but step home first and put up this ass, 
then I will come to you, and we will about it out of 
hand.’ 

“«Pruly, brother,’ said the other, ‘Iam mightily be- 
holden to you, and will do as much for you another 
time.’ 





“The story happened neither more nor less, but such 
as I tell you, for so all that know it relate it word for 
word. In short, the two aldermen, hand-in-hand, 
trudged afoot up the hills, and hunted up and down; 
but after many a weary step, noass was to be found. 
Upon which quoth the alderman that had seen him to 
the other, ‘Hark you me, brother, I have a device in 
my noddle to find out this same ass of yours, thongh he 
were under ground, as you shall hear. You must know 
I can bray to admiration, and if you can but bray but 
never so little, the jobis done.’ 

“ «Never so little!’ cried the other; ‘bless me, I won't 
vail my bonnet at braying to e’er an ass or alderman in 
the land.’ 

“«Well, we shall try that,’ quoth the other, ‘for my 
contrivance is, that you go on one side of the hill, and 
I on the other; sometimes you shall: bray, and some- 
times I; so that, if your ass be but thereabouts, my 
life for yours, he will be sure to answer his kind, and 
bray again.’ 

“<Well done, brother,’ quoth the other; ‘a rare de- 
vice ! let you alone for plotting.’ 

“At the same time they parted according to agree- 
ment, and when they were far enough off, they both fell 
a-braying so perfectly well, that they cheated one an- 
other; and meeting, each in hopes to find the ass, ‘Is 
it possible, brother,’ said the owner of the ass, ‘that it 
was not my ass that brayed ?” 

“<«No, marry, that it was not; it was I,’ answered the 
other alderman.’ 

“ «Well, brother,’ cried the owner, ‘then there is no 
manner of difference between you and an ass, as tc 
matter of braying; I never heard anything so natural 
in my life.’ 

“ “Oh, fie ! sir,’ quoth the other, ‘I am nothing to you: 
you shall lay two to one against the best brayer in the 
kingdom, and I will go you halves. Your voice is lofty, 
and of a great compass; you keep excellent time, and 
hold out a note rarely, and your cadence is full and 
ravishing. In short, sir, I knock under the table, and 
yield you the bays.’ 

“< Well then, brother,’ answered the owner, ‘I shall 
always have the better opinion of mysclf for this one 
good quality; for though I knew I brayed pretty well, 
I never thought myself so great a master before.’ 

311 


312 


““Well,' quoth the other, ‘thus you see what rare 
parts may be lost for want of being known; and a man 
cever knows his own strength till he puts it to a trial.’ 

“Right, brother,’ quoth the owner; ‘for I should 
never have found out this wonderful gift of mine, had 
it not been for this business in hand; and may we 
‘speed in it, I pray.’ 

“After these compliments they parted again, and 
went braying, this on one side of the hill, and that on 
the other; but all to no purpose, for they still deceived 
one another with their braying, and, running to the 
noise, met one another as before. 

“At last they agreed to bray twice one after another, 
that by that token they might be sure it was not the 
ass, but they that brayed; but all in vain—they almost 
prayed their hearts out, but no answer from the ass. 
And indeed, how could the poor creature! for they 
found him at last in the wood, half-eaten by the 
wolves. 

““Alack-a-day! poor Grizzle,’ cried the owner; ‘I do 
not wonder now he took so little notice of his loving 
master. Had he been alive, as sure as he was an ass, 
he would have brayed again. But let him go; this 
comfort I have at least, brother, though I have lost him, 
I have found out that rare talent of yours, that has 
greatly solaced me under this affliction.’ 

“<The glass is in a good hand, Mr. Alderman,’ quoth 
the other, ‘and if the abbot sings well, the young monk 
is not much behind him.’ 

“With this these same aldermen, very much down in 
the mouth, and very hoarse, went home and told all 
their neighbors the whole story, word for word; one 
praising the other’s skill in braying, and the other re- 
turning the compliment. In short, one got it by the 
end, and the other got it by the end; the boys got it, 
and all the idle fellows got it, and there was such a 
brawling and such a braying in our town, that one 
would have thought madmen were broke loose among 
us. But to let you see now how mischief never lies 
dead in a ditch, but catches at every foolish thing to 
set people by the ears, our neighboring towns had it 
up; and when they saw any of our townsfolks, they 
fell a-braying, hitting us in the teeth with the braying 
of our aldermen. This made ill-blood between us; for 
we took it in mighty dudgeon, as well we might, and 
came to words upon it, and from words to blows; for 
the people of our town are well known by this, as the 
beggar knows his dish, and are apt to be jeered where- 
soever they go; and then to it they go, ding dong, hand 
over head, in spite of law or gospel. And they have 
carried the jest so far, that I believe to-morrow, or next 
day, the men of our town, to wit, the brayers, will be in 
the field against those of another town about two 
leagues off, that are always plaguing us. Now, that 
we should be well provided, I have brought these lances 
and halberts that you saw me carry. So this is my story, 
gentlefolks, and if it be not a strange one, I am greatly 
mistaken.” 

Here the honest man ended; when presently enters 
a fellow dressed in trousers and doublet all of chamois 
leather, and calling out, as if he were somebody, “Land- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


lord, have you any lodgings? for here comes the fortune- 
telling ape and the puppet-show of Melisandra's 
deliverance.” 

“Bless me!” cried the innkeeper, “who's here? 
Master Peter! We shall have a merry night, faith! 
Honest Master Peter, you are welcome with all my 
heart; but where is the ape and the show, that I cannot 
see them ?” 

“They will be here presently; I only came before to 
see if you had any lodgings.” 

“Lodging! man,” said the innkeeper; “I would turn 
out the Duke of Alva himself, rather than Master 
Peter should want room. Come, come, bring in your 
things, for here are guests in the house to-night that 
will be good customers to you, I warrant you ” 

“That is a good hearing,” said Peter; “and to en- 
courage them I will lower my prices; and if 1 can but 
get my charges to-night, 1 will look for no more; so I 
will hasten forward the cart.” This said, he ran out of 
the door again. 

I had forgot to tell you that this same Master Peter 
wore over his left eye and balf his cheek a patch of 
green taffeta, by which it was supposed that something 
ailed that side of his face. 

Don Quixote inquired who this Master Peter was, 
and what his ape and his show. 

“Why, sir,” answered the innkeeper, “he has strolled. 
about the country this great while with a curious pup- 
pet-show, which represents the play of Melisandra and 
Don Gayferos, one of the best shows that has been acted 
time out of mind in this kingdom. Then he has an ape: 
bless us, sir, it is such an ape !—but I will say no more 
—you shall see, sir. It will tell you everything you did 
in your life. The like was never seen before. Ask it a 
question, it will listen to you, and then, whip! up it 
leaps on its master’s shoulders, and whispers first in his. 
ear what it knows, and then Master Peter tells you. 
He tells you what is to come as well as what is past: it 
is true, he does not always hit so pat what is to come; 
but after all, he is seldom in the wrong, which makes. 
us apt to think some one helps him at a dead lift. Two 
reals is the price for every question he answers, or his 
master for him, which is all one, you know; and that 
will amount to money at the year’s end, so that it is 
thought the rogue is well to pass; and, indeed, much 
good may it do him, for he is a notable fellow, and leads. 
the merriest life in the world; talks for six men, and 
drinks for a dozen; and all this he gets by his tongue, 
his ape, and his show.” 

By this time Master Peter came back with his puppet- 
show and his ape in a cart. The ape was pretty lusty, 
without any tail, and his back bare as a felt; yet he was 
not very ugly ineither. Don Quixote no sooner saw 
him, but coming up to him, “Mr. Fortune-Teller,” said 
he, “will you be pleased to tell us what fish we shall 
catch, and what will become of us? and here is your 
fee.” Saying this, he ordered Sancho to deliver Mas- 
ter Peter two reals. 

“Sir,” answered Peter, “this animal gives no account 
of things to come; he knows something, indeed, of 
matters past, and a little of the present.” 











IY @ sag Za 


ry val 


i> 


FAIA 


’ 


JEL 


ste 














314. 


** At these words Don Quixote stood amazed.”—p, 


314 


“Oh, indeed!” quoth Sancho; “I would not give a 
brass jack to know what is past, for who knows that 
better than myself? I am not so foolish as to pay for 
what I know already; but since you say he has such a 
knack at guessing the present, let goodman ape tell me 
what my wife Teresa is doing, and here are my two 
reals.” 

“T will have nothing of your beforehand,” said Master 
Peter; so, clapping himself on his left shoulder, up 
skipped the ape thither at one frisk, and, laying his 
mouth to his ear, grated his teeth; and having made 
apish grimaces and a chattering noise for a minute or 
two, with another skip down he leaped upon the ground. 
Immediately upon this Master Peter ran to Don Quix- 
ote, fell on his knees, and embracing his legs, “Oh, 
glorious restorer of knight-errantry,” cried he, “I em- 
brace these legs as I would the pillars of Hercules! 
Who can sufficiently extol the great Don Quixote de la 
Mancha, the reviver of drooping hearts, the piop and 
stay of the falling, the raiser of the fallen, and the staff 
of comfort to the weak!” 

At these words Don Quixote stood amazed, Sancho 
quaked, the page wondered, the brayer blessed him- 
self, the innkeeper stared, and the scholar was in a 
brown study, all astonished at Master Peter’s speech, 
who then, turning to Sancho, exclaimed, “And thou, 
honest Sancho Panza, the best squire to the best knight 
in the world, bless thy stars, for thy good spouse Teresa 
is a good house-wife, and is at this instant dressing a 
pound of flax; by the same token, she has standing by 
her, on her left hand, a large broken-mouth jug, which 
holds a pretty scantling of wine, to cheer up her 
spirits.” 

“By yea and nay,” quoth Sancho, “that is likely 
enough; for she is a true soul, and a jolly soul: were it 
not for a spice of jealousy that she has now and then, I 
would not change her for the giantess Andondona her- 
self, who, as my master says, was as clever a piece of 
woman’s flesh as ever went upon twolegs. Well, much 
good may it do thee, honest Teresa; thou art resolved 
to provide for one,I find, though thy heirs starve for 
it.” 

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “great is the knowledge 
procured by reading, travel, and experience. What 
on earth but the testimony of my own eyes could have 
persuaded me that apes had the gift of divination! I 
am indeed the same Don Quixote de la Mancha, men- 
tioned by this ingenious animal, though I must confess 
somewhat undeserving of so great a character as it has 
pleased him to bestow on me; but nevertheless I am not 
sorry to have charity and compassion bear so great a 
part in my commendation, since my nature has always 
disposed me to do good to all men and hurt to none.” 

“Now had I but money,” said the page, I would know 
of Mr. Ape what luck I should have in the wars.” 

“T have told you already,” said Master Peter, who 
was got up from before Don Quixote; “that this ape 
does not meddle with what is to come; but if he could, 
it should cost you nothing, for Don Quixote’s sake, 
whom to oblige I would sacrifice all the interest I have 
in the world; and as a mark of it, gentlemen, I freely 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHa. 


set up my show, and give all the company in the house 
some diversion gratis.” 

The innkeeper, hearing this, was overjoyed, and or- 
dered Master Peter a convenient room to set up his 
motion, and he immediately went about it. 

In the meantime Don Quixote, who could not bring 
himself to believe than an ape could do all this, taking 
Sancho to a corner of the stable, “Look ye, Sancho,” 
said he, “I have been weighing and considering the won- 
derful gifts of this ape, and find, in short, that Master 
Peter must have made a secret compact with the devil.” 

“Nay,” quoth Sancho, misunderstanding the word 
compact, “if the devil and he have packed anything 
together in hugger-mugger, itis a pack of roguery, to 
be sure, and they are a pack of knaves for their pains, 
and let them e'en pack together, say 1.” 

“Thou dost not apprehend me,” said Don Quixote; “I 
mean, the devil and he must have made an agreement 
together, that Satan should infuse his knowledge into 
the ape, to purchase the owner an estate; and, in re- 
turn, the last has certainly engaged his soul to this 
destructive seducer of mankind; for the ape's knowl- 
edge is exactly of the same proportion with the devil's, 
which only extends to the discovery of things past and 
present, having no insight into futurity, but by such 
probable conjectures and conclusions as may be de- 
duced from the former working of antecedent causes; 
true prescience and prediction being the sacred prerog- 
ative of God, to whose all-seeing eyes all ages, past, 
present, and to come, without the distinction of succes- 
sion and termination, are always present. From this, I 
say, it is apparent that this ape is but the organ 
through which the devil delivers his answers to those 
that ask it questions; and this same rogue should be 
put into the Inquisition, and have the truth pressed 
out of his bones. For sure neither the master nor his 
ape can lay any pretence to judicial astrology, nor is the 
ape so conversant in the mathematics, I suppose, as to 
erect a scheme. Though I must confess that creatures 
of less parts, as foolish, illiterate women, footmen, and 
cobblers, pretend now-a-days to draw certainties from 
the stars, as easily and as readily as they shuffle a pack 
of cards, to the disgrace of the sublime science, which 
they have the impudence to profess.” 

“For all that,” said Sancho, “I would have you ask 
Master Peter's ape whether the passages you told us 
concerning the cave of Montesinos be true or no; for, 
saving the respect I owe your worship, I take them to 
be no better than fibs and idle stories, or dreams at 
least.” 

“You may think what you will,” answered Don Quix- 
ote; “however, I will do as you would have me, though 
I confess my conscience somewhat scruples to do such 
a thing.” : 

While they were thus engaged in discourse, Master 
Peter came and told Don Quixote the show was ready 
to begin, and desired him to come and see it, for he was 
sure his worship would like it. ; 

The knight told him he had a question to put to his 
ape first, and desired he might tell him whether cer- 
tain things that happened to him in the cave of Mon- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


tesinos were dreams or realities, for he doubted they 
had something of both in them. 

Master Peter fetched his ape immediately, and, 
placing him just before the knight and his squire, 
“Look you,” said he, “Mr. Ape, this worthy knight 
would have you tell him whether some things which 
happened to him in the cave of Montesinos are true or 
no.” Then, upon the usual signal, the ape, jumping 
upon Master Peter’s left shoulder, chattered his answer 
into bis ear, which the interpreter delivered thus to 
the inquirer:—“The ape, sir, says that part of those 
things are false, and part of them true, which is all he 
can resolve ye as to this question; and now his virtue 
has left him, and won’t return till Friday next. If you 
would know any more you must stay till then, and he 
will answer as many questions as you please.” 

“Look you there now!” quoth Sancho; “did not 1 
tell you that all you told us of the cave of Montesinos 
would not hold water?” 

“That the event will determine,” replied the knight, 
“which we must leave to process of time to produce, 
for it brings everything to light, though buried in the 





315 


bowels of the earth. No more of this at present: let 
us now see the puppet show; I fancy we shall find 
something in it worth seeing.” 

“Something!” said Master Peter; “sir, you will see 
a thousand things worth seeing. I tell you, sir, I defy 
the world to show such another. I say no more: Oper- 
ibus credite, et non verbis. But now let us begin, for it 
grows late, and we have much to do, say, and show.” 

Don Quixote and Sancho complied, and went into 
the room where the show stood with a good number of 
small wax-lights glimmering round about, that made it 
shine gloriously. Master Peter got to his station with- 
in, being the man that was to move the puppets; and 
his boy stood before to tell what the puppets said, and 
with a white wand in his hand, to point at the several 
figures as they came in and out, and explain the mys- 
tery of the show. Then, all the audience having taken 
their places, Don Quixote, Sancho, the scholar, and the 
page, being preferred to the rest, the boy, who was the 
mouthpiece of the motion, began a story, that shall be 
heard or seen by those who will take the pains to read 
or hear the next chapter. 








CHAPTER XXVI. 


A PLEASANT ACCOUNT OF THE PUPPET-PLAY, WITH OTHER VERY GOOD THINGS TRULY. 


TuE Tyrians and the Trojans were all silent; that is, 
the ears of all the spectators hung on the mouth of the 
interpreter of the show, when, in the first place, they 
heard a loud flourish of kettle-drums and trumpets 
within the machine, and then several discharges of 
artillery ; which prelude being over, “ Gentlemen,” 
cried the boy, raising his voice, “we present you here 
with a true history, taken out of the Chronicles of 
France, and the Spanish ballads, sung even by the 
boys about the streets, and in everybody’s mouth; it 
tells you how Don Gayferos delivered his wife Melisan- 
dra, that was a prisoner among the Moors in Spain, in 
the city of Sansuena, now called Saragosa. Now, gal- 
lants, the first figure we present you with is Don Gay- 
feros playing at tables, according to the ballad: 

““* Now Gayferos the live-long day, 
Oh! arrant shame, at draughts does play: 


And, as at court most husbands ao, 
Forgets his lady fair and true.’ 
a 


“Gentlemen, in the next place, mark that personage 
that peeps out there with a crown on his head and a 
sceptre in his hand; it is the Emperor Charlemagne, 
the fair Melisandra's reputed father, who, vexed at the 
idleness and negligence of his son-in-law, comes to 
chide him; and pray observe with what passion and 
earnestness he rates him, asif he had a mind to lend 
him half a dozen sound raps over the pate with his 
sceptre; nay, some authors do not stick to tell ye he 





gave as many, and well laid on too. And after he had 
told him how his honor lay a-bleeding till he had de- 
livered his wife out of durance, among many other 
pithy sayings, ‘Look to it,’ quoth he to him as he went, 
I will say no more.’ Mind how the emperor turns his 
back upon him, and how he leaves Don Gayferos nettled, 
and in the dumps. Now see how he starts up, and, in 
a rage, dings the tables one way, and whirls the men 
another; and, calling for his arms with all haste, bor- 
rows his cousin-german Orlando’s sword, Durindana, 
who withal offers to go along with him in this difficult 
adventure; but the valorous enraged knight will not 
let him, and says he is able to deliver his wife himself 
without his help, though they kept her down in the 
very centre of the earth. And now he is going to put 
on his armor, in order to begin his journey. 

“Now, gentlemen, cast your eyes upon yon tower; 
you are to suppose it to be one of the towers of the 
castle of Saragoso, now called the Aljaferia. That lady 
whom you see in the balcony there in the Moorish habit 
is the peerless Melisandra, that casts many a heavy 
look towards France, thinking of Paris and her hus- 
band, the only comfort in her imprisonment. But now! 
—silence, gentlemen, pray silence—here is an accident 
wholly new, the like perhaps never heard of before. 
Don’t you see that Moor, who comes a-tiptoe, creeping 
and stealing along, with his finger in his mouth, behind 
Melisandra? Hear what a smack he gives her on her 


316 


sweet lips, and see how she spits, and wipes her mouth 
with her white sleeve; see how she takes on, and tears 
her lovely hair for very madness, as if it were to blame 
this affront. Next, pray observe that grave Moor that 
stands in the open gallery; that is Marsilius, the king 
of Sansuena, who, having been an eye-witness of the 
sauciness of the Moor, ordered him immediately to be 
apprehended, though his kinsman and great favorite; 
to have two hundred lashes given him; then to be car- 
ried through the city, with criers before to proclaim 
his crime, the rods of justice behind. And look how 
all this is put into execution sooner almost than the 
fact is committed; for among Moors, ye must know, 
there is no citation of the party, nor copies of the pro- 
cess, nor delay of justice, as among us.” 

“Child, child,” said Don Quixote, “go on directly 
with your story, and don’t keep us here with your ex- 
cursions aud ramblings out of the road. I tell you 
there must be a formal process, and legal trial, to prove 
matters of fact.” 

“Boy,” said the master from behind the show, “do 
as the gentleman bids you. Don’t run so much upon 
flourishes, but follow your plain song, without ventur- 
ing on counter-points, for fear of spoiling all.” 

“T will sir,” quoth the boy, and so proceeding: “Now, 
sirs, he that you see there a-horse-back, wrapped up in 
the Gascoigne cloak, is Don Gayferos himself, whom 
his wife, now revenged on the Moor for his impudence, 
seeing from the battlements of the tower, takes him for 
a stranger, and talks with him as such, according to 
the ballad, 


‘Quoth Melisandra, 1: perchance, 

Sir Traveller, you go for France, 

For pity’s sake, ask when you're there 
For Gayferos, my husband dear.’ 


“T omit the rest, not to tire you with a long story. 
It is sufficient that he makes himself known to her, as 
you may guess by the joy she shows; and accordingly, 
now see how she lets herself down from the balcony, to 
come at her loving husband, and get behind him; but 
unhappily, alas! one of the skirts of her gown is caught 
upon one of the spikes of the balcony, and there she 
hangs and hovers in the air miserably, without being 
able to get down. But see how Heaven is merciful, 
and sends relief in the greatest distress! Now Don 
Gayferos rides up to her, and, not fearing to tear her 
rich gown, lays hold on it, and at one pull brings her 
down; and then at one lift sets her astride upon his 
horse’s crupper, bidding her to sit fast, and clap her 
arms about him, that she might not fall; for the Lady 
Melisandra was not used to that kind of riding. 

“Observe now, gallants, how the horse neighs, and 
shows how proud he is of the burden of his brave mas- 
ter and fair mistress. Look now how they turn their 
backs, and leave the city, and gallop it merrily away 
towards Paris. Peace be with you, for a peerless 
couple of true lovers! may ye get safe and sound into 
your own country, without any let or ill chance in 
your journey, and live as long as Nestor, in peace and 
quietness among your friends and relations.” 





DON OQUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Plainness, boy! ” cried Master Peter, “none of your 
flights, I beseech you, for affectation is unbearable.” 

The boy answered nothing, but going on, “ Now, 
sirs,” quoth he, “some of those idle people, that love 
to pry into everything, happened to spy Melisanára as 
she was making her escape, aud ran presently and gave 
Marsilius notice of it: whereupon he straight com- 
manded to sound an alarm; and now mind what a din 
and hurly-burly their is, and how the city shakes with 
the ring of the bells backwards in all the mosques ! ” 

“There you are out, boy,” said Don Quixote; “the 
Moors have no bells; they only use kettle-drums, 
and a kind of shawms, like our waits or hautboys; so 
that your ringing of bells in Sansuena is a mere absurd- 
ity, good Master Peter.” 

“Nay, sir,” said Master Peter, giving over ringing, 
“if you stand upon these trifles with us, we shall never 
please you. Don't be so severe a critic: are there not 
a thousand plays that pass with great success and ap- 
plause, though they have many greater absurdities, 
and nonsense in abundance? On, boy, on! let there be 
as many impertinences as motes in the sun, no matter, 
so I get the money.” 

“Well said,” answered Don Quixote. 

“And now, sirs,” quoth the boy, “observe what a 
vast company of glittering horse comes pouring out of 
the city, in pursuit of the Christian lovers; what a 
dreadful sound of trumpets, and clarions, aud drums, 
and kettle-drums there is in the air. I fear they will 
overtake them, and then will the poor wretches be 
dragged along most barbarously at the tails of their 
horses, which would be sad indeed.” 

Don Quixote, seeing such a number of Moors, and 
hearing such an alarm, thought it high time to assist 
the flying lovers ; and starting up, “ It shall never be 
said while I live,” cried he aloud, “ that I suffered such 
a wrong to be done to so famous a knight and so daring 
a lover as Don Gayferos. Forbear, then, your unjust 
pursuit, ye base-born rascals! Stop, or prepare to meet 
my furious resentment !” 

Then drawing out his sword, to make good his threatr, 
at one spring he gets to the show, and with a violent 
fury lays at the Moorish puppets, cutting and slashing 
in a most terrible manner; some he overthrows, and 
beheads others; maims this, and cleaves that in pieces. 
Among the rest of his merciless strokes, he thundered 
one down with such a mighty force, that had not Mas- 
ter Peter luckily ducked and squatted down, it had 
certainly chopped off his head as easily as one might 
cut an apple. 

“Hold, hold, sir!” cried the puppet-player, after the 
narrow escape; “hold, for pity’s sake! What do you 
mean, sir? These are no real Moors that you cut and 
hack so, but poor harmless puppets made of paste- 
board. Think of what you do; you ruin me for ever! 
Oh, that ever I was born! you have broke me quite.” 

But Don Quixote, without minding his words, 
doubled and redoubled his blows so thick, and laid 
about him so outrageously, that in less than two credos 
he had cut all the strings and wires, mang] 1 the pup- 
pets, and spoiled and demolished the w: sle motion. 





S Ly a ry 


S Y 














* Observe what a vact company of glittering horse comes pouring out of the city, in pursuit of the Christian lovers,”—p, 316. 


318 


King Marsilius was in a grevious condition. The Em- 
peror Charlemagne's head and crown were cleft in two. 
The whole audience was in a sad consternation. The 
ape scampered off to the top of the house. The scholar 
was frightened out of his wits; the page was very un- 
easy, and Sancho himself was in a terrible fright; for, 
as he said after the hurricane was over, he had never 
seen his master in such a rage before. 

The general rout of the puppets being over, Don 
Quixote’s fury began to abate; and with a more pacified 
countenance turning to the company, “Now,” said he, 
“T could wish all those incredulous persons here who 
slight knight-errantry might receive conviction of their 
error, and behold undeniable proofs of the benefit of 
that function: for how miserable had been the condi- 
tion of poor Don Gayferos and the fair Melisandra by 
tbis time, had 1 not been here and stood up in their 
defence! I make no question but those infidels would 
have apprehended: them, and used them barbarously. 
Well, when all is done, long live knight-errantry; long 
let it live, I say, above all things whatsoever in this 
world!” 

“Ay, ay,” said Master Peter in a doleful tone, “let 
it live long for me,'so I may die; for why should 1 live 
so unhappy as to say with King Roderigo, ‘ Yesterday 
I was lord of Spain, to-day bave not a foot of land I can 
call mine?” Itis not half an hour, nay, scarce a moment, 
since I had kingsland emperors at command. I had 
horses in abundance, and chests and bags full of fine 
things; but now you see me a poor sorry undone man, 
quite and clean broke and cast down, and in short a 
mere beggar. What is worst of all I have lost my ape, 
too, who I am sure will make me sweat ere I catch him 
again; and all through the rash fury of this Sir Knight 
here, who they say protects the fatherless, redresses 
wrongs, and does other charitable deeds, but has failed 
in all these good offices to miserable me, Heaven be 
praised for it. Well may I call him the Knight of the 
Woful Figure, for he has put me and all that belongs 
to me in a woful case.” 

The puppet-player’s lamentations moving Sancho’s 
pity, “Come,” quoth he, “don’t cry, Master Peter; thou 
break'st my heart to hear thee take on so; don't be cast 
down, man, for my master’s a better Christian, I am 
sure, than to let any poor man come to loss by him; 
when he comes to know he has done you wrong, he will 
pay you for every farthing of damage, I will engage.” 

“Truly,” said Master Peter, “if his worship would 
but pay me for the fashion of my puppets he has spoiled 
I will ask no more, and he will discharge a good con- 
science; for he that wrongs his neighbor, and does not 
make restitution, can never hope to be saved, that is 
certain.” 

“I grant it,” said Don Quixote; “but I am not sen- 
sible how I have in the least injured you, good Master 
Peter.” 1 

“No, sir! not injured me?” cried Master Peter. 
“Why, these poor relics that lie here on the cold 
ground cry out for vengeance against you. Was it not 
the invincible force of that powerful arm of yours that 
las scattered and dismembered them so? And whose 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


were those bodies, sir, but mine? and by whom was I 
maintained, but by them ?” 

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “now I am thoroughly 
convinced of a truth which I have had reason to believe 
before, that those cursed magicians that daily persecute 
me do nothing but delude me, first drawing me into 
dangerous adventures by the appearances of them as 
really they are, and then presently after changing the 
face of things as they please. Really and truly, gen- 
tlemen, I vow and protest before you all that hear me, 
that all that was acted here seemed to be really trans- 
acted ipso facto as it appeared. To me Melisandra ap- 
peared to be Melisandra, Don Gayferos was Don Gay- 
feros, Marsilius was Marsilius, and Charlemagne was 
the real Charlemagne; which being so, I could not con- 
tain my fury, and acted according to the duties of my 
function, which obliges me to take the injured side. 
Now, though what I have done proves to be quite con- 
trary to my good design, the fault ought not to be im- 
puted to me, but to my persecuting foes; yet I own 
myself sorry for the mischance, and will condemn my- 
self to pay the costs. Let Master Peter see what he 
must have for the figures that are damaged, and I will 
pay it him now in good and lawful money on the nail.” 

“Heaven bless your worship!” cried Master Peter, 
with a profound cringe; “I could expect no less from 
the wonderful Christianity of the valorous Don Quix- 
ote de la Mancha the sure relief and bulwark of all 
miserable wanderers. Now let my landlord and the 
great Sancho be mediators and appraisers between your 
worship and myself, and I will stand to their award.” 

They agreed; and presently Master Peter, taking up 
Marsilius, King of Saragosa, that lay by on the ground 
with his head off, “Yon see, gentlemen,“ said he, “itis 
impossible to restore this king to his former dignity; 
and therefore, with submission to your better judg- 
ments, I think that for his destruction, and to get him 
a suecessor, seveu-and-twenty pence is little enough on 
conscience.” 

“Proceed,” said Don Quixote. 

“Then for this that is cleft in two,” said Master Peter, 
taking up the Emperor Churlemagne, “I think he is 
richly worth one-and-thirty pence halfpenny.” 

“Not so richly, neither,” quoth Sancho. 

“Truly,” said the innkeeper, “I think it is. pretty 
reasonable; but we will make it even money—let the 
poor fellow have half a crown.” 

“Come,” said Don Quixote, “let him have his full 
price. We will not stand haggling for so small a mat- 
ter in a case like this; so make haste, Master Peter, for 
itis near supper-time, and I have some strong pre- 
sumptions that I shall eat heartily.” 

“Now,” said Master Peter, “for this figure here that 
is without a nose, and blind with one eye, being the 
fair Melisandra, 1 will be reasonable with you: give 
me fourteen pence; I would not take less from my 
brother.” 

“Nay,” said Don Quixote, “I am mistaken if Melis- 
andra be not by this time, with her husband, upon the 
frontiers of France at least, for the horse that carried 
them seemed to me rather to fly than to gallop; and 


DON QUIXOTE 


now you tell me of a Melisandra here without a nose, 
forsooth, when it is ten to one she is in France. Come, 
come, friend, Heaven help every man to his own; let 
us have fair dealing; so proceed.” 

Master Peter, finding that the knight began to harp 
upon the old string, was afraid he would fly off; and 
making as if he had better considered of it, “Cry ye 
mercy, sir,” said he, “I was mistaken. This could not 
be Melisandra, indeed, but one of the damsels that 
waited on her; and so I think fivepence will be fair 
enough for her.” In this manner he went on, setting 
his price upon the dead and wounded, which the arbi- 
trators moderated to the content of both parties; and 
the whole sum amounted to forty reals and three quar- 
ters, which Sancho paid him down; and then Master 
Peter demanded two reals more for the trouble of 
catching his ape. 

“Give it him,” said Don Quixote, “and set the 
monkey to catch the ape; and now would I give two 
hundred more to be assured that Don Gayferos and the 
Lady Melisandra were safely arrived in France among 
their friends.” 

“Nobody can better tell than my ape,” said Master 
Peter, “though no one will be able to catch him if 
hunger or his kindness for me do not bring us together 





DE LA MANCHA. 319 


again to-night. However, to-morrow will be a new 
day, and when it is light we will see what is to be 
done.” 

The whole disturbance being appeased, to supper 
they went lovingly together, and Don Quixote treated 
the whole company, for he was liberality itself. 

Before day the man with the lances and halberts left 
the inn, and some time after the scholar and the page 
came to take leave of the knight; the first to return 
home, and the second to continue his journey, towards 
whose charges Don Quixote gave him twelve reals. 
As for Master Peter, he knew too much of the knight’s 
humor to desire to have anything to do-with him, and 
therefore, having picked up the ruins of the puppet- 
show, and got his ape again, by break of day he pack- 
ed off to seek his fortune. The innkeeper, who did not 
know Don Quixote, was as much surprised at his liber- 
ality as at his madness. In fine, Sancho paid him very 
honestly by his master’s order, and mounting a little 
before eight o’clock, they left the inn, and proceeded 
on their journey; where we will leave them, that we 
may have an opportunity to relate some other matters 
very requisite for the better understanding of this 
famous history. 








CHAPTER XXVII. 


WHEREIN IS DISCOVERED WHO MASTER PETER WAS, AND HIS APE ; AS ALSO DON QUIXOTE’S ILL SUCCESS IN 


THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH DID NOT END SO HAPPILY AS HE DESIRED AND EXPECTED. 


Cip HamMeEt, the author of this celebrated history, 
begins this chapter with this asseveration: “I swear as 
a true Catholic,” which the translator illustrates and 
explains in this manner: “That historian’s swearing 
like a true Catholic, though he was a Mahometan Moor, 
ought to be received in no other sense than that, as a 
true Catholic, when he affirms anything with an oath, 
does or ought to swear truth, so would he relate the 
truth as impartially as a Christian would do if he had 
taken such an oath, in what he designed to write of 
Don Quixote; especially as to the account that is to be 
given us of the person who was known by the name of 
Master Peter, and the fortune-telling ape, whose an- 
swers occasioned such a noise, and created such an 
amazement all over the country. He says, then, that 
any one who has read the foregoing part of this his- 
tory cannot but remember one Gines de Passamonte, 
whom Don Quixote had rescued with several other 
galley-slaves in Sierra Morena—a piece of service for 
which the knight was not over-burdened with thanks, 
and which that ungrateful pack of rogues repaid with a 
treatment altogether unworthy such a deliverance. This 
Gines de Passamonte—or, as Don Quixote called him, 
Ginesillo de Parapilla—was the very man that stole 





Sancho’s ass: the manner of which robbery, and the 
time when it was committed, being not inserted in the 
first part, has been the reason that some people have 
laid that which was caused by the printer’s neglect to 
the inadvertency of the author. But it is beyond all 
question that Gines stole the ass while Sancho slept on 
his back, making use of the same trick and artifice 
which Brunelo practised when he carried off Sacre- 
pante’s horse from under his legs, at the siege of 
Albraca. However, Sancho got possession again, as 
has been told you before. 

Gines, it seems, being obnoxious to the law, was ap- 
prehensive of the strict search that was made after 
himin order to bring him to justice for his repeated 
villanies, which were so great and numerous that he 
himself had wrote a large book of them; and therefore 
he thought it advisable to make the best of his way 
into the kingdom of Arragon, and having clapped a 
plaister over his left eye, resolved in that disguise to 
set up a puppet-show, and stroll with it about the 
country; for you must know he had not his fellow at 
anything that could be done by sleight of hand. Now 
it happened that in this way he fell into the company 
of some Christian slaves who came from Barbary, and 


320 DON 
struck a bargain with them forthis ape, whom he taught 
to leap on his shoulder at a certain sign, and to make as 
if he whispered something in his ear. Having brought 
his ape to this, before he entered into any town he in- 
formed himself, in the adjacent parts, as well as he could, 
of what particular accidents had happened to this or that 
person; and, having a very retentive memory, the first 
thing he did was to give them a sight of his show, that 
represented sometimes one story and sometimes another, 
which were generally well known and taking among the 
vulgar. The next thing he had to do was to commend 
the wonderful qualities of his ape, and tell the company 
that the animal had the gift of revealing things past 
and present; but that in things to come he was alto- 
gether uninstructed. He asked two reals for every 
answer, though now and then he lowered his price as 
he felt the pulse of his customers. Sometimes when he 
came to the houses of people of whose concerns he had 
some account, and who would ask the ape no questions 
because they did not care to part with their money, he 
would notwithstanding be making signs to his ape, and 
tell them the animal had acquainted him with this or 
that story, according to the information he had before; 
and by that means he got a great credit among the 
common people. and drew a mighty crowd after him. 
At other times, though he knew nothing of the person, 
the subtilty of his wit supplied his want of knowledge, 
and brought him handsomely off; and nobody being so 
inquisitive or pressing as to make him declare by what 
means his ape attained to this gift of divination, he 
imposed on every one’s understanding, and got almost 
what money he pleased. 

He was no sooner come to the inn but he knew Don 
Quixote, Sancho, and the rest of the company. But he 
had like to have paid dear for his knowledge, had the 
knight’s sword fallen but a little lower when he made 
King Marsilius’s head fly, and routed all his Moorish 
horse, as the reader may have observed in the forego- 
ing chapter. And this may suffice in relation to Master 
Peter and his ape. 

Now let us overtake our champion of La Mancha. 
After he had left the inn he resolved to take a sight of 
the river Ebro and the country about it, before he went 
to Saragosa, since he was not straitened for time, but 
might do that and yet arrive soon enough to make one 
at the jousts and tournaments at that city. Two days 
he travelled without meeting with anything worth his 
notice or the reader’s, when on the third, as he was 
riding up a bill, he heard a great noise of drums, 
trumpets, and guns. At first he thought some regi- 
ment of soldiers was on its march that way, which 
made him spur up Rozinante to the brow of the hill, 
that he might see them pass by; and then he saw in a 
bottom above two hundred men, as near as he could 
guess, armed with various weapons, as lances, cross- 
bows, partisans, halberts, pikes, some few firelocks, 
and a great many targets. Thereupon he descended 
into the vale, and made his approaches towards the 
battalion so near as to be able to distinguish their ban- 
ners, judge of their colors, and observe their devices; 
more especially one that was to be seen on a standard 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


of white satin, on which was represented to the life a 
little jackass, much like a Sardinian ass-colt, holding 
up his head, stretching out his neck, and thrusting 
out his tongue, in the very posture of an ass that is 
braying, with this distich written in fair characters 
about it:— 
“ ‘Twas something more than nothing which, one day, 
Made one and t'other worthy bailiff bray.” 

Don Quixote drew this inference from the motto, that 
those were the inhabitants of the braying town, and he 
acquainted Sancho with what be had observed, giving 
him also to understand that the man who told them the 
story of the two braying aldermen was apparently in 
the wrong, since, according to the verses on the stand- 
ard, they were two bailiffs and not two aldermen. 

“Tt matters not one rush what you call them,” quoth 
Sancho; “for those very aldermen that brayed might 
in time come to be made bailiffs of the town, and so 
both those titles might have been given them well 
enough. But what is it to you or me, or the story, 
whether the two brayers were aldermen or bailiffs, so 
they but brayed as we are told? As if a bailiff were 
not as likely to bray as an alderman!” 

In short, both master and man plainly understood 
that the men who were thus up in arms were those that 
were jeered for braying, got together to fight the peo- 
ple of another town, who had indeed abused them more 
than was the part of good neighbors; thereupon Don 
Quixote advanced towards them, to Sancho’s great 
grief, who had no manner of liking to such adventures. 
The multitude soon got about the knight, taking him 
for some champion, who was come to their assistance. 
But Don Quixote, lifting up his vizor, with a graceful 
deportment rode up to the standard, and there all the 
chief leaders of the army got together about him, in 
order to take a survey of his person, no less amazed at 
this strange appearance than the rest. Don Quixote 
seeing them look so earnestly on Lim, and no man offer 
so much as a word or question, took occasion from their 
silence to break his own; and raising his voice, “Good 
gentlemen,” cried he, “I beseech you, with all the en- 
dearments imaginable, to give no interruption to the 
discourse I am now delivering to you, unless you find 
it distasteful or tedious; which if I um unhappy enough 
to occasion, at the least hint you shall give me, I will 
clap a seal on my lips, and a padlock on my tongue.” 

They all cried that he might speak what he pleased, 
and they would hear him with all their hearts. Hav- 
ing this licence, Don Quixote proceeded. 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I am a knight-errant: arms 
are my exercise; and my profession is to show favor to 
those that are in necessity of favor, and to give assist- 
ance to those that are in distress. I have for some 
time been no stranger to the cause of your uneasiness, 
which excites you to take arms to be revenged on your 
insulting neighbors; and having often busied my in- 
tellectuals in making reflections on the motives which 
have brought you together, I have drawn this infer- 
ence from it, that according to the laws of arms, you 
really injure yourselves, in thinking yourselves affront- 
ed; for no particular person can give an affront to a 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


whole town and society of men, except it be by accus- 
ing them all of high-treason in general, for want of 
knowing on which of them to fix some treasonable 
action, of which he supposes some of them to be guilty. 
We have an instance of this nature in Don Diego 
Ordonnez de Lara, who sent a challenge to all the in- 
habitants of Zamora, not knowing that Vellido de Olfos 
had assassinated the king his master in that town, 
without any accomplices; and so, accusing and defying 
them all, the defence and revenge belonged to them all 
in general; though it must be owned that Don Diego 
was somewhat unreasonable in his defiance, and strain- 
ed the point too far: for it was very little to the pur- 
pose to defy the dead, the waters, the bread, those that 
were yet unborn, with many other trifling matters 
mentioned in the challenge. But let that pass; for 
when once the choler boils over, the tongue grows un- 
ruly, and knows no moderation. Taking it for granted, 
then, that no particular person can affront a whole king- 
dom, province, city, commonwealth, or body politic, it is 
but just to conclude that itis needless to revenge such a 
pretended affront; since such an abuse is no sufficient 
provocation, and indeed, positively no affront. It would 
be a pretty piece of wisdom, truly, should those out of the 
town of Reloxa sally out every day on those who spend 
their ill-natured breaths, miscalling them everywhere. 
It would be a fine business indeed, if the inhabitants of 
those several famous towns that are nick-named by our 
rabble, and called the one cheesemongers, the other 
costermongers, these fishmongers, and those soap-boil- 
ers, should know no better than to think themselves 
dishonored, and in revenge be always drawing out their 
swords at the least word, for every idle, insignificant 
quarrel. No, no, Heaven forbid! men of sagacity and 
wisdom, and well-governed commonwealths, are never 
induced to take up arms, nor endanger their persons 
and estates, but on the four following occasions:—In 
the first place, to defend the holy Catholic faith. Sec- 
ondly, for the security of their lives, which they are 
commanded to preserve by the laws of God and nature. 
Thirdly, the preservation of their good name, the repu- 
tation of their family, and the conservation of their 
estates. Fourthly, the service due to their prince in a 
just war; and if we please, we may add a fifth, which 
indeed may be referred to the second, the defence of 
our country. To these five capital causes may be sub- 
joined several others, which may induce men to vindi- 
cate themselves, and have recourse even to the way of 
arms. But to take them up for mere trifles, and such 
occasions as rather challenge our mirth and contempt- 
uous laughter than revenge, shows the person who is 
guilty of such proceedings to labor under a scarcity of 
sense. Besides, to seek after an unjust revenge (and in- 
deed no human revenge can be just), is directly against 
the holy law we profess, which commands us to forgive 
our enemies, and to do good to those that hate us—an 
injunction which, though it seems difficult in the im- 
plicit obedience we should pay to it, yet it is only so to 
those who have less of heaven than of the world, and 
more of the flesh than of the spirit. For the Redeemer 
of mankind, whose words never could deceive, said that 
21——-DON QUIX. 





321 


his yoke was casy, and his burden light; and according 
to that he could prescribe nothing to our practice which 
was impossible to be done. Therefore, gentlemen, since 
reason and religion recommend love and peace to you, 
I hope you will not render yourselves obnoxious to all 
laws, both human and divine, by a breach of the public 
tranquillity.” 

“I am much mistaken,” quoth Sancho to himself, “if 
this master of mine was not bred a parson; if not, heis 
as like one as one egg is like another.” 

Don Quixote paused a while, to take breath; and 
perceiving his auditory still willing to give him atten- 
tion, had proceeded in his harangue, had not Sancho’s 
good opinion of his parts made him lay hold on this 
opportunity to talk in his turn. 

“Gentlemen,” quoth he, “my master, Don Quixote de 
la Mancha, once called the Knight of the Woful Figure, 
and now the Knight of the Lions, is a very judicious 
gentleman, and talks Latin and his own mother-tongue 
as well as any of your’varsity doctors. Whatever dis- 
course he takes in hand, he speaks ye to the purpose, 
and like a man of mettle; he has ye all the laws and 
rulesof that same thing you call duel and punctilio of 
honor, at his fingers’ end; so that you have no more to 
do but to do as he says, and if in taking his counsel you 
ever tred awry, let the blame be laid on my shoulders. 
And indeed, as you have already been told, it isa very 
silly fancy to be ashamed to hear one bray; for I remem- 
ber when I was a boy, I could bray as often as I listed, 
and nobody went about to hinder me; and I could do it 
so rarely, and to the life, without vanity be it spoken, 
that all the asses in our town would fall a-braying when 
they heard me bray; yet for all this I was an honest 
body’s child, and came of good parentage, do you see. 
It is true, indeed, four of the best young men in our 
parish envied me for this great ability of mine; but I 
cared not a rush for their spite. Now, that you may 
not think I tell you a lie, do but hear me and then 
judge; for this rare art is like swimming, which, when 
once learned, is never to be forgotten.” 

This said, he clapped both the palms of his hands to 
his nose, and fell a-braying so obstreperlously, that it 
made the neighboring valleys ring again. But while 
he was thus braying, one of those that stood next to 
him, believing he did it tomock them, gave him sucha 
hearty blow with a quarter-staff on his back, that down 
he brought him to the ground. 

Don Quixote, seeing what a rough entertainment had 
been given to his squire, moved with his lance in a 
threatening posture towards the man that had used 
poor Sancho thus; but the crowd thrust themselves in 
such a manner between them, that the knight found it 
impracticable to pursue the revenge he designed. At 
the same time, finding that a shower of stones began to 
rain about his ears, and a great number of cross-bows 
and muskets were getting ready for his reception, he 
turned Rozinante’s reins, and galloped from them as 
fast as four legs would carry him, sending up his hearty 
prayers to Heaven to deliver him from this danger; and 
being under grievous apprehension at every step, that 
he should be sbot through the back, and have the bul- 


i 














4 


ne 








“ According to the law of arms, you really injure yourselves, in thinking yourselves affronted.”—p. 321. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


let come out at his breast, he still went fetching his 
breath, to try if it did any ways fail him. But the 
country battalion were satisfied with seeing him fly, 
and did not offer to shoot at him. 

As for Sancho, he was set upon his ass before he had 
well recovered his senses, which the blow had taken 
from him, and then they suffered him to move off; not 
that the poor fellow had strength enough to guide him, 
but Dapple naturally followed Rozinante of his own 
accord, not being able to be a moment from him. The 





323 


Don being at a good distance from the armed multi- 
tude, faced about, and seeing Sancho pacing after him 
without any troublesome attendants, stayed for his 
coming up. As for the rabble, they kept their posts 
till it grew dark, and their enemies having not taken 
the field to give them battle, they marched home, so 
overjoyed to have shown their courage without danger, 


that, had they been so well bred as to have known thé : 
ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have erected” 


a trophy in that place. 








CHAPTER XXVIII. 


OF SOME THINGS WHICH BENENGELI TELLS US HE THAT READS SHALL KNOW, IF HE READS THEM 


WITH ATTENTION. 


WHEN the valiant man flies, he must have discovered 
some foul play, and it is the part of prudent persons to 
reserve themselves for more favorable opportunities. 
This truth is verified in Don Quixote, who, rather than 
expose himself to the fury of an incensed and ill-design- 
ing multitude, betook himself to flight, without any 
thoughts of Sancho, till he found himself beyond the 
reach of those dangers in which he had left his trusty 
squire involved. Sancho came after him, as we have 
told you before, laid across his ass, and having re- 
covered his senses, overtook him at last, and let him- 
self drop from his pack-saddle at Rozinante’s feet, all 
battered and bruised, and in a sorrowful condition. 
Don Quixote presently dismounted to examine his 
wounds, and finding no bones broken, but his skin 
whole from head to feet, “You must bray,” cried he, 
angrily, “you must bray, must you! It is a piece or 
excellent discretion to talk of halters in the house of.a 
man whose father was hanged. What counterpart 
could you expect to your music, blockhead, but a 
thorough-bass of bastinadoes? Thank Providence, sir- 
-rah! that as they gave you a dry benediction with a 
quarter-staff, they did net cross you with a cutlass.” 

“TI ha’nt breath to answer you at present,” quoth 
Sancho, “but my back and shoulders speak enough for 
me. Pray let us make the best of our way from this 
dreadful place, and whene’er I bray again may I get 
such another blow. Yet I cannot help saying that your 
knights-errant can betake themselves to their heels 
upon occasion, and leave their trusty squires to be 
beaten like stock-fish in the midst of their enemies.” 

“A retreat is not to be accounted a flight,” replied 
Don Quixote; “for know, Sancho, that courage which 
has not wisdom for its guide falls under the name of 
temerity; and the rash man’s successful actions are 
rather owing to his good fortune than to his bravery. I 
own I did retire, but I deny that I fled; and in such a 
retreat I did but imitate many valiant men, who, not to 
hazard their persons indiscreetly, reserved themselves 





for a more fortunate hour. Histories are full of ex- 
amples of this nature. which I do not care to relate at 
present, because they would be more tedious to me 
than they could be profitable to thee.” 

By this time Don Quixote had helped Sancho to be- 
stride his ass, and being himself mounted on Rozinnnte, 
they paced softly along, and got into a grove of poplar- 
trees about a quarter of a league from the place where 
they mounted. Yet as softly as they rode, Sancho 
could not help now and then heaving up deep sighs 
and lamentable groans. Don Quixote asked him why 
he made such a heavy moan. Sancho told him that 
from his head to his feet he felt such grievous pains 
that he was ready to sink. “Without doubt,” said 
Don Quixote, “the intenseness of thy torments is by 
reason the staff with which thou wert struck was broad 
and long, and so having fallen on certain parts of thy 
back, caused a contusion there, and affects them all 
with pain; and-had it been of a greater magnitude, thy 
grievances had been so much the greater.” 

“Truly,” quoth Sancho, “you have cleared that in 
very pithy words, of which nobody made any doubt, 
Bless me! was the cause of my ailing so hard to be 
guessed, that you must tell me that so much of me was 
sore as was hit by the weapon? Should my ankle-bone 
ache, and you scratch your head till you had found out 
the cause of it, I would think that something; but for 
you to tell me that place is sore where I was bruised, 
every fool could do as much. Faith and troth, sir mas- 
ter of mine, I grow wiser and wiser every day; I find 
you are like all the world, that lay to heart nobody’s 
harms but their own. I find whereabouts we are, and 
what I am likely to get by you; for even as you left me 
now in the lurch, to be well belabored and rib-roasted, 
and the other day to dance the caper-galliard in the 
blanket you wot of, so I must expect a hundred and a 
hundred more of these good vails in your service; and, 
as the mischief has now lighted on my shoulders, next 
bout I look for it to fly atmy eyes. A plague of my 


324 


jolter-head * I have been a fool and sot all along, and am 
never like to be wiser while I live. Would it not be 
better for me to trudge home to my wife and children, 
and look after my house with that little wit that Heaven 
has given me, without galloping after your tail high and 
low, through confounded cross-roads and bye-ways, and 
wicked and crooked paths that the ungodly themselves 
cannot find out? And then most commonly to have 
nothing to moisten one’s weasand that is fitting for a 
Christian to drink, nothing but mere element and dog's 
porridge; and nothing to stuff one’s puddings that is 
worthy of a Catholic stomach! Then, after a man has 
tired himself off his legs, when he would be glad of a 
good bed, to have a master cry, ‘Here, are you sleepy ? 
lie down, Mr. Squire, your bed is made; take six foot 
of good hard ground and measure your corpse there; 
and if that won’t serve you, take as much more, and 
welcome. You are at rack and manger; spare uot, I 
beseech your dogship; there is room enough.’ I should 
like to lay hold of that unlucky son of mischief that 
first set people a-maddening after this whim of knight- 
errantry, or at least the first ninny-hammer that had so 
little forecast as to turn squire to such a parcel of mad- 
men as were your knights-errant——in the days of 
yore, I mean; I am better bred than to speak ill of 
those in our time; no, I honor them since your worship 
has taken up this biessed calling; for you have a long 
sight, so that no one could out-reach you; you can see 
farther into a mill-stone than any.” 

“YT durst lay a wager,” said Don Quixote, “that now 
thou art suffered to prate without interruption, thou 
feelest no manner of pain in thy whole body. Pr’ythee 
talk on, my child; say anything that comes uppermost 
to thy mouth, or is burdensome to thy brain ; so it but 
alleviates thy pain, thy impertinences will rather 
please than offend me; and if thou hast such a longing 
desire to be at home with thy wife and children, 
Heaven forbid I should be against it. Thou hast money 
of mine in thy hands; see how long it is since we sal- 
lied out last from home, and cast up thy wages by the 
month, and pay thyself.” 

“An’ it like your worship,” quoth Sancho, “when I 
served my master Carrasco, father to the batchelor, 
your worship’s acquaintance, I had two ducats a month, 
besides my victuals: I don't know what you'll give me; 
though I am sure there 1s more trouble in being squire 
to a knight-errant than in being servant to a farmer; 
for truly, we that go to plough and cart in a farmer’s 
service, though we moil and sweat so a-days as not to 
have a dry thread to our backs, let the worst come to 
the worst, are sure of a bellyful at night out of the pot, 
and to snore ina bed. But I don’t know when I have 
had a good meal’s meator a good night’s rest in all your 
service, unless it were that short time when we were at 
Don Diego's house, and wher I made a feast on the 
savory skimming of Camacho’s cauldron, and ate, 
drank, and lay at Mr. Basil’s. All the rest of my time 
I have had my lodging on the cold ground and in the 
open fields, subject to thefinclemency of the sky, as you 
call it; living on the rinds of cheese and crusts of 
mouldy bread; drinking sometimes ditch water, some- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


times spring, as we chanced to light upon it in our 
way.” 

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “I grant all this, Sancho; 
then how much more dost thou expect from me than 
thou hadst from thy master Carrasco?” 

“Why, truly,” quoth Sancho, “if your worship will 
pay me twelvepence a month more than Thomas Car- 
rasco gave me, 1 shall think it very fair and tolerable 
wages; but then, instead of the island which you know 
you promised me, I think you cannot in conscience give 
me less than six-and-thirty pence a month more, which 
will make in all thirty reals, neither more nor less.” 

“Very well,” said Don Quixote, “let us see then; it is 
now twenty-days since we set out from home—reckon 
what this comes to, according to the wages thon hast 
allowed thyself, and be thy own paymaster.” 

“Oh, dear!” quoth Sancho, “we are quite out in our 
account; for as to the governor of an island’s place, 
which you promised to help me to, we ought to reckon 
from the time you made the promise to this very day.” 

“Well, and pray how long is it?” answered Don 
Quixote. 

“Tf I remember rightly,” quoth Sancho, “it is about 
some twenty years ago, two or three days more or less.” 

With that Don Quixote, hitting himself a good clap 
on the forehead, fell a-laughing heartily. “Why,” 
cried he. “we bave hardly been out two months from 
the very beginning of our first expedition, and in all 
the time we were in Sierra Morena, and our whole pro- 
gress; and hast thou the impudence to affirm it is 
twenty years since I promised the grant of the island? 
Tam now convinced thou hast a mind to make all the 
money which thou hast of mine in thy keeping go for 
the payment of thy wages. If this be thy meaning, 
welland good; e’en take it, and much good may it do thee; 
for, rather than be troubled any longer with such a varlet, 
I would contentedly see myself without a penny. But 
tell me, thou perverter of the laws of chivalry that relate 
to squires, where didst thou ever see or read that any 
squire toa knight-errant stood capitulating with his mas- 
ter as thou hast done with me, for so much, orso much a 
month? Launch, unconscionable wretch, thou cut-throat. 
scoundrel! launch, launch, thou base spirit of Mam- 
mon, into the vast ocean of their histories; and if thou 
canst show mea precedent of any squire who ever dared 
to say, or but to think, as much as thou hast presumed to. 
tell me then I will give thee leave to affix it on my fore- 
head and hit me four fillips on the nose. Away then, pack 
off with thy ass this moment, and get thee home, for 
thou shalt never stay in my service any longer. Oh, 
how much bread, how many promises, have I now ill 
bestowed upon thee! Vile, grovelling wretch, that 
hast more of the beast than of the man! When I was 
just going to prefer thee to such a post, that in spite of 
thy wife thou hadst been called my lord, thou sneakest 
away from me. Thou art leaving me, when I had fully 
resolved, without any more delay, to make thee lord of 
the best island in the world, sordid clod! Well might- 
est thou say indeed, that honey is not for the chaps of 
an ass. Thou art indeed a very ass; an ass thou wilt 
live, and an ass thou wilt die ; forI dare say thou wilt 


DON QUIXOTE 


never have sense enough while thou livest to know thou 
art a brute.” 

While Don Quixote thus upbraided and railed at San- 
cho, the poor fellow, all dismayed, and touched to the 
quick, beheld him with a wistful look; and the tears 
standing in his eyes for grief, “Good sweet sir,” cried he, 
with a doleful and whining voice,“I confess I want noth- 
ing but a tail to be a perfect ass; if your worship will be 
pleased but to put me on one,I shall deem it well 
placed, and be your most faithful ass all the days of 
my life: but forgive me,I beseech you, and take pity 
on my youth, Consider, I have but a dull headpiece of 
my own; and if my tongue runs at random sometimes, 
it is because I am more fool than knave, sir. ‘Who errs 
and mends, to Heaven himself commends.’” 

“T should wonder much,” said Don Quixote, “if thou 
shouldest not interlard thy discourse with some pretty 
proverb. Well, I will give thee my pardon for this 
once, provided thou correct those imperfections that 





DE LA MANCHA. 325. 
offend me, and showest thyself of a less craving temper. * 
Take heart, then, and let the hopes which thou mayest | 
entertain of the performance of my promise raise in thee : 
a nobler spirit. The time will come; do not think it 

impossible because delayed.” 

Sancho promised to do his best, though he could not ' 
rely on his own strength. 

Matters being thus amicably adjusted, they went . 
into the grove, where the Don laid himself at the foot 
of an elm, and his squire at the foot of a beech; for 
every one of those trees, and such others, has always a | 
foot, though never a hand. Sancho had but an ill 
night’s rest of it, for his bruises made his bones more 
than ordinarily sensible of the cold. As for Don Quix- 
ote, he entertained himself with his usual imaginations. 

However, they both slept, and by break of day con- 
tinued their journey towards the river Ebro, where 
they met—what shall be told in the next chapter. 








CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARQUE. 


Fair and softly, step by step, Don Quixote and his 
squire got, in two days’ time, to the banks of the river 
Ebro, which yielded a very entertaining prospect to 
the knight. The verdure of its banks, and the abound- 
ing plenty of the water, which, clear like liquid crys- 
tal, flowed gently along within the spacious channel, 
awake a thousand amorous chimeras in his roving 
imagination, and more especially the thoughts of what 
he had seen in the cave of Montesinos; for though 
Master Peter’s ape had assured him that it was partly 
false as well as partly true, he was rather inclined to 
believe it all true; quite contrary to Sancho, who 
thought it every tittle false. 

While the knight went on thus agreeably amused, he 
spied a little boat without any oars or tackle, moored 
by the river-side to the stump of a tree; thereupon 
looking round about him, and discovering nobody, he 
presently alighted, and ordered Sancho to do the like, 
and tie their beasts fast to some of the elms or willows 
thereabout. Sancho asked him what was the meaning 
of all this. 

“Thou art to know,” answered Don Quixote, “that 
most certain this boat lies here for no other reason but 
to invite me to embark in it for the relief of some knight, 
or other person of high degree, that is in great distress; 
for thus, according to the method of enchantments in 
the books of chivalry, when any knight whom they pro- 
tect happens to be involved in some very great danger, 
from which none but some other valorous knight can 
set him free, then, though they may be two or three 
thousand leagues at least distant from each other, up 
the magician snatches the auxiliary champion in a 


cloud, or else provides him a boat, and in the twinkling 
of an eye, in either vehicle, through the airy fluid or 
the liquid plain, he wafts him to the "place where his 
assistance is wanted. Just to the same intent does 
this very barque lie bere; itis as clear as the day; and, 
therefore before it be too late, Sancho, tie up Rozinante 
and Dapple, let us commit ourselves to the guidance of 
Providence; for embark I will, though bare-footed 
friars should beg me to desist.” 

“Well, well,” quoth Sancho, “if I must, I must. 
Since you will every step be running into these—I do 
not know how to call them—these confounded vagaries, 
I have no more to do but to make a leg, and submit my 
neck to the collar; for, as the saying is, ‘Do as thy. 
master bid thee, though it be to sit down at his table.’ 
But for all that, discharge my conscience I must, and 
tell you plainly, that blind as I am, I can see with half 
an eye that it is no enchanted barque, but some fisher- 
man’s boat; for there are many in this river, whose 
waters afford the best shads in the world.” 

This caution did Sancho give his master while he was 
tying the beasts to a tree, and going to leave them to 
the protection of enchanters, full sore against his will. 
Don Quixote bid him not be concerned at leaving them 
there, for the sage who was to carry them through in a 
journey of such an extent and longitude would be sure 
to take care of the animals. 

“Nay, nay, as for that matter,” quoth Sancho, “I do 
not understand your longitude; I never heard such a 
cramp word in my born days.” 

“Longitude,” said Don Quixote, “is the same as 





length. Ido not wonder that thou dost not understand 


326 


the word, for thou art not obliged to understand Latin. 
Yet you shall have some forward coxcombs pretend to 
be knowing, when they are ignorant.” 

“Now the beasts are fast, sir,” quoth Sancho; “what 
is next to be done?” 

“Why now,” wnswered Don Quixote, “let us recom- 
mend ourselves to Providence and weigh anchor, or, to 
speak plainly, embark and cut the cable.” With that, 
leaping in, and Sancho following, he cut the rope, and 
so by degrees the stream carried the boat frem the 
shore. 

Now, when Sancho saw himself towards the middle 
of the river, he began to quake for fear; but nothing 
grieved his heart so much as to hear Dapple bray, and 
to see Rozinante struggle to get loose. “Sir,” quoth 
he, “hark how my poor Dapple brays, to bemoan our 
leaving of him; and see how poor Rozinante tugs hard 
to break his bridle, and is even wild to throw himself 
afterus. Alack and alack! my poor dear friends, peace 
be with you where you are, and when this mad freak, 
the cause of our doleful parting, is ended in repentance, 
may we be brought back to your sweet company again!” 

This said, he fell a-blubbering, and set up such a 
howl, that Duu Quixote had no patience with him, but 
looking angrily on him, “What dost fear,” cried he, 
“thou great white-livered calf? What dost thou cry 
for? Who pursues thee? Who hurts thee, thon das- 
tardly craven, thou cowardly mouse, thou soul of a 
milk-sop, thou heartof butter? Dost want for anything, 
base, unsatisfied wretch? What wouldst thou say, wert 
thou to climb bare-footed the rugged Riphean moun- 
tains? thou that sittest here in state like an archduke, 
plenty and delight on each side of thee, while thou 
glidest gently down the calm current of this delightful 
river, which will soon convey us into the main ocean. 
We have already flowed down some seven or eight 
hundred leagues. Had I but an astrolabe here to take 
the altitude of the pole, 1 could easily tell thee how far 
we have proceeded to an inch; though either I know 
but little, or we have just passed, or shall presently 
pass the equinoctial line, that divides and cuts the two 
opposite poles at equal distances.” 

“And when we come to this same line you speak of,” 
quoth Sancho, “how far have we gone then?” 

“A mighty way,” answered Don Quixote. “When 
we come under the line I spoke of, we shall have 
measured the other half of the terraqueons globe, which, 
according to the system and computation of Ptolemy, 
who was the greatest cosmographer in the world, con- 
tains three hundred and sixty degrees.” 

“Bless me!” quoth Sancho, “you have brought me 
now a notable fellow to be your voucher, goodman 
Tollme, with his amputation and cistern, and the rest 
of your gibberish.” 

Don Quixote smiled at Sancho’s blunders, and going 
on, “The Spaniards,” said he, “and all those that em- 
bark at Cadiz for the East Indies, to know whether 
they have passed the equinoctial line, according to an 
observation that has been often experienced, need do 
no more than look whether there be any vermin left 
alive among the ship’s crew; for if they have passed 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


it, not one is to be found in the ship, though they 
would give his weight in gold for him. Look, there- 
fore, Sancho, and if thou findest any such still creeping 
about thee, then we have not yet passed the line; but 
if thou dost not, then we have surely passed it.” 

“Very little do I believe of all this,” quoth Sancho. 
“However, I will do as you bid me. But hark you me, 
sir, now I think on it again, where is the need of trying 
these quirks? do I not see with my two eyes that we 
are not five rod’s length from the shore? Look you, 
there stand Rozinante and Dapple upon the very spot 
where we left them; and now I look closely into the 
matter, I will take my corporal oath that we move no 
faster than a snail can gallop, or an ant can trot.” 

“No more words,” said Don Quixote, “but make the 
experiment as I bid you, and let the rest alone. Thou 
dost not know what belongs to colures, lines, parallels, 
zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoctials, planets, 
signs, points, and measures, of which the spheres 
celestial and terrestial are composed; for didst thou 
know all these things, or some of them at least, thou 
mightest plainly perceive what parallels we have cut, 
what signs we have passed, and what constellations we 
have left, and are now leaving behind us. Therefore I 
would wish thee once again to search thyself; for I 
cannot believe but thou art as clear from vermin as a 
sheet of white paper.” : 

Thereupon Sancho, advancing his hand very gin- 
gerly towards the left side of his neck, after he had 
groped awhile, lifted up his head, and, staring in his 
master's face, “Look you, sir,” quoth he, pulling out 
something, “either your rule is not worth this, or we 
are many a fair league from the place you spoke 
of.” 

“How!” answered Don Quixote; “hast thou found 
something then, Sancho ? ” 

“Ay, marry have I,” quoth Sancho, “and more things 
than one too.” And so saying, he shook and snapped 
his fingers, and then washed his whole hand in the 
river, down whose stream the boat drove gently along, 
without being moved by any secret influence or hidden 
enchantment, but only by the help of the current, hith- 
erto calm and smooth. 

By this time they descried two great water-mills in 
the middle of the river, which Don Quixote uo sooner 
spied, but calling to his squire, “Look, look, my San- 
cho!” cried he, “seest thou yon city or castle there ? 
this is the place where some knight lies in distress, or 
some queen or princess is detained, for whose succor I 
am conveyed hither.” 

“Whatever do you mean with your city or castle? ” 
cried Sancho. “Bless me! sir, do not you see as plain 
as the nose on your face, they are nothing but water- 
mills in the midst of the river, to grind corn ?” 

“Peace, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “they look 
like water-mills, I grant you, but they are no such 
things. How often have I not told thee already do 
these magicians change and overturn everything as 
they please? not that they can change their very be- 
ing, but they disguise and alter the appearances of 
them; of which we have an instance in the unhappy 








al 


el 




















“« They were both hauled ashore, more over-drenched than thirsty.” —p. 328. 


328 


transformation of Dulcinea, the only refuge of my 
hope.” 

The boat being now got into the very strength of the 
stream, began to move less slowly than it did before. 
The people in the mills, perceiving the boat to come 
adrift full upon the mill-wheels, came running out with 
their long poles to stop it; and, as their faces and 
clothes were powdered all over with meal-dust, they 
made a very odd appearance. “So ho! there,” cried 
they as loud as they could bawl; “what is in the fel- 
lows ? are ye mad in the boat there? Hold! you will 
be drowned, or ground to pieces by the mill-wheels.” 

Don Quixote, having cast his eyes upon the millers, 
“Did I not tell thee, Sancho,” said he, “that we should 
arrive where I must exert the strength of my arm? 
Look what hang-dogs, what horrid wretches, come forth 
to make head against me! how many hobgoblins oppose 
my passage! do but see what deformed physiognomies 
they have! mere bugbears! But I shall make ye know, 
scoundrels, how insignificant all your efforts must 
prove.” Then, standing up in the boat, he bagan to 
threaten the millers in a haughty tone. “Ye paltry 
slaves,” cried he, “base and ill-advised scum of the 
world, release instantly the captive person who is in- 
juriously detained and oppressed within your castle or 
prison, be they of high or low degree; for I am Don 
Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of 
the Lions, for whom the happy achievement of this ad- 
venture is reserved by the decree of Heaven.” This 
said, h + unsheathed his sword, and began to fence with 
the air, as if he had been already engaging the millers; 
who, hearing, but not understanding, his mad words, 
stood ready with their poles to stop the boat, which 
was now near the mill-dam, and just entering the rapid 
stream and narrow channel of the wheels. 

In the meantime Sancho was devoutly fallen on his 
knees, praying Heaven for a happy deliverance out of 
this mighty plunge but this one time. And indeed his 
prayers met with pretty good success; for the millers 
so bestirred themselves with their poles that they 
stopped the boat, yet not so cleverly but they overset 
it, tipping Don Quixote and Sancho over into the river. 
It was well for the knight that he could swim like a 
duck; and yet the weight of his armor sank him twice 
to the bottom; and had it not heen for the millers who 
jumped into the water, and made a shift to pull ont 
both the master and the man, in a manner craning them 
up, there had been an end of them both. 

When they were both hauled ashore, more over- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


drenched than thirsty, Sancho betook himself to his 
knees again, and, with uplifted hands and eyes, made a 
long and hearty prayer, that Heaven might keep him 
from this time forwards clear of his master’s rash ad- 
ventures. 

And now came the fishermen who owned the boat, 
and, finding it broken to pieces, fell npon Sancho, and 
began to strip him, demanding satisfaction both of him 
and his masser for the loss of their barque. The knight, 
with a great deal of gravity and unconcern, as if he had 
done no manner of harm, told both the millers and the 
fishermen that he was ready to pay for the boat, pro- 
vided they would fairly surrender the persons that 
were detained unjustly in their castle. 

“What persons, or what castle, you mad oaf ?” said 
one of the millers. “Marry, would you carry away the 
folk that come to grind their corn at our mills?” 

“Well,” said Don Quixote to himself, “man had as 
good preach to a stone wall as to expect to persuade 
with entreaties such dregs of human kind to do a good 
and generous action. Two sage enchanters certainly 
clash in this adventure, and the one thwarts the other. 
One provided me a barque, the other overwhelmed me 
init. Heaven send us better times! There is nothing 
but plotting and counter-plotting, undermining ana 
counter-mining in this world. Well, I can do no more.” 
Then ruising his voice, and casting a fixed eye on the 
water-mills, “My dear friends,” cried he, “whoever you 
are that are immured in this prison, pardon me, I be- 
seech ye; for so my ill fate and yours ordains, that I 
cannot free you from your confinement: the adventure 
is reserved for some other knight.” 

This said, he came to an agreement with the fisher- 
men, and ordered Sancho to pay them fifty reals for the 
boat. Sancho pulled out the money with a very ill will, 
and parted with it with a worse, muttering between his 
teeth that two voyages like that would sink their whole 
stock. 

The fishermen and the millers could not forbear won- 
dering at two such figures of human offspring, who 
neither spoke nor acted like the rest of mankind; for 
they could not so much as guess what Don Quixote 
meant by all his extravagant speeches. So, taking 
them for madmen, they left them, and went, the millers 
to their mills, and the fishermen to their huts. Don 
Quixote and Sancho returned to their beasts like a 
couple of as senseless animals, and thus ended the ad- 
venture of the enchanted barque. 





CHAPTE 


2 
ve Pao 
me es 


R nee 


WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WITH THE FAIR HUNTRESS. 


WITH wet bodies and melanchol minds, the knight 
and squire went back to Rozinanté and Dapple; though 
Sancho was the more cast down, and out of sorts of the 
two; for it' grieved him to the very soul to see the 
money dwindle, being as chary of that as of his heart’s 
blood, or the apples of his eyes. To be short, to horse 
they went, without speaking one word to each other, 
and left the famous river; Don Quixote buried in his am- 
orous thoughts, and Sancho in those of his preferment. 

It happened that the next day about sunset, as they 
were coming out of a wood, Don Quixote cast his eyes 
round a verdant meadow, and at the farther end of it 
descried a company, whom, upon a nearer view, he 
judged to be persons of quality, that were taking the 
diversion of hawking. Approaching nearer yet, he 
observed among them a very fine lady upon a white 
pacing mare, in green trappings, and a saddle-cloth of 
silver. The lady herself was dressed in green, so rich 
and so gay, that nothing could be finer. She rode with 
a goshawk on her left fist, by which Don Quixote judged 
her to be of quality, and mistress of the train that 
attended; as indeed she was. Thereupon calling to his 
squire, “Son Sancho,” cried he, “run and tell that lady 
on the palfrey that I, the Knight of the Lions, humbly 
salute her highness; and that if she pleases to give me 
leave, I should be proud to have the honor of waiting 
on her, and kissing herfair hands. But take special 
care, Sancho, how thou deliverest thy message, and be 
sure do not lard my compliments with any of thy pro- 
verbs.” 

“Why this to me?” quoth Sancho. “Marry, you need 
not talk of larding, asif I had never went ambassador 
before to a high and mighty dame.” 

“T do not know that ever thou didst,” replied Don 
Quixote, “at least on my account, unless it were when 
I sent thee to Dulcinea.” 

“Tt may be so,” quoth Sancho; “but a good paymas- 
ter needs no surety; and where there is plenty, the 
guests cannot be empty. That is to say, I need none 
of your telling nor tutoring about that matter; for, as I 
look, I know something of everything.” 

“Well, well, go,” said Don Quixote; 
inspire and guide thee.” 

Sancho put on, forcing Dapple from his old pace to a 
gallop; and, approaching the fair huntress, he alighted, 
and falling on his knees, “Fair lady,” quoth he, “that 


“and Heaven 


knight yonder, called the Knight of the Lions, is my 
master; I am his squire, Sancho Panza by name. This 
same Knight of the Lions, who but the other day was 
called the Knight of the Woful Figure, has sent me to; 
tell you, that so please your worship’s grace to give} 
him leave, with your good liking, to do as he has a 
mind, which, as he says, and as I-believe, is only to’ 
serve your high-flown beauty, and be your eternal vas- 
sal, you may chance to do a thing that would be for 
your own good, and he would take it for a hugeous; 
kindness at your hands.” 

“Indeed, honest squire,” said the lady, “you have 
acquitted yourself of your charge with all the grace- 
ful circumstances which such an embassy requires. 
Rise, pray rise, for it is by no means fit the squire to 
so great a knight as the Knight of the Woful Figure, 
to whose name aud merit we are no strangers, should 
remain on his knees. Rise, then, and desire your mas- 
ter by all means to honor us with his company, that my 
lord duke and I may pay him our respects at a house 
we have hard by.” 

Sancho got up, no less amazed at the lady’s beauty 
than at her affability, but much more because she told, 
him they were no strangers to the Knight of the Woful' 
Figure. 

“Pray,” said the duchess, whose particular title we 
do not yet know, “is not this master of your’s the 
person whose history came out in print by the name of 
‘The Renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha,’ the mis-; 
tress of whose affections is a certain lady called Dul- 
cinea del Toboso?” 

“The very same, an’t please your worship,” said 
Sancho; “and that squire of his that is or should be in 
the book, Sancho Panza by name, is my own self, if I 
was not changed in my cradle; I mean changed in the; 
press.” 

“T am mighty glad to hear all this,” said the duchess. 
“Go then, friend Panza, and tell your master that I con- 
gratulate him upon his arrival in our territories, to: 
which he is welcome, and assure him from me, that this! 
is the most agreeable news I could possibly have 
heard.” 

Sancho, overjoyed with this gracious answer, re- 
turned to his master, to whom he repeated all that the 
great lady had said to him, praising, in his clownish 
aa her beauty and courtesy. 

















A PS Ñ 
wa O) SNA Gan 2: 
a Eras he 

















“Don Quixote descried a company, whom, upon a nearer view, he judged to be persons of quality.”—p. 326. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Don Quixote, pleased with this good beginning, 
seated himself handsomely in the saddle, fixed his toes 
in his stirrups, set the beaver of his helmet as he 
thought best became his face, roused up Rozinante's 
mettle, and with a graceful assurance moved forwards 
to kiss the duchess's hand. 

And now Don Quixote drew nigh with his vizor up; 
and Sancho seeing him offer to alight, made all the 
haste he could to be ready to hold his stirrup: but as 
ill-luck would have it, as he was throwing his leg over 
his pack-saddle to get off, he entangled nis foot so 
strangely in the rope that served him instead of a stir- 
rup, that not being able to get it out, he hung by the 
heel with his nose tothe ground. On the other side, 
Don Quixote, who was used to have his stirrup held 
when he dismounted, thinking Sancho had hold of it 
already, lifted up his right leg over the saddle to alight; 
but as it happened to be ill-girt, down he brought it 
with himself to the ground, confounded with shame, 
and muttering between his teeth many a hearty curse 
against Sancho, who was all the while with his foot in 
the stocks The duke seeing them in that condition, 
ordered some of his people to help them; and they 
raised Don Quixote, who wasin no very good case with 
his fall; however, limping as well as he could, he went 
to pay his duty to the lady, and would have fallen on 
his knees at her horse’s feet: but the duke alighting, 
would by no means permit it; and embracing Don 
Quixote, “I am sorry,” said he, “Sir Knight of the 
Woful Figure, that such a mischance should happen to 
you at your first appearance in my territories, but the 
negligence of squires is often the cause of worse acci- 
dents.” 

“Most generous prince!” said Don Quixote, “I can 
think nothing bad that could befall me here, since I 
have had the happiness of seeing your grace: for 
though I had fallen low as the very centre, the glory of 
this interview would raise me up again. My squire in- 
deed—a vengeance seize him for it ! —is much more apt 
to give his saucy, idle tongue liberty, than to gird a 
saddle well; but prostrate or erect, on horseback or on 
foot, in any posture I shall always be at your grace’s 
command, and no less at her grace’s, your worthy con- 
sort’s service. Worthy, did I say? yes, she is worthy 
to be called the Queen of Beauty and Sovereign Lady 
of all Courtesy.” 

“Pardon me there,” said the duke, “noble Don Quix- 





331 


ote de la Mancha; where the peerless Dulcinea is 
remembered, the praise of all other beauties ought to 
be forgot.” 

Sancho was now got clear of the noose, and standing 
near the duchess, “An’t please your worship’s high- 
ness,” quoth he, before his master could answer, “it 
cannot be denied, nay, I dare vouch it in any ground in 
Spain, that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is very hand- 
some and fair: but, where we least think, there starts 
the hare. I have heard your great scholards say, that 
she you call Dame Nature is like a potter, and he that 
makes one handsome pipkin may make two or three 
hundred. And so, do ye see, you may understand by 
this, that my lady duchess here does not a jot come 
short of my Lady Dulcinea.” 

Don Quixote, upon this, addressing himself to the 
duchess, “Your grace must knew,” said he, “that no 
knight-errant ever had such an eternal babbler, such a 
bundle of conceit for a squire, as I have; and if I have 
the honor to continue for some time in your service, 
your grace will find it true.” 

“T am glad,” answered the duchess, “that honest 
Sancho has his conceits, it is a shrewd sign he is wise; 
for merry conceits, you know, sir, are not the offspring 
of a dull brain, and therefore if Sancho be jovial and 
jocose, I will warrant him also a man of sense.” 

“And a prater, madam,” added Don Quixote. 

“So much the better,” said the duke; “for a man that 
talks well can never talk too much. But not to lose 
our time here, come on, Sir Knight of the Woful 
Figure—— 

“Knight of the Lions, your highness should say,” 
quoth Sancho: “the Woful Figure is out of date, and so 
pray let the lions come in play.” 

“Well, then,” said the duke, “I entreat the Knight 
of the Lions to vouchsafe us his presence at a castle I 
have hard by, where he shall find such entertainment 
as is justly due to so eminent a personage, such honors 
as the duchess and myself are wont to pay all knights- 
errant that travel this way.” 

Sancho having by this got Rozinante ready, and gir- 
dled the saddle tight, Don Quixote mounted his steed, 
and the duke a stately horse of his own; and the duch- 
ess riding between them both, they moved towards the 
castle: she desiring that Sancho might always attend 
near her, for she was extremely taken with his notable 
sayings. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS. 


SANCHO was overjoyed to find himself so much in 
the duchess’s favor, flattering himself that he should 
fare no worse at her castle than he had done at Don 
Diego’s and Basil’s houses; for he was ever a cordial 
friend to a plentiful way of living, and therefore never 
failed to take such opportunities by the foretop where- 
ever he met them. Now the history tells us, that be- 
fore they got to the castle, the duke rode away from 
them, to instruct his servants how to behave them- 
selves toward Don Quixote; so that no sooner did the 
knight come near the gates, but he was met by two of 
the duke’s lacqueys or grooms in long vests like night- 
gowns, of fine crimson satin. These suddenly took him 
in their arms, and lifting him from his horse without 
any further ceremony, “Go, great and mighty sir,” said 
they, “and help my lady duchess down.” 

Thereupon Don Quixote went and offered to do it; and 
many compliments, and much ceremony passed on both 
sides; but in conclusion, the duchess’s earnestness pre- 
vailed; for she would not alight from her palfrey but 
in the arms of her husband, excusing herself from in- 
commoding so great a knight with so insignificant a 
burden. With that the duke took ner down. 

And now, being entered into a large court-yard, 
there came two beautiful damsels, who threw a long 
mantle of fine scarlet over Don Quixote’s shoulders. 
In an instant, all the galleries about the court-yard 
were crowded with men and women, the domestics of 
the duke, who cried out, “Welcome, welcome, the flow- 
er and cream of knight-errantry!” 

Then most, if not all of them, sprinkled bottles of 
sweet water upon Don Quixote, the duke, and the 
duchess: all which agreeably surprised the Don, and 
this was indeed the first day he knew and firmly believ- 
ed himself to be a real knight-errant, and that his 
knight-hood was more than fancy. 

Sancho was so transported, that he even forsook his 
beloved Dapple, to keep close to the duchess, and 
entered the castle with the company; but his conscience 
flying in his face for leaving that dear companion, he 
went to a reverend old-waiting woman, of the duchess’s 
retinue, and whispering her in the ear, “Mrs. Gonsalez, 
or Mrs. —— pray, forsooth, may I crave your name ?” 

“Donna Rodriguez de Grijalva is my name,” said the 
old duenna; “what is your business with me, friend ?” 

“Pray now, mistress, do so much as go out at the 





castle gate, where you will find a dapple ass of mine; 
see him put into the stable, or else put him in yourself; 
for, poor thing! it is main fearful and timorsome, and 
cannot abide to be alone in a strange place.” 

“Tf the master,” said she pettishly, “has no more 
manners than the man, we shall have a fine time on’t. 
Get you gone, you saucy jack. I would have you to 
know that gentlewomen like me are not used to such 
drudgeries.” 

“Don’t take pepper in your nose at it,” replied San- 
cho; “as good as you have done it. I have heard my 
master say (and he knows all the histories in the world), 
that when Sir Lancelot came out of Britain, damsels 
looked after him, and waiting-women after his horse.” 

“Hark you, friend,” quoth the waiting-woman; “if 
you bea buffoon, keep your stuff for those chapmen 
that will bid you fairer. I would not give a fig for all 
the jests in your budget.” 

“Well enough yet,” quoth Sancho; “and a fig for 
you too, an’ you go to that. Adad! should I take thee 
for a fig, I might be sure of a ripe one! Your fig is 
rotten ripe, forsooth; say no more: if sixty is the game, 
you are a peep out.” 

“You rascal,” cried the waiting-woman, in a chafe, 
“whether T am old or no, Heaven best knows; 1 shall 
not stand to give an account to such a ragamufín as 
thou!” : 

She spoke this so loud that the duchess overheard 
her, and, seeing the woman so altered, and as red as 
fire, asked what was the matter. 

“Why, madam,” said the waiting-woman, “here isa 
fellow would have me put his ass in the stable, telling 
me an idle story of ladies that looked after one Lance- 
lot, and waiting-women after his horse; and, because I 
won't be his ostler, he very civilly calls me old.” 

“Old!” said the duchess; “that is an affront no 
woman can well bear. You are mistaken, honest San- 
cho, Rodriguez is very young; and the long veil she 
wears is more for authority and fashion-sake than upon 
account of her years.” 

“May there be never a good one in all those 1 have 
to live,” quoth Sancho, “if I meant her any harm; only 
I have such a natural love for my ass, an ’t like your 
worship, that I thought I could not recommend the poor 
tit to a more charitable body than this same Madam 
Rodriguez.” 

332 














“Go, great and mighty sir,’ said they, ‘and help my lady duchess down.’ "—p. 382. 


334 


“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, with a sour Icok, “does 
this talk befit this place? Do you know where you 
are ?” 

“Sir,” quoth Sancho, “every man must tell his wants, 
be he where he will. Here I bethought myself of 
Dapple, and here I spoke of him. Had I called him to 
mind in the stable, I would have spoken of him 
there.” 

“Sancho has reason on his side,” said the duke, “and 
nobody ought to chide him for it. Dapple shall have 
as much provender as he can eat, and be used as well 
as Sancho himself.” 

These small jars being over, which yielded diversion 
to all the company except Don Quixote, he was led up 
a stately staircase, and then into a noble hall, sumptu- 
ously hung with rich gold brocade. There his armor 
was taken off by six young damsels, all of them fully 
instructed by the duke and duchess how to behave 
themselves so towards Don Quixote, that he might look 
on his entertainment as conformable to those which the 
knights-errant of old received. 

When he was unarmed he appeared in his close 
breeches and chamois doublet, raw-boned and meagre, 
tall and lanky, with a pair of lantern jaws, that met in 
the middle of his mouth; in short, he made so very odd 
a figure, that, notwithstanding the strict injunction the 
duke had laid on the young females who waited on him 
to stifle their laughter, they were hardly able to con- 
tain. They desired he would dress in the clothes they 
brought him; and, retiring to an adjacent chamber, he 
locked himself up with the squire, and then he began 
to take him to task. 

“Now, said he, “modern buffoon and jolter-head of 
old, what canst thou say for thyself? Where learned 
you to abuse such a venerable gentlewoman, one so 
worthy of respect, as Donna Rodriguez] Was that 
aproper time to think of Dapple? or can you think 
persons of quality, who nobly entertain the masters, 
forget to provide for their beasts? For Heaven’s sake, 
Sancho, mend thy behavior, and do not betray thy 
home-spun breeding, lest thou be thought a scandal to 
thy master. Dost thou not know, saucy rustic, that 
the world often makes an estimate of the master’s dis- 
cretion by that of his servant, and that one of the most 
considerable advantages the great have over their in- 
feriors is to have servants as goodas themselves? Art 
thou not sensible, pitiful fellow as thou art, the more 
unhappy I, that if they find thee_a gross clown, or a 
mad buffoon, they will take me for some hedge-knight, 
or a paltry shifting rook? Pr'ythee, therefore, dear 
Sancho, shun these inconveniences: for he that aims 
too much at jests and drolling is apt to trip and tumble, 
and is at last despised as an insipid, ridiculous buffoon. 
Then curb thy tongue, think well, and ponder thy 
words before they get loose; we are come to a place 
whence,by the assistance of Heaven, and the force of 
this arm, we may depart five to one in fortune and repu- 
tation.” 

Sancho promised to behave himself better for the 
future, and to sew up his mouth, or bite out his tongue, 
rather than speak one word which was not duly con- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


sidered, and to the purpose, so that his master need not 
fear any one should find out what they were. 

Don Quixote then dressed himself, put on his belt 
and sword, threw his scarlet cloak over his shoulders, 
and clapped on a monteer cap of green velvet, which 
had been left him by the damsels. Thus accoutred, ‘he 
entered the state-room, where he found the damsels 
ranged in two rows, and immediately twelve pages 
came to conduct him to supper, letting him know that 
the duke and duchess expected him. Accordingly they 
led him in great pomp, some walking before and some 
behind, into another room, where a table was magnifi- 
cently set out for four people. 

As soon as he approached, the duke and the duchess 
came as far as the door to receive him, and with them 
a grave clergyman, one of those that assume to govern 
great men’s houses, and who, not being nobly born 
themselves, do not know how to instruct those that are, 
but would have the liberality of the great measured by 
the narrowness of their own souls, making those whom 
they govern stingy, when they pretend to teach them 
frugality. 

After a thousand courtly compliments on all sides, 
Don Quixote at last approached the table, between the 
duke and the duchess; and here arose a fresh contest; 
for the knight, being offered the upper end of the table, 
thought himself obliged to decline it. However, he 
could not withstand the duke’s pressing importunities, 
but was forced at last to comply. The parson sat 
right against him, and ane duke and the duchess on 
each side. 

Sancho stood by ail the while: gaping with wonder 
to see the honor done his master; and, observing how 
many ceremonies passed, and what entreaties the duke 
used to prevail with ‘him to sit at the upper end of the 
table, “ With your worship's leave,” quoth he, “ I 
will tell you what happened once in our town in 
reference to this stir and ado that you have had now 
about places.” 

The words were Scarce out of his mouth, when Don 
Quixote began to tremble, as having reason to believe 
he was going to tell some impertinent thing or other. 

Sancho had his eyes upon him, and, presently under- 
standing his motions, “Sir,” quoth he, “don’t fear; I 
won't be unmannerly, I warrant you. I will speak 
nothing but what shall be pat to the purpose; I han’t 
so soon forgot the lesson you gave me about talking 
sense or nonsense, little or much.” 

“T don’t know what thou meanest,” said Don Quix- 
ote; “say what thou wilt, so thou do it quickly.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, turning.to the duke, “what I 
am going to tell you is very tittle true. Should I trip 
never so little in my story, my master is here to take 
me up.” 

“Pr’ythee,” said Don Quixote, “take heed what thou 
sayest.” 

“Nay, nay,” quoth Sancho, “let me alone for that: 
I have heeded it and re-heeded it over and over, and 
that you shall see, I warrant you.” 

“Truly, my lord,” said Don Quixote, “it were conve- 
nient that your grace should order this fellow to be 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


turned out of the room, for he will plague you with a 
thousand impertinences. ” 

“Oh! as for that, you must excuse us,” said the duch- 
ess; “Sancho must not stir a step from me; I’ll engage 
for him, he shall say nothing but what is very proper.” 

“Many and many years,” quoth Sancho, “may your 
holiness live, madam duchess, for your good opinion of 
me, though it is more your goodness than my desert. 
Now then for my tale. 

“Once upon a time a gentleman in our town, of a good 
estate and family, for he was of the blood of the Alamos 
of Medina del Campo, and married one Donna Mencia 
de Quinones, who was the daughter of Don Alonzo de 
Maranon, a Knight of the Order of St. Jago, the very 
same that was drowned in the Herradura, about whom 
that quarrel happened formerly in our town, in which 
T heard say that my master, Don Quixote, was embroiled 
and little Tom, the madcap, who was the son of old 
Balvastro the farrier, happened to be sorely hurt. Is 
not all this true, now, master?” 

“Thou producest so many witnesses, Sancho,” said 
Don Quixote, “and mentionest so many circumstances, 
that I must needs own I believe what thou sayest to be 
true. But go on, and shorten thy story; for I’m afraid 
thou wilt not have done these two days.” 

“Pray, don’t let him shorten it,” said the duchess; 
“let him go on his own way, though he were not to 
make an end of it these six days: I shall hear him with 
pleasure, and think the time as pleasantly employed as 
any I ever passed in my life.” 

“I say then, my masters,” quoth Sancho, “that this 
same gentleman I told you of at first, and I know him 
as well as I know my right hand from my left, for it is 
not a bow-shot from my house to his; this gentleman 
invited a husbandman to dine with him, who was a poor 
man, but main honest——” 

“On, friend,” said the chaplain; “at the rate you 
proceed you won’t have made an end before you come 
to your grave.” 

“T shall stop short of half way,” quoth Sancho, “and 
if it be Heaven’s blessed will: a little more of your 
Christian patience, good doctor! Now this same hus- 
bandman, as I said before, coming to this same gentle- 
man's house, who had given him theinvitation— Heaven 
rest his soul, poor heart! for he is now dead and gone; and 
more than that, they say he died the death ofan angel. 
For my part, I was not by him when he died, for I was 
gone to harvest-work at that very time, to a place call- 
ed Temblique.” 

“Pr’ythee, honest friend,” said the clergyman, 
“leave your harvest-work, and come back quickly from 
Temblique, without staying to bury the gentlemen, un- 
less you have a mind to occasion more funerals; there- 
fore, pray, make an end of your story.” 

“You must know then,” quoth Sancho, “that as they 
two were ready to sit down at table—I mean the hus- 
bandman and the gentleman. Methinks I see them now 
before my eyes plainer than ever 1 did in my born 
days.” 

The duke and the duchess were infinitely pleased to 
find how Sancho spun out his story, and how the clergy- 





335 


man fretted at his prolixity, and Don Quixote spent 


¡himself with anger. 


“Well,” quoth Sancho, “to go on with my story, 
when they were going to sit down, the husbandman 
would not sit till the gentleman had taken his place; 
but the gentleman made him a sign to put himself at 
the upper end.” 

“By no means, sir,’ quoth the husbandman. 

“<Sit down,’ said the other. 

““ Good your worship,’ quoth the husbandman. 

“« Sit where I bid thee,’ said the gentleman. 

“Still the other excused himself, and would not; and 
the gentleman told him he should, as meaning to be 
master in his own house. Butthe over-mannerly looby, 
fancying he should be very well-bred and civil in it, 
scraped and cringed, and refused, till atlast the gentle- 
man, in a great passion, e'en took him by the shoulders, 
and forced him into the chair. 

“<Sit there, clodpate,’ cried he, ‘for, let me sit 
wherever I will, that still will be the upper end, and 
the place of worship to thee.’ 

“And now you have my tale, and I think I have 
spoken nothing but what is to the purpose.” 

Don Quixote’s face was in a thousand colors, that 
speckled its natural brown, so that the duke and duch- 
ess were obliged to check their mirth when they per- 
ceived Sancho’s roguery, that Don Quixote might not 
be put too much out of countenance. And therefore to 
turn the discourse, that Sancho might not run into 
other fooleries, the duchess asked Don Quixote what 
news he had of the Lady Dulcinea, and how long it was 
since he had sent her any giants or robbers for a present, 
not doubting but that he had lately subdued many such. 

“Alas! madam,” answered he, “my misfortunes have 
had a beginning, but, I fear, will never have an end: 
I have vanquished giants, elves, and cut-throats, and 
sent them to the mistress of my soul, but where shall 
they find her? She is enchanted, madam, and trans- 
formed to the ugliest piece of rusticity that can be 
imagined.” 

“T don’t know, sir,” quoth Sancho; “when I saw her 
last she seemed to be the finest creature in the ’varsal 
world; thus far, at least, I can safely vouch for her 
upon my own knowledge, that for activity of body and 
leaping, the best tumbler of them all does not go be- 
yond her. Upon my honest word, madam duchess, she 
will vault from the ground upon her ass like a cat.” 

“Have you seen her enchanted?” said the duke. 

“Seen her!” quoth Sancho; “who was the first that 
hit upon this trick of her enchentment, think you, but 
I? She is as much enchanted as my father.” 

The clergyman, hearing them talk of giants, elves, 
and enchantments, began to suspect this was Don 
Quixote de la Mancha, who history the duke so often 
used to read, though he had several times reprehended 
him for it, telling him it was a folly to read such. Be- 
ing confirmed in his suspicion, he addressed himself 
very angrily to the duke. 

“My lord,” said he, “your grace will have a large 
account to give one day for soothing this poor man’s 
follies. I suppose this same Don Quixote, or Don 


336 


Quite Sot, or whatever you are pleased to call him, 
cannot be quite so besotted as you endeavor to make 
him, by giving him such opportunities to run on in his 
fantastical humors.” Then, directing his discourse to 
Don Quixote, “Hark ye,” said he, “Goodman Addle- 
pate, who has put it into your crown that you are a 
knight-errant, that you vanqnish giants and robbers? 
Go, go, get you home again, look after your children, if 
you have any, and what honest business you have to 
do, and leave wandering about the world, building 
castles in the air, and making yourself a laughing-stock 
to all that know you or know you not. Where have 
you found in the name of mischief, that there ever has 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


been, or are now, any such things as knights-errant ? 
Where will you meet with giants in Spain, or monsters 
in La Mancha? Where shall one find your enchanted 
Dulcineas, and all those legions of whimsies and chim- 
eras that are talked of in your account, but in your own 
empty skull ?” 

Don Quixote gave this reverend person a hearing 
with great patience. But at last, seeing him silent, 
without minding his respect to the duke and duchess, 
up he started with indignation and fury in his looks, 
and said—— But his answer deserves a chapter by 
itself. 








CHAPTER XXXII. 


DON QUIXOTE’S ANSWER TO HIS REPROVER, WITH OTHER GRAVE AND MERRY ACCIDENTS. 


Don QUIXOTE being thus suddenly got up, shaking 
from head to foot for madness, as if he had quicksilver 
in his bones, cast an angry look on his indiscreet censor, 
and, with an eager delivery, sputtering and stammering 
with choler— 

“This place,” cried he, “the presence of these noble 
persons, and the respect I have always had for your 
function, check my just resentment, and tie up my 
hands from taking the satisfaction of a gentleman. For 
these reasons, and since every one knows that you 
gown men, as well as women, use no other weapons but 
your tongues, I will fairly engage you upon equal 
terms, and combat you with your own weapon. I 
should rather have expected sober admonitions from a 
man of your cloth, than infamous reproaches. Charita- 
ble and wholesome correction ought to be managed at 
another rate and with more moderation. The least that 
can be said of this reproof which you have given me 
here so bitterly, and in public, is, that it has exceeded 
the bounds of Christian correction, and a gentle one had 
been much more becoming. Is it fit that, without any in 
sight into the offence which you reprove, you should, 
without any more ado, call the offender fool, sot, and ad- 
dlepate? Pray, sir, what foolish action have you seen me 
do that should provoke you to give me such ill language, 
and bid me so magisterially go home to look after my 
wife and children, before you know whether I have 
any? Don’t you think those deserve as severe a cen- 
sure, who screw themselves into other men’s houses, 
and pretend to rule the master? A fine world it is 
truly, when a poor pedant, who has seen no more of it 
than lies within twenty or thirty leagues about him, 


errantry, and judge of those who profess it! 
sooth, esteem it an idle undertaking, and time. lost, to 
wander through the world, though scorning -its pleas- 
ures, and sharing the hardships and toils of it, by 





which the virtuous aspire to the high seat of immortal- 
ity. If persons of honor, knights, lords, gentlemen, or 
men of any birth, should take me for a fool or a cox- 
comb, I should think it an irreparable affront. But for 
mere scholars, that never trod the paths of chivalry, to 
think me mad, I despise and laugh atit. Iamaknight, 
and a knight will I die, if so it please Omnipotence. 
Some choose the high road of haughty ambition; others 
the low ways of base, servile flattery; a third sort take 
the crooked path of deceitful hypocrisy; and a few, 
very few, that of true religion. I, for my own part, 
guided by my stars, follow the narrow track of knight- 
errantry; and, for the exercise of it, I despise riches, 
but not honor. I have redressed grievances, and right- 
ed the injured, chastised the insolent, vanquished 
giants, and trod elves and hobgoblins under my feet. 
I am in love, but no more than the profession of knight- 
errantry obliges me to be; my intentions are all direct- 
ed to virtuous ends, and to do no man wrong, but good 
to all the world. And now let your graces judge 
whether a person who makes it his only. study to prac- 
tice all this deserves to be upbraided for a fool.” 

“Well said, i’ faith!” quoth Sancho; “say no more for 
yourself, my good lord and master; stop when you are 
well; for there is not the least matter to be added more 
on your side, either in word, thought, or deed. Besides, 
since Mr. Parson has had the face to say, point blank, 
as one may say, that there neither are, nor ever were, 
any knights-errant in the world, no marvel he does not 
know what he says.” 

“What!” said the clergyman, “I warrant you are 
that Sancho Panza to whom they say your master has 
promised an island?” 

“Ay, marry am I,” answered Sancho; “and I am he 
that deserves it as well as another body; and I am one 
of those of whom they say, ‘Keep with good men, and 
thou shalt be one of them;’ and of those of whom it is 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


said again, ‘ Not with whom thou wert bred, but with 
whom thou hast fed;’ as also, ‘Lean against a good 
tree, and it will shelter thee.’ I have leaned and stuck 
close to my good master, and kept him company this 
many a month; and now he and I are all one; and 1 
must be as he is, an it be Heaven’s blessed will; and so 
he live, and I live, he will not want kingdoms to rule, 
nor shall I want islands to govern.” 

“Thou shalt not, honest Sancho,” said the duke; 
“for I, on the great Don Quixote’s account, will now 
give thee the government of an odd one of my own of 
no small consequence.” 

“Down, down on thy knees, Sancho,” cried Don 
Quixote, “and kiss his grace's feet for this favor.” 

Sancho did accordingly; but when the clergyman 
saw it, he got up in a great heat. 

“By the habit which I wear,” cried he, “I can scarce 
forbear telling your grace that you are as mad as these 
sinful wretches. Well may they be mad, when such 
wise men as you humor and authorize their frenzy. 
You may keep them here, and stay with them yourself, 
if your grace pleases; but for my part, I will leave you 
and go home, to save myself the labor of reprehending 
what I cannot mend.” 

With that, leaving the rest of his dinner behind him, 
away he flung, the duke and the duchess not being able 
to pacify him; though, indeed, the duke could not say 
much to him, for laughing at his impertinent passion. 

When he had done laughing, “Sir Knight of the 
Lions,” said he, “you have answered so well for your- 
self and your profession, that you need no farther 
satisfaction of the angry clergyman; especially if you 
consider that it was not in his power to fix an affront 
on a person of your character.” 

“Very true, my lord,” said Don Quixote; “and the 
reason is, because he that cannot receive an affront 
consequently can give none. Women, children, and 
churchmen, as they cannot vindicate themselves when 
when they are injured, so neither are they capable of 
receiving an affront; for there is this difference betwixt 
an affront and injury, as your grace very well knows: 
an affront must come from a person that is both able to 
give it and maintain it when he has givenit. An in- 
jury may be done by any sort of people whatsoever; for 
example, a man walking in the street about his busi- 
ness, is set upon by ten armed men, who cudgel him. 
He draws his sword to revenge the injury, but the as- 
sailants overpowering him, he cannot have the satisfac- 
tion he desired. This man is injured, but not affronted. 
But to confirm it by another instance: suppose a man 
comes behind another’s back, hits him a box on the ear, 
and then runs away; the other follows him, but can’t 
overtake him. He that has received the blow has re- 
ceived an injury, it is true, but not an affront; because 
to make it an affront, it should have been justified. But 
if he that gave it, though he did it basely, stands his 
ground and faces his adversary then he that received 
is both injured and affronted—injured, because he was 
struck in a cowardly manner; affronted, because he 
that struck him stood his ground to maintain what he 
had done. Therefore, according to the settled laws of 





337 


Quelling, I may be injured, but am not affronted. Chil- 
dren can have no resentment, and women can’t fly, nor 
are they obliged to stand it out; and it is the same 
thing with the clergy, for they carry no arms, either 
offensive or defensive. Therefore, though they are 
naturally bound by the laws of self-preservation to de- 
fend themselves, yet are they not obliged to offend 
others. Upon second thoughts, then, though I said : 
just now I was injured, I think now I am not; for he 
that can receive no affront can give none. Therefore I 
ought not to have any resentment for what that good 
man said; neither, indeed, have I any. I only wish he 
would have stayed a little longer, that I might have 
convinced him of his error in believing there were 
never any knights-errant in the world. Had Amadis, 
or any one of his innumerable race, but heard him say 
anything like this, I can assure his reverence it would 
have gone hard with him.” 

“Twill be sworn it would,” quoth Sancho; “they 
would have undone him as you would undo an oyster, 
and have cleft him from head to foot, as one would 
slice a pomegranate, or a ripe melon, take my word for 
it. They were a parcel of tough blades, and would 
not have swallowed such a pill. I verily believe, had 
Rinaldo of Montalban but heard the poor toad talk at 
this rate, he would have laid him on such a blow over 
the mouth with his shoulder-o’-mutton fist, as would 
have secured him from prating these three years. Ay, 
ay, if he had fallen into their clutches, see how he 
would have got out again!” 

The duchess was ready to die with laughing at San- 
cho, who she thought amore pleasant fool and a greater 
madman than his master; and she was not the only per- 
son at that time ofthis opinion. In short, Don Quixote 
being pacified, they made an end of dinner, and then, 
while some of the servants were taking away, there 
came in four damsels, one carrying a silver basin, 
another a ewer of the same metal; a third, two very 
fine towels over her arm, and the fourth, with her sleeves 
tucked above her elbows, held in her lily-white hand 
(for exceedingly white it was), a large wash-ball of 
Naples soap. Presently she that held the basin went 
very civiliy, and clapped it under Don Quixote’s chin, 
while he, wondering at this extraordinary ceremony, 
yet fancying it was the custom of the country to wash 
the face instead of the hands, thrust out his long chin, 
without speaking a word, and then the ewer began to 
rain on his face, and the damsel that brought the wash- 
ball fell to work, and lathered his beard so effectually 
that the suds, like huge fiakes of snow, flew all over 
the passive knight’s face, insomuch that he was forced 
to shut his eyes. 

The duke and the duchess, who knew nothing of the 
matter, stood wondering where this extraordinary 
scouring would end. The female barber, having thus 
laid the knight’s face a-soaking a handful high in suds, 
pretended she wanted water, and sent another with the 
ewer for more, telling her the gentleman would stay for 
it. She went and left him in one of the most odd, 
ridiculous figures that can be imagined. There he sat 
exposed to all the company, with half a yard of neck 


338 


stretched out his bristly beard and chaps all in a white 
foam, which did not at all mend bis walnut complexion; 
insomuch that it is not a little strange how those that 
had so comical a spectacle before them could forbear 
laughing. The four malicious damsels who had a hand 
in the plot did not dare to look up, nor let their eyes 
meet those of their master or mistress, who stood 
strangely divided between anger and mirth, not know- 
ing what to do in the case—whether they should punish 
the girls for their boldness, or reward them for the di- 
version they caused in seeing the knight in that posture. 

At last the maid came back with the water, and the 
other having rinsed off the soap, she that held the linen 
gently wiped and dried the knight’s beard and face; 
after which all four, dropping a low curtsey, were going 
out of the room. But the duke, that Don Quixote 
might not smell the jest, called to the damsel that car- 
ried the basin, and ordered her to come and wash him 
too, but be sure she had water enough. The wench, 
being sharp and cunning, came and put the basin under 
the duke’s chin, as she had done to Don Quixote, but 
with a quicker dispatch; and, having dried him clean, 
they all made their honors, and went off. 

Sancho took great notice of all the ceremonies at this 
washing. 

“8 life !” quoth he, “I would fain know whether ’tis 
not the custom of this country to scrub the squire’s 
beard as well as the knight's; for, 0’ my conscience, 
mine wants it not alittle. Nay, if they would run it 
over with a razor too, so mnch the better.” : 

“What art thou taking to thyself, Sancho ?” said the 
duchess. 

“Why, an ’t like your grace’s worship,” quoth San- 
cho, “I am only saying that I have been told how, in 
other great houses, when the cloth is taken away, they 
use to give folks water to. wash theit hands, and not 
suds to scour their beards. I see now it is good to live 
and learn. There's a saying, indeed, ‘He that lives long 
suffers much.’ But I have a huge fancy, that to suffer 
one of these same scourings is rather a pleasure than a 
pain.” 

“Well, Sancho,” said the duchess, “trouble thyself 
no farther.” 

“My beard is all I want to have scrubbed at present,” 
quoth Sancho. 

“Here, steward,” said the duchess, “see that Sancho 
has what he has a mind to, and be sure do just as he 
would have you.” 

The steward told her grace that Signior Sancho 
should want for nothing; and so he took Sancho along 
with him to dinner. 

Meanwhile Don Quixote stayed with the duke and 
duchess, talking of several matters, but all relating to 
arms and knight-errantry. The duchess then took an 
opportunity to desire the knight to give a particular 
description of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso’s beauty 
and accomplishments, not doubting but his good mem- 
ory would enable him to do it well; adding withal, that 
according to the voice of fame, she must needs be the 
finest creature in the whole world, and consequently in 
all La Mancha. 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


With that, Don Quixote, fetching a deep sigh, “Mad- 
am,” said he, “could I take out my heart, and expose it 
to your grace’s view in a dish on this table, I might 
save my tongue the labor of attempting that which it 
cannot express, and you can scarce believe; for there 
your grace would see her beauty painted to the life. But 
why should I undertake to delineate and copy one by 
one each several perfection of the peerless Dulvinea? 
That burden must be sustained by stronger shoulders 
than mine: that task were worthy of the pencils of 
Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles, or the graving tools 
of Lysippus. The hands of the best painters and stat- 
uaries should indeed be employed to give in speaking 
paint, in marble and Corinthian brass, an exact copy of 
her beauties, while Ciceronian and Demosthenian elo- 
quence labored to reach the praise of her endowments.” 

“Pray,” asked the duchess, “what do you mean by 
that word Demosthenian?” 

“Demosthenian eloquence, madam,” said Don Quix- 
ote, “is as much as to say, the eloquence of Demos- 
thenes, and the Ciceronian that of Cicero, the two 
greatest orators that ever were in the world.” , 

“It is true,” said the duke; “and you but showed 
your ignorance, my dear, in asking such a question. 
Yet the noble Don Quixote would highly oblige us, if 
he would but be pleased to attempt her picture now; 
for even in arude draught of her lineaments, I ques- 
tion not but she will appear so charming, as to deserve 
the envy of the brightest of her sex.” 

“Ah! my lord,” said Don Quixote, “it would be so 
indeed, if the misfortune which not long since befell 
her had not in a manner razed her idea out of thought 
of my memory; and as it is, I ought rather to bewail 
her change than describe her person; for your grace 
must know that as I lately went to kiss her hands, and 
obtain her benediction and leave for my intended ab- 
sence in quest of new adventures, I found her quite 
another creature than I expected. I found her en- 
chanted, transformed from a princess to a country 
wench, from beauty to ugliness, from courtliness to 
rusticity, from light to darkness; in short, from Dul- 
cinea del Toboso to a peasantess of Sayago.” 

“less us!” cried the duke with a loud voice, “what 
villain has done the world such an injury? Who has 
robl-ed it not only of the beauty that was its ornament, 
but >of those charming graces that were its delight, and 
that virtue which was its living honor?” 

“Who should it be,” replied Don Quixote, “but one 
of those deceitful enchanters, one of those numerous 
envious fiends that without cessation persecute me; 
that wicked brood of evil, brought into the world to 
eclipse the glory of good and valiant men and blemish 
their exploits, while they labor to exalt and magnify 
the actions of the bad? These magicians have before 
persecuted me, and persecute me now, and will continue 
till they have sunk me and my lofty deeds of chivalry 
into the profound abyss of oblivion. Yes, yes, they 
choose to wound me in that part which they are aware 
is most sensible, well-knowing that to deprive a knight- 
errant of his lady is to rob him of those eyes with which 
he sees, of the sun that enlightens him, and the food 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


that sustains him. For, as I have often said, a knight- 
errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a 
building without mortar, or a shadow without a body 
that causes it.” 

“J grant all this,” said the duchess; “yet if we may 
believe the history of your life, which was lately pub- 
lished with universal applause, it seems to imply, to the 
best of my remembrance, that you never saw the Lady 
Dulcinea, and that there is no such lady in the world; 
but rather that she is a mere notional creature, engen- 
dered and brought forth by the strength and heat of 
your fancy, and there endowed with all the charms and 
good qualifications which you are pleased to ascribe to 
her.” 

“Much may be said upon this point,” said Don Quix- 
ote; “Heaven knows whether there be a Dulcinea in the 
world or not, and whether she be a notional creature or 
not. These are mysteries not to be so narrowly in- 
quired into. Ido indeed make her the object of my 
contemplations, and, as I ought, look on her as a lady 
endowed with all those qualifications that may raise 
the character of a person to universal fame. She is to 
me beautiful without blemish, reserved without pride, 
amorous with modesty, agreeable for her courteous 
temper and her education, and, in short, of an illustri- 
ous parentage. For beauty displays its lustre to a 
higher degree of perfection when joined with noble 
blood, than it can in those that are meanly descended.” 

“The observation is just,” said the duke; “but give 
me leave, sir, to propose to you a doubt, which the 
reading of that history has started in my mind. It is, 
‘that allowing there be a Dulcinea at Toboso, or else- 
where, and as beautiful as you describe her, yet I do 
not find she can any way equal in greatness of birth 
the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, the Madasimas, and a 
thousand others, of whom we read in those histories, 
with which you have been so conversant.” 

“To this,” said Don Quixote, “I answer, that Dulci- 
nea is the daughter of her own actions, and that virtue 
ennobles the blood. A virtuous man of mean condition 
is more to be esteemed than a vicious person of quality, 
Besides, Dulcinea is possessed of endowments that 
may entitle her to crowns and sceptres, since beauty 
alone has raised many of her sex to a throne. Where 
merit has no limits, hope may well have no bounds, and 
to be fair and virtuous is so extensive an advantage, 
that it gives, though not a formal, at least a virtual 
claim to larger fortunes.” 

“T must own, sir,” said the duchess, “that in all 
your discourse you, as we say, proceed with the plum- 
met of reason, and fathom all the depths of contro- 
versy. Therefore, I submit, and from this time 1 am 
resolved to believe, and will make all my domestics, 
nay, my husband, too, if there be occasion, believe and 
maintain, that there is a Dulcinea del Toboso extant, 
and living at this day; that she is beautful and of good 
extraction; and to sum up allin a word, although de- 
serving the services of so great a knight as the noble Don 
Quixote, which I think is the highest commendation I 
can bestow on her But yet I must confess, there «is 
still one scruple that makes me uneasy, and causes me 





339 


to have an ill opinion of Sancho. It is, that the history 
tells us, that when Sancho Panza carried your letter to 
the Lady Dulcinea, he found her winnowing a sack of 
corn, by the same token that it was the worst sort of 
wheat, which makes me much doubt her quality.” 

“Your grace must know,” answered Don Quixote, 
“that almost everything that relates to me is managed 
quite contrary to what the affairs of other knights- 
errant used to be. Whether it be the unfathomable | 
will of Destiny, or the implacable malice of some en- 
vious enchanter orders it so, or no, I cannot well tell. 
For it is beyond all doubt, that most of us knigbts- 
errant still have had something peculiar in our fates. 
One has had the privilege to be above the power of en- 
chantments, another invulnerable, as the famous Orlan- 
do, one of the twelve peers of France, whose flesh, they 
tell us, was impenetrable everywhere but in the sole of 
his left foot, ana even there, too, he could be wounded 
with no other weapon than the point of a great pin; so 
that when Bernardo del Carpio deprived him of life at 
Roncesvalles, finding he could not wound him with his 
sword, he lifted him from the ground, and squeezed him 
to death in his arms; remembering how Hercules killed 
Anteus, that cruel giant, who was said to be the son 
of the Earth. Hence I infer, that probably I may be 
secured in the same manner, under the protection of 
some particular advantage, though itis not that of be- 
ing invulnerable; for I have often found by experience 
that my flesh is tender and not impenetrable. Nor 
does any private prerogative free me from the power of 
enchantment; for I have found myself clapped into a 
cage, where all the world could not have locked me up, 
but the force of necromantic incantations. But since 1 
got free again, I believe that even the force of magic 
will never be able to confine me thus another time. So 
that these magicians, finding they cannot work their 
wicked ends directly on me, revenge themselves by 
persecuting Dulcinea, for whom 1 live. 

“I believe, when my squire went to her, they trans- 
formed her into a country dowdy, busied in the base 
employment of winnowing wheat. But I do aver that 
it was neither rye nor wheat, but Oriental pearl: and 
to prove this, I must acquaint your graces, that passing 
the other day by Toboso, I could not so much as find 
Dulcinea's palace; whereas my squire went the next 
day, and saw her in all her native charms, the most 
beautiful creature in the world; yet when I met her 
presently after, she appeared to me in the shape of an 
ugly, coarse, country mawkin, boorish, and ill-bred, 
though she really is discretion itself. And therefore 
because I myself cannot be enchanted, the unfortunate 
lady must be thus enchanted, misused, disfigured, 
chopped and changed. Thus my enemies, wreaking 
their malice on her, have revenged themselves on me, 
which makes me abandon myself to sorrow, till she be 
restored to her former perfection. 

“T have been the more large inthis particular, that 
nobody might insist on what Sancho said of her sifting 
of corn; for if she appeared changed to me, what won- 
der is itif she seemed soto him? In short, Dulcinea 
is both illustrious and well-born, being descended of 


340 


the most ancient and best families in Toboso; and now 
that town will be no less famous in after ages than 
Troy for Helen, or Spain for Cava, though on a more 
honorable account. 

“ As for Sancho Panza, I assure your grace he is one 
of the most pleasant squires that ever waited on a 
knight-errant. Sometimes he comes out with such 
sharp simplicities, that one is puzzled to judge whether 
he be more knave or fool. He doubts of everything, 
yet believes everything; and when one would think 
he had entangled himself in a piece of downright folly, 
beyond recovery, he brings himself off of a sudden so 
cleverly, that he is applauded tothe skies. In short, 
I would not change him for the best squire that wears 
a head, thought J might have a city to boot, and there- 
fore I donot know whether I had best let him go to the 
government which your grace has been pleased to 
promise him; though, I must confess, his talents seem 
to lie pretty much that way: for, give never so little a 
whet to his understanding, he will manage his govern- 
ment as well as the king does his customs. Then ex- 
perience convinces us that neither learning nor any 
other abilitics are very material to a governor. Have 
we not a hundred of them that can scarce read a letter, 
and yet they govern as sharp as somany hawks? Their 
main business is only to mean well, and to be resolved 
to do their best; for they cannot want able counsellors 
to instruct them. Thus those governors who are men 
of the sword, and no scholars, have their assessors on 
the bench to direct them. My counsel to Sancho shall 
be, that he neither take bribes nor lose his privileges, 
with some other little instructions, which 1 have in my 
head for him, and which at a proper time I will com- 
municate, both for his private advantage and the pub- 
lic good of the island he is to govern.” 

So far had the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote 
been discoursing together, when they heard a great 
noise in the house, and by-and-by Sancho came run- 
ning unexpectedly into the room where they sat, in a 
terrible fright, with a dish-clout before him instead of 
a bib. The scullions and other greasy rabble of the 
kitchen were after him, one of them pursuing him with 
a little kneading-trough full of dish-water, which he 
endeavored to put under his chin, while another stood 
ready to have washed the poor squire with it. 

“How now, fellow?” said the duchess; what is the 
matter here? What would you do with this good man? 
Don’t you consider he is a governor elect? ” 

“Madam,” quoth the barber-scullion, “the gentleman 
won’t let us wash him according to custom, as my lord 
duke and his master were.” 

“Yes, marry but I will,” quoth Sancho, in a mighty 
huff, “but then it shall be with cleaner suds, cleaner 
towels, and not quite so slovenly paws; for there is no 
such difference between my master and me neither, that 
he must be washed with pure water, and I with any 
dirty suds: so far the customs of great men’s houses 
are good as they give no offence; but this same wash- 
ing in a puddle is worse penance than a friar’s flogging. 
My beard is clean enough, and wants no such refresh- 
ing. Stand clear, you had best; for the first that comes 








DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


to wash me, or touch a hair of my head (my beard I 
would say), I will take him such a dowse o” the ear, he 
shall feel it a twelvemonth after: for these kind of 
ceremonies and soapings, do ye see, look more like 
flouts and jeers than like a civil welcome to stran- 
gers.” 

The duchess was like to have burst her sides with 
laughing to see Sancho’s fury, and hear how he argued 
for himself. But Don Quixote did not very well like to 
see him with such a nasty dish-clout about his neck, 
and made the sport of the kitchen pensioners. There- 
fore, after he had made a deep bow to the duke, as it 
were desiring leave to speak, looking on the scullions— 
“Hark ye, gentlemen,” cried he, very gravely, “pray 
let the young man alone, and get you gone as you came, 
if you think fit. My squire is as cleanly as another 
man; that trough won’t do; you had better have 
brought him a dram-cup. Away; be advised by me, 
and leave him: for neither he nor I can abide such 
slovenly jestings.” 

”No, no,” quoth Sancho, taking the words out of his 
master's mouth; “let them stay and go on with their 
show. 111 pay my barbers, 111 warrant ye. They had 
as good take a lion by the beard as meddle with mine. 
Let them bring a comb hither, or what they will, and 
currycomb it; and if they find anything there that 
should not be there, I will give them leave to cut and 
mince me as small as a horse.” 

“Sancho is in the right,” said the duchess, still laugh- 
ing, “and will be in the right in all he says; he is as 
clean and neat as can be, and needs none of your scour- 
ing. But you are a pack of unmannerly varlets, and, 
like saucy rascals as you are, cannot help showing your 
spite to the squires of knights-errant. ” 

The greasy regiment, and even the steward who was 
with them, thought verily the duchess had been in 
earnest. So they took the cloth from Sancho's neck, 
and sneaked off quite out of countenance. Sancho, 
seeing himself delivered from his apprehension of this 
danger, ran and threw himself on his knees before the 
duchess. “Heaven bless your worship’s grace,” quoth 
he, “Madam Duchess. Great persons are able to do 
great kindnesses. For my part, I don’t know how to 
make your worship amends for this you have done me 
now. I can only wish I might see myself an armed 
knight-errant for your sake, that I might spend all the 
days of my life in the service of so high a lady. Iam 
a poor countryman—my name is Sancho Panza—children 
I have, and serve asa squire. If in any of these mat- 
ters I can do you any good, you need but speak; I will 
be nimbler in doing than your worship shall be in 
ordering.” 

“It isevident, Sancho,” said the duchess, “that you 
have learned civility in the school of courtesy itself, 
and have been bred up under the wings of Don Quix- 
ote, who is the very cream of compliment, and the flow- 
er of ceremonies. All happiness attend such a knight 
and such a squire; the one the north star of chivalry- 
errant, the other the bright luminary of squire-like 
fidelity. Rise, my friend Sancho, and assure yourself 
that, for the recompense of your civilities, I will per- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


suade my lord duke to put you in possession of the 
government he promised you as soon as he can.” 

After this, Don Quixote went to take his afternoon's 
sleep; bnt the duchess desired Sancho, if he were not 
very sleepy, he would pass the afternoon with her and 
her women in a cool room. Sancho told her grace that 
indeed he did use to take a good sound nap, some four 
or five hours long, in a summers's afternoon; but to do 


341 


her good honor a kindness, he would break an old cus- 
tom for once, and do his best to hold up that day, and 
wait on her worship. The duke, on his side, gave fresh 
orders that Don Quixote should be entertained exactly 
like a knight-errant, without deviating the least step 
from the road of chivalry, such as is observable in 
books of that kind. 








CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE SAVORY CONFERENCE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER WOMEN HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WORTH 


YOUR READING AND OBSERVATION. 


THE story afterwards informs us that Sancho slept 
not a wink all that afternoon, but waited on the duchess 
as he had promised. Being mightily taken with his 
comical discourse, she ordered him to take a low chair, 
and sit by her; but Sancho, who knew better things, 
absolutely declined it, till she pressed him again to sit, 
as he was a governor, and speak as he was a squire; in 
both which capacities he deserved the very seat of Cid 
Ruy Diaz, the famous champion. Sancho shrugged up 
his shoulders, and obeyed, and all the duchess's women 
standing round about her to give her silent attention, 
she began the conference. 

“Now that we are in private,” said she, “and nobody 
to overhear us, I would desire you, my lord governor, 
to resolve me of some doubts in the printed history of 
the great Don Quixote, which puzzle me very much. 
First, I find that the good Sancho had never seen Dtl- 
cinea—the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I should have 
said—nor carried her his master’s letter, as having left 
the table-book behind him in Sierra Morena; how then 
durst he feign an answer, and pretend he found her 
winnowing wheat? a fiction and banter so injurious to 
the reputation of the peerless Dulcinea, and so great a 
blemish on the character of a faithful squire !” 

Here Sancho got up without speaking a word, laid 
his finger on his lips, and, with his body bent, crept 
cautiously round the room, lifting up the hangings, 
and peeping in every hole and corner. At last, finding 
the coast clear, he returned to his seat. “Now,” quoth 
he, “Madam Duchess, since I find there is nobody here 
but ourselves, you shall e’en hear, without fear or fa- 
vor, the truth of the story, and what else you will ask 
of me, but not a word of the pudding. First and foremost 
I must tell you, I look on my master, Don Quixote, to 
be no better than a downright madman, though some- 
times he will stumble on a parcel of sayings so quaint, 
and so tightly put together, that nobody could mend 
them; but in the main I can’t beat it out of my noddle 
but that heis as mad asa March hare. Now, because 
I am pretty confident of knowing his blind side, what- 
ever crotchets come into my crown, though without 





either head or tail, yet can I make them pass upon him 
for gospel. Such was the answer to his letter, and an- 
other sham that 1 put upon him but the other day, and 
is not in print yet, touching my Lady Dulcinea's en- 
chantment; for you must know, between you and JI, 
she is no more enchanted than the man in the moon.” 

With that, at the duchess's request, he related the 
whole passage of the late pretended enchantment very 
faithfully, to the great diversion of the hearers. 

“But, sir,” said the duchess, “I have another scruple 
in this affair no less unaccountable than the former; 
for I think 1 hear sometbing whisper me in the ear, and 
say, If Don Quixote de la Mancha be such a shallow- 
brains, why does Sancho Panza, who knows him to be 
so, wait upon this madman, and rely thus upon his 
vain, extravagant promises? I can only infer from 
this, that the man is more a fool than the master; and 
if so, will not Madam Duchess be thought as mad as 
either of them, to bestow the government of an island, 
or the command of others, on one who can’t govern 
himself? ” 

“By our Lady,” quoth Sancho, “your scruple comes 
in pudding time! But I need not whisper in your ear; 
it may e’en speak plain, and as loud as it will. I ama 
fool, that is certain; for if I had been wise, I had left 
my master many a fair day since; but it was my luck, 
and my vile errrantry, and that is all can be said on ’t. 
I must follow him through thick and thin. We are 
both towns-born children; I have eaten his bread—I 
love him well, and there is no love lost between us. 
He pays me very well, he has given me three colts, 
and I am so very true and trusty to him, that nothing 
but death can partus. And if your high and mighti- 
ness does not think fit to let him have this same gov- 
ernment, why, so be it; with less was 1 born, and with 
less shall I die; it may be for the good of my conscience 
to go without it. I am a fool, it is true, but yet I 
understand the meaning of the saying, ‘ The emmet had 
wings to do her hurt;’ and Sancho the squire may soon- 
er get to heaven than Sancho the governor. There is 
as good bread baked here as in France, and Joan is as 

















E il a i a | 























d the whole passage of the late pretended enchantment very faithfully.”—p. 341. 


‘+ At the duchess’s request, he relate 


DON QUIXOTE 


good as my lady in the dark. “In the night all cats 
are grey.’ ‘Unhappy he is that wants his break- 
fast at two in the afternoon.’ ‘It is always good 
fasting after a good breakfast.’ There is no man 
has a stomach a yard bigger than another; but 
let it be never so big, there will be hay and straw 
enough to fill it. A bellyful is a bellyful. ‘The spar- 
row speeds as well as the sparrow-hawk.’ ‘Good 
serge is fine, but coarse cloth is warm; and four yards 
of the one are as long as four yards of the other.’ 
When the hour is come we must all be packed off: the 
prince and the peasant go the same way at last; the 
road is no fairer for the one than the other. The Pope's 
body takes up no more room than the sexton's, though 
one be taller; for when they come to the pit all are 
alike, or made so in spite of our teeth; and so good 
night, or good morrow, which you please. And let me 
tell you again, if you don’t think fit to give me an island 
because I am a fool, I will be so wise as notto care 
whether you do or no. It is an old saying, ‘The devil 
lurks behind the cross.’ “All is not gold that glisters.’ 
From the tail of the plough Bamba was made King of 
Spain; and from his silks and riches was Rodrigo cast 
to be devoured by the snakes, if the old ballads say 
true, and sure they are too old to tell'a lie.” 

That they are indeed,” said Donna Rodriguez, the 
old waiting women, who listened among the rest; “for 
I remember one of the ballads tells how Don Rodrigo 
was shut up alive in atomb full of toads, snakes and 
lizards; and how, after two days, he was heard to cry 
outof the tomb in alow and doleful voice, ‘Now they 
eat me, now they gnaw me, in the part where I sinned 
most.’ And according to thisthe gentleman is in the 
right in saying he had rather be a poor laborer than a 
king to be gnawed to death by vermin.” 

Sancho’s proverbial aphorisms, and the simple wait- 
ing-woman’s comment upon the text, were no small 
diversion to the duchess. “You know,” said she, 
“honest Sancho, that the promise of a gentleman or 
knight must be as precious and sacred to him as his 
life; I make no question then but that my lord duke, 
who is also a knight, though not of your master's 
order, will infallibly keep his word with you in respect 
of your government. Take courage then, Sancho, for 
when you least dream on’t, in spite of all the envy and 
malice of the world, you will suddenly see yourself in 
full possession of your government, and seated in your 
chair of state in your rich robes, with all your marks 
and ornaments of power about you. But be sure to 
administer true justice to your vassals, who, by their 
loyalty and discretion, will merit no less at your hands.” 

“ As for the governing part,” quoth Sancho, “let me 
alone: I was ever charitable and good to the poor, and 
scorn to take the bread out of another man’s mouth. 
On the other side, by our Lady, they shall play me no 
foul play. Iam anold cur at a crust, and can sleep 
dog-sleep when I list. I can look sharp as well as 
another, and let alone to keep the cobwebs out of my 
eyes. I know where the shoe wrings me. I will know 
who and who is together. ‘Honesty is the best policy:’ 
I will stick to that. The good shall have my hand and 





DE LA MANCHA. 343 
heart, but the bad neither foot nor fellowship. And in 
my mind, the main thing in this point of governing is to 
make a good beginning. I will lay my life, that as 
simple Sancho sits here, in a fortnight’s time he will 
manage ye this same island as rightly as a sheaf of 
barley.” 

“You say well, Sancho,” said the duchess, “for time 
ripens all things. No manis born wise. Bishops are 
made of men, and not of stones. But to return once 
more to the Lady Dulcinea; I am more than half per- 
suaded that Sancho’s design of putting the trick upon 
his master was turned into a greater cheat upon him- 
self. For I am well assured that the creature whom 
you fancy to be a country wench, and took so much 
pains to persuade your master was Dulcinea del Toboso, 
was really the same Dulcinea del Toboso, and really 
enchanted, as Don Quixote thought; and the magicians 
that persecute your master first invented the story, and 
put it into your head. For you must know that we 
have our enchanters here, that have a kindness for us, 
and give us an account of what happens in the world 
faithfully and impartially, without any tricks or equiv- 
ocations. And take my word for it, the jumping country 
wench was, and is still, Dulcinea del Toboso, who is as 
certainly enchanted as the mother that bore her; and 
when we least expect it we shall see her again in her 
true shape, and in all her native lustre; and then San- 
cho will find it was he himself was bubbled.” 

“Troth, Madam,” quoth Sancho, “all this might well 
be; and now I am apt to believe what my master tells 
me of the cave of Montesinos; where, as he says, he 
saw my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso in the selfsame garb, 
and as handsome as I told him I had seen her when it 
came into my noddle to tell him she was enchanted. 
Ay, my lady, it must be quite contrary to what I ween- 
ed, as your worship’s grace well observes; for, bless 
us! who could possibly imagine that such a numskull 
as I should have it in him to devise so cunning a trick 
of a sudden? Besides, who can think that my master 
is such a goose as to believe so unlikely a matter upon 
the single vouching of such a dunderhead fellow as 1? 
But for all that, my good lady, I hope you know better 
things than to think me a knave; a lack a day! it can’t 
be expected that such an ignoramus as I am should be 
able to divine into the tricks and wiles of wicked 
magicians. I invented that flam only, because my mas- 
ter would never leave teasing me; but I had no mind 
to abuse him, not I; and if it fell out otherwise than I 
mean, who can help it? Heaven knows my heart.” 

“That is honestly said,” answered the duchess; “but 
pray tell me, Sancho, what was it you were speaking of 
the cave of Montesinos? I have a great mind to know 
the story.” 

Thereupon Sancho having related the whole matter 
to the duchess, “Look you,” said she, “this exactly 
makes out what I said to you just now; for since the 
great Don Quixote affirms he saw there the same coun- 
try wench that Sancho met coming from Toboso, it is 
past all doubt it was Dulcinea; and this shows the en- 
chanters are a subtle sort of people, that will know 
everything, and give a quick and sure information.” 


344 DON 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “if my Lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso be enchanted, it is the worse for her, What 
have Ito do to quarrel with all my master’s enemies? 
They can’t be few for aught I see, and they are plaguy 
fellows to deal withal. Thus much I dare say, she 1 
saw was a country wench; a country wench I took her 
to be, and a country wench I left her. Now if that 
same dowdy was Dulcinea in good earnest, how can I 
help it? I ought not to be called to an account for it. 
No, let the saddle be set upon the right horse, or we 
shall ne’er have done. Sancho told me this, cries one; 
Sancho told me that, cries t'other: Sancho o” this side, 
Sancho o’ that side; Sancho did this, and Sancho did 
that; as if Sancho were I don’t know who, and not the 
same Sancho that goes already far and near through 
the world in books, as Samson Carrasco tells me, and 
he is no less than a bachelor of arts at Salamanca 
’varsity; and such folks as he can’t tell a lie, unless 
they be so disposed, or it stands them in good stead. 
So let nobody meddle or make, nor offer to pick a quar- 
rel with me about the matter, since I am a man of repu- 
tation; and as my master says, ‘a good name is better 
than riches.’ Clap me but into this same government 
once, and you shall see wonders. He that has beena 
good servant will make a good master; a trusty squire 
will make a rare governor, I will warrant you.” 

“Sancho speaks like an oracle,” said the duchess; 
“everything he says is a sentence like those of Cato, 
or at least the very marrow of Michael Verino: Floren- 
tibus occidit annis—that is, he died in his spring. In 
short, to speak after his way, ‘under a bad cloak look 
for a good drinker.” 

“Faith and troth, Madam Duchess,” quoth Sancho, 
“1 never drank out of malice in my born days; for thirst 
perhaps I may; for I have not a bit of hypocrisy in me. 
I drink when I have occasion, and sometimes when I 
have no occasion; I am no proud man, d’ye see, and 
when the liquor is offered me I whip it off, that they 
may not take me for a churl or a sneaksby, or think I 
don’t understand myself nor govd manners; for whena 
friend or a good fellow drinks and puts the glass to one, 
who can be so hard-hearted as to refuse to pledge him, 
when it costs nothing but to open one’s mouth? How- 
ever, I commonly look before Ileap, and take no more 
than needs must. And truly there’s no fear that we 
poor squires to knights-errant should be great tres- 
passers that way. Alacka day! mere element must be 
our daily beverage—ditch-water, for want of better— 
in woods and deserts, on rocks and mountains, without 
lighting on the blessing of one merciful drop of wine, 
though you would give one of your eyes for a single 
gulp.” 

“T believe it, Sancho,” said the duchess; “but now it 
grows late, and therefore go and take some; rest; after 
that we'll have a longer conversation, and will take 
measures about clapping you suddenly into this same 
government, as you are pleased to word it.” 

Sancho kissed the duchess's hand once more, and 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


begged her worship’s grace that special care might be 
taken of his Dapple, for that he was the light of his 
eyes. 

“What is that Dapple?” asked the duchess. 

“My beast, an ’t like your honor,” answered Sancho; 
“my ass I would say, saving your presence; but because 
I won’t call him ass, which is so common a name among 
men, I call him Dapple. It is the very same beast I 
would have given charge of to that same gentlewoman 
when I first came to this castle; but her temper was up 
presently, and she flew out asifI had called her ugly face, 
old witch, and whatnot. However, I’ll be judged by any 
one whether such like sober grave bodies as she and other 
duennas are be not fitter to look after asses than to sit 
with a prim countenance to grace a fine state room. 
Passion of my heart! what a deadly grudge a certain 
gentleman of our town, that shall be nameless, had to 
these creatures! I mean, these old waiting gentle- 
women.” 

“Some filthy clown, I dare engage.” said Donna 
Rodriguez, the duenna; “had he been a gentleman, or 
a person of good breeding, he would have praised them 
up to the skies.” 

“Well,” said the duchess, “let us have no more of 
that; let Donna Rodriguez hold her tongue, and Sig- 
nior Sancho Panza go to his repose, and leave me to 
take care of his Dapple’s good entertainment; for since 
I find him to be one of Sancho’s movables, I will place 
him in my esteem above the apple of my eye.” 

“Place him in the stable, my good lady,” replied 
Sancho; that is as much as he deserves; neither he nor 
Tare worthy of being placed a minute of an hour where 
you said. Bless me! I’d sooner be stuck with a but- 
cher’s knife, than you should be served so; I am better 
bred than that comes to; for though my lord and mas- 
ter hus taught me that in point of behavior one ought 
rather to over-do than under-do, yet when the case lies 
about an ass and the ball of one's eye, it is best to 
think twice, and go warily about the matter.” 

“Well,” said the duchess, “your ass may go with 
you to the government, and there you may feed him, 
and pamper him, and make as much of him as you 
please.” 

“Ah! my lady,” quoth Sancho, “and don’t let your 
worship think this will be strange matter neither. I 
have seen more asses than one go to a government be- 
fore now; and if mine goes too, it will be no new thing, 
I trow.” 

Sancho's words again set the duchess a-laughing; 
and so sending him to take his rest, she went to the 
duke, and gave him an account of the pleasant dis- 
course between her and the squire. After this they 
resolved to have some notable contrivance to make 
sport with Don Quixote, and of such a romantic cast as 
should humor his knight-errantry. And so successful 
they were in their management of that interlude, that 


it may well be thought one of the best adventures in 
this famous history. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


CONTAINING WAYS AND MEANS FOR DISENCHANTING THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, BEING ONE 


OF THE MOST FAMOUS ADVENTURES IN THE WHOLE BOOK. 


THE duke and duchess were extremely diverted with 
the humors of their guests. Resolving, therefore, to 
improve their sport, by carrying on some pleasant de- 
sign, that might bear the appearance of an adventure, 
they took the hint from Don Quixote's account of the 
cave of Montesinos, as a subject from which they might 
raise an extraordinary entertainment; the rather, since, 
to the duchess's amazement, Sancho's simplicity was so 
great, as to believe that Dulcinea del Toboso was really 
enchanted, though he himself had been the first con- 
triver of the story, and her only enchanter. 

Accordingly, having given directions to their serv- 
ants that nothing might be wanting, and proposed a 
day for hunting the wild boar, in five or six days they 
were ready to set out, with a train of huntsmen and 
other attendants not unbecoming the greatest prince. 
They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, but 
he refused it, alleging it superfluous, since he was, in a 
short time, to return to the hard exercise of arms, and 
could carry no sumpters nor wardrobes along with him: 
but Sancho readily accepted one of fine green cloth, 
with design to sell it the first opportunity. $ 

The day prefixed being come, Don Quixote armed, 
and Sancho equipped himself in his new suit, and 
mounting his ass, which he would not quit for a good 
horse that was offered him, he crowded in among 
the train of sportsmen. The duchess also, in a dress 
both odd and gay, made one of the company. The 
knight, who was courtesy itself, very gallantly would 
needs hold the rains of her palfrey, though the duke 
seemed very unwilling to let him. In short they came 
to the scene of their sport, which was in a wood be- 
tween two very high mountains, where, alighting, and 
taking their several stands, the duchess, with a pointed 
javelin in her hand, attended by the duke and Don 
Quixote, took her stand in a place where they knew 
the boars were used to pass through. The hunters 
posted themselves in several lanes and paths, as they 
most conveniently could; but as for Sancho, he chose 
to stay behind them all with his Dapple, whom he would 
by no means leave for a moment, for fear the poor crea- 
ture should meet with some sad accident. 

And now the chase began with full cry, the dogs 
opened, the horns sounded, and the huntsmen hallooed 
in so loud a concert, that there was no hearing one 





another. Soon after a hideous boar, of a monstrous 
size, came on, gnashing his teeth and tusks, and foam- 
ing at the mouth; and, being baited hard by the dogs, 
and followed close by the huntsmen, made furiously 
towards the pass which Don Quixote had taken; where- 
upon the knight, grasping his shield and drawing his 
sword, moved forward to receive the raging beast. 
The duke joined him with a boar-spear, and the duchess 
would have been foremost, had not the duke prevented 
her. Sancho alone, seeing the furious animal, resolved 
to shift for one, and leaving Dapple, away he scudded, 
as fast as his legs would carry hlm towards a high oak, 
to the top of which he endeavored to clamber; but, as 
he was getting up, one of the boughs unluckily broke, 
and down he was tumbling, when a snag or stump of 
another bough caught hold of his new coat, and stopped 
his fall, slinging him in the air by the middle, so that 
he could neither get up nor down. His fine green coat 
was torn, and he fancied every moment the wild boar 
was running that way, with foaming chaps and dread- 
ful tusks, to tear him to pieces; which so disturbed 
him, that he roared and bellowed for help, as if some 
wild beast had been devouring him in good earnest. 

At last the tusky boar was laid at his length, with a 
number of pointed spears fixed in him; and Don Quix- 
ote, being alarmed by Sancho’s noise, which he could 
distinguish easily, looked about, and discovered him 
swinging from the tree with his head downwards, and 
close by him poor Dapple, who, like a true friend, 
never forsook him in his adversity; for Cid Hamet ob- 
serves, that they were such true and inseparable 
friends, that Sancho was seldom seen without Dapple, 
or Dapple without Sancho. Don Quixote went and 
took down his squire, who, as soon as he was at liberty, 
began to examine the damage his fine hunting suit had 
received, which grieved him to the soul; for he prized 
it as much as if it had made him heir to an estate. 

Meanwhile, the boar being laid across a large mule, 
and covered with branches of rosemary and myrtle 
was carried in triumph, by the victorious huntsmen, to 
a large field-tent, pitched in the middle of the wood, 
where an excellent entertainment was provided, suit- 
able to the magnificence of the founder. 

Sancho drew near the duchess, and showing her his 
torn coat, “Had we been hunting the hare now, or 

345 


346 


catching of sparrows,” quoth he, “my coat might have 
slept ina whole skin. For my part, I wonder what 
pleasure there can be in beating the bushes for a 
beast which, if it does not come at you, will run its 
plaguy tusks in your side, and be the death of you. I 
have not forgotten an old song to this purpose :— 


*** May Fabila's sad fate be thine 
And make thee food for bears or swine.” ” 


“That Fabila,* said Don Quixote, “was king of the 
Goths, who going a-hunting once, was devoured by a 
bear.” 

“That is it, I say,” quoth Sancho; “and, therefore, 
why should kings and other great folks run themselves 
into harm’s way, when they may have sport enough 
without it? Mercy on me! what pleasure can you find, 
any of you all, in killing a poor beast that never meant 
any harm ?” 

“You are mistaken, Sancho,” said the duke; “hunt- 
ing wild beasts is the most proper exercise for knights 
and princes; for in the chase of a stout, noble beast 
may be represented the whole art of war—stratagems, 
policy, and ambuscades—with all other devices usually 
practised to overcome an enemy with safety. Here we 
are exposed to the extremities of heat and culd; ease 
and laziness can have no room in this diversion; by this 
we are inured to toil and hardship, our limbs are 
strengthened, our joints made supple, and our whole 
body hale and active. In short, it is an exercise 
that may be beneficial to many, and can be prejudicial 
to none; and the most enticing property is its rarity, 
being placed above the reach of the vulgar, who may 
indeed enjoy the diversion of other sorts of game, 
but not this nobler kind, nor that of hawking, a sport 
also reserved for kings and persons of quality. There- 
fore, Sancho, let me advise you to alcer your opinion, 
when you become a governor; for then you will find 
the great advantage of these sports and diversions.” 

“You are out far wide, sir,” quoth Sancho; “it were 
better that a governor had his legs broken, and be laid 
up at home, than to be gadding abroad at this rate. It 
would be a pretty business, forsooth, when poor people 
come, weary and tired, to wait on the governor about 
business, that he should be rambling about the woods 
for his pleasure! There would be a sweet government 
truly! Good faith, sir, I think these sports and pas- 
times are fitter for those who have nothing to do than 
for governors. No; I intend my recreation shall be a 
game at whist at Christmas, and ninepins on holidays; 
but, for your hunting, as you call it, it goes mightily 
against my calling and conscience.” 

“T wish, with all my heart,” said the duke, “that you 
may prove as good as you promise; but saying and do- 
ing are different things.” 

“Well, well,” quoth Sancho, “be it how it will, I say 
that an honest man’s word is as good as his bond. 
“Heaven's help is better than early rising.’ It is the 
belly makes the feet amble, not the feet the belly. My 
meaning is, that, with Heaven’s help, and my hon- 
est endeavors, I shall govern better than any goshawk. 
Do but put your finger in my mouth, and try if I can- 
not bite.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“A curse on thee, and thy impertinent proverbs,” 
said Don Quixote: “shall I never get thee to talk 
sense, without a string of that disagreeable stuff? I 
beseech your graces, do not countenance this eternal 
dunce, or he will tease your very souls with a thousand 
unseasonable and insignificant old saws, for which I 
wish his mouth stitched up, and myself a mischief if I 
hear him.” 

“Oh, sir,” said the duchess, “Sancho's proverbs will 
always please for their sententious brevity, though 
they were as numerous as a printed collection; and, I 
assure you, I relish them more than [ would do others, 
that might be better and more to the purpose.” 

After this, and such like diverting talk, they left the 
tent, and walked into the wood, to see whether any 
game had fallen into their nets. Now, while they were 
thus intent upon their sport, the night drew on apace, 
and more cloudy and overcast than was usual at that 
time of the year, which was about mid-summer, but it 
happened very critically for the better carrying on the 
intended contrivance. A little while after the close of 
the evening, when it grew quite dark, in a moment the 
wood seemed all.on fire, and blazed in every quarter. 
This was attended with an alarming sound of trumpets, 
and other warlike instruments, answering one another 
from all sides, as if several parties of horse had been 
hastily marching through the wood. Then presently 
was heard a confused noise of Moorish cries, such as 
are used in joining battle: which, together with the 
rattling of the drums, the loud sound of the trumpets, 
and other instruments of war, made such a hideous 
and dreadful concert in the air, that the duke was 
amazed, the duchess astonished, Don Quixote sur- 
prised, and Sancho shook like a leaf; and even those 
that knew the occasion of all this were affrighted. 

This consternation caused a general silence; and by- 
and-by, one riding post, equipped very strangely, 
passed by the company, winding a huge hollow horn, 
that made a horrible hoarse noise; “Hark you, post,” 
said the duke, “whither so fast? what are you? and 
what parties of soldiers are those that march across the 
wood?” 

“Tam one,” cried the post, in a horrible tone, “who 
go in quest of Don Quixote de la Mancha; and those 
that are coming this way are six bands of necroman- 
cers, that conduct the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, 


|enchanted in a triumphant chariot. She is attended by 


that gallant French knight, Montesinos, who comes to 
give information how she may be freed from enchant- 
ment.” 

“Wert thou as much a deceiver,” said the duke, “as 
thy shape speaks thee to be, thou wouldst have known 
this knight here before thee to be that Don Quixote de 
la Mancha whom thou seekest.” 

“Befors Heaven, and on my conscience,” replied the 
man, “I never thought on it; for I have so many things 
in my head, that it almost distracts me; I had quite 
and clean forgotten my errand.” 

“Surely,” quoth Sancho, “this man must be a very 
honest fellow, anda good Christian; for he swears as 
devoutly by Heaven and his conscience as I should do: 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


and now I am apt to believe there be some good people 
where we least expect them.” 

At the same time, the man, directing himself to Don 
Quixote, without dismounting, “To thee, O Knight of 
the Lions,” cried he (and T wish thee fast in their 
claws), “to thee am I sent by the valiant but unfor- 
tunate Montesinos, to bid thee attend his coming in this 
very place, whither he brings one whom they call Dul- 
cinea del Toboso, in order to give thee instructions 
touching her disenchantment. Now I have delivered 
my message, I must fly, and those that are like me be 
with thee, and angels guard the rest.” 

This said, he winded his monstrous horn, and, with- 
out staying for an answer, disappeared. 

This increased the general consternation, but most of 
all surprised Don Quixote and Sancho; the latter to 
find that, in spite of truth, they still would have Dul- 
cinea to be enchanted, and the knight to think that the 
adventures of the cave of Montesinos were turned to 
reality. While he stood pondering these things in his 
thoughts, “Well, sir,” said the duke to him, “what do 
you intend to do? will you stay?” 

“Stay!” cried Don Quixote, “shall I not? I will stay 
here, intrepid and courageous, though all the powers 
enclose me round.” 

“So you may, if you will,” quoth Sancho; “but, if 
any more men or horns come hither, they shall as soon 
find me in Flanders as here.” 

Now the night grew darker and darker, and several 
shooting lights were seen glancing up and down the 
wood, like meteors or glaring exhalations from the 
earth. Then was heard a horrid noise, like the creak- 
ing of the ungreased wheels of heavy wagons, from 
which piercing and ungrateful sound bears and wolves 
themselves are said to fiy. This odious jarring was 
presently seconded by a greater, which seemed to be 
the dreadful din and shocks of four several engage- 
ments, in each quarter of the wood, with all the sounds 
and hurry of so many joined battles. On one side was 
heard several peals of cannon; on the other, the dis- 
charging of numerous volleys of small shot; here the 
shouts of the engaging parties that seemed to be near 
at hand; there, cries of the Moors, that seemed at a 
great distance. In short, the strange, confused inter- 
mixture of drums, trumpets, cornets, horns, the thun- 





347 


dering of the cannon, the rattling of the small shot, the 
creaking of the wheels, and the cries of the combatants, 
made the most dismal noise imaginable, and tried Don 
Quixote’s courage to the uttermost. But poor Sancho 
was annihilated, and fell into a.swoon upon the duch- 
ess's skirts, who taking care of him, ordered some 
water to be sprinkled on his face, at last recovered 
him, just as the foremost of the creaking carriages came 
up, drawn by four heavy oxen, covered with mourning, 
and carrying a large lighted torch upon each horn. On 
the top of the cart or wagon was an exalted seat, on 
which sat a venerable old man, with a beard as white 
as snow, and so long that it reached down to his girdle. 
He was clad in a long gown of black buckram, as were 
also two that drove the wagons, both so very monstrous 
and ugly, that Sancho, having seen them once, was 
forced to shut his eyes, and would not venture upon a 
second look. 

The cart, which was stuck full of lights within, being 
approached to the standing, the reverend old man stood 
up, and cried with a loud. voice, “I am the Sage Lirgan- 
der;” and the cart passed on without one word more 
being spoken. 

Then followed another cart, with another grave old 
man, who making the cart stop at a convenient dis- 
tance, rose up from his high seat, and, in as deep a 
tone as the first, cried, “Iam the Sage Alquife, great 
friend to Urganda the Unknown;” and so went forward. 

He was succeeded by a third cart, that moved in the 
same solemn pace, and bore a person not so ancient as 
the rest, but a robust and sturdy, sour-looking, ill- 
favored fellow, who rose up from his throne, like the 
rest, and with a more hollow and diabolical voice, 
cried out, “I am Archelaus the Enchanter, the mortal 
enemy of Amadis de Gaul, and all his race:” this said, 
he passed by like the other carts, which, taking a short 
turn, made a halt, and the grating noise of the wheels 
ceasing, an excellent concert of sweet music was heard, 
which mightily comforted poor Sancho, and passing 
with him for a good omen, “My lady,” quoth he to the 
duchess, from whom he would not budge an inch, 
“there can be no mischief sure where there is music.” 

“We shall know presently what this will come to,” 
said Don Quixote; and he said right, for you will find 
it in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


WHEREIN IS CONTAINED THE INFORMATION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE HOW TO DISENCHANT DULCINEA, 


WITH 


OTHER WONDERFUL PASSAGES. 


WHEN the pleasant music drew near, there appeared 
a stately triumphal chariot, drawn by six dun mules, 
covered with white, upon each of which sat a penitent, 
clad also in white, and holding a great lighted torch in 
his hand. The carriage was twice or thrice longer than 
any of the former, twelve other penitents being placed 
at the top and sides, all in white, and bearing likewise 
each a lighted torch, which made a dazzling and sur- 
prising appearance. There was a high throne erected 
at the farther end, on which sat a nymph arrayed in 
eloth of silver, with many golden spangles glittering 
all about her, which made her dress, though not: rich, 
appear very glorious. Her face was covered with trans- 
parent gauze, through the flowing folds of which might 
be descried a most beautiful face; and, by the great 
light which the torches gave, it was easy to discern 
that, as she was not less than seventeen years of age, 
neither could she be thought above twenty. Close by 
her was a figure, clad in a long gown, like that of a 
magistrate, reaching down to its feet, and its head cov- 
ered with a black veil. When they came directly oppo- 
site to the company, the shawms or hautboys that 
played before immediately ceased, and the Spanish 
harps and lutes that were in the chariot did the like; 
then the figure in the gown stood up, and, opening its 
garments, and throwing away its mourning veil, dis- 
covered a bare and frightful skeleton, that represented 
the deformed figure of Death, which startled Don Quix- 
ote, made Sancho’s bones rattle in his skin for fear, and 
caused the duke and the duchess to seem more than 
commonly disturbed. This living Death being thus 
got up in a dull, heavy, sleeping tone, as if its tongue 
had not been well awake, began in this manner:— 


MERLIN'S SPEECH. 


Behold old Merlin, in romantic writ 

Miscall'd the spurious progeny of hell; 

A falsehood current with the stamp of age; 

1 reign the prince of Zoroastic science, 

That oft evokes and rates the rigid powers: 

Archive of Fate's dread records in the skies, 

Coévous with the chivalry of yore; 

All brave knights-errant still I've deem'd my charge, 

Ueirs of my love, and fav’rites of my charms. 
While other magic secre, averse from good, 

Are dire and baleful like the seat of woe, 

My nobler soul, where power and pity join, 

Diffuses blessings, as they scatter plagues. 
Deep in the nether world, the dreary caves, 

Where my retreated soul, in silent state. 





Forms mystic figures and tremendons spells, 

T heard the peerless Dulcinea's moans. 
Apprised of her aistress, her frightful change, 

From princely state, and beauty near divine, 

To the vile semblance of arustic wench, 

The dire misdeed of necromantic hate, 

I sympathised, and awfully revolved 

Twice fifty thousand scrolls, occult and loath d, 

Some of my art, hell's black philosophy: 

Then closed my soul within this bony trunk, 

This ghastly form, the ruins of a man; 

And rise in pity to reveal acure 

To woes so great, and break the cursed spell. 
Oh, glory, thou, of all that e’er conld grace 

A coat of steel. and fence of adamant! 

Light, lantern, path, and polar star and guide 

Toall who dare dismiss ignoble sleep. 

And downy ease, for exercise of arms, 

For toils continual, perils, wounds and blood! 

Knight of unfathom'd worth, abyss of praise, 

Who blend'st in one the prudent and the brave: 

To thee, great Quixote, I this trnth declare; 

That, to restore her to her state and form, 

Toboso’s pride, the peerless Dulcinea, 

“Tis Fate's decree, that Sancho, thy good squire, 

Ou his bare brawny quarters should bestow 

Three thousand lashes, ana eke three hundred more, 

Each to afflict and sting, and gall him sore; 

So shall relent the authors of her woes, 

Whose awful will I for her ease disclose. 


“Bless me! ” quoth Sancho; “three thousand lashes! 
I will not give myself three; I will as soon give myself 
three stabs in the stomach. Passion of my heart! Mr. 
Merlin, if you have no better way for disenchanting 
the Lady Dulcinea, she may even be bewitched to her 
dying day for me.” 

“How now, opprobrious rascal!” cried Don Quixote. 
“Sirrah, I will take you and tie your dogship to a tree, 
and there I will not only give you three thousand three 
hundred lashes, but six thousand six hundred, ye 
varlet! and so smartly, that you shall feel them still, 


though you rub your body three thousand times, 


scoundrel!” 

“Hold, hold!” cried Merlin, hearing this, “this must 
not be; the stripes inflicted on honest Sancho must be 
voluntary, and only laid on when he thinks most 
convenient. No set time is fixed for the task; and 
if he has a mind to have abated one half of this atone- 
ment, it is allowed, provided the remaining stripes be 
struck by a strange hand, and heavily laid on.” 

“Hold you there,” quoth Sancho; “neither a strange 
hand nor my own, heavy or light, shall touch me. Let 
my master Don Quixote whip himself; as for any whip- 
ping of me, I refuse it flat and plain.” 

348 





“* The figure in the gown stood up.”—p. 348, 





350 


No sooner had Sancho thus spoken his mind, than 
the nymph that sat by Merlin's ghost in the glittering 
apparel, rising, and lifting up her thin veil, discovered 
a very beautiful face; and with a masculine grace, and 
no very agreeable voice, addressing Sancho, “Oh, thou 
disastrous squire,” said she; “thou lump, with no more 
soul than a broken pitcher, heart of cork and bowels of 
flint! Hadstthou been commanded, base sheep-stealer! 
to have thrown thyself headlong from the top of a high 
tower to the ground; hadst thou been desired, enemy 
of mankind! to have swallowed a dozen of toads, two 
dozen of lizards, and three dozen of snakes; or hadst thou 
been requested to have butchered thy wife and children, 
I should not wonder that it had turned thy squeamish 
stomach ; but to make such a hesitation at three 
thousand three hundred stripes, which every puny 
schoolboy makes nothing of receiving every month, it 
is amazing, nay, astonishing to the tender and commis- 
erating feelings of all that hear thee, and will be a blot 
in thy escutcheon to all futurity. Look up, thou 
wretched and marble-hearted animal! look up, and fix 
thy huge, lowering goggle-eyes upon the bright lumin- 
aries of my sight. Behold these briny torrents, which, 
streaming down, furrow the flowery meadows of my 
cheeks. Relent, base and inexorable monster—relent; 
let thy savage breath confess at last a sense of my dis- 
tress, and, moved with the tenderness of my youth, 
that consumes and withers in this vile transformation, 
crack this sordid shell of rusticity that envelopes my 
blooming charms. In vain has the goodness of Merlin 
permitted me to re-assume a while my native shape, 
since neither that nor the tears of beauty in affliction, 
which are said to reduce obdurate rocks to the softness 
of cotton, and tigers to the tenderness of lambs, are suf- 
ficient to melt thy haggard breast. Scourge, scourge 
that brawny hide of thine, stubborn and unrelenting 
brute—that coarse enclosure of thy coarser soul; and 
rouse up thus thyself from that base sloth that makes 
thee live only to eat and pamper thy lazy flesh, indulg- 
ing still thy voracious appetite. But if my entreaties 
and tears cannot work thee into a reasonable compliance, 
if I am not yet sufficiently wretched to move thy pity, 
at least let the anguish of that miserable knight, thy 
tender master, mollify thy heart.” 

“What is your answer now, Sancho?” said the 
duchess. 

“I say, as I said before,” quoth Sancho, “as for the 
flogging, I pronounce it flat and plain.” 

“Renounce, you mean,” said the duke. 

“Good, your worship,” quoth Sancho; “this is no 
time for me to mind niceties and spelling of letters: I 
have other fish to fry. This plaguy whipping-bout 
makes me quite distracted. I do not know what to say 
or do; but I would fain know of my Lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso where she picked up this kind of breeding, to 
beg thus like a sturdy beggar! Here she comes, to 
desire me to lash myself as raw as a piece of beef, and 
the best word she can give is, ‘soul of a broken 
pitcher,’ ‘monster,’ ‘brute,’ ‘sheep-stealer,’ with a ribble- 
rabble of saucy nick-names, that any one would object 
to bear. Do you think, mistress of mine, that my skin 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.’ 


is made of brass? Or shall I get anything by your 
disenchantment ? Beshrew her heart! where is the fine 
present she has brought along with her to soften me? 
A basket of fine linen, holland shirts, caps, and socks, 
(though I wear none), had been somewhat like; but to 
fall upon me and bespatter me thus with dirty names, 
do you think that will do? No, in faith. Remember 
the old saying, ‘A golden load makes the burden light; ” 
‘Gifts will enter stone walls.’ Nay, nay master too, 
who one would think should tell me a fine story, and 
coax me up with dainty sugar-plum words, talks of 
tying me to a tree, forsooth, and of doubling the whip- 
ping! Methinks those troublesome people should know 
who they prate to. It is not only a sqnire-errant they 
would have to whip himself, but a governor! and there 
is no more to do, think they, but up and ride. Let 
them even learn manners. There is a time for some 
things, and a time for all things; a time for great things, 
and a time for small things. Am I now ina humor to 
hear petitions, do you think? Just when my heart is 
ready to burst for having torn my new coat, they would 
have me tear my own flesh too.” 

“Upon my honor, Sancho,” said the duke, “if you do 
not relent, you shall have no government. It would be 
a fine thing, indeed, that I should send among my 
islanders a merciless, hard-hearted tyrant, whom neither 
the tears of distressed damsels nor the admonitions of 
wise, ancient, and powerful enchanters can move to 
compassion. In short, sir, no stripes no government.” 

“But,” quoth Sancho, “may not I have a day or two 
to consider on it?” 

“Not a minute,” cried Merlin; “you must declare 
now and in this very place, what you resolve to do, for 
Dulcinea must be again transformed into a country 
wench, and carried back immediately to the cave of 
Montesinos, there to remain till the number of stripes 
be made out.” 

“Come, come, honest Sancho,” said the duchess, 
“pluck up a good courage, and show your gratitude to 
your master, whose bread you have eaten, and to whose 
generous nature and high feats of chivalry we are all 
so much obliged.” 

“Hark you, Mr. Merlin,” quoth Sancho, without giv- 
ing the duchess an answer; “pray, will you tell me one 
thing? How comes it about that this same man that 
came before you brought my master word from Signior 
Montesinos that he would be here, and give him di- 
rections about this disenchantment, and yet we hear no 
news of Montesinos all this while?” : 

“Pshaw!” answered Merlin, “the fellow is an ass and 
a lying rascal; he came from me, and not from Monte- 
sinos; for he, poor man! is still in his cave, expecting 
the dissolution of the spell that confines him there yet. 
But if he owes you any money, or you have any busi- 
ness with him, he shall be forthcoming when and where 
you please. Now, pray make an end, and undergo this 
small penance; it will do you aworld of good, as a 
healthy exercise; for you are of a very sanguine com- 
plexion, Sancho, and losing a little blood will do yon 
no harm.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “there is like to be no want 


DON QUIXOTE 


of physicians in this world, I find; the very conjurors 
set up for doctors too. Then, since, everybody says as 
much (though I can hardly believe it), I am content to 
to give myself the three thousand three hundred 
stripes, upon condition that I may be paying them off 
as long as I ploase; observe} that: though I will be 
out of debt as soon as I can, that tho world may not be 
without the pretty face of the Lady Dulcinea del To- 
boso, which, I must own, I could never have belicved 
to have been so handsome. Mr. Merlin (because he 
knows all things) shall be obliged to reckon the lashes, 
and take care I do not give myself one more than the 
tale.” 

“There is no fear of that,” said Merlin; “for at the 
very last lash the Lady Dulcinea will be disenchanted, 
come straight to you, make you a curtsey, and give you 
thanks. Heaven forbid 1 should wrong any man of the 
least hair of his head.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “what must be, must be; 1 
yield to my hard luck, and on the aforesaid terms take 
up with my penance.” 

Scarcely had Sancho Spoken, when the music struck 
up again, and a congratulatory volley of small shot was 





DE LA MANCHA. 351 
immediately discharged. Don Quixote fell on Sancho’s 
neck, hugging and kissing him a thousand times. The 
duke, the duchess, and the whole company seemed 
mightily pleased. The chariot moved on, and as it 
passed by the fair Dulcinea made the duke and duch- 
ess a bow, and Sancho a low curtsey. 

And now the morn began to spread her smiling looks 
in the eastern quarter of the skies, and the flowers of 
the field to disclose their bloomy folds, and raise their 
fragrant heads. The brooks, now cool and clear, in 
gentle murmers, played with the grey pebbles, and 
flowed along to pay their liquid crystal tribute to the ex- 
pecting rivers. The sky was clear, the air serene, swept 
clean by brushing winds for the reception of the shin- 
ing light, and everything, not only jointly, but in its 
separate gaiety, welcomed the fair Aurora, and, like her, 
foretold a fairer day. The duke and duchess, well 
pleased with the management and success of the hunt- 
ing, and the counterfeit adventure, returned to the 
castle, resolving to make a second essay of the same 
nature, having received as much pleasure from the first 
as any reality could have produced. 











CHAPTER 


XXXVI. 


THE STRANGE AND NEVER THOUGHT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE DISCONSOLATE MATRON, ALIAS THE COUNTESS 


TRIFALDI, WITH SANCHO PANZA’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA. 


THE whole contrivance of the late adventure was 
plotted by the duke’s steward, a man of wit, and a 
facetious and quick fancy. He made the verses, acted 
Merlin himself, and instructed a page to personate 
Dulcinea. And now, by his master’s appointment, he 
prepared another scene of mirth, as pleasant and as 
artful and surprising as can be imagined. 

The next day the duchess asked Sancho whether he 
had begun his penitential task, to disenchant Dulcinea. 

“Ay, marry have I,” quoth Sancho, “for I have 
already lent myself five lashcs on the back.” 

“With what, friend ?” asked the duchess. 

“With the palm of my hand,” answered Sancho. 

“Your hand!” said the duchess; “those are rather 
claps than lashes, Sancho; I doubt Father Merlin will 
not be satisfied at so easy arate; for the liberty of so 
great a lady is not to be purchased at so mean a price. 
No, you should lash yourself with something that may 
make you smart: a good friar’s scourge, a cat-of-nine 
tails, or penitent’s whip, would do well; for letters 
written in blood stand good; but works of charity 
faintly and coldly done, lose their merit and signify 
nothing.” 

“Then, madam,” quoth he, “will your worship’s 
grace do so much as help me to a convenient rod, such 
as you shall think best; though it must not be too 


smarting, neither; for faith, though 1 am a clown, my 
flesh is as soft as any one’s in the land, no disparage- 
ment to anybody, either.” 

“Well, well, Sancho,” said she, “it shall be my care 
to provide you a whip that shall suit your soft consti- 
tution, as if they were twins.” 

“But now, my dear madam,” quoth he, “you must 
know I have written a letter to my wife, Teresa Panza, 
to give her to understand how things are with me. I 
have it in my bosom, and it is just ready to send away; 
it wants nothing but the direction on the outside. Now 
I would have your wisdom to read it, and see if it be 
not written like a governor; I mean, in such style as 
governors should write.” 

“ And who penned it?” asked the duchess. 

“What a question that is now!” quoth Sancho. 
“Who should pen it, but myself, sinner as I am?” 

“And did you write it too?” said the duchess. 

“NotI,” quoth Sancho; “forI can neither write nor 
read, though I can make my mark.” 

“Let me see the letter, said the duchess; “for I dear 
say your wit is set out in it to some purpose.” 

Sancho pulled the letter out of his bosom unsealed, 
and the duchess having taken it, read what follows. 





“Sancho Panza to his Wife, Teresa Panza. 
“If Iam well lashed, yet I am whipped into a gov 








«<The morn began to spread her smiling looks in the eastern quarter of the skies.”—p. 351. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 


ernment: if I have gota good government, it cost me 
many a good lash. Thou must know, my Teresa, that 1 
am resolved thou shalt ride in a coach; for now, any 
other way of going is to me but creeping on all-fours, 
like a kitten. Thou artnow a governor's wife; guess 
whether any one will dare to tread on thy heels. 1 
have sent thee a green hunting-suit which my lady 
duchess gave me. Pray see and get it turned into a 
petticoat and jacket for our daughter. The folks in 
this country are very ready to talk little good of my 
master, Don Quixote. They say he is a mad-wise-man, 
and a pleasant madman, and that Iam not a jot behind- 
hand with him! We have been in the cave of Montes- 
inos, and Merlin the wizard has pitched on me to dis- 
enchant Dulcinea del Toboso, the same who among you 
is called Aldonza Lorenzo. When I have given my- 
self three thousand three hundred lashes, lacking five, 
she will be disenchanted as the mother that bore her. 
But not a word of the pudding; for if you tell your 
case among a parcel of tattling gossips, you will never 
have done; one will cry it is white, and others it is 
black. I am to go to my government very sud- 
denly, whither I go with a huge mind to make 
money, as I am told all the governors do. I will 
first see how matters go, and then send thee word 
whether thou hadst best come or no. Dapple is well, 
and gives his humble service to you. I will not part 
with him, though I were to be made the Great Turk. 
My lady duchess kisses thy hands a thousand times 
over; pray return her two thousand for her one; for 
there is nothing cheaper than fair words, as my master 
says. Heaven bas not been pleased to make me light 
on another cloak-bag, with a hundred pieces of gold in 
it, like those you wot of. But all in good time; do not 
let that vex thee, my jug; the government will make it 
up, 1 will warrant thee. Though after all, one thing 
sticks plaguily in my gizzard; they tell me, that when 
once I have tasted of it, I shall be ready to eat my very 
fingers after it, so savoury is the sauce. Should it fall 
out so, 1 should make but an ill hand of it; and yet 
your maimed, crippled alms-folks pick up a pretty live- 
lihood, and make their begging as good as a prebend. 
So that, one way or other, old girl, matters will go 
swimmingly, and thou wilt be rich and happy. Heaven 
make thee so, as well as it may; and keep me for thy 
sake. From this castle, the 20th of June, 1614.—Thy 
husband the Governor, 
“SANCHO PANZA.” 

“Methinks, Mr. Governor,” said the duchess, having 
read the letter, “you are out in two particulars; first, 
when you intimate that this government was bestowed 
on you for the stripes you are to give yourself; whereas 
you may remember it was allotted you before this dis- 
enchantment was dreamed of. The second branch that 
you failed in is the discovery of your avarice, which is 
the most detestable quality in governors; because their 
self-interest is always indulged at the expense of 
justice. You know the saying, *Covetousness breaks 
the sack,’ and that vice always prompts a governor to 
Heece and oppress the subject.” 


“Truly, my good lady,” quoth Sancho, 1 meant no 
23. DON QUIK. 








353 


harm: I did not well think of what I wrote; and if your 
grace’s worship does not like this letter, I will tear it 
and have another: but remember the old saying, 
‘Seldom comes a better.’ I shall make but sad work 
of it, if 1 must pump my brains for it.” 

“No, no,” said the duchess; “this will do well 
enough, and I must have the duke see it.” 

They went into the garden, where they were to dine 
that day, and there she showed the duke the learned 
epistle, which he read over with a great deal of pleasure. 

After dinner Sancho was entertaining the company 
very pleasantly, with some of his savoury discourse, 
when suddenly they were surprised with the mournful 
sound of a fife, which played in concert with a hoarse, 
unbraced drum; All the company seemed amazed and 
discomposed at the unpleasing noise; but Don Quixote 
especially was so alarmed with this solemn martial 
harmony, that he could not compose his thoughts. 
Sancho’s fear undoubtedly wrought the usual effects, 
and carried him to crouch by the duchess. 

During this consternation, two men, in deep mourn- 
ing-cloaks trailing on the ground, entered the garden, 
each of them beating a large drum, covered also with 
black, and with these a third playing on a fife, in 
mourning like the rest. They ushered in a person of 
gigantic stature, to which the long black garb in which 
he was wrapped up was no small addition. It had a 
train of a prodigious length, and over the cassock was 
girt a broad black belt, which slung a scimitar of a 
mighty size. His face was covered with a thin black 
veil, through which might be discerned a beard of a 
vast length, as white as snow. The solemnity of his 
pace kept exact time to the gravity of the music: in 
short, his stature, his motion, his black hue, and his 
attendance were every way surprising and astonishing, 
With this state and formality he approached, and fell 
on his knees at a convenient distance before the duke; 
who not suffering him to speak till he arose, the mon- 
strous spectre erected his bulk, and throwing off his 
veil, discovered the most terrible, hugeous, white, broad, 
prominent, bushy beard that ever mortal eyes were 
frighted at. Then fixing his eyes on the duke, and 
with a deep, sonorous voice, roaring out from the ample 
cavern of his spreading lungs— 

“Most high and potent lord,” cried he, “my name is 
Trifaldin with the white beard, squire to the Countess 
Trifaldi, otherwise called the Disconsolate Matron, 
from whom I am ambassador to your grace, begging 
admittance for her ladyship to come and relate, before 
your magnificence, the unhappy and wonderful circum- 
stances of her misfortune. But first, she desires to be 
informed whether the valorous and invincible knight, 
Don Quixote de la Mancha, resides at this time in your 
castle; for itis in quest of him that my lady has trav- 
elled without coach or palfrey, hungry and thirsty; 
and, in short, without breaking her fast, from the king- 
dom of Candaya, all the way to these your grace’s ter- 
ritories—a thing incredibly miraculous, if not wrought 
by enchantment. She is now without the gate of this 
castle, waiting only for your grace’s permission to 
enter.” 


354 


This said, the squire coughed, and with both his 
hands stroked his unwieldly beard from the top to the 
bottom, and with a formal gravity waited the duke's 
answer. 

“Worthy Squire Trifaldin with the white beard,” 
said the duke, “long since have we heard of the misfor- 
tunes of the Countess Trifaldi, whom enchanters have 
occasioned to be called the Disconsolate Matron; and 
therefore, most stupendous squire, you may tell her 
that she may make her entry; and that the valiant Don 
Quixote de la Mancha is here present, on whose gen- 
erous assistance she may rely for redress. Inform her 
also from me, that if she has occasion for my aid, she 
may depend on my readiness to do her service, being 
obliged, as I ama knight, to be aiding and assisting, 
to the utmost of my power, to all persons of her sex in 
distress, especially widowed matrons, like her lady- 
ship.” 

Trifaldin, hearing this, made his obeisance with the 
knee, and beckoning to the fife and drums to observe 
his motion, they all marched out in the same solemn 
procession as they entered, and left all the beholders 
in a deep admiration of his proportion and deport- 
ment. 

Then the duke, turning to Don Quixote, “Behold, 
Sir Knight,” said he, “how the light and the glory of 
virtue dart their beams through the clouds of malice 
and ignorance, and shine to the remotest parts of the 
earth. It is hardly six days since you have vouchsafed 
to honor this castle with your presence, and already 
the afflicted and distressed flock hither from the utter- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


most regions, not in coaches, or on dromedaries, but on 
foot, and without eating by the way; such is their con- 
fidence in the strength of that arm, the fame of whose 
great exploits flies and spreads everywhere, and makes 
the whole world acquainted with your valor.” 

“What would I give, my lord,” said Don Quixote, 
“that the same holy pedant were here now, who, the 
other day at your table, would have run down knight- 
errantry at such a rate, that the testimony of his own 
eyes might convince him of the absurdity of his error, 
and let him see that the comfortless and afflicted do not, 
in enormous misfortunes and uncommon adversity, re- 
pair for redress to the doors of droning churchmen or 
your little parish priests of villages; nor to the fireside 
of your country gentleman, who never travels beyond 
his landmark; nor to the lolling lazy courtier, who 
rather hearkens after news which he may relate than 
endeavors to perform such deeds as may deserve to be 
recorded and related! No, the protection of damsels, 
the comfort of widows, the redress of the injured, and 
the support of the distressed, are nowhere so perfectly 
to be expected as from the generous professors of 
knight-errantry. Therefore Ithank Heaven a thousand 
times for having qualified me to answer the necessities 
of the miserable by such a function. As for the hard- 
ships and accidents that may attend me, I look upon 
them as no discouragements, since proceeding from so 
noble a cause. Then let this matron be admitted to 
make known her request, and I will refer her for redress 
to the force of my arm, and the intrepid resolution of 
my courageous soul.” 








CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE DISCONSOLATE MATRON CONTINUED. 


THE duke and duchess were mightily pleased to find 
Don Quixote wrought up to aresolution so agreeable 
to their design. But Sancho, who made his observa- 
tions, was not so well satisfied. “I am in a bodily fear,” 
quoth he, “that this same Mistress Waiting-woman will 
be a balk to my preferment. I remember I once knew 
a Toledo apothecary, that talked like a canary bird, 
and used to say, ‘Wherever come old waiting-women, 
good luck can happen there to no man.’ Bless me! he 
knew them too well, and therefore valued them accord- 
ingly. He could have eaten them all with a grain of 
salt. Since, then, the best of them fare so plaguy 
troublesome and impertinent, what will those be that 
are in doleful dumps, like this same Countess Three- 
folds, three skirts, or three tails, what do you _call 
her?” 

“Hold your tongue, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. 
“This matron, that comes so far in search of me, lives 
too remote to lie under the lash of the apothecary’s 
satire. Besides, you are to remember she is a countess; 





and when ¡ladies of that quality become governantes, 
or waiting-women, it is only to queens or empresses; 
and in their own houses they are as absolute ladies as 
any others, and attended by other waiting-women.” 

“Ay, ay,” cried Donna Rodriguez, who was present, 
“there are some that serve my lady duchess here in 
that capacity, that might have been countesses too, 
had they had better luck. But we are not all born to 
be rich, though we are all born to be honest. When 
all is said, whoever will offer to meddle with waiting- 
women will get little by it. ‘Many go out for wool, 
and come home shorn themselves.’ These squires, for- 
sooth, can find no other pastime than to abuse us, and 
tell idle stories about us, unburying our bones, and 
burying our reputation. But their tongues are no 
slander; and I can tell those silly rake-shames, that, in 
spite of their flouts, we shall keep the upper hand of 
them, and live in the world in the better sort of houses, 
though we starve for it.” 

“I fancy,” said the duchess, “that honest Rodriguez 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


is much in the right: but we must now choose a fitter 
time for this dispute, to confound the ill opinion of that 
wicked apothecary, and to root out that which the 
great Sancho Panza has fixed in his breast.” : 

“For my part,” quoth Sancho, “I will not dispute 
with her; for since the thoughts of being a governor 
have steamed up into my brains, all my concern for the 
squire is vanished into smoke; and 1 care not a wild 
fig for all the waiting-women in the world.” 

This subject would have engaged them longer in dis- 
course, had they not been cut short by the sound of the 
fife and drums that gave them notice of the Disconso- 
late Matron's approach. Thereupon the duchess asked 
the duke how it might be proper to receive her, and 
how far ceremony was due to her quality as a countess. 

“Look you,” quoth Sancho, striking in before the 
duke could answer, “I would advice you to meet her 





355 


countess-ship half-way; but for the waiting-womanship, 
do not stir a step.” 

“Who bids you trouble yourself?” said Don Quixote. 

“Who bid me?” answered Sancho; “why, I myself 
did. Have not I been squire to your worship, and thus 
served a 'prenticeship to good manners? And have not 
Thad the Flower of Courtesy for my master, who has 
often told me a man may as well lose at one-and-thirty 
with a card too much, as a card too little? Good wits 
jump; ‘a word to the wise is enough.” ” 

“Sancho says well,” said the duke; “to decide the 
matter, we will first see what kind of a countess she is, 
and behave ourselves accordingly.” 

Now the fife and drums entered as before. But here 
the author ends this short chapter, and begins another, 
prosecuting the same adventure, which is one of the 
most notable in the history. 








CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


THE ACCOUNT WHICH THE DISCONSOLATE MATRON GIVES OF HER MISFORTUNE. 


THE doleful drums and fife were followed by twelve 
elderly waiting-women, that entered the garden ranked 
in pairs, all clad in large mourning habits, that seemed 
to be of milled serge, over which they wore veils of 
white calico, so long, that nothing could be seen of 
their black dress but the very bottom. After them 
came the Countess Trifaldi, handed by her squire, 
Trifaldin with the white beard. The lady was dressed 
in a suit of the finest baize, which, had it been napped, 
would have had tufts as big as Rounceval pease. Her 
train, or tail, which you will, was mathematically 
divided into three equal skirts, or angles, and borne 
up by three pages in mourning; and from this pleasant 
triangular figure of her train, as every one conjectured, 
was she called Trifaldi, as one should say, the Countess 
of Three-Folds, or Three-Skirts. Benengeli is of the 
same opinion, though he affirms that her true title was 
the Countess of Lobuna, or of Wolf-Land, from the 
abundance of wolves bred in her country; and, had 
they been foxes, she had, by the same rule, been called 
the Countess of Zorruna, or of Fox-Land; it being a 
custom, in those nations, for great persons to take 
their denominations from the commodity with which 
their country most abounds. However, this countess 
chose to borrow her title from this new fashion of her 
own invention, and leaving her name of Lobuna, took 
that of Trifaldi. 

Her twelve female attendants approached with her 
in a procession pace, with black veils over their faces; 
not transparent, like that of Trifaldin, but thick 
enough to hinder altogether the sight of their counte- 
nances. As soon as the whole train of waiting-women 
was come in, the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote 





stood up, and so did all those who were with them. 
Then the twelve women, ranging themselves in two 
rows, made a lane for the countess to march up be- 
tween them, which she did, still led by Trifaldin, her 
squire. The duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote ad- 
vancing about a dozen paces to meet her, she fell on 
on her knees, and, with a voice rather hoarse and 
rough than clear and delicate, “May it please your 
highnesses,” said she, “to spare yourselves the trouble 
of receiving with so much ceremony and compliment a 
man (a woman I would say) who is your devoted ser- 
vant. Alas! the sense of my misfortunes has so trou- 
bled my intellectuals, that my responses cannot be 
supposed able to answer the critical opinion of your 
presence. My understanding has forsaken me, and is 
gone a wool-gathering; and sure it is far remote, for 
the more I seek it, the more unlikely I am to find it 
again.” 

“The greatest claim, madam,” answered the duke, 
“that we can lay to sense is a due respect and decent 
deference to the worthiness of your person, which, 
without any further view, sufficiently bespeaks your 
merit and excellent qualifications.” 

Then, begging the honor of her band, he led her up 
and placed her in a chair by his duchess, who received 
her with all the ceremony suitable to the occasion. 

Don Quixote said nothing all this while, and Sancho 
was sneaking about, and peeping under the veils of the 
lady’s women, but to no purpose, for they kept them- 
selves very close and silent, until she at last thus be- 
gan: “Confident I am, thrice potent lord: thrice beau- 
tiful lady, and thrice intelligent auditors, that my most 
unfortunate miserableness shall find, in your most gen- 


356 


erous and compassionate bowels, a most misericoadial 
sanctuary; my miserableness, which is such as would 
liquefy marble, malleate steel, and mollify adamantine 
rocks. But, before the rehearsal of my ineffable mis- 
fortunes enter, I will not say your ears, but the public 
mart of your hearing faculties, I earnestly request that 
I may have cognizance whether the cabal, choir, or 
conclave of this most illustrissimous appearance be not 
adorned with the presence of the adjutoriferous Don 
Quixote de la Manchissima, and his squirissimous 
Panza.” 

“Panza is at your elbowissimus,” quoth Sancho, be- 
fore anybody else could answer, “and Don Quixotissimo 
likewise; therefore, most dolorous medem, you may 
tell out your teale, for we are all ready to be your lady- 
ship’s servitorissimus, to the best of our capacities, 
and so forth.” 

Don Quixote then advanced, and addressing the 
countess, “If your misfortunes, embarrassed lady,” 
said he, “may hope any redress from the power and 
assistance of knight-errantry, I offer you my force and 
courage; and, such as they are, I dedicate them to your 
service. I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose pro- 
fession is a sufficient obligation to succour the dis- 
tressed, without the formality of preambles or the ele- 
gance of oratory to circumvent my favor. Therefore, 
pray, madam, let us know bya succinct and plain ac- 
count of your calamities, what remedies should be 
applied; and, if your griefs are such as do not admit of 
a cure, assure yourself at least that we will comfort you 
in your afflictions, by sympathising in your sorrow.” 

The lady, hearing this, threw herself at Don Quix- 
ote’s feet, in spite of his kind endeavors to the con- 
trary; and, striving to embrace them, “Most invincible 
knight,” said she, “I prostrate myself at these feet. the 
foundations and pillars of chivalry-errant, the sup- 
porters of my drooping spirits, whose indefatigable 
steps alone can hasten my relief, and the cure of my 
afflictions. Oh, valorous knight-errant, whose real 
achievements eclipse and obscure the fabulous legend 
of the Amadises, Esplandians, and Belianises Then, 
turning from Don Quixote, she laid hold on Sancho, 
and squeezing his hands very hard, “And thou, the 
most loyal squire that ever attended on the magnanim- 
ity of knight-errantry, whose goodness is more exten- 
sive than the beard of my usher Trifaldin! how happily 
have thy stars placed thee under the discipline of the 
whole martial college of chivalry professors, centred 
and epitomised in the single Don Quixote! I conjure 
thee, by thy love of goodness, and thy unspotted loyalty 
to so great a master, to employ thy moving and inter- 
ceding eloquence in my behalf, that eftsoons his favor 
may shine upon this humble and most disconsolate 
countess.” 

“Look you, Madam Countess,” quoth Sancho, “as 
for measuring my goodness by your squire's beard, 
that is neither here nor there; so that my soul go to 
heaven when I depart this life, I do not matter the rest; 
for, as for the beards of this world, it is not what I 
stand upon, so that, without all this pawing and 
wheedling, I will put in a word or two for you to my 


pm 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


master. 1 know he loves me; and, besides, at this 
time, he stands in need of me about a certain business, 
and he shall do what he can for you. But, pray, dis- 
charge your burthened mind; unload, and let us ‘see 
what griefs you bring, and then leave us to take care 
of the rest.” 

The duke and duchess were ready to burst with 
laughing, to find the adventure run in this pleasant 
strain; and they admired, at the same time, the rare 
cunning and management of Trifaldi, who, resuming 
her seat, thus began her story: “The famous kingdom 
of Candaya, situate between the Great Taprobana and 
the Sonth Sea, about two leagues beyond Cape Como- 
rin, had forits queen the Lady Donna Maguntia, whose 
husband, King Archipielo dying, left the Princess An- 
tonomasia, their only child, heiress to the crown. This 
princess was educated and brought up under my care 
and direction, I being the eldest and first lady of the 
bed-chamber to the queen, her mother. In process of 
time, the young princess arrived at the age of fourteen 
years, and appeared so perfectly beautiful, that it was 
not in the power of Nature to give any addition to her 
charms; what is yet more, her mind was no less adorned 
than her body. Wisdom itself was but a fool to her. 
She was no less discreet than fair, and the fairest 
creature in the world; and so she is still, nnless the 
fatal knife, or unrelenting shears, of the envious and 
inflexible sisters have cut her thread of life. But sure 
the heavens would not permit such an injury to be done 
to the earth, as the lopping off the loveliest branch that 
ever adorned the garden of the world. | 

“Her beauty, which my unpolished tongue can never 
sufficiently praise, attracting all eyes, soon got her a 
world of adorers, many of them princes, who were her 
neighbors, and more distant foreigners; among the rest, 
a private knight, who resided at court, and was so 
audacious as to raise his thoughts to that heaven of 
beauty. This young gentleman was indeed master of 
all gallantries that the air of his courtly education could 
inspire; and so, confiding in his youth, his handsome 
mien, his agreeable air and dress, his graceful carriage, 
and the charms of his easy wit, and other qualifications, 
he followed the impulse of his inordinate and most 
presumptuous passion. I must needs say that he was 
an extraordinary person; he played to a miracle cn the 
guitar, and made it speak not only to the ears, but to 
the very soul. He danced to admiration, and had such 
a rare knack at making bird-cages, that he might have 
got an estate by that very art; and, to sum up all his 
accomplishments, he was a poet. So many endowments 
were sufficient to have moved a mountain, and much 
more the heart of a young, tender virgin. But all his 
fine arts and soothing behavior had proved ineffectual 
against my beautiful charge, if the cunning rogue had 
not first conquered me. The wily villain endeavored 
to bribe the keeper, so to secure the keys of the fortress. 
In short, he so plied me with pleasing trifles, and so 
insinuated himself into my soul, that, at last, he per- 
fectly bewitched me, and made me give way, before 1 
was aware, to what I should never have permitted. But 
that which first wrought me to his purpose was a copy 

| ‘ 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


of verses he sung one night under my window, which, 
if I remember right, began thus:— 


A SONG. 


A secret fire consumes my heart; 
And, to augment my raging pain, 
The charming foe that rais’d the smart, 
Denies me freedom to complain. 
But sure ‘tis just we should conceal 
The bliss and woe in love we feel: 
For, oh! what human tongue can tell 
The joys of heaven, or pains of hell ? 


“The words were to me so many pearls of eloquence, 
and his voice sweeter to my ears than sugar to the 
taste. The reflection on the misfortune which these 
verses brought on me has often made me applaud Pla- 
to’s design of banishing all poets from a good common- 
wealth. For, instead of composing lamentable verses, 
like those of the Marquis of Mantua, that make the 
women and children cry by the fireside, they try their 
utmost skill on such soft strokes as enter the soul, and 
wound it, like that thunder which hurts and consumes 
all within, yet leaves the garment sound. Another 
time he entertained me with the following song :— 


A SONG. 


Death, put on some kind disguise, 
And at once my heart surprise 
For ‘tis such a curse to live, 
And so great a bliss to die, 
Shouldst thou any warning give, 
I'd relapee to life for joy. 


“Many other verses of this kind he plied me with, 
which charmed when read, but transported when sung. 
For you must know that, when our eminent poets de- 
base themselves to the writing a sort of composure 
called love-madrigals and roundelays, now much in 
vogue in Candaya, those verses are no sooner heard 
than they presently produce a dancing of souls, tickling 
of fancies, emotion of spirits; and in short, a pleasing 
distemper in the whole body, as if quicksilver shook it 
in every part. 

“So that, once more, I pronounce those poets very 
dangerous, and fit to be banished to the Isles of Lizards; 
though, truly, I must confess, the fault is rather charge- 
able on those foolish people that commend, and the silly 





357 


wenches that believe them. For, had I been as cau- 
tious as my place required, his amorous seranades could 
never have moved me; nor would I have believed his 
poetical cant, such as, ‘I dying live,’ ‘I burn in ice,’ 
‘I shiver in flames,’ ‘I hope in despair,’ ‘I go, yet stay ;’ 
with a thousand such contradictions, which make up 
the greatest part of those kind of compositions. As 
ridiculous are their promises of the Phenix of Arabia, 
Ariadne’s crown, the coursers of the sun, the pearls of 
the southern ocean, the gold of Tagus, the balsam of 
Panchaya, and Heaven knows what! 

“But whither, woe’s me! whither do I wander, mis- 
erable woman? What madness prompts me to accuse 
the faults of others, having so long a score of my own 
to answer for? Alas! not his verses, but my own in- 
clination; not his music, but my own levity; not his 
wit, but my own folly, opened a passage and levelled 
the way for Don Clavijo (for that was the name of the 
knight). In short, I procured him admittance; and, by 
my connivance, he very often met Antonomasia, who, 
poor lady! was rather deluded by me than by him. 
But, wicked as I was, it was upon the honorable score 
of marriage; for, had he not been engaged to be her 
husband, he should not have touched the very shadow 
of her shoe-string. The intrigue was kept very close 
for some time by my cautious management; but, at last, 
consulting upon the matter, we found there was but one 
way; Don Clavijo should demand the young lady in 
marriage before the curate, by virtue of a promise under 
her hand, which'l dictated for the purpose, and so bind. 
ing, that all the strength of Sansom himself could not 
have broken the tie. The business was put in execu: 
tion, the note was produced before the priest, who, 
examining the lady, and finding her confession to agree 
with the tenor of the contract, put her in custody of a 
very honest sergeant.” 

“Bless us!” quoth Sancho, “sergeants too, and poets, 
and songs, and verses, in your country! o” my con- 
science, I think the world is the same all the world 
over. But go on, Madam Trifaldi, I beseech you, for it 
is late, and I am upon thorns till I know the end of this 
story.” 

“T will,” answered the countess. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


WHERE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER STUPENDOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY. 


IF EVERY word that Sancho spoke gave the duchess 
new pleasure, everything he said put Don Quixote to 
as much pain; so that he commanded him silence, and 
gave the matron opportunity to go on. “In short,” 
said she, “the business was debated a good while; and, 
after many questions and answers, the princess firmly 
persisting in her first declaration, judgment was given 
in favor of Don Clavijo, which Queen Maguntia, her 
mother, took so to heart, that we buried her about 
three days after.” 

“Then, without doubt, she died,” quoth Sancho. 

“That is a clear case,” replied Trifaldin ; “for, in 
Candaya, they do not use to bury the living, but the 
dead.” 

“But, with your good leave, Mr. Squire,” answered 
Sancho, “people that were in a swoon have been buried 
alive before now; and methinks Queen Maguntia should 
only have swooned away, and not have been in such 
haste to have died in good earnest; for, ‘while there is 
life there is hope,’ and there is a remedy for all things 
but death. Ido not find the young lady was so much 
out of the way ueither, that the mother should lay it so 
grievously to heart. Indeed, had she married a foot- 
man, or some other servant in the family, as I am told 
many others have done, it had been a very bad business, 
and past curing; but, for the queen to make such a 
heavy outcry, when her daughter married such a fine- 
bred young knight, faith and troth, I think the business 
had better have been made up. It was a slip, but not 
such a heinous one as some would think; for, as my 
master here says, and he will not let me tell a lie, as of 
scholars they make bishops, so of your knights (chiefly 
if they be errant) one may easily make kings and 
emperors.” 

“That is most certain,” said Don Quixote. “Turna 
knight-errant loose into the wide world, with two-penny 
worth of good fortune, and he is in potentia propingua 
(prozima, I would say) the greatest emperor in the 
world. But let the lady proceed, for hitherto her story 
has been very pleasant, and I doubt the most bitter 
part of it is still untold.” 

“The most bitter, truly, sir,” answered she; “and so 
bitter, that wormwood and every bitter herb, compared 
to it, are as aweet as honey. 

“The queen being really dead,” continued she, “and 
not in a trance, we buried her; and, scarce had we done 





her the last offices, and taken our last leave, when (quis 
talia fando temperet a lachrymis? who can relate such 
woes, and not be drowned in tears?) the giant Malam- 
bruno, cousin-german to the deceased queen, who, be- 
sides his native cruelty, was also a magician, appeared 
upon her grave, mounted on a wooden horse, and, by 
his dreadful looks, showed he came thither to revenge 
the death of his relation, by punishing Don Clavijo for 
his presumption, and Antonomasia for her oversight. 
Accrdingly ; he immediately enchanted them both upon 
the very tomb; transforming her into a brazen female 
monkey, and the knight into a hideous crocodile, of an 
unknown metal; and, between them both, he set an 
inscription, in the Syriac tongue, which we got since 
translated into the Candayan, and then, into Spanish, 
to this effect: 

“<These two presumptuous lovers shall never re- 
cover their natural shapes, till the valorous Knight of 
La Mancha enter into single combat with me; for, by 
the irrevocable decrees of fate, this unheard-of adven- 
ture is reserved for his unheard-of courage.’ 

“This done, he drew a broad scimitar, of a monstrous 
size, and, catching me fast by the hair, made an offer to 
cut my throat, or to whip off my head. I was frighted 
almost to death, my hair stood on end, and my tongue 
clave to the roof of my mouth. However, recovering 
myself as well as I could, trembling and weeping, I 
begged mercy in such a moving accent and in such 
tender, melting words, that, at last, my entreaties pre- 
vailed on him to stop the cruel execution. In short, 
he ordered all the waiting-women at court to be brought 
before him, the same that you see here at present; and 
after he had aggravated our breach of trust, and railed 
against the deceitful practices, and what else he could 
urge in scandal of our profession, reviling us for the 
fact of which I alone stood guilty—‘I will not punish 
you with instant death,’ said he, ‘but inflict a punish- 
ment which shall be a lasting and eternal mortification.’ 

“Now, in the very instant of his denouncing our sen- 
tence, we felt the pores of our faces to open, and all 
about them perceived an itching*pain, like the pricking 
of pins and needles. Thereupon clapping our hands to 
our faces, we found them as you shall see them imme- 
diately.” 

Saying this, the Disconsolate Matron, and her atten- 
dants, throwing off their veils, exposed their faces, all 

358 


DUN QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 


rough with bristly beards, some red, some black, some 
white, and others motley. The duke and duchess won- 
dered, Don Quixote and Sancho were astonished, and 
the standers by were thunder-struck. 

“Thus,” said the countess, proceeding, “has that 
wicked and evil-minded Malabruno served us, and 
planted these rough and horrid bristles on our faces, 
otherwise most delicately smooth. Oh! that he had 
chopped off our heads with his monstrous scimitar, 
rather than to have disgraced our faces with these 
brushes upon them! For, gentlemen, if you rightly 
and truly consider it, what I have to say should be at- 
tended with a flood of tears; but such rivers and oceans 
have fallen from me already upon this doleful subject, 





359 


that my eyes are as dry as chaff; and, therefore, pray let 
me speak without tears at this time. Where, alas! shall 
a waiting-woman dare to show her head with such a 
furze-bush upon her chin? What charitable person 
will entertain her? What relations will own her? At 
the best, we can scarcely make our faces passable, 
though we torture them with a thousand slops and 
washes; and, even thus, we have much ado to get the 
men to care for us. What will become of her, then, 
that wears a thicket upon her face? Oh, ladies and 
companions of my misery! in an ill hour were we be. 
gotten, and in a worse came we into the world ! ” 

With these words the Disconsolate Matron seemed to 
faint away. 








CHAPTER XL. 


OF SOME THINGS THAT RELATE TO THIS ADVENTURE, AND APPERTAIN TO THIS MEMORABLE STORY. 


ALL persons that love to read histories of the nature 
of this, must certainly be very much obliged to Cid 
Hamet, the original author, who has taken such care in 
delivering every minute particular distinctly entire, 
without concealing the least circumstance that might 
heighten the humor, or, if omitted; have obscured the 
light and the truth of the story. He draws lively pic- 
tures of the thoughts, discovers the imaginations, 
satisfies curiosity in secrets, clears doubts, resolves 
arguments; and, in short, makes manifest the least 
atoms of the most inquisitive desire. Oh, most famous 
author! oh, fortunate Don Quixote! oh, renowned Dul- 
cinea! oh, facetious Sancho! jointly and severally may 
you live, and continue to the latest posterity, for the 
general delight and recreation of mankind. But the 
story goes on. 

“Now, on my honest word,” quoth Sancho, when he 
saw the matron in a swoon, “and by the blood of all the 
Panzas, my forefathers, I never heard nor saw the like, 
neither did my master ever tell me, or so much as con- 
ceive in that working headpiece of his such an adven- 
ture as this. Now, all the spirits (and I would not 
curse anybody) run away with thee, thou giant Malam- 
bruno! Couldst thou find no other punishment for 
these poor sinners, but by clapping scrubbing-brushes 
about their muzzles? Had it not been much better to 
slit their nostrils half way up their noses, though they 
had snuffled for it a little, than to have planted these 
quick-set hedges over their chaps? I will lay any man 
a wager now, the poor creatures have not money enough 
to pay for their shaving.” 

“It is but too true, sir,” said one of them, “we have 
not wherewithal to pay for taking our beards off; so 
that some of us, to save charges, are forced to lay on 
plaisters of pitch that pull away roots and all, and 
leave our chins as smooth as the bottom of a stone- 
mortar. There is indeed a sort of women in Candaya 





that go about from house to house to take off the down 
or hairs that grow about the face, trim the eye-brows, 
and do twenty other little private jobs for the women; 
but we here, who are my lady’s duennas, would never 
have anything to do with them, for they have got ill 
names; so, if my Lord Don Quixote do not relieve us, 
our beards will stick by us as long as we live.” 

“TI will have mine plucked off hair by hair among the 
Moors,” answered Don Quixote, “rather than not free 
you from yours.” 

“Ah, valorous knight!” cried the Countess Trifaldi, 
recovering that moment from her fit, “the sweet sound 
of your promise reached my hearing in the very midst 
of my trance, and has perfectly restored my senses. I 
heseech you therefore once again, most illustrious sir, 
and invincible knight-errant, that your gracious promise 
may soon have the wished-for effect.” 

“T will be guilty of no neglect, madam,” answered 
Don Quixote. “Point out the way, and you shall soon 
be convinced of my readiness to serve you.” 

“You must know then, sir,” said the Disconsolate 
Lady, “from this place to the kingdom of Candaya, by 
computation, we reckon about five thousand leagues, 
two or three more or less: but if you ride through the 
air in a direct line, it is not above three thousand two 
hundred and twenty-seven. You are likewise to under- 
stand, that Malambruno told me that when fortune 
should make me find out the knight who is to dissolve 
our enchantment, he would send him a famous steed, 
much easier, and less resty and full of tricks, than 
those jades that are commonly let out to hire, as being 
the same wooden horse that carried the valorous Peter 
of Provence and the fair Magalona, when he stole her 
away. It is managed by a wooden peg in its forehead, 
instead of a bridle, and flies so swiftly through the air 
asif all the spirits of evil were switching him, or blow- 
ing fire in histail. This courser tradition delivers to 


360 


have been the handiwork of the sage Merlin, who never 
lent him to any but particular friends, or when he paid 
sauce for him. Among others, his friend Peter of 
Provence borrowed him, and by the help of his won- 
derful speed stole away the fair Magalona, as I said, 
setting her behind on the crupper (for you must know 
he carries double), and so towering up in the air, he 
left the people that stood near the place whence he 
started gaping, staring, and amazed. 

“Since that journey we have heard of nobody that 
has backed him; but this we know, that Malambruno, 
since that, got him by his art, and has used, ever since, 
to post about to all parts of the world. He is here to- 
day, and to-morrow in France, and the next day in 
America. And one of the best properties of the horse 
is, that he costs not a farthing for keeping, for he 
neither eats nor sleeps, neither needs he any shoeing; 
besides, without having wings, he ambles so very easy 
through the air, that you may carry in your hand a cup 
full of water a thousand leagues, and not spill a drop; 
so that the fair Magalona loved mightily to ride 
him.” 

“Nay,” quoth Sancho, “as for an easy pacer, com- 
mend me to Dapple. Indeed, he is none of your high- 
flyers, he cannot gallop in the air; but, on the king’s 
highway, he shall pace you with the best ambler that 
ever went on four legs.” 

This set the whole company a-laughing; but then 
the Disconsolate Lady gving on, “This horse,” said 
she, “will certainly be here within half an hour after it 
is dark, if Malambruno designs to put an end to our 
misfortunes, for that was the sign by which 1 should 
discover my deliverer.” 

“ And pray, forsooth,” quoth Sancho, “how many will 
this same horse carry upon occasion ?” 

“Two,” answered she; “one on the saddle, and the 
other behind on the crupper, and those two are com- 
monly the knight and the squire, if some stolen damsel 
be not to be one.” NS 

“Good disconsolate madam,” quoth Sancho, “I would 
fain know the name of this nag.” 

“The horse's name,” answered she, “is neither Pega- 
sus, like Bellerophon's; nor Bucephalus, like Alex- 
ander's; nor Brilladoro, like Orlando's; nor Bayard, 
like Rinaldo's; nor Frontin, like Rogero’s; nor Bootes, 
nor Pyrithous, like the horses of the Sun; neither is Ire 
called Orelia, like the horse which Roderigo, the last 
King of Spain of the Gothic race, bestrode that unfor- 
tunate day when he lost the battle, the kingdom, and 
his life.” 

“I will lay you a wager,” quoth Sancho, “since the 
horse goes by none of those famous names, he does not 
go by that of Rozinante neither, which is my master’s 
horse, and another guess-beast than you have reckoned 
u a 

on is very right,” answered the bearded lady; “how- 
ever, he has a very proper and significant name, for he 
is called Clavileno, or Wooden Peg the Swift, from the 
wooden peg in his forehead; so that, from the signifi- 
cancy of name, at least, he may be compared with 
Rozinante.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“T find no fault with his name,” quoth Sancho; “but 
what kind of bridle or halter do you manage him 
with ?” 

“I told you already,” replied she, “that he is guided 
by the peg, which, being turned this way or that way, 
he moves accordingly, either mounting aloft in the air, 
or almost brushing and sweeping the ground, or else 
flying in the middle region,the way which ought indeed 
most to be chosen in all affairs of life.” 

“T should be glad to see this notable tit,” quoth San- 
cho; “but do not desire to get on his back, either 
before or behind. No, by my holy dame, you may as 
well expect pears from an elm. It were a pretty jest, 
I trow, for me that can hardly sit my own Dapple, with 
a pack-saddle as soft as silk, to suffer myself to be 
horsed upon a hard wooden thing, without either 
cushion or pillow under my seat. Before George! I 
will not gall myself to take off the best lady’s beard in 
the land. Let them that have beards wear them still, 
or get them whipped off as they think best; I will not 
take such a long jaunt with my master, not I. There 
is no need of me in this shaving of beards, as there 
was in Dulcinea’s business-” 

“Upon my word, dear sir, but there is,” replied Tri- 
faldi; “and so much, that without you nothing can be 
done.” : 

“God save the king!” cried Sancho; “what have we 
squires to do with our masters' adventures? We must 
bear the trouble, forsooth, and they run away with the 
credit! Bless me! it were some thing would those that 
write their stories but give their squires their due 
shares in their books; as thus, *Such a knight ended 
such an adventure; but it was with the help of such a 
one, his squire, without which he certainly could never 
have done it.’ But they shall barely tell you in their 
histories, ‘Sir Paralipomenon, Knight of the Three 
Stars, ended the adventure of the six hobgoblins, and 
not a word all the while of his squire’s person, as if 
there were no such man, though he was by all the 
while. In short, good people, I do not like it; and 
once more, I say, my master may even go by himself 
for Sancho, and joy betide him. 1 will stay and keep 
Madam Duchess company here; and mayhap, by that 
time he comes back, he will find his Lady Dulcinea’s 
business pretty forward, for I mean to give myself a 
whipping, till I brush off the very hair; at idle times, 
that is, when I have nothing else to do.” 

“Nevertheless, honest Sancho,” said the duchess, “if 
your company be necessary in this adventure, you must 
go, for all good people will make it their business to 
entreat you; and it would look very ill, that, through 
your vain fears, these poor gentlewomen should remain 
thus with rough and bristly faces.” 

“God save the king, I cry again,” said Sancho; “were 
it a piece of charity for the relief of some good, sober 
gentlewoman, or poor, innocent hospital-girls, some- 
thing might be said; but to gall my sides, and venture 
my neck, to unbeard a pack of idling, trolloping, cham- 
ber-jades, with a murrain! Not I, let them go else- 
where for a shaver. I wish I might see the whole 
tribe of them wear beards, from the highest to the low- 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


est, from the proudest to the primest, all hairy like so 
many she-goats.” 

“You are very angry with the waiting-women, San- 
cho,” said the duchess; “that apothecary has inspired 
you with this bitter spirit. But you are to blame, 
friend, for 1 will assure you there are some in my famil y 
that may serve for patterns of discretion to all those of 
their function; and Donna Rodriguez here will let me 
say no less.” 

“Ay, ay, madam,” said Donna Rodriguez, “your 
grace may say what you please. This is a censorious 
world we live in, but Heaven knows all; whether good 
or bad, bearded or unbearded, we waiting-gentlewomen 
had mothers as well as the rest of our sex; and since 
Providence has made us as we are, and placed us in the 
world, it knows wherefore; and so we trust in its mercy, 
and nobody’s beard.” 

“Enough, Donna Rodriguez,” said Don Quixote. 
“As for you, Lady Trifaldi, and other distressed ma- 
trons, I hope that Heaven will speedily look with a 
pitying eye on your sorrows, and that Sancho will do 
as I shall desire. I only wish Clavileno would once 
come, that I may encounter Malambruno; for I am sure 
no razor should be more expeditious in shaving your 
ladyship’s beard, than my sword to shave that giant’s 
head from his shoulders. Heaven may a while permit 
the wicked, but not for ever.” 





361 


“ Ab! most valorous champion,” said the Disconsolate 
Matron, “may all the stars in the celestial regions shed 
their most propitious influence on your generous valor, 
which thus supports the cause of our unfortunate office, 
so exposed to the poisonous rancor of apothecaries, and 
so reviled by saucy grooms and squires. Now, an ill- 
luck attend the low-spirited being who, in the flower of 
her youth, will not rather choose to turn nun than 
waiting-woman! Poor, forlorn, contemned creatures as 
we are, though descended, in a direct line from father 
to son, from Hector of Troy himself; yet would not our 
ladies find a more civil way to speak to us than thee 
and thou, though it were to gain them a kingdom. Oh, 
giant Malambruno! thou who, though an enchanter, art 
always most faithful to thy word, send us the peerless 
Clavileno, that our misfortunes may have an end; for, 
if the weather grows hotter than it is, and these shaggy 
beards still sprout about our faves, what a sad pickle 
will they be in!” 

The Disconsolate Lady uttered these lamentations in 
so pathetic a manner, that the tears of all the spectators 
waited on her complaints; and even Sancho himself 
began to water his plants, and condescended at last to 
share in the adventure, and attend his master to the 
very fag-end of the world, so he might contribute to the 
clearing away the weeds that overspread those vener- 
able faces. 








CHAPTER XLI. 


OF CLAVILENO’S (ALIAS WOODEN PEG’S) ARRIVAL, WITH THE CONCLUSION OF THIS TEDIOUS ADVENTURE. 


THESE discourses brought on the night, and with it 
the appointed time for the famous Clavileno’s arrival. 
Don Quixote, very impatient at his delay, began to 
fear that either he was not the knight for whom this 
adventure was reserved or else that the giant Malam- 
bruno had not courage to enter into a single combat 
with him. But, unexpectedly, who should enter the 
garden but four savages, covered with green ivy, bear- 
ing on their shoulders a large wooden horse, which 
they sat on his legs before the company; and then one 
of them cried out, “Now let him that has courage 
mount this engine.” 

“T am not he,” quoth Sancho, “for I have no courage, 
nor am La knight.” 

“And let him take his squire behind him, if he has 
one,” continued the savage; “with this assurance from 
the valorous Malambruno, that no foul shall be offered, 
nor will he use anything but his sword to offend him. It 
is but only turning the peg before him, and the horse will 
transport him through the air to the place where Malam- 
bruno attends their coming. But let them blindfold 
their eyes, lest the dazzling and stupendous light of 
their career should make them giddy; and let the 





neighing of the horse inform them that they are ar- 
Tived at their journey’s end.” 

Thus having made his speech, the savage turned 
about with his companions, and, leaving Clavileno, 
they marched out handsomely the same way they caine 
in. 

The Disconsolate Matron, seeing the horse, almost 
with tears addressed Don Quixote. “Valorous knight,” 
cried she, “Malambruno is a man of his word; the 
horse is here, our beards bud on; therefore I and every 
one of us conjure you, by all the hairs on our chins, to 
hasten our deliverance, since there needs no more but 
that you and your squire get up, and give a happy be- 
ginning to your intended journey.” 

“Madam,” answered Don Quixote, “I will do it with 
all my heart; I will not so much as stay for a cushion, 
or to put on my spurs, but mount instantly; such is my 
impatience to disbeard your ladyship’s face, and restore 
you to all your former gracefulness.” 

“That is more than I should do,” quoth Sancho; “I 
am not in such plaguy haste, not 1; and if the quick- 
set hedges on their snouts cannot be looped off without 
my riding on that hard crupper, let my master furnish 


362 


himself with another squire, and these gentlewomen 
get some other barber. I am no witch, sure, to ride 
through the air at this rate on a broom-stick! What 
will my islanders say, think ye, when they hear their 
governor is flying like a paper kite? Besides, it is 
three or four thousand leagues from hence to Candaya; 
and what if the horse should tire upon the road, or the 
giant grow humorsome? what would become of us then? 
No, no, I know better things. What says the old pro- 
verb? ‘Delays breed danger;’ and, ‘When a cow is 
given thee, run and halter her.’ I am the gentle- 
woman’s humble servant, but they and there beards 
must excuse me, faith? St. Peter is well at Rome, that 
is to say, here I am much made of, and, by the master of 
the house’s good will, [hope to see myself a governor.” 

“Friend Sancho,” said the duke, “as for your island, 
it neither floats nor stirs, so there is no fear it should 
run away before you come back; the foundations of it 
are fixed and rooted in the profound abyss of the earth. 
Now, because you must needs think I cannot but know 
that there is no kind of office of any value that is not 
purchased with some sort of bribe, or gratification of 
one kind or other, all that I expect for advancing you 
to this government is only that you wait on your master 
in this expedition, that there may be an end of this 
memorable adventure. And I here engage my honor, 
that whether you return on Clavileno with all the speed 
his swiftness promises, or that it should be your ill 
fortune to be obliged to foot it back like a pilgrim, beg- 
ging from inn to inn, and door to door, still, whenever 
you come you will find your islaud where you left it, 
and your islanders as glad to receive you for their 
governor as ever. And for my own part, Signior San- 
cho, you would very much wrong my friendship should 
you in the least doubt my readiness to serve you.” 

“Good your worship, say no more,” cried Sancho; “I 
am but a poor squire, and your goodness is too great a 
load for my shoulders. But hang baseness; mount 
master, and blindfold me, somebody; wish me a good 
voyage and pray for me. But hark ye, good folks, 
when I am got up, and fly in the skies, may not I say 
my prayers, and call on the angels myself to help me, 
trow?” 

“Yes, yes,” answered Trifaldi; “for Malambruno, 
though an enchanter, is nevertheless a Christian, and 
does all things with a great deal of sagacity, having 
nothing to do with those he should not meddle with.” 

“Come on, then,” quoth Sancho. 

“Thy fear, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “might |jby a 
superstitious mind, be thought ominous. Since the 
adventure of the fulling-mills, I have not seen thee 
possessed with such a panic terror. But hark ye, 
begging this noble company’s leave, I must have a 
word with you in private.” 

Then withdrawing into a distant part of the garden 
among some trees, “My dear Sancho,” said he, “thou 
seest we are going to take a long journey; thou art no 
less sensible of the uncertainty of our return, and 
Heaven alone can tell what leisure or conveniency we 
may have in all that time. Let me therefore beg thee 
to slip aside to thy chamber, as if it were to get thyself 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ready for our journey, and there presently dispatch me 
only some five hundred lashes, on account of the three 
thousand three hundred thou standest engaged for; it 
will soon be done, and a business well begun, you 
know, is half ended.” 

“Stark mad, before George!” cried Sancho. “I won- 
der you are not ashamed, sir. I am just going to ride 
the wooden horse, and you would have me flay myself! 
Come, come, sir, let us do one thing after another; let 
us get off these women’s whiskers, and then I will 
feague it away for Dulcinea. I have no more to say on 
the matter at present.” 

“Well, honest Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “I will 
take thy word for once, and I hope thou wilt make it 
good; for I believe thou art more fool than knave.” 

“Tam what I am,” quoth Sancho; “but whatever I 
be, I will keep my word, never fear it.” 

Upon this they returned to the company; and, just 
as they were going to mount, “Blind thy eyes, San- 
cho,” said Don Quixote, “and get up. Sure he that 
sends so far for us can have no design to deceive us; 
since it would never be to his credit to delude those 
that rely on his word of honor; and though the success 
should not be answerable to our desires, still the glory 
of so brave an attempt will be ours, and it is not in the 
power of malice to eclipse it.” 

“To horse, then, sir,” cried Sancho, “to horse. The 
tears of these poor bearded gentlewomen have melted 


my heart, and methinks I feel the bristles sticking in 
it. Ishall not eat a bit to do me good, till I see them 
have as pretty dimpled smooth chins, and soft lips, as 
they had before. Mount, then, I say, and blindfold 
yourself first; for, if I must ride behind, it is a plain 
case you must get up before me.” 

“That is right,” said Don Quixote; and, with that, 
pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he gave it to 
the Disconsolate Matron to hoodwink him close. She 
did so; but presently after, uncovering himself, “If I 
remember right,” said he, “we read in Virgil of the 
Trojan Palladium, that wooden horse which the Greeks 
offered Pallas, full of armed knights, who afterwards 
proved the total ruin of that famous city. It were pru- 
dent, therefore, before we get up, to probe this steed, 
and see what he has inside.” 

“You need not,” said the Countess Trifaldi; “I dare 
engage there is no ground for any such surmise; for 


Malambruno is a man of honor, and would not so much 
as countenance any base or treacherous practice; and 


whatever accident befalls you I dare answer for.” 

Upon this Don Quixote mounted, without any reply, 
imagining that what he might further urge concerning 
his security would be a reflection on his valor. He 
then began to try the pin, which was easily turned; and 
as he sat, with his long legs stretched at length for 
want of stirrups, he looked like one of those antique 
figures in a Roman triumph, woven in some old piece 
of arras. 

Sancho, very leisurely and unwillingly, was made to 
climb up behind him; and, fixing himself, as well as he 
could, on the crupper, felt it somewhat bard and un- 
easy. With that, looking on the duke, “Good, my 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


lord,” quoth he, “will you lend me something to clap 
under me; some pillow from the page's bed, or the 
duchess's cushion of state, or anything? for this horse's 
erupper is so confounded hard, I fancy it is rather 
marble than wood.” 

“It is needless,” said the countess; “for Clavileno 
will bear no kind of furniture upon him; so that, for 
your greater ease, you had best sit sideways, like a 
woman.” 

Sancho took her advice; and then, after he had taken 
his leave of the company, they bound a cloth over his 
eyes; but, presently after, uncovering his face, with a 
pitiful look on all the spectators, “Good, tender-hearted 
Christians,” cried he, with tears in his eyes, “bestow 
a few Pater Nosters and Ave Marias on a poor depart- 
ing brother, and pray for my soul, as you expect the 
like charity yourselves in such a condition!” 

“ What! you rascal,” said Don Quixote, “do you think 
yourself at the gallows, at the point of death that hold 
forth in such a lamentable strain? Dastardly wretch! 
dost thou know that the fair Magalona once sat in thy 
place, and alighted from thence, not into the grave, thou 
chicken-hearted varlet, but into the throne of France, if 
there is any truth in history? And do notI sit by thee, 
that I may vie with the valorous Peter of Provence, and 
press the seat that was once ‘pressed by him? Come, 
blindfold thy eyes, poor spiritless animal! and let me 
not know thee betray the least symptom of fear.” 

“Well,” quoth Sancho, “hoodwink me then among 
you: butit is no marvel one should be afraid, when you 
will not let one say his prayers, nor be prayed for, 
though, for aught I know, we may have a legion of 
imps about our ears, to clap usup in some strange 
place presently.” 

Now, both being hoolwinked, and Don Quixote per- 
ceiving everything ready for their setting out, began 
to turn the pin; and, no sooner had he set his hand to 
it, than the waiting-women and allthe company set up 
their throats, calling out, “Speed you, speed you well, 
valorous knight! Heaven be your guide, undaunted 
squire! Now, now, you fly aloft! See how they cut 
the air more swiftly than an arrow! Now they mount, 
and tower, and soar, while the gazing world wonders at 
their course. Sit fast, sit fast, courageous Sancho! you 
do not sit steady; have a care of falling; for, should 
you now drop from that amazing height, your fall would 
be greater than the aspiring youth’s that misguided 
the chariot of the Sun.” 

All this Sancho heard, and, girting his arms fast 
about his master’s waist, “Sir,” quoth he, “why do 
they say we are so high, since we can hear their voices? 
Truly, I hear them so plainly, that one would think 
they were close by us.” 

“Never mind that,” answered Don Quixote; “for in 
these extraordinary kinds of flight we must suppose 
our hearing and seeing will be extraordinary also. But 
do not hold me so hard, for you will make me tumble 
off. What makes thee tremble so? I am sure I never 
tode easier in all my life; our horse goes as if he did 
not move at all. Come, then, take courage; we make 
swinging way, and have a fair and merry gale.” 





363 


“I think so, too,” quoth Sancho; “for I feel the wind 
puff as briskly upon me here as if I do not know how 
many pairs of bellows were blowing wind on me.” 

Sancho was not altogether in the wrong; for two or 
three pairs of bellows were indeed levelled at him then, 
which gave air very plentifully; so well had the plot 
of this adventure been laid by the duke, the duchess, 
and their steward. 

Don Quixote at last feeling the wind, “Sure,” said 
he, “we must be risen to the middle region of the air, 
where the winds, hail, snow, thunder, lightning, and 
other meteors are produced; so that, if we mount at 
this rate, we shall be in the region of fire presently; 
and what is worse, I do not know how to manage this 
pin, so as to avoid being scorched and roasted alive.” 

At the same time some flax, with other combustible 
matter, which had been got ready, was clapped at the 
end of a long stick, and set on fire at a small distance 
from their noses; and the heat and smoke affecting the 
knight and the squire, “May I be hanged,” quoth San- 
cho, “if we be not come to this fire-place you talk of, 
or very near it, for the half of my beard is singed 
already. I have a huge mind to peep out, and see 
whereabouts we are.” 

“By no means,” answered Don Quixote. “I remem- 
ber the strange but true story of Dr. Torralva, who was 
carried to Rome, hoodwinked and bestrided a reed, in 
twelve hours’ time. There he saw the dreadful tumult, 
assault, and death of the Constable of Bourbon; and 
the next morning he found himself at Madrid, where 
he related the whole story. Among other things, he 
said, as he went through the air, he was bid to open his 
eyes, which he did, and then he found himself so near 
the moon, that he could touch it with his finger; but 
durst not look towards the earth, lest the distance 
should make his brain turn round. So, Sancho, we 
must not unveil our eyes, but rather wholly trust to 
the care and providence of him that has charge of us, 
and fear nothing, for we only mount high to souse 
down, like a hawk, upon the kingdom of Candaya, 
which we shall reach presently; for, though it appears 
to us not half an hour since we left the garden, we have, 
nevertheless, travelled over a vast tract of air.” 

“TI know nothing of the matter,” replied Sancho; 
“but of this I am very certain, that if your Madam 
Magulane, or Magalona (what do you call her?), could 
sit this wooden crupper without a good cushion, she 
must have a harder skin than mine.” 

This dialogue was certainly very pleasant all this 
while to the duke and duchess, and the rest of the com- 
pany; and now, at last, resolving to put an end to this 
extraordinary adventure, which had so long entertained 
them successfully, they ordered one of their servants 
to give fire to Clavileno’s tail; and the horse being 
stuffed full of squibbs, crackers, and other fireworks, 
burst presently into pieces, with a mighty noise, throw- 
ing the knight one way, and the squire another, both 
sufficiently singed. By this time the Disconsolate 
Matron and bearded regiment were vanquished out of 
the garden, and all the rest, counterfeiting a trance, 
lay flat upon the ground. Don Quixote and Sancho, 


364 


sorely bruised, made shift to get up, and, looking about, 
were amazed to find themselves in the same garden 
whence they took horse, and see such a number of 
people lie dead, as they thought, on the ground. But 
their wonder was diverted by the appearance of a large 
lance stuck in the ground, and a scroll of white parch- 
ment fastened to it by two green silken strings, with 
the following inscription upon it in golden characters :— 

“The renowned knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
achieved the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, other- 
wise called the Disconsolate Matron, and her compan- 
ions in distress, by barely attempting it. Malambruno 
is fully satisfied. The waiting-gentlewomen have lost 
their beards. King Clavijo and Queen Antonomasia 
have resumed their pristine shapes; and, when the 
squire’s penance shall be finished, the white dove shall 
escape the pounces of the hawks that pursue her. This 
is pre-ordained by the Sage Merlin, the prince of en- 
chanters.” 

Don Quixote having read this oracle, and construing 
it to refer to Dulcinea’s enchantment, rendered thanks 
to Heaven for so great a deliverance; and approaching 
the duke and duchess, who seemed as yet in a swoon, 
he took the duke by the hand: “Courage, courage! 
noble sir,” cried he; “there is no danger; the adven- 
ture is finished without bloodshed, as you may read it 
registered in that record.” 

The duke, yawning and stretching as if he had been 
waked out of a sound sleep, recovered himself by de- 
grees, as did the duchess and the rest of the company. 
The duke, rubbing his eyes, made a shift to read the 
scroll; then, embracing Don Quixote, he extolled his 
valor to the skies, assuring him he was the bravest 
knight the earth had ever possessed. As for Sancho, 
he was looking up and down the garden for the Discon- 
solate Matron, to see what kind of a face she had got, 
now her furze-bush was off. But he was informed that 
as Clavileno came down flaming in the air, the count- 
ess, with her women, vanished immediately, but not 
one of them chin-bristled, nor so much as a hair upon 
their faces. 

Then the duchess asked Sancho how he had fared in 
his long voyage. 

“Why truly, madam,” answered he, “I have seen 
wonders; for you must know that, though my master 
would not suffer me to pull the cloth from my eyes, yet 
as I have a kind of itch to know everything, and a 
spice of the spirit of contradiction, still hankering 
after what is forbidden me, so when, as my master told 
me, we were flying through the region of fire, I pushed 
my handkerchief a little above my nose, and looked 
down, and what do you.think I saw? I spied the earth 
a hugeous way afar off below me (Heaven bless us!) no 
bigger than a mustard-seed; and the men walking to 
and fro upon it, not much larger than hazel-nuts. 
Judge now if we were not got up woundy high!” 

“Have a care what you say, my friend,” said the 
duchess; “for if the men were bigger than hazle-nuts, 
and the earth no bigger than a mustard-seed, one man 
must be bigger than the whole earth, and cover it so 
that you could not see it.” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Like enough,” answered Sancho; “but for all that 
do you see, I saw it with a kind of a side-look upon one 
part of it, or so.” 

“Look you, Sancho,” replied the duchess, “that will 
not bear; for nothing can be wholly seen by any part 
of it.” 

“Well, well, madam,” quoth Sancho, “I do not under- 
stand your parts and wholes: I saw it, and there is an 
end of the story. Only you must think, that as we flew 
by enchantment, so we saw by enchantment; and thus 
I might see the earth, and all the men, which way so- 
ever I looked. I will warrant you will not believe me 
neither when I tell you that, when I thrust up the ker- 
chief above my brows, I saw myself so near heaven, that 
between the top of my cap and the main sky, there was 
not a span and ahalf. And, Heaven bless us! forsooth, 
what a hugeous great place it is! and we happened to 
travel that road where the seven she goat stars were; 
and, faith and troth! I had such a mind to play with 
them (having been once a goat-herd myself), that I 
fancy I would have cried myself to death, had I not 
done it. So, soon as I spied them, what does me but 
sneaks down very soberly from behind my master, with- 
out telling any living soul, and played and leaped about 
for three-quarters of an hour, by the clock, with the 
pretty nanny-goats, who are as sweet and fine as so 
many marigolds; and honest Wooden Peg stirr d not 
one step all the while.” 

“And while Sancho employed himself with the 
goats,” asked the duke, “how was Don Quixote em- 
ployed?” 

“Truly,” answered the knight, “I am sensible all 
things were altered from their natural course; there- 
fore what Sancho says seems the less strange to me. 
But, for my own part, I neither saw heaven nor hell, 
sea nor shore. I perceived, indeed, we passed through 
the middle region of the air, and were pretty near that 
of fire, but that we came so near heaven as Sancho says 
is altogether incredible; because we then must have 
passed quite through the fiery region, which lies be- 
tween the sphere of the moon and the upper region of 
the air. Now it was impossible for us to reach that 
part where are the Pleiades, or the Seven Goats, as 
Sancho calls them, without being consumed in the ele- 
mental fire; and, therefore, since we escaped those 
flames, certainly we did not soar so high, and Sancho 
either lies or dreams.” 

“T neither lie nor dream,” replied Sancho. “Indeed, 
I can tell you the marks and color of every goat among 
them; if you do not believe me, do but ask and try 
me.” 

“Well,” said the duchess, “pr’ythee tell me, Sancho.” 

“Look you,” answered Sancho, “there were two of 
them green, two carnation, two blue, and one party- 
colored.” 

“Truly,” said the duke, “that is a new kind of goats 
you have found out, Sancho; we have none of those 
colors upon earth.” 

“Sure, sir,” replied Sancho, “you will make some 
sort of difference between heavenly she goats and the 





goats of the world ?” 


DON QUIXOTE 


“But, Sancho,” said the duke, “among these she 
goats did you never see a he? not one horned beast of 
the masculine gender ?” 

“Not one, sir; I saw no other horned thing but the 
moon; and I have been told that neither he goats nor 
any other cornuted tups are suffered to lift their horns 
beyond those of the moon.” 

They did notask Sancho any more questions about 
his airy voyage; for, in the humor he was in, they 


DE LA MANCHA. 365 


judged he would not stick to ramble all over the 
heavens, and tell them news of whatever was doing 
there, though he had not stirred out of the garden all 
the while. 

“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, whispering him in the 
ear, “since thou wouldst have us believe what thou 
hast seen in heaven, I desire thee to believe what I saw 
in the cave of Montesinos. Not a word more.” 














CHAPTER XLII. 


THE INSTRUCTIONS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE WENT TO THE GOVERNMENT 


OF HIS ISLAND, WITH OTHER MATTERS OF MOMENT. 


THE satisfaction which the duke and duchess re- 
ceived by the happy success of the adventure of the 
Disconsolate Matron, encouraged them to carry on 
some other pleasant project, since they could, with so 
much ease, impose upon the credulity of Don Quixote 
and his squire. Having therefore giving instructions 
to their servants and vassals how to behave themselves 
towards Sancho in his government, the day after the 
scene of the wooden horse, the duke bid Sancho pre- 
pare, and be in readiness to take possession of his gov- 
ernment; for now his islanders wished as heartily for 
him as they did for rain in a dry summer. Sancho 
made a humble bow, and looking demurely on the 
duke, “Sir,” quoth he, “since I came down from heaven, 
whence I saw the earth so very small, I am not half so 
hot as I was for being a governor. For what greatness 
can there be in being at the head of a puny dominion, 
that is but alittle nook of a tiny mustard seed ? and what 
dignity and power can a man be reckoned to have in 
governing half-a-dozen men no bigger than hazel-nuts? 
For I could not think there were any more in the whole 
world. No, if your grace would throw away upon me 
never so little a corner in heaven, though it were but 
half a league or so, I would take it with better will 
than I would the largest island on earth.” 

“Trriend Sancho,” answered the duke, “I cannot dis- 
pose of an inch of heaven; for that is the province of 
God alone: but whatIam able to bestow I give you; 
that is an island, tight and clever, round and well-pro- 
portioned, fertile and plentiful to such a degree, that if 
you have but the art and understanding to manage 
things right, you may hoard there both of the treasures 
of this world and the next.” 

“Well, then,” quoth Sancho, “let me have this island, 
and I will do my best to be such a governor, that, in 
spite of rogues, I shall not want a small nook in heaven 
one day or other. Itis not out of covetousness neither, 
that I would leave my little cot, and set up for some- 
body, but merely to know what kind of thing it is to be 
a governor.” 


“Oh, Sancho?” said the duke; “when once you have 
hada taste of it, you will never leave licking your fingers, 
it is so sweet and bewitching a thing to command and 
be obeyed. Iam confident, when your master comes to 
be an emperor (as he cannot fail to be, according to the 
course of his affairs), he will never, by any considera- 
tion be persuaded to abdicate; his only grief will be 
that he was one no sooner.” 

“Troth, sir,” replied Sancho, “Iam of your mind; it 
is a dainty thing to command, though it were but a 
flock of sheep.” 

“Oh, Sancho!” cried the duke, “let me live and die 
with thee; for thou hast an insight into everything. I 
hope thou wilt prove as good a governor as thy wisdom 
bespeaks thee. But no more at this time; to-morrow, 
without further delay, you set forward to your island, 
and shall be furnished this afternoon with equipage 
and dress answerable to your post, and all other neces- 
saries for your journey.” 

“Let them dress me as they will,” quoth Sancho, “I 
shall be the same Sancho Panza still.” 

“That is true,” said the duke, “yet every man ought 
to wear clothes suitable to his place and dignity; fora 
lawyer should not go dressed like a soldier, nor a 
soldier like a priest. As for you, Sancho, you are to 
wear the habit both of a captain and a civil magistrate; 
so your dress shall be a compound of those two; for in 
the government that I bestow on you, arms are as neces- 
sary as learning, and a man of letters as requisite as a 
swordsman.” 

“Nay, as for letters,” quoth Sancho, “I cannot say 
much for myself; for as yet I scarce know my A, B, ©; 
but yet, if I can but remember my Christ’s-cross, it is 
enough to make me a good governor. As for my arms, 
I will not quit my weapon as long as I can stand, and 
so Heaven be our guard!” 

“Sancho cannot do amiss.” said the duke, “while he 
remembers these things.” 

By this time Don Quixote arrived, and hearing how 





suddenly Sancho was to go to his government, with the 


366 


duke's permission, he took him aside to give him some 
good instructions for his conduct in the discharge of 
his office. 

Being entered Don Quixote's chamber, and the door 
shut, he almost forcibly obliged Sancho to sit by him; 
and then, with a grave and deliberate voice, he thus 
began :— 

“I give Heaven infinite thanks, friend Sancho, that, 
before I have the happiness of being put in possession 
of my hopes, 1 can see thine already crowned; fortune 
hastening to meet thee with thy wishes. I, who had 
assigned the reward of thy services upon my happy 
success, am yet but on the way to preferment; and thou, 
beyond all reasonable expectation, art arrived at the 
aim and end of thy desires. Some are assiduous, solic- 
itous, importunate, rise early, bribe, entreat, press, will 
take no denial, obstinately persist in their suit, and yet 
at last never obtain it. Another comes on, and, by a 
lucky hit or chance, bears away the prize, and jumps 
into the preferment which so many had pursued in 
vain; which verifies the saying, 

‘The happy have their days, and those they choose; 

The unhappy have but hours, and those they lose.’ 
Thou, who seemest to me a very blockhead, without 
sitting up late, or rising early, or any manner of fatigue 
or trouble, only the air of knight-errantry being 
breathed on thee, art advanced to the government of an 
island in a trice, as if it were a thing of no moment, a 
very trifle. I speak this, my dear Sancho, not to up- 
praid thee, nor out of envy, but only to let thee know 
thou art not to attribute all this success to thy own 
merit, while it is entirely owing to the kind heavenly 
Disposer of human aftairs, to whom thy thanks ought 
to be returned. But, next to Heaven, thou art to as- 
cribe thy happiness to the greatness of the profession 
of knight-errantry, which includes within itself such 
stores of honor and preferment. 

“Being convinced of what I have already said, be 
yet attentive, oh, my son, to what I, thy Cato, have 
further to say: listen, I say, to my admonitions, and I 
will be thy north star, and thy pilot to steer and bring 
thee safe into the port of honor, out of the tempestuous 
ocean, into which thou art just going to launch; for 
offices and great employments are no better than pro- 
found gulphs of confusion. 

“First of all, oh, my son, fear God: for the fear of 
God is the beginning of wisdom, and wisdom will never 
let thee go astray. 

“Secondly, consider what,thou wert, and make it thy 
business to know thyself, which is the most difficult 
lesson in the world. Yet from this lesson thou wilt 
learn to avoid the frog’s foolish ambition of swelling to 
rival the bigness of the ox: else the consideration of 
your having been a hog-driver will be, to the wheel of 
your fortune, like the peacock’s ugly feet.” 

“True,” quoth Sancho, “but I was then but a little 
boy; for when I grew up to be somewhat bigger, I 
drove geese, and not hogs; but methinks that is noth- 
ing to the purpose, for all governors cannot come trom 
kings and princes.” 

“Very true,” pursued Don Quixote; “therefore those 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


who want a noble descent must allay the severity of 
their office with mildness and civility, which, directed 
by wisdom, may secure them from the murmurs and 
malice from which no state or condition is exempt. 

“Be well pleased with the meanness of thy family, 
Sancho, nor think it a disgrace to own thyself derived 
from laboring men; for, if thou art not ashamed of thy- 
self, nobody else will strive to make thee so. Endeavor 
rather to be esteemed humble and virtuous, than proud 
and vicious. The number is almost infinite of those 
who, from low and vulgar births, have been raised to 
the highest dignities, to the Papal chair, and the im- 
perial throne ; and this I could prove by examples 
enough to tire thy patience. 

“Make virtue the medium of all thy actions, and 
thou wilt have no cause to envy those whose birth 
gives them the titles of great men and princes; for no- 
bility is inherited, but virtue acquired: and virtue is 
worth more in itself than nobleness of birth. 

“Tf any of thy poor relations come to see thee, never 
reject nor offend them; but, on the contrary, receive 
and entertain them with marks of favor; in this thou 
wilt display a generosity of nature, and please Heaven, 
that would have nobody despise what it has made. 

“Tf thou sendest for thy wife, as it is not ft a man in 
thy station should be long without his wife, and she 
ought to partake of her husband’s good fortune, teach 
her, instruct her, polish her the best thou caust, till 
her native rusticity is refined to a handsomer behav- 
iour; for often an ill-bred wife throws down all that a 
good and discreet husband can build up. 

“Shouldst thou come to be a widower (which is not 
impossible), and thy post recommend thee to a bride of 
a higher degree, take not one that shall, like a fishing- 
rod, only serve to catch bribes. For, take it from me, 
the judge must, at the general and last court of judica- 
ture, give a strict account of the discharge of his duty, 
and must pay severely at his dying day for what he 
has suffered his wife to take. 

“Let never obstinate self-conceit be thy guide; it is 
the vice of the ignorant, who vainly presume on their 
understanding. 

“Let the tears of the poor find more compassion, 
though not more justice, than the informations of the 
rich. 

“Be equally solicitous to find out the truth, where 
the offers and presents of the rich, and the sobs and im- 
portunities of the poor, are in the way. 

“Wherever equity should or may take place, let not 
the extent or rigor of the law bear too much on the de- 
linquent; for is not a better character in a judge to be 
rigorous, than to be indulgent. 

“When the severity of the law is to be softened, let 
pity, not bribes, he the motive. 

“If thy enemy have a cause before thee, turn away 
thy eyes from thy prejudices, and fix them on the mat- 
ter of fact. 

“Tn another man’s cause be not blinded by thy own 
passions, for those errors are almost without remedy; 
or their cure will pruve expensive to thy wealth and 
reputation. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“When a beautiful woman comes before thee, turn 
away thy eyes, from her tears, and thy ears from her 
lamentations; and take time to consider sedately her 
petition, if thou wouldst not have thy reason and 
honesty lost in her sighs and tears. 

“Revile not with words those whom their crimes 
oblige thee to punish in deed; for the punishment is 
enough to the wretches, without the addition of ill 
language. 

“In the trial of criminals, consider as much as thou 
canst, without prejudice to the plaintiff, how defence- 
less and open the miserable are to the temptations of 
our corrupt and depraved nature, and so far show thy- 
self full of pity and clemency; for though God's attri- 





367 


butes are equal, yet his mercy is more attractive and 
pleasing in our eyes than bis justice. 

“Tf thou observest these rules, Sancho, thy days shall 
be long, thy fame eternal, thy recompense full, and thy 
felicity unspeakable. Thou shalt marry thy children 
and grandchildren to thy heart’s desire; they shall 
want no titles. Beloved of all men, thy life shall be 
peaceable, thy death in a good and venerable old age, 
and the offspring of thy grandchildren, with their soft, 
youthful hands shall close thy eyes. 

“The precepts I have hitherto given thee regard the 
good and ornament of thy mind; now give attention 
to those directions that relate to the adorning of thy 
body.” 








CHAPTER XLIII. 


THE SECOND PART OF DON QUIXOTE’S ADVICE TO SANCHO PANZA. 


Who would not have taken Don Quixote for a man 
of extraordinary wisdom, and as excellent morals, 
having heard him documentise his squire in this man- 
ner? only, as we have often observed in this history, 
the least talk of knight-errantry spoiled all, and made 
his understanding muddy; but in everything else his 
judgment was very clear, and his apprehension very 
nice, so that every moment his actions used to discredit 
his judgment, and his judgment his actions. But in 
these economical precepts which he gave Sancho, he 
showed himself master of a pleasant fancy, and mingled 
his judgment and extravagance in equal proportions. 
Sancho lent him a great deal of attention, in hopes to 
register all those good counsels in his mind, and put 
them in practice; not doubting by their means he 
should acquit himself of his duty like a man of honor. 

“As to the government of thy person and family,” 
pursued Don Quixote, “my first injunctionis cleanliness. 
Pare thy nails, nor let them grow as some do, whose 
folly persuades them that long nails add to the beauty 
of the hand; till they look more like kestrils’ claws 
than a man’s nails. It is foul and unsightly. 

“Keep thy clothes tight about thee; for a slovenly 
looseness is an argument of a careless mind; unless 
such a negligence, like that of Julius Cesar, be affected 
for some cunning design. 

“Prudently examine what thy income may amount to 
in a year: and if sufficient to afford thy servants liv- 
eries, let them be decent and lasting, rather than 
gaudy and for show; and for the overplus of thy good 
husbandry, bestow iton the poor: that is, if thou canst 
keep six footmen, keep but three; and let what would 
maintain three more be laid out in charitable uses. By 
that means thou wilt have attendants in Heaven, as 
well as on earth, which our vain-glorious great ones, 





who are strangers to this practice, are not likely to 
have. 

“Lest thy breath betray thy peasantry, defile it not 
with onions and garlic. 

“Walk with gravity, and speak with deliberation, 
and yet not as if thou didst hearken to thy own words; 
for all affectation is a fault. 

“Eat little at thy dinner, and less at supper; for the 
stomach is the storehouse, whence health is to be im- 
parted to the whole body. 

“Drink moderately; for drunkenness neither keeps a 
secret nor observes a promise. 

“Be careful not to chew on both sides; that is, fill 
not thy mouth too full. 

“In the next place, Sancho,” said the knight, “do 
not overlard your common discourse with that glut of 
proverbs which you mix init continually; for though 
proverbs are properly concise and pithy sentences, yet 
as thou bringest them in, in such a huddle, by the 
head and shoulders, thou makest them look like so 
many absurdities.” 

“Alas! sir,” quoth Sancho, “¿his is a disease that 
Heaven alone can cure; for 1 have more proverbs than 
will fill a book; and when I talk, they crowd so thick 
and fast to my mouth, that they quarrel which shall get 
out first; so that my tongue is forced to let them out as 
fast, first come first served, though nothing to my pur- 
pose. But henceforwards 1 will set a watch on my 
mouth, and let none fly out but such as shall befit the 
gravity of my place. For ‘in a rich man’s house, the 
cloth is soon laid:’ ‘Where there is plenty, the guests 
cannot be empty.’ “A blot's no blot till itis hit.’ ‘He 
is safe who stands under the bells.? “You cannot eat 
your cake and have your cake:’ and *Store's no sore.’ ” 

“Go on, go on, friend,” said Don Quixote; “thread, 


368 


tack, stitch on, heap proverb upon proverb; out with 
them, man; there is nobody coming. My mother whips 
me, and I whip the gig. I warn thee to forbear foisting 
in arope of proverbs everywhere, and thou blunderest 
out a whole litany of old saws, as much to the purpose 
as the last year’s snow! Observe me, Sancho, I con- 
demn not the use of proverbs: but it is most certain 
that such a confusion and hodge-podge of them as thou 
throwest out and draggest in by the hair together, 
makes conversation fulsome and poor. 

“When thou dost ride, cast not thy body all on the 
crupper, nor hold thy legs stiff down, and straddling 
from the horse’s belly; nor yet so loose, as if thou wert 
still on Dapple; for the air and gracefulness of sitting 
a horse distinguishes sometimes a gentleman from a 
groom. Sleep with moderation; for he that rises not 
with the sun loses so much day. And remember this, 
Sancho, that diligence is the mother of good fortune: 
sloth, on the contrary, never effected anything that 
sprung from a good and reasonable desire. 

“The advice which I shall conclude with I would 
have thee to be sure to fix in thy memory, though it 
relate not to the adorning of thy person; for, I am per- 
suaded, it will redound as much to thy advantage as 
any I have yet given thee. And this is it:— 

“Never undertake to dispute nor decide any contro- 
versies concerning the pre-eminence of families; since, 
in the comparison, one must be better than the other: 
for he that is lessened by thee will hate thee, and the 
other whom thou preferest will not think himself 
obliged to thee. 

“As for thy dress, wear close breeches and hose, a 
long coat, and a cloak a little longer. I do not advise 
thee to wear wide-hnee’d breeches, or trunk hose, for 
they become neither swordsmen nor men of business. 

“This is all the advice, friend Sancho, I have to give 
thee at present. If thou takest care to let me hear 
from thee hereafter, I shall give thee more, according 
as thy occasions aud emergencies require.” 

“Sir,” said Sancho, “I see very well that all you 
have told me is mighty good, wholesome, and to the 
purpose; but what am I the better if Icannot keep it 
in my head? I grant you, I shall not easily forget that 
about pareing my nails, and marrying again, if I should 
have the luck to bury my wife. But for all that other 
gallimaufry, and heap of stuff, I can no more remember 
one syllable of it than the shapes of last year’s clouds. 
Therefore, let me have it in black and white, I beseech 
you. Itis true, I can neither write nor read, but 1 will 
giveitto my father-confessor, that he may beat and 
hammer itinto my noddle, as occasion serves.” 

“OQ Heaven!” cried Don Quixote, “how scandalous 
it looks in a governor not to be able to write or read! 
I must needs tell thee, Sancho, that for a man to be so 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


illiterate, or to be left-handed, implies that either his 
parents were very poor and mean, or that he was of so 
perverse a nature he could not receive the impressions 
of learning, nor anything that is good. Poor soul, I 
pity thee! this is indeed a great defect. I would have 
thee at least learn to write thy name.” 

“Oh! as for that,” quoth Sancho, “I can do well 
enough: Ican set my name; for when I served several 
offices in our parish, I learned to scrawl a sort of let- 
ters, such as they mark bundles of stuff with, which 
they told me spelt my name. Besides, I can pretend 
my right hand is lame, and so another shall sign for 
me; for there is a remedy for all things but death. 
And since I have the power, I will do as I list; for, as 
the saying is, ‘He whose father is judge, goes safe to 
his trial. And, asIam governor, I hope I am some- 
what higher than a judge. ‘New lords, new laws.’ 
Ay, ay, let them come as they will, and play at bo-peep. 
Let them backbite me to my face, I will bite-back the 
biters. Let them come for wool, and I will send them 
home shorn. ‘Whom God loves, his house happy 
proves.’ ‘The rich man’s follies pass for wise sayings 
in this werld.’ So I, being rich, do you see, and a gov- 
ernor, and too free-hearted into the bargain, as I intend 
to be, I shall have no faults at all.” 

“If thou dost not discharge the part of a good gover- 
nor,” replied Don Quixote, “thine will be the fault, 
though the shame and discredit will be mine. How- 
ever, this is my comfort, I have done my duty in giving 
thee the best and most wholesome advice I could: and 
so Heaven prosper and direct thee in thy government, 
and disappoint my fears for thy turning all things up- 
side down in that poor island.” 

“Look you, sir,” quoth Sancho; “if you think me not 
fit for this government, I will think no more on it. I 
hope T can live plain Sancho still, upon a luncheon of 
bread, and a clove of garlic, as contented as Governor 
Sancho upon capons and partridges. Death and sleep 
make us all alike, rich and poor, high and low. Do but 
call to mind what first put this whim of government 
into my noddle: you will find it was your own self; for, 
as for me, I know no more what belongs to islands and 
governors than a blind buzzard.” 

“These last words of thine, Sancho,” said Don Quix- 
ote, “in my opinion, prove thee worthy to govern a 
thousand islands. Thou hast naturally a good dispo- 
sition, without which all knowledge is insufficient. 
Recommend thyself to Divine Providence, and be sure 
never to depart from uprightness of intention; I mean, 
have still a firm purpose and design to be thoroughly 
informed in all the business that shall come before thee, 
and act upon just grounds, for Heaven always favors 
good desires. And so let us go to dinner, for I believe 
now the duke and duchess expects us.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CARRIED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL 


DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE. 


WE have it from the traditional account of this his- 
tory, that there is a manifest difference between the 
translation and the Arabic in the beginning of this 
chapter; Cid Hamet having, in the original, taken an 
occasion of criticising on himself, for undertaking so 
dry and limited a subject, which must confine him to 
the bare history of Don Quixote and Sancho, and debar 
him the liberty of launching into episodes and digres- 
sions, that might be of more weight and entertainment. 
To have his fancy, his hand, and pen bound up toa 
single design, and his sentiments confined to the mouths 
of so few persons, he urged as an insupportable toil, 
and of small credit to the undertaker; so that, to avoid 
this inconveniency, he has introduced into the first 
part some novels, as that of “The Captive,” which were 
in a manner distinct from the design, though the rest 
of the stories which he brought in there fall naturally 
enough in with Don Quixote’s affairs, and seem of ne- 
cessity to claim a place in the work. It was his opinion, 
likewise, as he told us, that the adventures of Don 
Quixote requiring so great a share of the reader’s atten- 
tion, his novels must expect but an indifferent recep- 
tion, or, at most, but a cursory view, not sufficient to 
discover their artificial contexture; which must have 
been very obvious, had they been published by them- 
selves, without the interludes of Don Quixote’s mad- 
ness or Sancho’s impertinence. He has, therefore, in 
this Second Part, avoided all distinct and independent 
stories, introducing only such as have the appearance 
of episodes, yet flow naturally from the design of the 
story, and these but seldom, and with as much brevity 
as they can be expressed. Therefore, since he has tied 
himself up to such narrow bounds, and confined his 
understanding and parts, otherwise capable of the most 
copious subjects, to the pure matter of this present 
undertaking, he begs it may add a value to his work, 
and that he may be commended, not so much for what 
he has written as for what he has forborne to write. 
And then he proceeds in his history as follows :— 

After dinner Don Quixote gave Sancho, in writing, 
the copy of his verbal instructions, ordering him to 
get somebody to read them to him. But the squire had 
no sooner got them, than he dropped the paper, which 
fell into the duke’s hands, who communicating the same 
to the duchess, they found a fresh occasion of admiring 

24—_DON QUIX. 





the mixture of Don Quixote’s good sense and extrava- 
gance; and so, carrying on the humor, they sent San- 
cho that afternoon, with a suitable equipage, to the 
place he was to govern, which, wherever it lay, was to 
be an island to him. 

It happened that the management of this affair was 
committed to a steward of the duke’s, a man of a face- 
tious humor, and who had not only wit to start a pleas- 
ant design, but discretion to carry it on—two qualifica- 
tions which make an agreeable consort when they meet, 
nothing being truly agreeable without good sense. He 
had already personated the Countess Trifaldi very 
successfully; and, with his master’s instructions in 
relation to his behavior towards Sancho, could not but 
discharge his trust to a wonder. Now it fell out that 
Sancho no sooner cast his eyes on the steward, than he 
fancied he saw.the very face of Trifaldi; and turning to 
his master, “1 shall wonder, sir,” quoth he, “if you 
don’t own that this same steward of the duke’s here 
has the very phiz of my Lady Trifaldi.” 

Don Quixote looked very earnestly on the steward, 
and having perused him from top to toe, “Sancho,” 
said he “thou needest not give thyself any trouble to 
confirm this matter; I see their faces are the very same. 
Yet, forall that, the steward and the Disconsolate Lady 
cannot be the same person, for that would imply a very 
great contradiction, and might involve us in more 
abstruse and difficult doubts than we have conveniency 
now to discuss or examine. Believe me, friend, our 
devotion cannot be too earnest, that we may be deliver- 
ed from the power of these enchantments.” 

“Indeed, sir,” quoth Sancho, “you may think I am 
in jest, but I heard him open just now, and I thought 
the very voice of Madam Trifaldi sounded in my ears. 
But mum is the word; I say nothing, though I shall 
watch his ways, to find out whether I am right or wrong 
in my suspicion.” 

“Well, do so,” said Don Quixote, “and fail not to 
acquaint me with all the discoveries thou canst make in 
this affair, and other occurrences in thy government.” 

Atlast Sancho set out with a numerons train. He 
was dressed like aman of the long robe, and wore over 
his other clothes a white sad-colored coat or gown, of 
watered camlet, and acap of the same stuff. He was 
mounted on a mule, and behind him, by the duke’s 

369 








z 
Al 
ARO 
jah 


“Tors 














«He kissed the duke and duchess’s hand at parting, and received his master’s benediction.” —p. 371. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


order, was led his Dapple, bridled and saddled like a 
horse of state, in gaudy trappings of silk; which so 
delighted Sancho, that every now and then he turned 
his head about to look upon him, and thought himself 
so happy, that now he would not have changed fortunes 
with the Emperor of Germany. He kissed the duke and 
duchess's hands at parting, and received his master's 
benediction, while the Don wept, and Sancho blubbered 
abundantly. 

Now reader, let the noble governor depart in peace, 
and speed him well. His administration in his govern- 
ment may perhaps make you laugh to some purpose, 
when it comes in play. But, in the meantime, let us 
observe the fortune of his master the same night; for 
though it do not make you laugh outright, it may 
chance to make you draw in your lips, and show your 
teeth like a monkey; forit is the property of his ad- 
ventures to create always either surprise or merriment. 

It is reported, then, that immediately upon Sancho's 
departure, Don Quixote found the want of his pres- 
ence; and, had it been in his power, he would have 
revoked his authority, and deprived him of his commis- 
sion. The duchess, perceiving his disquiet, and desir- 
ing to understand the cause of his melancholy, told him 
that if it was Sancho’s absence made him uneasy, she 
had squires enough, and damsels in her house, that 
should supply his place in any service he would be 
pleased to command them. “It is true, madam” an- 
swered Don Quixote, “I am somewhat concerned for 
the absence of Sancho; but there is a more material 
cause of my present uneasiness, and I must beg to be 
excused if, among the many obligations your grace is 
pleased to confer on me, I decline all but the good in- 
tention that has offered them. AJ] I have further to 
crave is your grace’s permission to be alone in my 
apartment, and be my own servant.” 

“Enough, enough, noble sir,” said the duchess; “I 
will give orders that not so much as the buzzing of a 
fly shall disturb you. May the great Dulcinea del To- 
boso live a thousand ages, and her fame be diffused all 
over the habitable globe, since she has merited the 
love of so valorous and loyal a knight; and may in- 
dulgent Heaven incline the heart of our governor, 
Sancho Panza, to put a speedy end to his discipline, 
that the beauties of so great a lady may be restored to 
the view of the admiring world! ” 

“Madam,” returned Don Quixote, “your grace has 
spoken like yourself; so excellent a lady could utter 
nothing but what denotes the goodness and generosity 
of her mind. And certainly, it will be Dulcinea’s par- 
ticular happiness to have been praised by you, for it 
will raise her character more to have had your grace 
for her panegyrist, than if the best orators in the world 
had labored to set it forth.” 

“Sir,” said the duchess, waiving this discourse, “it 
is supper-time, and my lord expects us. Come, then, 
let us to supper, that you may go to bed betimes, for 
you must needs be weary still with the long journey 
you took to Candaya yesterday.” 

“Indeed, madam,” answered Don Quixote, “I feel 
no manner of weariness; for I can safely swear to your 





311 


grace, that I never rode an easier beast, nor a better 
goer, than Clavileno. For my part, I cannot imagine 
what could induce Malambruno to part with so swift 
and gentle a horse, and to burn him too, in such a 
manner.” 

“It is to be supposed,” said the duchess, “that be- 
ing sorry for the harm he had done, not only to the 
Countess Trifaldi and her attendants, but to many 
others, and repenting of the bad deeds which, as a 
wizard and a necromancer, he doubtless had committed, 
he had a mind to destroy all the instruments of his 
wicked profession, and accordingly burnt Clavileno as 
the chief of them, that engine having served him te 
rove all over the world; or perhaps he did not think 
any man worthy of bestriding him after the great Don 
Quixote, and so, with his destruction, and the inscrip- 
tion which he has caused to be set up, he has eternized 
your valor.” 

Don Quixote returned his thanks to the duchess, and 
after supper retired to his chamber. He shut the door 
of his chamber after him, and undressed himself by the 
light of two wax candles. But, oh! the misfortune 
that befell him, unworthy of such a person. As he 
was straining to put off his hose, there fell about four- 
and-twenty stitches of one of his stockings, which 
made it look like a lattice window. The good knight 
was extremely afflicted, and would have given an ounce 
of silver for a drachm of green silk; green silk, I say; 
because his stockings were green. 

Here Benengeli could not forbear exclaiming, “Oh, 
poverty! poverty! what could induce that great Cordo- 
va poet to call thee a holy, thankless gift! Even I, 
that am a Moor, have learned by the converse I have 
had with Christians, that holiness consists in charity, 
in humility, in faith, in obedience, and in poverty. But 
sure, he who can be contented when poor, had need to be 
strengthened by God’s peculiar grace, unless the pov 
erty which is included among these virtues be only 
that poorness in spirit which teaches us to use the 
things of this world as if we had them not. But thou, 
second poverty, fatal indigence, of which I am now 
speaking, why dost thou intrude upon gentlemen, and 
affect well-born souls more than other people? Why 
dost thou reduce them to cobble their shoes, and wear 
some silk, some hair, and some glass buttons on the 
same tattered waistcoat, as if it were only to betray 
variety of wretchedness? Why must their ruffs be of 
such -a dismal hue, in rags, dirty, rumpled, and ill- 
starched ? (and by this you may see how ancient is the 
use of starch and rufís) How miserable is a poor 
gentleman, who, to keep up his honor, starves his per- 
son, fares sorrily, or fasts unseen, within his solitary, 
narrow apartment; then putting the best face he can 
upon the matter, comes out picking his teeth, though 
itis but an honorable hypocrisy, and though he has 
eaten nothing that requires that nice exercise! Un- 
happy he, whose honor is in continual alarm, who thinks 
that, at a mile's distance, every one discovers the patch 
in his shoe, the sweat of his forehead soaked through 
his old rusty trat, the bareness of his clothes, and the 
very hunger of his famished stomach!” 


372 DON 

All these melancholy reflections were renewed in Don 
Quixote’s mind by the rent in his stocking. However, 
for his consolation, he bethought himself that Sancho 
had left him a pair of light boots, which he designed to 
put on the next day. 

In short, to bed he went, with a pensive, heavy mind; 
the thought of Sancho’s absence, and the irreparable 
damage that his stocking had received, made him un- 
easy; he would have darned it, though it had been with 
silk of another color, one of the greatest tokens of want 
a poor gentleman can show during the course of his te- 
dious misery. At last he put out the lights, but it was 
sultry hot, and he could not compose himself to rest. 
Getting up, therefore, he opened a little shutter of a 
barred window, that looked into a fine garden, and was 
presently sensible that some people were walking and 
talking there. He listened, and as they raised their 
voices, he easily overheard their discourse. 

“No more, dear Emerenia,” said one to the other. 
“Do not press me to sing; you know that from the 
first moment this stranger came to the castle, and my 
unhappy eyes gazed on him, I have been too conver- 
sant with tears and sorrow to sing or relish songs. 
Alas! all music jars when the soul is out of tune. Be- 
sides, you know the least thing wakens my lady, and 1 
would not for the world she should find us here. But, 
grant she might not wake, what will my singing signify, 
if this new Lneas, who is come to our habitation to 
make me wretched, should be asleep, and not hear the 
sound of my complaint ?” 

“Pray, my dear Altisidora,” said the other, “do not 
make yourself uneasy with those thoughts; for, with- 
out doubt, the duchess is fast asleep, and everybody in 
the house but we and the lord of thy desires. He is 
certainly awake; I heard bim.open his window just 
now; then sing, my poor grieving creature, sing and 
join the melting music of the lute to the soft accents of 
thy voice. If my lady happen to hear us, we will pre- 
tend we came out fora little air. The heat within 
doors will be our excuse.” 

“ Alas! my dear,” replied Altisidora, “it is not that 
frightens me most: I would not have my song betray 
my thoughts, for those that do not know the mighty 
force of love will be apt to take me for a light and in- 
discreet creature; but yet, since it must be so, I will 
venture: better shame on the face, than sorrow in the 
heart.” 

This said, she began to touch her lute so sweetly that 
Don Quixote was ravished. At the same time, an in- 
finite number of adventures of this nature, such as he 
had read of in his idle books of knight-erranty; win- 
dows, grates, gardens, serenades, amorous meetings, 
parleys, and fopperies, all crowded into his imagina- 
tion, and he presently fancied that one of the duchess’s 
damsels was fallen in love with him, and struggled with 
her modesty to conceal her passion. He began to be ap- 
prehensive of the danger to which his fidelity was 
exposed, but yet firmly determined to withstand the 
powerful allurement; and so, recommending himself, 
with a great deal of fervency, to his Lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso, he resolved to hear the music; and, to let the 


QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


serenading ladies know he was awake, he feined a kind 
of sneeze, which did not a little please them, for it was 
the only thing they wanted, to be assured their jest 
was not lost. With that, Altisidora, having tuned her 
lute afresh, after a flourish, began the following song :— 


THE MOCK SERENADE: 


Wake, Sir Knight, now love's invading, 
Sleep in sheets of holland no more; 
When a nymph is serenading, 
‘Tis an arrant shame to snore. 


Hear a dameel, tall and slender, 
Mourning in most ruefal guise, 
With heart almost burn'd to cinder, 

By the sunbeame of thy eyes. 


To free damsels from disaster 
Is, they say, your daily care; 

Can you, then, deny a plaister 
To a wounded virgin here? 


Tell me, doughty youth, who cursed thee 
With such humors and ill-lnck? 

Was ‘t some sullen bear dry-nursed thee, 
Or she-dragon gave thee suck? 


Dulcinea, that virago, 
Well may brag of such a kid; 
Now her name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 


Would she but her prize surrender, 
(Judge how on thy face 1 dote!) 

In exchange I'd gladly send her 
My 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 Iask too much sincerely, 
And I doubt I must ne'er do *t; 

I'd but kiss thy toe, and fairly 
Get the length thus of thy foot. 


How I'd rig thee, and what richca 
Should be heap'd upon thy bones; 
Caps and socks, and cloaks and breecher, 
Matchless pearls and precious stones, 


Do not from above, like Nero, 
See me burn, and slight my woel 
But, to quench my fires, my hero 
Cast a pitying eye below. 


I'm a virgin-pulley, truly, 
One more tender ne'er was seen, 
A mere chicken, fledg'd but newly; 
Hang me if I'm yet fifteen. 


Wind and limb, all’s tight about me, 
My hair dangles to my feet; 

Iam straight, too; if you doubt me, 
Trust your eyes, come down and see 't, 


I've a bob-nose has no fellow, 
And a sparrow’s mouth as rare; 

Teeth like topazes All yellow, 

Yet I'm deemed a beanty here. 


You know what a rare musician 

(If you'd hearken) courts your choice; 
] can say my disposition 

Is as taking as my voice, 


These, and such like charms, I've plenty: 
I’m a dameel of this place; 

Let Altisidora tempt ye, 
Or she’s in a woful case. 


Here the courting damsel ended ber song, and the 
courted knight began his expostulation. “ Why,” said 
he, with a sigh heaved from the bottom of his heart, 





“why must I be so unhappy a knight, that no damsel 





ANN 


ANN 
\ 
\ 
NN 
| IN \ 





““ Here the courting damsel ended her song.” —372. 


374 


can gaze on me without falling in love? Why must the 
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso be so unfortunate as not 
to be permitted the single enjoyment of my transcend- 
ant fidelity? Queens, why do you envy her? Em- 
presses, why do you persecute her? Damsels of fifteen, 
why do you attempt to deprive her of her right? 
Leave, oh, leave the unfortunate fair! Let her triumph, 
glory, and rejoice in the quiet possession of the heart 
which love has allotted her, and the absolute sway 
which she bears over my yielding soul. Away, unwel- 
come crowd of loving impertinents; Dulcinea alone 
can soften my manly temper, and mould me as she 
pleases. For her I am all sweetness; for you I am bit- 
terness itself. There is to me no beauty, no prudence, 
no modesty, no gaiety, no nobility among your sex, but 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


in Dulcinea alone. All other women seem to be de- 
formed, silly, wanton, and base born, when compared 
with her. Nature brought me forth only that I should 
be devoted to her service. Let Altisidora weep or sing, 
let the lady despair on whose account I have received 
so many blows in the disastrous castle of the enchanted 
Moor, still I am Dulcinea's, and hers alone, dead or 
alive; dutiful, unspotted, and unchanged, in spite of 
all the necromantic powers in the world.” This said, 
he hastily clapped down the window, and flung himself 
into his bed with as high an indignation as if he had re- 
ceived some great affront. There let us leave him a 
while, in regard the great Sancho Panza calls upon us 
to see him commence his famous government. 











CHAPTER XLV. 


HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOUK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND IN WHAT MANNER HE BEGAN 


TO GOVERN. 


OH THOU perpetual surveyor of the antipodes, bright 
luminary of the world, and eye of heaven! sweet fer- 
menter of liquids! here Timbrius called, there Phoebus; 
in one place an archer, in another a physician; parent 
of poesy and inventor of music; perpetual mover of the 
universe, who, though thou seemest sometimes to set, 
art always rising! oh, sun, on thee I call for help! In- 
spire me, I beseech thee! Warm and illumine my 
gloomy imagination, that my narration may keep pace 
with the great Sancho Panza’s actions through his 
government; for without thy powerful influence, I feel 
myself benumbed, dispirited, and confused. 

Now I proceed. 

Sancho, with all his attendants, came to a town that 
had about a thousand inhabitants, and was one of the 
best where the duke hadany power. They gave him to 
understand that the name of the place was the island 
of Barataria, either because the town was called Bara- 
taria, or because the government cost him so cheap. As 
soon as he came to the gates (for it was walled), the 
chief officers and inhabitañts, in their formalities, came 
out to receive him, the bell rung, and all the people 
gave demonstrations of theirjoy. The new governor 
was then carried in pomp to the great church, to give 
Heaven thanks; and, after some ridiculous ceremonies, 
they delivered him the keys of the gates, and received 
him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. 
In the meantime, the garb, the port, the huge beard, 
and the short and thick shape of the new governor, 
made every one who knew nothing of the jest wonder; 
and even those who were privy to the plot, who were 
many, were not a little surprised. 

In short, from the church they carried him to the 
vourt of justice; where, when they had placed him in 





his seat; “My lord governor,” said the duke's steward, 
“it is an ancient custom here, that he who takes pos- 
session of this famous island must answer some intri- 
cate question; and, by the return he makes, the people 
feel the pulse of his understanding, and, by an estimate 
of his abilities, judge whether they ought to rejoice or 
to be sorry for his coming.” 

All the while the steward was speaking, Sancho was 
staring on an inscription in large characters on the 
wall over against his seat; and, as he could not read, 
he asked what was the meaning of that which he saw 
painted there on the wall. 

“Sir,” said they, “it is an account of the day when 
your lordship took possession of this island; and the 
inscription runs thus: ‘This day, being such a day of 
this month, in such a year, the Lord Don Sancho Panza 
took possession of this island, which may he long 
enjoy.” 

“And who is he,” asked Sancho, “whom they call 
Don Sancho Panza.” 

“Your lordship,” answered the steward; “for we 
know of no otber Panza in this island.” 

“Well, friend,” said Sancho, “pray take notice that 
Don does not belong to me, nor was it borne by any of 
my family before me. Plain Sancho Panza is my name; 
my father was called Sancho, my grandfather Sancho, 
and all of us have been Panzas, without any Don or 
Donna added to our name. Now do 1 really guess your 
Dons are as thick as stones on this island. But it is 
enough that Heaven knows my meaning. If my gov- 
ernment happens to last but four days to an end, it 
shall go hard but I will clear the island of those 
swarms of Dons that must needs be as troublesome as 
so many flesh-flies. Come, now for your question, good 

















The Lord Governor Sancho Panza administering justice.—876. 


376 


Mr. Steward, and 1 will answer itas well as 1 can, 
whether the town be sorry or pleased.” 

At the same instant two men came into the court, the 
one dressed like a country fellow, the other like a 
tailor, with á pair of shears in his hand. “If it please 
you, my lord,” cried the tailor, “I and this furmer here 
are come before your worship. This honest man came 
to my shop yesterday, for, saving your presence, I am 
a tailor ; so, my lord, he showed mea piece of cloth. 
‘Sir,’ quoth he, ‘is there enough of this to make a cap?” 
Whereupon I measured the stuff, and answered him, 
‘Yes, if it like your worship.’ Now, as I imagined, do 
you see, he could not but imagine (and perhaps he 
imagined right enough) that I had a mind to cabbage 
some of the cloth, judging hard of us honest tailors. 
‘Pr’ythee,’ quoth he, ‘look there be not enough for two 
cups.’ Now I smelt him out, and told him there was. 
Whereupon the old knave (if it like your worship), go- 
ing on to the same tune, bid me look again and see 
whether it would not make three; and at last, if it 
would not make five. I was resolved to humor my 
customer, and said it might; so we struck a bargain. 
Just now the man is come for his caps, which I gave 
him, but when I asked him for my money, he will have 
me give me his cloth again, or pay him for it.” 

“Ts this true, honest man?” said Sancho to the 
farmer. 

“Yes, if it please you,” answered the fellow; “but 
pray, let him show the five caps.” 

“With all my heart,” cried the tailor; and with that, 
pulling his hand from under his cloak, he held up five 
little tiny caps, hanging upon his four fingers und 
thumb, as upon so many pins. “There,” quoth he, 
“vou see the five caps this good gaffer asks for; and 
may I never whip a stitch more if I have wronged him 
of the least snip of his cloth.” 

The sight of the caps, and the oddness of the cause, 
set the whole court a-laughing. Only Sancho sat 
gravely considering a while, and then, “Methinks,” 
said he; “this suit here needs not be long depending, 
but may be decided without any more ado, with a great 
deal of equity; and therefore the judgment of the 
court is, that the tailor shall lose his making, and the 
countrymen his cloth, and that the caps be given to 
the poor prisoners, and so let there be an end of the 
business.” 

If this sentence provoked the laughter of the whole 
court, the next no less raised their admiration. For 
after the governor’s order was executed, two old men 
appeared before him, one of them with a large cane in 
his hand, which he used as a staff. “My lord,” said the 
other, who had none, “some time ago I lent this man 
ten gold crowns to do him a kindness, which money he 
was to repay me on demand. I did not ask him for it 
again in a good while, lest it should prove a greater 
inconveniency to him to repay me then he labored 
under when he borrowed it! However, perceiving that 
he tovk no care to pay me, I have asked him for my 
due; nay, Ihave been forced to dun him hard for it. 
But stillhe did not only refuse to pay me again, but 
denied he owed me anything, and said, that if Ilent 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


him so much money, he certainly returned it. Now, 
because I have no witnesses of the loan, nor he of the 
pretended payment, I beseech your lordship to put him 
to his oath, and if he will swear he has paid me,I will 
freely forgive him before God and the world.” 

“What say you to this, old gentleman with the staff?” 
asked Sancho. 

“Sir,” answered the old man, “I own he lent me the 
gold; and since he requires my oath, I beg you will be 
pleased to hold down your rod of justice, that I may 
swear upon it how I have honestly and truly returned 
him his money.” 

Thereupon the governor held down his rod, and in 
the meantime the defendant gave his cane to the plain- 
tiff to hold, as if it hindered him, while he was to make 
a cross and swear over the judge’s rod. This done, he 
declared that it. was true the other had lent him ten 
crowns, but that he had really returned him the same 
sum into his own hands; and that because he supposed 
the plaintiff had forgotten it, he was continually asking 
him for it. The great governor hearing this, asked the 
creditor what he had to reply. He made answer, that 
since his adversary had sworn it, he was satisfied, for 
he believed him to be a better Christian than offer to 
forswear himself, and that perhaps he had forgotten he 
had been repaid. Then the defendant took his cane 
again, and having made a low obeisance to the judge, 
was immediately leaving the court, which, when Sancho 
perceived, reflecting on the passage of the cane, and 
admiring the creditor’s patience, after he had studied 
awhile with his head leaning over his stomach, and his 
fore-finger on his nose, on a sudden he ordered the old 
man with the staff to be called back. When he was 
returned, “Honest man,” said Sancho, “let me see that 
cane a little, I have a use for it.” 

“With all my heart,” answered the other; “sir, here 
it is.” 

And with that he gave it him. Sancho took it, and 
giving it to the other old man, “There,” said he, “go 
your ways, and Heaven be with you, for now you are 
paid.” 

“How so, my lord?” cried the old man; “do you 
judge this cane to be worth ten gold crowns ?” 

“Certainly,” said the governor, “or else I am the 
greatest dunce in the world. And now you shall see 
whether I have not a head-piece fit to govern a whole 
kingdom upon a shift.” 

This said, he ordered the cane to be broken in open 
court, which was no sooner done, than out dropped the 
ten crowns. All the spectators were amazed, and be- 
gan to look on their governor as a second Solomon. 
They asked him how he could conjecture that the ten 
crowns were in the cane. He told them that, having 
observed how the defendant gave it to the plaintiff to 
hold while he took his oath, and then swore he had 
truly returned him the money into his own hands, after 
which he took his cane again from the plaintiff; this 
considered, it came into his head that the money was 
lodged within the reed; from whence may be learned, 
that though sometimes those that govern are destitute 
of sense, yet it often pleases God to direct them in 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


their judgment. 


317 


Besides, he had heard the curate of ¡beholders were astonished; insomuch, that the person 


his parish tell of such another business, and he had so | who was commissioned to register Sancho's words and 
special a memory, that were it not that he was so un-|actions, and observe his behavior, was not able to de- 


lucky as to forget all he had a mind to remember, there 
could not have been a better in the whole island. 
last the two old men went away, the one to his satisfac- 
tion, the other with much shame and disgrace; and the 


termine whether he should not give him the character 


Atlof a wise man, instead of that of a fool, which he had 


been thought to deserve. 








CHAPTER XLVI. 


OF THE DREADFUL ALARM GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE 


BY THE BELLS AND CATS, DURING THE COURSE OF 


ALTISIDORA’S AMOUR. 


WE left the great Don Quixote profoundly buried in 
the thoughts into which the enamored Altisidora’s ser- 
enade had plunged him. He threw himself into his 
bed, but the cares and anxieties which he brought 
thither with him, like so many insects, allowed him no 
repose, and the misfortune of his torn stocking added 
to his affliction. But as time is swift, and no bolts nor 
chains can bar his rapid progress, posting away on the 
wings of the hours, the morning came on apace. At 
the return of light, Don Quixote, more early than the 
sun, forsook his downy bed, put on his chamois apparel, 
and, drawing on his walking boots, concealed in one of 
them the disaster of his hose. He threw his scarlet 
cloak over his shoulder, and clapped on his valiant 
head his cap of green velvet edged with silver lace. 
Over his right shoulder he hung his belt, the sustainer 
of his trusty, executing sword. Round his wrist he 
wore the rosary, which he always carried about him; 
and thus accoutred, with a great deal of state and 
majesty, he moved towards the ante-chamber, where 
the duke and duchess were ready dressed, and, in a 
manner, expecting his coming. As he went through a 
gallery, he met Altisidora and her companion, who 
waited for him in the passage; and no sooner did Altisi- 
dora espy him, than she dissembled a swooning fit, and 
immediately dropped into the arms of her friend, who 
presently began to unlace her dress; which Don Quix- 
ote perceiving, he approached, and, turning to the 
damsel, “I know the meaning of all this,” said he,“ and 
whence these accidents proceed.” 

“You know more than I do,” answered the assisting 
damsel; “but this I am sure of, that hitherto there is 
not a damsel in this house that has enjoyed her health 
better than Altisidora. I never knew her make the 
least complaint before. A vengeance seize all the 
knights-errant in the world, if they are all so ungrate- 
ful. Pray, my Lord Don Quixote, retire, for this poor 
young creature will not come to herself while you are 
b 2 

EOS answered the knight, “I beg that a lute 
may be left in my chamber this evening, that I may 
assuage this lady’s grief as well as I can; for in the 
beginning of an amour, a speedy and free discovery of 





our aversion or pre-engagement is the most effectual 
cure.” 

This said, he left them, that he might not be found 
alone with them by those that might happen to go by. 
He was scarce gone when Altisidora’s counterfeited fit 
was over; and, turning to her companion, “ By all 
means,” said she, “let him have a lute; for without 
doubt the knight has a mind to give us some music 
and we shall have sport enough.” 

Then they went and acquainted the duchess with 
their proceeding, and Don Quixote’s desiring a lute; 
whereupon, being overjoyed at the occasion, she plot- 
ted with the duke and her woman a new contrivance, 
to have a little harmless sport with the Don. After 
this they awaited, with a pleasing impatince, the return 
of night, which stole upon them as fast as had done 
the day, which the duke and duchess passed in agree- 
able converse with Don Quixote. The same day she 
dispatched a trusty page of hers, who had personated 
Dulcinea in the wood, to Teresa Panza, with her hus- 
band’s letter, and the bundle of clothes which he had 
left behind him, charging him to bring her back a faith- 
ful account of every particular between them. 

At last, it being eleven o’clock at night, Don Quixote 
retired to his apartment, and finding a lute there, he 
tuned it, opened the window, and perceiving there was 
somebody walking in the garden, he ran over the strings 
of the instrument; and having tuned it again as nicely 
as he could, he coughed and cleared his throat, and 
then, with a voice somewhat hoarse, yet not unmusical, 
he sung the following song, which he had composed 
himself that very day :— 


THE ADVICE. 
Love, a strong designing foe, 
Careless hearts with ease deceives; 
Can thy breast resist his blow, 
Which your sloth unguarded leaves? 


If you're idle, you're destroy’d, 
All his art on you he tries; 

But be watchful and employ‘d, 
Straight the baffled temper flies. 


Maids for modest grace admired, 

If they would their fortunes raise, 
Must in silence live retired; 

“Tis their virtue speaks their praise. 








i 


Would i E 
Oi: 








Lie 
fig 


LEE 











“Pray, my Lord Don Quixote, retire, for this poor young creature will not come to herself while you are by.”—376. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Prudent men in this agree, 

Whether arms or courts they use; 
They may trifle with the free, 

But for wives the virtuous choose. 


Wanton loves, which, in their way, 
Roving travellers put on, 

In the morn are fresh and gay, 
In the evening cold and gone. 


Loves, that come with eager haste, 
Still with equal haste depart; 
For an image ill imprest 
Soon is vanish'd from the heart. 


On a picture fair and true 
Who would paint an other face ? 
Sure no beauty can subdue, 
While a greater holds the place. 


The divine Tobosan fair, 

Dulcinea, claims me whole; 
Nothing can her image tear; 

‘Tis one substance with my soul. 


Then let fortune smile or frown, 
Nothing shall my faith remove; 

Constant truth, the lover’s crown, 
Can work miracles in love. 


No sooner had Don Quixote made an end of his song, 
to which the duke, duchess, Altisidora, and almost all 
the people in the castle, listened all the while, than on 
a sudden, from an open gallery that was directly ove~ 
the knight’s window, they let down a rope, with at least 
a hundred little tinkling bells hanging about it. After 
that came down a number of cats, poured out of a huge 
sack, all of them with smaller bells tied to their tails. 
The jangling of the bells, and the squalling of the cats, 
made such a dismal noise, that the very contrivers of 
the jest themselves were scared for a time, and Don 
Quixote was strangely surprised, and quite dismayed. 
At the same time, as ill luck would have it, two or three 
frighted cats leaped in through the bars of his chamber 
window, and, running up and down the room like so 
many evil spirits, one would have thought a whole le- 
gion of them had been flying about the chamber. They 
put out the candles that stood lighted there, and en- 
deavored to get out. Meanwhile the rope, with the 
bigger bells upon it, was pulled up and down, and 
those who knew nothing of the contrivance were 
greatly surprised. At last, Don Quixote, recovering 
from his astonishment, drew his sword, and fenced and 
laid about him at the window, crying aloud, “Avaunt, 
ye wicked enchanters! hence, scoundrels! for I am 
Don Quixote de la Mancha, and all your devices can- 
not work their ends against me.” And then, running 
after the cats that frisked about the room, he began 
to thrust and cut at them furiously, while they strove 





379 


to get out. At last they made their escape at the 
window, all but one of them, who, finding himself hard 
put to it, flew in his face, and laying hold on his nose 
with his claws and teeth, puthim to such pain, that the 
Don began to roar our as loud as he could. Thereupon 
the duke and the duchess, imagining the cause of his 
outcry ran to his assistance immediately: and, having 
opened the door of his chamber with a master k y, 
found the poor knight struggling hard with the cat, 
that would not quit its hold. By the light of the 
candles whioh they had with them, they saw the. 
unequal combat. The duke oftered to interpose, and 
take off the animal, but Don Quixote would not permit. 
him. “Let nobody take him off ” cried he; “let me 
alone hand to hand with this fiend, this sorcerer, this. 
necromancer! I'll make him know what it is to deal 
with Don Quixote de la Mancha.” But the cat not 
minding his threats, growled on, and still held fast, till 
at length the duke got its claws unhooked from the 
knight’s flesh, and flung the beast out at the window. 
Don Quixote’s face was hideously scratched, and his 
nose in no very good condition. Yet nothing vexed 
him so much as that they had rescued out of his hands 
that villainous necromancer. Immediately some oint- 
ment was sent for, and Altisidora herself, with her own 
lily-white hands, applied some plasters to his sores, and 
whispering in his ear, as she was dressing him, “Cruel, 
hard-hearted knight!” said she, “all these disasters are 
befallen thee as a just punishment for thy obdurate 
stubbornness and disdain. May thy squire Sancho for- 
get to whip himself, that thy darling Dulcinea may 
never be delivered from her enchantment, nor thou be 
ever blessed with her embraces, at least as long as I, 
thy neglected adorer, live.” 

Don Quixote made no answer at all to this, only he 
heaved a profound sigh, and went to take his repose, 
after he had returned the duke and duchess thanks, 
not so much for their assistance against that rascally 
crew of caterwauling and jangling enchanters, for he 
defied them all, but for their kindness and good intent. 
Then the duke and duchess left him, not a little 
troubled at the miscarriage of their jest, which they did 
not think would have proved so fatal to the knight, as 
to oblige him, as it did, to keep his chamber five days, 
during which time there happened to him another ad- 
venture, more pleasant than the last, which, however, 
cannot be now related, for the historian must return to 
Sancho Panza, who was very busy and no less pleasant 
in his government. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


A FURTHER ACCOUNT OF SANCHO PANZA'S BEHAVIOUR IN HIS GOVERNMENT. 


THE history informs us that Sancho was conducted 
from the court of justice to a sumptuous palace, where, 
in a spacious room, he found the cloth laid, and a most 
neat and magnificent entertainment prepared. As soon 
as he entered, the wind-music played and four pages 
waited on him, in order to the washing his hands, which 
he did with a great deal of gravity. And now the 
instruments ceasing, Sancho sat down at the upper end 
of the table, for there was no seat but there, and the 
cloth was only laid for one. A certain personage, who 
afterwards appeared to be a physician, came and stood 
at his elbow, with a whalebone wand in his hand. 
Then they took off a curious white cloth that lay over 
the dishes on the table, and discovered great variety of 
fruit, and other eatables. One that looked like a 
student said grace; a page put a laced bib under San- 
cho’s chin, and another, who did the office of server, 
set a dish of fruit before him. But he had hardly put 
one bit into his mouth, before the physician touched 
the dish with his wand, and then it was taken away by 
a page in an instant. Immediately another, with meat, 
was clapped in the place, but Sancho no sooner offered 
to taste it than the doctor, with the wand, conjured it 
away as fast as the fruit. Sancho was amazed at this 
sudden removal, and looking about him on the company, 
asked them, whether they used to tantalize people at 
that rate, feeding their eyes and starving their bellies. 

“My lord governor,” answered the physician, “you 
are to eat here no otherwise than according to the use 
and custom of other islands where there are governors. 
I am a doctor of physic, my lord, and have a salary 
allowed me in this island for taking charge of the gov- 
ernor’s health, and I am more careful of it than of my 
own, studying night and day his constitution, that I 
may know what to prescribe when he falls sick. Now, 
the chief thing I do is to attend him always at his meals, 
to let him eat what I think convenient for him, and to 
prevent his eating what I imagine to be prejudicial to 
his health, and offensive to his stomach. Therefore I 
now ordered the fruit to be taken away, because it is 
too cold and moist; and the other dish, because it is as 
much too hot, and over-seasoned with spices, which are 
apt to increase thirst; and he that drinks much destroys 
and consumes the radical moisture, which is the fuel of 
life.” 





“So, then,” quoth Sancho, “this dish of roasted par- 
tridges can do me no manner of harm.” 

“Hold,” said the physician, “the lord governor shall 
not eat of them while I live to prevent it.” 

“Why so!” cried Sancho. “Because,” answered the 
doctor, “our great master, Hippocrates, the north star 
and luminary of physic, says, in one of his aphorisms, 
Omnis saturatio mala, perdicis autem pessima; that is, 
‘All repletion is bad, but that of partridges is worst of 
Ay Oa 

“Tf it be so,” said Sancho, “let Mr. Doctor see which 
of all these dishes on the table will do me the most 
good and least harm, and let me eat my bellyful of 
that, without having it whisked away with his wand. 
For, by my hopes and the pleasures of government, as 
I live, I am ready to die with hunger; and not to allow 
me to eat any victuals (let Mr. Doctor say what he will), 
is the way to shorten my life, and not to lengthen it.” 

“Very true, my lord,” replied the physician; “how- 
ever, I am of opinion you ought uot to eat of these 
rabbits, as being a hairy, furry sort of food; nor would 
I have youtaste that veal. Indeed, if it were neither 
roasted nor pickled, something might be said; but, as it 
is, it must not be.” 

“Well, then,” said Sancho, “what think you of that 
huge dish yonder, that smokes so? I take it to be an 
olla podrida; and that being a hodge-podge of so many 
sorts or victuals, sure I cannot but light upon some- 
thing there that will nick me, and be both wholesome 
and toothsome.” 

“ Absit!” cried the doctor; “far be such an ill thought 
from us. No diet in the world yields worse nutriment 
than those mish-mashes do. No, leave that luxurious 
compound to your rich monks and prebendaries, your 
masters of colleges and lusty feeders at country wed- 
dings; but let them not encumber the tables of gov- 
ernors, where nothing but delicate, unmixed viands, in 
their prime, ought to make their appearance. The 
reason is, that simple medicines are generally allowed 
to be better than compounds; for in a composition 
there may happen a mistake, by the unequal propor- 
tion of the ingredients; but simples are not subject to 
that accident. Therefore, what I would advise at pres- 
ent, as a diet fit for the governor, for the preservation 
and support of his health, is a hundred of small wafers, 

380 








SS 
a) 


SEES 


oo 














= 
We 





if 








Wie 











«© Absit /’ cried the doctor.” —380. 


382 DON QUIXOTE 
and a few thin slices of marmalade, to strengthen his 
stomach, and help digestion.” Sancho, hearing this, 
leaned back in his chair, and, looking earnestly in the 
doctor’s face, very seriously asked him what his name 
was, and where he had studied? “My lord,” answered 
he, “I am called Dr. Pedro Rezio de Aguero. The 
name of the place where I was born is Tirteafuera, and 
lies between Caraquel and Almodabar del Campo, on 
the right hand; and I took my degree of doctor in the 
University of Ossuna.” 

“Hark you,” said Sancho, in a mighty chafe, “Mr. 
Doctor Pedro Rezio de Aguero, born at Tirteafuera, 
that lies between Caraquel and Almodabar del Campo, 
on the right hand, and who took your degrees of doctor 
at the University of Ossuna, and so forth, take your- 
self away! Avoid the room this moment, or, by the 
sun’s light, I'll get me a good cudgel, and, beginning 
with your carcase, will so belabor and rib-roast all the 
physic-mongers in the island, that I will not leave 
therein one of the tribe of those, I mean, that are igno- 
rant quacks; for, as for learned and wise physicians, I 
will make much of them, and honor them like so many 
angels. Once more, Pedro Rezio, I say, get out of my 
presence. Avaunt! or I will take the chair 1 sit upon, 
and comb your head with it to some purpose, and let 
me be called to an account about it when Í give up my 
office; I do not care, I will clear myself by saying I did 
the world good service in ridding it of a bad physician, 
the plague of a commonwealth. Bless me! let me eat, 
or let them take the government again; for an office 
that will not afford a man his victuals is not worth two 
horse-beans.” The physician was terrified, seeing the 
governor in such a heat, and would that moment have 
slunk out of the room, had not the sound of a post-horn 
in the street been heard; whereupon the steward, im- 
mediately looking out of the window, turned back, and 
said there was an express come from the duke, doubt- 
less with some despatch of importance. 

Presently the messenger entered sweating, with haste 
and concern in his looks, and, pulling a packet out of 
his bosom, delivered it to the governor. Sancho gave 
it to the steward, and ordered him to read the direction, 
which was this: “To Don Sancho Panza, governor of 
the island of Barataria, to be delivered into his own 
hands, or those of his secretary.” 

“Who is my secretary ?” asked Sancho. 

“It is I, my lord,” answered one that was standing 
by; “for 1 can read and write, and I am a Biscayner.” 

“That last qualification is enough to make thee set 
up for secretary to the emperor himself,” said Sancho. 
“Open the letter, then, and see what it says.” The 
new secretary did so, and, having perused the despatch 
by himself, told the governor that it was a business that 
was to be told only in private. Sancho ordered every 
one to leave the room, except the steward and the 
carver, and then the secretary read what follows:— 

“T have received information, my Lord Don Sancho 
Panza, that some of our enemies intend to attack your 
island with great fury, one of these nights. You ought, 
therefore, to be watchful, and stand upon your guard, 





that you may not be found unprovided. I have also 


DE LA MANCHA. 


had intelligence from faithful spies, that there are four 
men got into the town in disguise to murder you, your 
abilities being regarded as a great obstacle to the ene- 
my’s designs. Look about you, take heed how you 
admit strangers to speak with you, and eat nothing 
that is laid before you. I will take care to send you 
assistance if you stand in need of it. And, in every- 
thing, I rely on your prudence. From our castle, the 
15th of August, at four in the morning.—Your friend, 
THE DUKE.” 

Sancho was astonished at the news, and those that 
were with him were no less concerned. But, at last, 
turning to the steward, “I will tell you,” said he, “what 
is first to be done in this case, and that with all speed. 
Clap me that same Doctor Rezio in a dungeon, for, if 
anybody has a mind to kill me, it must be he, and that 
with a lingering death, the worst of deaths—hunger- 
starving.” 

“However,” said the carver, “I am of opinion your 
honor ought not to eat any of the things that stand 
here before you, for they were sent in by some of the 
convents; and it is a common saying, ‘The devil lurks 
behind the cross.” 

“Which nobody can deny,” quoth Sancho; “and 
therefore, let me have for the present but a luncheon 
of bread and some four pound of raisins; there can be 
no poison in that; for, in short, I cannot live without 
eating; and, if we must be in readiness against these 
battles, we had need be well victualled, for it is the 
belly keeps us the heart, and not the heart the belly. 
Meanwhile, secretary, do you send my lord duke an 
answer, and tell him his order shall be fulfilled in every 
part, without fail. Remember me kindly to my lady 
duchess, and beg of her not to forget to send one on 
purpose, with my letter and bundle, to Teresa Panza, 
my wife, which I shall take as a special favor, and I 
will be mindful to serve her to the best of my power. 
And when your hand is in, you may crowd in my ser- 
vice to my master, Don Quixote de la Mancha, that he 
may see I am neither forgetful nor ungrateful. The 
rest I leave to you; put in what you will, and do your 
part like a good secretary and a staunch Biscayner. 
Now, take away here, and bring me something to eat, 
and then you shall see that I am able to deal with all 
the spies, wizards, and cut-throat dogs that dare to 
meddle with me and my island.” 

At that time, a page entering the room, “My lord,” 
said he, “there is a countryman without desires to speak 
with your lordship about business of great conse- 
quence.” 

“It is a strange thing,” cried Sancho, “that one must 
still be plagued with these men of business! Is it pos- 
sible they should be such sots, as not to understand 
that this is not atime for business? Do they fancy that 
we governors and distributors of justice are made of 
iron and marble, and have no need of rest and refresh- 
ment, like other creatures of flesh and blood? Well, 
before heaven, and on my conscience, if my government 
does but last, as I shrewdly guess it will not, I will get 
some of these men of business laid by the heels. Well, 
for once, let the fellow come in; but, first, take heed he 


a 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


be not one of the spies or ruffian rogues that would 
murder me.” 

“ As for that,” said the page, “I dare say he had no 
hand in the plot. Poor soul! he looks as if he could 
not not help it. There is no more harm in him seem- 
ingly, than in a piece of good bread.” 

“There is no need to fear,” said the steward, “since 
we are all here by you.” 

“But, hark you,” quoth Sancho, “now Doctor Rezio 
is gone, might I not eatsomething that has some sub- 
stance in it, though it were but a crust and an onion?” 

“ Atnight,” answered the carver, “your honor shall 
have no cause to complain; supper shall make amends 
for the want of your dinner.” 

“Heaven grant it may.” said Sancho. 

Now the countryman came in, and by his looks seem- 
ed to be a good, harmless, silly soul. As soon as he 
entered the room, “Which ismy lord governor?” quoth 
he. 

“Who but he that sits in the chair?” answered the 
secretary. 

“TI humble myself to his worship’s presence,” quoth 
the fellow; and with that, falling on his knees, begged 
to kiss his hand, which Sancho refused, but bid him 
rise, and tell him what he had to say. The country- 
man then got up: “My lord,” quoth he, “I am a 
husbandman of Miguel Turra, a town some two leagues 
from Cidudad-Real.” 

” Here is another Tirteafuera,” quoth Sancho. “Well, 
go on, friend; I know the place full well: it is not far 
from our town.” 

“If it please you,” said the countryman, “my business 
is this: I was married, by Heaven’s mercy, in the face 
of our holy mother, the Roman Catholic Church, and I 
have two boys that take their learning at the college; 
the youngest studies to become a bachelor, and the 
eldest to be a master of arts. I am a widower, because 
my wife is dead; she died, if it please you, or, to speak 
more truly, she was killed, as a body may say, by a 
doctor, who gave her a wrong medicine.” 

“So, then,” quoth Sancho, “had not your wife died, 
or had they not made her die, you had not been a 
widower.” 

“Very true,” answered the man. 

“We are much the nearer,” cried Sancho; “go on, 
honest friend, and pr’ythee dispatch, for it is rather 
time to take an afternoon’s nap, than to talk of 
busines.” 

“Now, sir, I must tell you,” continued the farmer, 
“that that son of mine, the bachelor of arts that is to be, 
fell in love with a maiden of our town, Clara Perlerino 
by name, the daughter of Andrew Pelerino, a mighty 
rich farmer; and Pelerino is not the right name neither, 
but, because the whole generation of them is troubled 
with the palsy, they used to be called, from the name 
of that ailing, Perlaticos, but now they go by that of 
Perlerino; and, truly, it fits the young woman rarely, 
for she is a precious pearl for beauty, especially if you 
stand on her right side, and view her—she looks like a 
flower in the fields. On the left, indeed, she does not 
look altogether so well, for there she wants an eye, 


” 





383 


which she lost by the small pox, that has digged many 
pits somewhat deep all over her face; but those that wish 
her well say that is nothing, and that those pits are so 
many graves to bury lovers’ hearts in. She is so cleanly, 
that, because she will not have her nose drop upon her 
lips, she carries it cocked up; and her nostrils are 
turned up on each side, as if they shunned her mouth, 
that is somewhat of the widest; but, for all that, she 
looks exceedingly well; and, were it not for some ten 
or dozen of her butter-teeth and grinders which she 
wants, she might set up for one of the cleverest lasses 
in the country. As for her lips, I do not know what to 
say of them, for they are so thin and so slender, that, were 
it the fashion to wind lips as they do silk, one might 
make a skein of hers; besides, they are not of the 
ordinary hue of common lips; no, they are of the most 
wonderful color that ever was seen, as being speckled 
with blue, green, and orange tawny. I hope my lord 
governor will pardon me for dwelling thus on the pic- 
ture and several rare feature of her that is one day to 
be my daughter, seeing it is merely out of my hearty 
love and affection for the girl.” 

“Pr’ythee, paint on as long as thou wilt,” said San- 
cho; “I am mightily taken with this kind of paint- 
ing.” 

“Could I set before your eyes her pretty carriage and 
her shape,” quoth the fellow, “you would admire. But 
that is not to be done, for she isso crooked and crum- 
pled up together, that her knees and her chin meet; 
and yet any one may perceive that, if she could but 
stand upright, her head would touch the very ceiling; 
and she would have given her hand to my son the 
bachelor, in the way of matrimony, before now, but 
that she is not able to stretch it forth, the sinews being 
quite shrunk up. However, the broad, long-guttered 
nails add no small grace to it, and may let you know 
what a well-made hand she has.” 

“So far, so good,” said Sancho; “but let us suppose 
you have drawn her from head to foot; whatis it you 
would be at now? Come to the point, friend, without 
so many windings and turnings, and going round about 
the bush.” 

“Sir,” said the farmer, “I would desire your honor 
to do me the kindness to give me a letter of accommo- 
dation to the father of my daughte-in-law, beseeching 
him to be pleased to let the marriage be fulfilled, see- 
ing we are not unlike neither in estate nor bodily con- 
cerns; for, to tell you the truth, my lord governor, my 
son is bewitched, and there is not a day passes over his 
head but the foul fiends torment him three or four 
times; and, having once had the ill-luck to have fallen 
into the fire, the skin of his face is shrivelled up like a 
piece of parchment, and his eyes are somewhat sore and 
full of rheum. But, when all is said, he has the tem- 
per of an angel.” 

“Have you anything else to ask, honest man?” said 
Sancho. 

“Only one thing more,” quoth the farmer; “but I am 
somewhat afraid to speak it; yet I cannot find in my 
heart to let it rot within me; and therefore, fall back 
fall edge, I must out with it. I wculd desire your wor- 





la 


i 1 


Mi 
intl 


i 


| | I 


“Don Quixote, thus w e 
» y Ed —D 
unhappily hurt, was extremel sullen and melanch 
elancholy.”—p. 383 


AR 


a 


ASA 








DON QUIXOTE 


ship to bestow on me some three hundred or six hun- 
dred ducats towards my bachelor’s portion, only to help 
him to begin the world, and furnish him a house; for, 
in short, they would live by themselves, without being 
subject to thé impertinencies of a father-inlaw.” 

“Well,” said. Sancho, “see if you would have any- 
thing else; if you would, do not let fear or bashfulness 
be your hindrance; out with it, man.” 

“No, truly,” quoth the farmer; and he had scarcely 
spoken the words, when the governor, starting up, and 
laying hold of the chair he sat on, “You brazen-faced, 
silly, impudent country booby,” cried he, “get out of 
my presence this moment, or, by the blood of the Pan- 
zas, I will crack your jolter-head with this chair! What 
care I for Miguel Turra, or all the generation of the 
Perlerinos? Avoid the room, I say, or, by the life of 
the duke, 111 be as good as my word, and ding out thy 
cuckoo brains. It is not a day and a half that I have 


DE LA MANCHA. 385 


been governor, and thou wouldst have me have six 
hundred ducats already, dunderheaded sot!” 

The steward made signs to the farmer to withdraw, 
and he went out accordingly, hanging down his head, 
and, to all appearance, very much afraid lest the gov- 
ernor should make good his angry threats; for the cun- 
ning knave knew very well how to act his part. But 
let us leave Sancho in his angry mood, and let there be 
peace and quietness, while we return to Don Quixote, 
whom we left with his face covered over with plaisters, 
the scratches which he had got when the cat so clap- 
per-clawed him having obliged him to no less. than 
eight days’ retirement; during which time there hap- 
pened that to him which Cid Hament promises to re- 
late with the same punctuality and veracity with which 
he delivers the particulars of this history, how trivial 
soever they may be. 











CHAPTER XLVIII. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WITH DONNA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS’S WOMAN; AS ALSO OTHER 


PASSAGES WORTHY TO BE RECORDED AND HAD IN ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE. 


Down QUIXOTE, thus unhappily hurt, was extremely 
sullen and melancholy, his face wrapped up and mark- 
ed, not by the hand of a superior being, but the paws 
of a cat, a misfortune incident to knight-errantry. He 
was six days without appearing in public; and one 
night, when he was thus confined to his apartment, as 
he lay awake reflecting on his misfortunes and Altisi- 
dora’s importunities, he perceived somebody was open- 
ing his. chamber-door with a key. Up he got in the 
bed, wrapped from head to foot in a yellow satin quilt, 
with a woollen cap on his head, his face and his mous- 
tachios bound up, his face to heal his scratches, and his 
moustachios to keep them down; in which posture he 
looked like the strangest apparition that can be imag- 
inged. He fixed his eyes towards the door, and when 
he expected to have seen the yielding and doleful 
Altisidora, he beheld a most reverend matron approach- 
ing in a white veil, so long that it covered her from head 
to foot. Betwixt her left-hand fingers she carried half 
a candle lighted, and held her right before her face, to 
keep the blaze of the taper from her eyes, which were 
hidden by a huge pair of spectacles. All the way she 
trod very softly, and moved at a very slow pace. Don 
Quixote watched her motions, and observing her garb 
and silence, took her for some witch or enchantress that 
came in that dress to practise her wicked sorceries upon 
him, and began to make the sign of the cross as fast as 
he could. The vision advanced all the while, and be- 
ing got to the middle of the chamber, lifted up its eyes, 
and saw Don Quixote thus making a thousand crosses 
on his breast. Butif he was astonished at the sight of 





such a figure, she was no less affrighted at his; so that, 
as soon as she spied him thus wrapped up in yellow, so 
lank, bepatched, and muffled up, “Bless me!” cried 
she, “what is this ?” 

With the sudden fright she dropped the candie, and 
now, being in the dark, as she was running out, the 
length of her dress made her stumble, and down she 
fell in the middle of the chamber. Don Quixote at the 
same time was in great anxiety. “Phantom,” cried he, 
“or whatsoever thou art, 1 conjure thee to tell me who 
thou art, and what thou requirest of me. If thou arta 
soul in torment, tell me, and 1 will endeavor thy ease 
to the utmost of my power; for I am a catholic Chris- 
tian, and love to do good to all mankind; for which. 
reason I took upon me the order of knight-errantry, 
whose extensive duties engage me to relieve all in 
distress.” 

The poor old woman, hearing herself thus conjured, 
judged Don Quixote’s fears by her own, and therefore, 
with a low and doleful voice, “My Lord Don Quixote,” 
said she, “if you are he, I am neither a phantom nor a 
ghost, as I suppose you fancy, but Donna Rodriguez, 
my lady duchess’s matron of honor, who come to you 
about a certain dal of the nature of those which 
you use to redress.” , 

“Tell me, Donna Rodriguez,” said Don Quixote, 

“are not you come to manage some love intrigue? If 
you are, take it from me, you will lose your labor. It 
is all in vain, thanks to the peerless beauty of my Lady 
Dulcinea del Toboso. In a word, madam, provided 
you come not on some such embassy, you may go light 


386 DON QUIXOTE 
your candle and return, and we will talk of anything 
you please; but remember, I bar all dangerous insinu- 
ations, all amorous enticements. ” 

“What,” cried the matron; “I find you do not know 
me, sir. But stay a little, I will go light my candle, 
and then I will tell you my misfortunes, for it is you 
that sets to right everything in the world.” 

This said, away she went, without stopping for an 
answer. 

Don Quixote waited for her a while quietly, but his 
working brain soon started a thousand chimeras con- 
cerning this new adventure, and he fancied he did ill 
in giving way, though but to a thought of endangering 
his faith to his mistress. So he started from the bed to 
lock the door and shut out Donna Rodriguez; but in 
that very moment she happened to come in with a wax 
candle lighted; at which time spying the knight near 
her, wrapped in his quilt, his face bound up, and a 
woollen cap on his head, she was frighted again, and 
started two or three steps back. 

Here Cid Hamet (making a parenthesis) swears by 
Mahomet he would have given the best coat of two that 
he had, only to have seen the knight and the matron 
thus. To make short, Don Quixote went to bed again, 
and Douna Rodriguez sat down in a chair at some dis- 
tance, without taking off her spectacles, or setting down 
the candle. Don Quixote crowded up together, and 
covered himself close, all but his face, and after they 
had both remained in silence, the first that broke it was 
the knight. 

“Now, madam,” said he, “you may freely unburden 
your heart, sure of attention to your complaints from 
chaste ears, and assistance in your distress from a com- 
passionate heart.” 

“T believe as much,” said the matron, “and promised 
myself no less charitable an answer from a person of so 
graceful and pleasing a presence? The case then is, 
noble sir, that though you see me sitting in this chair, in 
the middle of Arragon, in the habit of an insignificant, 
unhappy duenna, I am of Asturias de Oviedo, and 
one of the best families in that province. Butmy hard 
fortune, and the neglect of my parents, who fell to de- 
cay too soon, I cannot tell how, brought me to Madrid, 
where, because they could do no better, for fear of the 
worst, they place me with a court lady, to be her cham- 
ber-maid. And, though I say it, for all manner of plain 
work Iwas never outdone by any one in all my life. 
My father and mother left me at service, and returned 
home, ard some few years after they both died, and 
went to heaven, 1 hope; for they were very good and 
religious Catholics. Then was I left an orphan, and 
wholly reduced to the sorrowful condition of such 
court servants, wretched wages, and a slender allow- 
ance. About the same time the gentleman-usher fell 
in love with me before I dreamt of any such thing, 
Heaven knows. He was somewhat stricken in years, 
had a fine beard, was a personable man, and, what is 
more, as good a gentleman as the king, for he was 
of the mountains. We did not carry matters so close 
in our love but it came to my lady’s ear; and so, to 





hinder people’s tongues, without any more ado, she 


DE LA MANCHA. 


caused us to be married in the face of our holy mother, 
the Catholic Church. My husband (rest his soul !) died 
a while after of a fright; and had I but time to tell yon 
how it happened, I dare say you would wonder.” Here 
she began to weep piteously. “Good sir,” cried she, 
“TI must beg your pardon, for I cannot contain myself. 
As often as I think of my poor husband I cannot for- 
bear shedding of tears. Bless me! how he looked, and 
with what stateliness he would ride, with my lady be- 
hind him, on a stout mule as black as jet; for coaches 
and chairs were not used then as they are now-a-days, 
but the ladies rode behind the gentlemen-ushers. And 
now my tongue is in, I cannot help telling you the 
whole story, that you may see what a fine, well-bred 
man my dear husband was, and how nice in every 
punctilio. 

“One day, at Madrid, as he came into St. James's 
Street, which is somewhat narrow, with my lady behind 
him, he met a judge of the court, with two officers be- 
fore him; whereupon as soon as he saw him, to 
show his respect, my husband turned about his mule, 
as if he designed to have waited on him. But my lady 
whispered him in the ear, ‘What do you mean, block- 
head ? said she; ‘do not you know Iam here?’ The judge, 
on his side,was no less civil; and stopping his horse, ‘Sir,’ 
said he, ‘pray keep your way; you must not wait on 
me; it becomes me rather to wait on my Lady Gasilda” 
(for that was my lady’s name). However, my husband, 
with his hat in his hand, persisted in his civil inten- 
tions. But at last the lady, being very angry with him 
for it, took a great pin, or rather, as I am apt to believe, 
a bodkin, out of her case, and run it into his back; 
upon which, my husband suddenly starting and crying 
out, fell out of the saddle, and pulled down my lady 
after him, Immediately two of her footmen ran to help 
her, and the judge and his officers did the like. The 
gate of Guadalajara was presently in a hubbub (the 
idle people about the gate, I mean). In short, my lady 
returned home a-foot, and my husband went to a sur- 
geon, complaming that he was pricked through the 
lungs. And now this civility of his was talked of 
everywhere, insomuch that the very boys in the streets 
would flock about him and cheer him; for which rea- 
son, and because he was somewhat short-sighted, my 
lady dismissed him her service, which he took so to 
heart, poor man! that it cost him his life soon after. 
Now was I left a poor, helpless widow, and with a 
daughter to keep, who still increased in beauty as she 
grew up, like the foam of the sea. At length, having 
the name of an excellent workwoman at my needle, 
my lady duchess, who was newly married to his 
grace, took me to live with her here in Arragon, and 
my daughter as well as myself. In time the girl grew 
up, and became the most accomplished creature in the 
world. She sings like a lark, dances like a fairy, trips, 
like a wild buck, writes and reads like a schoolmaster, 
and casts accounts like a usurer. I say nothing of her 
neatness, but certainly the purest spring water that 
runs is not more cleanly; and then for her age, she is 
now, if I mistake not, just sixteen years, five months, 
and three days old. Now, who should happen to fall 























«« «Bless me |’ cried she, ‘ what is this?’ ”—p, 386. 


388 


in love with this daughter of mine but a mighty rich 
farmer's son, that lives in one of my lord duke's vil- 
lages not far off; and, indeed, I cannot tell how he 
managed matters, but he plied her so close, that, upon 
a promise of marriage, he wheedled herinto a consent, 
and now refuses to make his word good. The duke is 
no stranger to the business, for I have made complaint 
to him about it many and many times, and begged of 
him to enjoin the young man to wed my daughter; but 
he turns his deaf ear to me, and cannot endure I should 
speak to him of it, because the young knave’s father is 
rich, and lends the duke money, and is bound for him 
upon all occasions, so that he would by no means dis- 
oblige him. 

“Therefore, sir, I apply myself to your worship, and 
beseech you to see my daughter righted, either by en- 
treaties or by force, seeing everybody says you were 
sent into the world to redress grievances, and assist 
those in adversity. Be pleased to cast an eye of pity 
on my daughter’s orphan state, her beauty, her youth, 
and all her other good parts; for, on my conscience, of 
all the damsels my lady has, there is not one can come 
up to her by a mile; no, not she that is cried up as the 
airiest and finest of them all, whom they call Altisidora: 
Iam sure she is not to be named the same day; for, 
let me tell you, sir, ‘all is not gold that glitters.’ This 
same Altisidora, after all, is a hoity-toity, that has more 
vanity than beauty, and less modesty than confidence. 
Nay, my lady duchess, too—but I must say no more, 
for, as they say, walls have ears.” 

Scarce had Donna Rodriguez said these words, when 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


at one bounce the chamber-door flew open, whereupon 
she was seized with such a terrible fright, that she let 
fall her candle, and the room remained as dark asa 
wolf’s mouth, as the saying is, and presently the poor 
duenna felt somebody hold her by the throat, and 
squeeze her so hard, that it was not in her power to cry 
out; and another laid on her so unmercifully with a 
slipper, or some sucb thing, that it would have moved 
any one, but those that did it, to pity. Don Quixote 
was not without compassion, yet he did not think fit to 
stir from the bed, but lay snug and silent all the while, 
not knowing what the meaning of this bustle might be, 
fearing lest the tempest that poured on the matron 
might also light upon himself; and not without reason, 
for, indeed, after the mute executioners had well cured 
the old gentlewoman (who durst not cry out), they 
came to Don Quixote, aud turning up the bed-clothes, 
pinched him so hard and so long, that, in his own de- 
fence, he could not forbear laying about him with his 
fists as well as he could, till at last, after the scuffle 
had lasted about half an hour, the invisible phantoms 
vanished. 

Donna Rodriguez, lamenting her hard fortune, left 
the room without speaking a word to the knight. As 
for him, he remained where he was, sadly pinched and 
tired, and very moody and thoughtful, not knowing who 
this wicked enchanter should be that had used him in 
that manner. But we shall know that in its proper 
time. Now let us leave him, and return to Sancho 
Panza, who calls upon us, as the order of our history 
requires. 








CHAPTER XLIX. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO SANCHO PANZA AS HE WENT THE ROUNDS IN GIS ISLAND. 


WE LEFT our mighty governor much out of humor, 
and in a pelting chafe with that saucy knave of a 
countryman, who, according to the instructions he had 
received from the steward, and the steward from the 
duke, had bantered his worship with his impertinent 
description. Yet, as much a dunce and fool as he was, 
he made his party good against them all. At last, ad- 
dressing himself to those about him, among whom was 
Dr. Pedro Rezio, who had ventured into the room again, 
after the consult about the duke’s letter was over, 
“Now,” said he, “do I find in good earnest that judges 
and governors must be made of brass, or ought to be 
made of brass, that they may be proof against the im- 
portunities of those that pretend business, who, at all 
hours, and at all seasons, would be heard and dis- 
patched, without any regard to anybody but themselves, 
let what come of the rest, so their turn is served. Now, 
if a poor judge does not hear and dispatch them pres- 
ently, either because he is otherwise busy and cannot, 
or because they do not come at a proper season, then 





do they grumble, and give him their blessing back- 
wards, rake up the ashes of his forefathers, and would 
gnaw his very bones. But with your leave, good Mr. 
Busybody, with all your business, you are too hasty; 
pray have a little patience, and wait a fit time to make 
your application. Do not come at dinner-time or when 
aman is going to sleep, for we judges are flesh and 
blood, and must allow nature what she naturally re- 
quires; unless it be poor I, who am not to allow mine 
any food, thanks to my friend, Mr. Doctor Pedro Rezio 
Tirteafuera, here present, who is for starving me to 
death, and then swears it is for the preservation of my 
life. Heaven grant him such a life, I pray, for the good 
physicians deserve palms and laurels.” 

All that knew Sancho wondered to hear him talk so 
sensibly, and began to think that offices and places of 
trust inspired some men with understanding, as they 
stupified and confounded others. However, Dr. Pedro 
Rezio Anguero de Tirteafuera promised him he should 
sup that night, though he trespassed against all the 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


aphorisms of Hippocrates. This pacified the governor 
for the present, and made him wait with a mighty im- 
patience for the evening and supper. To his thinking, 
the hour was so long a-coming, that he fancied time 
stood still; but yet at last the wished-for moment came, 
and they served him up some minced beef, with onions, 
and some calves' feet, somewhat stale. The hungry 
governor presently fell to with more eagerness and ap- 
petite than if they had given him Milan godwits, 
Roman pheasants, Sorrentum veal, Moron partridges, 
or Lavajos green geese. And after he had pretty well 
taken off the sharp edge of his stomach, turning to the 
physician, “Look you,” quoth he, “Mr. Doctor, here- 
after never trouble yourself to get me dainties or tit- 
bits to humor my stomach; that would but take it quite 
off the hinges, by reason it has been used to nothing 
but good beef, bacon, pork, goat's flesh, turnips, and 
onions; and if you ply me with your kick-shaws, your 
nice courtiers' fare, it will but make my stomach 
squeamish and untoward, and 1 should perfectly loathe 
them one time or another. However, I shall not take 
it amiss if Master Sewer will now and then get me one 
of those olla podridas, and the stronger they are the 
better, where all sorts of good things are rotton stewed, 
and, as it were, lost in one another; and the more they 
are thus rotten, and like their name, the better the 
smack; and there you make a jumble of what you will, 
so it be eatable; and I shall remember him, and make 
him amends one of these days. But let nobody put 
tricks upon travellers, and make a fool of me; for either 
we are or we are not. Let us be merry and wise; when 
God sends his light, he sends it to all. I will govern 
this island fair and square, without underhand dealings 
or taking of bribes; but take notice, 1 will not bate an 
inch of wy right, and therefore let every one carry an 
even hand, and mind their hits, or else 1 would have 
them to know there are rods in pickle for them. They 
that urge me too far shall rue for it; make yourself 
honey, and the flies will eat you.” 

“Indeed, my lord governor,” said the steward, “your 
lordship is much in the rightin all you have said; and 
I dare engage for the inhabitants of this island, that 
they will obey and observe your commands with dili- 
gence, love, and punctuality; for your gentle way of 
governing, in the beginning of your administration, 
does not give them the least opportunity to act or to 
design anything to your lordship’s disadvantage.” 

“T believe as much,” answered Sancho, “and they 
would be silly wretches, should they offer to do or think 
otherwise. Let me tell you too, it is my pleasure you 
take care of me and my Dapple, that we may both have 
our food as we ought, which is the most material busi- 
ness. Next, let us think of going the rounds, when it 
is time for me to do it; for I intend to clear this island 
of all filth and rubbish, of all rogues and vagrants, idle 
lusks and sturdy beggars. For I would have you to 
know, my good friends, that your slothful, lazy, lewd 
people in a commonwealth are like drones in a beehive, 
that waste and devour the honey which the laboring 
bees gather. I design to encourage the husbandman, 
preserve the privileges of the gentry, reward virtuous 





389 


persons, and, above all things, reverence religion, and 
have regard to the honor of religious men. What think 
you of this, my good friends? Do I talk to the pur- 
pose, or do I talk idly?” 

“You speak so well, my lord governor,” answered the 
steward, “that I stand in admiration to hear a man 80 
unlettered as you are (for I believe your lordship can- 
not read at all), utter so many notable things, and in 
every word asentence, far from what they who have 
sent you hither, and they who are here present, ever 
expected from your understanding. But every day 
produces some new wonder; jests are turned into 
earnest, and those who designed to laugh at others 
happen to be laughed at themselves.” 

It being now night, and the governor having supped, 
with Dr. Rezio’s leave, he prepared to walk the rounds, 
and set forward, attended by the steward, the secretary, 
the gentleman waiter, the historiographer, who was to 
register his acts, several sergeants, and other limbs of 
the law, so many in number, that they made a little 
battalion, in the middle of which the great Sancho 
marched, with his rod of justice in his hand, in a nota- 
ble manner. They had not walked far in the town, be- 
fore they heard the clashing of swords, which made 
them hasten to the place whence the noisecame. Being 
come thither, they found only two men fighting, who 
gave over, perceiving the officers. 

“What!” cried one of them at the same time, “do 
they suffer folks to be robbed in this town, in defiance 
of Heavenand the king? Do they let men be stripped 
in the middle of the street?” 

“Hold, honest man,“ said Sancho; “have a little pa- 
tience, and let me know the occasion of this fray, for I 
am the governor.” 

“My lord,” said the other party, “I will tell you in a 
few words. Your lordship must know that this gentle- 
man, just now, at a gaming ordinary over the way, won 
above a thousand reals, Heaven knows how. I stood by 
all the while, and gave judgment for him in more than 
one doubtful cast, though I could not well tell how to 
do itin conscience. He carried off his winnings, and 
when I expected he would have given me a crown gra- 
tuity, as itis a claim among gentlemen of my fashion, 
who frequent gaming ordinaries, from those that play 
high and win, for preventing quarrels, being at their 
backs and giving judgment right or wrong, neverthe- 
less he went away without giving me anything. I ran 
after him, not very well pleased with his proceeding, 
yet very civilly desired him to consider I was his 
friend, that he knew me to be a gentleman, though 
fallen to decay, who had nothing to live upon, my 
friends having brought me up to no employment; and. 
therefore I entreated him to be so kind as to give me 
eight reals; but the stingy soul, a greater thief than 
Cacus, and a worse sharper than Andradilla, would 
give me but sneaking four reals. And now, my lord, 
you may see how little shame and conscience there is 
in him. Butin faith, kad not your lordship come just 
in the nick, I would have made him disgorge his win- 
nings, and taught him the difference between a rook 
and a jackdaw.” 


390 


“What say you to this?” cried Sancho to the other. 

The other made answer, “that he could not deny what 
his antagonist had said, that he would give him but 
four reals, because he had given him money, several 
times before; and they who expect benevolence should 
be mannerly, and be thankful for what is given them, 
without haggling with those that have won, unless they 
know them to be common cheats, and the money not 
won fairly; and that to show he was a fair gamester, 
and no sharper, as the other said, there needed no bet.. 
ter proof than his refusal to give him anything, since 
the sharpers are always in fee with these bully-rooks, 
who know them, and wink at their cheats.” 

“That is true,” said the steward. “Now, what would 
your lordship have us to do with these men?” 

“T will tell you,” said Sancho. “First, you that are 
the winner, whether by fair play or by foul, give your 
bully-back here a hundred reals immediately, and thirty 
more for the poor prisoners; and you that have nothing 
to live on, and were brought up to no employment, and 
go sharping up and down from place to place, pray take 
your hundred reals, and be sure by to-morrow to go out 
of this island, and not to set foot in it again these ten 
years and a day, unless you have a mind to make an end 
of your banishment in another world; for if I find you 
here, I will make you swing on a gibbet, with the help 
of the hangman. Away, and let nobody offer to reply, 
or I will lay him by the heels.” 

Thereupon the one disbursed, and the other received ; 
the first went home, and the last went out of the island; 
and then the governor, going on, “ Either [ shall want 
of my will,” said he, “or I will put down these disor- 
derly gaming-houses.” 

“As for this house in question,” said one of the 
officers, “I suppose it will be a hard matter to put it 
down, for it belongs to a person of quality, who loses a 
great deal more by play at the year’s end than he gets 
by his cards. You may show your authority against 
other gaming-houses of less note, that do more mischief, 
and harbor more dangerous people, than the houses of 
gentlemen and persons of quality, where your notorious 
sharpers dare not use their sleights of hand. And since 
gaming is a vice that is become a common practice, it is 
better to play in good gentlemen’s houses than in those 
of under officers, where they shall draw you in a poor 
bubble, and after they have kept you playing all the 
night long, send you away stripped to the skin.” 

“Well, all in good time,” said Sancho: “I know there 
is a great deal to be said on this.” 

At the same time one of the officers came, holding a 
youth, and having brought him before the governor, 
“If it please your worship,” said he, “this young man 
was coming towards us, but as soon as he perceived it 
was the rounds, he sheered off, and set a-running as fast 
as his legs would carry him—a sign he is no better than 
he should be. I ran after him, but had not he happened 
to fall, I had never come up witH him.” 

“What made you run away, friend ?” said Sancho. 

The youth replied, “I ran, my lord, to avoid answer- 
ing the multitude of questions which officers of justice 
are so accustomed to ask.” 


DON QUIXOTE DE 





LA MANCHA. 


“What trade are you of?” quoth Sancho. 

“A weaver,” answered the youth. 

“And what do you weave ?” quoth Sancho. 

“Tron heads for spears, an it please your worship.” 

“You are pleasant with me, and value yourself upon 
being a jester,” quoth Sancho. “Very well, sir; and 
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,” answered the youth. 

“Good,” quoth Sancho; “you answer to the purpose; 
you are a discreet young man. But now, make account 
that I am the air, and that I blow on you, and drive you 
to gaol. Here, lay hold of him, and take him to prison: 
I will make him sleep there to-night.” 

Quoth the youth, “Your honor can no more do that 
than you can make me king.” 

“Why cannot I make you sleep in prison?” demanded 
Sancho. “Have I not power to confine or release you, 
as I please ?” 

“Whatever power your worship may have, you have 
not enough to make me sleep in prison.” 

“Indeed!” replied Sancho. “Away with him imme- 
diately, that he may see his mistake with his own eyes; 
and, lest the gaoler should put his interested generos- 
ity in practice, if he suffer you to stir a step from the 
prison, I will sconce him in two thousand ducats.” 

“All thisis only laughable,” answered the youth; 
“for still I defy all the world to make me sleep this 
night in prison.” 

“Tell me, rascal,” quoth Sancho, “hast thou any 
angel to rescue thee, by unloosing the fetters I intend 
to have rivited on thy limbs?” 

“My lord governor,” answered the youth, with an air 
of pleasantry, “let us consult reason a little, and come 
to the point. Supposing your worship were to order 
me to gaol, to loud me with chains and fetters, to con- 
fine me in a dungeon, and impose heavy penalties upon 
the gaoler, if he permit me to stir out; and suppose 
these orders punctually obeyed; yet, for all that, if I 
have no mind to sleep, but to keep awake all night, 
without so much as shutting my eyelids, can your wor- 
ship , with all your power, make me sleep whether 1 
will or n0?” 

“No, certainly,” said the secretary; “and the young 
man has proved his assertion.” 

“Granted,” quoth Sancho, “provided he would for- 
bear sleeping only to have his own will, and not out of 
pure contradiction to mine.” 

“Truly, my lord,” said the youth, “I never thought 
of such a thing.” 

“Then, God be with you,” quoth Sancho; “go sleep 
at home, and I wish you a good night’s rest, which I 
shall not attempt to disturb; but I would advise you in 
future to be less jocose with officers of justice, for you 
may meet with one that may lay the joke over your 
noddle.” q 

The youth went his way, and the governor continuing 
his round, a couple of sergeants presently came with a 
person in custody, and said, “My lord governor, this 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


here person, who seems to be a man, is not so, but a 
woman, and no ugly one either, in man's clothes.” Two 
or three lanterns being immediately lifted up to her 
face, it was discovered by their light that it was indeed 
that of a female, seemingly about sixteen years of age, 
beautiful as a thousand pearls, with her hair tucked up 
under a net-work of caul green silk and gold. Having 
viewed her from head to foot, it appeared that she had 
flesh-colored stockings, with garters of white taffeta, 
and tassels of gold and seed-pearl; breeches of green 
and gold tissue, a loose coat of the same, and a superb 
waistcoat of white and gold stuff. Her shoes were 
white, and such as are worn by men. She had no 
sword, but a very rich dagger; and on her fingers were 
many rings of great value. In a word, all who beheld 
her were struck with admiration, but nobody knew the 
lady, and even such of the inhabitants of the town who 
were present said they could not imagine who she 
could be. The persons who were in the secret of the 
jests put upon Sancho wondered the most, for this ad- 
venture was not of their contriving; and therefore they 
were in suspense, expecting the issue of so unforeseen 
an incident. Sancho, struck like the rest with the 
beauty of the damsel, asked her who she was, whither 
she was going, and what moved her to dress herself in 
that manner. Fixing her eyes on the ground, she an- 
swered, with a modest bashfulness, “Sir, I cannot de- 
clare so publicly what it concerns me so much to con- 
ceal; of one thing, however, I must beg leave to assure 
your worship, that I am no thief, no criminal person, 
but an unhappy maiden whom the force of jealousy has 
tempted to break through the rules of female de- 
corum.” 

The steward, hearing this, said to Sancho, “My lord 
governor, order all your attendants to go aside, that 
this lady may speak her mind with less concern.” 

The governor did so, and they all retired to a distance, 
the steward, the sewer, and the secretary excepted. 
The damsel then proceeded, saying, “I am the daughter, 
gentlemen, of Pedro Perez Mazorca, who farms the 
wool of this town, and comes frequently to my father’s 
house.” 

“This will not pass, madam,” said the steward; “for 
I know Pedro Perez well, and am sure he has no child, 
neither son nor daughter: besides, you say he is your 
father, and immediately add that he comes frequently 
to your father’s house.” 

“T took notice of that,” quoth Sancho. 

“Indeed, gentlemen,” answered the damsel, “I am in 
such confusion, that I know not what I say: but the 
truth is, I am the daughter of Diego de la Llana, whom 
you all know.” 

“This may do,” answered the steward; “for with 
Diego de la Llana I am also acquainted, and know that 
he is a gentleman of rank and fortune, and has both a 
son and a daughter: but since he has been a widower, 
the face of this daughter has never been seen; for he 
keeps her so closely shut up, that he will not give the 
sun leave to shine upon her; and report says she is 
extremely handsome.” 

“That unfortunate daughter am I, and too true is 





391 


what you state respecting my rigorous confinement,” 
answered the damsel. “Whether fame lies, as to my 
beauty, you, gentlemen, can judge, since you have seen 
me:” and she began to weep bitterly; upon which the 
secretary said in a whisper to the sewer, “Something 
of importance must have happened to have induced so 
considerable a person as this young lady to leave her 
home in such a dress, and at so unseasonable an hour.” 

“No doubt,” answered the sewer; “and the 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; 
assuring her they would all endeavor to serve her with 
sincerity. 

“The case then is, gentlemen,” she replied, “that my 
father has kept me locked up for the long space of ten 
years; such being the time that has elapsed since death 
deprived me of my mother. Mass is said in our house 
in a splendid chapel, and during the period I have men- 
tioned I have seen nothing but the sun in the heavens 
by day, and the moon and stars by night. lam utterly 
unacquainted with the streets, squares, churches, and 
every inhabitant of the town, except my father, my 
brother, and Pedro Perez, the wool-farmer, whose visits 
to our house led me to say he was my father, to conceal 
the truth. Being debarred the privilege of going out, 
so much as to church, has for days and months greatly 
disquieted me. I wished to see the world, or at least 
the town in which I was born, and could not consider 
the wish as any breach of that decency which young 
ladies ought always to observe. WhenI heard of bull- 
feasts, of darting javelins on horseback, and of the rep- 
resentation of plays, lrequested my brother, who is a 
year younger than myself, to tell me what those and 
several other things that I had never seen meant, which 
he used to do in the best manner he could; and the de- 
sire I had of seeing them was but the more inflamed. 
In a word, to shorten my story, I prayed and entreated 
him—oh, that I had never so prayed, never so en- 
treated!” and again she was overcome with weeping. 

“Proceed, madam,” said the steward, “and make an 
end of your story, for your words and tears keep us in 
painful anxiety.” 

Accordingly, interrupted by occasional sobs and 
sighings, she thus continued: “My whole misfortune 
and unhappiness consists only in this—I requested my 
brother to dress me in his clothes, and take me out, 
some night, while my father should be asleep, to see 
the town. Importuned by my entreaties, he complied 
at last, and gave me this dress, disguising himself at 
the same time in a suit of mine, which fits as if it were 
made for him; and as he has not so much as one hair of 
a beard, he might be taken for a very beautiful young 
girl. It was not above an hour ago that we escaped 
from the house; and, guided by a footboy and our own 
unruly fancies, we had traversed the whole town, and 
were returning Lome, when, seeing a number of people 
approaching, my brother said to me, ‘Sister, this must 
be the round; put wings to your feet, and fly after me, 
that they may not know us, for woe betide us if they 
should!’ And he turned instantly back, and began, 


392 


not to run, but to fly. In attempting to follow, I fell 
down from fright, before I had taken six steps; and the 
officer of justice coming up, I was seized, and brought 
before your honor, where my indiscreet longing has 
exposed me to shame before so many people.” 

“Then, in reality, madam,” quoth Sancho, “no other 
mishap has befallen you; and it was not jealousy, as 
you told us at the beginning of your story, that led you 
from home?” 

“Nothing else,” replied the damsel, “has befallen 
me, nor is there any jealousy in the case; it was merely 
a desire of seeing the world, or rather the streets of 
this town, for my curiosity went no farther.” 

The appearance of the brother in the custody of two 
sergeants, who had pursued and overtaken him, as he 
fled from his sister, confirmed the truth of what she had 
said. The female dress of the young man consisted 
merely of a rich petticoat, and a blue damask mantle, 
with a splendid border; for he had no cap or ornament 
of any kind on his head, but his own beautiful hair, 
which was so fair and glossy that it seemed so many 
ringlets of the purest gold. The governor, the steward, 
and the sewer, taking him aside, out of the hearing of 
his sister, asked him how he came to be in that dis- 
guise: and, with no less bashfulness and concern, he 
told the same story as she had done, to the unspeakable 
joy of the enamored sewer. But the governor said, 
“Really, young gentlefolks, this is a very childish 
frolic; and in relating it there needed not half so many 
sighs and tears: had you but said, ‘Our names are so- 
and-so, and we stole out of our father’s house by such 
and such a contrivance, only out of curiosity, and with 
no other design whatever,’ the tale had been told as 
soon as begun, and all these takings-on, these moanings 
and groanings, might have been spared.” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Yes, sir,” answered the damsel; “but the confusion 
Iwas in was so great, that it did not suffer me to de- 
mean myself as I ought.” 

“There is no harm done,” answered Sancho: “we will 
see you safe to your father’s house; perhaps he has 
not missed you. And henceforth be less childish, and 
not so eager to play the vagrant; for ‘the modest maid, 
and a broken leg, should stay at home;’ and “the woman 
and the hen are lost by gadding;’ and ‘she who desires 
to see, desires no less to be seen.’ And this is all I 
shall say upon the suject.” 

The youth thanked the governor for the intended 
favor of seeing them safe home, and they bent their 
course toward the house, which was not far off. When 
they arrived, the brother threw up a small stone to a 
grated window, and a servant-maid, who waited for 
them, immediately came down and opened the door, and 
the rovers went in, leaving every one in admiration at 
their genteel deportment and beauty, as well as their 
singular desire of seeing the world by night, without 
stirring out of the town, which was imputed to their 
tender years. 

The sewer's heart being pierced through and through, 
purposed within himself to demand the young lady, 
the next day, of her father in marriage, taking it for 
granted that, being a servant of the duke, he could not 
be refused. Sancho, too, had similar thoughts of 
matching the young man with his daughter Sanchica, 
and determined to bring it about the first opportunity, 
presuming, from his quality of governor, that, look 
where he would for an alliance, he had only to ask and 
have. Thus ended that night's round, and, two days 
after, the great Sancho’s government also terminated, 
by which all his design and expectations were over- 
turned and destroyed, as shall hereafter be shown. 








CHAPTER L. 


IN WHICH IS DECLARED WHO WERE THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS THAT WHIPPED THE DUENNA, 


AND PINCHED AND SCRATCHED DON QUIXOTE ; WITH THE SUCCESS OF THE PAGE WHO CARRIED THE 


LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO’S WIFE. 


Crm Hamer, the most punctual and diligent searcher 
after the minutest circumstances, even to the very 
atoms of this true history, says that, when Donna Rod- 
riguez quitted her chamber to go to Don Quixote’s, an- 
other donna, her bedfellow, being awake, perceived it; 
and, asall duennas have the itch of listening after, pry- 
ing into, and smelling out things, she followed her so 
softly, that good Rodriguez was not in the least aware 
of it; and, as soon as she saw her enter, that she might 
not be wanting in the general humor of her tribe, which 
is to be tale-bearers, away she tripped that instant to 
acquaint the duchess with the proceeding. The duchess 
acquainted the duke, and begged that she and Altisi- 
dora might. be permitted to go and see what was the 





duenna’s business with the knight. The duke consent- 
ing, they both gently, step by step, crept, as it were, 
and posted themselves close to the door of the cham- 
ber; so close indeed, that not a word that was said 
within escaped them: and when the duchess heard the 
duenna expose her failings, neither could she nor Altisi- 
dora bear it; and accordingly, brimful of choler, they 
burst into the room, and pinched Don Quixote, and 
whipped the duenna in the manner related above; for 
affronts levelled against the beauty and vanity of 
women awaken their wrath in an extraordinary manner, 
and inflame them with a desire of revenge that is 
scarcely governable. 

The duchess recounted to the duke all that had passed 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


with which he was much diverted; and proceeding in 
her design of making farther sport with Don Quixote, 
she dispatched the page, who had acted the part of 
Dulcinea in the projected disenchantment of that lady, 
to Teresa Panza, with her husband's letter (for Sancho 
was so taken up with his government that he had quite 
forgotten it), and another from herself, together with a 
large string of rich corals by way of present. 

Now the history informs us that the page was a very 
discreet, and shrewd fellow, and being extremely de- 
sirous of pleasing his lord and lady, he departed, in 
happy mood, for Sancho's village; and, being arrived 
near it, he inquired of some females whom he saw wash- 
ing their linen in a brook, if they knew where one Ter- 
esa Panza lived. 

The question was no sooner asked than a young 
wench, who was of the number, started up and said, 
“That Teresa Panza, sir, is my mother, and that Sancho 
my father, and that knight our master.” 

“Are they so?” quoth the page; “then bring me to 
your mother, young damsel, for I have a letter and a 
present for her from that same father of yours.” 

“That will I, with all my heart, sir,” answered the 
girl, who seemed to be about fourteen years of age; and, 
leaving the linen she was washing to one of her com- 
panions, without putting anything on her head or her 
feet, with bare legs, and dishevelled hair, she ran skip- 
ping before the page's horse, saying, “Come along, sir, 
for our house stands just at the entrance of the village, 
and there you will find my mother in trouble enough, 
through not having heard for so long a time any news 
of my father.” 

“T bring her news,” quoth the page, “that she may 
well thank God for.” 

In short, with jumping, running, and capering, the 
girl soon reached the village, and before she entered 
the house she called aloud at the door, “Come out, 
mother Teresa, come out! for here is a gentleman who 
brings letters and other things from my good father.” 

Hearing her daughter’s voice, Teresa Panza made 

her appearance, having in her hand a distaff of tow 
which she had been spinning, dressed in a grey petti- 
coat, so short that it looked as if it had been docked at 
the placket, and a grey bodice, her smock sleeves 
hanging slatternly about it. She was not old, though 
she seemed to have seen forty, and was strong, hale, 
sinewy, and hard as a hazel-nut. Seeing her daughter, 
and a page with her on horseback, she said, “What is 
the matter, girl? what gentleman is this ?” 
_ “It is a humble servant of my Lady Donna Teresa 
Panza,” answered the page; and he flung himself from 
his horse, and, with great respect, went and kneeled 
before her, saying, “Be pleased, Signora Donna Teresa, 
to permit me to kiss your ladyship’s hand, as the lawful 
and only wife of Signor Don Sancho Panza, sole gov- 
ernor of the island of Barataria.” 

“Ah! dear sir, forbear! do not do so,” answered Ter- 
esa; “forI am no court dame, buta poor country woman, 
daughter of a ploughman, and wife of a squire-errant, 
and not of any governor whatever.” 

“Your ladyship,” answered the page, “is the most 





393 


worthy consort of an archworthy governor; and for 
proof of what I say, be pleased, madam, to receive this 
letter and this present.” He then drew from his pocket 
a string of corals, every bead set in gold; and, putting 
it round her neck, he said, “This letter is from my lord 
governor, and another that I have, and these corals are 
from my lady duchess, who sends me to your ladyship 
with her congratulations.” 

Teresa was perfectly amazed, and her daughter no 
less so, and the girl said, “May I die, if our master Don 
Quixote be not at the bottom of this good business, and 
has given my father, at last, the government or earldom 
he so.often promised him.” 

“It is even so,” answered the page; “and, for Signor 
Don Quixote’s sake, my lord Sancho is now governor 
of the island of Barataria, as you will see by his letter.” 

“Pray, young gentleman,” quoth Teresa, “be pleased 
to read it to me; for, though I can spin, I cannot read 
a title.” 

“Nor I neither,” added Sanchica; “but stay a mo- 
ment and I will call somebody that can, though it be 
the priest himself, or the bachelor Samson Carrasco, 
who will come with all their hearts to hear news of my 
father.” 

“There is no need of calling anybody,” quoth the 
page; for, though I cannot spin,I can read, and you 
shall hear it immediately.” Accordingly he read it; and 
then delivered that from the duchess, which was as 
follows :— 


“FRIEND TERESA,—The good qualities, both as to 
talents and integrity, of your husband Sancho have 
moved and induced me to desire the duke, my spouse, 
to give him the government of one of the many islands 
under his jurisdiction; and I am informed he governs 
like any hawk, at which I and my lord duke are might- 
ily pleased: and 1 give great thanks to Heaven that I 
have not been deceived in my recommendation. For, 
let me tell Madam Teresa, it is a difficult thing to find 
a good governor now-a-days, and God make me as good 
as Sancho governs well. I send you herewith, my dear 
lady governess, a string of corals set in gold: I wish 
they were of Oriental pearl; but ‘who gives thee an egg 
has no mind to see thee dead.’ The time will come 
when we shall be better acquainted, and converse to- 
gether, and who knows what may happen? Commend 
me to Sanchica, your daughter, and tell her from me to 
get herself ready, for I mean to marry her toppingly 
when she least thinks of it. Iam told the acorns of 
your town are very large; pray send me some two or 
three dozen of them, for I shall esteem them the more 
as coming from your hand: and write to me immediate- 
ly, advising me of your health and welfare. If you 
want anything, you need but open your mouth and it 
shall be measured. So God have you in his holy 
keeping. Your loving friend, 

a “THE DUCHESS.” 
From this place. 


“Ah!” quoth Teresa, on hearing the letter, “how 
good, how plain, how humble a lady! Let me be buried 


394 


with such ladies as this, and not your gentlewomen of 
this town, who think, because they are quality-folks, the 
wind must not blow upon them; and they go to church 
with as much vanity as if they were very queens. One 
would think they took it for a disgrace to look upon a 
poor peasant woman; and 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 whole peck, and such choice 
ones that people shall come far and near to see and 
admire them. And now, Sanchica, look to the enter- 
tainment of this gentleman, and make much of him; 
take care of his horse, and bring some new-laid eggs 
out of the stable, and slice some rashers of bacon, and 
let us treat him like any prince; for the good news he 
has brought us, and his own good looks, deserve no 
less; and, in the meanwhile, I will step with the news 
of our joy to my neighbors, and especially to our father 
the priest, and to Master Nicholas the barber, who are, 
and always have been, your father’s great friends.” 

“Yes, mother, I will,” answered Sanchica; “but, hark 
you, mother, 1 must have half that string of corals, for 
I do not take my lady duchess to be such a fool as to 
send it all to you.” 

“No, it is all for you, daughter,” answered Teresa; 
“but let me wear it a few days about my neck, for me- 
thinks it cheers my very heart.” 

“Your heart will be still more cheered,” quoth the 
page, “when you shall see the bundle I have in this 
portmanteau; it is a suit of superfine cloth, which the 
governor wore only one day at a hunting-match, and 
he has sent it all for the use of Signora Sanchica.” 

“May he live a thousand years!” answered Sanchica; 
“and the bearer neither more nor less, ay, and two 
thousand, if need be.” 

Teresa now sallied forth with the letters, and the | 
beads about her neck, playing with her fingers upon 
the letters, as she went along, as if they had been a 
timbrel; and accidentally meeting the priest and Sam- 
son Carrasco, she began to dance, and say, “In faith we 
have no poor relations now; we have caught a govern- 
ment. Ay, ay, let the proudest gentlewoman of them 
all meddle with me,I will make her know her dis- 
tance.” 

“How now, Teresa?” said the curate; “what mad 
fit is this? what papers are those in your hand?” 

“No mad fit at all,” answered Teresa; “but these are 
letters from duchesses and governors, and these beads 
about my neck are right coral, the Ave Marias I mean; 
and the Pater Nosters are of beaten gold: and lama 
madam governess, I will assure you.” 

“Verily,” said the curate, “there is no understanding 
you, Teresa; we do not know what you mean.” 

“There is what will clear tie riddle,” quoth Teresa; 
and with that she gave them the letters. 

Thereupon, the curate having read them aloud, that 
Samson Carrasco might also be informed, they both 
stood and looked on one another, and were more at a 
loss than before. The bachelor asked her who brought 





the letter. Teresa told them they might go home with 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


her and see. It was a sweet, handsome young man, as 
fine as anything; and that he had brought her another 
present worth twice as much. 

The curate took the string of beads from her neck, 
and viewed it several times over, and, finding ‘that it 
was a thing of value, he could not conceive the meaning 
of all this. “By the habit that I wear,” cried he, “I 
cannot tell what to think of this business. In the first 
place, Iam convinced these beads are right coral, and 
gold; and, in the next, here is a duchess sends to beg 
a dozen or two of acorns.” 

“Orack that nut if you can,” said Samson Carrasco. 
“But come, let us go and see the messenger, and prob- 
ably he will clear our doubts.” 

Thereupon, going with Teresa, they found the page 
sifting a little corn for his horse, and Sanchica cutting 
a rasher of bacon, to be fried with eggs, for his dinner. 
They both liked the page’s mien and his garb; and 
after the usual compliments, Samson desired him to tell 
them some news of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; 
for though they had read a letter from the latter to his 
wife, and another from the duchess, they were no better 
than riddles to them, nor could they imagine how San- 
cho should come by a government, especially of an 
island, well knowing that all the islands in the Medi- 
terranean, or the greatest part of them, were the king’s. 

“Gentlemen,” auswered the page, “it is a certain 
truth that Signor Sancho Panza is a governor, but 
whether it be of an island or not I no not pretend to 
determine; but this I can assure you, that he commands 
in a town that has above a thousand inhabitants. And 
as for my lady duchess's sending to a countrywoman 
for a few acorns, that is no such wonder, for she is so 
free from pride that I have known her send to borrow 
a comb of one of her neighbors. You must know our 
ladies of Arragon, though they are as noble as those of 
Castile, do not stand so much upon formalities and 
punctilios, neither do they take so much state upon 
them, but treat people with more familiarity.” 

While they were thus discoursing, in came Sanchica 
skipping, with her lap full of eggs, and turning to the 
page, “Pray, sir,” said she, “tell me, does my father 
wear trunk-breeches now he is a governor?” 

“Truly,” said the page, “I never minded it, but with- 
out doubt he does.” 

“Oh, gemini!” cried the young wench, “what would 
I not give to see my father in his trunk-breeches! Is 
it not a strange thing that ever since I can remember 
myself I have wished to see my father in trunk- 
breeches?” 

“You will see him as you would have him,” said the 
page, “if your ladyship does butlive. Indeed, if his 
government holds but two months, you will see him go 
with an umbrella over his head.” 

The curate and the bachelor plainly perceived that 
the page did but laugh at the mother and daughter; 
but yet the costly string of beads and the hunting suit, 
which by this time Teresa had let them see, confounded 
them again. 

“Good master curate,” quoth she, “do so much as in- 
quire whether any of our neighbors are going to Mad- 


4 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


rid or Toledo. I would have them buy me a hugeous 
farthingale of the newest and most courtly fashion, and 
the very finest that can be got for money; for, by my 
holidame, I mean to credit my husband’s government 
as much as I can; and if they vex me, I will hie me to 
that same court, and ride in my coach, too, as well as 
the best of them; for she that is a governor’s lady may 
very well afford to have one.” 

“Oh, rare mother!” cried Sanchica, “would it were 
to-night before to-morrow. Mayhap, when they saw 
me sitting in our coach by my lady mother, they would 
jeer and flout: ‘ Look, look!’ would they say, ‘ yonder 
goes goody Trollop, the plough-jobber’s bairn! How 
she flaunts it, and goes on lolling in her coach like a lit- 
tle PopeJoan!’ But what would I care? Let them trudge 
on the dirt, while I ride by in my coach. Shame and 
ill luck go along with all your little backbiting scrubs! 
“Let them laugh that win.’ Am I not in the right, 
mother ?” 

“Ay, marry, art thou, child,” quoth Teresa; “and, 
indeed, my good honey Sancho has often told me all 
these good things, and many more, would come to pass; 
and thou shalt see, daughter, I will never rest till I get 
to be a countess. There must be a beginning in all 
things, as I have heard it said by thy father, who is 
also the father of proverbs. ‘When a cow is given 
thee, run and take her with a halter.’ When they give 
thee a government, take it; when an earldom, catch it; 
and when they whistle to thee with a good gift, snap 
at it. ‘That which is good to give is good to take,’ 
girl. It were a pretty fancy, trow, to lie snoring a-bed, 
and when good luck knocks, not to rise and ‘open the 
door.” á 

“ Ay,” quoth Sanchica, “what is it to me, though they 
should say all they have a mind to say? When they 
see me so tearing fine, and so woundy great, let them 
spit their venom and say, ‘Set a beggar on horseback,’ 
and so forth.” 

“Who would not think, ” said the curate, hearing 
this, “but that the whole race of the Panzas came into 
the world with their heads stuffed with proverbs? I 
never knew one of the name but threw them out at all 
times, let the discourse be what it would.” 

“I think so, too,” said the page, “for his honor, the 
governor, blunders them out at every turn; many times, 
indeed, wide from the purpose; however, always to the 
satisfaction of the company, and with high applause 
from my lord and lady.” 

“Then, sir, you assure us still,” said Carrasco, “that 
Sancho is really a governor, and that a duchess sends 
these presents and letters upon his account; for though 
we see the things, and read the letters, we can suarce 
prevail with ourselves to believe it, but are apt to run 
into our friend Don Quixote’s opinion, and look on all 
this as the effect of some enchantment; so that I could 





395 


find in my heart to feel and try whether you area 
visionary messenger or a creature of flesh and 
blood.” 

“For my part, gentlemen,” answered the page, “all 
I can tell you is that I am really the messenger I appear 
to be; that the Lord Sancho Panza is actually a gov- 
ernor, and that the duke and the duchess, to whom I 
belong, are able to give and have given him that gov- 
ernment, where, I am credibly informed, he behaves 
himself most worthily. Now, if there be any enchant- 
ment in the matter, I leave you to examine that; forI 
know no more.” 

"That may be,” said the bachelor, “but yet dubitat 
Augustinus.” 

“You may doubt if you please,” replied the page, 
“but I have told you the truth, which will always pre- 
vail over falsehood and rise uppermost, as oil does 
above water. But if you will operibus credere, et non 
verbis, let one of you go along with me, and you shall 
see with your eyes what you will not believe by the 
help of your ears.” 

“I will go with all my heart,” quoth Sanchica; “take 
me up behind ye, sir; I have a huge mind to see my 
father.” 

“The daughters of governors,” said the page, “must 
not travel thus unattended, but in coaches or litters, 
and with a handsome train of servants.” 

“Bless me!” quoth Sanchica, “I can go a journey as 
well on an ass as in one of your coaches. I am none of 
your tender, squeamish things, not I.” 

“Peace, chicken!” quoth the mother; “thou dost not 
know what thou sayest; the gentleman is in the right: 
times are altered. When it was plain Sancho, it was 
plain Sanchica; but now he is a governor, thou arta 
lady: I cannot well tell whether I am right or no.” 

“My Lady Teresa says more than she is aware of,” 
said the page. “But now,” continued he, “give mea 
mouthful to eat as soon as you can, for I must go back 
this afternoon.” 

“Be pleased then, sir,” said the curate, “to go with 
me and partake of a slender meal at my house, for my 
neighbor Teresa is more willing than able to entertain 
so good a guest.” 

The page excused himself a while, but at last com- 
plied, being persuaded it would be much for the better; 
and the curate, on his side, was glad of his company, 
to have an opportunity to inform himself at large about 
Don Quixote and his proceedings. 

The bachelor proffered Teresa to write her answers 
to her letters, but as she looked upon him to be some- 
what waggish, she would not permit him to be of her 
counsel; so she gave a roll and a couple of eggs toa 
young acolyte of the church, and he wrote two letters 
for her; one to her husband, and the other to the 
duchess, all of her own inditing. 


CHAPTER LI. 


A CONTINUATION OF SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT, WITH OTHER PASSAGES, SUCH AS THEY ARE. 


THE morning of the day arose which succeeded the 
governor’s rounding night, the remainder of which the 
gentleman-waiter spent not in sleep, but in the pleas- 
ing thoughts of the lovely face and charming grace of 
of the disguised virgin; on the other side the steward 
bestowed that time in writing to his lord and lady what 
Sancho did and said, wondering no less at his actions 
than at his expressions, both which displayed a strange 
intermixture of discretion and simplicity. 

At last the lord governor was pleased to rise, and, by 
Dr. Pedro Rezio's order, they brought him for his 
breakfast a little conserve and a draught of fair water, 
which he would have exchanged with all his heart for 
a good luncheon of bread and a bunch of grapes; but 
seeing he could not help himself he was forced to make 
the best of a bad market, and seem to be content, 
though full sore against his will and appetite; for the 
doctor made him believe that to eat but little, and that 
which was dainty, enlivened the spirits and sharpened 
the wit; and, consequently, such a sort of diet was 
most proper for persons in authority and weighty em- 
ployments, wherein there is less need of the strength 
of the body than that of the mind. This sophistry 
served to famish Sancho, who, half-dead with hunger, 
cursed in his heart both the government and him that 
had given it him. However, hungry as he was, by the 
strength of his slender breakfast, he failed not to give 
audience that day; and the first that came before him 
was a stranger, who put the following case to him, the 
stewards and the rest of the attendants being present: 

“My lord,” said he, “a large river divides in two 
parts one and the same lordship. I beg your honor to 
lend me your attention, for it is a case of great import- 
ance and some difficulty. Upon tbis river there is a 
bridge, at the one end of which there stands a gallows 
and a kind of court of justice, where four judges used 
to sit for the exection of a certain law made by the lord 
of the land and river, which runs thus:— 

“«Whoever intends to pass from one end of this to 
the other must first, upon his oath, declare whither 
he goes and what his business is. Ifhe swear truth, he 
may go on; but if he swear false, he shall be hanged, 
and die without remission upon the gibbet at the end 
of the bridge.’ 

“After due promulgation of this law, many people, 
notwithstanding its severity, adventured to go over 
this bridge, and as it appeared they swore true, the 





judges permitted them to pass unmolested. It hap- 
pened one day that a certain passenger being sworn, 
declared, that by the oath he had taken, he was come 
to die upon that gallows, and that was all his business. 

“This put the judges to a nonplus; ‘for,’ said they, 
‘if we let this man pass freely he is foresworn, and 
according to the letter of the law, he ought to die; if 
we hang him, he has sworn truth, seeing he swore he 
was to die on that gibbet; and then by the same law we 
should let him pass.’ a 

“Now, your lordship's judgment is desired what the 
judges ought to do with this man; for they are still at 
a stand, not knowing what to determine in this case; 
and having been informed of your sharp wit and great 
capacity in resolving difficult questions, they sent me 
to beseech your lordship, in their names, to give your 
opinion in so intricate and knotty a case.” 

“To deal plainly with you,” answered Sancho, “those 
worshipful judges that sent you hither might as well 
have spared themselves the trouble, for I am more in- 
clined to dulness, I assure you, than sharpness; how- 
ever, let me hear your question once more, that I may 
thoroughly understand it, and perhaps I may at last hit 
the nail upon the head.” The man repeated the ques- 
tion again and again; and when he had done, “To my 
thinking,” said Sancho, “this question may be pres- 
ently answered, as thus: The man swore he came to die 
on the gibbet, and if he die there, he swore true, and, 
according to the law, he ought to be free and go over 
the bridge. On the other side, if you do not hang him 
he swore false, and by the same law he ought to be 
hanged.” 

“It is as your lordship says,” replied the stranger; 
you have stated the case right.” 

“Why, then,” said Sancho, “even let that part of the 
man that spoke true freely pass, and hang the other 
part of the man that swore false, and so the law will be 
fulfilled.” 

“But then, my lord,” replied the stranger, “the man 
must be divided into two parts, which, if we do, he cer- 
tainly dies, and the law, which must every title of it, 
be observed, is not put into execution.” 

“Well, hark you me, honest man,” said Sancho, 
“either I am a very dunce, or there is as much reason 
to put this same person you talk of to death, as to let 
him live and pass the bridge; for if the truth saves 
him, the lie condemns him.—Now the case stands thus: 

396 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


I would have you tell those gentlemen that sent you to 
me, since there is as much reason to bring him off as to 
condemn him, that they even let him go free; for it is 
always more commendable to do good than hurt. And 
this I would give you under my own hand if I could 
write. Nor do I speak this of my own head; but l 
remember one precept, among many others, that my 
master, Don Quixote, gave me the night before I went 
to govern this island, which was, that when the scale 
of justice is even, or a case is doubtful, we should pre- 
fer mercy before rigor; and it has pleased God I should 
call it to mind so luckily at this juncture.” 

“For my part,” said the steward, “this judgment 
seems to me so equitable that I do not believe Lycurgus 
himself, who gave the laws to the Lacedemonians, 
could ever have decided the matter better than the 
great Sancho has done.” 

“And now, sir, sure there is enough done for this 
morning; be pleased to adjourn the court, and 1 will 
give order that your excellency may dine to your 
heart's content.” 

“Well said,” cried Sancho; “that is all I want, and 
then a clear stage and no favor. Feed me well, and 
then ply me with cases and questions thick and three- 
fold; and you shall see me untwist them, and lay them 
open as clear as the sun.” 

The steward was as good as his word, believing it 
would be a burden to his conscience to famish so wise 


a governor: besides, he intended the next night to put | 


in practice the last trick which he had commission to 
pass upon him. 

Now Sancho having plentifully dined that day, in 
spite of all the aphorisms of Dr. Tirteafuera, when the 
cloth was removed, in came an express with a letter 
from Don Quixote to the governor. Sancho ordered the 
secretary to read it to himself, and if there was nothing 
in it for secret perusal, then to read it aloud. 

The secretary having first run it over accordingly, 
“My lord,” said he, “the letter may not only be pub- 
licly read, but deserves to be engraved in characters of 
gold; and thus itis.” 


Don Quizote de la Mancha to Sancho Panza, Governor of 
the Island of Barataria. 


“When I expected to have had an account of thy 
carelessness and impertinences, friend Sancho, I was 
agreeably disappointed with news of thy wise behavior; 
for which I return particular thanks to Heaven, that 
can raise the lowest from their poverty, and turn the 
fool into a man of sense. I hear thou governest with 
all the discretion of a man; and that whilst thou ap- 
provest thyself one, thou retainest the humility of the 
meanest creature. But I desire thee to observe, San- 
cho, that it is many times very necessary and conve- 
nient to thwart the humility of the heart for the better 
support of the authority of a place. For the ornament 
of a person that is advanced to an eminent post must 
be answerable to its greatness, and not debased to the 
inclination of his former meanness. Let thy apparel 
be neat and handsome; even a stake well dressed does 





397 


not look like a stake. I would not have thee wear fop- 
pish, gaudy things, nor affect the garb of a soldier in 
the circumstances of a magistrate; but let thy dress be 
suitable to thy degree, and always clean and decent. 

“To gain the hearts of thy people, among other 
things, I have two chiefly to recommend: One is, to be 
affable, courteous, and fair to all the world. I have 
already told thee of that. And the other, to take care 
that plenty of provisions be never wanting, for nothing 
afflicts or urges more the spirits of the poor than scarc- 
ity and hunger. 

“Do not put out many new orders; and if thou dost 
put out any, see that they be wholesome and good, and 
especially that they be strictly observed; for laws not 
well obeyed are no better than if they were not made, 
and only show that the prince who had the wisdom and 
authority to make them had not the resolution to see 
them executed: and laws that only threaten, and are 
not kept, become like the log that was given to the 
frogs to be their king, which they feared at first, but at 
last scorned and trampled on. 

“Be a father to virtue, but a father-in-law to vice. 
Be not always severe, nor always merciful; choose a 
mean between these two extremes, for that middle point 
is the centre of discretion. 

“Visit the prisons, the shambles, and the public 
markets, for the governor’s presence is highly neces- 
sary in such places. 

“Comfort the prisoners that hope to be quickly dis- 
patched. 

“Be a terror to the butchers, that they may be fair in 
their weights, and keep hucksters and fraudulent deal- 
ers in awe, for the same reason. 

“Shouldst thou unhappily be inclined to be covetous, 
or a glutton, as I hope thou art not, avoid showing thy- 
self guilty of those vices; for when the town, and 
those that come near thee, have discovered thy weak- 
ness, they will be sure to try thee on that side, and 
tempt thee to thy everlasting ruin. 

“Read over and over, and seriously consider the ad- 
monitions and documents I gave thee in writing before 
thou wentest to thy government, and thou wilt find the 
benefit of it in all those difficulties and emergencies 
that so frequently attend the function of a governor. 

“Write to thy lord and lady, and show thyself grate- 
ful; for ingratitute is the offspring of pride, and one of 
the worst corruptions of the mind: whereas he that is 
thankful to his benefactors gives a testimony that he 
will be so to God, who has done him so.much good. 

“My lady duchess dispatched a messenger on pur- 
pose to thy wife Teresa, with thy hunting suit and an- 
other present. We expect his return every moment. 

“T have been somewhat out of order by a certain cat 
encounter I had lately, not much to the advantage of 
my nose; but all that is nothing, for if there are necro- 
mancers that misuse me, there are others ready to de- 
fend me. 

“Send me word whether the steward that is with 
thee had any hand in the business of the Countess of 
Trifaldi, as thou wert once of opinion; and let me also 
have an account of whatever befalls thee, since the dis- 


398 


tance between us is so small. I have thoughts of leav- 
ing this idle life ere long, for 1 was not born for luxury 
and ease. 

“A business has offered that I believe will make me 
lose the duke's and the duchess's favor; but, though 1 
am heartily sorry for it, that does not alter my resolu- 
tion; for, after all, 1 owe more to my profession than to 
complaisance, and, as the saying is, Amicus Plato, sed 
magis amica veritas. I send thee this scrap of Latin, 
flattering myself that since thou camest to be a govern- 
or thou mayest have learned something of that lan- 
guage. Farewell, and Heaven keep thee above the 
pity of the world. 

“Thy friend, 
“DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.” 


Sancho gave great attention to the letter, and it was 
highly applauded, both for sense and integrity, by 
everybody that heard it. After that, he rose from ta- 
ble, and, calling the secretary, went without any 
further delay and locked himself up with him in his 
chamber to write an answer to his master, Don Quix- 
ote. He ordered the scribe to set down word for word 
what he dictated, without adding or diminishing the 
least thing; which being strictly observed, this was the 
tenor of the letter:— 


Sancho Panza to Don Quixote de la Mancha. 


“I am so taken up with business that I have not time 
to scratch my head or pare my nails, which is the reason 
they are so long—God help me! I tell you this, dear 
master of mine, that you may not marvel why I have 
not let you know whether it goes well or ill with me in 
this same government, where I am more hunger-starved 
than when you and I wandered through woods and 
wildernesses. 

“My lord duke wrote to me the other day, to inform 
me of some spies that were got into this island to kill 
me; but as yet I have discovered none but a certain 
doctor, hired by the islanders to kill all the governors 
that come near it. They call him Dr. Pedro Rezio de 
Anguero, and he was born at Tirteafuera. His name is 
enough to make me fear he will be the death of me. 
This same doctor says of himself that he does cure dis- 
cases when you have them; but when you have them 
not, he only pretends to keep them from coming. The 
physic he uses is fasting upon fasting, till he turns a 
body to a mere skeleton; as if to be wasted to skin and 
bones were not-as bad as a fever. In short, he starves 
me to death; so that when I thought, as being a gov- 
ernor, to have my belly full of good hot victuals and 
cool liquors, and to refresh my body in Holland sheets, 
and on a soft feather bed, I am come to do penance like 
a hermit; and, as I do it unwillingly, 1 am afraid of 
what will come to me at last. 

“ All this while I have not yet so much as fingered 
the least penny of money, either for fees, bribes, or 
anything; and how it comes to be no better with me I 
cannot for the soul of me imagine, for I have heard, by 
the by, that the governors who come to this island are 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


wont to have avery good gift, or, at least, a very round 
sum lent them by the town before they enter. And 
they say, too, that this is the usual custom, not only 
here, but in other places. 

“Last night, in going my rounds, I met with a mighty 
handsome damsel in boy’s clothes, and a brother of 
hers in woman’s apparel. My gentleman-in-waiting 
fell in love with the girl, and intends to make her his 
wife, as he says. As for the youth, I have pitched on 
him to be my son-in-law. To-day we both design to 
discourse the father, one Diego de la Llana, who is a 
gentleman, and an old Christian, every inch of him. 

“I visit the markets as you advised me, and yester- 
day found one of the hucksters selling hazel nuts. She 
pretended they were all new, but I found she had 
mixed a whole bushel of old, empty, rotten nuts among 
the same quantity of new. With that I judged them 
to be given to the hospital-boys, who knew how to pick 
the good from the bad, and gave sentence against her 
that she should not come into the market in fifteen 
days; and people said I did well. What I can tell you 
is, that, if you will believe the folks of this town, there 
is not a more rascally sort of people in the world than 
these market-women, for they are all a saucy, foul- 
mouthed, impudent rabble; and I judge them to be so 
by those I have seen in other places. 

“Tam mighty well pleased that my lady duchess has 
written to my wife, Teresa Panza, and sent her: the 
token you mention. It shall go hard but I will requite 
her kindness one time or other. Pray give my service 
to her, and tell her from me she has not cast her gift in 
a broken sack, as something more than words shall 
show. 

“Tf I might advise you, and had my wish, there 
should be no falling out between your worship and my 
lord and lady; for, if you quarrel with them, it is I 
must come by the worst for it. And, since you mind 
me of being grateful, it will not look well in you not to 
be so to those who have made so much of you at their 
castle. 

“As for your cat affair, I can make nothing of it, 
only I fancy you are still haunted after the old rate. 
You will tell me more when we meet. 

“T would fain have sent you a token, but I do not know 
what to send, unless it were some little pipes, which 
they make here very curiously, and fix most cleverly. 
But, if I stay in my place, it shall go hard but I will 
get something worth the sending to you. be it what it 
will. ‘ 

“If my wife Teresa Panza writes to me, pray pay the 
postage, and send me the letter; for I mightily long to 
hear how it is with her and my house and children. 

“So Heaven preserve you from ill-minded enchanters, 
and send me safe and sound out of this government, 
which I am much afraid of, as Dr. Pedro Rezio diets 
me.” | 

“Your worship’s servant, 
“SANCHO Panza, the Governor.” 


The secretary made up the letter, and immediately 
dispatched the express. Then those who carried on 
| 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


the plot against Sancho combined together, and con- 
sulted how to remove him from the government; and 
Sancho passed that afternoon in making several regu- 
lations for the better establishment of that which he 
imagined to be an island. He published an order 
against the higglers and forestallers of the markets, and 
another to encourage the bringers-in of wines from any 
part whatever, provided the owners declared of what 
growth they were, that they might be rated according 
to their value and goodness; and that they who should 
adulterate wine with water, or give it a wrong name, 
should be punished with death. He lowered the price 
of all kinds of apparel, and particularly that of shoes, 
as thinking it exorbitant. He regulated servants’ 
wages that were unlimited before, and proportioned 
them to the merit of their service. He laid severe pen- 
alties upon all those that should sing or vend lewd and 





399 


immoral songs and ballads, either in the open day or in 
the dusk of the evening; and also forbid all blind 
people the singing about miracles in rhymes, unless 
they produced authentic testimonies of their truth; for 
it appeared to him that most of those that were sung in 
such a manner were false, and a disparagement to the 
true. 

He appointed a particular officer to inspect the poor, 
not to persecute, but to examine them, and know 
whether they were truly such; for, under pretence of 
counterfeit lameness and artificial sores, many impu- 
dently rob the true poor of charity, to spend it in riot 
and drunkenness. 

In short, he made so many wholesome ordinances that 
to this day they are observed in that place, and called, 
“The Constitutions of the great Governor, Sancho 
Panza.” 








CHAPTER LII. 


A RELATION OF THE ADVENTURES OF THE SECOND DISCONSOLATE OR DISTRESSED MATRON, OTHERWISE 


CALLED DONNA RODRIGUEZ. 


Cro HAMET relates that, Don Quixote’s scratches be- 
ing healed, he began to think the life he led in the 
castle not suitable to the order of knight-errantry which 
he professed; he resolved, therefore, to take leave of 
the duke and duchess, and set forwards for Saragosa, 
where, at the approaching tournament, he hoped to win 
the armor, the usual prize at the festivals of that kind. 
Accordingly, as he sat at table with the lord and lady 
of the castle, he began to acquaint them with his design, 
when behold two women entered the great hall, clad in 
deep mourning from head to foot. One of them, ap- 
proaching Don Quixote, threw herself at his feet, where, 
lying prostrate, and in a manner kissing them, she 
fetched such deep and doleful sighs, and made such 
sorrowful lamentations, that all those who were by were 
not a little surprised. And, though the duke and 
duchess imagined it to be some new device of their 
servants against Don Quixote, yet, perceiving with 
what earnestness the woman sighed and lamented, they 
were in doubt and knew not what to think; till the com- 
passionate champion, raising her from the ground, en- 
gaged her to lift up her veil and discover what they 
least expected, the face of Donna Rodriguez, the duenna 
of the family; and the other mourner proved to be her 
daughter, whom the rich farmer’s son had deluded. All 
those that knew them were in great admiration, espe- 
cially the duke and duchess; for, though they knew 
her simplicity and indiscretion, they did not believe 
her so far gone in madness. Atlast the sorrowful ma- 
tron, addressing herself to the duke and the duchess, 
“May it please your graces,” said she, “to permit me 





to direct my discourse to this knight, for it concerns 
me to get out of an unlucky business into which the 
impudence of a treacherous villain has brought us.” 
With that the duke gave her leave to say what she 
would; then, applying herself to Don Quixote, “It is 
not long,” said she, “valorous knight, since I gave 
your worship an account how basely and treacherously 
a young graceless farmer had used my dear child, the 
poor, undone creature here present; and you then pro- 
mised me to stand up for her and see her righted; and 
now I understand you are about to leave this castle in 
quest of the good adventures Heaven shall send you. 
And, therefore, before you are gone nobody knows 
whither, I have this boon to beg of your worship, that 
you would do so much as challenge this sturdy clown, 
and make him marry my daughter, according to his 
promise. For, as for my lord duke, it is a folly to think 
he will ever see me righted, for the reason I told you in 
private. And so Heaven preserve your worship, and 
still be our defence.” 

“Worthy matron,” answered Don Quixote, with a 
great deal of gravity and solemn form, “moderate your 
tears, or, to speak more properly, dry them up, and 
spare your sighs, for I take upon me to see your daugh- 
ter’s wrongs redressed; though she had done much 
better had not her too great credulity made her trust 
the protestations of lovers, which generally are readily 
made, but most uneasily performed. Therefore with 
my lord duke’s permission, I will instantly depart to find 
out this ungracious wretch; and, as soon as he is found, 
I will challenge him, and kill him, if he persists in his 


400 DON QUIXOTE 
obstinancy; for the chief end of my profession is to 
pardon the submissive and to chastise the stubborn, to 
relieve the miserable and destroy the cruel.” 

“Sir Knight,” said the duke, “you need not give 
yourself the trouble of seeking the fellow of whom 
that good matron complains; nor need you ask me leave 
to challenge him; for 1 already engage that he shall 
meet you in person to answer it here in this castle, 
where safe lists shall be set up for you both, observing 
all the laws of arms that ought to be kept in affairs of 
this kind, and doing each party justice, as all princes 
ought to do that admit of single combats within their 
territories.” 

“Upon that assurance,” said Don Quixote, “with 
your grace’s leave, I, for this time, waive my punctilo 
of gentility, and debasing myself to the meanness of 
the offender, qualify him to measure lances with me; 
and so let him be absent or present, I challenge and 
defy him, as a villain that has deluded this poor crea- 
ture; and he shall either perform his promise of mak- 
ing her his lawful wife, or die in the contest.” 

With that, pulling off his glove, he flung it down 
into the middle of the hall, and the duke took it up, 
declaring, as he already had done, that he accepted 
the challenge in the name of his vassal; fixing the time 
for combat to be six days after, and the place to be 
the castle court; the arms to be such as are usual 
among knights, as lance, shield, armor of proof, and 
all other pieces, without fraud, advantage, or enchant- 
ment, after search made by the judges of the field. 

“But, in the first place,” added the duke, “it is 
requisite that these persons commit the justice of their 
cause into the hands of their champion, for otherwise 
there will be nothing done, and the challenge is void, 
in course.” 

“T do,” answered the matron. 

“And so do 1,” added the daughter, all ashamed, 
blubbering, and in a crying tone. 

The preliminaries being adjusted, and the duke having 
resolved with himself what to do in the matter, the 
mourning petitioners went away, and the duchess order- 
ed theyshould no longer be looked on as her domestics, 
butas ladies-errants, that came to demand justice in her 
castle; and, accordingly, there was a peculiar apartment 
appointed for them, where they were served as stran- 
gers, to the amazement of the other servants, who could 
not imagine what would be the end of Donna Rodriguez 
and her forsaken daughter's ridiculous, confident un- 
dertaking. 

Presently, after this, to complete their mirth, and, 
as it were, for the last course, in came the page that 
had carried the letters and the presents to Teresa 
Panza. The duke and duchess were overjoyed to see 
him returned, having a great desire to know the suc- 
cess of his journey. They inquired of him accordingly; 
but he told them that the account he had to give them 
could not well be delived in public, nor in few words, 
and therefore begged their graces would be pleased to 
take it in private, and, in the meantime, entertain 
themselves with those letters. With that, taking out 





two, he delivered them to her grace. The superscrip- 


DE LA MANCHA. 


tion of the one was, “These for my Lady Duchess, of I 
do not know what place;” and the direction of the 
other thus, “To my husband, Sancho Panza, Governor 
of the island of Barataria, whom Heaven prosper as 
many or more years than me.” 

The duchess sat upon thorns till she had read her 
letter; so, having opened it, and ran it over to herself, 
finding there was nothing of secrecy in it, she read it 
out aloud, that the whole company might hear what 
follows: 


Teresa Panza’s Letter to the Duchess. 


“My Lapy,—The letter your honor sent me pleased 
me hugeously; for, troth, it is what 1 heartily longed 
for. The string of coral is a good thing, and my hus.. 
band’s hunting-suit may come up to it. All our town 
takes it mightily kindly, and is very glad that*your 
honor has made my spouse a governor, though nobody 
will believe it, especially our curate, Master Nicholas, 
the barber, and Samson Carrasco, the bachelor. But 
what care I whether they do or no? So it be true, as it 
is, let every one have their saying. Though (it isa 
folly to lie) I had not believed it neither, but for the 
coral and the suit; for everybody here takes my hus- 
band to be a dolt, and cannot, for the blood of them, 
imagine what he can be fit to govern, unless it be a herd 
of goats. Well, Heaven be his guide, and speed him 
as he sees best for his children! As for me, my dear 
lady, I am resolved, with your good liking, to make hay 
while the sun shines, and go to court, to loll it along in 
a coach, and make a world of my back-friends, that 
envy me already, stare their eyes out. And, therefore, 
good your honor, pray bid my husband send me store 
of money, for I believe it is dear living at court; one 
can have but little bread there for sixpence, and a 
pound of flesh is worth thirty maravedis, which would 
make one stand amazed. And if he is not for my com- 
ing, let him send me word in time, for my feet itch to 
be jogging; for my gossips and neighbors tell me that 
if I and my daughter go about the court as we should, 
spruce and fine, and at a tearing rate, my husband will 
be better known by me than I by him; for many cannot 
choose but ask, ‘What ladies are these in the coach ?” 
with that, one of my servants answers, *The wife and 
daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of 
Barataria; and thus shall my husband be known, and I 
honored, far and near; and so have at all; Rome has 
everything. 

“You cannot think how I am troubled that we have 
gathered no acorns hereaway this year; however, I 
send your highness about half a peck, which I have 
culled one by one; I went to the mountains on purpose, 
and got the biggest I could find. I wish they had been 
as big as ostrich eggs. 

“Pray let not your pomposity forget to write to me, 
and I will be sure to send you an answer, and let you 
know how 1 do, and send you all the news in our village, 
where I am waiting, and praying the Lord to preserve 
your highness, and not to forget me. My daughter 
Sanchica and my son kiss your worship’s hands. 


DON QUIXOTE 


“She that wishes rather to see you than write to 
you. 
“Your servant, 
“TERESA PANZA.” 


This letter was very entertaining to all the company, 
especially to the duke and duchess; insomuch that her 
grace asked Don Quixote whether it would be amiss to 
open the governor’s letter, which she imagined to be a 
very good one. The knight told her that to satisfy her 
curiosity he would open it, which being done, he found 
what follows:— 


Teresa Panza’s Letter to her Husband, Sancho Panza. 


“I received thy letter, dear honey Sancho, and I vow 
and swear to thee, as I am a Catholic Christian, I was 
within two fingers’ breadth of running mad for joy. 
Look you, my chuck, when I heard thou wert made a 
governor, I was so transported, I had like to have fallen 
down dead with mere gladness; for thou knowest sud- 
den joy is said to kill as soon as great sorrow. As for 
thy daughter Sanchica, she was not able to do anything 
for some days, for very pleasure. I had the suit thou 
sentest me before my eyes, and the lady duchess’s 
corals about my neck, held the letter in my hands, and 
had him that brought them standing by me, and for all 
that I thought what I saw and felt was but a dream. 
For who could have thought a goatherd should ever 
come to be governor of islands? But what said my 
mother? ‘Who a great deal would see, a great while 
must live.’ I speak this because, if I live longer, I 
mean to see more; for I shall never be at rest till I see 
thee a farmer or receiver of the customs; for though 
they be officers that send many to ruin, for all that, 
they bring grist to the mill. My lady duchess will tell 
thee how I long to go to court. Pray, think of it, and 
let me know thy mind; for I mean to credit thee there 
by going in a coach. ; 

“Neither the curate, the barber, the bachelor, nor the 
sexton will believe thou art a governor; but say it is 
all juggling or enchantment, as all thy master Don 
Quixote’s concerns used to be; and Samson threatens 
to find thee out, and put this maggot of a government 
out of thy pate, and Don Quixote’s madness out of his 
coxcomb. For my part, I do but laugh at them, and 
look upon my string of coral, and contrive how to fit up 
the suit thou sentest me into a gown for thy daughter. 


DE LA MANCHA. 401 


“T sent my lady the duchess some acorns; I would 
they were beaten gold. I pr’ythee send me some strings 
of pearl, if they be in fashion in thy island. 

“The news here is that Berrueca has married her 
daughter to a sorry painter that came hither pretend- 
ing to paint anything. The township sent him to paint 
the king’s arms over the town hall. He asked two 
ducats for the job, which they paid him; so he fell to 
work, and was eight days a-daubing, but could make 
nothing of it, and said he could not hit upon such kind 
of work, and so gave them their money again. Yet, for 
all this, he married with the name of a good workman. 
The truth is, he has left his pencil upon it, and taken 
the spade, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro 
de Lobo’s son has taken orders, and shaved his crown, 
meaning to be a priest. Minguilla, Mingo Salvato’s 
granddaughter, heard of it, and sues him upon a promise 
of marriage. We have no olives this year, nor is there 
a drop of vinegar to be got for love or money. Sanchica 
makes bone-lace, and gets her three-halfpence a day 
clear, which she saves in a box with a slit, to go to- 
wards buying household stuff. But now she is a gov- 
ernor’s daughter she has no need to work, for thou wilt 
give her a portion. The fountain in the market is dried 
up. A thunderbolt lately fell upon the pillory; there 
may they all alight. I expect thy answer to this and 
thy resolution concerning my going to court. So 
Heaven send thee long to live, longer than myself, or 
rather as long; for I would not willingly leave thee 
behind me in this world. 

“Thy Wife, 
“TERESA PANZA.” 


These letters were admired, and caused a great deal 
of laughter and diversion; and, to complete the mirth, 
at the same time the express returned that brought 
Sancho’s answer to Don Quixote, which was likewise 
publicly read, and startled all the hearers, who took 
the governor for afool. Afterwards the duchess with- 
drew to know of the page what he had to relate of 
Sancho’s village; of which he gave her a full account, 
without omitting the least particular. He also brought 
her the acorns, and a cheese which Teresa had given 
him fora very good one, and better than those of Tron- 
cheon, which the duchess gratefully accepted. Now 
let us leave her, to tell the end of the government of 
great Sancho Panza, the flower and mirror of all island 





governors. 


CHAPTER LIII. 


THE TOILSOME END AND CONCLUSION OF SANCHO PANZA’S GOVERNMENT. 


To THINK the affairs of this life are always to remain 
in the same state is an erroneous fancy. The face of 
things rather seems continually to change and roll with 
circular motion; summer succeeds the spring, autumn 
the summer, winter the autumn, and then spring again. 
So time proceeds in this perpetual round; only the life 
of man is ever hastening to its-end, swifter than time 
itself, without hopes to be renewed, unless in the next, 
that is unlimited and infinite. This says Cid Hamet, 
the Mohametan philosopher. For even by the light of 
Nature, and without that of faith, many have discov- 
ered the swiftness and instability of this present being, 
and the duration of the eternal life which is expected. 
But this moral reflection of our author is not here to be 
supposed as meant by him in its full extent; for he in- 
tended it only to show the uncertainty of Sancho’s for- 
tune, how soon it vanished like a dream, and how from 
his high preferment he returned to his former low 
station. 

It was now but the seventh night, after so many days 
of his government, when the careful governor had be- 
taken himself to his repose, sated not with bread and 
wine, but cloyed with hearing causes, pronouncing sen- 
tences, making statutes, and putting out orders and 
proclamations. Scarce was sleep, in spite of wakeful 
hunger, beginning to close his eyes, when of a sudden 
he heard a great noise of bells, and most dreadful out- 
cries, as if the whole island had been sinking. Pres- 
ently he started, and sat up in bed, and listened with 
great attention, to try if he could learn how far this 
uproar might concern him. But, while he was thus 
hearkening in the dark, a great number of drums and 
trumpets were heard, and that sound being added to 
the noise of the bells and the cries, gave so dreadful 
an alarm that his fear and terror increased, and he was 
in a sad consternation. Up he leaped out of his bed, 
and put on his slippers, the ground being damp, and 
without anything else on but his shirt, ran and opened 
his chamber door, and saw about twenty men come run- 
ning along the galleries with lighted links in one hand, 
and drawn swords in the other, all crying out, “Arm, 
my lord governor, arm! a world of enemies are got into 
the island, and we are undone, unless your valor and 
conduct relieve us.” Thus bawling and running with 
great fury and disorder, they got to the door where 
Sancho stood quite scared out of his senses. “Arm, 





arm this moment, my lord!” cried one of them, “if you 
have not a mind to be lost with the whole island.” 

“What would you have me arm for?” quoth Sancho; 
“do I know anything of arms or fighting, think you? 
Why do you not rather send for Don Quixote, my mas- 
ter? he will dispatch your enemies in atrice. Alas! as 
I am a sinner to Heaven, I understand nothing of this 
hasty service.” 

“For shame, my lord governor!” said another. “What 
a faint-heartedness is this? See, we bring you here 
arms offensive and defensivel Arm yourself, and 
march to the market-place! Be our leader and captain, 
as you ought, and show yourself a governor!” 

“Why, then, arm me, and good luck attend me,” 
quoth Sancho. 

With that they brought him two large shields which 
they had provided, and, without letting him put on his 
other clothes, clapped them over his shirt, and tied the 
one behind upon his back, and the. other upon his 
breast, having got his arms through some holes made 
on purpose. Now, the shields being fastened to his 
body as hard as cords could bind them, the poor gov- 
ernor was cased up and immurred as straight as an 
arrow, without being able so much as to bend his 
knees, or stir a step. Then, having puta lance into his 
hand for him to lean upon, and keep himself up, they 
desired him to march, and lead them on, and put life 
into them all, telling him that they did not doubt of 
victory since they had him for their commander. 

“March!” quoth Sancho, “how do you think I am able 
to do it, squeezed as I am? These boards stick so 
plaguy close to me, I cannot so much as bend the joints 
of my knees; you must even carry me in your arms, 
and lay me across or set me upright before some passage, 
and I will make good that spot of ground, either with 
this lance or my body.” 

“Fie, my lord governor!” said another; “it is more 
your fear than your armor that stiffens your legs, and 
hinders you from moving. Move, move, march on! it 
is high time; the enemy grows stronger, and the dan- 
ger presses.” 

The poor governor, thus urged and upbraided, en- 
deavored to go forwards, but the first motion he made 
threw him to the ground at the full length, so heavily, 
that he gave over all his bones for broken; and there he 
lay, like a huge tortoise in his shell, or a flitch of 

402 


Ll 

















March!’ quoth Sancho, ‘ How do you think I am able to do it ?*”—p. 402. 





404 


bacon clapped between two boards, or like a boat 
overturned upon a Hat with the keel upwards. Nor 
had those drolling companions the least compas- 
sion upon him as he lay; quite contrary, having put 
out their lights, they made a terrible noise, and clat- 
tered with their swords, and trampled too and again 
upon the poor governor's body, and laid on furiously 
with their swords upon his shields, insomuch that, if 
he had not shrunk his head into them for shelter, he 
had been in a woful condition. Squeezed up in his 
narrow shell, he was in a grievous fright and a terrible 
sweat, praying from the bottom of his heart for deliv- 
erance from the cursed trade of governing islands. Some 
kicked him, some stumbled and fell upon him, and one 
among the rest jumped full upon him, and there stood 
for some time as on a watch-tower, like a general en- 
couraging his soldiers and giving orders, and crying 
out, “There, boys, there! the enemies charge most on 
that side; make good that breach, secure that gate, 
down with those scaling ladders, fetch fire-balls, more 
grenades, burning pitch, rosin, and kettles of scalding 
oil. Intrench yourselves, get beds, quilts, cushions, 
and barricade the streets;” in short, he called for all 
the instruments of death, and all the engines used for 
the defence of a city that is besieged and stormed. San- 
cho lay snug, though sadly bruised; and while he en- 
dured all quietly, “Oh, that it would please the Lord,” 
quoth he to himself, “that this island were but taken, 
or that I were fairly dead, or out of this peck of trou- 
bles!” Atlast Heaven heard his prayers; and, when 
he least expected it, he heard them cry, “Victory! vic- 
tory! the enemy is routed! Now, my lord governor, 
rise; come and enjoy the fruits of conquest, and divide 
the spoils taken from the enemy by the valor of your 
invincible arms.” 

“Help me up,” cried poor Sancho, in a doleful tone; 
and when they had set him on bis legs, “Let all the 
enemy I have routed,” quoth he, “be nailed to my fore- 
head. I will divide no spoils of enemies; but, if I have 
one friend here, I only beg he would give me a draught 
of wine to comfort me, and help to dry up the sweat 
that I am in, for I am all over water.” 

Thereupon they wiped him, gave him wine, and took 
off his shields. After that, as he sat upon his bed, 
what with his fright, and what with the toil he had en- 
dured, he fell into a swoon, insomuch that those who 
acted this scene, began to repent they had carried it so 
far. But Sancho, recovering from his fit in a little time, 
they also recovered from their uneasiness. Being come 
to himself, he asked what o’clock it was. They an- 
swered it was now break of day. He said nothing, but 
without any word, began to put on his clothes. While 
this was doing, and he continued seriously silent, all 
the eyes of the company were fixed upon him, wonder- 
ing what could be the meaning of his being in such 
haste to put on his clothes. At last he made an end of 
dressing himself, and, creeping along softly (for he was 
too much bruised to go along very fast), he got to the 
stable, followed by all the company, and, coming to 
Dapple, he embraced the quiet animal, gave him a 
loving kiss on the forehead, and, with tears in his 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


eyes, “Come hither,” said he, “my friend; thou faith. 
ful companion and fellow-sharer in my travels and mis- 
eries: when thee and I consorted together, and all my 
cares were but to mend thy furniture and feed thy little 
carcass, then happy were my days, my months, and 
years. But since I forsook thee, and clambered up 
the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand woes, 
a thousand torments, and four thousand tribulations 
have haunted and worried my soul.” While he was 
talking thus, he fitted on his pack-saddle, nobody offer- 
ing to say anything to him. This done, with a great 
deal of difficulty he mounted his ass, and then address- 
ing himself to the steward, the secretary, the gentle- 
man-waiter, and Doctor Pedro Rezio, and many others 
that stood by, “Make way, gentlemen,” said he, “and 
let me return to my former liberty. Let me go, that I 
may seek my old course of life, and rise again from 
that death which buries me here alive. I was not born 
to be a governor, nor to defend islands and cities from 
enemies that break in upon them. I know better what 
belongs to ploughing, delving, pruning, and planting 
of vineyards, than how to make laws, and defend coun- 
tries and kingdoms. ‘St. Peter is very well at Rome;’ 
which is as much as to say, let every one stick to the 
calling he was born to. A spade does better in my 
hand than a governor’s truncheon, and I had rather fill 
my belly with a mess of plain porridge, than lie at the 
mercy of a coxcombly physic-monger, that starves me 
to death. I had rather solace myself under the shade 
of an oak in summer, and wrap up my body in a double 
sheep-skin in winter, at my liberty, than lay me down 
with the slavery of a government, in find Holland 
sheets, and case my hide in furs and richest sables. 
Heaven be with you gentlefolks, and pray tell my lord 
duke from me, that naked I was born, and naked I am 
at present. I have neither won nor lost, which is much 
to say, without a penny I came to this government, and 
without a penny I leave it—quite contrary to what 
other governors of islands used to do, when they leave 
them. Clear the way, then, I beseech you, and let me 
pass; I must get myself wrapped up all over in cere- 
cloth, for I do not think I have a sound rib left, thanks 
to the enemies that have walked over me all nightlong.” 

“This must not be, my lord governor,” said Dr. Rezio, 
“for I will give your honor a balsamic drink, that is a 
specific against falls, dislocations, contusions, and all 
manner of bruises, and that will presently restore you 
to, your former health and strength; and then, for your 
diet, I promise to take a new course with you, and to 
let you eat abundantly of whatsoever you please.” 

“It is too late, Mr. Doctor,” answered Sancho; “you 
should as soon make me turn Turk, as hinder me from 
going. No, no, these tricks shall not pass upon me 
again; you shall as soon make me fly to heaven without 
wings, as get me to stay here, or ever catch me nibbling 
at a government again, though it were served up to me 
in a covered dish. I am of the blood of the Panzas, 
and we are all willful and positive. If once we cry odd, 
it shall be odd, in spite of all mankind, though it be 
even. Go to, then; let the emmet leave behind him 
in this stable, those wings that lifted him up in the air, 











wih 


I 
f 


Me 




















8.’ ”—p, 404, 


¡serie 


sharer in my travels and m 


ithful companion and fellow. 


said he, ‘my friend; thou fa 


, 
, 


ither 


“ «Come h 


406 DON 
to be a prey to martlets and sparrows. Fair and softly. 
Let me now tread again on plain ground; though 1 may 
not wear pinked Cordovan leather pumps, I shall not 


want a pair of sandals to my feet. ‘Every sheep to her|- 


mate.’ ‘Let not the cobbler go beyond his last;’ and 
so, let me go, for it is late.” 

“My lord governor,” said the steward, “though it 
grieves us to part with your honor, your sense and 
Christian behavior engaging us to covet your company, 
yet we would not presume to stop you against your in- 
clination; but you know that every governor, before he 
leaves the place he has governed, is bound to give an 
account of his administration. Be pleased, therefore, 
to do so for the ten days you have been among us, and 
then peace be with you.” 

“No man has power to call me to an account,” re- 
plied Sancho, “unless it be my lord duke’s appoint- 
ment. Now,to him it is that I am going, and to him 1 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


will give afair and square account. And, indeed, go- 
ing away so bare as 1 do, there needs no greater signs 
that I have governed like an angel.” 
“In truth,” said Dr. Rezio, “the great Sancho is in 
the right; and I am of opinion we ought to let him go, 
for certainly the duke will be very glad to see him.” 
Thereupon they all agreed to let him pass, offering 
first to attend him, and supply him with whatever he 
might want in his journey, either for entertainment or 
convenience. Sancho told them all he desired was a 
little corn for his ass, and half a cheese and half a loaf 
for himself, having occasion for no other provisions in 
so short a journey. With that they all embraced him, 
and he embraced them all, not without tears in his 
eyes, leaving them in admiration of the good sense 
which he discovered, both in his discourse and unalter- 
able resolution. 








CHAPTER LIV. 


WHICH TREATS OF MATTERS THAT RELATE TO THIS HISTORY, AND NO OTHER. 


THE DUKE and duchess resolved that Don Quixote’s 
challenge against their vassal should not be ineffectual: 
and the young man being fled into Flanders to avoid 
having Donna Rodriguez to his mother-in-law, they 
made choice of a Gascoin lackey, named Tosolis, to 
supply his place, and gave him instructions how to act 
his part. Two days after, the duke acquainted Don 
Quixote that within four days his antagonist would 
meet him in the lists, armed at all points like a knight, 
to maintain that the damsel lied through the throat and 
through the beard, to say that he had ever promised 
her marriage. Don Quixote was mightily pleased with 
this news, promising himself to do wonders on this oc- 
casion, and esteeming it an extraordinary happiness to 
have such an opportunity to show, before such noble 
spectators, how extensive were his valor and his 
strength. Cheered and elevated with these hopes, he 
waited for the end of these four days, which his eager 
impatience made him think so many ages. 

Well, now letting them pass, as we do other matters, 
let us a while attend Sancho, who, divided betwixt joy 
and sorrow, was now on Dapple, making the best of his 
way to his master, whcse company he valued more than 
the government of all the islands in the world. He 
had not gone far from his island, or city, or town (or 
whatever you will please to call it, for he never troubled 
himself to examine what it was), before he met upon 
the road six pilgrims, with their walking staves, for- 
eigners as they proved, and such as used to beg alms, 
singing. As they drew near him they placed them- 
selves in a row, and fell a-singing all together, in th eir 





language, something that Sancho could not understand, 
unless it was one word, which plainly signified alms; 
by which he guessed that charity was the burden and 
intent of their song. Being exceedingly charitable, as 
Cid Hamet reports him, he opened his wallet, and, hav- 
ing taken out the half loaf and half cheese, gave them 
these, making signs withal that he had nothing else to 
give them. They took the dole with a good will, but 
yet not satisfied, they cried, “Guelte, guelte.” 

“Good people,” quoth Sancho, “I do not understand 
what you would have.” 

With that one of them pulled out a purse that was in 
his bosom, and showed it to Sancho, by which he un- 
derstood that it was money they wanted. But he, put- 
ting his thumb to his mouth, and wagging his hand 
with his four fingers upwards, made a sign that he had 
not a cross; and so,clapping his heels to Dapple’s 
sides, he began to make way through the pilgrims; but, 
at the same time, one of them, who had been looking-on 
him very earnestly, laid hold on him, and throwing his 
arms about his middle, “Bless me!” cried he in very 
good Spanish, “what do I see? Is it possible? Dol 
hold in my arms my dear friend, my good neighbor 
Sancho Panza? Yes, sure it must be he, for I am 
neither drunk nor dreaming.” 

Sancho, wondering to hear himself called by his 
name, and to see himself so lovingly hugged by the 
pilgrim, stared upon him without speaking a word; but, 
though he looked seriously in his face a good while, he 
could not guess who he was. 

The pilgrim observing his amazement, “What! ” said 


ee 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


he, “friend Sancho, do not you know your old acquaint- 
ance, your neighbor Ricote the Morisco, that kept a 
shop in your town ?” 

Then Sancho looking wistfully on him again, began 
to call him to mind; at last, he knew him again per- 
fectly, and clasping him about the neck, without alight- 
ing, “Ricote,” cried he, “who could possibly ever have 
known thee, transmogrified in this mumming dress? 
Pr’ythee, who has franchised thee at this rate? And 
how durst thou offer to come again into Spain? Shouldst 
thou come to be known, I would not be in thy coat for 
all the world.” 

“Tf thou dost not betray me,” said the pilgrim, “I am 
safe enough, Sancho; for nobody can know me in this 
disguise. But let us get out of the road, and make to 
yonder elm-grove; my comrades and I have agreed to 
take a little refreshment there, and thou shalt dine 
with us. They are honest souls, I will assure thee. 
There I shall have an opportunity to tell thee how I 
have passed my time, since I was forced to leave the 
town in obedience to the king’s edict, which, as thou 
knowest, so severely threatens those of our unfortunate 
nation.” 

Sancho consented,and Ricote having spoken to the rest 
of the pilgrims, they went all together to the grove, at 
a good distance from the road. There they laid by their 
staves, and, taking off their pilgrims’ weeds, remained 
in jackets; all of them young handsome fellows, except 
Ricote, who was somewhat stricken in years. Every 
one carried his wallet, which seemed well furnished at 
least, with savory and high-seasoned bits, the provoca- 
tive to the turning down good liquor. They sat down on 
the ground, and making the green grass their table- 
cloth, presently there was a comfortable appearance of 
bread, salt, knives, nuts, cheese, and some bacon bones, 
on which there were still some good pickings left, or 
which at least might be sucked. They also had a kind 
of black meat called caviar, made of the roes of fish, a 
certain charm to keep thirst awake. They also had a 
good store of olives, though none of the moistest; but 
the chief glory of the feast was six leathern bottles of 
wine, every pilgrim exhibiting one for his share; even 
honest Ricote himself was now transformed from a 
Morisco to a German, and clubbed his bottle, his quota 
making as good a figure as the rest. They began to eat 
like men that liked mighty well their savory fare; and 
as it was very relishing, they went leisurely to work, 
to continue the longer, taking buta little of every one 
at a time on the point of a knife. Then all at once they 
lifted up their arms, and applying their own mouths to 
the mouths of the bottles, and turning up their bottoms 
in the air, with their eyes fixed on Heaven, like men in 
an ecstacy, they remained in that posture a good while, 
transfusing the blood and spirit of the vessels into 
their stomachs, and shaking their heads, as in rapture, 
to express the pleasure they received. Sancho admired 
all this extremely; he could not find the least fault 
with it; quite contrary; he was for making good the 
old proverb, “When thou art at Rome, do as they do at 
Rome;” so he desired Ricote to lend him his bottle, 
and taking his aim as well as the rest, and with no less 





407 


satisfaction, showed them he wanted neither method 
nor breath. Four times they caressed the bottles in 
that manner, but there was no doing it the fifth, for 
they were quite exhausted, and the life and soul of 
them departed, which turned their mirth into sor- 
row. But while the wine lasted all was well. Now 
and then one or other of the pilgrims would take San- 
cho by the right hand, Spaniard and German all one 
now, and cried, “ Bon campagno.” 

“Well said, i’ faith,” answered Sancho; “don cam- 
pagno, perdie.” And then he would burst out a-laugh- 
ing for half an hour together, without the least concern 
for all his late misfortunes or the loss of his govern- 
ment; for anxieties use to have but little power over 
the time that men spend in eating or drinking. In 
short, as their bellies were full, their bones desired to 
be at rest, and so five of them dropped asleep; only 
Sancho and Ricote, who had indeed eaten more, but 
drank less, remained awake, and removed under the 
covert of a beech at a small distance, where, while the 
others slept, Ricote, in good Spanish, spoke to Sancho 
to this purpose :— 

“Thou well knowest, friend Sancho Panza, how the 
late edict, that enjoined all those of our nation to de- 
part the kingdom, alarmed us all; at least, me it did; 
insomuch, that the time limited for our going was not 
yet expired, but I thought the law was ready to be ex- 
ecuted upon me and my children. Accordingly, I 
resolved to provide betimes for their security and mine, 
as a man does that knows his habitation will be taken 
away from him, and so secures another before he is 
obliged to remove. So I left our town by myself, 
and went to seek some place beforehand where I might 
convey my family, without exposing myself to the 
inconvenience of a hurry, like the rest that went; for 
the wisest among us were justly apprehensive that the 
proclamations issued out for the banishment of our 
Moorish race were not only threats, as some flattered 
thewselves, but would certainly take effect at the ex- 
piration of the limited time. I was the rather inclined 
to believe this, being conscious that our people had 
very dangerous designs; so that I could not but think 
that the king was inspired from Heaven to take so 
brave a resolution, and expel those snakes out of the 
bosom of the kingdom; not that we were all guilty, for 
there were some sound and real Christians among us; 
but their number was so small, that they could not be 
opposed to those who were otherwise, and it was not 
safe to keep enemies within doors. In short, it was 
necessary we should be banished; but though some 
might think it a mild and pleasant fate, to us it seems 
the most dreadful thing that could befall us. Wherever 
we are, we bemoan with tears our banishment from 
Spain; for, after all, there we were born, and it is our 
native country. We find nowhere the entertainment 
our misfortune requires; and even in Barbary, and all 
other parts of Africa, where we expected to have met 
with the best reception and relief, we find the greatest 
inhumanity and the worst usage. We did not know 
our happiness till we had lost it; and the desire which 
most of us have to return to Spain is such, that the 


408 


greatest part of those that speak the tongue as 1 do, who 
are many, come back hither, and leave their wives and 
children there in a forlorn condition, so strong is their 
love for their native place; and now I know by experi- 
ence the truth of the saying, ‘Sweet is the love of one's 
own country. For my part, having left our town, I went 
into France, and though 1 was very well received there, 
yet [had a mind to see other countries; and so passing 
through it, 1 travelled into Italy, and from thence into 
Germany, where methought one might live with more 
freedom, the inhabitants being a good-humored, sociable 
people, that love to live easy with one another, and 
everybody follows his own way; for there is liberty of 
conscienee allowed in the greatest part of the country. 
There, after 1 had taken a dwelling in a village near 
Augsburg, I struck into the company of these pilgrims, 
and got to be one of their number, finding they were 
some of those who make it their custom to go to Spain, 
many of them every year, to visit the places of devo- 
tion, which they look upon as their Indies, their best 
market, and surest means to get money. They travel 
almost the whole kingdom over; nor is there a village 
where they are not sure to get meatiand drink, and six- 
pence ut least in money. And they manage matters so 
well, that at the end of their pilgrimage they commonly 
go off with about a hundred crowns clear gain, which 
they change into gold, and hide either in the hollow of 
their staves or patches of their clothes, and either thus 
or some other private way, convey it usually into their 
own country, inspite of all searches at their going out 
of the kingdom. Now, Sancho, my design in returning 
hither is to fetch the treasure that I left buried when I 
went away, which I may do with the'less incouveniency, 
by reason it lies in a place quite out ofthe town. That 
done, I intend to write or go over myself from Valencia 
to my wife and daughter, who I know are in Algiers, 
and find one way or other to get them over to some! 
port in France, and from thence bring them over into 
Germany, where we will stay, and see how Providence 
will dispose of us. For I am sure my wife Francisca 
and my daughter are good Catholic Christians; and 
though I cannot say lam as much a believer as they 
are, yet I have more of the Christian than of the 
Mahometan, and make it my constant prayer to the 
Almighty to open the eyes of my understanding, and 
Jet me know how to serve him. What I wonder at is, 
that my wife and daughter should rather choose to go 
for Barbary then for France, where they might have 
lived like Christians.” 

“Look you, Ricote,” answered Sancho, “mayhaps 
that was none of their fault; for to my knowledge, 
John Tiopieyo, thy wife’s brother, took them along with 
him, and he, belike, being a rank Moor, would go where 
he thought best. And I must tell thee further, friend, 
that I doubt thou wilt lose thy labor in going to look 
after thy hidden treasure; for the report was hot among 
us that thy brother-in-law and thy wife had a great 
many pearls and a deal of gold taken away from them, 
which should have been interred.” | 

“That may be,” replied Ricote; “but I am sure, friend 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


would tell them where 1 had hidden it, for fear of the 
worst; and, therefore, if thou wilt go along with me, 
and help me to carry off this money, I will give thee 
two hundred crowns, to make thee easier in the world. 
Thou knowest I can tell it is but low with thee.” 

“TI would do it,” answered Sancho, “but Iam not at 
all covetous. Were I in the least given to it, this 
morning I quitted an employment, which, had I but 
kept, I might have got enough to have made the walls 
of my house of beaten gold, and, before six months had 
been at an end, I might have eaten my victuals in plate. 
So that, as well for this reason as because I fancy it 
would be a piece of treason to the king, in abetting his 
enemies, I would not go with thee, though thou wouldst 
lay me down twice as much.” 

“And pr’ythee,” said Ricote, “what sort of employ- 
ment is it thou hast left ?” 

“Why,” quoth Sancho, “I have left the government 
of an island, and such an island as, i’ faith, you will 
scarce meet with the like in haste within a mile of an 
oak.” 

“And where is this island ?” said Ricote. 

“Where!” quoth Sancho, “why, some two leagues 
off, and it is called the island of Barataria.“ 

“Pr’ythee, do not talk so,” replied Ricote; “islands 
lie a great way off in the sea, there are none in the 
mainland.” 

“Why not?” quoth Sancho. “I tell thee, friend Ri- 
cote, I came from thence but this morning; and yester- 
day I was there governing it at my will and pleasure, 
like any dragon; yet, for all that, I even left it; for this 
same place of a governor seemed to me but a ticklish 
and perilous kind of an office.” 

“And what didst thou get by thy government?” 
asked Ricote. 

“Why,” answered Sancho, “I have got so much 
knowledge as to understand that I am not fit to govern 
anything, unless it be a herd of cattle; and that the 
wealth that is got in these kinds of governments costs 
aman a deal of labor and toil, watching and hunger; 
for in your islands governors must eat next to nothing, 
especially if they have physicians to look after their 
health.” 

“Tecan make neither head nor tail of all this,” said 
Ricote; “it seems to me all madness, for who would be 
such a simpleton as to give thee islands to govern? 
Was the world quite bare of abler men, that they could 
pick out nobody else for a governor? Pr'ythee, say 
no more, man, but come to thy senses, and consider 
whether thou wilt go along wih me, and help me to 
carry off my hidden wealth, my treasure, for I may well 
give it that name, considering how much there is of it; 
and I will make aman of thee, as I have told thee.” 

“Hark you me, Ricote,” answered Sancho; “I have 
already told thee my mind. Let it suffice that I will 
not betray thee, and so, in Heaven’s name, go thy way, 
and let me go mine; for full well I wot that ‘ what is 
honestly got may be lost, but what is ill got will 
perish,’ and the owner too.” 

“Well, Sancho,” said Ricote, “I will press thee no 





of mine, they have not met with my hoard, for I never 


further. Only, pr’ythee, tell me, wert thou in the town 






































DA my 
Peet ") 


\ i 
0 E 
a 


MIA 


SS: 


«“ «Oh | my dear companion and friend,’ said he to his ass, 











| al p 


i 


- how ill have I requited thy faithful services 


p? 


—p. Ai 


“PESAN * 





410 


when my wife and daughter went away with my brother- 
in-law?” 

“ Ay, marry was I,” quoth Sancho, “by the same token 
thy daughter looked so woundy handsome, that there 
was great crowding to see her, and everybody said she 
was the finest creature on God’s earth. She wept bit- 
terly all the way, poor thing! and embraced all her 
female friends and acquaintance, and begged of all 
those that flocked about her to pray for her, and that 
in so earnest and piteous a manner, that she even made 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


me shed tears, though I am none of the greatest blub- 
berers. And now, honest neighbor, I must bid thee 
good bye, for I have a mind to be with my master, Don 
Quixote, this evening.” __ , 

“Then Heaven be with thee, Sancho.” said Ricote; 
“I find my comrades have finished their naps, and it is 
time we should make the best of our way.” 

With that, after a kind embrace, Sancho mounted his 
Dapple, Ricote took his pilgrim’s staff, and so they 
parted. 








CHAPTER LV. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO SANCHO BY THE WAY, WITH OTHER MATTERS WHICH YOU WILL HAVE NO MORE 


TO DO THAN TO SEE. 


SANCHO stayed so long with Ricote, that the night 
overtook him within half a league of the duke’s castle. 
It grew dark. However, as it was summer-time, he 
was not much uneasy, and chose to go out of the road, 
with a design to stay there till the morning. But, as 
ill-luck would have it, while he was seeking some place 
where he might rest himself, he and Dapple tumbled of 
a sudden into a very deep hole, which was among the 
ruins of some old buildings. As he was falling, he 
prayed with all his heart, fancying himself all the while 
sinking down into some fearful pit; but he was in no 
such danger, for by the time he had descended some- 
what lower than eighteen feet, Dapple made a full stop 
at the bottom, and his rider found himself still on his 
back, without the least hurt in the world. Presently 
Sancho began to consider the condition of his bones, 
held his breath, and felt all about him, and finding him- 
self sound, wind and limb, and in a whole skin, he 
thought he could never give Heaven sufficient thanks 
for his wondrous preservation; for at first he gave him- 
self over for lost, and broken into a thousand pieces. 
He groped with both hands about the walls of the 
pit,.to try if it were possible to get out without help; 
but he found them all so plain and so steep, that there 
was not the least hold or footing to get up. This 
grieved him to the soul; and, to increase his sorrow, 
Dapple began to raise his voice in a very dole- 
ful manner; which pierced his master’s very heart: 
nor did the poor beast make such moan without 
reason, for, to say the truth, he was but in a 
woful condition. “Woe's me!” cried Sancho; “what 
sudden and unthought-of mischances every foot befall 
us poor wretches that live in this miserable world! 
Who would havethought that he who but yesterday 
saw himself seated on the throne of an island-governor, 
and had servants and vassals at his back, should to- 
day find himself buried in a pit, without the least soul 
to help him or come to his relief? Here we are likely 
to perish with deadly hunger, land my ass, if we do 
not die before; he of his bruises, and I of grief and 





anguish. At least, I shall not be so lucky as was my 
master, Don Quixote, when he went down into the cave 
of the enchanter Montesinos. He found better fare 
there than he could have at his own house; the cloth 
was laid, and his bed made, and he saw nothing but 
pleasant visions; but I am like to see nothing here but 
toads and snakes. Unhappy creature that I am! What 
have my foolish designs and whimsies brought me to? 
If ever it is Heaven’s blessed will that my bones be 
found, they will be taken out of this dismal place, bare, 
white, and smooth, and those of my poor Dapple with 
them; by which, perhaps, it will be known whose they 
are, at least by those who shall have taken notice that 
Sancho Panza never stirred from his ass, nor his ass 
from Sancho Panza. Unhappy creatures that we are, 
I say again! Had we died at home among our friends, 
though we had missed of relief, we should not have 
wanted pity, and some to close our eyes at the last gasp. 
Oh! my dear companion and friend,” said he to his ass, 
“how ill have I requited thy faithful services! For- 
give me, and pray to fortune the best thou canst, to 
deliver us out of this plunge, and I here promise thee 
to set a crown of laurel on thy head, that thou mayest 
be taken forno less than a poet-laureate, and thy allow- 
ance of provender shall be doubled.” Thus Sancho 
bewailed his misfortune, and his ass hearkened to what 
he said, but answered not a word, so great was the 
grief and anguish which the poor creature endured at 
the same time. 

At length, after a whole night’s lamenting and com- 
plaining at a miserable rate, the day came on ; and its 
light having confirmed Sancho in his doubts of the im- 
possibility of getting out of that place without help, 
he set up his throat again, and made a vigorous outcry, 
to try whether anybody might not hear him. But, alas! 
all his calling was in vain, for all around there was no- 
body within hearing; and then he gave himself over 
for dead and buried. He cast his eyes on Dapple, and 
seeing him extended on the ground, and sadly down in 
the mouth, he went to him, and tried to get him on his 


DON QUIXOTE 


legs, which, with much ado, by means of his assist- 
ance, the poor beast did at last, being hardly able to 
stand. Then he took a luncheon of bread out of his 
wallet, that had run the'same fortune with them, and 
giving it to the ass, who took it not at all amiss, and 
made no bones of it, “Here,” said Sancho, as if the 
beast had understood him, “ “a fat sorrow is better than 
alean.’” At length he perceived on one side of the 
pit a great hole, wide enough for a man to creep 
through stooping. He drew to it, and having crawled 
through on all fours, found that it led into a vault that 
enlarged itself the further it extended, which he could 
easily perceive, the sun shining in towards the top of 
the concavity. Having made this discovery, he went 
back to his ass, and, like one that knew what belonged 
to digging, with a stone he began to remove the earth 
that was about the hole, and labored so effectually that 
he soon made a passage for his companion. Then, tak- 
ing him by the halter, he led him along fair and softly 
through the cave, to try if he could not find a way to 
get out on the other side. Sometimes he wentin the 
dark, and sometimes without light, but never without 
fear. “Heaven defend me! ” said he to himself: “what 
a heart of a chicken have I! This now, which to me is 
asad disaster, to my master, Don Quixote, would be a 
rare adventure. He would look upon these caves and 
dungeons as lovely gardens and glorious palaces, and 
hope to be led out of these dark, narrow cells into some 
fine meadow ; while I, luckless, helpless, heartless 
wretch that I am, every step I take, expect to sink into 
some deeper pit than this, and go down I do not know 
whither. Welcome, ill luck, when it comes alone.” 
Thus he went on, lamenting and despairing, and 
thought he had gone somewhat more than half a 
league, when, at last, he perceived a kind of confused 
light, like that of day, break in at some open place, but 
which, to poor Sancho, seemed a prospect of a passage 
into another world. 

But here Cid Hamet Benengeli leaves him awhile, 
and returns to Don Quixote, who entertained and 
pleased himself with the hopes of a speedy combat be- 
tween him and the defamer of Donna Rodriguez’s daugh- 
ter, whose wrongs he designed to see redressed on the 
appointed day. i 

It happened one morning, as he was riding out to 
prepare and exercise against the time of battle, as he 
was practicing with Rozinante, the horse, in the middle 
of his manage, pitched his feet near the brink of a deep 
cave; insomuch, that if Don Quixote had not used the 
best of his skill, he must infallibly have tumbled into 
it. Having escaped that danger, he was tempted to 
look into the cave without alighting, and, wheeling 
about, rode up to it. Now, while he was satisfying his 
curiosity, and seriously musing, he thought he heard 
a noise within, and thereupon listening, he could dis- 
tinguish these words, which, in a doleful tone, arose 
out of the cavern: “Ho! above there! is there no good 
Christian that hears me?—no charitable knight or gen- 
tleman, that will take pity of a sinner buried alive—a 
poor governor without a government?” 

Don Quixote fancied he heard Sancho’s voice, which 


‘DE LA MANCHA. 





411 


did not a little surprise him; and for his better satis- 
faction, raising his voice as much as he could, “Who is 
that below?” cried he; “who is it that complains?” 

“Who should it be, to his sorrow,” cried Sancho, “but 
the most wretched Sancho Panza, governor, for his sins 
and for his unlucky errantry, of the island of Barataria, 
formerly squire to the famous knight Don Quixote de 
la Mancha?” 

These words redoubled Don Quixote’s admiration, 
and increased his amazement, for he presently imagined 
that Sancho was dead, and that his soul was there do- 
ing penance. Possessed with that fancy, “I conjure 
thee,” said he, “by all that can conjure thee, as Iam a 
Catholic Christian, to tell me who thou art; and, if thou 
art a soul in pain, let me know what thou wouldst have 
me to do for thee; for since my profession is to assist 
and succor all that are afflicted in this world, it shall 
also be so to relieve and help those who stand in need 
of it in the other, and who cannot help themselves.” 

“Surely, sir,” answered he from below, “you that 
speak to me should be my master, Don Quixote; by the 
tone of your voice it can be no man else.” 

“My name is Don Quixote,” replied the knight, “and 
I think it my duty to assist not only the living, but the 
dead, in their necessities. Tell me, then, who thou art, 
for thou fillest me with astonishment.” 

“Why, then,” replied the voice, “by whatever you 
will have me swear by, I make oath that I am Sancho 
Panza, your squire, and that I never was dead yet in 
my life. But only having left my government, for 
reasons and causes which I have not leisure yet to tell 
you, last night unluckily I fell into this cave, where I 
am still, and Dapple with me, that will not let me 
tell a lie; for, as a farther proof of what I say, he is 
here.” , 

Now, what is strange, immediately, as if the ass had 
understood what his master said, to back his evidence, 
he fell a-braying so obstreperously, that he made the 
whole cave ring again. 

“A worthy witness,” cried Don Quixote: “I know 
his bray, as if I were the parent of him; and I know 
thy voice too, my Sancho. I find thou art my real 
squire; stay, therefore, till I go to the castle, which is 
hard by, and fetch more company to help thee out of 
the pit into which thy sins, doubtless, have thrown 
thee.” 

“Make haste, I beseech you, sir,” quoth Sancho, 
“and, for Heaven's sake, come again as fast as you can, 
for I can no longer endure to be here buried alive, and 
I am even dying with fear.” 

Don Quixote went with all speed to the castle, and 
gave the duke and duchess an account of Sancho’s 
accident, whilst they did nota little wonder at it, though 
they conceived he might easily enough fall in at the 
mouth of the cave, which had been there time out of 
mind. But they were mightily surprised to hear he 
had abdicated his government before they had an ac- 
count of his coming away. 

In short, they sent ropes and other conveniences by 
their servants to draw him out, and at last, with mnch 
trouble and labor, both he and his Dapple were restored 


412 


from that gloomy pit to the full enjoyment of the light 
of the sun. At the same time, a certain scholar stand- 
ing by, and seeing him hoisted up, “Just so,” said he, 
“should all bad governors come out of their govern- 
ments; just as this wretch is dragged out of this pro- 
found abyss, pale, half-starved, famished, and, as I 
fancy, without a cross in his pocket.” 

“Hark you, good Slander,” replied Sancho; “it is 
now eight or ten days since 1 began to govern the 
island that was given me, and in all that time I never 
had my bellyful but once. Physicians have persecuted 
me, enemies have trampled over me, and bruised my 
bones, andI have had neither leisure to take bribes nor 
to receive my just dues. Now, all this considered, in 
my opinion I did not deserve to come out in this 
fashion. But ‘man appoints, and God disappoints.’ 
Heaven knows best what is best for us all. We must 
take time as it comes, and our lot as it falls. Let no 
man say, ‘I will drink no more of this water.’ ‘Many 
count their chickens before they are hatched ; and 
where they expect bacon, meet with broken bones.’ 
Heaven knows my mind, and I say no more, though I 
might.” 

“Never trouble thyself, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
“nor mind what some will say, for then thou wilt never 
have done. So thy conscience be clear, let the world 
talk at random, asit uses to do. One may as soon tie 
up the winds as the tongues of slanderers. If a gov- 
ernor returns rich from his government, they say he 
has fleeced and robbed the people; if poor, then they 
call him an idle fool, and ill husband.” 

“Nothing so sure, then,” quoth Sancho, “but this 
bout they will call me a shallow fool; but for a fleecer 
or a robber, I scorn their words—I defy all the world.” 

Thus discoursing as they went, with a rabble uf boys 
and idle people about them, they at last got to the 
castle, where the duke and duchess waited in the gal- 
lery for the knight and squire. As for Sancho, he 
would not go up to see the duke till he had seen his 
ass in the stable, and provided for him, for he said the 
poor beast had but sorry entertainment in his last 
night’s lodging. This done away he went to wait on 
his lord and lady; and, throwing himself on his knees, 
“wy lord and lady,” said he, “I went to govern your 
island of Barataria, such being your will and pleasure, 
though it was your goodness more than my desert. 
Naked I entered into to it, and naked I came away. I 
neither won nor lost. Whether I governed well or ill, 
there are those not far off can tell; and let them tell, if 
they please, that can tell better than I. Ihave resolved 
doubtful cases, determined law-suits, and all the while 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ready to die for hunger. Such was the pleasure of 
Doctor Pedro Rezio of Tirteafuera, that physician in 
ordinary to island governors. Enemies set upon us ip 
the night, and after they had put us in great danger. 
the people of the island say they were delivered, and 
had the victory by the strength of my arm; and may 
Heaven prosper them as they speak truth, say I. In 
short, in that time I experienced all the cares and bur- 
dens this trade of governing brings along with it, and 
I found them too heavy for my shoulders. I was never 
cut out for a ruler, and I am too clumsy to meddle with 
edge tools; and so, before the government left me, 
I even resolved to leave the government; and, ac- 
cordingly, yesterday I quitted the island as I found 
it, with the same streets, the same houses, and the 
same roofs to them, as when J came to it. I have 
asked for nothing by way of loan, and huve made 
no hoard against a rainy day. I designed, indeed, 
to have issued out several wholesome orders, but did 
not, for fear they should not be kept; in which 
case it signifies no more to make them than if one 
made them not. So, as I said before, I came away 
from the island without any company but my Dapple. 
I fell into a cave, and went a good way through it, till 
this morning, by the light of the sun, I spied my way 
out, yet not so easy; but had not Heaven sent my mas- 
ter, Don Quixote, to help me, there I might have stayed 
till doomsday. And now, my lord duke, and my lady 
duchess, here is your governor, Sancho Panza, again, 
who, by a ten days' government, has only picked up so 
much experience as to know he would not give a straw 
to be a governor, not only of an island, but of the ’versal 
world. This being allowed, kissing your honors' hands, 
and doing like the boys, when they play, who cry, 
‘Leap you, and then let me leap,' so I leap from the 
government to my old master's service again. For, 
after all, though with him I often eat my bread with 
bodily fear, yet still I fill my belly; and, for my part, 
so I have but that well stuffed, no matter whether it be 
with carrots or with partridges.” 

Thus Sancho concluded his long speech, and Don 
Quixote, who all the while dreaded he would have said 
a thousand impertinences, thanked Heaven in his heart, 
finding him end with so few. The duke embraced San- 
cho, and told him he was very sorry he had quitted his 
government so soon: but that he would give him some 
other employment that sheuld be less troublesome, and 
more profitable. The duchess was no less kind, giving 
orders he should want for nothing, for he seemed sadly 
bruised and out of order. 


CHAPTER LVI. 


OF THE EXTRAORDINARY AND UNACCOUNTABLE COMBAT BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA AND THE 


LACKEY TOSILOS, IN VINDICATION OF THE MATRON DONNA RODRIGUEZ’S DAUGHTER. 


THE duke and duchess were not sorry that the inter- 
lude of Sancho’s government had been played, espec- 
ially when the steward, who came that very day, 
gave them a full and distinct account of everything 
the governor had done and said during his administra- 
tion, using his very expressions, and repeatitg almost 
every word he had spoken, concluding with a descrip- 
tion of the storming of the island, and Sancho’s fear 
and abdication, which proved no unacceptable enter- 
tainment. 

And now the history relates that the day appointed 
for the combat was come, nor had the duke forgotten 
to give his lackey, Tosilos, all requisite instructions how 
to vanquish Don Quixote, and yet neither kill nor 
wound him; to which purpose he gave orders that the 
spears, or steel heads of their lances, should be taken 
off, making Don Quixote sensible that Christianity, for 
which he had so great a veneration, did not admit that 
such conflicts should so much endanger the lives of the 
combatants, and that it was enough that he granted 
him free lists in his territories, though it was against 
the decree of the holy council, which forbids such 
challenges; for which reason he desired them not to 
push the thing to the utmost rigor. Don Quixote 
replied that his grace had the disposal of all things, 
and it was his duty to obey. 

And now, the dreadful day being come, the duke 
caused a spacious scaffold to be erected for the judges 
of the field of battle, and for the matron and her 
daughter, the plaintiffs. 

An infinite number of people flocked from all the 
neighboring towns and villages to behold the wonder- 
ful new kind of combat. The first that made his en- 
trance at the barriers was the marshal of the field, 
who came to survey the ground, and rode all over it, 
that there might be no foul play, nor private holes, nor 
contrivance to make one stumble or fall. After that 
entered the matron and her daughter, who seated 
themselves in their places, all in deep mourning, their 
veils close to their eyes, and oyer their breasts, with 
no small demonstration of sorrow. Presently, at one 
end of the listed field, appeared the peerless champion, 
Don Quixote de la Mancha; a while after, at the other, 





entered the grand lackey, Tosilos, attended with a 
great number of trumpets, and mounted on a mighty 
steed that shook the very earth. The vizard of his 
helmet was down, and he was armed cap-a-pie in shin- 
ing armor of proof. His courser was a flea-bitten horse, 
that seemed of Friesland breed. and had a quantity of 
wool about each of his fetlocks. The valorous combat- 
ant came on, well tutored by the duke, his master, how 
to behave himself towards the valorous Don Quixote de 
la Mancha, being warned to spare his life by all means; 
and therefore, to avoid a shock in his first career that 
might otherwise prove fatal, should he encounter 
him directly, Tosilos fetched a compass about the 
barrier, and at last made a stop right against the 
two women, casting a leering eye upon her that had 
demanded hira in marriage. Then the marshal of 
the field called to Don Quixote, and, in presence of 
Tosilos, asked the mother and the daughter whether 
they consented that Don Quixote de la Mancha should 
vindicate their right, and whether they would stand or 
fall by the fortune of their champion. They said they 
did, and allowed of whatever he should do in their be 

half as good and valid. The duke and duchess by this 
time were seated in a gallery that was over the barriers, 
which were surrounded by a vast throng of spectators, 
all waiting to see the vigorous and never-before-seen 
conflict. The conditions of the combat were these— 
That if Don Quixote were the conqueror, his opponent 
should marry Donna Rodriguez’s daughter; but if the 
knight were overcome, then the victor should be dis- 
charged from his promise, and not bound to give her 
any other satisfaction. Then the marshal of the field 
placed each of them on the spot whence he should 
start, dividing equally between them the advantage of 
the ground, that neither of them might have the sun 
in hiseyes. And now the drums beat, and the clangor 
of the trumpets resounded through the air; the earth 
shook under them, and the hearts of the numerous 
spectators were in suspense—some fearing, others ex- 
pecting, the good or bad issue of the battle. Don 
Quixote, recommending himself with all his soul to 
Heaven, and his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, stood ex- 
pecting when the precise signal for the onset should 

413 


414 


be given. But our lacquey’s mind was otherwise em- 
ployed, and all his thoughts were upon what I am 
going to tell you. 

It seems, as he stood looking on his female enemy, 
she appeared to him the most beautiful woman he had 
ever seen in his whole life; which being perceived by 
the little blind archer, to whom the world gives the 
name of Love, he took his advantage, and, fond of im- 
proving his triumphs, though it were but over the soul 
of a lacquey, he came up to him softly, and, without be- 
ing perceived by any one, he shot an arrow two yards 
long into the poor footman’s side, so smartly, that his 
heart was pierced through and through—a thing which 
the mischievous boy could easily do; for love is invisi- 
ble, and has free ingress or egress where he pleases, at 
a most unaccountable rate. You must know then that 
when the signal for the onset was given our lacquey 
was in an ecstasy, transported with the thoughts of the 
beauty of his lovely enemy, insomuch that he took no 
manner of notice of the trumpet’s sound; quite contrary 
to Don Quixote, who no sooner heard it than, clapping 
spurs to his horse, he began to make towards the 
enemy with Rozinante's best speed. At the same time, 
his good squire, Sancho Panza, seeing him start, “Hea- 
ven be thy guide,” cried he aloud, “thou cream and 
flower of chivalry errant! Heaven give thee the vic- 
tory, since thou hast right on thy side.” Tosilos saw 
Don Quixote come towards him; yet, instead of taking 
his career to encounter him, without leaving the place, 
he called as loud as he could to the marshal of the 
field, who thereupon rode up to him to see what he 
would have. “Sir,” said Tosilos, “is not this duel to 
be fought that I may marry yonder young lady, or let 
it alone?” 

“Yes,” answered the marshal. 

“Why, then,” said the lacquey, “I feel a burden upon 
my conscience, and am sensible I should have a great 
deal to answer for should I proceed any further in this 
combat; and therefore I yield myself vanquished, and 
desire 1 may marry the lady this moment.” 

The marshal of the field was surprised; and, as he 
was privy to the duke’s contrivance of that business, 
the lacquey’s unexpected submission put him to such 
a nonplus that he knew not what to answer. On the 
other side, Don Quixote stopped in the middle of his 
career, seeing his adversary did not put himself in a 
posture of defence. The duke could not imagine why 
the business of the field was at a stand; but the mar- 
shal having informed him, he was amazed, and in a 
great passion. 

In the meantime, Tosilos, approaching Donna Rod- 
riguez, “Madam,” cried he, “I am willing to marry 
your daughter; there is no need of lawsuits or of com- 
bats in the matter; 1 had rather make an end of it 
peaceably, and without the hazard of body and soul.” 

“Why, then,” said the valorous Don Quixote, hear- 
ing this, “since it is so, I am discharged of my promise: 
let them even marry in God's name, and Heaven bless 
them, and give them joy.” 

At the same time, the duke coming down within the 
lists, and applying himself to Tosilos, “Tell me, knight,” 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


said he, “is it true that you yield without fighting, and 
that, at the instigation of your timorous conscience, you 
are resolved to marry this damsel?” 

“Yes, if it please your grace,” answered Tosilos. 

“Marry, and I think it the wisest course,” quoth San- 
cho; “for what says the proverb? ‘What the mouse 
would get give the cat, and keep thyself out of 
trouble.’ ” 

In the meanwhile, Tosilos began to unlace his helmet 
and called out that somebody might help him off with it 
quickly, as being so choked with his armor that he was 
scarcely able to breathe. With that they took off his 
helmet with all speed, and then the lacquey’s face was 
plainly discovered. Donna Rodriguez and her daughter, 
perceiving it presently, “A cheat! a cheat!” cried 
they; “they have got Tosilos, my lord duke’s lacquey 
to counterfeit my lawful husband; justice of Hea\en 
and the king! Thisis a piece of malice and treachery 
not to be endured.” 

“Ladies,” said Don Quixote, “do not vex yourselves; 
there is neither malice nor treachery in the case; or, if 
there be, the duke is not in the fault. No, these evil- 
minded necromancers that persecute me are the traitors 
who, envying the glory I should have got by this com- 
bat, have transformed the face of my adversary into 
this, which you see is the duke’s lacquey. But take 
my advice, madam,” added he to the daughter, “and, in 
spite of the baseness of my enemies, marry him; for I 
dare engage it is the very man you claim as your hus- 
band.” 

The duke, hearing this, angry as he was, could hardly 
forbear losing all his indignation in laughter. “Truly,” 
said he, “so many extraordinary accidents every day 
befall the great Don Quixote, that I am inclinable to 
believe this is not my lacquey, though he appears to be 
so. But, for our better satisfaction, let us defer the 
marriage but a fortnight, and, in the meanwhile, keep in 
close custody this person that has put us into this con- 
fusion; perhaps by that time he may resume his former 
looks; for doubtless the malice of those mischievous 
magicians against the noble Don Quixote cannot last so 
long, especially when they find all these tricks and 
transformations of so little avail.” 

“ Alack-a-day! sir,” quoth Sancho, “those plaguy 
tormentors are not so soon tired as you think; for where 
my master is concerned they are used to form and de- 
form, and chop and change this into that, and that into 
the other. It is but a little while ago that they trans- 
mogrified the Knight of the Mirrors, whom he had 
overcome, into a special acquaintance of ours, the 
bachelor Samson Carrasco, of our village; and as for 
the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, our mistress, they have 
bewitched and altered her into the shape of a mere 
country blowze; and so 1 verily think this saucy fellow 
here is like to die a footman, and will live a footman all 
the days of his life.” 

“Well,” cried the daughter, “let him be what he 
will, if he will have me I will have him. I ought to 
thank him, for Ihad rather be a lacquey’s wife than a 
gentleman’s cast-off mistress; besides, he that deluded 
me is no gentleman neither.” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


To be short, the sum of the matter was that Tosilos 
should be confined, to see what his transformation 
would come to. Don Quixote was proclaimed victor, 
by general consent; and the people went away, most 
of them very much out of humor because the: com- 
batants had not cut one another to pieces to make them 
sport, according to the custom of the young rabble, to 
be sorry, when, after they have stayed in hopes to see 





415 


a man hanged, he happens to be pardoned, either by 
the party he has wronged or the magistrate. The crowd 
being dispersed, the duke and duchess returned with 
Don Quixote into the castle; Tosilos was secured, and 
kept close. As for Donna Rodriguez and her daughter, 
they were very well pleased to see, one way or another, 
that the business would end in marriage; and Tosilos 
flattered himself with the like expectation. 








CHAPTER LVII. 


HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK HIS LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND WHAT PASSED BETWEEN HIM AND THE WITTY 


WANTON ALTISIDORA, THE DUCHESS’S DAMSEL. 


Don QUIXOTE thought it now time to leave the idle 
life he had led in the castle, believing it a mighty fault 
thus to shut himself up and indulge his sensual appe- 
tite among the tempting varieties of dainties and de- 
lights which the lord and lady of the place provided 
for his entertainment as a knight-errant; and he 
thought he was to give a strict account to Heaven for a 
course of life so opposite to his active profession. Ac- 
cordingly, one day he acquainted the duke and duchess 
with his sentiments, and begged their leave to depart. 
They both seemed very unwilling to part with him, but 
yet at last yielded to his entreaties. The duchess gave 
Sancho his wife’s letters, which he could not hear read 
without weeping. “Who would have thought,” cried he, 
“that all the mighty hopes with which my wife swelled 
herself up atthe news of my preferment should come to 
this at last, and how I should be reduced again to trot 
after my master, Don Quixote de la Mancha, in search of 
hunger and broken bones! However, I am glad to see my 
Teresa was like herselfin sending the duchess the acorns 
which, if she had not done, I should have been con- 
founded mad with her. My comfort is, that no man 
can say the present was a bribe, for I had my govern- 
ment before she sent it; and it is fit those who havea 
kindness done them should show themselves grateful, 
though it be with a small matter. In short, naked I 
came into the government, and naked I went out of it; 
and so I may say, for my comfort, with a safe con- 
science, naked I came into the world, and naked I am 
still: I neither won nor lost; that is no easy matter, as 
times go, let me tell you.” These were Sancho’s senti- 
ments at his departure. 

Don Quixote, having taken his solemn leave of the 
duke and duchess over night, left his apartment the 
next morning, and appeared in his armor in the court- 
yard, the galleries all round about being filled at the 
same time with the people of the house; the duke and 
duchess being also got thither to see him. Sancho was 
upon his Dapple, with his cloak-bag, his wallet, and 
his provision, very brisk and cheerful; for the steward 





that acted the part of Trifaldi had given him a purse, 
with two hundred crowns in gold, to defray expenses, 
which was more than Don Quixote knew at that time. 
And now, when everybody looked to see them set for- 
ward, on a sudden, the arch and witty Altisidora started 
from the rest of the duchess’s damsels and attendants 
that stood by among the rest, and, in a doleful tone, 
addressed herself to him in the following Goggerel 
rhymes :— ae ae 
THE MOCK FAREWELL. 
L 
Stay, cruel Don, 
Do not be gone, 
Nor give thy horse the rowels; 
For every jag k 
Thon giv'st thy nag, 
Does prick me to the bowels. 


Thou dost not shun 
Some butter’d bun, 

Or wench without a rag on: 
Alas! lam 
A very lamb, 

Yet love like any dragon. 


Thou didst deceive, 

And now dost leave 
A lass, as tight as any 

That ever stood 

In hill or wood, 
Near Venus and Diana. 


Since thon, false fiend, - 
When nymph’s thy friend, 
Aineas-like dost bob her, 
Go, rot and die, 
Boil, roast, or fry, 
With Barabbas the Robber, 


I. 
Thou tak'st thy flight, 
Like ravenous kite, 
That holds withic his pounces 
A tender bit, 
A poor tom-tit, 
Then whist! away he flounces, 


The heart of me, 
And night-coifs three, 
With garters twain you plunder, 
From legs of hue 
White, black, and blue, 
So marbled o'er, you'd wonder. 














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“He acquainted the duke and duchess with his sentiments, and begged their leave 30 depart.”—p. 415. 












DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Two thousand groans, 
And warm ahones, 
Are stuff'd within thy pillion, 
The least of which, * 
Like flaming pitch, 
Might have burn'd down old Tlion. 


Since thou, false fiend, 
When nymph’s thy friend, 
®neas-like dost bob her, 
Go, rot and die, 
Boil, roast, or fry, 
With Barabbas the robber, 


Ti. 


As sour as ink, 
Against thy pink, 
May be thy Sancho’s gizzard: 
And he ne’er thwack 
His brawny back, 
To free her from the wizard, 


May all the flouts,- 
And sullen doubts, 
Be scored upon thy dowdy; 
And she ne’er freed, 
For thy misdeed, 
From rusty phiz, and cloudy. 


May fortune’s curse 
From bad to worse, 
Turn all thy best adventures; 
Thy joys to dumps, * 
Thy brags to thumps, 
And thy best hopes to banters. 


Since thon, false flend, 
When pymph's thy friend, 
ineas-like dost bob her, 
Go, rot and die, 
Boil, roast, or fry, 
With Barabbas the robber. 


IV. 


May’st thou incog 
Sneak like a dog, 
And o’er the mountains trudge it; 
From Spain to Cales, 
From Usk to Wales, 
Without a cross in budget. 


If thov'rt so brisk 
To play at Whisk, 
In hopes of winning riches; 
For want of pelf 
Stir even thyself, 
And lose thy very breeches. oa 


May thy corns ache, 
Then pen-knife take, 
And cut thee to the raw-bone: 
With tooth-ache mad, 
No ease be had, 
Though quacks pull out thy jaw.bone. 


Siuce thon, false fiend, 
When nymph's thy friend, 
Eneas-like dost bob her, 
Go, rot and die, 
Boil, roast, or fry, 
With Barabbas the robber. 


Thus Altisidora expressed her resentments, and Don 
Quixote, who looked on her seriously all the while, 
would not answer a word; but, turning to Sancho, 





417 


“Dear Sancho,” said he, “by the memory of thy fore- 
fathers I conjure thee to tell me one truth: say, hast 
thou any night-coifs, or garters, that belong to this love- 
sick damsel?” 

“The three night-coifs I have,” quoth Sancho; “but 
as for the garters, 1 know no more of them than the 
man in the moon.” 

The duchess, being wholly a stranger to this part of 
Altisidora's frolic, was amazed to see her proceed so 
far in it, though she knew her to be of an arch and 
merry disposition. But the duke, being pleased with 
the humor, resolved to carry it on. Thereupon address- 
ing himself to Don Quixote, “Truly, Sir Knight,” said 
he, “I do not take it kindly, that, after such civil enter- 
tainment as you have had here in my castle, you should 
offer to carry away three night-coifs, if not a pair of 
garters besides, the proper goods and chattels of this 
damsel here present. This was not done like a gentle- 
man, and does not make good the character you would 
maintain in the world; therefore, restore her garters, 
orI challenge you to a mortal combat, without being 
afraid that your evil-minded enchanters should alter 
my face, as they did my footman’s.” 

“Heaven forbid,” said Don Quixote, “that I should 
draw my sword against your most illustrious person, 
to whom I stand indebted for so many favors. No, my 
lord; as for the garters, itis impossible, for neither he 
nor I ever had them, and if this damsel of yours will 
look carefully among her things I dare say she will find 
them. I never was a pilferer, my lord; and, while 
Heaven forsakes me not, I never shall be guilty of such 
baseness. I beg you will be pleased to entertain a bet- 
ter opinion of me, and once more permit me to depart.” 

“Farewell, noble Don Quixote,” said the duchess; 
“may Providence so direct your course, that we may 
always be blessed with the good news of your exploits; 
and so Heaven be with you, for the longer you stay the 
more you increase the flames in the hearts of the dam- 
sels that gaze on you. As for this young, indiscreet 
creature, I will take her to task so severely she shall 
not misbehave herself so much as in a word or look for 
the future.” 

“One word more, I beseech you, oh, valorous Don 
Quixote!” cried Altisidora; “I beg your pardon for 
saying you had stolen my garters, for, on my conscience, 
I have them on; but my thoughts ran a wool-gathering, 
and I did like the countryman, who looked for his ass 
while he was mounted on his back.” 

Then Don Quixote bowed his head, and, after he had 
made a low obeisance to the duke, the duchess, and 
all the company, he turued about with Rozinante; and 
Sancho following him on Dapple, they left the castle, 
and took the road for Saragosa. 





CHAPTER LVIIL 


HOW ADVENTURES CROWDED SO THICK AND THREEFOLD ON DON QUIXOTE, THAT THEY TROD UPON ONE 


ANOTHER'S 


Don QUIXOTE no sooner breathed the air in the open 
field, free from Altisidora's amorous importunities, than 
he fancied himself in his own element; he thought he 
felt the spirit of knight-errantry reviving in his breast, 
and turning to Sancho, “ Liberty,” said he, “friend 
Sancho, is one of the most valuable blessings that 
Heaven has bestowed upon mankind. Not all the 
treasures concealed in the bowels of the earth, nor 
those in the bosom of the sea, can be compared with it. 
For liberty a man may—nay, onght, to hazard even his 
life, as well us for honor, accounting captivity the 
greatest misery he can endure. I tell thee this, my 
Sancho, becanse thon wert a witness of the good cheer 
and plenty which we met with in the castle; yet, in the 
midst of those delicions feasts, among those tempting 
dishes, and those liquors cooled with snow, methought 
I suffered the extremity of hunger, becanse [ did not 
enjoy them with that freedom as if they had been my 
own; for the obligations that lie upon us to make snit- 
able returns for kindnesses received are ties that will 
not let a generous mind be free. Happy the man whom 
Heaven has blessed with bread, for which he is obliged 
to thank kind Heaven alone !” 

“Forall these fine words,” quoth Sancho, “it is not 
proper for us to be unthankful for two good hundred 
crowns in gold, which the duke’s steward gave me in a 
little purse, which 1 have here aud cherish in my bo- 
som, as a relic against necessity, and a comforting cor- 
dial, next my heart, against all accidents; for we are 
not always like to meet with castles where we shall be 
made much of.” 

The wandering knight and squire had not ridden 
much more than a league ere they espied about a dozen 
men, who looked like country fellows sitting at their 
victuals, with their cloaks under them, on the green 
grass, in the middle ofa meadow. Near them they saw 
several white cloths or sheets, spread out and laid close 
to one another, that seemed to cover something. Don 
Quixote rode up to the people, and, after he had civilly 
saluted them, asked what they had got under that 
linen. 

“Sir,” answered one of the company, “they are some 
carved images that are to be set up at an altar that we 
are erecting in our town. We cover them lest they 
should be sullied, and carry them on our shoulders for 
fear they should be broken.” 





HEELS. 


“Tf you please,” said Don Quixote, “I should be glad 
to see them; for, considering the care you take of them, 
they should be pieces of value.” 

“Ay, marry are they,” quoth another, “or else we are 
fearfully cheated; for there is never an image among 
them that does not stand us more than fifty ducats; 
and, that you may know I am no liar, do but stay and 
you shall see with your own eyes.” 

With that, getting up on his legs, and leaving his 
victuals, he went and took off the cover from one of 
the figures that happened to be St. George on horse- 
back, and under his feet a serpent coiled up, his throat 
transfixed with a lance, with the fierceness that is com- 
monly represeuted in the piece; and all, as they use to 
say, spick and span new, and shining like beaten gold. 
Don Quixote having seen the image, “This,” said he, 
“was one of the best knights-errant the divine warfare 
or chureh-militant ever had; his name was Don St. 
George, and he was an extraordinary protector of dam- 
sels. Whatis the next?” 

The fellow having uncovered it, it proved to be St- 
Martin on horseback. 

“This knight, too,” said Don Quixote at the first 
sight, “was one of the Christian adventurers, and I am 
apt to think he was more liberal than valiant; and thou 
mayst perceive it, Sancho, by his dividing his cloak 
with a poor man; he gave him half, and doubtless it 
was winter time, or else he would have given it him 
whole, he was so charitable.” 

“Not so neither, I fancy,” quoth Sancho; “but I 
gness he stuck to the proverb, ‘To give and keep what 
is fit requires a share of wit.’” 

Don Quixote smiled, and desired the men to show 
him the next image, which appeared to be that of the 
Patron of Spain on horseback, with his sword bloody, 
trampling down Moors, and treading over heads. 

“Ay, this is a knight indeed,” cried Don Quixote, 
when he saw it; “one of those that fought in the 
squadrons of the Saviour of the world. He is called 
Don St. Jago Mata Moros, or Don St. James the Moor- 
killer, and may be reckoned one of the most valorous 
saints and professors of chivalry that the earth then 
enjoyed, and heaven now possesses.” 

Then they uncovered another piece, which showed 
St. Paul falling from his horse, with all the cireum- 
stances usually expressed in the story of his conver- 

418 


DON QUIXOTE 


sion, and represented so to the life, that he looked as 
if he had been answekxing the voice that spoke to him 
from heaven. 

“This,” said Don Quixote, “was the greatest enemy 
the church-militant had once, and proved afterwards 
the greatest defender it will ever have. In his life u 
true knight-errant, aud in death a steadfast saint; an 
indefatigable laborer in the vineyard of the Lord, a 
teacher of the Gentiles, who had heaven for his school, 
and Christ himself for his master and instructor.” 

Then Don Quixote, perceiving there were no more 
images, desired the men to cover those he had seen. 
“And now, my good friends,” said he to them, “I can- 
not but esteem the sight that I have had of these 
images as a happy omen; for these saints and knights 
were of the same profession that I follow, which is that 
ofarms. The difference only lies in this point, that 
they were saints, and fought according to the rules of 
holy discipline; and 1 am a sinner, and fight after the 
manner of men.” 

All this while the men wondered at Don Quixote’s 
figure, as well as his discourse, but could not under- 
stand one half of what he meant; so that, after they 
had made an end of their dinner, they got up their 
images, took their leave of him, and continued their 
journey. 

Sancho remuined full of admiration, as if he had 
never known his master. He wondered how he came 
to know all these things, and fancied there was not 
that history or adventure in the world but he had at his 
fingers’ ends. “Faith and troth, master of mine,” 
quoth he, “if what has happened to us to-day may be 
called an adventure, it is one of the sweetest and most 
pleasant we ever met with in all our rambles, for we 
are come off without a dry basting, or the least bodily 
fear.” 

“Thou sayest well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “but 
I must tell thee, that seasons and times are not always 
the same, but often take a different course; and what 
the vilgar call forebodings and omens, for which there 
are no rational grounds in nature, ought only to be 
esteemed happy encounters by the wise. Oneof these 
superstitious fools, going out of his house betimes in 
the morning, meets a friar of the blessed order of St. 
Francis, and starts asif he had met a griffin, turns 
back, aud runs home again. Another wiseacre happens 
to throw down the salt on the table-cloth, and there- 
upon is sadly cast down himself, as if nature were 
obliged to give tokens of ensuing disasters by such 
slight and inconsiderable accidents as these. A wise 
and truly religious man ought never to pry into 
the secrets of Heaven. Scipio, landing in Africa, 
stumbled and fell down as he leaped ashore. Presently 
his soldiers took this for an ill-omen; but he, embracing 
the earth, cried, ‘I have thee fast, Africa: thou shalt 
not escape me.’ In this manner, Sancho, I think it a 
very happy accident that I met these images.” 

“T think so, too,” quoth Sancho; “but I would fain 
know why the Spaniards call upon that same St. James, 
the destroyer of Moors; just when they are going to 
give battle they cry, ‘St. Jago, and close Spain!’ 





DE LA MANCHA. 419 


Pray, is Spain open, that it wants to be closed up? 
What do you make of that ceremony ?” 

“Thou art avery simple fellow, Sancho,” answered 
Don Quixote. “Thou must know that Heaven gave to 
Spain this mighty champion of the Red Cross for its 
patron and protector, especially in the desperate en- 
gagements which the Spaniards had with the Moors; 
and therefore they invoke him, in all their martial en- 
counters, as their protector; and many times he has 
been personally seen cutting and slaying, overthrow- 
ing, trampling, and destroying the Hagarene squadrons, 
of which [ could give thee many examples, deduced 
from authentic Spanish histories.” 

Thus discoursing, they got into a wood quite out of 
the road; and on a sudden Don Quixote, before he 
knew where he was, found himself entangled in some 
nets of green thread that were spread across among the 
trees. Not being able to imagine what it was, “Cer- 
tainly, Sancho,” cried he, “this adventure of the nets 
must be one of the most unaccountable that can be 
imagined. Let me die now if this be not a stratagem of 
the evil-minded necromancers that haunt me, to en- 
tangle me so that I may not proceed, purely to revenge 
my contempt of Altisidora’s addresses. But let them 
know, that though these nets were adamantine chains, 
as they are only made of green thread, and though 
they were stronger than those in which the jealous god 
of blacksmiths caught Venus and Mars, I would break 
them with as much ease as if they were weak rashes 
or fine cotton yarn.” With that the knight put 
briskly forwards, resolving to break through and 
make his words good; but in the very moment there 
sprung from behind the trees two most beautiful 
shepherdesses; at least, they appeared to be so by 
their habits, only with this difference, that they were 
richly dressed in gold brocade. Their flowing hair 
hung down about their shoulders in curls, as charming 
as the sun’s golden rays, and circled on their brows with 
garlands of green baize and red-fiower-gentle inter- 
woven. As for their age, it seemed not less than fif- 
teen, nor more than: eighteen years. This unexpected 
vision dazzled and amazed Sancho, surprised Don Quix- 
ote, made even the gazing sun stop short in his career, 
and held the surprised parti s awhile in the same sus- 
pense and silence; till at last one of the shepherdesses 
opening her coral lips, “Hold, sir” she cried; “pray do 
not tear those nets which we have spread here, and who 
we are, I shall tell you in few words. 

“About two leagues from this place lies a village 
where there are many people of quality and good 
estates; among these, several have made up a company 
—all of friends, neighbors, and relations—to come and 
take their diversion in this place, which is one of the 
most delightful in these parts. To this purpose we de- 
sign to set up anew Arcadia. The young men have put 
on the habit of shepherds, and ladies the dresses of 
shepherdesses. We have got two eclogues by heart; 
one out of the famous Garcilasso, and the other out of 
Camoens, the most excellent Portuguese poet; though 
the truth is, we have not yet repeated them, for yester- 
day was but the first day of our coming hither. We 


420 DON 
have pitched some tents among the trees, near the banks 
of a large brook that waters all thése meadows. And 
last night we spread these nets to catch such simple 
birds as our calls should allure into the snare. Now, 
sir, if you please to afford us your company, you shall 
be made very welcome and handsomely entertained; 
for we are all disposed to pass the time agreeably.” 

“Truly, fair lady,” answered Don Quixote, “Acteon 
could not be more lost in admiration and amazement at 
the sight of Diana bathing herself than I have been at 
the appearance of your beauty. I applaud your design, 
and return you thanks for your obliging offers; assur- 
ing you that,if it lies in my power to serve you, you 
may depend on my obedience to your commands; for 
my profession is the very reverse of ingratitude, and 
aims at doing good to all persons, especially those of 
your merit and condition; so that, were these nets 
spread over the surface of the whole earth, I would 
seek out a passage throughout new worlds rather than 
I would break the smallest thread that conduces to 
your pastime. And that you may give some credit to 
this seeming exaggeration, know that he who makes 
this promise is no less than Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
if ever such a name has reached your ears.” 

“Oh, my dear,” cried the other shepherdess, “what 
good fortune is this! You see this gentleman before us: I 
must tell you he is the most valiant, the most amorous, 
ani the most complaisant person in the world, if the 
history of his exploits, already in print, does not de- 
ceive us. I have read it, my dear; and I hold a wager 
that honest fellow there by him is one Sancho Panza, 
his squire, the most comical creature that ever was.” 

“You have nicked it,” quoth Sancho; “I am that 
comical creature, and that very squire you wot of; and 
there is my lord and master, the self-same historified 
and aforesaid Don Quixote de la Mancha.” 

“Oh, pray, my dear,” said the other, “let us entreat 
him to stay; our father and our brothers will be mighty 
glad of it. Ihave heard of his valor and his merit as 
much as you now tell me; and, what is more, they say 
he is the most constant and faithful lover in the world; 
and that his mistress, whom they call Dulcinea del 
Toboso, bears the prize from all the beauties in 
Spain.” 

“It is not without justice,” said Don Quixote, “if 
your peerless charms do not dispute her that glory. 
But, ladies, I beseech you do not endeavor to detain me: 
for the indispensable duties of my profession will not 
suffer me to rest in one place.” 

At the same time came the brother of one of the 
shepherdesses, clad like a shepherd, but in a dress as 
splendid and gay as those of the young ladies. They 
told him that the gentleman who he saw with them was 
the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, and that other 
Sancho Panza, his squire, of whom he had read the his- 
tory. The gallant shepherd having saluted him, begged 
of him so earnestly to grant them his company to their 
tents, that Don Quixote was forced to comply, and go 
with them. 

About the same time the nets were drawn and filled 
with divers little birds, who, being deceived by the 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


color of the snare, fell into the danger they would have 
avoided. Above thirty persons,*all gaily dressed like 
shepherds and shepherdesses, got together there, and 
being informed who Don Quixote and his squire were, 
they were not a little pleased, for they were already no 
strangers to his history. In short, they carried them 
to their tents, where they found a clean, sumptuous, 
and plentiful entertainment ready. They obliged the 
knight to take the place of honor; and while they sat 
at table there was not one that did not gaze on him 
and wonder at so strange a figure. 

At last, the cloth being removed, Don Quixote, with 
a great deal of gravity, lifting up his voice, “Of all 
the sins that men commit,” said he, “none, in my opin- 
ion, is so great as ingratitude, though some think pride 
a greater; and I ground my assertion on this, that hell 
is said to be full of the ungrateful. Ever since I had 
the use of reason I have employed my utmost endeavors 
to avoid this crime; and if I am not able to repay the 
benetits I receive in their kind, at least I am not want- 
ing in real intentions of making suitable returns; and, 


.if that be not sufficient, I make my acknowledgements 


as public as I can; for he that proclaims the kindnesses 
he has received, shows his disposition to repay them if 
he could; and those that receive are generally inferior 
to those that give. The Supreme Being, who is in- 
finitely above all things, bestows his blessings on us so 
much beyond the capacity of all other benefactors, that 
all the acknowledgments we can make can never hold 
proportion with his goodness. However, a thankful 
mind in some measure supplies its want of power, with 
hearty desires and unfeigned expressions of a sense of 
gratitude and respect. I am in this condition as to the 
civilities I have been treated with here; for I am un- 
able to make an acknowledgment equal to the kind- 
nesses I have received. I shall, therefore, only offer 
you what is within the narrow limits of my own abili- 
ties, which is to maintain for two whole days together, 
in the middle of the road that leads to Saragossa, that 
these ladies here, disguised in the habits of shepherd- 
esses, are the fairest and most courteous damsels in the 
world, excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, 
sole mistress of my thoughts; without offence to all 
that hear me, be it spoken.” 

Here Sancho, who had, with an uncommon attention, 
all the while given ear to his master’s compliment, 
thought fit to put in a word or two. “Now, in the 
name of wonder.” quoth he, “can there be anybody in 
the world so impudent as to offer to swear or but to say 
this master of mine is a madman? Pray, tell me, ye 
gentlemen shepherds, did you ever know any of your 
country parsons, though never so wise or so good schol- 
ards, that could deliver themselves so finely? Or is 
there any of your knights-errant, though never so 
famed for prowess, that can make such an offer as he 
has here done?” 

Don Quixote turned towazds Sancho, and, beholding 
him with eyes full of fiery indignation, “Can there be 
anybody in the world,” cried he, “that can say, thou 
art not an incorrigible blockhead, Sancho—a compound 
of folly and knavery, wherein malice also is no small 





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** Now, sir, if you please to afford us your company, you shall be made very welcome.”—p. 420. 


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422 


ingredient? Who bids thee meddle with my concerns, 
fellow, or busy thyself with my folly or discretion? 
Hold your saucy tongue, scoundrel! Make no reply, 
but go and saddle Rozinante, if he is unsaddled, that 
I may immediately perform what I have offered.” 

This said, up he started, in a dreadful fury, and with 
marks of anger in his looks, to the amazement of all the 
company, who were at a loss whether they should 
esteem him a madman or aman of sense. They endeav- 
ored to prevail with him to lay aside his challenges, 
telling him they were sufficiently assured of his grate- 
ful nature, without exposing him to the danger of such 
demonstrations; and as for his valor, they were so well 
informed by the history of his numerous achievements, 
that there was no need of any new instance to convince 
them of it. But all these representations could not 
dissuade him from his purpose; and, therefore, having 
mounted Rozinante, braced his shield, and grasped his 
lance, he went and posted himself in the middle of the 
highway, not far from the verdant meadow, followed 
by Sancho on his Dapple, and all the pastoral society, 
who were desirous to see the event of that arrogant 
and unaccountable resolution. 

And now the champion, having taken his ground, 
made the neighboring air ring with the following chal- 
lenge :— 

“Oh, ye, whoever you are, knights, squires, on foot 
or on horseback, that now pass, or shall pass this road 
within two days, know that Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
knight-errant, stays here to assert and maintain that 
the nymphs who inhabit these groves and meadows 
surpass, in beauty and courteous disposition, all those 
in the universe, setting aside the sovereign of my soul, 
the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and he that dares up- 
hold the contrary, let him appear, for here I expect his 
coming.” 

Twice he repeated these lofty words, and twice they 
were repeated in vain, not being heard by any adven- 
turer. But his old friend, Fortune, that had a strange 
hand at managing his concerns, and always mended 
upon it, showed him a jolly sight ; for by-and-by he 
discovered on the road ‘a great number of people on 
horseback, many of them with lances in their hands, all 
trooping together very fast. The company that watched 
Dou Quixote’s motions no sooner spied such a squad- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ron, driving the dust before them, than they got out of 
harm’s way, not judging it safe to be so near danger: 
and as for Sancho, he sheltered himself behind Rozin- 
ante’s crupper. Only Don Quixote stood fixed, with 
an undaunted courage. When the horsemen came near, 
one of the foremost, bawling to the champion, “So hey!” 
cried he, “get out of the way, and be hanged. Mischief 
is in the fellow! stand off, or the bulls will tread thee 
to pieces.” 

“Go to, you scoundrels.” answered Don Quixote; 
nore of your bulls are anything to me, though the 
fiercest that ever were fed on the banks of Xarama. 
Acknowledge, hang-dogs, all in a body, what I have 
proclaimed here to be truth, or else stand combat with 
me.” 

But the herdsmen had not time to answer, neither had 
Don Quixote any to get out of the way, if he had been 
inclined to it; for the herd of wild bulls were presently 
upon him, as they poured along, with several tame 
cows, and a huge company of drivers and people, that 
were going to a town where they were to be baited the 
next day. So, bearing all down before them, knight 
and squire, horse and man, they trampled them under 
foot at an unmerciful rate. There lay Sancho mauled, 
Don Quixote stunned, Dapple bruised, and Rozinante 
in very indifferent circumstances. But for all this, 
after the whole party of men and beasts were gone by, 
up started Don Quixote, ere he was thoroughly come to 
himself, and staggering and stumbling, falling and get- 
ting up again, as fast as he could, he began to run 
after them. 

“Stop, scoundrels, stop!” cried he aloud: “stay, it is 
a single knight defies you all, one who scorns the humor 
of making a golden bridge for a flying enemy.” 

But the hasty travellers did not stop, nor slacken 
their speed, for all his loud defiance, and minded it no 
more than the last year’s snow. 

At last weariness stopped Don Quixoie; so that with 
all his anger, and no prospect of revenge, he was forced 
to sit down on the road, till Sancho came up to him 
with Rozinante and Dapple. Then the master and man 
made a shift to re-mount; and, ashamed of their bad 
success, hastened their journey, without taking leave 
of their friends of the new Arcadia. 


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“They trampled them under foot at an unmerciful rate.”—p. 422. 











CHAPTER LIX. 


OF AN EXTRAORDINARY ACCIDENT THAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE, WHICH MAY WELL PASS FOR AN 


ADVENTURE. 


A CLEAR fountain, which Don Quixote and Sancho 
found among some verdant trees, served to refresh them, 
besmeared with dust and tired as they were, after the 
rude encounter of the bulls. There, by the brink, 
leaving Rozinante and Dapple, unbridled and unhal- 
tered, to their own liberty, the two forlorn adventurers 
sat down. Sancho washed his mouth, and Don Quixote 
his face. The squire then went to his old cupboard, 
the wallet, and having taken out of it what he used to 
call belly-timber, laid it before the knight. Don Quix- 
ote gave him thanks, ate a little, and Sancho a great 
deal; and then both betook themselves to their rest, 
leaving those constant friends and companions, Rozi- 
nante and Dapple, to their own discretion, to repose or 
feed at random on the pasture that abounded in that 
meadow. 

The day was now far gone, when the knight and the 
squire waked. They mounted, and held on their jour- 
ney, making the best of their way to an inn, that seemed 
to be about a league distant. 

Being got thither, they asked the innkeeper whether 
he had got any lodgings. 

“Yes,” answered he, “and as good accommodation as 
you could expect to find even in the city of Saragosa.” 

They alighted, and Sancho put up his baggage in a 
chamber, of which the landlord gave him the key; and, 
after he had seen Rozinante and Dapple well provided 
for in the stable, he went to wait on his master, whom 
he found sitting upon a seat made in the wall, the 
squire blessing himself more than once that the knight 
had not taken the inn for a castle. Supper-time ap- 
proaching, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, and 
Sancho, staying with his host, asked him what he had 
to give them for supper. 

“What you will,” answered he. “You may pick and 
choose: fish or flesh, butcher’s meat or poultry, wild 
fowl, and what not. Whatever land, sea, and air afford 
for food, it is but ask and have; everything is to be had 
in this inn.” 

“There is no need of all this,” quoth Sancho; “a 
couple of roasted chickens will do our business, for my 
master has a nice stomach, and eats but little; and as 
for me, I am none of your unreasonable trencher men.” 

“ As for chickens,” replied the innkeeper, “we have 
none, for the kites have devoured them.” 





“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “roast us a good hand- 
some pullet, with eggs, so it be young and tender.” 

“A pullet, master!” answered the host; “faith and 
troth, I sent above fifty yesterday to the city to sell; 
but, setting aside pullets, you may have anything 
else.” 

“Why, then,” quoth Sancho, “even give us a good 
joint of veal or kid.” 

“Cry you mercy !” replied the innkeeper; “now I re- 
member me, we have none left in the house; the last 
company that went cleared me quite; but by next week 
we shall have enough, and to spare.” 

“We are finely holped up,” quoth Sancho. “Now 
will I hold a good wager, all these defects must be 
made up with a dish of eggs and bacon.” 

“Hey-day!” cried the host, “my guest has a rare 
knack at guessing, i’ faith. I told him I had no hens 
or pullets in the house, and yet he would have me to 
have eggs! Think on something else, I beseech you, 
and let us talk no more on that.” 

“Bless me!” cried Sancho, “let us come to some- 
thing; tell me what thou hast, good Mr. Landlord, and 
do not put me to trouble my brains any longer.” 

“Why, then, do you see,” quoth the host, “to deal 
plainly with you, I have a delicate pair of cow-heels, 
that look like calves’ feet, or a pair of calves’ feet that 
look like cow-heels, dressed with onions, pease, and 
bacon—a dish fora prince; they are just ready to be 
taken off, and by this time they cry, ‘Come, eat me; 
come, eat me.’ ” 

“Cow-heels!” cried Sancho; “I set my mark on 
them; let nobody touch them. I will give more for 
them than any other shall. There is nothing I love 
better.” 

“Nobody else shall have them,” answered the host; 
“vou need not fear, for all the guests I have in the. 
house, besides yourselves, are persons of quality, that 
carry their steward, their cook, and their provisions 
along with them.” 

“As for quality,” quoth Sancho, “my master is a 
person of as good quality as the proudest he of them 
all, if you go to that, but his profession allows of no 
larders nor butteries. We commonly clap us down in 
the midst of a field, and fill our bellies with acorns or 
medlars.” 

424 





DUNA 
WAV 
EAS: 


A 
al 
Ay 
Wiel 




















« A clear fountain, which Don Quixote and Sancho fonnd among some verdant trees, served to refresh them.”—p. 424. 


426 DON QUIXOTE 

This was the discourse that passed betwixt Sancho 
and the innkeeper; for as to the host’s interrogatories 
concerning his master’s profession, Sancho was not then 
at leisure to make him any answer. 

In short, supper-time came, Don Quixote went to his 
room, the host brought the dish of cow-heels, such as 
it was, and set him down fairly to supper. But at the 
same time, in the next room, which was divided from 
that where they were by a slender partition, the knight 
overheard somebody talking. 

“Dear Don Jeronimo,” said the unseen person, “I 
beseech you, till supper is brought in let us read 
another chapter of the second part of ‘Don Quixote.’” 
The champion no sooner heard himself named than up 
he started and listened, with attentive ears, to what 
was said of him; and then he heard that Don Jeronimo 
answer, “Why would you have us read nonsense, Sig- 
nor Don John? Methinks any one that has read the 
first part of ‘Don Quixote’ should take but little de- 
light in reading the second.” 

“That may be,” replied Don John; “however, it may 
not be amiss to read it, for there is no book so bad as 
not to have something that is good in it. What dis- 
pleases me most in this part is, that it represents Don 
Quixote no longer in love with Dulcinea del Toboso.” 

Upon these words, Don Quixote, burning with anger 
and indignation, cried out, “Whoever says that Don 
Quixote de la Mancha has forgotten or can forget Dul- 
cinea del Toboso, 1 will make him know, with equal 
arms, that he departs wholly from the truth; for the 
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot be forgotten, nor 
can Don Quixote be guilty of forgetfulness. Constancy 
is his motto; and to preserve his fidelity with pleasure, 
and without the least constraint, is his profession.” 

"Who is he that answers us?” cries one of those in 
the next room. 

“Who should it be?” quoth Sancho, “but Don Quix- 
ote de la Mancha his own self, the same that will make 
good all he has said and all he has to say, take my word 
for it; for a good paymaster never grudges to give 
security.” 

Sancho had no sooner made that answer than in came 
the two gentlemen (for they appeared to be no less), 
and one of them, throwing his arms about Don Quixote’s 
neck, “Your presence, Sir Kuight,” said he, “does not 
belie your reputation, nor can your reputation fail to 
raise a respect for your presence. You are certainly 
the true Don Quixote de la Mancha, the north-star and 
luminary of chivalry-errant, in despite of him that has 
attempted to usurp your name and annihilate your 
achievements, as the author of this book, which I here 
deliver into your hands, has presumed to do.” With 
that he took the book from his friend and gave it to. 
Don Quixote. 

The knight took it, and, without saying a word, be- 
gan to turn over the leaves; and then, returning it a 
while after, “In the little I have seen,” said he, “Ihave 
found three things in this author that deserve repre- 
hension. First, 1 find fault with some words in his 
preface. In the second place, his language is Arra- 





gonian, for sometimes he writes without articles. And 


DE LA MANCHA. 


the third thing I have observed, which betrays most 
his ignorance, is, he is out of the way in one of the 
principal parts of the history; for there he says that 
the wife of my squire, Sancho Panza, is called Mary 
Gutierrez, which is uot true, for her name is Teresa 
Panza; and he that errs in so considerable a passage may 
well be suspected to have committed many gross errors 
through the whole history.” 

“A pretty impudent fellow is this same history- 
writer! ” cried Sancho. “Sure he knows much what 
belongs to our concerns, to call my wife Teresa Panza, 
Mary Gutierrez! Pray, take the book again, if it like 
your worship, and see whether he says anything of me, 
and whether he has not changed my name too.” 

“Sure, by what you have said, honest man,” said Don 
Jeronimo, “you should be Sancho Panza, squire to 
Signor Don Quixote.” 

“So I am,” quoth Sancho, “and I am proud of the 
office.” 

“Well,” said the gentleman, “to tell you the truth, 
the last author does not treat you so civilly as you 
seem to deserve. He represents you as a glutton and a 
fool, without the least grain of wit or humor, and very 
different from the Sancho we have in the first part of 
your master’s history.” 

“Heaven forgive him!” quoth Sancho; “he might 
have left me where I was, without offering to meddle 
with me. ‘Every man’s nose will not make a shoeing 
horn.’ Let us leave the world as itis. ‘St. Peter is 
very well at Rome.’ ” 

Presently the two gentlemen invited Don Quixote to 
sup with them in their chamber, for they knew there 
was nothing to be got in the inn fit for his entertain- 
ment. Don Quixote, who was always very complaisant, 
could not deny their request, and went with them. 
Sancho stayed behind with the flesh-pot, and placed 
himself ut the upper end of the table, with the innkeeper 
for his messmate, who was no less a lover of cow-heels 
than the squire. 

While Don Quixote was at supper with the gentle- 
men, Don John asked him when he heard of the Lady 
Dulcinea del Toboso. With that he told the gentlemen 
the whole story of her being enchanted, what had be- 
fallen him in the cave of Montesinos, and the means 
that the sage Merlin had prescribed to free her from 
enchantment, which was Sancho’s penance of three 
thousand three hundred lashes. The gentlemen were 
extremely pleased to hear from Don Quixote’s own 
mouth the strange passages of his history, equally 
wondering at the nature of his extravagances and his 
elegant manner of relating them. One minute they 
looked upon him to be in his senses, and the next they 
thought he had lost them all, so that they could not 
resolve what degree to assign him between madness 
and sound judgment. 

They asked him which way he was travelling. He 
told them he was going to Saragosa, to make one at the 
tournaments held in that city once a year, for the prize 
of armor. Don John acquainted him that the pretend- 
ed second part of his history gave an account how Don 
Quixote, whoever he was, had been at Saragosa, at a 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


public running atthe ring, the description of which 
was wretched :nd defective in the contrivance, and 
mean and low in the style. 

“For that reason,” said Don Quixote, “I will not set 
a foot in Sargosa; and so the world shall see what a 
uotorious lie this new historian is guilty of, and all man- 
kind shall perceive I am not the Don Quixote he speaks 
of.” 

“You do very well,” said Don Jeronimo; “besides, 
there is another tournament at Barcelona, where you 
may signalize your valor.” 

“Ido design to do so,” replied Don Quixote; “and 
so, gentlemen, give me leave to bid you good night, and 
permit me to go tu bed, for it is time; and pray place 





427 


me in the number of your best friends, and most faith- 
ful servants.” 

“And me too,” quoth Sancho, “for mayhap you may 
find me good for something.” 

Having taken leave of one another, Don Quixote and 
Sancho retired to their chamber, leaving the two stran- 
gers fully satisfied that these two persons were the true 
Don Quixote and Sancho, and not those obtruded upon 
the public by the Arragonian author. 

Early in the morning Don Quixote got up, and, knock- 
ing at a thin wall that parted his chamber from that of 
the gentlemen, took his leave of them. Sancho paid 
the host nobly, but advised him either to keep better 
provisions in his inn or to commend it less. 








CHAPTER LX. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE GOING TO BARCELONA. 


THE morning was cool, and seemed to promise a tem- 
perate day, when Don Quixote left the inn, having first 
informed himself which was the readiest way to Bar- 
celona; for he was resolved he would not so much as 
see Saragosa, that he might prove that new author a 
liar, who, as he was told, had so misrepresented him in 
the pretended second part of his history. For the 
space of six days he travelled without meeting any ad- 
venture worthy of memory; but the seventh, having 
lost his way, and being overtaken by the night, he was 
obliged to stop in a thicket, either of oaks or cork- 
trees, for in this Cid Hamet does not observe the same 
punctuality he has kept in other matters. There both 
master and man dismounted, and laying themselves 
down at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had hand- 
somely filled his belly that day, easily resigned himself 
into the arms of sleep. But Don Quixote, whora his 
chimeras kept awake much more than hunger, could not 
so much as close his eyes, his working thoughts being 
hurried to a thousand several places. This time he 
fancied himself in the cave of Montesinos, imagin- 
ing he saw his Dulcinea, perverted as she was into a 
country hoyden, jump at a single leap upon her ass 
colt. The next moment he thought he heard the 
sage Merlin’s voice—heard him in awful words relate 
the means required to effect her disenchantment. 
Presently a fit of despair seized him; he was stark mad 
to think on Sancho’s remissness and want of charity, 
the squire having not given himself above five lashes, 
a small and inconsiderable number, in proportion to the 
quantity of the penance still behind. This reflection 
so nettled him, and so aggravated his vexation, that he 
could not forbear thinking on some extraordinary 
methods. “If Alexander the Great,” thought he “when 
he could not untie the Gordian knot, said, ‘It is the 
same thing to cut or to undo,’ and so slashed it asunder, 





and yet became the sovereign of the world, why may 
not I free Dulcinea from enchantment by whipping 
Sancho myself, whether he will or no? For, if the con- 
dition of this remedy consists in Sancho’s receiving 
three thousand and odd lashes, what does it signify to 
me whether he gives himself those blows or another 
gives them him, since the stress lies upon his receiving 
them, by what means soever they are given?” Full of 
that conceit, he came up to Sancho, baving first taken 
the reins of Rozinante’s bridle, and fitted them to his 
purpose of lashing him with them. He then began to 
untruss Sancho’s points; but he no sooner fell to work 
than Sancho started out of his sleep, and was thor- 
oughly awake in an instant. “What is here?” cried 
he. 

“It is I,” answered Don Quixote; “I am come to re- 
pair thy negligence, and to seek the remedy of my tor- 
ments. I am come to whip thee, Sancho, and to dis- 
charge, in part at least, that debt for which thou stand- 
est engaged. Dulcinea perishes, while thou livest 
careless of her fate, and 1 die with desire. Untruss, 
therefore, freely and willingly, for I am resolved while 
we are here alone in this recess, to give thee at least 
two thousand stripes.” 

“Hold you there,” quoth Sancho; “pray be quiet, 
will you? Bless me! let me alone, or I protest deaf 
men shall hear us. The jerks I am bound to give my- 
self are to be voluntary, not forced; and at this time I 
have no mind to be whipped at all. Letit suffice that 
I promise you to scourge myself when the humor takes 
me.” 

“No,” said Don Quixote, “there is no standing to thy 
courtesy, Sancho, for thou art hard-hearted ; and, 
though a clown, yet thou art tender of thy flesh;” and 
so saying, he tried with all his force to untie the 
squire's points; which, when Sancho perceived, he 























27, 


—p. 





hig 


centlemen the whole story of her being enchanted.” 


5 


“He told the 

















DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


started up on his legs, and, setting upon his master, 
closed with him, tripped up his heels, threw him fairly 
upon his back, and then set his knee upon his breast, 
and held his hands fast, so that he could hardly stir, or 
fetch his breath. Don Quixote, overpowered thus, 
cried, “How now, traitor! what! rebel against thy mas- 
ter—against thy natural lord—against him that gives 
thee bread! ” 

“T neither mar king nor make king,” quoth Sancho; 
“I do but defend myself, that am naturally my own 
lord. If your worship will promise to let me alone, and 
give over the thoughts of whipping me at this time, I 
will let you rise, and will leave you at liberty; if not, 
here thou diest, traitor to Donna Sancho.” 

Don Quixote gave his parole of honor, and swore by 
the life of his best thoughts not to touch so much as a 
hair of Sancho’s coat, but entirely leave it to his dis- 
cretion to whip himself when he thought fit. With 
that Sancho got up from him, and removed his quarters 
to another place at a good distance; but as he went up 
to lean against a tree he perceived something bobbing 
at his head, and, lifting up his hands, found it to be a 
man’s feet, with shoes and stockings on. Quaking for 
fear, he moved off to another tree, where the like im- 
pending horror dangled over his head. Straight he 
called out to Don Quixote for help, Don Quixote came, 
and inquired into the occasion of his fright. Sancho 
answered, that all those trees were full of men’s feet 
and legs. Don Quixote began to search and grope 
about, and falling presently into the account of the 
business, “Fear nothing, Sancho,” said he, “there is no 
danger at all; for what thou feelest in the dark are cer- 
tainly the feet and legs of some banditti and robbers 
that have been hanged upon those trees, for here the 
officers of justice hang them up by twenties and thir- 
ties in clusters, by which I suppose we cannot be far 
from Barcelona;” and indeed he guessed right. 

And now, day breaking, they lifted up their eyes, and 
saw the bodies of the highwaymen hanging on the 
trees. But if the dead surprised them, how much more 
were they disturbed at the appearance of above forty 
live banditti, who poured upon them, and surrounded 
them on a sudden, charging them in the Catalan tongue 
to stand till their captain came ! 

Don Quixote found himself on foot, his horse un- 
bridled, his lance against a tree at some distance, and, 
in short, void of all defence; and, therefore, he was 
forced to put his arms across, hold down his head, and 
shrug up his shoulders, reserving himself for a better 
opportunity. The robbers presently fell to work, and 
began to rifle Dapple, leaving on his back nothing of 
what he carried, either in the wallet or the cloak-bag; 
and it was very well for Sancho that the duke’s pieces 
of gold, and those he brought from home, were hidden 
in a girdle about his waist; though, for all that, those 
honest gentlemen would certainly have taken the pains 
to have searched and surveyed him all over, and would 
have had the gold, though they had stripped him of 
his skin to come at it; but by good fortune their captain 
came in the interim. He seemed about four-and-thirty 
years of age, his body robust, his stature tall, his vis- 


jage austere, and his complexion swarthy. 





422 


He was 
mounted on a strong horse, wore a coat of mail, and no 
less than two pistols on each side. Perceiving that his 
squires (for so they call men of that profession in those 
parts) were going to strip Sancho, he ordered them to 
forbear, and was instantly obeyed; by which means the 
girdle escaped. He wondered to see a lance reared up 
against a tree, a shield on the ground, and Don Quixote 
in armor, and pensive, with the saddest, most melan- 
choly countenance that despair itself could frame. 
Coming up to him, “Be not so sad, honest man,” said 
he; “you have not fallen into the hands of some cruel 
Busiris, but into those of Roque Guinart, a man rather 
compassionate than severe.” 

“Tam not sad,” answered Don Quixote, “for having 
fallen into thy power, valorous Roque, whose bound- 
less fame spreads through the universe, but for having 
been so remiss as to be surprised by thy soldiers with 
my horse unbridled; whereas, according to the order 
of chivalry-errant, which I profess, I am obliged to 
live always upon my guard, and at all hours be my own 
sentinel; for, let me tell thee, great Roque, had they 
met me mounted on my steed, armed with my shield 
and lance, they would have found it no easy task to 
make me yield; for know, I am Don Quixote de la. 
Mancha, the same whose exploits are celebrated through 
all the habitable globe.” 

Roque Guinart found out immediately Don Quixote’s 
blind side, and judged there was more madness than 
valor in the case. Now, though he had several times 
heard him mentioned in discourse, he could never be- 
lieve what was related of him to be true, nor could he 
be persuaded that such a humor should reign in any 
man; for which reason he was very glad to have met 
him, that experience might convince him of the truth. 
Therefore, addressing himself to him, “Valorous 
knight,” said he, “vex not yourself, nor tax fortune 
with unkindness; for it may happen that what you look 
upon now as a sad accident may redound to your ad- 
vantage.” 

Don Quixote was going to return him thanks, when 
from behind them they heard a noise like the trampling 
of several horses, though it was occasioned but by one; 
on which came, full speed, a person that looked like a 
gentleman, about twenty years of age. He was clad in 
green damask, edged with gold galloon, suitable to his 
waistcoat, and a hat turned up behind; straight wax- 
leather boots; his spurs, sword, and dagger gilt; a 
light bird-piece in his hand, and a case of pistols before 
him. Roque, having turned his head to the noise, dis- 
covered the handsome apparition, which, approaching 
nearer, spoke to him in this manner: “You are the 
gentleman I looked for, valiant Roque; for with you I 
may perhaps find some comfort, though not a remedy 
in my affliction. In short, not to hold you in suspense 
(for I am sensible you do not know me), I will tell you 
who I am. My name is Claudia Jeronima; I am the 
daughter of your particular friend, Simon Forte, sworn 
foe to Clauquel Torrelas, who is also your enemy, be- 
ing one of your adverse faction. You already know 
this Torrelas had a son whom they called Don Vincente 




















. 429. 


=D. 


” 


“He called out to Don Quixote for help. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


Torrelas; at least, he was called so within these two 
hours. That son of his, to be short in my sad story, 1 
will tell you in four words what sorrow he has brought 
me to. He saw me, courted me, was heard, and was he- 
loved. In short, he made me a promise of mariage, 
and I the like to him. Now, yesterday I understood 
that, forgetting bis engagements to me, he was going to 
wed another, and that they were to be married this 
morning; a piece of news that quite distracted me, and 
made me lose all patience. Therefore, my father being 
out of town, I took the opportunity of equipping myself 
as you see, and, by the speed of this horse, overtook 
Don Vincente about a league hence, where, without 
urging my wrongs, or staying to hear his excuses, I 
fired at him, not only with this piece, but with both 
my pistols, and, as I believe, shot him through the 
body. This done, there I left him to his servants, who 
neither dared nor could prevent the sudden execution, 
and came to seek your protection, that by your means 
I may be conducted into France, where I have relations 
to entertain me; and withal to beg of youto defend my 
father from Don Vincente’s party, who might otherwise 
revenge his death upon our family.” 

Roque, admiring at once the resolution, agreeable 
deportment, and handsome figure of the beautiful 
Claudia, “Come, madam,” said he, “let us first be 
assured of your enemy’s death, and then consider what 
is to be done for you.” 

“Hold!” cried Don Quixote, who had hearkened with 
great attention to all.this discourse; “none of you need 
trouble yourselves with this affair; the defence of the 
lady is my province. Give me my horse and.arms, and 
stay for me; I will goand find out this knight, and 
deal or alive, force him to perform his obligations to so 
great a beauty.” 

Roque was so much taken up with the thoughts of 
Claudia's adventure, that, ordering his squires to re- 
store what they had taken from Dapple to Sancho, and 
to retire to the place where they had quartered the 
night before, he went off upon the spur with Claudia, 
to find the expiring Don Vincente. They got to the 
place where Claudia met him, and found nothing but 
the marks of blood newly spilt; but, looking round 
about them, they discovered a company of people at a 
distance on the side of a hill, and presently judged 
them to be Don Vincente carried by his servants either 
to his cure or burial. They hastened to overtake them, 
which they soon effected, the others going but slowly; 
and they found the young gentleman in the arms of his 
servants, desiring them, with aspent and fainting voice, 
to let him die in that place, his wounds paining him so 
that he could not bear going any farther. Claudia and 
Roque dismounting, hastily came up to him. The ser- 
vants were startled at the appearance of Roque, and 
Claudia wag troubled at the sight of Don Vincente; 
and, divided between anger and compassion, “Had you 
given me this, and made good your promise,” said she 
to him, laying hold of his hand,“ you had never brought 
this misfortune upon yourself.” The wounded gentle- 
man, lifting up his languishing eyes, and knowing 
Claudia, “Now do I see,” said he, “my fair deluded 





431 


mistress, it is you that has given me the fatal blow, a 
punishment never deserved by the innocent, unfortu- 
nite Vincente, whose actions and desires had no other 
end but that of serving his Claudia.” 

“What! sir,” answered she presently, “can you deny 
that you went this morning to marry Leonora, the 
daughter of wealthy Belvastro ?” 

“Tt is all a false report,” answered he, “raised by my 
evil stars to spur up your jealousy to take my life, 
which, since I leave in your fair hands, I reckon well 
disposed of; and, to confirm this truth, give me your 
hand, and receive mine, the last pledge of love and 
life, and take me for your husband. It is the only sat- 
isfaction I have to give for the imaginary wrong you 
suspect I have committed.” Claudia pressed his hand, 
and being pierced at once to the very heart, dropped 
on his bloody breast into a swoon, and Don Vincente 
fainted away in a deadly trance. 

Roque’s concern struck him senseless, and the ser- 
vants ran for water to throw on the faces of the un- 
happy couple; by which at last Claudia came to herself 
again, but Don Vincente never woke from his trance, 
but breathed out the last remainder of his life. When 
Claudia perceived this, and could no longer doubt but 
that her dear husband was irrecoverably dead, she 
burst the air with her sighs, and wounded the heavens 
with her'complaints. She tore her hair, scattered it in 
the wind, and with her merciless hands disfigured her 
face, showing all the lively marks of grief that the first 
sallies of despair can discover. 

“Oh, cruel and inconsiderate woman!” cried she; 
“how easily wast thou set on this barbarous execution! 
Oh, maddening sting of jealousy, how desperate are thy 
motions, and how tragic the effects! Oh, my unfortu- 
nate husband, whose sincere love and fidelity to me 
have thus brought him to the cold grave!” 

Thus the poor lady went on in so sad and moving a 
strain, that even Roque’s rugged temper now melted 
into tears, which on all occasions before had been 
strangers to his eyes. The servants wept and lament- 
ed; Claudia relapsed into her swooning as fast as they 
found means to bring her to life again; and the whole 
appearance was a most moving scene of sorrow. At last 
Roque Guinart bid Don Vincente’s servants to carry 
his body to his father’s house, which was not far dis- 
tant, in order to have it buried. Claudia communicated 
to Roque her resolution of retiring into a monastery, 
where an aunt of hers was abbess, there to spend the 
rest of her life, wedded to a better and an immortal 
bridegroom. He commended her pious resolution, offer- 
ing to conduct her whither she pleased, and to protect 
her father and family from all assaults and practices of 
the most dangerous enemies. Claudia made a modest 
excuse for declining his company, and took leave of 
him weeping. Don Vincente’s servants carried off the 
dead body, and Roque returned to his men. Thus 
ended Claudia Jeronima’s amour, brought to so lament- 
able catastrophe by the prevailing force of a cruel and 
desperate jealousy. 

Roque Guinart found his crew where he had appoint- 
ed, and Don Quixote in the middle of them, mounted on 





dd Za 
MSG ZA 








aes, 





SS ae 


WLC 








—p. 431. 


” 


«Don Quixote, mounted on Rozinante, declaiming very copiously against their way of living. 


DON QUIXOTE 


Rozinante, and declaiming very copiously against their 
way of living, at once dangerous to their bodies and 
destructive to their souls; but his auditors being chiefly 
composed of Gascoigners, a wild, unruly kind of people, 
all his morality was thrown away upon them. Roque, 
upon his arrival, asked Sancho if they had restored him 
all his things. 

“Everything, sir, but three night-caps, that are worth 
a king’s ransom.” 

“What says the fellow?” cried one of the robbers; 
“here they be, and they are not worth three reals.” 

“As to the intrinsic value,” replied Don Quixote, 
“they may be worth no more; but it is the merit of the 
person that gave them me that raises their value to 
that price.” 

Roque ordered them to he restored immediately, when 
one or two of their scouts that were posted or the road 
on the road informed their captain that they had dis- 
covered a great company of travellers on the way to 
Barcelona. 

“Are they such as we look for?” asked Roque, “or 
such as look for us ?” 

“Such as we look for, sir,” answered the fellow. 

“ Away then,” cried Roque, “all of you, my boys, and 
bring them hither straight; let none escape.” 

Obeying the word of command, the squires left Don 
Quixote, Roque, and Sancho, to wait their return, and 
in the meantime Roque entertained the knight with 
some remarks on his way of living. 

When Roque’s party had brought in their prize, they 
found it consisted of two gentlemen on horseback and 
two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of women attend- 
ed by some half-dozen servants on foot and on horse- 
back, besides two muleteers that belonged to the two 
gentlemen. They were all conducted in solemn order, 
surrounded by the victors, both they and the van- 
quished being silent, and expecting the definitive sen- 
tence of the grand Roque. He first asked the gentle- 
men who they were, whither bound, and what money 
they had about them. They answered that they were 
both captains of Spanish foot, and their companies 
were at Naples; they designed to embark on the four 
galleys which they heard were bound for Sicily; and 
their whole stock amounted to two or three hundred 
crowns, which they thought a pretty sum of money for 
men of their profession, who seldom used to hoard up 
riches. The pilgrims, being examined in like manner, 
said they intended to embark for Rome, and had about 


threescore reals between them both. Upon examining 


the coach, he was informed by one of the servants that 
my Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinonnes, wife to a judge 
of Naples, with her little daughter, a chambermaid, 
and an old duenna, together with six other servants, 
had among them all about six hundred crowns. 

“So then,” said Roque, “we have got here in all nine 
hundred crowns and sixty reals. I think I have got 
about threescore soldiers here with me. Now, among 
so Many men, how much will fall to each particular 
share? Let me see, for I am none of the best account- 
ants. Cast it up, gentlemen.” 

The officers looked simply, the lady was sadly de- 


DE LA MANCHA. 


433 


jected, and the pilgrims were no less cast down, think- 
ing this a very odd confiscation of their little stock. 
Roque held them awhile in suspense, to observe their 
humors, which he found all very plainly to agree in 
that point, of being melancholy for the loss of their 
money. Then turning to the officers, “Do me the 
favor, captains,” said he,“‘to lend me threescore crowns; 
and you, madam, if your ladyship pleases, shall oblige 
me with fourscore, to gratify these honest gentlemen of 
my squadron. It is our whole estate and fortune; and 
you know, the abbot dines on what he sings for. There- 
fore I hope you will excuse our demands, which will 
free you from any more disturbance of this nature, be- 
ing secured by a pass, which I shall give you, directed 
to the rest of my squadrons that are posted in these 
parts, and who, by virtue of my order, will let you go 
unmolested; for I scorn to wrong a soldier, and I must 
not fail in my respects, madam, to the fair sex, espec- 
ially to ladies of your quality.” 

The captains, with all the grace they could, thanked 
him for his great civility and liberality for so they 
esteemed his letting them keep their own money. The 
lady would have thrown herself out of the coach at his 
feet, but Roque would not suffer it, rather excusing the 
presumption of his demands, which he was forced to, 
in pure compliance with the necessity of his fortune. , 
The lady then ordered her servant to pay the fourscore 
crowns; the officers disbursed their quota, and the pil- 
grims made an oblation of their mite. But Roque order- 
ing them to wait a little, and turning to his men, 
“Gentlemen,” said he, “here are two crowns a-piece 
for each of you, and twenty over and above. Now let 
us bestow ten of them on these poor pilgrims, and the 
other ten on this honest squire, that he may give us a 
good word in his travels.” So, calling for pen, ink, 
and paper, of which he always went provided, he wrote 
a passport for them, directed to the commanders of his 
several parties, and taking his leave, dismissed them; 
all wondering at his greatness of soul, that spoke 
rather an Alexander than a professed highwayman. 
One of his men began to mutter in his Catalan language, 
“This captain of ours is plaguy charitable; he would 
make a better friar than a pad; come, come, if he has a 
mind to be so liberal, forsooth, let his own pocket, not 
ours, pay for it.” The wretch spoke not so low but he 
was overheard by Roque, who, whipping out his sword, 
with one stroke almost cleft his skull in two. “Thus it 
is I punish matiny,” said he. All the rest stood 
motionless, and durst not mutter one word, so great was 
the awe they bore him. 

_ Roque then withdrew a little, and wrote a letter to a 
friend in Barcelona, to let him know that the famous 
knight-errant, Don Quixote, of whom so many strange 
things were reported, was with him; that he might be 
sure to find him on Midsummer-day on the great quay 
of that city, armed at all points, mounted on Rozi- 
nante, and his squire on an ass; that he was a most 
pleasant, ingenious person, and would give great satis- 
faction to him and his friends, the Niarros, for which 
reason he gave them this notice of the Don’s coming; 





adding, that he should by no means let the Cadells, his 








AM 


wo 

















“The squires left Don Quixote, Roque, and Sancho to await their return.” —p. 483. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 435 


enemies, partake of this pleasure, as being unworthy of [letter to one of his men, who, changing his highway 
it: but how was it possible to conceal from them, or [clothes to a count-yman’s habit, went to Barcelona, and 


anybody else, the folly and discretion of Don Quixote, | gave it as directed. 


and the buffoonery of Sancho Panza? He delivered the 








CHAPTER LXI. 


DON QUIXOTE’S ENTRY INTO BARCELONA, WITH OTHER ACCIDENTS THAT HAVE LESS INGENUITY THAN 


TRUTH IN THEM. 


Don QUIXOTE stayed three days and three nights 
with Roque, and had he tarried as many hundred years 
he might have found subject enough for admiration in 
that kind of life. Theyslept in one place, and ate in 
another, sometimes fearing they knew not what, then 
lying in wait for they knew not whom; sometimes 
forced to steal a nap standing, never enjoying a sound 
sleep; now in this side the country, then presently in 
another quarter; always upon the watch, spies heark- 
ening, scouts listening, carbines presenting; though of 
such heavy guns they had but few, being armed 
generally with pistols. Roque himself slept apart from 
the rest, making no man privy to his lodgings; for so 
many were the proclamations against him from the 
Viceroy of Barcelona, and such were his disquiets and 
fears of being betrayed by some of his men for the 
price of his head, that he durst trust nobody— a life 
most miserable and uneasy. 

At length, by cross. roads and ' bye- ways, Roque, Don 
Quixote, and Sancho, attended by six other squires, got 
to the strand of Barcelona on Midsummer Eve, at night; 
where Roque, having embraced Don Quixote, and pre- 
sented Sancho with the ten crowns he had promised 
him, took his -leave of them both, after” many compli- 
ments on both sides. Roque returned ‘to his company, 
and Don Quixote stayed there, waiting the approach of 
day, mounted as Roque left him. Not long after, the 
fair. Aurora began to peep through the balconies of the 
east, cheering the flowery fields, while at the same time 
a melodious sound of hautbois and kettledrums cheered 
the . ears," ‘and presently. was joined with jingling of 
morrice-bells and the trampling and cries of horsemen 
coming out of the city. Now Aurora ushered up the 
jolly sun, who looked big on the verge of the horizon, 


with his broad face as ample as a target. Don Quixote ‘ 


and Sancho, casting their looks abroad, discovered the 
sea, which they had never seen before, To- them it 
made a noble and a spacious appearance, far bigger 
than the lake Ruydera, which they saw in La Mancha. 
The galleys in the port, taking in their awnings, made 
a pleasant sight with their flags and streamers that 
waved in the air, and sometimes kissed and swept the 
water. The trumpets, hautbois, and other warlike in- 
struments that resounded from on board, filled the air 
all round with reviving and martial harmony. A while 





after, the galleys moving, began to join on the calm sea 
in a counterfeit engagement; and at the same time a 
vast number of gentlemen marched out of the city, 
nobly equipped with rich liveries, and gallantly mount- 
ed, and in like manner did their part on the land to 
complete the warlike entertainment. The marines dis- 
charged numerous volleys from the galleys, which were 
answered by the great guns from the battlements of the 
walls and forts about the city, and the mighty noise 
echoed from the galleys again by a discharge of the 
long pieces of ordnance on their forecastles. The sea 
smiled and danced, the land was gay, and the sky se- 
rene in every quarter but where the clouds of smoke 
dimmed it a while; fresh joy sat smiling in the looks of 
men, and gladness and pomp were displayed in their 
glory. Sancho was mightily puzzled though to discover 
how these huge bulky things that moved on the sea 
could have so many feet. , 

By this time the gentlemen that maintained the sports 
on the shore, galloping up to Don Quixote with loud 


Jacclamations, the knight was not a little astonished. 


One of them amongst the rest, who was the person to 
whom Roque had written, cried aloud, “Welcome, the 
mirror, the light, the north star of knight-errantry ! 
Welcome, I say, valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha; 
not the counterfeit and apocryphal shown us lately in 
false histories, but the true, legitimate, and identic 
he described by Cid Hamet, the flower of historio- 
graphers!” a 

Don Quixote made no answer, nor did the gentieman 
stay for any; but wheeling about with the rest-of his 
companions, all prancing round him in token of joy, 
they encompassed the knightand squire. _Don Quixote, 
turning about to Sancho, “It seems,” said he, “these 
gentlemen know us well. I dare engage they have read 


our history, and that which the Arragonian lately pub- 


lished.” 

The gentleman that spoke to the knight, returning, 
“Noble Don Quixote,” said he, “we entreat you to come 
along with the company, being all your humble servants 
and friends of Roque Guinart.” 

“Sir,” answered Don Quixote, “your courtesy bears 
such a likeness to the great Roque's generosity, that, 
could civility beget civility, I should take yours for the 
daughter or near relation of his; I shall wait on you 





2 á 
SNE 


: any ee 
Gan 
A 


= 


A MM 


\ 


SANA 














«<Thus it is 1 punish mutiny,’ said he.”—p. 433. 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


where you please to command, for I am wholly at your 
devotion.” 

The gentleman returned his compliment; and so all 
of them enclosing him in the middle of their brigade, 
they conducted him towards the city, drums beating, 
and hautboys playing before them all the way. But, 
as ill luck would have it, two young fellows made a 
shift to get through the crowd of horsemen, and one 
lifting up Rozinante’s tail, and the other that of Dap- 
ple, they thrust a handful of briars under each of them. 
The poor animals, feeling such unusual spurs applied to 
them, clapped their tails close, which increased their 
pain, and began to wince and flounce, and kick so furious- 
ly, thatat last they threw their riders, and laid both mas- 





437 


ter and man sprawling in the street. Don Quixote, out 
of countenance, and nettled at his disgrace, went to 
disengage his horse from his new plumage, and Sancho 
did as much for Dapple, while the gentlemen turned to 
chastise the boys for their rudeness. But the young 
rogues were safe enough, being presently lost among a 
huge rabble that followed. The knight and squire then 
mounted again, and the music and procession went on 
till they arrived at their conductor’s house, which, by 
its largeness and beauty, bespoke the owner master of 
a great estate, where we leave him for the present, be- 
cause it is Cid Hamet’s will and pleasure that it should 
be so. 








CHAPTER LXII. 


THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, WITH OTHER IMPERTINENCES NOT TO BE OMITTED. 


THE person who entertained Don Quixote was called 
Don Antonio Moreno, a gentleman of good parts and 
plentiful fortune, loving all those diversions that may 
innocently be obtained without prejudice to his neigh- 
bors, and not of the humor of those who would rather 
lose their friend than their jest. He therefore resolved 
to make his advantage of Don Quixote’s follies without 
detriment to his person. : 

In order to this, he persuaded the knight to take off 
his armor, and, in his straight-laced chamois clothes (as 
we have already shown him), to stand in a balcony that 
looked into one of the principal streets of the city, 
where he stood exposed to the rabble that were got 
together, especially the boys, who gaped and stared on 
him as if he had been some overgrown baboon. The 
several brigades and cavaliers in their liveries began 
afresh to fetch their careers about him, as if the cere- 
mony were rather performed in honor of Don Quixote 
than any solemnity of the festival. Sancho was highly 
pleased, faneying he had chopped upon another Cama- 
cho’s wedding, or another house like that of Don Diego 
de Miranda, or some castle like the duke’s. 

Several of Don Antonio’s friends dined with him 
that day; and all of them honoring and respecting Don 
Quixote as a knight-errant, they puffed up his vanity 
to such a degree, that he could scarce conceal the 
pleasure he took in their adulation. As for Sancho, he 
made such sport to the servants of the house, and all 
that heard him, that they watched every word that 
came from his mouth. Being all very merry at table, 
“Honest Sancho,” said Don Antonio, “I am told you 
admire capons and sausages so much that you cannot be 
aitistied with a bellyful, and when vou can eat no more, 
you cram the rest into your breeches against the next 
morning.” 

“No, sir, if it like you.” answered Sancho, “itis all 
a story; Iam more cleanly than greedy, I would have 





you to know; here is my master can tell you that many 
times he and I use to live fora week together upon a 
handful of acorns and walnuts. The truth is, I am not 
over nice; in such a place as this I eat what is given 
me; for ‘a gift-horse should not be looked in the 
mouth.’ But whosoever told you I was a greedy-gut 
and a sloven, has told you a fib; and, were it not for 
respect to the company, I would tell him more of my 
mind, so I would.” 

“Verily,” said Don Quixote, “the manner of Sancho's 
feeding ought to be delivered to succeeding ages on 
brazen monuments, as a future memorial of his absti- 
nence and cleanliness, and an example to posterity. It 
is true, when he satisfies the call of hunger, he seems 
to do it somewhat ravenously; indeed, he swallows 
apace, uses his grinders very notably, and chews with 
both jaws at once. But, in spite of the charge of slov- 
enliness now laid upon him, I must declare he is so 
nice an observer of neatness, that he ever makes a clear 
conveyance of his food. When he was governor, his 
nicety in eating was remarkable, for he would eat 
grapes, and even pomegranate-seeds, witb the point of 
his fork.” 

“How !” cried Antonio, “has Sancho been a gover- 
nor?” 

“Ay, marry has he,” answered Sancho, “governor of 
the island of Barataria! Ten days 1 governed, and who 
but I? But I was so broken of my rest all the time, that 
all 1 got by it was to learn to hate the trade of govern- 
ing from the bottom of my soul; so that I made such 
haste to leave it, I fell into a deep hole, where I was 
buried alive, and should have lain till now, had not 
Providence pulled me out of it.” 

Don Quixote then related the circumstances of San- 
cho’s government; and, the cloth being taken away, 
Don Antonio took the knight by the hand, and carried 
him into a private chamber, where there was no kind of 


i === == 
ulate 
DO 


i 
Nt 
au i 

ES 





«* Don Quixote stayed there, waiting the approach of day.”—p. 435. 














DON QUIXOTE DE 


furniture, but a table that seemed to be of jasper, sup- 
ported by feet of the same, with a brazen head set upon 
it, from the breast upwards, like the effigies of one of 
the Roman emperors. Don Antonio having walked, 
with Don Quixote several turns about the room, “Sig- 
nor Don Quixote,” said he, “being assured that we are 
very private, the door fast, and nobody listening, I shall 
communicate to you one nf the most strange and won- 
derful adventures that ever was known, provided you 
treasure it up as a secret in the closest apartment of 
your breast.” 

“T shall be as secret as the grave,” answered the 
knight, “and will clap a tombstone over your secret for 
further security; besides, assure yourself, Don Anto- 
nio,” continued he, for by this time he had learned the 
gentleman's name, “you converse with a person whose 
ears are open te receive what his tongue never betrays; 
so that whatever you commit to my trust shall be buried 
in the depths of bottomless silence, and lie as secure as 
in your own breast.” 

“In confidence of your honor,” said Don Antonio, 
“T doubt not to raise your astonishment, and disburden 
my own breast of a secret which has long lain upon my 
thoughts, having never found hitherto any person 
worthy to be made a confidant in matters to be con- 
cealed.” 

This cautious proceeding raised Don Quixote's curi- 
osity strangely; after which Don Antonio led him to 
the table, and made him feel and examine all over the 
brazen head, the table, and jasper supporters. “Now, 
sir,” said he, “know that this head was made by one of 
the greatest enchanters or necromancers in the world. 
If I am not mistaken, he was a Polander by birth, and 
the disciple of the celebrated Escotillo, of whom so 
many prodigies are related. This wonderful person 
was here in my house, and, by the intercession of a 
thousand crowns, was wrought upon to frame me this 
head, which bas the wonderful property of answering 
in your ear to all questions. After long study, erecting 
of schemes, casting of figures, consultations with the 
stars, and other mathematical operations, this head was 
brought to the aforesaid perfection; and to-morrow (for 
on Fridays it never speaks) it shall give you proof of 
its knowledge; till when you may consider of your 
most puzzling and important doubts, which will have a 
full and satisfactory solution.” 

Don Quixote was amazed at this strange virtue of the 
head, and could hardly credit Don Antonio’s account; 
but, considering the shortness of the time that deferred 
his full satisfaction in the point, he was content to sus- 
pend his opinion till next day, and only thanked the 
gentleman for making him so great a discovery. So 
out of the chamber they went; and, Don Antonio 
having locked the door very carefully, they returned 
into the room, where the rest of the company were di- 
verted by Sancho’s relating to them some of his master’s 
alventures. 

That afternoon they carried Don Quixote abroad 
without his armor, mounted, not on Rozinante, but on a 
large easy mule, with genteel furniture, and himself 
after the city fashion, with a long coat of tawny-colored 





LA MANOMA. 439 


cloth, which, with the present heat of the season, was 
enough to put frost itself into a sweat. They gave 
private orders that Sancho should be entertained within 
doors all that day, lest he should spoil their sport by 
going out. The knight being mounted, they pinned to 
his back, without his knowledge, a piece of parchment 
with these words written in large letters, “This is Don 
Quixote de la Mancha,” wondered to hear himself 
named and known by every one that saw him. There- 
upon, turning to Don Antonio, who rode by his side, 
“How great,” suid he, “is this single prerogative of 
knight-errautry, by which its professors are known and 
distinguished through all the confines of the universe! 
Do not you hear, sir,” continued he, “how the very 
boys in the street, who have never seen me before, know 
me?” : 

“Tt is very true, sir,” answered Don Antonio; “like 
fire, that always discovers itself by its own light, virtue 
has thatlustre that never fails to. display itself, espe- 
cially that. renown which is acquired by the profession 
of arms.” 

So the cavalcade continued; but presently the rab- 
ble pressed so very thick to read the inscription, that 
Don Antonio was forced to pull it off, under pretence 
of doing something else. 

Upon the approach of night, they returned home, 
where Antonio's wife, a lady of quality, and every way 
accomplished, had invited several of her friends to a 
ball, to honor her guest, and share in the diversion his 
extravagances afforded. After a noble supper, the 
dancing began about ten o’clock at night. Among 
others were two ladies of an airy, waggish disposition, 
who made their court chiefly to Don Quixote, and plied 
him so with dancing, one after another, that they tired 
not only his body, but his very soul. But the best was 
to see what an unaccountable figure the grave Don 
made as he hopped and stalked about, a long, sway- 
backed, starvedAooked, thin-flanked, two-legged thing, 
wainscot-complexioned, stuck up in his close doublet. 
At last, being almost teased to death, “ Fugite partes 
adverse,” cried he aloud, “and avaunt, temptation ! 
Pray, ladies, play your pranks with somebody else; 
leave me to the enjoyment of my own thoughts, which 
are employed and taken up with the peerless Dulcinea 
del Toboso, the sole queen of my affections;” and, so 
saying, he sat himself down on the ground, in the mid- 
dle of the hall, to rest his weary bones. 

Don Antonio gave order that he should be taken up 
and carried to bed; and the first who was ready to lend 
ahelping was Sancho, saying, while lifting him up, 
“By our lady, sir master of mine, you have shook your 
heels most facetiously! Do you think we, who are 
stout and valiant, must be caparers, and that every 
knight-errant must be a snapper of castenets? If you 
do, you are woundily deceived, let me tell you. J know 
those who would sooner cut a giant’s wind-pipe than a 
caper. Had you been for the shoe-jig, I had been your 
man, for I slap it away like any jer-falcon; but, as for 
regular dancing, I cannot work a stitch at it.” This 
made diversion for the company, till Sancho led ont his 
master in order to put him to bed, where he Jeft him 


























““Enclosing him in the middle of their brigade, they conducted him towards the city "—p. 437. 


DON QUIXOTE 


covered over head and ears, that he might sweat out 
the cold he had caught by dancing. 

The next day, Don Antonio, resolving to make his 
intended experimenton the enchanted head, conducted 
Don Quixote into the room where it stood, together 
with Sancho, a couple of his friends, and the two ladies 
that had so teased the knight at the ball; and having 
carefully locked the door, and enjoined them secrecy, 
Tre told them the virtue of the head, and that this was 
the first time he ever made proof of it; and, except his 
two friends, nobody knew the trick of the enchantment, 
and, had not they been told of it before, they had been 
drawn into the same error with the rest; for the con- 
trivance of the machine was so artful, and so cunningly 
managed, that it was impossible to discover the cheat. 
Don Antonio himself was the first that made bis appli- 
cation to the ear of the head, close to which, speaking 
in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the com- 
pany, “Tell me, oh head,” said he, “by that mysterious 
virtue wherewith thou art endued, what are my thoughts 
at present?” 

The head, in a distinct and intelligible voice, though 
without moving the lips, answered, “I am no judge of 
thoughts.” 

They were all astonished at the voice, being sensible 
nobody was in the room to answer. “How many of us 
are there in the room?” said Don Antonio again. 

The voice answered, in the same key, “Thou and thy 
wife, two of thy friends, and two of hers, a famous 
knight called Don Quixote de la Mancha, and his squire 
Sancho Panza by name.” 

Now their astonishment was greater than before® now 
they wondered, indeed, and the hair of some of them 
stood on end with amazement. “It is enough,” said 
Don Antonio stepping aside from the head; “I am con- 
vinced it was no impostor sold thee to me, sage head, 
discoursing head, oraculous, miraculous head! Now, 
let somebody else try their fortune.” 

As women are generally most curious and inquisitive, 
one of the dancing ladies venturing up to it, “Tell me, 
head, said she, “what shall I do to be truly beautiful?” 

“Be honest,” answered the head. 

“T have done,” replied the lady. 

Her companion then came on, and with the same cur- 
iosity, “I weed, ie said she, “whether my husband 
loves me or no.’ 

The head answered, “Observe hig usage, and that 
will tell thee.” 

“Truly,” said the married lady to herself as she with- 
drew, “that question was needless; for, indeed, a man’s 
actions are the surest tokens of the dispositions of his 
mind.” 

Next came up one of Don Antonio’s friends, and 
asked, “Who am I?” 

The answer was, “Thou knowest.” 

“That is from the question,” replied the gentleman; 
“I would have thee tell me whether thou knowest me.” 

“TI do,” answered the head; “thou art Don Pedro 
Norris.” 

“It is enough, oh head;” said the gentleman, “thou 
hast convinced me that thou knowest all things.” So, 





DE LA MANCHA. 441 


making room for somebody else, his friend advanced, 
and asked the head what his eldest son and heir 
desired. 

“T have already told thee,” said the head, “that I 
was no judge of thoughts; however, I will tell thee 
that what thy heir desires is to bury thee.” 

“Tt is so,” replied the gentleman; “what I see with 
my eye I mark with my finger: I know enough.” 

Don Antonio's lady asked the next question. “I 
do not well know what to ask thee,” said she to the 
head; “only tell me whether I shall long enjoy my dear 
husband.” 

“Thou shalt,” answered the head; “for his healthy 
constitution and temperance promise length of days, 
while those who live too fast are not like to live long.” 

Next came Don Quixote. “Tell me, thou oracle,” 
said he, “was what I reported of my adventures in the 
cave of Montesinos a dream or a reality? will Sancho, 
my squire, fulfil his promise, and scourge himself ef- 
fectually? and shall Dulcinea be disenchanted ? ” 

“As for the adventures in the cave,” answered the 
head, “there is much to be said—they have something 
of both; Sancho’s whipping shall go on but leisurely; 
however, Dulcinea shall at last be really freed from en- 
chantment.” 

“That is all I desire to know,” said Don Quixote, 
“for the whole stress of my good fortune depends ou 
Dulcinea’s disenchantment.” 

Then Sancho made the last application. “If it please 
you, Mr. Head,” quoth he, “shall I chance to have an- 
other government? shall I ever get clear of this starving 
squire-errantiug? and shall I ever see my own fireside 
again ?” 

The head answered, “Thou shalt be a governor in 
thine own house; if thou goest home, thou mayest see 
thy own fireside again; and if thou leavest off thy ser- 
vice, thou shalt get clear of thy squireship.” 

“Bless me!” cried Sancho, “that is a very good one, 
Ivow! A horse-head might have told all this; I could 
have prophesied thus much myself.” 

“How now, brute!” said Don Quixote; “what an- 
swers wouldst thou have but what are pertinent to thy 
questions?” 

“Nay,” quoth Sancho, “since you will have it so, it 
shall be so; I only wish Mr. Head would have told me 
a little more concerning the matter.” 

Thus the questions proposed and the answers re- 
turned were brought to a period; but the amazement 
continued among all the company, except Don Antonio’s 
two friends, who understood the mystery, which Benen- 
geli is resolved now to discover, that the world should 
be no longer amazed with an erroneous opinion of any 
magic or witchcraft operating in the head. He there- 
fore tells you that Don Antonio Moreno, to divert him- 
self and surprise the ignorant, had this made, in imita- 
tion of such another device which he had seen con- 
trived by a statuary at Madrid. 

The manner of it was thus: the table, and the frame 
on which it stood, the feet of which resembled four 
eagles’ claws, were of wood, painted and varnished like 
jasper. The heod, which looked like the bust of a 






































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«Don Antonio's wife had invited several of her friends to a ball, to honor her guest.”—p. 439. 


DON QUIXOTI 


Roman emperor, and of a brass color, was all hollow, 
and so were the feet of the table, which answered ex- 
actly to the neck and breast of the head, the whole so 
artificially fixed that it seemed to be all of a piece; 
through this cavity ran a tin pipe, conveyed into it by 
a passage through the ceiling of the room under the 
table. He that was to answer set Lis mouth to the end 
of the pipe in the chamber underneath, and, by the 
hollowness of the trunk, received their questions and 
delivered their answers in clear and articulate words. 
so that the imposture could scarcely be discovered, 
The oracle was managed by a young, ingenious gentle- 
man, Don Antonio’s nephew, who, having his instruc- 
tions beforehand from his uncle, was able to answer 
readily and directly to the first questions, and, by con- 
jectures or evasions, make a return handsomely to the 
rest, with the help of his ingenuity. 

Cid Hamet informs us further, that, during ten or 
twelve days after this, the wonderful machine contin- 
ued in mighty repute; but, at last, the noise of Don 
Antonio’s having an enchanted head in his house, that 
gave answers to all questions, began to fly about the 
city; and, as he feared this would reach the ears of the 
watchful sentinels of our faith, he thought fit to give 
an account of the whole matter to the reverend inquisi- 
tors, who ordered him to break it to pieces, lest it should 
give occasion of scandal among the ignorant vulgar. 
But still the head passed for an oracle and a piece of 
enchantment with Don Quixote and Sancho; though 
the truth is, the knight was much better satisfied in the 
matter than the squire. 

The gentry of the city, in complaisance to Don*An- 
tonio, and for Don Quixote’s more splendid entertain- 
ment, or rather, to make his madness a more public 
diversion, appointed a running at the ring about six 
days after; but this was broken off upon an occasion 
that afterwards happened. 

Don Quixote had a mind to take a turn in the city 
on foot, that he might avoid the crowd of boys that fol- 
lowed him when he rode. Hewent out with Sancho, 
and two of Don Antonio’s servants, who attended him 
by their master’s order; and, passing through a certain 
street, Don Quixote looked up, and spied, written over 
a door, in great letters, these words, “Here is a print- 
ing-house.” This discovery pleased the knight ex- 
tremely, having now an opportunity of seeing a print- 
ing-press—a thing he had never seen before—and 
therefore, to satisfy his curiosity, in he went, with all 
his train. There he saw some working off the sheets; 
others correcting the forms; some in one place, picking 
of letters out of the cases; in another, some looking 
over a proof,—in short, all the variety that is to be seen 
in great printing-houses. He went from one workmen 
to another, and was very inquisitive to know what 
everybody hand in hand, and they were not backward 
to satisfy his curiosity. At length, coming to one of 
the compositors, and asking him what he was about, 
“Sir,” said the printer, “this gentlemen here”—show- 
ing alikely sort of a man something grave, and not 
young—“has translated a book out of Italian into 
Spanish, and J am setting some of it here for the press.” 





DI LA MANCHA. 443 


“What is the name of it, pray?” said Don Quixote. 

“Sir,” answered the author, “the title of it in Ital- 
jan is “Le Bagatele.” 

“And pray, sir,” asked Don Quixote, “what is the 
meaning of that word in Spanish?” 

“Sir,” answered the gentleman, “‘ Le Bagatele’ is as 
much as to say ‘Trifles ;’ but though the title promises so 
little, yet the contents are matters of importance.” 

“T am a little conversant in the Italian,” said the 
knight, “and value myself upon singing some stanzas 
of Ariosto; therefore, sir, without any offence, and not 
doubting of your skill, but merely to satisfy my cur- 
iosty, pray, tell me, have you ever met with such a 
word as pignata in Italian?” 

“Yes, very often, sir,” answered the author. 

“And how do you render it, pray, sir?” said Don 
Quixote. 

“How should I render it’ sir” replied the translator, 
“but by the word ‘ porridge-pot?’” 

“Bless me!” cried Don Quixote, “you are master of 
the Italian idiom. I dare hold a good wager that where 
the Italian says piace you translate it * please;’ where it 
says piu you render it ‘more;’ su, ‘above;’ and giu, 
‘beneath.’” 

“Most certainly, sir,” answered the other, ”for such 
are their proper significations.” 

“What rare parts,” said Don Quixote, “are lost to 
mankind, for want of their being exerted and known! 
I dare swear, sir, that the world is backward in encour- 
aging your merit. Butit is the fate of all ingenious 
men. How many of them are cramped up and dis- 
countenanced by a narrow fortune! and how many, in 
spite of the most laborious industry, discouraged! 
Though, by the way, sir, I think this kind of version 
from one language to another, except it be from the 
noblest of tongues, the Greek and Latin, is like viewing 
apiece of Flemish tapestry on the wrong side, where, 
though the figures are distinguishable, yet there are so 
many ends and threads, that the beauty and exactness 
of the work is obscured, and not soadvantageously dis- 
cerned as on the right side of the hangings. Neither 
can this barren employment of translating out of easy 
languages show either wit or mastery of style, no more 
than copying apiece of writing by a precedent; though, 
still, the business of translating wants not its commen- 
dations, since men very often may be worse employed. 
As a further proof of its merits, we have Doctor Chris- 
toval de Figuero’s translation of Pastor Fido, and Don 
Juan de Xaurigui’s Aminta—pieces so excellently well 
done, that they have made them purely their own, and 
left the reader in doubt which was the translation and 
which the original. But tell me, pray, sir, do you print 
your book at your own charge, or have you sold the 
copy to a bookseller?” 

“Why, truly, sir,” answered the translator, “I pub- 
lish it upon my own account, and I hope to clear at 
least a thousand crowns by this first edition; for I de. 
sign to print off two thousand books, and they will go 
off at six reals a-piece in a trice.” 

“Tam afraid you will come short of your reckoning,” 
said Don Quixote; “it is a sign you are still a stranger 


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‘Two ladies made their court chiefly to Don Quixote.”"—p. 105 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


to the tricks of these booksellers and printers, and the 
juggling that is among them. I dare engage you will 
find two thousand books lie heavy upon your hands, 
especially if the piece be somewhat tedious, and wants 
spirit.” 

"What! sir,” replied the author, “would you have 
me sell the profit of my labor to a bookseller for three 
maravedis a sheet? for that is the most they will bid, 
hay, and expect, too, 1 should thank them for the offer. 
No, no, sir; I print not my works to get fume in the 
world; my name is up already; profit, sir, is my end, 
and without it what signities reputation?” 

“Well, sir, go on and prosper,” said Don Quixote; 
and with that, moving to another part of the room, he 
saw a man correcting a sheet of a book called “The 
Light of the Soul.” “Ay, now this is something,” cried 
the knight; “these are the books that ought to be 
printed, though there are a great many of that kind; 
for the number of sinuers is prodigious in this age, and 
there is need of an infinite quantity of lights for so 
many dark souls as we have among us.” Then passing 
on, and inquiring the title of a book of which another 





445 


man was correcting a sheet, they told him it was the 
second part of that ingenious gentleman, “Don Quix- 
ote de la Mancha,” written by a certain person, a native 
of Tordesillas. “I have heard of that book before,” 
said Don Quixote, “and really thought it had been 
burnt, and reduced to ashes, for a foolish, impertinent 
libel; but all in good time. ‘Execution-day will come 
at last. For made stories are only so far good and 
agreeable as they are profitable and bear the resem- 
blance of truth, and true history the more valuable the 
farther it keeps from the fabulous.” And, so saying, 
he flung out of the printing-house in a huff. 

That very day Don Antonio would needs show Don 
Quixote the galleys in the road, much to Sancho’s satis- 
faction, because he had never seen any in his life. Don 
Antonio, therefore, gave notice to the commander of the 
galleys that in the afternoon he would bring his guest, 
Don Quixote de la Mancha, to see them; the commander 
and all the people of the town being by this time no 
stranger to the knight’s character. But what happened 
in the galley must be the subject of the next chapter. 











CHAPTER LXIII. 


OF SANCHO’S MISFORTUNES ON BOARD THE GALLEYS, WITH THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL 


MORISCA (MOORISH) LADY. 


Many and serious were Don Quixote’s reflections on 
the answer of the enchanted head, though none hit 
on the deceit, but centered all in the promise of Dul- 
cinea’s disenchantment; and, expecting it would be 
speedily effected, he rested joyfully satisfied. As for 
Sancho, though he hated the trouble of being a govern- 
or, yet still he had an itching ambition to rule, to be 
obeyed, and appear great; for even fools love au- 
thority. 

In short, that afternoon Don Antonio, his two friends, 
Don Quixote, and Sancho set out for the galleys. The 
commander, being advertised of their coming, upon 
their appearance on the quay, ordered all the galleys to 
strike sail; the music played, and a pinnace, spread 
with rich carpets and crimson velvet cushions, was 
presently hoisted out, and sent to fetch them on board. 
As soon as Don Quixote set his foot into it, the admi- 
ral’s galley discharged her forecastle piece, and the 
rest of the galleys did the like. When Don Quix- 
ote got over the gunnel of the galley, on the star- 
board side, the whole crew of slaves, according to 
their custom of saluting persons of quality, welcomed 
him with three hu, hu, huz, or huzzas. The general 
(for so we must call him), by birth a Vwencian, and a 
man of quality, gave him his hand, and embraced him. 
“This day,” said he, “will I mark as one of the happiest 





J can expect to see in all my life, since I have the honor 
now to behold Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha; this 
day, I say, that sets before my eyes the summary of 
wandering chivalry collected in one person.” Don 
Quixote returned his compliment with no less civility, 
and appeared overjoyed to see himself so treated like a 
grandee. Presently they all went into the state-room, 
which was handsomely adorned, and there they took 
their places. The boatswain went to the forecastle, and 
with his whistle or call gave the sign to the slaves to 
strip, which was obeyed in a moment. Sancho was 
scared to see so many fellows in their naked skins, but 
most of all when he saw them hoist up the sails so in- 
credibly fast, as he thought could never have been done 
but by so many conjurers. He had placed himself 
a-midship, next the aftmost rower on the starboard side, 
who, being instructed what to do, caught hold of him, 
and, giving him a hoist, handed him to the next man, 
who tossed him to a third; and so the whole crew of 
slaves, beginning on the starboard side, made him fly 
so fast from bench to bench, that poor Sancho lost the 
very sight of his eyes. Nor did the slaves give over 
bandying him about till they had handed him in the 
same manner over all the larboard side; and then they 
set him down where they had taken him up, but 
strangely disordered, out of breath, in a cold sweat, 












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«« «ell me, thou oracle,’ said he, ‘ was what T reported of my adventures in the cave of Montesinos a dream or reality ? ”—p. 441. 
, 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


and not truly sensible what it was that had happened 
to him. 

Don Quixote, seeing his squire fly at this rate with- 
out wings, asked the general if that were a ceremony 
used to all strangers aboard the galleys; for, if it were, 
he must let him know that, as he did not design to take 
up his residence there, he did not like such entertain- 
ment, and vowed that, if any of them came to lay hold 
on him to toss him at that rate, he would spurn their 
souls out of their bodies; and with this, starting up, he 
lays his hand on his sword. 

At the same time they lowered their sails, and, with 
a dreadful noise, let down the main-yard, which so 
frightened Sancho, who thought the sky was coming 
off its hinges and falling upon him, that he ducked, and 
thrust his head between his legs for fear. Don Quixote 
was a little out of sorts, too; he began to shiver and 
shrug up his shoulders and changed color. The slaves 
hoisted the mainyard again with the same force and 
noise that they had lowered it withal; but all this with 
such silence ou their parts, as if they had neither voice 
nor breath. The boatswain then gave the word to weigh 
anchor, and, leaping a-top of the forecastle among the 
crew, with his whip, he began to dust and fly-flap their 
shoulders, and, little by little, to put off to sea. 

When Sancho saw so many colored feet moving at 
once (for he took the oars to such), “Bless my heart!” 
quoth he, “here is enchantment in good earnest; all 
our adventures and witehcrafts have been nothing to 
this. What have these poor wretches done that their 
hides mnst be curried at this rate? And how dares this 
plaguy fellow go whistling about here by himself, and 
maul thus so many people?” 

Don Quixote, observing how earnestly Sancho looked 
on these passages, “Ah! dear Sancho,” said he, “what 
an easy matter now were it you to strip to the waist, 
and clap yourself among these gentlemen, and so com- 
plete Dulcinea’s disenchantment; among so many com- 
panions in affliction, you would not be so sensible of 
the smart; and, besides, the sage Merlin, perhaps, might 
take every one of these lashes, being so well laid on, 
for ten of those which you must certainly one day 
inflict on yourself.” 

The general of the galleys was going to ask what he 
meant by these lashes and Dulcinea's enchantment, 
when a mariner called out, “They make signs to us 
from Monjoui that there is a vessel standing under the 
shore to the westward.” 

With that the general, leaping upon the coursey, 
cried, “Pull away, my hearts! let her not escape us; 
this brigantine is an Algerine, I warrant her.” Pre- 
sently the three other galleys came up with the admi- 
ral to receive orde1s, and he commanded two of them to 
stand out to sea, while he, with the other, would keep 
along the shore, that so they might be sure of their 
prize. 

The rowers tugged so hard that the galleys scudded 
away like lightning, and those that stood to sea dis- 
covered, about two miles off, a vessel with fourteen or 
fifteen oars, which, upon sight of the valleys, made the 
best of her way off, hoping by her lightness to make 





447 


her escape; but all in vain, for the admiral’s galley, 
being one of the swiftest vessels in those seas, gained 
so much upon her that the master of the brigantine, 
seeing his danger, was willing the crew should quit 
their oars, and yield, for fear of exasperating their 
general. But fate ordered it otherwise; for, upon the 
admiral's coming up with the brigantine so neur as to 
hail h rand bid them strike, two Toraquis, that is, two 
drunken Turks, among twelve others that were on 
hoard the vessel, discharged a couple of muskets, 
and killed two soldiers that were upon the prow 
of the galley. The general, seeing this, vowed 
he would not leave a man of them alive; and 
coming up with great fury to grapple with her, she 
slipped away under the oars of the galley. The galley 
ran ahead a good way, and the little vessel, finding 
herself clear for the present, though without hopes to 
get off, crowded all the sail she could, and, with oars 
and sails, began to make the best of its way, while the 
galley tacked about. But all their diligence did not do 
them so much good as their presumption did them 
harm; forthe admiral coming up with her, after a short 
chase, clapped his oars in the vessel, and so took her, 
and every man in her alive. 

By this time the other galleys were come up, and 
all four returned with their prize into the harbor, 
where great numbers of people stood waiting, to know 
what prize they had taken. The general came to an 
anchor near the land; and perceiving the viceroy was 
on shore, he manned his pinnace to fetch him on board, 
and gave orders to lower the mainyard, to hang up the 
master of the brigantine, with the rest of the crew, 
which consisted of about six-and-thirty persons, all 
proper lusty fellows, and most of them Turkish mus- 
keteers. The general asked who commanded the ves- 
sel; whereupon one of the prisoners, who was after- 
wards known to be a Spaniard, and a renagado, answer- 
ed him in Spanish. “This was our master, my lord,” 
said he, showing him a young man, not twenty years of 
age, and one of handsomest persons that could be 
imagined. 

“You incousiderate dog!” said the general, “what 
made you kill my men, when you saw it was not possible 
for you to escape? Is this the respect due to an admi- 
ral? Do not you know that rashness is no courage ? 
While there is any hope, we are allowed to be buld, but 
not to be desperate.” 

The master was offering to reply, but the general 
could not stay to hear his answer, being obliged to go 
and entertain the viceroy, who was just come on board 
with his retinue, and others of the town. 

“You have had a lucky chase, my lord,” said the 
viceroy; “what have you got?” 

“Your excellency shall see presently,” answered the 
general; “I will show them you immediately hanging 
at the maiv-yard arm.” 

“How so?” replied the viceroy. 

“Because,” said he, “they have killed, contrary to 
all law of arms, reason, and custom of the sea, two of 
the best soldiers I had on board; for which I am sworn 
to hang them every mother’s son, especially this rorag 


448 DON QUIXOTE 
rogue, the master.” Saying this, he showed him a 
person with his hands already bound, and the halter 
about his neck, expecting nothing but death. 

His youth, beauty, and resignation began to plead 
much in his behalf with the viceroy, aud made him in- 
clinable to save him. “Tell me, captain,” said he, “art 
thou born a Turk or a Moor, or artthou a renegado?” 

“None of all these,” answered the youth, in good 
Spanish. 

“What then?” said the viceroy. 

“A Christian woman,” replied the youth; “a woman, 
and a Christian, though in these clothes, and in such a 
post; but it isa thing rather to be wondered at than 
believed. Ihumbly beseech you, my lords,” continued 
the youth, “to defer my execution till 1 give you the 
history of my life; and I can assure you, the delay of 
your revenge will be but short.” 

This request was urged so piteously, that nobody 
could deny it; whereupon the general bade him pro- 
ceed, assuring him, nevertheless, that there were no 
hopes of pardon foran offence so great as that of which 
he was guilty. Then the youth began :— 

“T am one of that unhappy and imprudent nation 
whose miseries are fresh in your memories. My parents 
being of the Morisco race, the current of their misfor- 
tunes with the obstinacy of two uncles, hurried me out. 
of Spain into Barbary. In vain I professed myself a 
Christian, being really one, and not such a secret Ma- 
hometan as too many of us were; this could neither 
prevail with my uucles to leave me in my native conn- 
try, nor with the severity of those officers that had 
orders to make us evacuate Spain, to believe that it was 
not a pretence. My mother was a Christian; my father, 
a man of discretion, professed the same belief; and I 
sucked the Catholic faith with my milk. I was hand- 
som'y educated, and never betrayed the least mark of 
the Morisco breed either in language or behavior. With 
these endowments, as I grew up, that little beauty I 
had, if ever I had any, began to increase; and for all 
my retired life and the restraint upon my appearing 
abroad, a young gentleman, called Don Gasper Gregorio, 
got a sight of me; he was son and heir to a knight that 
lived in the next town. It were tedious to relate how 
he got an opportunity to converse with me, fell desper- 
ately in love, and affected me with a sense of his 
passion. I must be short, lest this halter cut me off in 
the middle of my story. I shall only tell you that he 
would needs bear me company in my banishment; and 
accordingly, by the help of the Morisco language, of 
which he was a perfect master, he mingled with the 
exiles, and getting acquainted with my two uncles that 
conducted me, we all went together to Barbary, and 
took up our residence at Algiers. 

“My father, in the meantime, had very prudently, 
upon the first news of the proclamation to banish us, 
withdrawn to seck a place of refuge for us in some 
foreign country, leaving a considerable stock of money 
and jewels hidden in a private place, which he discov- 
ered to nobody but me, with orders not to move it till 
his return. 





“The King of Algiers, understanding 1 had some 


DE LA MANCHA, 


beauty, and also that I was rich, which afterwards 
turned to my advantage, sent for me, and was very in- 
quisitive about my country, and what jewels and gold 
Lhad got. I satistied him as to the place of my nativity, 
and gave him to understand that my riches were buried 
in a certain place, where I might easily recover them, 
were I permitted to return to where they lay. 

“This I told him, that in hopes of sharing my for- 
tune, his covetousness should divert him from injuring 
my person. Inthe midst of these questions, the king 
was informed that a certain youth, the handsomest and 
loveliest in the world, had come over in company with 
us. Iwas presently conscious that Don Gregorio was 
the person, his beauty answering so exuctly their de- 
seription. The sense of the young gentleman's danger 
Was pow more grievous to me than my own misfortunes, 
having been told that those barbarous Turks are much 
fonder of a handsome youth than the most beautiful 
woman. The king gave immediate orders he should be 
brought into his presence, asking me whether the 
youth deserved the commendations they gave him. I 
told him, inspired by some good angel, that the person 
they so much commended was no man, but of my own 
sex and withal begged bis permission to have her 
dressed in female habit, that her beauty might shine in 
its natural lustre, and so prevent her blushes, if she 
should appear before his majesty in that unbecoming 
habit. He consented, promising withal to give orders 
next morning for my return to Spain, to recover my 
treasure. lIspoke to Don Gasper, represented to him 
the danger of appearing a man, and prevailed with 
him to wait on the king that evening in the habit 
of a Moorish woman. The king was so much pleased 
with his beauty, that he resolved to reserve him as a 
present for the Grand Seigneur; and, fearing the malice 
of his wives in the seraglio, he gave her in charge to 
some of the principal ladies of the city, to whose house 
she was immediately conducted. ' 

“This separation was grievous to us both, for I can- 
not deny that I love him. Those who have ever felt 
the pangs of a parting love can best imagine the afflic- 
tion of our souls. Next morning, by the king’s order, I 
embarked for Spain in this vessel, accompanied by 
these two Turks that killed your men, and this Spanish 
renegado that first spoke to you, who is a Christian in 
his heart, and came along with me with a greater desire 
to return to Spain than go back to Barbary. The rest. 
are all Moors and Turks, who serve for rowers. Their 
orders were to set me on shore, with this renegado, in 
the habits of Christians, on the first Spanish ground 
we should discover; but these two covetous and inso- 
lent Turks would needs, contrary to their order, first 
cruise upon the coast, in hopes of taking some prize, 
being afraid that, if they should first set us ashore, 
some accident might bappen to us, and make us dis- 
cover that the brigantine was not far off at sea, and! so 
expose them to the danger of being taken, if there were 
galleys upon the coast. In the night we made this 
land, not mistrusting any galleys lying so near, and so 
we fell into your hands. 

“To conclude, Don Gregorio remains in woman’s habit 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


among the Moors, nor can the deceit long protect him 
from destruction; and here I stand, expecting, or rather 
fearing, my fate, which yet cannot prove unwelcome, I 
being now weary of living. Thus, gentlemen, you have 
heard the unhappy passages of my life; I have told 
you nothing but what is true; and all I have to beg is, 
that I may die as a Christian, since I am innocent of the 
crimes of which my unhappy nation is accused.” Here 
she stopped, and with her story and her tears, melted 
the hearts of many of the company. 

The viceroy, being moved with a tender compassion, 
was the first to unbind the cords that manacled her fair 
hands; when an ancient pilgrim, who came on board 
with the viceroy’s attendants, having, with a fixed 
attention, minded the damsel during her relation, came 
suddenly, and, throwing himself at her feet,— 

“Oh! Anna Felix,” cried he, “my dear unfortunate 
daughter! Behold thy father Ricote, that returned to 
seek thee, being unable to live without thee, who art 
the joy and support of my age.” 

Upon this, Sancho, who had all this while been sul- 
lenly musing, vexed with the usage he had met with so 
lately, lifting up his head, and staring the pilgrim in 
the face, knew him to be the same Ricote he had met on 
the road the day he left his government, and was like- 
wise fully persuaded that this was his daughter, who, 
being now unbound, embraced her father, and joined 
with him in his joy and grief. “My lords,” said the old 
pilgrim, “this is my daughter, Anna Felix, more un- 
happy in fortune than in name, and famed as much for 
her beauty as for her father’s riches. I left my country 
to seek a sanctuary for my age, and, having fixed upon 
a residence in Germany, returned in this habit, with 
other pilgrims, to dig up and regain my wealth, which 
I have effectually done; but I little thought thus un- 
expectedly to have found my greatest treasure, my 
dearest daughter. My lords, if it can consist with the 
integrity of your justice to pardon our small offence, I 
join my prayers and tears with hers to implore your 
mercy on our behalf, since we never designed you any 
injury, and are innocent of those crimes for which our 
nation has justly been banished.” 

“Ay, ay,” cried Sancho, putting in, “I knew Ricote 








449 


as well as the beggar knows his dish; and so far as 
concerns Anna Felix being his daughter, I know that 
is true, too; but for all the story of his goings out and 
comings in, and his intentions, whether they were good 
or whether they were bad,I will neither meddle nor 
make, not I.” 

So uncommon an accident filled all the company with 
admiration; so that the general, turning to the fair 
captive, “Your tears,” said he, “are so prevailing, 
madam, that they compel me now to be foresworn. 
Live, lovely Anna Felix; live as many years as Heaven 
has decreed you; and let those rash and insolent slaves. 
who alone committed the crimes, bear the punishment 
of it.” With that he gave orders to have the two de- 
linquent Turks hanged up at the yard-arm; but at the 
intercession of the Viceroy, their fault showing rather 
madness than design, the fatal sentence was revoked; 
the general considering, at the same time, that their 
punishment in cold blood would look more like cruelty 
than justice. 

Then they began to consider how they might retrieve 
Don Gasper Gregorio from the danger he was in; to 
which purpose Ricote offered to the value of above a 
thousand ducats, which he had about him in jewels, to 
purchase his ransom. But the readiest expedient was 
thought to be the proposal of the Spanish renegado, 
who offered, with a small barque and half a dozen oars, 
manned by Christians, to return to Algiers and set him 
at liberty, as best knowing when and where to land, 
and being acquainted with the place of his confinement. 
The general and the viceroy demurred to this motion, 
through a distrust of the renegado’s fidelity, since he 
might perhaps betray the Christians that were to go 
along with him. But Anna Felix engaging for his 
truth, and Ricote obliging himself to ransom the Chris- 
tians, if they were taken, the design was resolved 
upon. 

The viceroy went ashore, committing the Morisca and 
her father to Don Antonio Moreno’s care, desiring him 
at the same time to command his house for anything 
that might conduce to their entertainment; such senti- 
ments of kindness and good nature had the beauty of 
Anna Felix infused into his breast. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 


OF AN UNLUCKY ADVENTURE, WHICH DON QUIXOTE LAID MOST TO HEART OF ANY THAT HAD YET 


BEFALLEN HIM. 


Don ANTONIO" lady was extremely pleased with the 
company of the fair Morisca, whose sense being as ex- 
quisite as her beauty, drew all the most considerable 
persons in the city to visit her. Don Quixote told Don 
Antonio that he could by no means approve the method 
they had taken to release Don Gregorio, it being full of 
danger, with little or no probability of success; but 
that their surest way would have been to set him ashore 
in Barbary, with his horse and arms, and leave it to him 
to deliver the gentleman, in spite of all the Moorish 
power, as Don Gayferos had formerly rescued his wife 
Melisandra. 

“Good, your worship,” quoth Sancho, hearing this; 
“look before you leap. Don Gayferos had nothing but 
a fair face for it on dry land, when he carried her to 
France. But here, if it please you, though we should 
deliver Don Gregorio, how shall we bring him over to 
Spain across the broad sea ?” 

“There is a remedy for all things but death,” an- 
swered Don Quixote: “it is but having a barque ready 
by the sea-side, and then let me see what can hinder 
our getting into it.” 

“Ah! master, master,” quoth Sancho, “there is more 
to be done than a dish to wash. Saying is one thing, 
and doing is another; and, for my part, I like the ren- 
egado very well; he seems to me a good, honest fellow, 
and cut out for the business.” 

“Well,” said Don Antonio, “if the renegado fails, 
then the great Don Quixote shall embark for Barbary.” 

In two days the renegado was dispatched away in a 
fleet cruiser of six oars on each side, manned with brisk, 
lusty fellows; and two days after that the galleys, with 
the general, left the port, and steered their course east- 
ward; the general first having engaged the viceroy to 
give him an account of Don Gregorio’s and Anna Felix’s 
fortune. 

Now it happened one morning that Don Quixote, 
going abroad to take the air upon the sea-shore, armed 
at all points, according to custom—his arms, as he said, 
being his best attire, as combat was his refreshment— 
he spied a knight riding towards him, armed, like him- 
self, from head to foot, with a bright moon blazoned on 
his shield, who, coming within hearing, called out to 
him— 

“WWlustrious and never sufficiently extolled Don 
Quixote de la Mancha, I am the Knight of the White 





Moon, whose incredible achievements, perhaps, have 
reached thy ears. Lo! I am come to enter into combat 
with thee and to compel thee, by dint of sword, to own 
and acknowledge my mistress, by whatever name and 
dignity she be distinguished, to be, without any degree 
of comparison, more beautiful than thy Dulcinea del 
Toboso. Now, if thou wilt fairly confess this truth, 
thou freest thyself from certain death, and me from the 
trouble of taking or giving thee thy life. If not, the 
conditions of our combat are these: if victory be on my 
side, thou shalt be obliged immediately to forsake thy 
arms and the quest of adventures, and to return to thy 
own house, where thou shalt engage to live, quietly 
and peaceably, for the space of one whole year, without 
laying hand on thy sword, to the improvement of thy 
estate and the salvation of thy soul. But if thou 
comest off conqueror, my life is at thy mercy, my horse 
and arms shall be thy trophy, and the fame of all my 
former exploits, hy the lineal descent of conquest, be 
vested in thee as victor. Consider what thou hast to 
do, and let thy answer be quick, for my despatch is 
limited to this very day.” 

Don Quixote was amazed and surprised, as much at 
the arrogance of the Knight of the White Moon’s chal- 
lenge, as at the subject of it; so, with a solemn and 
austere address,—‘ Knight of the White Moon,” said 
he, “whose achievements have as yet been kept from 
my knowledge, it is more than probable that you have 
never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for, had you ever 
viewed her perfections, you had there found arguments 
enough to convince you that no beauty, past, present, 
or to come, can parallel hers; and therefore, without 
giving you directly the lie, I only tell thee, knight, 
thou art mistaken; and this position I will maintain, by 
accepting your challenge on your conditions, except 
that article of your exploits descending to me; for, not 
knowing what character your actions bear, I will rest 
satisfied with the fame of my own, by which, such as 
they are, Iam willing to abide. And, since your time 
is so limited, choose your ground, and begin your 
career as soon as you will, and expect to be met with. 
‘A fair field, and no favor:’ to whom God shall give 
her, St. Peter give his blessing.” 

While these two knights were thus adjusting the pre- 
liminaries of combat, the viceroy, who had been inform- 
ed of the Knight of the White Moon’s appearance near 

450 























“* They found him pale, and in a cold sweat,”—p. 452, 


452 


the city walls, and his parleying with Don Quixote, 
hastened to the scene of battle, not suspecting it to be 
anything but some new device of Don Antonio Moreno, 
orsomsbody else. Several gentlemen, and Don Antonio 
among the rest, accompanied him thither. They arrived 
justas Don Quixote was wheeling Rozinante to fetch 
his career; and, seeing them both read y for the onset, 
he interposed, desiring to know the cause of the sudden 
combat. The Knight of the White Moon told him 
there was a lady in the case, und briefly repeated to his 
excellency what passed between him and Don Quixote. 
The viceroy whispered to Don Antonio, and asked him 
whether he knew that Knight of the White Moon, and 
whether their combat was not some jocular device to 
impose upon Don Quixote. Don Antonio answered 
positively that he neither knew the knight nor whether 
the combat were in jest or earnest. This put the vice- 
roy to some doubt whether he should not prevent their 
engagement; but, being at last persuaded that it must 
be a jest at the bottom, he withdrew. 

“Valorous knights,” said he, “if there be no medium 
between confession and death, but Don Quixote be still 
resolved to deny, and you, the Knight of the White 
Moon, as obstinately to urge, I have no more to say; 
the field is free, and the Lord have mercy on you!” 

The knights made their compliments to the viceroy 
for his gracious consent; and Don Quixote, making 
some short ejaculations to Heaven and his mistress, as 
he always used upon these occasions, began his career, 
without either sound of trumpet or any other signal. 
His adversary was no less forward; for, setting spurs 
to his horse, which was much the swifter, he met Don 
Quixote before he had run half his career, so forcibly, 
that, without making use of his lance, which it is 
thought he lifted up on purpose, he overthrew the 
Knight of La Mancha and Rozinante, both coming to 
the ground with a terrible fall. 

The Knight of the White Moon got immediately upon 
him, and, clapping the point of his lance to his face, 
“Knight,” cried he, “you are vanquished, and a dead 
man, unless you immediately fulfil the conditions of 
your combat.” 

Don Quixote, bruised and stunned with his fall, with- 





1%] 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. De 


out lifting up his beaver, answered in a faint hollow 
voice, as if he had spoken out of a tomb, “Dulcinea del 
Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I 
the most unfortunate knight upon the earth. It were 
unjust that such perfection should sutter through my 
weakness. No, pierce my body with thy lance, knight, 
and let my life expire with my honor.” 

“Not so rigorous neither,” replied the conqueror, 
“let the fame of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso remain 
entire and unblemished; provided the great Don Quix- 
ote return home for a year, as we agreed before the 
combat, I am satisfied.” 

The viceroy and Don Antonio, with many other gen- 
tlemen, were witnesses to all these passages, and par- 
ticularly to this proposal; to which Don Quixote an- 
swered, that, upon condition he should be enjoined 
nothing to the prejudice of Dulcinea, he would, upon 
the faith of a true knight, be punctual in the perform- 
ance of everything else. This acknowledgment being 
made, the Knight of the White Moon turned about his 
horse, and, saluting the viceroy, rode at a band-gallop 
into the city, whither Don Antonio followed him, at the 
viceroy’s request, to find who he was, if possible. 

Don Quixote was lifted up, and upon taking off his 
helmit, they found him pale, andin a cold sweat. As 
for Rozinante, he was in so sad a plight, that he could 
not stir for the present. Then, as for Sancho, he was 
in so heavy a taking, that he knew not what to do nor 
what to say: he was sometimes persuaded he was in a. 
dream—sometimes he fancied this rueful adventure was 
all witchcraft and enchantment. In short, he found 
his master discomfited in the face of the world, and 
bound to good behavior, and to lay aside his arms for a 
whole year. Now he thought his glory eclipsed; his 
hopes of greatness vanished into smoke; and his mas- 
ter’s promises, like his bones, put out of joint by that. 
cursed fall, which he was afraid had at once crippled 
Rozinante and his master. At last the vanquished 
knight was put into a chair, which the viceroy had sent. 
for that purpose, and they carried him into town, 
accompanied likewise by the viceroy, who had a great 
curiosity to know who this Knightof the White Moon 
was, that had left Don Quixote in so sad a condition. 


CHAPTER LXV. 


AN ACCOCNT OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON, DON GREGORIO’S ENLARGEMENT, AND OTHER PASSAGES. 


Don ANTONIO MORENO followed the Knight of the 
White Moon to his inn, whither he was attended by a 
troublesome rabble of boys. The knight being got to 
his chamber, where his squire waited to take off his 
armor, Don Antonio came in, declaring he would not 
be shook off till he had discovered who he was. The 
knight finding that the gentleman would not leave him, 
“Sir,” said he, “Since I lie under no obligation of con- 
cealing myself, if you please, while my man disarms 
me, you shall hear the whole truth of the story.” 

“You must know, sir, I am called the bachelor Car- 
rasco. I live in the same town with this Don Quixote, 
whose unaccountable frenzy has moved all his neigh- 
bors, and me among the rest, to endeavor by some 
means, to cure his madness; in order to which, believ- 
ing that rest and ease would prove the surest remedy, 
1 bethought myself of this present stratagem, and, about 
three months ago, in all the equipage of a knight-errant, 
under the title of the Knight of the Mirrors, I met him 
on the road, fixed a quarrel upon him, and the condi- 
tions of our combat were as you have heard already. 
But fortune then declared for him, for he unhorsed and 
vanquished me, and soI was disappointed; he prose- 
cuted his adventures, and I returned home shamefully, 
very much hurt with my fall. But, willing to retrieve 
my credit, I made this second attempt, and now have 
succeeded; for I know him to be so nicely punctual in 
whatever his word and honor is engaged for, that he 
will undoubtedly perform his promise. This, sir, is the 
sum of the whole story; and I beg the favor of you to 
conceal me from Don Quixote, that my project may not 
be ruined the second time, and that the honest gentle- 
man, who is naturally a man of good parts, may recover 
his understanding.” 

“Oh! sir,” replied Don Antonio, “what have you to 
answer for, in robbing the world of the most diverting 
folly that ever was exposed among mankind? Con- 
sider, sir, that his cure can never benefit the public 
half so much as his distemper. But I am apt to be- 
lieve, Sir Bachelor, that bis madness is too firmly fixed 
for your art to remove; and, Heaven forgive me! I can- 
not forbear wishing it may be so, for by Don Quixote’s 
eure we not only lose his good company, but the drol- 
leries and comical humors of Sancho Panza too, which 
are enough to cure melancholy itself of the spleen. 
However, I promise to say nothing of the matter, 





though I confidently believe, sir, you pains will be to 
no purpose.” 

Carrasco told him, that having succeeded so far, he 
was obliged to cherish better hopes; and, asking Don 
Antonio if he had any further service to command him, 
he took his leave, and, packing up his armor on a car- 
riage-mule, presently mounted his charging horse, and, 
leaving the city that very day, posted homewards, 
meeting no adventure on the road worthy a place in 
this faithful history. 

Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, very de- 
jected, sullen, and out of humor, and full of severe and 
black reflections on his fatal overthrow. Sancho was 
his comforter, and, among other his crumbs of com- 
fort,— 

“My dear master,” quoth he, “cheer up; come, pluck 
up a good heart, and be thankful for coming off no 
worse. Why, aman has broken his neck with a less 
fall, and you have not so much as a broken rib. Con- 
sider, sir, that they that game sometimes must lose: we 
must not always look for bacon where we see the hooks. 
Come, sir, cry a fig for the doctor, since you will not 
need him this bout; let us jog home fair and softly, 
without thinking any more of sauntering up and down, 
nobody knows whither, in quest of adventures and 
broken noses. Why, sir, I am the greatest loser, if you 
go to that, though it is you who are in the worst pickle. 
It was true I was weary of being a governor, and gave 
over all thoughts that way, but yet I never parted with 
my inclination of being an earl; and now, if you miss 
being a king, by casting off your knight-errantry, poor 
I may go whistle for my earldom.” 

“No more of that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “I 
shall only retire for a year, and then re-assume my 
honorable profession, which will undoubtedly secure 
me a kingdom, and thee an earldom.” 

“Heaven grant it may!” quoth Sancho, “and no mis- 
chief betide us: ‘hope well and have well,’ says the 
proverb.” 

Don Autonio coming in, broke off the discourse, and 
with great signs of joy, calling to Don Quixote, “Re- 
ward me, sir,” cried he, “for my good news. Don Gre- 
gorio and the renegado are safe arrived; they are now 
at the viceroy’s palace, and will be here this moment.” 

The knight was alittle revived at this news. “Truly, 
sir,” said he to Don Antonio, “I could almost be sorry 

453 


454 DON QUIXOTE 
for his good fortune, since he has forestalled the glory 
I should have acquired in releasing, by the strength of 
my arm, not only him, but all Christian slaves in Bar- 
bary. But whither am I transported, wretch that I 
am! Am I not miserably conquered, shamefully over- 
thrown, forbidden the paths of glory for a whole long, 
tedious year? What should I boast, who am fitter for 
a distaff than a sword ?” 

“No more of that,” quoth Sancho. ““To-day for thee, 
and to-morrow for me.’ Never lay this ill fortune to 
heart; ‘he that is down to-day may be up to-morrow,’ 
unless he has a mind to lie abed. Hang bruises; so 
rouse, sir, and bid Don Gregorio welcome to Spain, for, 
by the hurry in the house, I believe he is come.” 

And so ithappened; for Don Gregorio, having paid 
his duty to the viceroy, and given him an account of 
his delivery, was just arrived at Don Antonio’s with 
the renegado, very impatient to see Anna Felix. He 
had changed the female habit he wore when he was 
freed, for one suitable to his sex, which he had from a 
captive who came along with him in the vessel, and 
appeared a very amiable and handsome gentlemen, 
though not above eighteen years of age. Ricote and 
his daughter went out to meet him, the father with 
tears, and the daughter with a joyful modesty. Their 
salutation was reserved, without an embrace, their love 
being too refined for any loose behavior; but their 
beauties surprised everbody. Silence was emphatical 
in their joys, and their eyes spoke more love than their 
tongues could express. The renegado gave a short 
account of the success of his voyage, and Don Gregorio 
briefly related the shifts he was put to in his confine- 
ment, which showed his wit and discretion to be much 
above his years. Ricote gratified the ship’s crew very 
nobly, and particularly the renegado, who was once 
more received into the bosom of the Church, having, 
with due penance and sincere repentance, purified him- 
self from all his former uncleanness. 

Some few days after, the viceroy, in concert with Don 
Antonio, took such measures as were expedient to get 
the banishment of Ricote and his daughter repealed, 
judging it no inconvenience to the nation that so just 
and orthodox persons should remain among them. Don 
Antonio, being obliged to go to court about some other 
matters, offered to solicit in their behalf, hinting to him 
that, through the intercession of friends and more pow- 
erful bribes, many difficult matters were brought about 
there to the satisfaction of the parties. 





DE LA MANCHA. 


“There is no relying upon favors aud bribes in our 
business,” said Ricote, who was by; “for the great Don 
Bernardo de Velasco, Count de Salazar, to whom the 
king gave the charge of our expulsion, is a person of 
too strict and rigid justice to be moved either by money, 
favor, or affection; and though I cannot deny him the 
character of a merciful judge in other matters, yet his 
piercing and diligent policy finds the body of our, Mo- 
riscan race to be so corrupted, that amputation is the 
only cure. He is an Argus in his ministry, and by his 
watchful eyes has discovered the most secret springs 
of their machinations, and resolving to prevent the 
danger which the whole kingdom was in from such a 
powerful multitude of inbred foes, he took the most 
effectual means; for, after all, lopping off the branches 
may only prune the tree, and make the poisonous fruit 
spring faster, but to overthrow it from the root proves 
asure deliverance. Nor can the great Philip the Third 
be too much extolled; first, for his heroic resolution in 
so nice and weighty an affair, and then for his wisdom 
in entrusting Don Bernardo de Velasco with the execu- 
tion of this design.” 

“Well, when I come to court,” said Don Antonio to 
Ricote, “I will, however, use the most advisable means, 
and leave the rest to Providence. Don Gregorio shall 
go with me to comfort his parents, who have long 
mourned for his absence. Anna Felix shall stay here 
with my wife, or in some monastery; and as for honest 
Ricote, I dare engage the viceroy will be satisfied to 
let him remain under his protection till he see how I 
succeed.” 

The viceroy consented to all this, but Don Gregorio, 
fearing the worst, was unwilling to leave his fair mis- 


tress; however, considering that he might return to her 
after he had seen his parents, he yielded to the pro- 


posal, and so Anna Felix remained with Don Antonio’s 
lady, and Ricote with the viceroy. 

Two days after, Don Quixote, being somewhat recov- 
ered, took his leave of Don Antonio, and having caused 
his armor to be laid on Dapple, he set forwards on His 
journey home, Sancho thus being forced to trudge after 
him on foot. On the other side, Don Gregorio bid 
adieu to Anna Felix; and their separation, though but 
for a little while, was attended with floods of tears and 
all the excess of passionate sorrow. Ricote offered him 
a thousand crowns, but he refused them, and only bor- 
rowed five of Don Antonio, to repay him at court. 








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CHAPTER LXVI. 


WHICH TREATS OF THAT WHICH SHALL BE SEEN BY HIM THAT READS IT, AND HEARD BY HIM THAT 


LISTENS WHEN IT IS READ. 


Don QUIXOTE, as he went out of Barcelona, cast his 
eyes on the spot of ground where he was overthrown. 
“Here once Troy stood,” said he; “here my unhappy 
fate, and not my cowardice, deprived me of all the 
glories I had purchased. Here Fortune, by an unex- 
pected reverse, made me sensible of her inconstancy 
and fickleness. Here my exploits suffered a total 
eclipse; and, in short, here fell my happiness, never to 
rise again.” 

Sancho, hearing his master thus dolefully paraphras- 
ing on his misfortunes, “Good sir,” quoth he, “it is as 
much the part of great spirits to have patience when 
the world frowns upon them, as to be joyful when all 
goes well. And I judge of it by myself: for if when I 
was a governor I was merry, now I am but a poor squire 
a-foot I am not sad; and, indeed, I have heard say that 
this same she thing they call Fortuue is a whimsical, 
freakish, drunken person, and blind into the bargain; 
so that she neither sees what she does nor knows whom 
she raises nor whom she casts down.” 

.“Thou art very much a philosopher, Sancho,” said 
Don Quixote ; “thou talkest very sensibly. I won- 
der how thou camest by all this; but I must tell thee 
there is no such thing as fortune in the world, nor does 
anything that happens here below of good or ill come 
by chance, but by the particular providence of Heaven; 
and this makes good the proverb, that every man may 
thank himself for his own fortune. For my part, I have 
been the maker of mine; but for want of using the dis- 
cretion I ought to have used, all my presumptuous edi- 
fice sunk, and tumbled down at once. I might well 
have considered that Rosinante was too weak and 
feeble to withstand the Knight of the White Moon’s 
huge and strong-built horse. However, I would needs 
adventure; I did the best I could, and was overcome. 
Yet, though it has cost me my honor, I have not lost, 
nor van I lose, my integrity to perform my promise. 
When I was a knight-errant, valiant and bold, the 
strength of my hands and my actions gave a reputation 
to my deeds; and now I am no more than a dismounted 
squire, the performance of my promise shall give a 
reputation to my words. Trudge on, then, friend San- 
cho, and let us get home, to pass the year of our proba- 
tion. In that retirement we shall recover new vigor to 





return to that which is never to be forgotten by me— 
I mean, the profession of arms.” 

They passed that day and four more after that in 
such kind of discourse, without meeting anything that 
might interrupt their journey; but on the fifth day, as 
they entered into a country town, they saw a great 
company of people at an inn door, being got together 
for pastime, as being a holiday. As soon as Don Quix- 
ote drew near, he heard one of the countrymen cry to 
the rest, “Look ye, now, we will leave it to one of these 
two gentlemen that are coming this way; they know 
neither of the parties; let either of them decide the 
matter.” 

“That I will with «ll my heart,” said Don Quixote; 
“and with all the equity imaginable, if. you will but 
state the case right to me.” 

“Why, sir,” said the countryman, “the business is 
this: one of our neighbors here in this town, so fat and 
so heavy that he weighs eleven arrobas, or eleven 
quarters of a hundred (for that is the same thing), has 
challenged another man of this town, that weighs not 
half so much, to run with him a hundred paces with 
equal weight. Now he that gave the challenge being 
asked how they should make equal weight, demands 
that the other, who weighs but five quarters of a hun- 
dred, should carry a hundred and a half of iron, and so 
the weight, he says, will be equal.” 

“Hold, sir,” cried Sancho, before Don Quixote could 
answer, “this business belongs to me, that came so 
lately from being a governor and judge, as all the 
world knows; I ought to give judgment in this doubt- 
ful case.” 

“Do, then, with all my heart, friend Sancho,” said 
Don Quixote, “for I am not fit to give crumbs to a cat, 
my brain is so disturbed and out of order.” 

Sancho having thus got leave, and all the country- 
men standing about him, “Brothers,” quoth he, “I must 
tell you that the fat man is in the wrong box—there is 
no matter of reason in what he asks; for if, as I always 
heard say, ‘he that is challenged may choose his weap- 
ons,’ there is no reason that he should choose such as 
may encumber him, and hinder him from getting the 
better of him that defied him. Therefore it is my judg- 
ment, that he who gave the challenge, and is so big 

456 



























































“They passed that day, and four more after that, in such kind of di-course,”—p. 456. 


458 DON QUIXOTE 


and so fat, shall cut, pare, slice, or shave off a hundred 
and fifty pounds of his flesh, here and there, as he 
thinks fit, and then, being reduced to the weight of the 
other, both parties may run their race upon equ 
terms.” 

“Before George,” quoth one of the country people 
that had heard the sentence, “this gentleman has spok- 
en like one of the saints in heaven; he has given judg- 
ment like a casuist; but I warrant the fat squab loves 
his flesh too well to part with the least sliver of it, 
much less will he part with a hundred and a half.” 

“Why, then,” quoth another fellow, “the best way 
will be not to let them run at all, for then Lean need 
not venture to sprain his back by running with such a 
load, and Fat need not cut out his pampered sides into 
collops. So let half the wager be spent in wine, and 
let us go to the tavern that has the best, and lay the 
cloak upon me when it rains.” 

“T return you thanks, gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, 
“but I cannot stay a moment, for dismal thoughts and 
disasters force me to appear unmannerly, and to travel 
at an uncommon rate;” and, so saying, he clapped 
spurs to Rozinante, and moved forwards, leaving the 
people to descant on his strange figure, and the rare 
parts of his groom. 

That night the master and the man took up their 
lodgings in the middle of a field, under the roof of the 
open sky; and the next day, as they were on their 
journey, they saw coming towards them a man a-foot, 
with a wallet about bis neck, aud a javelin or dart in 
his hand, just like a foot-post. The man mended his 
pace when he came near Don Quixote, and, almost run- 
ning, came with a great deal of joy in his looks, and 
embraced Don Quixote’s right thigh, for he could reach 
no higher. “My Lord Don Qixote de la Mancha,” 
cried he, “oh ! how heartily glad my lord duke will be 
when he understands you are coming again to his 
castle, for there he is still with my lady duchess.” 

“TI do not know you, friend,” answered Don Quixote; 
“nor can I imagine who you should be, unless you tell 
me yourself.” 





DE LA MANCHA. 
| 

“My name is Tosilos, if it please your honor; I am 
my lord duke’s footmau, the same who would not fight 
with you about Donna Rodriguez's daughter.” 

“Bless me!” cried Don Quixote; “is it possible you 
should be the man whom those enemies of mine, the 
magicians, transformed into a lackey, to deprive me of 
that combat?” 

“Softly, good sir,” replied the footman; “ there was 
neither enchantment nor transformation in the case. I 
was as much a footman when I entered the lists as 
when I came out; and it was because I had a mind to 
marry the young gentlewoman that I refused to fight. 
But I was sadly disappointed; for, when you were gone, 
my lord duke had me soundly banged for not doing as 
he ordered me in the matter; and the upshot was this: 
Donna Rodriguez is packed away to seek her fortune, 
and the daughter is shut up ina nunnery. As for me, 
Iam going to Barcelona with a parcel of letters from 
my lord to the viceroy. However, sir, if you please to 
take a sip, I have here a calabash full of the best. It 
is a little hot, I must own, but it is neat, and I have 
some excellent cheese that will make it go down.” 

“T take you at your word,” quoth Sancho; “I am no 
proud man; ‘leave ceremonies to the church;” and so 
let us drink, honest Tosilos, in spite of all the enchant- 
ers of the Indies.” 

“Well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou art cer- 
tainly the veriest glutton that ever was, and the silliest 
blockhead in the world, else thou wouldst consider that 
this man thou seest here is enchanted, and a sham 
lackey. Then stay with him, if thou thinkest fit, and 
gratify thy voracious appetite; for my part, I will ride 
softly on before.” 

Tosilos smiled, and, laying his bottle and his cheese 
upon the grass, he and Sancho sat down there, and, 
like sociable messmates, never stirred until they had 
quite cleared the wallet of all that was in it fit for the 
belly, and this with such an appetite, that, when all 
was consuned, they licked the very packet of letters, 
because it smelled of cheese. 











CHAPTER LXVII. 


HOW DON QUIXOTE RESOLVED TO TURN SHEPHERD, AND LEAD A RURAL LIFE FOR THE YEAR’S TIME HE 


WAS OBLIGED NOT TO BEAR ARMS; WITH OTHER PASSAGES TRULY GOOD AND DIVERTING. 


Ir Don QUIXOTE was much disturbed in mind before 
his overthrow, he was much more disquieted after it. 
While he stayed for his squire under a tree, a thousand 
thoughts crowded into his head, like flies in a honey- 
pot; sometimes he pondered on the means to free Dul- 
cinea from enchantment, and at others on the life he 
was to lead during his involuntary retirement. In this 
brown study Sancho came up to him, crying up Tosilos 





as the honestest fellow, and the most gentleman-like 
footman in the world. 

“Is it possible, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou 
shouldst still take that man for a real lacquey? Hast 
thou forgotten how thou sawest Dulcinea converted and 
transformed into the resemblance of arustic wench, and 
the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor Carrasco, 
and all this by the necromantic arts of those evil- 


5 
Cc DON QUIXOTE DE 


minded magicians that persecute me? But, laying this 
aside, pr’ythee, tell me, didst thou not ask Tosilos what 
became of Altisidora ?—whether she bemoaned my ab- 
sence, or dismissed from her breast those amorous sen- 
timents that disturbed her when I was near her?” 

“Faith and troth,” quoth Sancho, “my head ran on 
something else, and I was too well employed to think 
on such foolish stuff. Bless me, sir! are you now ina 
mood to ask about other folks’ thoughts, especially 
their love-thonghts too?” 

“Look you,” said Don Quixote, “there is a great deal 
of difference between those actions that proceed from 
love and those that are the effect of gratitude. It is 
possible a gentleman should not be at all amorous; but, 
strictly speaking, he cannot be ungrateful. It is very 
likely that Altisidora loved me well; she presented me 
with three nigbtcaps ; she wept when I went away, 
cuised me, abused me—all tokens that she was deeply 
in love with me, for the anger of lovers commonly vents 
itself in curses. It was not in my power to give her 
any hopes, nor had I any costly present to bestow on 
her, for all I have is reserved for Dulcinea, and the 
treasures of a knight-errant are but fairy gold, and a 
delusive good; so all I van do is only to remember the 
unfortunate fair, without prejudice, however, to the 
rights of my Dulcinea, whom thou greatly injurest, 
Sancho, by delaying the accomplishment of the penance 
that must free the poor lady from misery. And, since 
thou art so ungenerously sparing of that pampered hide 
of thine, may I see it devoured by wolves, rather than 
see it kept so charily for the worms.” 

“Sir,” quoth Sancho, “to deal plainly with you, it 
cannot, for the blood of me, enter into my head that 
jerking my back will signify a straw to the disenchant- 
ing of the enchanted. Sir, it is as if we should say, ‘If 
your head aches, anoint your shins.’ At least, I dare 
be sworn that, in all the stories of knight-errantry you 
thumbed over, you never knew flogging bewitched any- 
body. However, when I can find myself in the humor, 
do you see, I will about it: when time serves, I will 
chastise myself, never fear.” 

“T wish thou wouldst,” answered Don Quixote; “and 
may Heaven give thee grace at least to understand how 
much it is thy duty to relieve thy mistress! for, as she 
is mine, by consequence she is thine, since thou be- 
longest to me.” 

Thus they went on talking, till they came near the 
place where the bulls had run over them; and Don 
Quixote knowing it again,— 

“Sancho,” said he, “yonder is that meadow where we 
met the fine shepherdesses and the gallant shepherds, 
who had a mind to renew or imitate the pastoral Arca- 
dia. It was certainly a new and ingenious conceit. If 
thou thinkest well of it, we will follow their example, 
and turn shepherds too, at least for the time I am to 
lay aside the profession of arms. I will buy a flock of 
sheep, and everything that is fit for a pastoral life; and 
so, calling myself the shepherd Quixotis, and thee the 
shepherd Pansino, we will range the woods, the hills, 
and meadows, singing and versifying. We will drink 





the liquid erystal, sometimes out of the fountains, and 


LA MANCHA, 459 
sometimes from the purling brooks and swift-gliding 
streams. The onks, the cork-trees, and chestnut-trees 
will afford us both lodging and diet; the willows will 
yield us their shade, the roses present us their inoffen- 
sive sweets, and the spacious meads will be our carpets, 
diversified with colors of all sorts; blest with the pur- 
est air, and unconfined alike, we shall breathe that and 
freedom. The moon and stars, our tapers of the night, 
shall ight our evening walks. Light hearts will make 
us merry, and mirth will make us sing. Love will in- 
spire us with a theme and wit, and Apollo with har- 
monious lays. So shall we become famous, not only 
while we live, but make our loves eternal as our 
songs.” 

“As I live,” quoth Sancho, “this sort of life nicks 
me to a hair; and I fancy that, if the bachelor Samson 
Carrasco and Master Nicholas have but one glimpse of 
it, they will even turn shepherds too; nay, it is well if 
the curate does not put in for one among the rest, for 
he is a notable joker, and merrily inclined.” 

“That was well thought on,” said Don Quixote; “and 
then, if the bachelor will make one among us, as I 
doubt not but he will, he may call himself the shepherd 
Samsonino or Carrascon, and master Nicholis, Niculoso, 
as formerly old Boscan called himself Nemoroso. For 
the curate, I do not well know what name we shall give 
him, unless we should call him the shepherd Curiam- 
bro. As for the shepherdesses, with whom we must 
fall in love, we cannot be at a loss to find them names 
—there are enough for us to pick and choose—and, 
since my mistress’s name is not improper fora shep- 
herdess any more than for a princess, I will not trouble 
myself to get a better; thou mayset call thine as thou 
pleasest.” 

“For my part,” quoth Sancho, “I do not think of any 
other name for mine than Teresona; that will fit her 
fat sides full well, and is taken from her Christian name 
too. So when I come to mention her in my verses, 
everybody will know her to be my wife, and commend 
my honesty. As for the curate, he must be contented 
without a shepherdess, for good example's sake. As 
for the bachelor, let him take his own choice, if he 
means to have one.” 

“Bless me !” said Don Quixote, “what a life shall we 
lead ! What alife of oaten reeds and Zamora bagpipes 
shall we have resounding in the air! what intermixture 
of tabors, morrice-bells and fiddles! And if to all the 
different instruments we add the albogues, we shall 
have all manner of pastoral music.” 

“What are the albogues?” quoth Sancho; “for I do 
not remember I have seen or ever heard of them in my 
life.” 

“They are,” said Don Quixote, “a sort of instruments 
made of brass plates, rounded like candlesticks: the 
one shutting into the other, there arises through the 
holes or stops, and the trunk or hollow, an odd sound, 
which, if not very grateful or harmonious, is, however, 
not altogether disagreeable, but does well cnough with 
the rusticity of the bagpipe and tabor. You must 
know the word is Moorish, as indeed are all those in 
our Spanish that begin with 4/—as Almoasa, Almorsar, 


460 


Alhombra, Alguasil, Alucema, Almacen, Alcanzia, and 
the like, which are not many. And we have also but 
three Moorish words in our tongue that end in 2, and 
they are Borcequi, Zaquicami, and Maravedi; for as to 
Alheli and Alfaqui, they are as well known to be Ara- 
bic by their beginning with Al, as their ending in 7. I 
could not forbear telling thee so much by the bye, thy 
query about albogue having brought it into my head. 
There is one thing more, that will go a great way to- 
wards making us complete in our new kind of life, and 
that is poetry. Thou knowest I am somewhat given 
that way, and the bachelor Carrasco is a most accom- 
plished poet, to say nothing of the curate, though, I 
will hold a wager, he is a dabbler in it too; and so is 
Master Nicholas, I dare say, for all your barbers are 
notable scrapers and songsters. For my part, 1 will 
complain of absence; thou shalt celebrate thy own 
loyalty and constancy; the shepherd Carrascon shall 
expostulate on his shepherdess’s disdain; and the 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


pastor Curiambro choose what subject he likes best; 
and so all will be managed to our hearts’ content.” 

“ Alas!” quoth Sancho, “I am so unlucky, that I fear 
me I shall never live to see these blessed days. How 
I shall lick up the curds and cream! I will never be 
without a wooden spoon in my pocket! Oh, how many 
of them will I make! What garlands and what pretty 
pastoral fancies will I contrive! which, though they 
may not recommend me for wisdom, will make me pass 
at least for an ingenious fellow.” 

They then made a slender meal, as little to Sancho’s 
liking as his hard lodging, which brought the hardships 
of knight-erranting fresh into his thoughts, and made 
him wish for the better entertainment he had sometimes 
found, as at Don Diego’s, Camacho’s, and Don Anto- 
nio’s houses. But he considered, after all, that it could 
not be always fair weather, nor was it always foul; so 
he betook himself to his rest till morning, and his 
master to the usual exercise of his roving imaginations. 








CHAPTER LXVIII. 


THE ADVENTURE OF THE HOGS. 


THE NIGHT was pretty dark, though the moon still 
kept her place in the sky, but it was in such a part as 
obliged her to be invisible to us; for now and then 
Madam Diana takes a turn to the Antipodes, and then 
the mountains in black and the valleys in darkness 
mourn her ladyship’s absence. Don Quixote, after his 
first sleep, thought nature sufficiently refreshed, and 
would not yield to the temptations of a second. Sancho, 
indeed, did not enjoy a second, but from a different 
reason ; for he usually made but one nap of the whole 
night, which was owing to the soundness of his consti- 
tution and his inexperience of cares that lay so heavy 
upon Don Quixote. 

“Sancho,” said the knight, after he had pulled the 
squire till he had waked him too, “I am amazed at the 
insensibility of thy temper. Thou art certainly made 
of marble or solid brass, thou liest so without either 
motion or feeling. Thou sleepest while I wake; thou 
singest while I mourn; and while I am ready to faint 
for want of sustenance, thou art lazy and unwieldy with 
mere gluttony. It is the part of a good servant to share 
in the afflictions of his master. Observe the stillness 
of the night and the solitary place we are in. Itisa 
pity such an opportunity should be lost in sloth and 
inactive rest; rouse for shame, step a little aside, and, 
with a good grace and a cheerful heart, score me up 
some three or four hundred lashes upon thy back to- 
wards the disenchanting of Dulcinea. This J make my 
earnest request, being resolved uever to he rough with 
thee again upon this account, for I must confess thou 
canst lay a heavy hand on a man upon occasion. When 





that performance is over we will pass the remainder of 
the night in chanting, I of absence, and thou of con- 
staney, and so begin those pastoral exercises which are 
to be our employment at home.” 

“Sir,” answered Sancho, “do you take me for a monk 
or friar, that I should start up in the middle of the 
night and discipline myself at this rate? Or do you 
think it such an easy matter to scourge and clapperclaw 
my back one moment, and fall a-singing the next? 
Look you, sir, say nota word more of tbis whipping; 
for as 1love my flesh, you will put me upon making 
some rash oath or other that you will not like; and then, 
if the bare brushing of my coat would do you any good 
you should not have it, much less the currying of my 
hide; and so let me go to sleep again.” 

“Oh, obdurate heart!” cried Don Quixote; oh! im- 
pious squire! Oh, nourishment and favors ill bestowed! 
Is this my reward for having got thee a government, 
and my good intentions to get thee an earldom, or an 
equivalent at least, which I dare engage to do when this 
year of our obscurity is elapsed? for, in short, post tene- 
bras spero lucem.” 

“That I do not understand,” quoth Sancho; “but this 
I very well know, that while J am asleep I feel neither 
hope nor despair; I am free from pain, and insensible 
of glory. Now blessings light on him that first invent- 
ed this same sleep! it covers a man all over, thoughts 
and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink 
for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot. 
It is the current coin that purchases all the pleasures 
of the world cheap, and the balauce that sets the king 








ee AN fe ee. 
a Sd 2 st 
lin Y oe 
S — e y + 


A 
at 
ANO A h 
A 


y 





fi 


Yi 





___— 











py. 462, 


© “Sleep, Sancho,” cried Don Quixote ; ‘sleep, for thou wert born to sleep. 


Pr o" 


) 


462 DON 
and the shepherd, the fool and the wise man, even. 
There is only one thing, which somebody once put into 
my head, that I dislike in sleep; itis, that it resembles 
death; there is very little difference between a man in 
his first sleep and a man in his last sleep.” 

“Most elegantly spoken!” said Don Quixote. “Thou 
hast much outdone anything I ever heard thee say be- 
fore, which confirms me in the truth of one of thy own 
proverbs, ‘ Birthis much, but breeding more.’” 

“Bless me, master of mine!” cried Sancho, “I am not 
the only he now that threads proverbs, for you tack 
them together faster than I do, I think. I see no dif- 
ference, but that yours come in season, mine out of 
season; but for all that, they are all but proverbs.” 

Thus they were employed, when their ears were 
alarmed with a kind of a hoarse and grunting noise, 
that spread itself over all the adjacent valleys. Pre- 
sently Don Quixote started up on his legs, and laid his 
hand on his sword. As for Sancho, he immediately set 
up some entrenchments about him, clapping the bundle 
of armor on one side, and fortifying the other with the 
ass’s pack-saddle; and then, gathering himself up of a 
heap, squatted down under Dapple's belly, where he 
lay panting, as full of fears as his master of surprise, 
while every moment the noise grew louder, as the cause 
of it approached, to the terror of the one at least; for, 
as for the other, it is sufficiently known what his valor 
was. . 

Now, the occasion was this: some fellows were driv- 
ing a herd of above six hundred swine toa certain fair; 
and, with their grunting and squeaking, the filthy 
beasts made such a horrible noise, that Don Quixote 
and Sancho were almost stunned with it, and could not 
imagine whence it proceeded. But at length, the 
knight and squire standing in their way, the rude 
bristly animals came thronging up all in a body, and, 
without any respect of persons, some running between 
the knight’s legs, and some between the squire’s, threw 
down both master and man, having not only insulted 
Sancho’s entrenchments, but also thrown down Rozi- 
nante; and, having thus broken in upon them, on they 
went, and bore down all before them, overthrowing 
pack-saddle, armor, knight, squire, horse, and all, 
crowding, treading, and trampling over them all at a 
horrid rate. 

Sancho was the first that made a shift to recover his 
legs; and having by this time found out what the mat- 
ter was, he called to his master to lend him his sword, 
and swore he would stick at least half a dozen of those 
rude porkers immediately. 

“No, no, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “let them 
even go. Heaven inflicts this disgrace upon my guilty 
head; for it is but a just punishment that dogs should 
devour, hornets sting, and vile hogs trample on a van- 
quished knight-errant.” 

“And belike,” quoth Sancho, “that Heaven sends 
the flies to sting, the gnats to bite, and hunger to famish 
us poor squires, for keeping these vanquished knights 
company. If we squires were the sons of those 
knights, orany way related to them, why, then some- 
thing might be said for our bearing a share of their pun- 


QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ishment, though it were to the third and fourth genera- 
tion. But what have the Panzas to do with the Quix- 
otes? Well, let us to our old places again, and sleep 
out the little that is leftof the night. To-morrow is a 
new day.” 

“Sleep, Sancho.” cried Don Quixote—“sleep, for 
thou wert born to sleep; but I, who was designed to be 
still waking, intend, before Aurora ushers in the sun, 
to give a loose to my thoughts, and vend my conceptions 
in a madrigal that I made last night unknown to thee.” 

“Methinks,” quoth Sancho, “a man cannot be in 
great affliction when he can turn his brain to the making 
of verses. Therefore, you may versify on as long as 
you please, and I will sleep it out as much as I can.” 

This said, he laid himself down on the ground, as he 
thought best, and hunching himsclf close together, fell 
fast asleep, without any disturbance from any debts, 
suretyships, or any care whatsoever. On the other 
side, Don Quixote, leaning against the trunk of a beech 
or a cork-tree (for itis not determined by Cid Hamet 
which it was), sung, in concert with his sighs, the fol- 
lowing composition :— 

A SONG TO LOVE. 


Whene’er 1 think what mighty pain 

The slave must bear who drags thy chain, 
O Love! for ease to death 1 go, 

The cure of thee—the cure of life and woe. 


But when, alas! I think I’m sure 

Of that which must by killing cure, 

The pleasure that I feel in death 

Proves a strong cordial to restore my breath. 


Thus life each moment makes me die, 
And death itself new life can give; 
I hopeless and tormented lie, 
And neitber truly die nor live, 

Now day came on, and the sun, darting his beams on 
Sancho’s face, at last awakened him; whereupon, rub- 
bing his eyes and yawning and stretching his drowsy 
limbs, he perceived the havoc that the hogs had made 
in his baggage, which made him wish not only the 
herd, but somebody else too, elsewere for company. In 
short, the knight and squire both set forward on their 
| journey, and about the close of the evening they dis- 
covered some half a score horsemen and four or five 
fellows on foot, making directly towards them. Don 
Quixote, at the sight, felt a strange emotion in his 
breast; Sancho fell a-shivering from head to foot; for 
they perceived that these strangers were provided with 
spears and shields and other warlike instruments ; 
whereupon the knight, turning to the squire— 

“Ah! Sancho,” said he, “were it lawful for me at 
this time to bear arms, and had I my hands at liberty, 
and not tied up by my promise, what a joyful sight 
should I esteem this squadron that approaches! But, 
perhaps, notwithstanding my present apprehensions, 
things may fall out better than we expect.” 

By this time the horsemen, with their lance s ad- 
vanced, came close up to them without speaking a 
word; and encompassing Don Quixvte in a menacing 
manner, with their points levellea at his back and 
breast, one of the footmen, by laying his finger upon 
his mouth, signified to Don Quixote that he must be 
mute; then taking Rozinante by the bridle, he led bim 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


out of the road, while the rest of the footmen secured 
Sancho and Dapple, and drove them silently after Don 
Quixote, who attempted twice or thrice to ask the 
cause of this usage; but he no sooner began to open, 
than they were ready to run the heads of their spears 
down his throat. Poor Sancho fared worse yet; for, as 
he offered to speak, one of the foot-guards gave him a 
lag with a goad, and served Dapple as bad, though the 
poor beast had no thought of saying a word. 

As it grew night they mended their pace, and then 
the darkness increased the fears of the captive knight 
and squire, especially when every minute their ears 
were tormented with these or such-like words— 

“On, on, ye Troglodytes; silence, ye barbarian 
slaves; vengeance, ye Anthropophagi; grumble not, 
ye Scythians; be blind, ye murdering Polyphemes, ye 
devouring lions.” 

“Bless us!” thought Sancho, “what names do they 
call us here! Trollopites, barbers’ slaves, and Andrew 
Hodge-podge, City-cans, and Burframes: I do not like 





463 


the sound of them. Here is one mischief on the neck 
of another. When a man is down, down with him. I 
would compound for a good dry beating, and glad to 
escape so too.” 

Don Quixote was no less perplexed, not being able 
to imagine the reason either of their hard usage or 
scurrilous language, which hitherto promised but little 
good. At last, after they had ridden about an hour in 
the dark they came to the gates of the castle, which 
Don Quixote presently knowing to be the duke’s where 
he had so lately been— 

“Heaven bless me!” cried he, “what do I see? Was 
not this the mansion of civility and humanity? But 
thus the vanquished are doomed to see everything 
fiown upon them.” 

With that the two prisoners were led into the great 
court of the castle, and found such strange preparations 
made there, as increased at once their fear and amaze- 
ment, as we shall find in the next chapter. 








CHAPTER LXIX. 


OF THE MOST SINGULAR AND STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE 


OF THIS FAMOUS HISTORY. 


ALL THE horsemen alighted, and the footmen, snatch- 
ing up Don Quixote and Sancho in their arms, hurried 
them into the court-yard, that was illuminated with 
above a hundred torches fixed in huge candlesticks, 
and about all the galleries round the court were placed 
above five hundred lights, insomuch that all was day in 
the midst of the darkness of the night. In the middle 
of the court there was a tomb, raised some two yards 
from the ground, with a large pall of black velvet over 
it, and round about it a hundred tapers of virgin wax 
stood burning in silver candlesticks. Upon the tomb 
lay the body of a young damsel, who, though to all 
appearance dead, was yet so beautiful, that death itself 
seemed lovely in herface. Her head was crowned with 
a garland of fragrant flowers, and supported by a pil- 
low of cloth of gold; and in her her hands, that were 
laid across her breast, was seen a branch of that yellow 
palm that used of old to adorn the triumphs of con- 
querors. On one side of the court there was a kind of 
a theatre erected on which two personages sat in 
chairs, who, by the crowns upon their heads and scep- 
tres in their hands, were, or at least appeared to be, 
kings. By the side of the theatre, at the foot of the! 
steps by which the kings ascended, two other chairs 
were placed, and thither Don Quixote and Sancho were 
led, and caused to sit down, the guards that conducted 
them continuing silent all the while, and making their 
prisoners understand, by awful signs, that they must 





also be silent. But these was no great occasion for 


that caution, for their surprise was so great that it had 
tied up their tongues without it. 

At the same time two other persons of note ascended 
the stage with a numerous retinue, and seated them- 
selves on two stately chairs by the two theatrical kings. 
These Don Quixote presently knew to be the duke and 
duchess, at whose palace he had been so nobly enter- 
tained. But what he discovered as the greatest wonder 
was that the corpse upon the tomb was the body of the 
fair Altisidora. 

As soon as the duke and duchess had ascended Don 
Quixote and Sancho made them a profound obeisance, 
which they returned with a short inclination of their 
heads. Upon this a certain officer entered the court, 
and coming up to Sancho, he clapped over him a black 
buckram frock, all figured over with flames of fire, and 
taking off his cap, he put on his head a kind of mitre, 
such as is worn by those who undergo public penance 
by the Inquisition; whispering him in the ear at the 
same time that if he did but offer to open his lips, they 
would put a gag in his mouth or murder him outright. 
Sancho viewed himself over from head to foot, and was 
a little startled to see himself all over in fire and flames; 
but yet, since he did not feel himself burn, he cared not 
a farthing. He pulled off his mitre, and found it pic- 
tured over with imps; but he put it on again, and be- 
thought himself that since neither the flames burned 
him nor the imps ran away with him, it was well 
enough. Don Quixote also steadfastly surveyed him, 


464 DON 
and, in the midst of all his apprehensions, could not 
forbear smiling to see what a strange figure he made. 
And now in the midst of that profound silence, while 
everything was mute and expectation most attentive, a 
soft and charming symphony of flutes, that seemed to 
issue from the hollow of the tomb, agreeably filled their 
ears. Then there appeared, at the head of the monu- 
ment, a young man extremely handsome, and dressed 
in a Roman habit, who, to the masic of a harp, touched 
by himself, sung the following stanzas with an excel- 
lent voice:— 
ALTISIDORA’S DIRGE. 


While slain, the fair Altisidora lics 
A victim to Don Quixote's cold disdain; 

Here all things mourn, all pleasure with her dies, 
And weeds of woe disguise the graces’ train. 


I'll sing the beauties of her face and mind, 
Her hopeless passion, her unhappy fate; 
Not Orpheus’ self, in numbers more refin’d, 
Her charms, her love, her suff'rings could relate. 


Now shall the fair alone in life be sung, 
Her boundless praise is my immortal choice: 

In the cold grave, when death benumbs my tongue, 
For thee, bright maid, my soul shall find a voice. 


When from this narrow cell my spirts's free, 
And wanders grieving with the shades below, 

Even o'er oblivion’s waves 111 sing to thee; 
And hell itself shall sympathize in woe. 

“Enough,” cried one of the two kings; “no more, 
divine musician; it were an endless task to enumerate 
the perfections of Altisidora, or give us the story of 
her fate. Nor is she dead, asthe ignorant vulgar sur- 
mises; no, in the mouth of fame she lives, and once 
more shall revive, as soon as Sancho has undergone the 
penance that is decreed to restore her to the world. 
Therefore, O Rhadamanthus! thou who sittest in joint 
commission with me in the opacous shades of Dis, 
tremendous judge of hell! thou to whom the decrees 
of fate, inscrutable to mortals, are revealed! in order to 
restore this damsel to life, openand declare them imme- 
diately, nor delay the proiaised felicity of her return to 
comfort the drooping world!” 

Scarce had Minos finished his charge, when Rhada- 
manthus started up. “Proceed,” said he, “ye minis- 
ters and officers of the household, superior and inferior, 
high and low; proceed one after another, and mark me 
Sancho’s chin with twenty-four twitches, give him 
twelve pinches, and run six pins into his armsand back, 
for Altisidora’s restoration depends on the performance 
of this ceremony.” 

Sancho, hearing this, could hold out no longer, but 
bawling out, “Bless me!” cried he, “I will as soon turn 
Turk as give you leave to do all this. Youshall put no 
chin or countenance of mine upon any such mortifica- 
tion. What can the spoiling of my face signify to the 
restoring of the damsel? Dulcinea is bewitched, and 
I forsooth must flog myself to free her from witchcraft! 
And here is Altisidora, too, drops off of one distemper 
or other, and presently poor Sancho must be pulled by 
the handle of his face, his skin filled with oiled holes, 
and his arms pinched black and blue, to save her from 
the worms! No,no; you must not think to put tricks 
upon travellers! “An old dog understands trap.’” 

“Relent!” cried Rhadamanthus, aloud, “thou tiger; 





QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


submit, proud Nimrod; suffer and be silent, or thou 
diest. No impossibility is required from thee, and 
therefore pretend not to expostulate on the severity of 
thy doom. Thy face shall receive the twitches, thy 
skin shall be pinched, and thou shalt groan under the 
penance. Begin, I say, ye ministers of justice, execute 
my sentence, or, as l am an honest man, ye shall curse 
the hour ye were born.” 

At the same time six old duennas, or waiting-women, 
appeared in the court, marching in a formal procession 
one after another, four of them wearing spectacles, and 
all with their right hands held aloft, and their wrists, 
according to the fashion, about four inches bare, to 
make their hands seem the longer. Sancho no sooner 
spied them than, roaring out like a bull, “Do with me 
what you please,” cried he; “let a sackful of mad cats 
lay their claws on me, as they did on my master in this 
castle, drill me through with sharp daggers, tear the 
flesh from my bones with red-hot pincers, I will bear it 
with patience, and serve your worships, but the con- 
jurers shall run away with me at once before 1 will suf- 
fer old waiting-women to lay a finger upou me.” 

Don Quixote, upon this, broke silence: “Have pa- 
tience, my son,” cried he, “and resign thyself to these 
potentates, with thanks to Heaven for having endowed 
thy person with such a gift as to release the enchanted, 
and raise the dead from the grave.” 

By this time the waiting-women were advanced up to 
Sancho, who, after much persuasion, was at last 
wrought upon to settle himself in his seat, and submit 
his face and beard to the female executioners. The first 
that approached gave him a clever twitch, and then 
dropped him a courtesy. “Less courtesy, and less 
sauce, good Mrs. Governante,” cried Sancho; “for, by 
the life of Pharaoh, your fingers stink of vinegar.” In 
short, all the waiting-women, and most of the servants, 
came and twitched and pinched him decently, and Le 
bore it all with unspeakable patience; but when they 
came to prick him with pins he could contain no longer, 
but, starting up in a pelting chafe, snatched up one of 
the torches that stood near him, and, swinging it round, 
put all the women and the rest of his tormentors to 
their heels. “Avaunt!” he cried, “ye imps! do ye 
think my back is made of brass, or that I intend to be 
your master’s martyr?” 

At the same time Altisidora, who could not but be 
tired with lying so long upon her back, began to turn 
herself on one side, which was no sooner perceived by 
the spectators, than they all set up the cry, “She lives, 
she lives! Altisidora lives!” And then Rhadamanthus, 
addressing himself to Sancho, desired him to be pacified, 
for now the recovery was effected. So Don Quixote, 
seeing Altisidora stir, went and threw himself on his 
knees before Saucho. 

“My dear son,” cried he, “for now I will not call 
thee squire, now is the hour for thee to receive some of 
the lashes that are incumbent upon thee for the disen- 
chanting of Dulcinea. This, I say, is the auspicious 
time, when the virtue of thy skin is most mature and 
efficacious for working the wonders that are expected 
from it.” 


o DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“< Out of the frying pan into the fire!’” quoth San- 
cho. “Ihave brought my hogs to a fair market truly: 
after 1 have been twinged and tweaked by the nose and 
everywhere, and stuck all over and made a pin-cushion 
of, I must now be whipped like a top, must 1? If you 
have a mind to be rid of me, cannot you as well tie a 
good stone about my neck, and tip me into a well? 
Better make an end of me at once than have me loaded 
so every foot like a pack-horse, with other folks’ bur- 
dens. Look ye: say but one word more to me of any 
such thing, and all the fat shall be in the fire.” 

By this time Altisidova sat on the tomb, and presently 
the music struck up, all the instruments being joined 
with the voices of the spectators, who cried aloud, 
“Live, live! Altisidora, live!” The duke and duchess 
got up, and with Minos and Rhadamanthus, accompa- 
nied by Don Quixote and Sancho, wentall in a body to 
receive Altisidora, and hand her down from the tomb. 
She pretended to faint, bowed to the duke and duchess, 
and also to the two kings; but, after looking askew 
upon Don Quixote,— 





465 


said she, “whose barbarity has made me an inhabitant 
of the other world, for aught 1 know, a thousand years. 
But to thee,” said she, turning to Sancho—“to thee, the 
most compassionate squire that the world contains, I 
return my thanks for my change from death to life; in 
acknowledgment of which, six of the best smocks I 
have shall be changed into shirts for thee, and if they 
are not spick and span new, yet they are all as clean as 
apenny.” 

Sancho pulled off his mitre, put his knee to the ground 
and kissed her hand. The duke commanded that they 
should return him bis cap, and, instead of his flaming 
frock, give him his gaberdine; but Sancho begged of 
his grace that he might keep the frock and mitre, to 
carry into his own country as a relic of that wonderful 
adventure. The duchess said he should have them, for 
he knew she was always one of the best of his friends. 
Then the duke ordered the company to clear the court 
and retire to their respective lodgings, and that Don 
Quixote and Sancho should be conducted to their apart- 


‘ments. 
“Heaven forgive that hard-hearted, lovely knight,” | 





CHAPTER LXX. 


WHICH COMES AFTER THB SIXTY-NINTH, AND CONTAINS SEVERAL PARTICULARS NECESSARY FOR THE 


ILLUSTRATION OF THIS HISTORY. 


THAT night Sancho lay in a truckle-bed in Don Quix- 
ote’s chamber, a lodging not greatly to the squire’s 
liking, being very sensible that his master would dis- 
turb him with impertinent chat all night long. And 
this entertainment he found himself not rightly dis- 
posed for, his late penance having taken him quite off 
the talking-pin; and a hovel, with good sound sleep, 
had been more agreeable to his cireumstances than the 
most stately apartments in such troublesome company. 
And, indeed, his apprehensions proved so right, that 
his master was scarcel y laid when he began to open. 

“Sancho,” said he, “what is your opinion of the 
night’s adventure? Great and mighty is the fcrce of 
love when heightened by disdain, as the testimony of 
your own eyes may convince you in the death of Altisi- 
dora. It was neither a dart, a dagger, nor any poison 
that brought her to her end, but she expired through 
the mere sense of my disdain of her affection.” 

“T had not cared a pin,” answered Sancho, “what she 
might have died of, so she had but let me alone; I 
never courted her nor slighted her in my born days; 
and, for my part, I must still think it strange that 
the life and well-doing of Altisidora, a whimsical, 
old gentlewoman, should depend upon the plaguing 
of Sancho Panza. But there are such things as 
enchanters and witcherafts, that is certain, from which 
good Heaven deliver me! for it is more than 1 can do 





myself. But now, sir, let me sleep, I beseech you; for 
if you trouble me with any more questions, 1 am re- 
solved to leap out of the window.” 

“T will not disturb thee, honest Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote; “sleep, if the smart of thy late torture will 
let thee.” 

“No pain,” answered Sancho, “can be compared to 
the abuse my fave suffered, because it is done by the 
worst of ill-natured creatures—I mean old waiting- 
women; confusion take them, say I; and so, good 
night. 1 want a good nap to set me to rights; and so, 
once again, pray let me sleep.” 

“Do so,” said Don Quixote; “and Heaven be with 
thee!” 

Thereupon they both fell asleep; and while they are 
asleep Cid Hamet takes the opportunity to tell us the 
motives that put the duke and duchess upon this odd 
compound of extravagances that has been last related. 
He says that the bachelor Carrasco, meditating revenge 
for having been defeated by Don Quixote when he 
weut by the title of the Knight of the Mirrors, resolved 
to make another attempt, in hopes of better fortune; 
and therefore, having understood where Don Quixote 
was by the page that brought the letters and present 
to Sancho's wife, he furnished himself with a fresh 
horse and arms, and had a white moon painted on his 
shield; his accoutrements were all packed upon a mule: 


466 DON QUIXOTE 
and, lest Thomas Cecil, his former attendant, should be 
known by Don Quixote or Sancho, he got a country 
fellow to wait on him as a squire. Coming to the duke's 
castle, he was informed that the knight was gone to the 
tournament: at Saragosa; the duke giving the bachelor 
an account also how pleasantly they had imposed upon 
him, with the contrivance for Dulcinea’s disenckant- 
ment, to be effected at the expense of Sancho's body. 
Finally, he told him how Sancho had made his master 
believe that Dulcinea was transformed into a country 
wench by the power of magic, and how the duchess had 
persuaded Sancho that he was deluded himself, and 
Dulcinea enchanted in good earnest. The bachelor, 
though he could not forbear laughing, was nevertheless 
struck with wonder at this mixture of cunning and 
simplicity in the squire, and the uncommon madness 
of the master. The duke then made it his request, 
that if he met with the knight he should call at 
the castle as he returned, and give him an account 
of his success, whether he vanquished him or 
not. The bachelor promised to obey his com- 
mands; and, departing in search of Don Quixote, he 
found him not at Saragosa, but travelling farther, he 
met him at last, and bad his revenge as we have told 
you. Then taking the duke’s castle in his way home, 
he gave him an account of the circumstances and con- 
ditions of the combat, and how Don Quixote was re- 
pairing homewards, to fulfil his engagement of return- 
ing to and remaining in his village for a year, as 16 was 
incumbent on the honor of chivalry to perform; and in 
this space, the hbachelor said, he hoped the poor yentle- 
man might recover his senses, declaring withal that the 
concern he had upon him to see a man of his parts in 
such a distracted condition, was the only motive that 
could put him upon such an attempt. Upon this he re- 
turned home, there to expect Don Quixote, who was 
coming after him. This information engaged the duke, 
who was never to be tired with the humors of the 
knight and the squire, to take this occasion to make 
more sport with them; he ordered all the roads there- 
abouts, especially those taat Don Quixote was likely to 
take, to be watched by a great many of his servants, 
who had orders to bring him to the castle, right or 
wrong. 

They met him accordingly, and sent their master an 
account of it; whereupon, all things being prepared 
against his coming, the duke cansed the torches and 
tapers to he all lighted round the court, and Altisi- 
dora’s tragi-comical interlude was acted, with the 
humors of Sancho Panza, the whole so to the life that 
the counterfeit was hardly discernable. Cid Hamet 
adds, that he believed those that played all these 
tricks were as mad as those they were imposed upon; 
and that the duke and duchess were within a bair’s 
breadth of being thought fools themselves, for taking 
so much pains to make sport with the weakness of two 
poor silly wretches. 

To return to our two adventurers: the morning found 
one of them fast asleep, and the other broad awake, 
transported with his wild imaginations. They thonght 
it time to rise, especially the Don, for the bed of sloth 





aks 


DE LA MANCHA. 


was never agreeable to him, whether vanquished or 
victorious. 

Altisidora, whom Don Quixote supposed to have 
been raised from the dead, did that day (to humor her 
lord and lady) deck her head with the same garland 
she wore upou the tomb, and in a loose gown of white 
tatieta, flowered with gold, her dishevelled locks tlow- 
ing negligently on her shoulders, she entered Don 
Quixote's chamber, supporting herself with an ebony 
statf. 

The knight was so surprised and amazed at this un- 
expected apyarition, that he was struck dumb; and, 
not knowing how to behave himself, he slunk down 
under the bed-clothes, and covered himself over head 
and ears. However, Altisidora placed herself in a 
chair close by his bed’s head, and, after a profound 
sigh, “To what an extremity of misfortune and dis- 
tress,” said she, in a soft and languishing voice, “are 
young ladies of my quality reduced, when they are 
forced to give their tongues a loose, and betray the 
secrets of their hearts! Alas! noble Don Quixote de 
la Mancha, I am one of those unhappy persons over- 
ruled by my passion, but yet so reserved and patient 
in my sufferings, that silence broke my heart, and my 
heart broke in silence. It is now two days, most inex- 
orable and marble-hearted man, since the sense of your 
severe usage and cruelty brought me to my death, or 
something so like it, that every one that saw me judged 
me to be dead; and, had not love been compassionate, 
and assigned my recovery on the sufferings of this kind 
squire, l had ever remained in the other world.” 

“Truly,” quoth Sancho, “love might even as well 
have made choice of my ass for that service, and he 
would have obliged me a great deal more. But pray, 
good mistress, tell me one thing now, and so Heaven 
provide you a better-natured sweetheart than my mas- 
ter: what did you see in the other world ?—what sort 
of folks are there in hell? for there, I suppose, you 
have been; for those that die of despair must needs go 
to that summer-house.” 

“To tell you the truth,” replied Altisidora, “I fancy 
Teould not be dead outright, because I was not got 
so far as hell; for, had 1 been once in, I am sure I 
should never have been allowed to have got out again. 
I got to the gates, indeed, where I found a round dozen 
of imps in their breeches and waistcoats, playing at 
tennis with flaming rackets. They wore flat bands, 
with scolloped Flanders lace and ruffles of the same; 
four inches of their wrists bare, to make their hands 
look the longer, in which they held rackets of fire. 
But what I most wondered st was, that, instead of 
tennis-balls, they made use of books that were every 
whit as light, and stuffed with wind and flocks, or such 
kind of trumpery. This was, indeed, most strange and 
wonderful; but, what still amazed me more, I found 
that, contrary to the custom of gamesters, among whom 
the winning party at least is in good humor, and the 
losers only angry, these hellish tossers of books, of 
both sides, did nothing but fret, fume, stamp, curse, 
and swear most horribly, as if they had been all 
losers.” 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“This is no wonder at all,” quoth Sancho; “for your 
devils, whether they play or no, win or lose, they can 
never be contented.” 

“That may be,” said Altisidora; “but another thing 
that I admire (I then admired, I would say) was, that 
the ball would not bear a second blow, but at every 
stroke they were obliged to change books, some of them 
new, some old, which I thought very strange. And 
one accident that happened upon this I cannot forget; 
they tossed up a new book, fairly bound, and gave it 
such a smart stroke that the very inside flew out of it, 
and all the leaves were scattered about. Then cried 
one of the devils to another, * Look! look! what book is 
that?’ ‘It isthe second part of the history of Don 
Quixote,’ said the other; ‘not that which was composed 
by Cid Hamet, the author of the first, but by a certain 
Arragonian, who professes himself a native of Torde- 
sillas.? ‘Away with it!’ cried the first devil; “lown 
with it! plunge it where I may never see it more!’ 
‘Why is it such sad stuff?’ said the other. ‘Such intol- 
erable stuff,’ cried the first devil, ‘that if I and all the 
devils in hell should set their heads together to make 
it worse, it were past our skill.’ The devils continued 
their game, and shattered a world of other bookss but 
the name of Don Quixote, that I so passionately adored, 
confined my thoughts only to that part of the vision 
which I have told you.” 

“It could be nothing but a vision, to be sure,” said 
Dou Quixote; “for I am the only person of the name 
now in the universe; and that very book is tossed about 
here at the very same rate, never resting in a place, for 
everybody has a fling at it. Nor am I concerned that 
any phantom assuming my name should wander in the 
shades of darkness or in the light of this world, since I 
am not the person of whom that story treats. If it be 
well written, faithful, and authentic, it will live for 
ages; but if it be bad, it will have a quick journey from 
its birth to the grave of oblivion.” 

Altisidora was then going to renew her expostula- 
tions and complaints against Don Quixote, had he not 
thus interrupted her: 

“I have often cautioned you, madam,” said he. “of 
fixing your attentions upon a man who is absolutely in- 
capable of making a suitable return. It grieves me to 
have a heart obtruded upon me, when I have no better 
entertainment to vive it than bare, cold thanks. J was 
only born for Dulcinea del Toboso, and to her alone the 
Destinies (if such there be) have devoted my affection; 
so it is presumption for any other beauty to imagine 
she can displace her, or but share the possession she 
holds in my soul. This, I hope, may suffice to take 
away all foundation from your hopes, to recall your 
modesty, and to reinstate it in its proper bounds; for 
impossibilities are not to be expected from any creature 
upon earth.” 

Their discourse was interrupted by the coming in of 
the harper, singer, and composer of the stanzas that 
were performed in the court the night before. “Sir 
Knight,” said he to Don Quixote, making a profound 
obesiance, “let me beg the favor of being numbered 
among your most humble servants; it is an honor which 





467 


I have long been ambitious to receive, in regard of your 
great renown and the value of your achievements. ” 

“Pray, sir,” said Don Quixote, “let me know who 
you are, that I may proportion my respects to your 
merits.” 

The spark gave him to understand he was the person 
that made and sung the verses he head the last 
night. 

“Truly, sir,” said Don Quixote, “you have an excel- 
lent veice, but I think your poetry was little to the 
purpose; for what relation, pray, have the stanzas of 
Garcilasso to this lady’s death ?” 

“Oh, sir, never wonder at that,” replied the musi- 
cian; “I do but as other brothers of the quill. All the 
upstart poets of the age do the same, und every one 
writes what he pleases, how he pleases, and steals from 
whom be pleases, whether it be to the purpose or no; 
for, let them write and set to music what they will, 
though never so impertinent and absurd, there is a 
thing called poetical license that is our warrant, and a 
safeguard and refuge for nonsense among all the men 
of jingle and metre.” 

Don Quixote was going to answer, but was inter- 
rupted by the coming in of the duke and duchess, who, 
improving the conversation, made it very pleasant for 
some hours; and Sancho was so full of his odd conceits 
and arch words, that the duke and duchess were at a 
stand which to admire most, his wit or his simplicity. 
After that Don Quixote begged leave for his departure 
that very day, alleging that knights, in his unhappy 
circumstances, were rather fitter to inhabit a humble 
cottage than a kingly palace. They freely complied 
with his request, aud the duchess desired to know if 
Altisidora had yet attained to any share of his favor. 

“Madam,” answered Don Quixote, “I must freely 
tell your grace that I am confident all this damsel’s dis- 
ease proceeds from nothing else in this world but idle. 
ness; so nothing in nature can be better physic for hei 
distemper than to be continually employed in some 
innocent and decent things. She has been pleased to 
inform me that bone-lace is much worn; and since, witl- 
out doubt, she knows how to make it, let that be her 
task, and I will engage the tumbling of her bobbins too 
and again will soon toss her love out of her head. Now 
this is my opinion, madam, and my advice.” 

“And mine too,” quoth Sancho. “for I never knew 
any of your bone-lace makers die for love, nor any other 
young weucb that had anything else to do. I know it 
by myself. When I am hard at work, with a spade in 
my hand, Ino more think of my own dear wife than I do 
ofmy dead cow, though I love heras the apple of my eye.” 

“You say well, Sancho,” answered the duchess; “and 
I will take care that Altisidora shall not want employ- 
ment for the future; she understands her needle, and I 
am resolved she shall make use of it.” 

“Madam,” said Altisidora, “I shall have no oceasion 
for any remedy of that nature, for the sense of the 
severity and ill-usage that I have met with from that 
vagabond monster will, without any other means, soon 
raze him out of my memory. In the meantime I beg 
your grace’s leave to retire, that I may no longer be- 


468 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


hold, I will not say his woful figure, but his ugly and [it were, to dry her tears, and then making her honors 


abominable countenance. ” 
“These words,” said the duke “put me in mind of 
the proverb, ‘After railing comes forgiving.’” 


to the duke and duchess, went out of the room. 
The discourse ended here. Don Quixote dressed, 
dined with the duke and duchess, and departed that 


Altisidora, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, as | afternoon. 








CHAPTER LXXI. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE ON THEIR WAY HÓME. 


THE vanquished knight-errant continued his jour- 
ney, equally divided between grief and joy. As for 
Sancho, his thoughts were not at all of the pleasing 
kind; on the contrary, he was mightily upon the sullen 
because Altisidora had bilked him of the smocks she 
promised him; and his head running upon that, “Faith 
and troth, sir,” quoth he, “I have the worst luck of any 
physician under the cope of heaven. Other doctors 
kill their patients, and are paid for it, too, and yet they 
are at no further trouble than scrawling two or three 
cramp words for some physical slip-slop which the 
apothecaries are at all the pains to make up. Now 
here am I, that save people from the grave at the ex- 
pense of my own hide, pinched, clapper-clawed, run 
through with pins, and whipped like a top, and yet not 
a cross do I get by the bargain. But if ever they catch 
me a-curing anybody in this fashion, unless I have my 
fee beforehand, may I be served as I have been, for 
nothing. Yes, indeed! they shall pay sauce for it; no 
money, no cure.” 

“You are in the right, Sancho,” said Don Qnixote, 
“and Altisidora has done unworthily in disappointing 
you of the smocks; though you must own that the 
virtue by which thou workest these wonders was a free 
gift, and cost thee nothing to learn, but the art of 
patience. For my part, had you demanded your fees 
for disenchanting Dulcinea, you should have reecived 
them already; but Iam afraid there can be no gratnity 
proportionable to the greatness of the cure, and there- 
fore I would not have the remedy depend upon a re- 
ward, for who knows whether it might hinder the effect 
of the penance? However, since we have gone so far, 
we will put it toa trial. Come, Sancho, first pay your 
hide, then pay yourself out of the money of mine that 
you have in your custody.” 

Sancho, opening his eyes and ears above a foot wide 
at this fair offer, leaped presently at the proposal. 
“Ay, ay, sir, now, now you say something,” quoth he; 
“T will do it with ajerk now, since you speak so feel- 
ingly. Ihave a wife and children to maintain, sir, and 
I must mind the main chance. Come, then, how much 
will you give me by the lash?” 

“Were your payment,” said Don Quixote, “to be 
answerable to the greatness and merits of the cure, not 
all the wealth of Venice, nor the Indian mines, were 
sufficient to reward thee. Butsee what cash you have 





of mine, and 
stripe.” 

“The lashes,” quoth Sancho, “are in all three thou- 
sand three hundred and odd, of which I have had five; 
the rest are to come. Let these five go forthe odd ones, 
and let us come to the three thousand three hundred. 
Ata quartillo, or three-half-pence a-piece (and I will 
not bate a farthing, if it were to my brother), they will 
make three thousand three hundred halfpences. Three 
thousand three-halfpences make fifteen hundred three- 
pences, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals 
or sixpences. Now the three hundred remaining three- 
halfpences make a hundred and fifty threepences, and 
threescore and fifteen sixpences; put that together, and 
it comes just to eight hundred and twenty-tive reals, or 
sixpences, toa farthing. This money, sir, if you please, 
I will deduct from yours that I have in my hands, and 
then J will reckon myself well paid for my jerking, and 
go home well pleased, though well whipped. But that 
is nothing, something has some savor; he must not 
think to catch fish who is afraid to wet his feet. Ineed 
say no more.” 

“Now blessings on thy heart, my dearest Sancho!” 
cried Don Quixote, “Oh! my friend, how shall Du!- 
cinea and Ibe bound to pray for thee and serve thee 
while it shall please Heaven to continue us on earth! 
Speak, dear Sancho; when wilt thou enter upon thy 
task?” 

“T will begin this very night,” answered Sancho; 
“do you but order it so that we may lie in the fields, 
and you shall see how I will lay about me.” 

Don Quixote longed for night so impatiently, that, 
like all eager, expecting lovers, he fancied Phoebus had 
broken his chariot-wheels, which made the day of so 
unusual a length; but at last it grew dark, and they 
went out of the road into a shady wood, where they 
both alighted, and, being sat down upon the grass, 
they went to supper upon such provisions as Sancho’s 
wallet afforded. 

And now having satisfied himself, he thought it time 
to satisfy his master, and earn his money; to which 
purpose he made himself a whip of Dapple’s halter, 
and, having stripped himself to the waist, retired 
farther up into the wood ata small distance from his 
master. Don Quixote, observing his readiness and 
resolution, could not forebear calling after him. 


set what price you will on every 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


“Dear Sancho,” cried he, “be not too cruel to thyself 
neither. Have a care, do not hack thyself to pieces. 
I mean, I would not have thee kill thyself before thou 
gettest to the end of the tally; and that the reckoning 
may be fair on both sides, I will stand at a distance, 
and keep an account of the strokes by the help of my 
beads; and so, Heaven prosper thee! ” 

“He is an honest man,” quoth Sancho, “who pays to 
a farthing. I only mean to give myself a handsome 
whipping, for do not think I need kill myself to work 
miracles.” With that he began to exercise the instru- 
ment of penance, and Don Quixote to tell the strokes; 
but by the time Sancho had applied seven or eight 
lashes on his bare back, he felt the jest bite him so 
smartly, that he began to repent him of his bargain. 
Whereupon he called to his master, and told him that 
he would be off with him; for such lashes as these were 
modestly worth threepence a-piece of any man’s money, 
and truly he could not afford to go on at three-half- 
pence a lash. 

“Go on, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; 
“take courage and proceed; I will double thy pay, if 
that be all.” 

“Say you so?” quoth Sancho; “then have at all. I 
will lay it on thick and threefold. Do but listen.” 

With that, slap went the scourge; but the cunning 
knave left persecuting his own skin, and fell foul of the 
trees, fetching such dismal groans every now and then, 
that one would have thought he had been giving up 
the ghost. Don Quixote, who was naturally tender- 
hearted, fearing he might make an end of himself be- 
fore he could finish his penance, and so disappoint the 
happy effects of it— 

“Hold!” cried he; “hold, my friend! as thou lovest 
thy life, hold, I conjure thee! no more at this time. 
This seems to be avery sharp sort of physic; there- 
fore, pray do not take it all at once; make two doses of 
it. Come, come, all in good time; ‘Rome was not built 
in a day.’ If I have told right, thou hast given thyself 
above a thousand stripes; that is enough for one beat- 
ing; for, to use a homely phrase, ‘The ass will carry 
his load, but not a double load;’ ride not a free horse to 
death.” 

“No, no,” quoth Sancho; “it shall never be said of 
me, ‘The eaten bread is forgotten,’ or that I thought it 
working for a dead horse because I am paid before- 
hand. Therefore stand off, I beseech you; get out of 
the reach of my whip, and let me lay on the other thou- 
sand, and then the heart of the work will be broken.” 

“Since thou art in the humor,” replied Don Quixote, 
“T will withdraw; and Heaven strengthen and reward 
thee!” 

With that Sancho fell to work afresh, and beginning 
upon a new score, he lashed the trees at so unconscion- 
able a rate that he fetched off their skins most unmer- 
cifully. Atlength, raising his voice, seemingly resolved 
to give himself a sparing blow, he lets drive at a beech- 
tree with might and main—“There!” cried he, “down 
with thee, Samson, and all that are «bout thee!” This 
dismal ery, with the sound of the dreadful strokes that 
attended it, made Don Quixote run presently to his 





469 


squire; and, laying fast hold on the halter, which San- 
cho had twisted about and managed most dexterous- 
ly— 

“Hold!” cried he; “friend Sancho, stay the fury of 
thy arm. Dost thou think I will have thy death and 
the ruin of thy wife and children to be laid at my door? 
Forbid it Fate! Let Dulcinea stay a while, till a better 
opportunity offer itself.” 

“Well, sir,” qnoth Sancho, “if it be your worship’s 
will and pleasure it should be so, so let it be, quoth I. 
But, for goodness’ sake, do so much as throw your cloak 
over my shoulders, for I am all in a sweat, and I have 
no mind to catch cold.” 

With that Don Quixote took off his cloak from his 
own shoulders, and putting it over those of Sancho, 
chose to remain in cuerpo; and the crafty squire, being 
lapped up warn, fell fast asleep, and never stirred till 
the sun waked him. 

In the morning they went on their journey, and after 
three hours’ riding alighted at an inn; for it was al- 
lowed by Don Quixote himself to be an inn, and nota 
castle, with moats, towers, portcullises, and draw- 
bridges, as he commonly fancied; for now the knight 
was mightily off the romantic pin to what he used to 
be, as shall be shown presently at large. He was 
lodged in a ground room, which, instead of tapestry, 
was hung with a coarse painted stuff such as is often 
seen in villages. One of the pieces had the story of 
Helen of Troy, when Paris stole her away from her 
husband Menelaus, but scrawled out at a bungling rate 
by some wretched dauber or other. Another had the 
story of Dido and Mneas, the lady on the top of a tur- 
ret, waving a sheet to her fugitive guest, who was in a 
ship at sea crowding all the sail he could to get from 
her. Don Quixote made this observation upon the two 
stories—that Helen was not at all displeased at the 
force put upon her, but rather leered and smiled upon 
her lover; whereas, on the other side, the fair Dido 
showed her grief by ber tears, which, because they 
should be seen, the painter had made as big as walnuts. 

“How unfortunate,” said Don Quixote, “were these 
two ladies that they lived not in this age, or rather how 
much more unhappy am I, for not having lived in 
theirs! I would have met and stopped those gentle- 
men, and saved both Troy and Carthage from destruc- 
tion; nay, by the death of Paris alone, all these mis- 
eries had been prevented.” 

“T will lay you a wager,” quoth Sancho, that before 
we be much older, there will not be an inn, a hedge 
tavern, a blind victualling-house, nor a barber's shop 
in the country but will have the story of our lives and 
deeds pasted and painted along the walls. But I could 
wish with all my heart, though, that they may be done 
by a better hand than these.” 

“Thou art in the right, Sancho; for the fellow that 
drew these puts me in mind of Orbaneja, the painter of 
Uveda, who, as he sat at work, being asked what he 
was about, made answer, ‘ Anything that comes upper- 
most; and if he chanced to draw a cock, he underwrote, 
“This is a cock,’ lest the people should take it fora 
fox. Just such a one was he that painted or that wrote 


470 DON QUIXOTE 
(for they are much the same) the history of this new 
Don Quixote, that has lately peeped out, and ventured 
to go a-strolling, for his painting or writing is all at 
random, and anything that comes uppermost. I fancy 
he is also not much unlike one Mauleon, a certain poet, 
who was at court some yeurs ago, and pretended to give 
answers extempore to any manner of questions. But 
to come to our own affairs. Hast thou an inclination to 
have the other brush to-night? What think you of a 
warm house? would it not do better for that service 
than the open air?” 

“Why, truly,” quoth Sancho, “a whipping is buta 
whipping, cither abroad or within doors, and T could 
like a close warm place well enough, so it were among 
trees; for I love trees hugely, do ye see; methinks they 
bear me company, and have a sort of fellow-feeling of 
my sufferings.” 

“Now I tbink on it,” said Don Quixote, “it shall not 
be to-night, honest Sancho; you shall have more time 
to recover, and we will let the rest alone till we get 
home; it will not be above two days at most.” 





DE LA MANCHA. 


“Even as your worship pleases,” answered Sancho; 
“but, if I might have my will, it were best making an 
end of the job now my hand is in, and my blood up. 
There is nothing like striking while the iron is hot, for 
“delay breeds danger.’ ‘It is best grinding at the mill 
before the water is past.’ “Ever take while you may 
have it? ‘A bird in hand is worth two in the 
bush.’ ” 

“For Heaven's sake, good Sancho,” cried Don Quix- 
ote, “let alone thy proverbs; if once thon goest back 
to Sicut erat, ov, as it was in the beginning, I must give 
thee over. Canst thon not speak as other folks do, 
and not after such a roundabout manner? How often 
have [told thee of this? Mind what I tell you; Iam 
sure you will be the better for it.” 

“Tt is an unlucky trick I have got,” replied Sancho; 
“TI cannot bring you in three words to the purpose 
without a proverb, nor bring you any proverb but what 
I think to the purpose; but I will mend if I can.” 

And so, for this time, their conversation broke off. 











CHAPTER LXXII. 


HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO GOT HOME. 


THAT whole day Don Quixote and Sancho continued 
in the inn, expecting the return of night, the one to 
have an opportunity to make an end of his penance in 
the fields, and the other to see it fully performed, as 
being the most material preliminary to the accomplish- 
ment of his desires. 

In the meantime a gentleman, with three or four ser- 
vants, came riding up to the inn, and one of them call- 
ing him that appeared to be the master by the name of 
Don Alvaro Tarfe, “Your worship,” said he, “had as 
good stop here till the heat of the day be over. In my 
opinion the house looks cool and cleanly.” 

Don Quixote overhearing the name of Tarfe, and 
presently turning to his squire, “Sancho,” said he, “I 
am much mistaken if I had not a glimpse of this very 
name of Don Alvaro Tarfe in turning over that pre- 
tended second part of my history.” 

“As likely as not,” quoth Sancho; “but first let him 
alight, and then we will question him about the 
matter.” 

The gentleman alighted, and was shown by the land- 
lady into a ground room that faced Don Quixote’s 
apartment, and was hung with the same sort of coarse 
painted stuff. A while after the stranger had un- 
dressed for coolness, he came out to take a turn, and 
walked into the porch of the house, that was large and 
airy. There he found Don Quixote, to whom address- 
ing himself, “Pray, sir,” said he, “which way do you 
travel?” 

“To y country town not far off,” answered Don Quix- 





ote, “the place of my nativity. And pray, sir, which 
way are you bound ?” 

“To Grenada, sir,” said the knight, “the country 
where I was born.” 

“And a fine country it is,” replied Don Quixote. 

“But pray, sir, may I beg the favor to know your 
name? for the information, 1 am persuaded, will be of 
more consequence to my affairs than I can well tell 
you.” 

“They call me Don Alvaro Tarfe,” answered the 
gentleman. 

“Then, without dispute,” said Don Quixote, “you are 
the same Don Alvaro Tarfe whose name fills a place in 
the Second Part of Don Quixote de la Mancha’s His- 
tory, that was lately published by a new author.” 

“The very man,” answered the knight; “and that 
very Don Quixote, who is the principal subject of that 
book, was my intimate acquaintance. J am the person 
that enticed him from his habitation, so far, at least, 
that he had never seen the tournament at Saragosa had 
it not been through my persuasions, and in my com- 
pany; and, indeed, as it happened, I proved the best 
friend he had, and did him a singular piece of service, 
for had T not stood by him, his intolerable impudence 
had brought him to some shameful punishment.” 

“But pray, sir,” said Don Quixote, “be pleased to 
tell me one thing: am I anything like that Don Quixote 
of yours?” 

“The farthest from it in the world, sir,” replied the 
other. 





WE 


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i 





IN 


Tí 


As 
oo ÁÑ 
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: 


SS. 


SSS 
SA 


ii statu pa 
cil AN et 
sail Ma i) ith HM a I 
A Meal 


Mn 
a a 
ANA 

lil al nei 











“«*Hold! cried he, ‘friend Sancho; stay the fury of thy arm.’ ”—p. 469, 


” 


472 
“And had he,” said our knight, “one Sancho Panza 
for his squire?” 

“Yes,” said Don Alvaro, “but I was the most de- 
ceived in him that could be; for, by report, that same 
squire was a comical, witty fellow, but I found him a 
very great blockhead.” 

“T thought no less,” quoth Sancho, “for it is not in 
everybody’s power to crack a jest, or say pleasant 
things; and that Sancho you talk of must be some pal- 
try ragamuffin—some guttling mumper, or pilfering 
crack-rope, I warrant him; for itis I that am the true 
Sancho Panza; it is I that am the merry-conceited 
squire, that have always a tinker’s budget full of wit 
and waggery, that will make gravity grin in spite of 
its teeth. If you will not believe me, do but try me; 
keep my company for a twelvemonth or so, you will find 
what a shower of jokes and notable things drop from 
me every foot. Ah! I set everybody a-laughing many 
times, and yet I wish I may be hanged if I designed it 
in the least. And then for the true Don Quixote de la 
Mancha, here you have him before you—the staunch, 
the famous, the valiant, the wise, the loving Don Quix- 
ote de la Mancha, the righter of wrongs, the punisher 
of wickedness, the father to the fatherless, the bully- 
rock of widows, the protector of damsels and maidens; 
he whose only dear and sweetheart is the peerlees Dul- 
cinea del Toboso; here he is, and here am I his squire. 
All other Don Quixotes, and all Sancho Panzas, besides 
us two, are but shams, and tales of atub.” 

“Now, by the sword of St. Jago, honest friend,” said 
Don Alvaro, “I believe as much, for the little thou hast 
uttered now has more of the humor than all I ever 
heard from the other. The blockhead seemed to carry 
all his brains in his stomach; there is nothing a jest 
with him but filling his belly, and the rogue is too 
heavy to be diverting. For my purt, 1 believe the 
enchanters that persecute the good Dor Quixote sent 
the bad one to persecute me too. I cannot tell what to 
make of this matter; for though I can take my oath I 
left one Don Quixote under the surgeon’s hands at the 
nuncio’s house in Toledo, yet here starts up another 
Don Quixote quite different from mine.” 

“For my part,” said our knight, “I dare not avow my- 
self the good, but I may venture to say I am not the 
bad one; and as a proof of it, sir, be assured that in the 
whole course of my life I never saw the city of Sura- 
gosa; and, so far from it, that hearing this usurper of 
my name, had appeared there at the tournament, I de- 
clined coming near it, being resolved to convince the 
world that he was an imposter. I directed my course 
to Barcelona, the seat of urbanity, the sanctuary of 
strangers, the refuge of the distressed, the mother of 
men of valor, the redresser of the injured, the residence 
of true friendship, and the first city in the world for 
beauty and situation. And though some accidents 
that befell me there are so far from being grateful to 
my thoughts that they are a sensible mortification to 
me, yet, in my reflection of having seen that city, I find 
pleasure enough to alleviate my misfortune. In short, 
Don Alvaro, I am that Don Quixote de la Mancha 
whom fame has celebrated, and not the pitiful wreteh 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


who has usurped my name, and would arrogate to him- 
self the honor of my designs. Sir, you are a gentleman, 
and I hope will not deny me the favor to depose before 
the magistrate of this place that you never saw me in 
all your life till this day, and that I am not the Don 
Quixote mentioned in that Second Part, nor was this 
Sancho Panza, my squire, the person you knew for- 
merly.” 

“With all my beart,” said Don Alvaro; “though I 
must own myself not a little confounded to find at the 
same time two Don Quixotes, and two Sancho Panzas, 
as different in their behavior as they are alike in name. 
For my part, I do not know what to think of it; and I 
am sometimes apt to fancy my senses have been imposed 
upon.” 

“Ay, ay,” quoth Sancho, “there has been foul play, 
to be sure. The same trick that served to bewitch my 
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been played you; and if 
three thousand and odd lashes laid on by me on my 
body would disenchant your worship as well as her, 
they should be at your service with all my heart; and 
what is more, they should not cost you a farthing.” 

“T do not understand what you mean by those lash- 
es,” said Don Alvaro. 

“Thereby hangs a tale,” quoth Sancho, “but that is 
too long to relate at a minute’s warning; but if it be 
our luck to be fellow-travellers, you may chance to 
hear more of the matter.” 

Dinner-time being come, Don Quixote and Don Al- 
varo dined together; and the mayor, or bailiff of the 
town, happening to come into the inn with a public 
notary, Don Quixote desired him to take the deposition 
which Don Alvaro Tarfe there present was reudy to 
give, confessing and declaring that the said deponent 
had not any knowledge of the Don Quixote there pres- 
ent, and that the said Don Quixote was not the same 
person that he, this deponent, had seen mentioned in a 
certain printed history, entitled or called, ‘The Second 
Part of Don Quixote de la Mancha,’ written by Avella- 
neda, a native of Tordesillas. In short, the notary 
¡drew up and engrossed the affidavit in due form; and 
the testimonial wanted nothing to make it answer all 
the intentions of Don Quixote and Sancho, who were 
as much pleased as if it Lad been a matter of the 
greatest consequence, and that their words and be- 
havior had not been enough to make the distinction 
apparent between the two Don Quixotes and the two 
Sanchos. 

The compliments and offers of service that passed 
after that between Don Alvaro and Don Quixote were 
not a few; and our knight of La Mancha behaved him- 
self therein with so much discretion, that Don Alvaro 
was convinced he was mistaken; for he thought there 
was some enchantment in the case, since he had thus 
met with two knights and two squires of the sume names 
and professions, and yet so very different. 

They set out towards the evening, and about halfa 
league from the town the road parted into two; one 
way led to Don Quixote’s habitation, and the other 
to that which Don Alvaro was to take. Dou Quixote 
in that little time let him understand the misfortune of 




































































‘© Oh, my long-wished for home !’ ”—p, 474, 


474 


his defeat, with Dulcinea’s enchantment, and the 
remedy prescribed by Merlin, all which was new mat- 
ter of wonder to Don Alvaro, who having embraced 
Don Quixote und Sancho, left them on their way, and 
he followed his own. 

Don Quixote passed that night among the trees, to 
give Sancho a fair occasion to make an end of his dis- 
cipline, when the cunning knave put it in practice just 
after the same manner as the night before. The bark 
of the trees paid for all, and Sancho took such care of 
his back that a fly might have rested there without any 
disturbance. 

All the while his abused master was very punctual 
in telling the strokes, and reckoned that with those of 
the foregoing night, they amounted just to the sum of 
three thousand and twenty-nine. The sun, that seemed 
to have made more than ordinary haste to rise and see 
this human sacrifice, gave them light, however, to con- 
tinue their journey; and as they went on they descanted 
at large upon Don Alvaro’s mistake, and their own pru- 
dence, in relation to the certificate before the magis- 
trate, in so full and authentic a form. 

Their travels all that day and the ensuing night 
afforded no occurrence worth mentioning, except that 
Sancho that night put the last hand to his whipping 
work, to the inexpressible joy of Don Quixote, who 
waited for the day with as great impationce, in hopes 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


he might light on his Lady Dulcinea in her disenchant- 
ed state; and all the way he went he made up to every 
woman he spied, to see whether she was Dulcinea del 
Toboso or not; for he so firmly relied on Merlin’s 
promises, that he did not doubt of the performance. 

He was altogether taken up with these hopes and 
fancies, when they got to the top of a hill that gave 
them a prospect of their village. Sancho had no soon- 
er blessed his eyes with the sight, than down he fell on 
his knees. “Oh, my long-wished-for home!” cried he, 
“open thy eyes, and here behold thy child Sancho 
Panza come back to thee again, if not very full of 
money, yet very full of whipping. Open thy arms, 
and receive thy son Don Quixote too, who, though he 
got the worst of it with another, nevertheless got the 
better of himself, and that is the best kind of victory 
one can wish for; I have his own word for it. How- 
ever, though I have been swingingly flogged, yet I 
have not lost all by the bargain, for 1 have whipped 
some money into my pocket.” . 

“Forbear thy impertinence,” said Don Quixote, “and 
let us now, in a decent manner, make our entry into the 
place of our nativity, where we will give a loose to our 
imaginations, and lay down the plan that is to be fol- 
lowed in our intended pastoral life.” With these 
words they came down the hill, and went directly to 





their village. 








CHAPTER LXXIII. 


OF THE OMINOUS ACCIDENTS THAT CROSSED DON QUIXOTE AS HE ENTERED HIS VILLAGE, WITH OTHER 


TRANSACTIONS THAT ILLUSTRATE AND ADORN THIS MEMORABLE HISTORY. 


WHEN they were entering into the village, as Cid 
Hamet relates, Don Quixote observed two little boys 
contesting together in an adjoining field; and says one 
to the other, “Never fret thy gizzard about it, for thou 
shalt never see her whilst thou hast breath in thy 
body.” Don Quixote overhearing this, “Sancho,” said 
he, “did you mind the boy’s words, ‘Thou shalt never 
see her while thou hast breath in thy body ?’” 

“Well,” answered Sancho, “and what is the great 
business though the boy did say so ?” 

“How!” replied Don Quixote; “dost thou not per- 
ceive that, applying the words to my affairs, they 
plainly imply that I shall never see my Dulcinea ?” 

Sancho was about to answer again, but was hindered 
by a full ery of hounds and horsemen pursning a hare, 
which was put so hard to her shifts that she came and 
squatted down for shelter just between Dapple's feet. 
Immediately Sancho laid hold of her without difficulty, 
and presented her to Don Quixote; but he, with a de- 
jected look, refusing the present, cried out aloud, 
“ Valum signum! malum signum! (fan ill omen! an ill 





omen !’) a hare runs away, hounds pursue her, and Dul- 
cinea is not started.” 

“You are a strange man,” quoth Sancho; “cannot we 
suppose, now, that poor puss here is Dulcinea, the 
greyhounds that followed her are those dogs the en- 
chanters, that made her a country lass; she scours 
away, I catch her by the scut, and give her safe and 
sound into your worship’s hands? And pray make 
much of her now you have her; for my part, I cannot 
for the blood of me see any harm, nor any ill-luck in 
this matter.” 

By this time the two boys that had fallen out came 
up to see the hare; and Sancho having asked the cause 
of their quarrel, he was answered by the boy that spoke 
the omnious words, that he had snatched from his play- 
fellow a little cage full of crickets, which he would not 
let him have again. Upon that Sancho put his hand 
into his pocket, and gave the boy a threepenny-piece 
for his cage; and, giving it to Don Quixote, “There 
sir,” quoth he, “here are all the signs of ill-luck come 
to nothing. You have them in your own hands; and, 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


though I am but a dunderhead, I dare swear these 
things are no more to us than the rain that falls at 
Christmas I am much mistaken if I have not heard 
the parson of our parish advise all sober Catholics 
against heeding such fooleries; and I have heard you 
yourself, my dear master, say that all such Christians 
as troubled their heads with these fortune-telling follies 
were neither better nor worse than downright num- 
skulls; so let useven leave things as we found them, 
and get home as fast as we can.” 

By this time the sportsmen were come up, and, de- 
manding their game, Don Quixote delivered them their 
hare. They passed on, and, just at their coming into 
the town, they perceived the curate und the bachelor 
Carrasco at their devotions in a small field adjoining. 
But we must observe, by the way, that Sancho Panza, 
to cover his master’s armor, had, by way of a sumpter- 
cloth, laid over Dapple’s back the buckram-frock, 
figured with flames of fire, which he wore at the duke’s 
the night that Altisidora rose from the dead; and he 
had no less judiciously clapped the mitre on the head 
of the ass, which made so odd and whimsical a figure 
that it might be said never four-footed ass was so be- 
dizened before. The curate and the bachelor, pres- 
ently knowing their old friends, ran to meet them with 
open arms; and, while Don Quixote alighted and re- 
turned their embraces, the boys, who are ever so quick- 
sighted that nothing can escape their eyes, presently 
spying the mitred ass, came running and flocking about 
them. “Oh, la!” cried they to one another, “look you 
there, boys! here is Gaffer Sancho Panza’s ass as fine 
as alady! and Don Quixote’s beast leaner than ever.” 
With that they ran whooping and hallooing about them 
through the town, while the two adventurers, attended 
by the curate and the bachelor, moved towards Don 
Quixote’s house, where they were received at the door 
by his housekeeper and his niece, who had already got 
notice of their arrival. The news having also reached 
Teresa Panza, Sancho’s wife, she came running, half 
dressed, with her hair about her ears, to see him; lead- 
ing by the hand all the way her daughter Sanchica, 
who hardly wanted to be tugged along. But when she 
found that her husband looked a little short of the 
state of a governor, “Mercy on me!” quoth she, “what. 
is the meaning of this, husband? You look as though 
you had come all the way on foot, and tired off your 
legs, too. Why, you have come home more like a shark 
than a governor.” 

“Mum, Teresa,” quoth Sancho; ““it is not all gold 
that glisters,’ and every man was not born with a silver 
spoon in his mouth. First, let us go home, and then I 
will tell thee wonders! I have taken care of the main 
chance. Money I have, old girl, and I came honestly 
by it, without wronging anybody.” 

“Hast got money, old boy? Nay, then, it is well 
enough, no matter which way; let it come by hook or 
by crook, it is but what your betters have done before 
you.” 

At the same time Sanchica, hugging her father, asked 
him what be had brought her home, for she had gaped 
for him as the flowers do for the dew of May. Thus 





475 


Sancho, leading Dapple by the halter on one side, his 
wife taking him by the arm on the other, and his 
daughter following, away they went together to his 
cottage, leaving Don Quixote at his own house, under 
the care of his niece aud housekeeper, with the curate 
and bachelor to keep him company. 

That very moment Don Quixote took the two last 
aside, and, without mincing the matter, gave them a 
short account of his defeat, and the obligation he lay 
under of being confined to his village for a year, which, 
like a true knight-errant, he was resolved punctually 
to observe. He added, that he intended to pass that 
interval of time in the innocent functions of a pastoral 
life; and, therefore, he would immediately commence 
shepherd, and entertain his amorous passion solitarily 
in fields and woods, and begged, if business of greater 
importance were not an obstruction, that they would 
both please to be his companions, assuring them he 
would furnish them with such a number of sheep as 
might entitle them to such a profession. He also told 
them that he had already in a manner fitted them for 
the undertaking, for he had provided them all with 
names the most pastoral in the world. The curate be- 
ing desirous to know the names, Don Quixote told him 
he would himself be called the shepherd Quixotis; that 
the bachelor should be called the shepherd Carrascone ; 
the curate, pastor Curiambro; and Sancho Panza, Pan- 
zino the shepherd. 

They were struck with amazement at this new strain 
of folly ; but considering this might be a means of keep- 
ing him at home, and hoping, at the same time, that, 
within the year, be might be cured of his mad knight- 
errantry, they came into his pastoral folly, and, with 
great applause to his project, freely offered their com- 
pany in the design. 

“We shall live the most pleasant life imaginable,” 
said Samson Carrasco; “for, as everybody knows, I am 
a most celebrated poet, and 1 will write pastorals in 
abundance. Sometimes, too, I may raise my strain, as 
occasion offers, to divert us as we range the groves 
and plains. But one thing, gentlemen, we must not 
forget: it is absolutely necessary that each of us choose 
a name for the shepherdess he means to celebrate in 
his lays: nor must we forget the ceremony used by the 
amorous shepherds, of writing, carving, notching, or 
engraving on every tree the names of such shepherd- 
esses, though the bark be ever so hard.” 

“You are very much in the right,” replied Don Quix- 
ote; “though, for my part, I need not be at the trouble 
of devising a name for any imaginary shepherdess, 
being already captivated by the peerless Dulcinea del 
Toboso, the nymph of these streams, the ornament of 
these meads, the primrose of beauty, the cream of 
gracefulness, and, in short, the subject that can merit 
all the praises that hyberbolieal eloquence can bestow.” 

“We grant all this,” said the curate; “but we, who 
cannot pretend to such perfections, must make it our 
business to find out some shepherdesses of a lower 
form.” 

“We shall find enough, I will warrant you,” replied 
Carrasco; “and though we meet with none, yet will we 


476 


give those very names we find in books, such as Phyl- 
lis, Amaryllis, Diana, Florinda, Galatea, Belisarda, and 
a thousand more. Besides, if my shepherdess be called 
Anne, I will name her in my verses Anarda; if Frances, 
I will call her Francenia; and, if Lucy be her name, 
then Lucinda, and so forth. And if Sancho Panza will 
make one of our fraternity, he may celebrate his wife 
Teresa by the name of Teresania.” 

Don Quixote could not forebear smiling at the turn 
given to that name. The curate again applauded his 
laudable resolution, and repeated his offer of bearing 
him company all the time that his other employment 
would allow him, and then they took their leave, giv- 
ing him all the good advice that they thought might 
conduce to his health and welfare. 

No sooner were the curate and bachelor gone, than 
the housekeeper and niece, who, according to custom, 
had been listening to all their discourse, came both 
upon Don Quixote, “Bless me, uncle!” cried the 
niece, “what is here to do?” What new maggot is got 
into your head? When we thought you were come to 
stay at home, and live like a sober, honest gentleman in 
your own house, are you hankering after new inven- 
tions, and running a wool-gathering after sheep, for- 





DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


sooth ? 
latest.” 

“Oh, sir,” quoth the housekeeper, “how will you be 
able to endure the summer’s sun and the winter frost in 
the open fields? And then the howlings of the wolves, 
Heaven bless us! Pray, good sir, do not think of it; it 
is a business fit for nobody but those that are bred 
and born to it, and as strong as horses. Let the 
worst come to the worst; better be a knight-errant 
still, than a keeper of sheep. Troth, master, take my 
advice; I am neither drunk nor mad, but fresh and 
fasting from everything but sin, and I have fifty years 
over my head. Be ruled by me; stay at home, do good 
to the poor; and, if aught goes ill with you, let it lie at 
my door.” 

“Good girls,” said Don Quixote, “hold your prating: 
I know best what I have to do: only let me go to bed, 
for I find myself somewhat out of order. However, do 
not trouble your heads; whether I be a knight-errant 
or an errant-shepherd, you shall always find that I will 
provide for you.” 

The niece and housekeeper, who, without doubt, 
were good-natured creatures, then brought him some- 
thing to eat, and tended him with all imaginable care. 


By my troth, sir, you are somewhat of the 








CHAPTER LXXIV. 


HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, MADE HIS LAST WILL, AND DIED. 


AS ALL human things, especially the lives of men, 
are transitory, their very beginnings being but steps to 
their dissolution, so Don Quixote, who was no way ex- 
empted from the common fate, was snatched away by 
death when he least expected it. Whether his sick- 
ness was the effect of his melancholy reflections, or 
whether it was so pre-ordained by Heaven, most certain 
it is, he was seized with a violent fever that confined 
him to his bed six days. 

All that time his good friends, the curate, bachelor, 
and barber, came often to see him, and his trusty squire 
Sancho Pauza never stirred trom his bed-side. 

They conjectured that his sickness proceeded from 
the regret of his defeat, and his being disappointed of 
Dulcinea’s disenchantment; and accordingly they left 
nothing unessayed to divert him. The bachelor begged 
him to pluck up a good heart, and rise, that they might 
begin their pastoral life, telling him that he had al- 
ready written an eclogue to that purpose, not inferior 
+o those of Sanazaro, and that he had bonght, with his 
own money, of a shepherd of Quintinar, two tearing 
dogs to watch their flock, the one called Barcino, and 
the other Butron; but this had no effect on Don Quix- 
ote, for he still continned dejected. A physician was 
sent for, who, upon feeling his pulse, did not very well 
like it; and therefore desirea him of all things to pro- 





vide for his soul's bealth, for that of his body was in a 
dangerous condition. Don Quixote heard this with 
much more temper than those about him; for his niece, 
his housekeeper, and his squire fell a-weeping as bit- 
terly as if he had been laid out already. The physician 
was of opinion that mere melancholy and vexation bad 
brought him to his approaching end. Don Quixote de- 
sired them to leave him a little, because he found him- 
self inclinable to rest; they retired, and he had a hearty 
sleep of about six hours, which the housekeeper and 
niece were afraid had been his last. 

At length he awoke, and, with aloud voice, “Blessed 
be the Almighty,” cried he, “for this great benefit he 
has vonchsafed to do me! Infinite are his mercies! 
they are greater and more in number than the sins of 
men.” The niece hearkening very attentively to these 
words of her uncle, and finding more sense in them than 
there was in his usual talk, “What do you say, sir?” 
said she; “has anything extraordinary happened? 
What mercies are these you mention?” 

“Mercies,” answered Don Quixote, “that Heaven has 
this moment vouchsafed to show me, in spite of all my 
iniquities. My judgment is returned clear and undis- 
turbed, and that cloud of ignorance is now removed 
which the continual reading of those foolish hooks of 
knight-errantry had cast over my understanding. Now 


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


I perceive their nonsense and impertinence, and am 
only sorry the discovery happens so late, when I want 
to make amends, by those studies that should enlighten 
my soul, and prepare me for futurity. I find, niece, 
my end approaches; but I would have it such, that 
though my life has got me the character of umadman, 
I may deserve a better at my death. Dear child,” con- 
tinued he, “send formy honest friend the curate, the 
bachelor Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for 
I intend to make my confession and my will.” 

His niece was saved the trouble of sending, for they 
all three came in; which Don Quixote perceiving, “My 
good friends,” suid he, “Ihave happy news to tell you; 
I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha, but Alonzo 
Quixano, the same whom the world, for his behavior, 
las been formerly pleased to call the Good. I now de- 
clare myself an enemy to Amadis de Gaul, and his 
whole generation; all profane stories of knight-errant- 
ry, all romances, [ detest. Ihave a true sense of the 
danger of reading them, and of all my past follies; and 
through Heaven’s mercy and my own experience, I ab- 
hor them.” 

His three friends were not a little surprised to hear 
him talk at this rate, and concluded some new frenzy 
had possessed him. “What now?” said Samson to him: 
“whatis all this, Signor Don Quixote? We have just 
had the news that Lady Dulcinea is disenchanted; and 
now we are upon the point of turning shepherds, to 
live like princes, you are dwindled down to a hermit!” 

“No more of that, I beseech you,” replied Don Quix- 
ote; “all the use I shall make of these follies at present 
is to heighten my repentance; and though they have 
hitherto proved prejudicial, yet, by the assistance of 
Heaven, they may turn to my advantage at my death: 
I find it comes fast upon me; therefore, pray gentlemen, 
let us be serious. I want a priest to receive my con- 
fession, and a scrivener to draw up my will. There is 
no trifling atatime like this; I must take cure of my 
soul; and therefore, pray let the scrivener he sent for, 
while Mr. Curate prepares me by confession.” 

Don Quixute’s words put them all into such admira- 
tion, that they stood gazing upon one another; they 
thought they had reason to doubt of the return of his 
understanding, and yet they could not help believing 
him. They were also apprehensive he was near the 
point of death, considering the sudden recovery of his 
intellects; aud he delivered himself after that with so 
much sense, discretion, and piety, and showed himself 
so resigned to the will of Heaven, that they made no 
seruple to believe him restored to his perfect judgment, 
at last. The curate thereupon cleared the room of all 
the company but himself and Don Quixote, aud then 
confessed him. In the meantime the bachelor ran for 
the serivener, and presently brought him with him; 
and Sancho Panza, being informed by the bachelor how 
ill his master was, and finding his niece and houskeeper 
all in tears, began to make wry faces and fall a-crying. 
The curate, having heard the sick person’s confession, 
came out and told them that the good Alonzo Quixano 
was very near his end and certainly in his senses; and 
therefore they had best go in, that he might make his 





417 


will. These dismal tidings opened the sluices of the 
housekeeper’s, the neice’s, and the good squire's swol- 
len eyes, so that a whole inundation of tears burst out 
of those flood-gates, and a thousand sighs from their 
hearts; for, indeed, either as Alonzo Quixano, or as 
Don Quixote de la Mancha, as it has been observed, 
the sick gentleman had always showed himself such a 
good-natured man, and of so agreeable a behavior, that 
he was not only beloved by his family, but by every 
one that knew him. 

The scrivener, with the rest of the company, then 
went into the chamber; and the preamble and former 
part of the will being drawn, and the testator having 
recommended his soul to Heaven, and bequeathed bis 
body to the earth, according to custom, he came to the 
legacies, as follows :— 

“Item, 1 giveand bequeath to Sancho Panza, whom 
in my maduess I made my squire, whatever money he 
has or may have of mine in his hands. And, whereas 
there are reckonings and accounts to Le adjusted be- 
tween us for what he has received and disbursed, my 
will and pleasure is, that whatever may remain due to 
me, which can be but small, be enjoyed by him as my 
free gift, without any let or molestation, and much 
good may it do him. And as, when I was mad, he was 
through my means made governor of an island, I would 
now, in my right senses, give him the government of a 
kingdom, were it in my power, in consideration of his 
integrity and faithfulness. And now, my friend,” said 
he, turning to Sancho, “pardon me that I have brought 
upon thee, as well as myself, the scandal of madness, 
by drawing thee inte my own errors, and persuading 
thee that there have been and still are knights-errant 
in the world.” 

“Woe's me, my dear master’s worship!” cmed San- 
cho, all in tears; “do not die this bout, but even take 
my counsel, and live on a many years; it is the mad- 
est trick aman can ever play in his whole life, to let 
his breath sneak out of his body without any more ado, 
and without so much as a rap over the pate, or a kick 
in the body; to go out like the snuff of a farthing 
candle, and die merely of the mulligrubs or the sullens. 
For shame, sir! do not give way to sluggishness, but 
get out of your doleful dumps, and rise. Is this a time 
to lic honing and groaning a-bed, when we should be 
in the fields in our shepherds’ clothing, as we had re- 
solved?) Ten to one but behind some bush, or under 
some hedge, we may find the Lady Madam Dulcinea, 
stripped of her encnanted rags, and as fine as a queen. 
Mayhaps you take it to heart that you were unhorsed, 
and a little crupper-scratched the other day; but if 
that be all, lay the blame upon me, and say it was my 
fault in not girting Rozinante tight enough. You know, 
too, there is nothing more common in your errautry- 
books than for the knights to be every foot jostled ont 
of the saddle. There is nothing but ups and downs in 
this world, and he that is cast down to-day may be up 
to-morrow.” 

“Even so,” said Samson; “honest Sancho has aright 
notion of the matter.” 

“Soft and fair, gentlemen,” replied Don Quixote; 


172) 


+7 


“< never look for birds of this year in the nests of the 
last;’ Twas mad, but now 1 am in my right senses. 1 
was once Don Quixote de la Mancha, but I am now (as 
I said before) Alonzo Quixano; and I hope the sincerity 
of my words and my repentance may restore me to the 
same esteem you have had for me before; and so, Mr. 
Serivener, pray go on.” 

“Ttem, I constitute and appoint Antonia Quixano, my 
niece here present, sole heiress of all my estate real 
and personal, after all my just debts and legacies, be- 
queathed by these presents, shall have been paid, sat- 
isfied, and deducted, out of the best of my goods and 
chattels; and the first of that kind to be discharged 
shall be the salary due to my housekeeper, together 
with twenty ducats over and above her wages, which 
said sum I leave and bequeath her to buy her mourn- 
ing. 

“Item, I appoint Mr. Curate, and Mr. Samson Carrasco, 
the bachelor, here present, to be the executors of this 
my last will and testament. 

“Item, It is my will, that if my niece Antonia Quix- 
ano be inclinable to marry, it be with none but a per- 
son who, upon strict inquiry, shall be found never to 
have read a book of knight-errantry in his life; and in 
ease it appears that he has been conversant in such 
books, and that she persists in her resolution to marry 
him, she is then to forfeit all right and title to my be- 
quest, which, in such a case, my executors are hereby 
empowered to dispose of to pious uses, as they shall 
think most proper. 

“Item, Tentreat the said executors that if at any time 
they happen to meet with the author of a book now ex- 
tant, entitled ‘The Second Part of the Achievements of 
Don Quixote de la Mancha,’ they would from me most 
heartily beg his pardon, for my being undesignedly the 
occasion of his writing such a parcel of impertinences 
as is contained in that book, for it is the greatest burden 
to my departing soul that ever I was the cause of his 
making such a thing public.” 

Having finished the will, he fell into a swooning fit, 
and extended his body to the full length in the bed. 
All the company were troubled and alarmed, and ran to 
his assistance; however, he came to himself at last, but 
relapsed into the like tits almost every hour for the 
space of three days that he lived after he had made his 
will. 

The whole family was in grief and confusion; and 
yet, after all, the niece continued to eat; the house- 
keeper drank, and washed down sorrow; and Sancho 


Panza made much of himself; for there is a strrange 


charm in the thoughts of a good legacy, or the hopes 
of an estate, which wondrously removes, or at least 
alleviates, the sorrow that men would otherwise feel 
for the death of friends. 

In short, Don Quixote's last day came, after he had 
made those preparations for death which good Chris- 
tians ought to do, and, by many fresh and weighty 
arguments, showed his abhorrence of books of knight- 
errantry. The serivener, who was by, protested he had 
never read in any books of that kind of any knight- 
errant who ever died in his bed so quietly, and like a 





DON OUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


good Christian as Don Quixote did. In short, amidst 
the tears and lamentations of his friends he gave up the 
ghost, or to speak more plainly, died; which, when the 
curate perceived, he desired the scrivener to give him 
a certificate how Alonzo Quixano, commonly called the 
Good, and sometimes known by the name of Don Quix- 
ote de la Mancha, was departed out of this life into 
another, and died a natural death. This he desired, 
lest any other author but Cid Hamet Benengeli should 
take occasion to raise him from the dead, and presume 
to write endless histories of his pretended adventures. 

Thus died that ingenious gentleman Don Quixote de 
la Mancha, whose native place Cid Hamet has not 
thought fit directly to mention, with design that all the 
towns and villages in La Mancha should contend for 
the honor of giving him birth, as the seven cities of 
Greece did for Homer. We shall omit Sancho’s lament- 
ations, and those of the nieve and the housekeeper, as 
also several epitaphs that were made for his tomb, and 
will only give you this, which the bachelor Carrasco 
caused to be put over it:— 


DON QUIXOTE'S EPITAPH. 


The body of a knight lies here, 

So brave. that, to lis latest breath, 
Immortal glory was his care, 

And made him triumph over death. 


His looks spread terror every hour; 
He strove oppression to control; 

Nor could a)! hell’s united power 
Subdueor daunt his mighty soul, 


Nor has his death the world deceived 
Less thaz his wondrous life surprised; 
For if he like a madman lived, 
At least he like a wise one died. 


Here the sagacions Cid Hamet, addressing himself 
to his pen, “Oh, thou, my slender pen!” says he, “thou, 
of whose nib, whether well or ill cut, I dare not speak 
my thoughts! suspended hy this brass wire, remain 
upon this spit-rack where I lodge thee! There mayest 
thou claim a being many ages, unless presumptuous 
and wicked historions take thee down to profane thee! 
But, ere they lay their heavy hands upon thee, bid 
them beware, and, as well as thou canst, in their own 
style, tell them— 

*Avaunt, ye scoundrels, all and some ! 
I'm kept for no such thing: 
Defile me pot; but hang yourselves; 
And so, God save the king. 
‘For me alone was the great Quixote born, and I alone 
for him. Deeds were his task, and to record them 
mine.’ We two, like tallies for each other struck, are 
nothing when apart. In vain the spurious scribe of 
Tordesillas dared, with his blunt and bungling ostrich- 
quill, invade the deeds of my most glorious knight: 
his shoulders are unequal to the attempt; the task is 
superior to his frozen genins. 

“ And thou, reader, if ever thou canst find him out 
in his obscurity, I beseech thee advise him likewise to 
let the wearied bones of Don Quixote rest quiet in the 
earth that covers them. Let him not expose them in 
Old Castile against the sanctions of death, impiously 
raking him out of the vanit where he really lies 
stretched out beyond a possibility of taking a third 





a 
y 


NI 


NN 
N NN 


i 
N 4 inh 0 AN Ay A E 
A MR il Ñ 























Death of Don Quixote.—p. 478. 


480 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 


ramble through the world. The two sallies that he has |] must esteem myself happy to have been the first that 
made already (which are the subject of this volume, | rendered those fabulous nonsensical stories of knight- 
and have met with such universal applause in this and [errantry the object of the public aversion. They are 
other kingdoms) are sufficient to ridicule the pretended | already going down, and I do not doubt but they will 
adventures of knights-errant. Thus advising him for | drop and fall all together in good earnest, never to rise 
the best, thou shalt discharge the duty of a Christian, [again. Adieu.” 

and do good to him that wishes thee evil. As for me, —