BOOK I.

CHAP. I. OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF THE CURATE AND BARBER, WITH REGARD TO DON QUIXOTE’S INFIRMITY.

Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the second part of this history, containing the third sally of Don Quixote, relates that the curate and barber forbore to visit him for a whole month, that they might not revive and recal to his imagination the remembrance of things past; but, during all that time, they frequently went to see the housekeeper and niece, on whom they laid strong injunctions to cherish the knight with great care and tenderness, and treat him with such comfortable food as should be most agreeable to his stomach and brain, in which they reasonably supposed that his whole disorder lay. The ladies assured them it was their chief study, which they would prosecute with all imaginable care and satisfaction; for they began to perceive that their master, at certain intervals, gave tokens of being in his right wits. This information afforded great pleasure to the two friends, who now concluded they had acted wisely in bringing him home on the inchanted waggon, as hath been recounted in the last chapter of the first part of this sublime and punctual history; and determined to pay him a visit, that they might be convinced of his amendment, which they deemed almost impossible; though they agreed to avoid, with great care, the subject of chivalry, that they might run no risk of ripping up the wound so lately closed.

In short, they entered his chamber, and found him sitting upon his bed, in a waistcoat of green baize, and a red Toledan night-cap, so meagre, shrunk, and withered, that he looked like an Egyptian mummy; he received them very courteously, and when they enquired into the state of his health, spoke of his indisposition and himself with great judgment and elocution. The conversation happening to turn on what is called reasons of state, and modes of administration, they amended certain abuses, and condemned others, reforming one custom, and banishing another; as if each of the three had been a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or regenerated Solon; and in such a manner did they furbish up the common-wealth, that one would have imagined they had committed it to a forge, and brought out another quite different from that which they put in. Don Quixote spoke on every subject that was handled, with such discretion, as actually convinced the two examiners, that he was quite sound, and had recovered the right exercise of his judgment; while the niece and housekeeper, who were present all the time, thought they could never be thankful enough to God, when they heard their master talk so sensibly. But the curate altering his first resolution, which was to avoid the subject of chivalry, now determined to make an experiment, by which he should be thoroughly satisfied, whether the knight’s cure was real or imaginary; with this view, he from one thing to another came to mention some news from court; and among other pieces of intelligence, said he was certainly informed that the Turk had taken the sea, with a powerful armament, though his design was not known, nor could it be guessed where the expected storm would burst; but that these preparations, which keep us almost constantly in arms, had alarmed all Christendom; and that his majesty had ordered the coasts of Naples and Sicily, with the island of Malta, to be provided against all attempts. To this intimation Don Quixote replied, ‘His majesty has acted like a most prudent warrior, in providing for the safety of his dominions, that the enemy may not find them unprepared; but, if he would take my advice, I would furnish him with an expedient, which I believe our sovereign at present little thinks of.’

The curate no sooner heard these words, than he said within himself, ‘Lord have mercy upon thee, poor Don Quixote! if I am not mistaken, thou art just going to cast thyself headlong from the highest pinnacle of madness, into the profound abyss of thy folly.’ But the barber, who immediately adopted the same suspicion, asked the knight what that expedient was, which he thought should be put in practice by way of prevention; observing, that it was, perhaps, such a scheme as deserved to be inserted in the list of those impertinent advices usually offered to crowned heads. ‘Mine, Mr. Shaver,’ said Don Quixote, ‘will be pertinent, not impertinent.’—‘I don’t say otherwise,’ replied the barber; ‘I only made that observation, because experience hath shewn that all, or the greatest part of those projects which have been offered to his majesty, are either impossible, extravagant, or prejudicial to the state.’—‘My scheme,’ answered the knight, ‘is neither impossible nor extravagant; but, on the contrary, the most easy, just, brief, and expeditious, that ever projector conceived.’—‘Methinks your worship is very slow in delivering it, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the priest. ‘I should not chuse,’ answered the knight, ‘to have what I say here carried by to-morrow morning, to the ears of the lords of the council; by which means, another may reap the credit and reward of my labour.’—‘For my own part,’ cried the barber, ‘I here give my word, before God! never to disclose what your worship shall impart, either to king or knave, or any mortal man; an oath I learned in the romance of the Curate, who, in the preface, gives the king notice of the robber that stole his hundred ducats, and ambling mule.’—‘I am not acquainted with the story,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the oath is a good oath, because I am convinced that Mr. Nicholas is an honest man.’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied the curate, ‘I will be bound for him, and undertake, that with regard to this affair, he shall speak no more than if he was actually dumb, on pain of whatever penalty you shall think proper to inflict.’—‘And who will be security for you, Mr. Curate?’ said the knight. ‘My profession,’ answered the priest, ‘by which I am bound to keep secrets.’—‘Body of me!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘his majesty has nothing to do, but to issue a proclamation, commanding all the knights-errant in Spain to assemble at his court, by such a day; and although not more than half a dozen should come, among these one may be found, who is alone sufficient to overthrow the whole Turkish power. Pray, gentlemen, give attention, and take me along with you; is it such a new thing, for a single knight to cut in pieces a whole army of two hundred thousand men, as if they had but one common throat, or were made of ginger-bread? How many histories are there, think you, filled with such marvellous exploits? Unfortunate it is for me, (I will not say, for any other) that the renowned Don Belianis is not now alive, or some knight of the innumerable race of Amadis de Gaul; for if any one of them was now living, to confront the Turks, in good sooth, I should not chuse to farm their conquests; but God will provide for his own people, and produce some champion, who, if not equal in valour to former knights-errant, at least will be inferior to none of them in point of courage[129]; Heaven knows my meaning; I will say no more.’—‘Lack-a-day!’ cried the niece, when she heard this insinuation, ‘I’ll be hanged, if my uncle is not resolved to turn knight errant again.’—‘A knight-errant,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will live and die; and the Turks may make their descents or ascents, when they will, with all the power they are masters of. I say again, Heaven knows my meaning.’ Here the barber interposing, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I beg you will give me leave to tell a short story of what happened at Seville; it comes so pat to the purpose, that I have a strong inclination to relate it.’ Don Quixote and the curate granted his request, and the rest yielded him attention, when he began in these words.

‘There was in the mad-house at Seville, a certain lunatick, whom his relations had sent thither on account of the defect in his judgment; he had taken his degrees in the canon law, at Ossuna; and many were of opinion, that if he had acquired them at Salamanca, he would not have been a bit the wiser; this graduate, having been confined some years, took it in his head, that he was quite well, and restored to his right wits; and in this imagination, wrote to the archbishop, earnestly entreating him, with many sensible arguments, to give order that he should be extricated from the misery in which he lived; since, through the mercy of God, he had recovered his lost judgment, though his relations kept him still in confinement, that they might enjoy his estate, and, in despite of truth, were resolved that he should be mad to the day of his death. The archbishop, persuaded by the many sensible and pathetick letters he received, ordered one of his chaplains to go to the rector of the mad-house, and enquire into the truth of what the licentiate alledged, and even to talk with himself, that, if he should find him quite recovered, he might bring him away, and set him at liberty. The chaplain obeyed the command of his grace, and the rector assured him that the man was still mad; for although he would very often talk like a person of excellent understanding, at the long run he commonly broke out into folly and nonsense, as absurd as the first part of his discourse was rational and discreet; however, he himself might make the experiment, by conversing with the licentiate. The chaplain accordingly went to his apartment, and talked with him a whole hour and more, during which time the lunatick did not utter one vague or incoherent sentence; but, on the contrary, spoke so judiciously, that the chaplain could not help believing him quite sound of intellect; among other things, he told him the rector was his enemy, and pronounced him still distracted, though with lucid intervals, that he might not lose the presents which he received from his relations; so that the greatest cause of his misfortune was no other than his own affluent estate, which to enjoy, his adversaries craftily pretended to doubt of the mercy which the Lord had vouchsafed him, in re-converting him from a beast into a man; in short, he talked so effectually as to render the rector suspected, to prove his relations covetous and unnatural, and himself so discreet, that the chaplain determined to carry him forthwith to the archbishop, that his grace might be personally satisfied of the truth. With this laudable intention, he desired the rector to order the licentiate to be dressed with the cloaths in which he entered the house: the rector again advised him to consider what he was about; for the licentiate was, without all question, still distracted. But these cautions and counsels had no effect in dissuading the chaplain from carrying him off, and the rector seeing the archbishop’s order, was obliged to obey; so that the licentiate received his own cloaths, which were decent and new. Seeing himself thus diverted of the badge of his disorder, and habited again like a person of sound intellects, he besought the chaplain, that he would be so charitable as to allow him to go and take leave of his companions in affliction; the other granted his request, and said he would accompany him, in order to see the patients; upon which they went up stairs, followed by several persons who chanced to be then present. The licentiate, going to the gate of a cell, in which there was a furious madman, though at that time he was calm and quiet, said to him, “Brother, have you any commands for me? I am going to my own house, for God of his infinite goodness and mercy, without any desert of mine, hath been pleased to restore unto me the use of my reason, and I am now perfectly recovered; so that there is nothing impossible to the power of the Almighty; put, therefore, your hope and trust in him, who, as he hath restored me to my former state, will grant the same indulgence to you, if you confide in his protection. I will take care to send you some cordial food, and be sure, at all events, to eat it; for, you must know, I conclude from experience, that all our disorder proceeds from an empty stomach, and the brain’s being filled with wind. Take heart, brother, take heart; for despondence under misfortune consumes the constitution, and hastens the stroke of death.” This discourse being overheard by another lunatick, who was confined in a cell opposite to that of the furious patient, he started up stark naked from an old mat on which he lay, and roared aloud, “Who is that going away so sober and so sound?” The licentiate replied, “’Tis I, brother, who am going home, being under no necessity of tarrying longer in this place; thanks be to Heaven for the signal favour I have received!”—“Take care what you say, Mr. Licentiate, and let not the devil deceive you,” answered the madman: “halt a little, stay where you are, and spare yourself the trouble of being brought back.”—“I know that I am perfectly recovered,” said the licentiate, “and shall, have no farther occasion to visit the Stations[130].”—“You recovered!” cried the other, “good! we shall see—adieu—but, I swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that, for the transgression this day committed in Seville, by discharging you from the house, as a person of sound judgment, I will take such vengeance as shall be a monument of wrath for ever and ever, amen. Do’st thou not know, pitiful licentiate, that all this is in my power, being, as I have already observed, Jove the thunderer, who wield the flaming bolts, with which I use to threaten, and can destroy the universe? But with one evil only will I chastise this ignorant people; I will not suffer one drop of rain to fall upon the city, nor its confines, nor indeed in any part of this district, for the space of three whole years, reckoning from the day and minute in which this dreadful menace is made. Thou free! thou sound! thou recovered! and I mad! I distracted and confined! I will sooner hang myself than rain one spoonful.” The by-standers were very attentive to the vociferous exclamations of this madman, when our licentiate turning to the chaplain, and taking him by the hand, said, “Dear Sir, give yourself no uneasiness or concern about what he says; for if he who is Jupiter, witholds refreshing showers from the earth, I who am Neptune, the father and god of waters, will rain as often as I please, should there be occasion for it, in consequence of the privilege I possess.” To this promise the chaplain replied, “Nevertheless, Signior Neptune, it will not be politick to incense Signior Jupiter; therefore, your worship will be so good as to stay where you are, till some other day, when we may have more leisure and convenience to remove you.” The rector and the rest of the company could not help laughing, the chaplain was out of countenance, the licentiate was stripped, and sent back to his cell; and so ends my story.’

‘And this is the story, Mr. Barber,’ said Don Quixote, ‘which came so pat to the purpose, that you could not help relating it? Ah, Mr. Shaver! Mr. Shaver! he must be blind indeed, that cannot see through the bottom of a sieve. Is it possible your worship does not know that comparisons in point of genius, virtue, beauty, and descent, are always odious and ill received? I, Mr. Barber, am not Neptune, god of waters; neither do I set up for being thought a wise man, knowing that I am not so: the sole end of my labours is to convince the world of its error, in not seeking to renew those most happy times when the order of knight-errantry exerted itself in full perfection; but this depraved age of ours is unworthy of tasting that felicity which was enjoyed by those ages, when knights-errant undertook the charge, and burdened their shoulders with the defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the relief of wards and orphans, the chastisement of the proud, and the promotion of the humble. The greatest part of your modern knights rustle in damasks, brocades, and other rich and splendid attire, instead of rattling in coats of mail; no knight now sleeps in the open field, exposed to the inclemency of the weather, armed at all points cap-a-pee; no warrior, in this degenerate age, sits on horseback, and without disengaging his feet from the stirrups, but leaning upon his lance, endeavours to take as it were a snatch of sleep, after the example of former knights-errant; no champion, now-a-days, coming out of some dreary wood, immediately enters another rocky wilderness, through which he reaches the barren and deserted coast of the rough and stormy sea, where, finding in some creek, a crazy boat without oars, sails, mast, or tackle, he intrepidly throws himself into it, and launches out upon the implacable billows that whirl him aloft to heaven, and then sink him to the profound abyss, while his unshaken soul defies the storm; then, when he dreams of no such matter, he finds himself three thousand leagues and more from the place where he embarked, and leaping ashore on some remote and unknown country, achieves adventures worthy to be written, not on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over activity, idleness over toil, vice over virtue, arrogance over valour, and the theory over the practice of arms, which obtained and shone resplendent in those golden ages that produced knights-errant. Pray, tell me, who could be more honourable and valiant than the famous Amadis de Gaul? who more discreet than Palmerin of England? who more insinuating and pliant than Tirante the White? who more gallant than Lifuarte of Greece? who more hacked and hacking than Don Belianis? who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? or, who more daring than Felixmarte of Hircania? who more sincere than Esplandian? who more desperate than Cirongilio of Thrace? who more brave than Rodamont? who more prudent than King Sobrino? who more bold than Reynaldo? who more invincible than Roldan? and who more gallant and courteous than Rugero? from whom (according to Turpin, in his Cosmographia) the present Dukes of Ferrara are descended. All these, with many more which I could name, Mr. Curate, were knights-errant, and the very light and glory of chivalry; these, or such as these, are the champions proposed by my scheme, which, should it take place, would effectually serve his majesty’s purpose, spare an infinite expence, and the Turk would even tear his own beard in despair; in that case I would tarry where I am, since the chaplain would not think fit to enlarge me; and if Jupiter, as the barber said, would not rain, here am I ready to frustrate his intent; this I mention, that Mr. Bason, there, may know I understand his meaning.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ said Mr. Nicholas, ‘I meant no harm, so help me God! my intention was good, and therefore your worship ought not to be displeased.’—‘Whether I am displeased or not,’ replied the knight, ‘I myself know best.’

Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Though I have hitherto scarce opened my mouth, I cannot be easy under a scruple which tears and gnaws my conscience, and which arose from what Signior Don Quixote hath just now asserted.’—‘In greater matters, Mr. Curate may command me,’ answered the knight; ‘out with your scruple, then; for scruples of conscience are very uncomfortable companions.’—‘With your good permission,’ replied the priest, ‘this it is: I can by no means persuade myself that the whole tribe of knights-errant, whom your worship have named, were really and truly earthly persons of flesh and blood; on the contrary, I imagine all these things are fictions, fables, and lying dreams, recounted by men who are awake, or rather by those who are half asleep.’—‘That,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is another error incident to many people, who do not believe that any such knights ever existed; and I have, on divers and sundry occasions, endeavoured to dissipate that almost general mistake by the light of truth. Sometimes, indeed, I have not succeeded in my attempts; however, I have frequently gained my point, by supporting it on the shoulders of demonstration; and truly the case is so clear, that I could almost affirm I have with my own eyes beheld Amadis de Gaul, who was a tall man, of a fair complexion, well furnished with a black beard, his aspect something between mild and severe, concise of speech, slow to anger, and soon appeased. In the same manner, methinks, I could delineate and paint all the knights-errant that ever were recorded in history; for, according to the ideas formed by reading these histories, and by comparing their exploits and dispositions, sound philosophy may discover their lineaments, statures, and complexions.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘how large do you think the giant Morgante must have been?’—‘As to the affair of giants,’ answered the knight, ‘there are different opinions; some affirming, and others denying, the existence of any such beings: but the Holy Scriptures, which surely cannot fail one atom in point of truth, put that affair beyond all dispute, in relating the story of that Philistine Goliath, who was seven cubits and an half in height; a most amazing stature! Besides, in the island of Sicily, several thigh and shoulder-bones have been dug up, so large as to manifest, that the persons to whom they belonged must have been huge giants, as tall as high towers; and this can be proved by mathematical demonstration; but, nevertheless, I will not pretend to ascertain the size of Morgante; though I believe he was not very tall, because I find in the history which gives a particular account of his exploits, that he often slept under a roof: now, if there was any house capacious enough to receive him, his magnitude could not be very extraordinary.’—‘No, surely,’ said the curate: who, being diverted with his extravagant assertions, asked his opinion concerning the looks and persons of Reynaldo de Montalban, Don Orlando, and the rest of the Twelve Peers of France, who were all knights-errant. ‘With regard to Reynaldo,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I will venture to say, he was broad visaged, and of a ruddy complexion, with large rolling eyes, full of punctilio, excessively cholerick, and a friend to robbers and vagabonds. As for Roldan, or Rotolando, or Orlando, (for he is mentioned in history by all these names) it is my opinion, and I affirm, that he was of a middling stature, broad-shouldered, somewhat bandy-legged, of a dark complexion and carrotty beard, hairy all over, with a frowning aspect, sparing of speech, though very affable and well bred.’—‘If Roldan was not more comely than you have represented him,’ replied the curate, ‘I do not wonder that Angelica the Fair disdained and deserted him, for the gallantry, mirth, and pleasantry of the little smock-faced Moor, to whose embraces she yielded; and, surely, she was in the right, to prefer the smoothness of Medoro to the roughness of Roldan.’—‘That same Angelica, Mr. Curate,’ said the knight, ‘was an unsettled rambling young woman, that longed after novelties, and left the world as full of her impertinent actions as of the fame of her beauty. She undervalued a thousand noblemen, a thousand valiant and discreet admirers, and contented herself with a yellow haired page, who had neither fortune nor reputation, but that of being grateful to his friend. The renowned Ariosto, who sung the praises of her beauty, either not daring or not designing to rehearse what happened to her after her base intrigue, because he deemed it a theme not extremely honourable for his muse, dropped her at these lines:

‘“Another bard may sing, in loftier lay, How he obtain’d the sceptre of Cathay.”

‘And truly this was a sort of prophecy, for the poets are also called _vates_, which in Latin signifies _diviners_, and it was plainly verified in the event, an Andalusian bard having since that time sung in verse her tears and lamentation, as the most famous and sublime genius of Castile hath celebrated her beauty.’

‘Pray tell me, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘among all those authors who have written in her praise, hath not some one or other composed a satire against my Lady Angelica?’—‘I firmly believe,’ replied the knight, ‘that if Sacripante or Roldan had been bards, they would have made the damsel smart severely, it being natural and peculiar to poets, who are disdained and rejected by their false mistresses, whether real or imaginary, to revenge themselves by satires and lampoons; a resentment altogether unworthy of generous breasts; but hitherto I have not met with any such defamatory verses against the Lady Angelica, though she made strange confusion in the world.’—‘That is a wonder, indeed!’ said the curate.—When hearing the housekeeper and niece, who had some time before quitted the company, bawling aloud in the yard, they ran out to see what was the occasion of such noise.

Footnote 129:

Ridiculous as this scheme may seem to be, such an expedient has actually succeeded in practice. During the captivity of John King of France, his dominions were ravaged by above one hundred thousand peasants, who, under the name of Jacquieers, assembled in arms to exterminate the noblesse; and among other horrid outrages, murdered every gentleman that fell in their way. The Duchess of Normandy and Orleans, together with three hundred ladies of rank, retired for protection to Meaux, where they were surrounded, and would have actually perished by the swords of these banditti, had they not been rescued by the Count de Foix, and the captal of Buch; who, hearing of their distress, hastened to their relief with no more than sixty knights; and, without hesitation, attacked that furious multitude with such bravery and vigour, that they were soon routed and dispersed.

Footnote 130:

A certain number of churches through which they made circuits, uttering an appointed prayer at each.

CHAP. II. THE NOTABLE FRAY THAT HAPPENED BETWEEN SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER—WITH OTHER DIVERTING INCIDENTS.

The history relates, that the noise which Don Quixote, the curate, and barber heard, was occasioned by the niece and housekeeper scolding at Sancho, who struggled to get in and see his master, while they defended the door. ‘What does the swag-bellied lurcher want in this house?’ said the housekeeper: ‘get you home, brother; it was you, and none but you, that turned my poor master’s brain, enticing him from his own home, to stroll about the highways.’ To this apostrophe Sancho replied, ‘Housekeeper of Satan! ’tis my brain that’s turned; ’twas I that was enticed to stroll about the highways, and not thy master, for he carried me a rambling; so that you have reckoned without your host. ’Twas he that wheedled me from my own house, with the promise of an island, which I expect to this good hour.’—‘Devil choak thee with islands, thou cursed cormorant!’ cried the niece: ‘and pray what is an island; is it any thing to eat, thou gorbellied glutton, ha?’—‘No, not to eat, but to govern,’ answered Sancho, ‘and a fat government it is. Better than four cities, or the places of any four of the king’s alcades.’—‘Be that as it will,’ said the housekeeper, ‘thou shan’t set foot in this house, thou bag of mischief, and bundle of malice! go and look after thy own family, fatten thy hogs, and let us hear no more of these islands or oil-lands.’

The curate and barber were highly entertained with this dialogue; but Don Quixote fearing that Sancho would open his budget, and disburden himself of some mischievous load of folly, by blabbing things not much to his credit, called him in, bidding the women hold their tongues, and give him entrance. Sancho being accordingly admitted, the curate and barber took their leave of Don Quixote, whose recovery they despaired of, seeing him so unalterably fixed in his folly, and so wholly possessed with the frantick spirit of knight-errantry. ‘You shall see, neighbour,’ said the curate to the barber, ‘that when we least think of it, this poor gentleman will make another sally.’—‘That I make no doubt of,’ answered the barber, ‘but I don’t wonder so much at the madness of the knight, as at the simplicity of the squire, who believes so devoutly in this island, that I think all the invention of man could not extract it from his skull.’—‘God mend them!’ replied the curate: ‘meanwhile, let us keep a strict eye over their behaviour, and observe the operation of their joint extravagance; for the madness of the master seems to have been cast in the same mould with the foolishness of the man, and in my opinion, the one without the other would not be worth a farthing.’—‘True,’ said the barber; ‘and I should be glad to know what they are now talking of.’—‘I dare say,’ replied the curate, ‘the niece and house-keeper will give us a good account of their conversation; for they are none of those who can resist the opportunity of listening.’

In the mean time, Don Quixote having shut himself up in his apartment with Sancho, said, ‘It gives me much concern, Sancho, to hear thee say, as thou dost, that I enticed thee from thy cottage, when thou knowest that I, at the same time, quitted my own house; together we set out, lived and travelled together; sharing the same fortune and the same fate. If thou hast been once tossed in a blanket, I have been bruised an hundred times; and this is the only pre-eminence I enjoyed.’—‘And that’s but reasonable,’ replied Sancho, ‘according to your worship’s own remark, that misfortune belongs more to knights-errant than to their squires.’—‘There you are mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the Latin adage says, _Quando caput dolet, &c._’—‘Nay,’ quoth Sancho, ‘I understand no lingo but my mother-tongue.’—‘The meaning,’ said the master, ‘is, When the head aches, all the members are affected. I, therefore, as thy lord and master, am thy head, and thou, as my servant, are a part of me; so that whatever mischief has happened, or may happen to me, ought to extend to thee likewise, in the same manner as I bear a share in all thy sufferings.’—‘So it ought to be,’ said Sancho, ‘but when I, as a member, was tossed in a blanket, my head sat peaceably on the other side of the wall, and beheld me vaulting in the air, without feeling the least uneasiness; and since the members are obliged to ache with the head, I think it is but just that the head should ache with the members.’—‘How canst thou affirm, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I felt no pain while thou was tossed in the blanket? Say, or think so no more; for I was, at that time, more afflicted in mind than thou in body.

‘But let us wave this subject for the present, and time will, no doubt, offer an opportunity of considering it more maturely, and of setting every thing to rights: and tell me, friend Sancho, how I am spoke of in this place? What say the vulgar? What character do I bear among the gentry? and how am I treated by the knights? What is their opinion of my valour, exploits, and courteous behaviour? and how do they relish the design I have undertaken of raising and restoring to the world the long-forgotten order of knight-errantry? In short, Sancho, I desire that thou wilt inform me of every thing thou hast heard on this subject, without adding to the good, or subtracting from the evil; it being the duty of faithful servants to represent the truth to their masters in its own native form, neither exaggerated by adulation, nor diminished by any other vain respect: and let me tell thee, Sancho, if the naked truth was always conveyed to the ears of princes, undisguised by flattery, we should see better days, and other æras would deserve the name of the iron age more than the present, which would be justly looked upon as the age of gold. Remember this advice, Sancho, and inform me with honesty and discretion, of all that thou knowest in regard to what I have asked.’—‘That I will with all my heart, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘on condition that your worship won’t be offended with the truth, since you desire to see it in its nakedness, just as it came to my knowledge.’—‘I shall not be offended in the least,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘speak therefore freely, without going about the bush.’

‘Well, then,’ said the squire, ‘in the first place, you must know that the common people think your worship a stark-staring madman, and me a most notorious fool: the better sort say, that, scorning the rank of a private gentleman, you have put Don before your name, and dubbed yourself knight, with a small garden, a few acres of land, and a doublet clouted on both sides. The knights, forsooth, are affronted that your small gentry should pretend to vie with them, especially those needy squires who sole their own shoes, and darn their black hose with green silk.’—‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘cannot affect me; for I always wear good cloaths, and never appear patched. My doublet may, indeed, be torn, but then it is by my armour, not by time.’—‘Touching the valour, courtesy, adventures, and design of your worship,’ said Sancho, ‘there are different opinions. Some say, he is mad, but a diverting madman; others allow that he is valiant, but unlucky; a third set observe that he is courteous, but impertinent; and in this manner we are handled so severely, that neither your worship nor I have a whole bone left.’—‘You see, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that whenever virtue shines in an eminent degree, she always meets with persecution. Few or none of the celebrated heroes of antiquity could escape the calumnies of malice: Julius Cæsar, a most daring, wise, and valiant general, was accused of being ambitious, and not over-cleanly in his customs or apparel; Alexander, who by his atchievements acquired the name of Great, was said to be a drunkard; and Hercules, renowned for his labours, reported to have been lewd and effeminate; Don Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul, was grumbled at for being excessively quarrelsome; and Amadis himself ridiculed as an arrant whiner. Therefore, son Sancho, among so many aspersions thrown upon such great men, I may well overlook what is said against me; since it is no worse than what thou hast repeated.’—‘That’s the very thing, body of my father!’ replied Sancho. ‘What, is there any thing more!’ said his master. ‘More!’ cried the squire, ‘the tail is yet unfleaed. What you have heard is but cakes and gingerbread; but, if your worship would know all the backbitings we suffer, I will this moment bring hither one who can inform you of every circumstance, without losing a crumb; for, last night, the son of Bartholomew Carrasco arrived from Salamanca, where he has been at his studies, and got a batchelor’s degree; and when I went to welcome him home, he told me there was a printed book of your worship’s history, in which you go by the name of The Ingenious Squire Don Quixote de La Mancha; and that I am mentioned in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, as well as my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with other things that passed between you and me only; at hearing of which I crossed myself through fear, wondering how they should come to the knowledge of the historian.’—‘You may depend upon it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the author of our history must be some sage inchanter; for nothing is hid from writers of that class.’—‘How can he be a sage inchanter,’ said Sancho, ‘when batchelor Sampson Carrasco (for that’s the name of him who told me) says the author of our history is called Cid Hamet Bean-and-jelly?’—‘That name is Moorish,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘Very like,’ said the squire; ‘for I have often heard, that the Moors are very fond of beans and jellies.’—‘Thou must certainly be mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in the surname of that Cid, which, in Arabick, signifies Signior.’—‘Very possible,’ answered the squire; ‘but if your worship desires to see the batchelor, I will bring him hither in a twinkling.’—‘Thou wilt oblige me very much, my friend,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for what thou hast told me has bred such doubts and suspense within me, that I cannot eat a morsel with any satisfaction, until I am informed of the whole affair.’—‘Then I’ll go seek him,’ replied Sancho: who, leaving his master, went in quest of the batchelor, with whom he returned in a little time, and a most pleasant dialogue ensued.

CHAP. III. THE LUDICROUS CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO.

Don Quixote remained extremely pensive, in expectation of the Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, from whom he hoped to hear news of himself, in print, according to Sancho’s information; though he could hardly persuade himself that there could be such a history extant; the blood of his enemies whom he had slain, being scarce, as yet, dry upon the blade of his sword, and yet they would have his high atchievements already recorded in printed books. He therefore imagined that some sage, either friend or foe, had cast them off, by the power of inchantment: if a friend, in order to aggrandize and extol them above the most distinguished exploits of knight-errantry; if an enemy, to annihilate and depress them beneath the meanest actions that ever were recorded of any squire. ‘Although,’ said he, within himself, ‘the deeds of squires are never committed to writing; and if my history actually exists, seeing it treats of a knight-errant, it must, of necessity, be pompous, sublime, surprizing, magnificent, and true.’ This reflection consoled him a little; but he became uneasy again, when he recollected that his author was a Moor, as appeared by the name of Cid; and that no truth was to be expected from that people, who are all false, deceitful, and chimerical. He was afraid that his amours were treated with some indecency, that might impair and prejudice the honour of his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, wishing for nothing more than a true representation of his fidelity, and the decorum he always preserved, in refusing queens, empresses, and damsels of all ranks, thus keeping the impulse of his passions under the rein. Tossed, therefore, and fluctuating on these and many other fancies, he was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom the knight received with great courtesy.

The batchelor, though his name was Sampson, was not very big, but a great wag, of a pale complexion and excellent understanding; he was about the age of four and twenty; had a round visage, flat nose, and capacious mouth, all symptoms of a mischievous disposition, addicted to jokes and raillery; as appeared when he approached Don Quixote, before whom he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Permit me to kiss your most puissant hand, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; for by the habit of St. Peter, which I wear, though I have received no other orders than the first four, your worship is one of the most famous knights-errant that ever were, or ever will be, within the circumference of the globe! Blessed be Cid Hamet Benengeli, who wrote the history of your greatness! and thrice blessed that curious person who took care to have it translated from the Arabick into our mother-tongue, for the entertainment of mankind!’ Don Quixote, raising him up, said, ‘’Tis true, then, that there is a history of me, and that the sage who composed it is a Moor.’—‘So true, Signior,’ said Sampson, ‘that, to my certain knowledge, there are twelve thousand volumes of it this day in print; let Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they were printed, contradict me if they can. It is even reported to be now in the press at Antwerp; and I can easily perceive, that there is scarce a nation or language into which it will not be translated.’—‘One of the things,’ said Don Quixote on this occasion, ‘which ought to afford the greatest satisfaction to a virtuous and eminent man, is to live and see himself celebrated in different languages, and his actions recorded in print, with universal approbation; I say, with approbation; because, to be represented otherwise, is worse than the worst of deaths.’—‘In point of reputation and renown,’ said the batchelor, ‘your worship alone bears away the palm from all other knights-errant; for the Moor in Arabick, and the Christian in his language, have been careful in painting the gallantry of your worship to the life; your vast courage in encountering dangers, your patience in adversity, your fortitude in the midst of wounds and mischance, together with the honour and chastity of your platonick love for my Lady Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’

Here Sancho interposing, said, ‘I never heard my lady called Donna Dulcinea, but simply the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so that there the history is wrong.’—‘That is no material objection,’ answered Carrasco. ‘No, sure,’ replied the knight. ‘But tell me, Mr. Batchelor, which of my exploits is most esteemed in this history.’—‘As to that particular,’ said the batchelor, ‘there are as many different opinions as there are different tastes. Some stick to the adventure of the wind-mills, which to your worship appeared monstrous giants; others, to that of the fulling-mills; this reader, to the description of the two armies, which were afterwards metamorphosed into flocks of sheep; while another magnifies that of the dead body, which was carrying to the place of interment at Segovia: one says, that the deliverance of the galley-slaves excels all the rest; and a second affirms, that none of them equals the adventure of the Benedictine giants, and your battle with the valiant Biscayner.’

Here Sancho interrupting him again, said, ‘Tell me, Mr. Batchelor, is the adventure of the Yanguesians mentioned, when our modest Rozinante longed for green peas in December[131].’—‘Nothing,’ replied Sampson, ‘has escaped the pen of the sage author, who relates every thing most minutely, even to the capers which honest Sancho cut in the blanket.’—‘I cut no capers in the blanket,’ answered Sancho; ‘but in the air, I grant you, I performed more than I desired.’—‘In my opinion,’ said Don Quixote, ‘there is no human history that does not contain reverses of fortune, especially those that treat of chivalry, which cannot always be attended with success.’—‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘some who have read your history, say they should not have been sorry, had the author forgot a few of those infinite drubbings which, in different encounters, were bestowed on the great Don Quixote.’—‘But in this consists the truth of history,’ said the squire.

Don Quixote observed, that they might as well have omitted them; for those incidents, which neither change nor affect the truth of the story, ought to be left out, if they tend to depreciate the chief character. ‘Take my word for it,’ said he, ‘Æneas was not so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so prudent as he is exhibited by Homer,’—‘True,’ said Sampson; ‘but it is one thing to compose as a poet, and another to record as an historian: the poet may relate or rehearse things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been; whereas an historian must transmit them, not as they ought to have been, but exactly as they were; without adding to, or subtracting the least tittle from the truth.’—‘Since this Moorish gentleman has told all the truth,’ said Sancho, ‘I don’t doubt that, among the drubbings of my master, he has mentioned mine also; for they never took the measure of his shoulders, without crossing my whole body: but at this I ought not to wonder, since, as he observes, when the head aches, the members ought to have their share of the pain.’—‘You are a sly rogue, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and I find you don’t want memory, when you think proper to use it.’—‘If I had all the mind in the world,’ said Sancho, ‘to forget the blows I have received, the marks, which are still fresh upon my carcase, would by no means allow me.’

‘Hold your peace, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘and don’t interrupt Mr. Batchelor, whom I intreat to proceed; and let me know what more is said of me in this same history.’—‘Aye, and of me too,’ cried Sancho; ‘who, they say, am one of the principal personages of it.’—‘You mean persons, and not personages, friend Sancho,’ said Sampson. ‘What! have we got another reprimander of words?’ said the squire; ‘since it is come to this, we shall never have done.’—‘Plague light on me! Sancho!’ replied the batchelor, ‘if you are not the second person of the history; and there are many who would rather hear you speak than the first character in the book; though some there be also, who say you are excessively credulous, in believing there could be any foundation for the government of that island, which was promised to you by Signior Don Quixote, here present.’—‘There is no time lost[132],’ said Don Quixote; ‘while thou art advancing in years, Sancho, age will bring experience; and then thou wilt be more qualified and fit to govern than thou art at present.’—‘’Fore God! Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘the island which I cannot govern with these years, I shall never govern, were I as old as Methusalem: the mischief is, that this same island is delayed I don’t know how; not that I want noddle to govern it.’—‘Recommend it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to the direction of Heaven, which does all for the best, and may, perhaps, exceed your expectation; for not a leaf can move upon a tree, without the permission of God.’—‘True,’ said Sampson, ‘if it be the will of God, Sancho shall not want a thousand islands, much less one, to govern.’—‘I have seen governors in my time,’ quoth Sancho, ‘who, to my thinking, did not come up to the sole of my shoe, and yet they were called your lordship, and served in plate.’—‘Those were not governors of islands,’ replied Sampson, ‘but of other governments more easily managed; for such as govern islands ought at least to have some grammatical knowledge.’—‘I know very well how to cram[133],’ said Sancho; ‘but as to the matted cawl, I will neither meddle nor make, because I don’t understand it; but leaving this government in the hands of God, who will dispose of me the best for his own service, I am, Mr. Batchelor, Sampson Carrasco, infinitely pleased and rejoiced that the author of our history has spoke of me in such a manner as not to give offence; for, by the faith of a good squire! if he had said any thing of me, that did not become an old Christian, as I am, the deaf should have heard of it.’—‘That were a miracle, indeed!’ answered Sampson. ‘Miracle or no miracle,’ said Sancho, ‘let every man take care how he speaks or writes of honest people, and not set down at a venture the first thing that comes into his jolter-head.’

‘One of the faults that are found with the history,’ added the batchelor, ‘is, that the author has inserted in it a novel, intitled, The Impertinent Curiosity. Not that the thing itself is bad, or poorly executed, but because it is unseasonable, and has nothing to do with the story of his worship Signior Don Quixote.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ cried Sancho, ‘that this son of a cur has made a strange hodge-podge of the whole.’—‘Now I find,’ said the knight, ‘that the author of my history is no sage, but some ignorant prater, who, without either judgment or premeditation, has undertaken to write it at random, like Orbaneja the painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he painted, answered, “Just as it happens;” and when he would sometimes scrawl out a misshapen cock, was fain to write under it in Gothick letters, “This is a cock;” and my history being of the same kind, will need a commentary to make it intelligible.’—‘Not at all,’ answered Sampson, ‘it is already so plain, that there is not the least ambiguity in it; the very children handle it, boys read it, men understand, and old people applaud it: in short, it is so thumbed, so read, so well known by every body, that no sooner a meagre horse appears, than they say, “There goes Rozinante!”, but those who peruse it most, are your pages; you cannot go into a nobleman’s antichamber where you won’t find a Don Quixote, which is no sooner laid down by one, than another takes it up, some struggling, and some intreating for a sight of it; in fine, this history is the most delightful and least prejudicial entertainment that ever was seen; for in the whole book there is not the least shadow of a dishonourable word, nor one thought unworthy of a good Catholick.’—‘To write otherwise,’ said Don Quixote, ‘were not to publish truth, but to propagate lyes; and those historians who deal in such, ought to be burnt like coiners of false money; but I cannot imagine what induced the author to avail himself of novels and stories that did not belong to the subject, when he had such a fund of my adventures to relate: he, doubtless, stuck to the proverb, So the gizzard is crammed, it matters not how[134]; for truly, had he confined himself to the manifestation of my reveries, my sighs, my tears, my benevolence, and undertakings, he might have compiled a volume larger, or as large, as all the works of Tostatus bound together[135]. Really, Mr. Batchelor, according to my comprehension, it requires great judgment, and a ripe understanding, to compose histories, or indeed any books whatever; for to write with elegance and wit, is the province of great geniuses only. The wittiest person in the comedy is he that plays the fool; for he must be no simpleton who can exhibit a diverting representation of folly. History is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is truth; and where truth is, there the divinity will reside: yet there are some who compose and cast off books, as if they were tossing up a dish of pancakes.’

‘There is no book so bad,’ said the batchelor, ‘but you may find something good in it.’—‘Doubtless,’ replied the knight; ‘but it frequently happens, that those who have deservedly purchased and acquired great reputation by their writings, lose it all, or at least forfeit a part of it, in printing them.’—‘The reason,’ said Sampson, ‘is, that printed works are perused with leisure, consequently their faults easily observed; and the greater the reputation of the author is, the more severely are they scrutinized: men celebrated for their genius, great poets, and illustrious historians, are, for the most part, if not always, envied by those whose pleasure and particular entertainment consists in criticising the works of others, without having obliged the world with any thing of their own.’—‘That is not to be wondered at,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for there are many theologists who make but a poor figure in the pulpit, and yet are excellent in discerning the faults and superfluities of those who preach well.’—‘That is all true, Signior Don Quixote,’ said Carrasco; ‘and I could wish that those censurers were either a little more compassionate, or something less scrupulous, than to insist upon such blemishes of the work they decry, as may be compared to little spots in the sun, and as _aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus_, consider how long the author watched, in order to display the light of his performance, with as little shade as possible. Perhaps, too, those things which disgust them are no other than moles, that sometimes add to the beauty of the face on which they grow; and therefore I affirm, that he who publishes a book runs an immense risk; because it is absolutely impossible to compose such an one as will please and entertain every reader.’—‘I believe few will relish that which treats of me,’ said the knight. ‘Quite the contrary,’ answered Sampson; ‘for, as _stultorum infinitus est numerus_, the number of those who are delighted with your history is infinite; though some accuse the author’s memory as false or faulty, because he has forgot to tell who the thief was that stole Sancho’s Dapple, of whom there was not a word mentioned: we can only infer from the history, that he was stolen; and by-and-by we find the squire mounted on the same beast, without knowing how he was retrieved. They say, likewise, that he has omitted telling what Sancho did with those hundred crowns which he found in the portmanteau, in Sierra Morena; and which are never mentioned though many people desire to know what use he made of them; and this is one of the chief defects in the work.’

‘Mr. Sampson,’ answered the squire, ‘I am not in an humour at present to give accounts and reckonings of that affair; for I feel a certain qualmishness in my stomach, and if I don’t recruit it with a couple of draughts of old stingo, I shall be in most grievous taking[136]; I have the cordial at home, and my dame waits for me; but when I have filled my belly, I will return and satisfy your worship, and all the world, in whatever they shall desire to ask, both with regard to the loss of my beast, and the spending of the hundred crowns.’ So, without expecting a reply, or speaking another word, he hied him home, while Don Quixote desired and intreated the batchelor to stay and do penance with him. The batchelor accepted the invitation, and stayed; a pair of pigeons was added to the knight’s ordinary; he talked of nothing but chivalry at table, and Carrasco encouraged the discourse. The repast ended, they took their afternoon’s nap, Sancho returned, and the former conversation was renewed.

Footnote 131:

_Pedir cotufas en el golfo_, signifies to look for tartuffles in the sea; a proverb applicable to those who are too sanguine in their expectations, and unreasonable in their desires.

Footnote 132:

_Aun ay sol en las bardas._ There is still sun-shine on the wall, i. e. It is not yet too late.

Footnote 133:

Finding it impossible to translate the original pun or blunder, I have substituted another in its room, on the word Grammatical, which I think has at least an equally good effect.

Footnote 134:

The original is, ‘_De paja, y di beno, el jergonelleno_;’ i. e. ‘The bed is filled, though it be with hay and straw.’

Footnote 135:

Alphonsus Tostatus, bishop of Avila, was said to have known every thing that could be known. He made a figure at the council of Basil; wrote twenty-seven volumes; and dying in the fortieth year of his age, was interred in the church of Avila, with this epitaph:——_Hic stupor est mundi, qui scibile discutit omne._

Footnote 136:

In Spanish, _Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia_; i. e. ‘Will put me on St. Lucia’s thorn:’ applicable to any uneasy situation.

CHAP. IV. IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA SATISFIES THE DOUBTS, AND ANSWERS THE QUESTIONS OF BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO; WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE RECITED AND KNOWN.

Sancho returning to his master’s house, resumed the former conversation, to gratify Mr. Sampson, who said he wanted to know when, in what manner, and by whom his ass had been stolen; ‘You must know, then,’ said he, ‘that very night we fled from the holy brotherhood, and got into the Brown Mountain, after the misventuresome adventure of the galley-slaves, and the corpse that was carrying to Segovia, we took up our quarters in a thicket, where my master and I, being both fatigued, and sorely bruised in the frays we had just finished, went to rest, he leaning upon his lance, and I lolling upon Dapple, as if we had been stretched upon four feather-beds; I, in particular, slept so sound, that the thief, whosoever he was, had an opportunity of coming and propping me up with four stakes, fixed under the corner of my pannel, on which I was left astride; so that he slipped Dapple from under me, without my perceiving it in the least.’—‘And this is no difficult matter, nor new device,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the siege of Albraca, where, by this contrivance, his horse was stolen from between his legs by the famous robber Brunelo[137].’—‘When morning came,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘I no sooner began to stretch myself, than the stakes gave way, and down I came to the ground with a vengeance; I looked for my beast, and finding he was gone, the tears gushed from my eyes, and I set up a lamentation, which, if the author of our history has not set down, you may depend upon it, he hath neglected a very excellent circumstance; a good many days after this mischance, as I chanced to be travelling with my lady the Princess Micomicona, descrying a person riding towards me in the habit of a gypsy, I immediately knew my own ass, and discovered the rider to be Gines de Passamonte, that impostor and notorious malefactor, whom my master and I delivered from the galley-chain.’

‘The error lies not in that part of the history,’ replied the batchelor, ‘but consists in the author’s saying that Sancho rode on the same ass, before it appears that he had retrieved him.’—‘As so that affair,’ said the squire, ‘I can give you no satisfactory answer; perhaps it was an oversight in the historian, or owing to the carelessness of the printer.’—‘Doubtless it was so,’ replied Sampson; ‘but what became of those hundred crowns? were they laid up or laid out?’—‘I laid them out,’ answered Sancho, ‘in necessaries for my own person, my wife, and children; and those crowns were the cause of my gossip’s bearing patiently my ramblings and rovings in the service of my lord and master Don Quixote; for if, after such a long absence, I had come home without my ass, and never a cross in my pocket, I might have expected a welcome the wrong way. Now, if you have any thing else to ask, here I am ready to answer the king in person; and it matters not to any person, whether I did or did not bring them home, or whether I spent them or lent them; for if the blows I have received in our peregrinations were to be repaid with money, rated at no more than four maravedis a piece, another hundred crowns would not quit one half of the score; therefore, let every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not pretend to mistake an hawk for a hand-saw[138]; for we are all as God made us, and a great many of us much worse.’

‘I will take care,’ said Carrasco, ‘to apprize the author of the history, that if it should come to another edition, he may not forget to insert what honest Sancho observes, as it will not a little contribute to raise the value of the work.’—‘Mr. Batchelor,’ said the knight, ‘did you, in reading it, perceive any thing else that ought to be amended?’—‘There might be some things altered for the better,’ replied Carrasco; ‘but none of such consequence as those already mentioned.’—‘And pray,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘does the author promise a second part?’—‘Yes,’ said Sampson, ‘but he says he has not yet found it, nor does he know in whose possession it is; so that we are still in doubt, whether or not it will see the light: on that account, therefore, and likewise because some people say, that second parts are never good, while others observe, that too much already hath been written concerning Don Quixote, it is believed that there will be no second part; though there is a a third sort more jovial than wise, who cry, “Quixote for ever! let the knight engage, and Sancho Panza harangue; come what will, we shall be satisfied.”’—‘And how does the author seem inclined?’ said the knight. ‘How?’ answered Carrasco, ‘to set the press a-going, as soon as he can find the history, for which he is now searching with all imaginable diligence; thereto swayed by interest, more than by any motive of praise.’—‘Since the author keeps interest and money in his eye,’ said Sancho, ‘it will be a wonder if he succeeds; for he’ll do nothing but hurry, hurry, like a taylor on Easter-eve; and your works that are trumped up in a haste, are never finished with that perfection they require; I would have Mr. Moor take care, and consider what he is about; for my master and I will furnish him with materials, in point of adventures and different events, sufficient to compose not only one, but a hundred second parts. What! I suppose the honest man thinks we are now sleeping among straw; but let him lift up our feet, and then he will see which of them wants to be shod; all that I shall say is, if my master had taken my advice, we might have been already in the fields, redressing grievances, and righting wrongs, according to the use and custom of true knights-errant.’

Scarce had Sancho pronounced these last words, when their ears were saluted by the neighing of Rozinante, which Don Quixote considered as a most happy omen, and determined in three or four days to set out on his third expedition; accordingly, he declared his intention to the batchelor, whose advice he asked with regard to the route he should take. Sampson said, that in his opinion, he ought to direct his course towards the kingdom of Arragon, and go to Saragossa, where, in a few days, was to be held a most solemn tournament on the festival of St. George; there he would have an opportunity of winning the palm from the Arragonian knights, which would raise his reputation above that of all the champions upon earth: he applauded his design as a most valiant and honourable determination, and begged he would be more cautious in encountering dangers, because his life was not his own, but the property of all those who had occasion for protection and succour in distress.

‘That is the very thing I repose, Mr. Sampson,’ said the squire; ‘for my master thinks no more of attacking a hundred men in arms, than a hungry boy would think of swallowing half a dozen pippins[139]. Body of the universe! Mr. Batchelor, if there are times for attacking, there are also seasons for retreating; the cry must not always be “St. Jago! charge, Spain[140]!” especially as I have heard, and, if I remember aright, my master himself has often observed, that valour lies in the middle, between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; this being the case, I would not have him fly without good reason, nor give the assault when he is likely to be overpowered by numbers; but, above all things, I give my master notice, that if he carries me along with him, it shall be on condition that he fight all the battles himself, and I be obliged to do nothing, but tend his person, that is, take care of his belly, and keep him sweet and clean; in which case, I will jig it away with pleasure[141]; but to think that I will put hand to sword, even against base-born plebeians with cap and hatchet, is a wild imagination: for my own part, Mr. Sampson, I do not pretend to the reputation of being valiant, but of being the best and loyalest squire that ever served a knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my great and faithful services, shall be pleased to bestow upon me one of those many islands which his worship says will fall in his way, I shall very thankfully receive the favour; and even if he should not keep his word, here stand I, simple as I am, and one man must not depend upon another, but trust in God alone; besides, the bread I eat, without a government, mayhap will relish better than the dainties of a governor; and how do I know but the devil may, in these governments, raise some stumbling-block, over which I shall fall and beat out my grinders? Sancho I was born, and Sancho will I die; but, nevertheless, if by the favour of Providence, I could fairly and softly, without much risk or anxiety, obtain an island, or some such matter, I am not such a ninny as to throw it away; for, as the saying is, When the heifer is offered, be ready with the rope; and, When good fortune comes to thy door, be sure to bid it welcome.’

‘Brother Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘you have spoke like a professor; but for all that, put your trust in God, and Signior Don Quixote, who instead of an island, will give you a whole kingdom.’—‘The one as likely as the other,’ answered Sancho; ‘though I dare venture to assure Signior Carrasco, that the kingdom, which my master shall bestow upon me, will not be put into a rotten sack; for I have felt my own pulse, and find myself in health sufficient to rule kingdoms and govern islands, as I have, upon many other occasions, hinted to my master.’—‘Consider, Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘that honours often change the disposition; and, perhaps, when you come to be governor, you will not know the mother that bore you.’—‘That may be the case,’ answered the squire, ‘with those who were born among mallows; but not with me, who have got four inches of old christian suet on my ribs; then if you come to consider my disposition, you will find I am incapable of behaving ungratefully to any person whatever.’—‘God grant it to be so,’ said the knight; ‘but this will appear when you arrive at the government, which methinks I have already in mine eye.’

He then intreated the batchelor, if he was a poet, to favour him with a copy of verses on his intended parting from his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, and desired that every line might begin with a letter of her name, so that the initials being joined together, might make Dulcinea del Toboso. Carrasco, though he owned he was not one of the famous poets of Spain, who were said to be but three and a half[142], promised to compose such an acrostick as he desired, which, by the bye, he foresaw would be no easy task, because the name consisted of seventeen letters, and if he should make four stanzas of four lines each, one must be left out; or should they be composed of five, called decimas or roundelays, three letters would be wanting to compleat the number; however, he would endeavour to sink one letter as much as he could, so that in four stanzas the name Dulcinea del Toboso should be included. ‘That must be done, at all events,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for if the name be not plain and manifest, no woman will believe that she was the subject of the poem.’ This affair being thus settled, as also the time of their departure, which was fixed at the distance of eight days, Don Quixote charged the batchelor to keep it secret, especially from the curate, Mr. Nicholas, his niece, and housekeeper, that they might not obstruct his honourable and valiant determination. Carrasco, having promised to observe this caution, took his leave of the knight, whom he begged to favour him on every occasion, with an account of his good or evil fortune; and Sancho went home, to provide every thing necessary for their expedition.

Footnote 137:

As related in the famous poem of Orlando Inamorato, composed by Boyardo, of which the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto is the continuation.

Footnote 138:

In the original, ‘Black for white.’

Footnote 139:

Literally, _badeas_, a kind of water melon.

Footnote 140:

This is the cry uttered by the Spaniards when they charge in battle.

Footnote 141:

_Baylar el agua delante_, is a phrase applicable to those who do their duty with alacrity, taken from the practice of watering the courts in Spain, an office which the maids perform with a motion that resembles dancing.

Footnote 142:

Alonzo de Ercilla, author of the Auraucana; Juan Rufo de Cordova, author of the Austriada; Christopher Verves de Valentia, author of the Monserratte; and as for the half, Cervantes in all probability meant himself.

CHAP. V. OF THE SAGE AND PLEASANT DIALOGUE BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE MOST HAPPILY RECORDED.

The translator says he looks upon this chapter as apocryphal, because it represents Sancho Panza speaking in a stile quite different from that which might be expected from his shallow understanding, and making such ingenious observations, as he thinks it impossible he should know; but he would not leave it out, that he might punctually perform the duty of a faithful translator, and therefore proceeds in these words.

Sancho returned to his own house in such high spirits, that his wife perceived his gaiety at the distance of a bow shot, and could not help saying, ‘What is the matter, friend Sancho, that you seem so joyful?’ To this question the squire answered, ‘An it pleased God, wife, I should be very glad if I were not so joyful as I seem to be.’—‘Truly, husband,’ replied Teresa[143], ‘I don’t understand you; and cannot conceive what you mean, by saying you should be very glad, an it pleased God, you were not so joyful; for, simple though I be, I am always glad with what makes me joyful.’—‘Mark me, Teresa,’ said the squire, ‘I am rejoiced, because it is determined that I shall return to the service of my master Don Quixote, who is going to make a third sally in quest of adventures, and I must accompany him in his expedition; for so my destiny will have it, together with the comfortable and lively hope of finding another hundred crowns like those I have expended: on the other hand, sorry am I to part with thee and my children; and if God would permit me to eat my bread dry-shod at home, without dragging me over clifts and cross-paths; (and this might be done at a small expence, if he would only say the word) it is plain that my joy would be more firm and perfect; whereas that which I feel at present, is mingled with the melancholy thoughts of leaving thee, my duck; wherefore I justly said I should be glad, an it pleased God, I were less joyful.’—‘Verily, Sancho,’ said his wife, ‘ever since you made yourself a member of knight-errantry, you talk in such a round-about manner, that there is no understanding what you say.’—‘Let it suffice,’ answered the squire, ‘that I am understood by God, who is the understander of all things; and there let it rest: meanwhile, take notice, gossip, it will be convenient for you to tend Dapple for these two or three days with special care; let his allowance be doubled, that he may be enabled to carry arms; and look out for the pannel and the red of the tackle, for we are not going to a wedding, but to traverse the globe, and give and take dry blows with your giants, dragons, and hobgoblins, and hear nothing but hissing, roaring, bellowing, and bleating; and all this would be but flowers of lavender, were it not our doom to encounter with Yanguesians and inchanted Moors.’—‘I very well believe that squires-errant do not eat the bread of idleness,’ replied Teresa; ‘and therefore, husband, I shall continually pray to our Lord, to deliver you from such misfortunes.’—‘I tell thee, wife,’ said Sancho, ‘if I did not expect to see myself in a little time governor of an island, I should drop down dead upon the spot.’—‘By no means, dear husband,’ cried Teresa, ‘Let the hen live, though she have the pip; and I hope you will live, though the devil run away with all the governments upon earth; without a government did you come from your mother’s womb; without a government have you lived to this good hour; and without a government shall you go or be carried to your grave, in God’s own time: there are many in the world who have no governments, and yet, for all that, they live and are numbered among the people. Hunger is the best sauce, and as that is never wanting among the poor, they always relish what they eat; but take care, Sancho, if you come to a government, that you do not forget me and your children: consider, Sanchico has already fifteen good years over his head, and that it is time for him to go to school, if in case his uncle the abbot has a mind to breed him to the church: consider too, that your daughter Mary Sancha, will not break her heart if we marry her, for I am much mistaken if she does not long for a husband, as much as you do for a government; and the short and long of it is, you had better have your daughter ill buckled as a wife, than well kept as a concubine.’

‘Take my word for it,’ answered Sancho, ‘if by the blessing of God I come to any sort of government, I intend, my dear, to match Mary Sancha so high, that nobody shall come near her, without calling her, _your ladyship_.’—‘Never think of that, Sancho!’ cried Teresa, ‘match her with her equal, which will be more prudent than to raise her from clogs to pattens, from good fourteen-penny hoyden grey, to farthingales and petticoats of silk, and from _Molly_ and _thou_, to _Donna_ and _my lady such-a-one_; the girl’s head would be quite turned, and she would be continually falling into some blunder, that would discover the coarse thread of her home-spun breeding.’—‘Shut that foolish mouth of thine,’ said Sancho; ‘in two or three years practice, quality and politeness will become quite familiar to her; or, if they should not, what does it signify? Let her first be a lady, and then happen what will.’—‘Meddle, Sancho, with those of your own station,’ replied Teresa, ‘and seek not to lift your head too high; but remember the proverb that says, When your neighbour’s son comes to the door, wipe his nose, and take him in. It would be a fine thing, truly, to match our Mary with a great count or cavalier, who would, when he should take it in his head, look upon her as a monster, and call her country wench, and clod-breaker’s and hemp-spinner’s brat; that shall never happen in my life time, husband; it was not for that I brought up my child; do you find a portion, and as to her marriage, leave that to my care; there is Lope Tocho, old John Tocho’s son, a jolly young fellow, stout and wholesome, whom we all know, and I can perceive that he has no dislike to the girl; besides, he being our equal, she will be very well matched with him; for we shall always have them under our eye, and the two families will live together, parents and children, sons-in-law and grandsons, and the peace and blessing of God will dwell amongst us; wherefore you shall not match me her in your courts and grand palaces, where she will neither understand nor be understood.’—‘Hark ye, you beast and yoke-fellow for Barrabas!’ replied Sancho, ‘why wouldst thou now, without rhime or reason, prevent me from matching my daughter, so as that my grand-children shall be persons of quality? remember, Teresa, I have often heard my elders and betters observe, He that’s coy when fortune’s kind, may after seek but never find. And should not I be to blame, if, now that she knocks at my door, I should bolt it against her? Let us, therefore, take the advantage of the favourable gale that blows.’

It was this uncommon stile, with what Sancho says below, that induced the translator to pronounce the whole chapter apocryphal.

‘Can’t you perceive, animal, with half an eye,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that I shall act wisely, in devoting this body of mine to some beneficial government that will lift us out of the dirt, and enable me to match Mary Sancha according to my own good pleasure: then wilt thou hear thyself called Donna Teresa Panza, and find thyself seated at church upon carpets, cushions, and tapestry, in despite and defiance of all the small gentry in the parish; and not be always in the same moping circumstances, without increase or diminution, like a picture in the hangings: but no more of this; Sanchica shall be a countess, though thou shouldst cry thy heart out.’—‘Look before you leap, husband,’ answered Teresa: ‘after all, I wish to God this quality of my daughter may not be the cause of her perdition; take your own way, and make her dutchess or princess, or what you please, but I’ll assure you, it shall never be with my consent or good will; I was always a lover of equality, my dear, and can’t bear to see people hold their heads high without reason. Teresa was I christened, a bare and simple name, without the addition, garniture, and embroidery of Don or Donna; my father’s name is Cascajo, and mine, as being your spouse, Teresa Panza, though by rights I should be called Teresa Cascajo: but as the king minds, the law binds; and with that name am I contented, though it be not burdened with a Don, which weighs so heavy, that I should not be able to bear it; neither will I put it in the power of those who see me dressed like a countess or governor’s lady, to say, “Mind Mrs. Porkfeeder; how proud she looks! it was but yesterday she toiled hard at the distaff, and went to mass with the tail of her gown about her head, instead of a veil: but now, forsooth, she has got her fine farthingales and jewels, and holds up her head as if we did not know her.” If God preserve me in my seven or five senses, or as many as they be, I shall never bring myself into such a quandary: as for your part, spouse, you may go to your governments and islands, and be as proud as a peacock; but as for my daughter and me, by the life of my father! we will not stir one step from the village; for, The wife that deserves a good name, stays at home as if she were lame; and, The maid must be still a doing, that hopes to see the men come a wooing. You and Don Quixote may therefore go to your adventures, and leave us to our misventures; for God will better our condition, if we deserve his mercy; though truly I cannot imagine who made him a Don; I am sure, neither his father nor grandfather had any such title.’—‘I tell thee, wife,’ replied the squire, ‘thou hast certainly got some devil in that carcase of thine; the Lord watch over thee, woman! what a deal of stuff hast thou been tacking together, without either head or tail? What the devil has your Cascajos, jewels, proverbs, and pride, to do with what I have been saying? Heark ye, you ignorant beast, for such I may call thee, as thou hast neither capacity to understand my discourse, nor prudence to make sure of good fortune when it lies in thy way, were I to say, that my daughter shall throw herself from the top of a steeple, or go strolling about the world, like the Infanta Donna Uraca, thou wouldst have reason to contradict my pleasure; but if, in two turnings of a ball and one twinkling of an eye, our good fortune should lay a title across our shoulders, and raising thee from the stubble, set thee in a chair of state, under a canopy, or lay thee upon a sofa, consisting of more velvet almohadas[144], than there are Moors in all the family of the Almohadas in Morocco; wherefore wouldst not thou consent, and with me enjoy the good-luck that falls?’—‘I’ll tell thee wherefore, husband,’ replied Teresa, ‘because, as the saying is, What covers, discovers thee; the eyes of people always run slightly over the poor, but make an halt to examine the rich; and if a person so examined was once poor, then comes the grumbling and the slandering; and he is persecuted by back-biters, who swarm in our streets like bees.’

‘Give ear, Teresa, and listen to what I am going to say,’ answered Sancho: ‘for mayhap thou hast never heard such a thing in all the days of thy life; and I do not now pretend to speak from my own reflection, but to repeat the remarks of the good father who preached last Lent in our village. He said, if I right remember, that all objects present to the view, exist, and are impressed upon the imagination, with much greater energy and force, than those which we only remember to have seen.’ (The arguments here used by Sancho, contributed also to make the translator believe this chapter apocryphal; because they seem to exceed the capacity of the squire, who proceeded thus:) ‘From whence it happens, that when we see any person magnificently dressed, and surrounded with the pomp of servants, we find ourselves invited, and, as it were, compelled to pay him respect; although the memory should, at that instant, represent to us some mean circumstances of his former life; because that defect, whether in point of family or fortune, is already past and removed, and we only regard what is present to our view; and if the person, whom fortune hath thus raised from the lowness of oblivion to the height of prosperity, be well-bred, liberal, and courteous, without pretending to vie with the ancient nobility, you may take it for granted, Teresa, that nobody will remember what he was, but reverence what he now is, except the children of Envy, from whom no thriving person is secure.’—‘I really do not understand you,’ said Teresa: ‘you may do what you will; but seek not to distract my brain with your rhetorick and harranguing, for if you be revolved to do what you say—’ ‘You must call it resolved, woman, and not revolved,’ cried Sancho. ‘Never plague yourself to dispute with me, husband,’ answered Teresa: ‘I speak as God pleases, and meddle not with other people’s concerns. If you are obstinately bent upon this same government, I desire you will carry your son Sancho along with you, and from this hour teach him the art of that profession; for it is but reasonable that the sons should inherit and learn the trade of their fathers.’—‘As soon as I have obtained my government,’ said Sancho, ‘I will send the money for him by the post, as by that time I shall have plenty; for there are always people in abundance that will lend to a governor who has no money of his own; and be sure you cloath him in such a manner as to disguise his present condition, and make him appear like what he is to be.’—‘Send you the money,’ answered Teresa, ‘and I will dress him up like any branch of palm[145].’—‘Well, then,’ said Sancho, ‘we are agreed about making our daughter a countess——’ ‘That day I behold her a countess,’ cried the wife, ‘I shall reckon her dead and buried; but, I tell you again, you may use your pleasure: for we women are born to be obedient to our husbands, though they are no better than blocks.’

So saying, she began to weep as bitterly as if she had actually seen her daughter laid in her grave. Sancho consoled her, by saying, that although she must be a countess, he would defer her promotion as long as he could. Thus ended the conversation, and the squire went back to Don Quixote to concert measures for their speedy departure.

Footnote 143:

Sancho’s wife has already been mentioned under the names of Juana and Mary, and now she is called Teresa.

Footnote 144:

Almohada signifies a cushion.

Footnote 145:

Alluding to the bough that is adorned and carried in procession on Palm Sunday.

CHAP. VI. OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, HIS NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, BEING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS OF THE WHOLE HISTORY.

While this impertinent conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa Cascajo, Don Quixote’s niece and housekeeper were not idle; for, collecting from a thousand symptoms that their master wanted to give them the slip a third time, and return to the exercise of his unlucky knight-errantry, they endeavoured, by all possible means, to divert him from his extravagant design; but all they could say was like preaching to the desart, or hammering cold iron. However, among many other arguments, the housekeeper said to him, ‘As I hope to be saved, dear master, if your worship will not settle at home in your own house, but are resolved to stray about the mountains and vallies, like a troubled ghost, in quest of what you term adventures, but what I call mischances, I will complain in person, and raise up my voice to God and the king, that they may apply some remedy to your disorder.’ To this declaration, the knight replied, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper, how God will accept of thy complaints I know not; neither can I guess in what manner his majesty will answer thy petition: this only I know, that if I were king, I would excuse myself from answering that infinite number of impertinent memorials which are daily presented; for one of the greatest of the many fatigues that attend royalty, is that of being obliged to listen and reply to all petitions; therefore I would not have his majesty troubled with any affair of mine.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the housekeeper, ‘are there no knights at court?’—‘Yes, there are many,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and it is reasonable, that there should be always a good number in attendance to adorn the court, and support the pomp and magnificence of majesty.’—‘Would it not be better, then, for your worship,’ replied the matron, ‘to be one of that number, and serve your king and master quietly and safely at court?’—‘You must know, good woman,’ said Don Quixote, ‘all knights cannot be courtiers; neither can or ought all courtiers to be knights errant: there ought to be plenty of both; and though we are all knights, there is a great difference between the one sort and the other; your courtiers, without crossing the thresholds of their own apartments, travel over the world, in maps, gratis, and never know what it is to suffer either heat, cold, hunger, or thirst, in their journey; whereas, we real knights-errant measure the whole globe with our own footsteps, exposed night and day, on horse-back and a-foot, to the summer’s sun and winter’s cold, and all the inclemencies of the weather; we not only seek to see the picture, but the person of our foe, and on all emergencies and occasions attack him, without paying any regard to the trifling rules of challenges; whether, for example, his sword and lance be shorter or longer than our own; whether he wears about him any relick or secret coat of mail; or whether the sun and wind be equally divided; with other ceremonies of that nature, which are usually observed in duelling, and which, though I know them punctually, thou art little acquainted with: thou must also know, that a good knight-errant, though he sees ten giants, whose heads not only touch, but overtop the clouds, with legs like lofty steeples, and arms resembling the masts of vast and warlike ships; while each eye, as large as a mill-wheel, beams and burns like a glass furnace, is by no means confounded or abashed; but, on the contrary, with genteel demeanour, and intrepid heart, approaches, assaults, and, if possible, vanquishes and overthrows them in a twinkling, though they are armed with the shell of a certain fish, said to be harder than adamant; and instead of a sword, use a keen scymitar of damasked steel, or a huge club, armed with a point of the same metal, as I have seen on a dozen different occasions. All this I have mentioned, good woman, that thou mayest see what difference there is between knights of different orders; and every prince ought, in reason, to pay greater respect to his second, or rather this first species of knights-errant, among whom, as we read in history, there have been some who were the bulwarks not only of one, but of many kingdoms.’

‘Ah, dear Sir,’ cried the niece, interrupting him, ‘consider that all those stories of knights-errant are nothing but lyes and invention; and every one of the books that contain them deserves, if not to be burnt, at least to wear a _san benito_[146], or some other badge, by which it may be known for an infamous perverter of virtue and good sense.’—‘By the God that protects me!’ cried the knight, ‘wert thou not undoubtedly my niece, as being my own sister’s child, I would chastise thee in such a manner, for the blasphemy thou hast uttered, that the whole world would resound with the example. How! shall a pert baggage, who has scarce capacity enough to manage a dozen lace bobbins, dare to wag her tongue in censuring the histories of knights-errant? What would Signior Amadis say to such presumption? But, surely, he would forgive thy arrogance; for he was the most humble and courteous knight of his time, and besides the particular champion and protector of damsels: but thou mightest have been heard by another who would not treat thee so gently; for all are not affable and well-bred; on the contrary, some there are extremely brutal and impolite. All those who call themselves knights, are not entitled to that distinction; some being of pure gold, and others of baser metal, notwithstanding the denomination they assume. But these last cannot stand the touchstone of truth: there are many plebeians, who sweat and struggle to maintain the appearance of gentlemen; and, on the other hand, there are gentlemen of rank who seem industrious to appear mean and degenerate; the one sort raise themselves either by ambition or virtue, while the other abase themselves by viciousness or sloth; so that we must avail ourselves of our understanding and discernment, in distinguishing those persons, who, though they bear the same appellation, are yet so different in point of character.’—‘Good God!’ said the niece, ‘that your worship should be so learned, that even, if need were, you might mount the pulpit, or go a preaching in the streets, and yet remain in such woeful blindness and palpable folly, as to persuade the world that you are a valiant and vigorous righter of wrongs, when you are old, feeble, and almost crippled with age; but, above all things, to give yourself out for a knight, when you are no such thing; for, though rich gentlemen may be knighted, poor gentlemen, like you, seldom are.’

‘There is a good deal of truth in what thou hast observed, cousin,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and I could tell thee such things, concerning families, as would raise thine admiration; but these I suppress, that I may not seem to mix what’s human with what’s divine. Take notice, however, my friends, and be attentive to what I am going to say: all the families in the world may be reduced to four kinds, which are these; one that, from low beginnings, hath extended and dilated to a pitch of power and greatness; another, that from great beginnings hath continued to preserve and maintain its original importance; a third, that from vast beginnings hath ended in a point, diminishing and decaying from its foundation, into an inconsiderable point like that of a pyramid, which in respect of its base, is next kin to nothing; a fourth, and that the most numerous, had neither a good foundation, nor reasonable superstructure, and therefore sinks into oblivion, unobserved; such are the families of plebeians and ordinary people. The first, that from low beginnings hath mounted to power and greatness, which it preserves to this day, is exemplified in the house of Ottoman, that from an humble shepherd, who gave rise to it, attained that pinnacle of grandeur on which it now stands; the second sort of pedigree, that without augmentation hath preserved its original importance, is exhibited in the persons of many princes, who are such by inheritance; and support their rank without addition or diminution, containing themselves peaceably within the limits of their own dominions; of those who, from illustrious beginnings, have dwindled into a point, there are a thousand examples in the Pharaohs and Ptolemeys of Egypt, the Cæsars of Rome, with all the tribe, if they may be so called, of our Median, Assyrian, Persian, Greek, and Barbarian princes, monarchs, and great men. All these families and states, together with their founders, have ended in a very inconsiderable point; since, at this day, it is impossible to trace out one of their descendants; or, if we could, he would be found in some base and low degree. I have nothing to say of the plebeians, who only serve to increase the number of the living, without deferring any other fame or panegyrick. From what I have said, I would have you infer, my precious wise-acres, that there is a great confusion of pedigrees; and that those only appear grand and illustrious, whole representatives abound with virtue, liberality, and wealth: I say, virtue, liberality, and wealth; because the vicious great man is no more than a great sinner; and the rich man without liberality, a mere covetous beggar; for happiness does not consist in possessing, but in spending riches; and that not in squandering them away, but in knowing how to use them with taste. Now a poor knight has no other way of signalizing his birth, but the practice of virtue, being affable, well-bred, courteous, kind, and obliging; a stranger to pride, arrogance, and slander; and, above all things, charitable; for, by giving two farthings chearfully to the poor, he may shew himself as generous as he that dispenses alms by sound of bell: and whosoever sees him adorned with these virtues, although he should be an utter stranger to his race, will conclude that he is descended of a good family. Indeed, it would be a sort of miracle to find it otherwise; so that praise is always the reward of virtue, and never fails to attend the righteous. There are two paths, my children, that lead to wealth and honour: one is that of learning, the other that of arms; now I am better qualified for the last than for the first; and (as I judge from my inclination to arms) was born under the influence of the planet Mars; so that I am, as it were, obliged to chuse that road, which I will pursue in spite of the whole universe: you will therefore fatigue yourselves to no purpose, in attempting to persuade me from that which Heaven inspires, fortune ordains, reason demands, and, above all things, my own inclination dictates; knowing, as I do, the innumerable toils annexed to knight errantry, I am also well acquainted with the infinite benefits acquired in the exercise of that profession. I know the path of virtue is very strait, while the road of vice is broad and spacious. I know their end and issue is different: the wide extended way of vice conducts the traveller to death; while the narrow toilful path of virtue leads to happiness and life—not that which perisheth, but that which hath no end; and I know, as our great Castilian poet observes—

‘“By these rough paths of toil and pain, Th’ immortal feats of bliss we gain, Deny’d to those who heedless stray In tempting pleasure’s flow’ry way.”’

‘Ah! woe is me!’ cried the cousin, ‘my uncle is a poet too! he knows every thing, and can do every thing: I’ll lay a wager, if he should turn bricklayer, he could build a house like any cage.’—‘I do assure thee, niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘if those knightly sentiments did not wholly engross my attention, there is not a thing on earth that I could not make, nor a curiosity that should not go through my hands, especially bird-cages and tooth-picks.’

Here the conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the gate; which, as they found upon enquiry, was made by Sancho; whose presence was no sooner intimated, than the housekeeper ran away to hide herself that she might avoid the sight of him whom she abhorred: the niece, therefore, opened the door, and his master came out to receive him with open arms; then, shutting themselves up together, another dialogue passed, no ways inferior to the former.

Footnote 146:

A dress put upon convicted hereticks.

CHAP. VII. OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE; WITH OTHER SURPRIZING INCIDENTS.

The housekeeper seeing that her master and Sancho were locked up together, immediately guessed the subject of the conversation; and imagining, that the result of this confutation would be a third sally, she put on her veil, and full of trouble and anxiety, went in quest of the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, thinking, that as he was a well spoken man, and her master’s new friend, he might persuade him to lay aside such an extravagant design: accordingly, she found him taking a turn in his own yard, and fell upon her knees before him, in a cold sweat, occasioned by her vexation. Carrasco seeing her appear with such marks of sorrow and consternation, said, ‘What is the matter, Mrs. Housekeeper? what hath befallen you? something seems to have harrowed up your very soul!’—‘Nothing at all, dear Mr. Sampson,’ cried the housekeeper, ‘only my master is breaking out; he is certainly breaking out!’—‘How breaking out?’ said Sampson; ‘is any part of his body unsound?’—‘Where should it break out,’ replied the other, ‘but through the gate of his madness? My meaning, dear batchelor of my soul! is, that he is going to make another sally, (and that will be the third) searching up and down the world for what he calls adventures, though I cannot imagine why they should have that name[147]: the first time, he returned so battered and bruised, that they were fain to lay him across an ass, like a sack of oats, because he could not sit upright; the second time, he was brought home in a waggon, stretched and cooped up in a cage, in which he imagined himself inchanted, in such a woeful plight, that he could scarce be known by the mother that bore him, so lank and meagre, with his eyes sunk into the lowest pit of his brain; so that before I could bring him into any tolerable degree of strength, I expended more than six hundred new-laid eggs, as God and all the world know, as well as my hens, that will not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘That I verily believe,’ said the batchelor; ‘your hens are so good, plump, and well bred, that they would rather burst than say one thing, and mean another. Well, then, Mrs. Housekeeper, nothing else hath happened, neither have you met with any other misfortune, but the apprehension of what your master Don Quixote will do?’—‘Nothing else,’ said she. ‘Give yourself no trouble then,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘but go home a-God’s name, and get ready something hot for my breakfast; and in your way, repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer, if you can; I will follow in a little time, and then you shall see wonders.’—‘Dear heart!’ cried the housekeeper, ‘St. Apollonia’s prayer, say you? that I should repeat if my master had the tooth-ach; but, lack-a-day! his distemper lies in his skull.’—‘I know what I say,’ answered Sampson: ‘take my advice, Mrs. Housekeeper, and do not pretend to dispute with me; for I would have thee to know that I am a batchelor of Salamanca; there’s no higher batcheleering than that.’ She accordingly moved homeward, while Sampson went to communicate to the curate that which will be in due time disclosed.

While Don Quixote and Sancho were closeted together, there passed between them a conversation which the history recounts with great punctuality and truth. ‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘I have at length traduced my wife to consent that I shall attend your worship wheresoever you please to carry me.’-‘Say reduced, and not traduced, Sancho,’ replied the knight. ‘I have once or twice, if my memory serves me,’ said Sancho, ‘intreated your worship not to correct my words, if you understand my meaning; and when you can’t make it out, I desire you would say, “Sancho,” or “devil, I don’t understand thee:” then if I fail in explaining myself, you may correct me as much as you please; for I am so fossile.’—‘I do not understand thee now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘nor can I comprehend what thou wouldst be at, in saying I am so fossile.’—‘So fossile!’ said the squire; ‘that is, whereby as how I am just so.’—‘Nay, now thou art more and more unintelligible,’ replied the knight. ‘If your worship does not understand me now,’ answered Sancho, ‘I know not how to express it; for I am already at my wit’s end, and Lord have mercy upon me.’—‘O! now I conceive thy meaning,’ said the knight; ‘thou wouldst say thou art so docile, gentle, and tractable, as to comprehend every thing I say, and retain whatsoever I shall teach thee.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ said the squire, ‘that from the beginning, you knew my meaning by my mumping, but wanted to confound me by leading me into a thousand more blunders.’—‘It may be so,’ said the knight; ‘but in reality, what says Teresa?’—‘Teresa,’ answered Sancho, ‘says I must be sharp with your worship. Fast bind, fast find; He that shuffles does not always cut; and that, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush: now I know that A wife’s counsel is bad, but he that will not take it is mad.’—‘So say I,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘proceed, friend Sancho, you speak like an oracle to-day.’—‘Why then the case is this,’ resumed Sancho; ‘your worship very well knows we are all mortal, here to-day, and gone to-morrow; for the lamb goes as fast as the dam; and no man in this world can promise himself more hours of life than God is pleased to grant him; because death is deaf, and when he knocks at the door of life is always in a hurry, and will not be detained either by fair means or force, by sceptres or mitres, as the report goes, and as we have often heard it declared from the pulpit.’—‘All this is very true,’ said the knight; ‘but I cannot guess what you drive at.’—‘What I drive at,’ answered Sancho, ‘is, that your worship would appoint me a certain monthly salary for the time I shall serve you, to be paid out of your estate; for I do not chuse to depend upon recompences that come late, or low, or never. God will protect me with my own. In short, I would know what I have to trust to, whether little or much; for, The hen clucks though but on one egg; Many littles make a mickle; and, He that is getting aught, is losing nought. True it is, if it should happen, which I neither believe nor expect, that your worship can give me that island you have promised me so long; I am not so greedy or ungrateful, but that I will suffer my rent to be appraised, and my salary deducted in due portion[148]’.—‘To be sure, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘all portions ought to be proportioned.’—‘I understand you,’ replied the squire, ‘I should have said proportion instead of portion; but that is of no signification, since my meaning is comprehended by your worship.’—‘Aye, and so thoroughly comprehended,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that I have penetrated into the inmost recesses of thy thoughts, and perceive the mark at which those innumerable shafts of thy proverbs are aimed. Look you, Sancho, I would appoint thee a salary, if I could find in any history of knights-errant, one precedent, by which I might discover, or have the least glimpse of what they used to give monthly or yearly; but I have carefully perused all, or the greatest part or those histories, and cannot remember to have read, that any knight-errant ever paid a certain salary to his squire. I only know that all of them trusted to favour, and when it was least in their thoughts, provided their masters chanced to be fortunate, they found themselves rewarded with an island or something equivalent, and at least were honoured with rank and title. If with these hopes and expectations, you are willing to return to my service, do it a-God’s name; but if you think I will unhinge and deviate from the ancient customs of chivalry, you are grievously mistaken: wherefore, friend Sancho, you may go home again, and declare my intention to your wife Teresa; and if she is pleased, and you are willing to depend upon my favour, _bene quidem_; if not, let us shake hands and part: while there are peas in the dove-house, I shall never want pigeons; and remember, my child, that it is better to be rich in hope than poor in possession; and that a good claim is preferable to bad pay. I talk in this manner, Sancho, to show that I can pour forth a volley of proverbs as well as you; and finally, I must and will give you to understand, that if you do not chuse to serve me on those terms, and share my fortune, whatsoever it may be, I pray God may prosper and make a saint of you; for my part, I shall not want squires more obedient and careful, though less troublesome and talkative than your worship.’

When Sancho heard this firm resolution of his master, the sky began to lour, and down flagged the wings of his heart in a moment: for he had believed that the knight would not set out without him for all the wealth in the world. While he thus remained pensive and dejected, in came Sampson Carrasco, followed by the niece, who was very desirous to hear with what arguments he would dissuade her uncle from going again in quest of adventures. Sampson, who was a notable wag, no sooner entered, than embracing the knight, as at first, he pronounced with an audible voice, ‘O flower of knight-errantry, resplendent sun of arms, thou glory and mirrour of the Spanish nation! may it please the Almighty, of his infinite power, that if any person or persons shall raise any impediment to obstruct thy third sally, they may never extricate themselves from the labyrinth of their desires, or accomplish what they so unjustly wish!’ Then turning to the duenna, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper,’ said he, ‘you need not now repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer; for I know it is the precise determination of the stars, that Signior Don Quixote shall again execute his new and lofty plan: and I should greatly burden my confidence if I forbore to intimate, and desire, that this knight will no longer withold and detain the force of his valiant arm, and the virtue of his heroick soul; because, by his delay he retards the righting of wrongs, the protection of orphans, the honour of maidens, the favour of widows, the support of wives, with many other things of that nature, which regard, concern, depend upon, and appertain, to the order of knight-errantry. Courage! Signior Don Quixote, beautiful and brave; may your worship and grandeur set out before to morrow morning; and if any thing be wanting to forward your expedition, here am I, ready to make it good with my person and fortune; and, if need be, to serve your magnificence in quality of squire; an office in the execution of which I should think myself extremely happy.’

Don Quixote hearing this proffer, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘Did not I tell thee, Sancho, that I should not want for squires? Take notice who it is that offers to attend me; who, but the unheard of batchelor Sampson Carrasco; the perpetual darling and delight of the court-yards belonging to the Salamancan schools; sound of body, strong of limb, a silent sufferer of heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and endued with all those qualifications which are requisite in the squire of a knight-errant: but Heaven will not permit me, for my own satisfaction, to break and demolish this pillar of learning, this urn of sciences, and to hew down such an eminent branch of the liberal arts. No, let this new Sampson stay at home, and honour the place of his nativity, together with the grey hairs of his ancient parents; while I make shift with any sort of squire, since Sancho will not vouchsafe to go along with me.’

‘Y—yes, I do vouchsafe!’ cried Sancho, blubbering; ‘it shall never be said of me, dear master, that when the victuals were eaten up, the company sneaked off; I am not come of such an ungrateful stock; for all the world, and especially my own townsmen, know what sort of people the Panzas were, of whom I am descended; besides, I have perceived, and am sensible, by many good works, and more good words, that your worship is actually inclined to do for me; and if I have haggled more than enough about my wages, it was to please my wife, who, if she once takes in hand to persuade me to any thing, no cooper’s adze drives the hoops of a barrel as she drives at her purpose, until she hath gained it; but, after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a woman: now I being a man every inch of me, when or wheresoever I please to shew myself, (that I cannot deny) I am resolved to be master in my own house, in spite of the devil, the world, and the flesh; and therefore your worship has no more to do but prepare your will, with the codicil, so as that it cannot be rebuked; and then let us take our departure, that we may not endanger the soul of Mr. Sampson, whose conscience, he says, prompts him to persuade your worship to make a third sally through the world; and here I promise again to serve your worship faithfully and lawfully, as well as, and better than, all the squires that ever attended the knights-errant, either in past or present time.’

The batchelor was astonished at hearing the manner and conclusion of Sancho’s speech; for although he had read the first part of his master’s history, he never believed him so diverting as he is there represented; but now, hearing him talk of the will and codicil that could not be rebuked, instead of revoked, he was convinced of the truth of what he had read, and confirmed in the opinion of his being one of the most solemn simpletons of the present age; saying, within himself, two such madmen as the master and his squire are not to be paralleled upon earth. In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho were reconciled, and embraced each other; and, in consequence of the opinion and assent of the great Carrasco, whom they looked upon as an oracle, it was determined that they should depart in three days, during which they would have time to provide themselves with necessaries for the journey, and find a compleat helmet for the knight, who insisted upon carrying one along with him into the field. Sampson, accordingly, undertook to accommodate him, saying he could command an helmet that was in possession of a friend of his; though the brightness of the metal was not a little obscured by the rust and mould which it had contracted.

Innumerable were the curses which were vented against the batchelor by the housekeeper and niece, who tore their hair, and scratched their faces; and like the hired mourners, formerly in use, lamented the departure, as if it had been the death of their master. But Sampson’s view in persuading him to another sally, was to execute a design which he had concerted with the curate and barber, as will appear in the sequel. In short, during those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho furnished themselves with every thing they thought they should have occasion for; the squire pacified his wife, the knight appeased his niece and housekeeper; and on the evening of the fourth day, without being perceived by any living soul but the batchelor, who insisted upon accompanying them half a league out of town, they set out, and took the road to Toboso; Don Quixote mounted on his trusty Rozinante, and Sancho throned upon his old friend Dapple, with a pair of bags well lined with belly-timber, and a purse of money, which his master deposited in his hands, in case of accidents in their expedition.

Sampson, embracing the knight, intreated him to write an account of his good or evil fortune, that he might congratulate or sympathize with him, as the laws of friendship require. Don Quixote assured him, he would comply with his request; the batchelor returned to the village, and the other two pursued their way towards the great city of Toboso.

Footnote 147:

The original, _ventura_, signifies good luck as well as adventures.

Footnote 148:

I have substituted this play upon the word proportion, in lieu of Sancho’s blundering on _rata_.

CHAP. VIII. AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE, IN HIS JOURNEY TO VISIT HIS MISTRESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.

‘Blessed be the Almighty Ala,’ saith Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the beginning of this chapter; and this benediction he repeats three times, in consequence of finding Don Quixote and Sancho in the field again; observing, that the readers of this agreeable history may assure themselves that, from this period, the exploits of the knight and his squire begin. He therefore persuades them to forget the former adventures of our sage hero, and fix their attention upon those which are to come; and which now begin in the road to Toboso, as the others took their origin in the field of Montiel; and truly his demand is but reasonable, considering the fair promise he makes. Thus, therefore, he proceeds.

Scarce had Sampson left Don Quixote and Sancho by themselves, when Rozinante began to neigh, and Dapple to bray most melodiously; a circumstance which was looked upon by both our adventurers as a fortunate signal and most happy omen; though, to deal candidly with the reader, the brayings of the ass exceeded in number the neighings of the horse; from whence Sancho concluded, his fortune would surmount and overtop that of his master. But whether or not he founded his belief on his knowledge in judicial astrology, I cannot determine, the history being silent on that subject; yet certain it is he had been heard to say when he stumbled or fell, that he wished he had not stirred over his own threshold; for nothing was to be got by a stumble or fall but a torn shoe, or broken bone; and truly, simple as he was, he had some reason for making that observation.

‘Friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the night is so far advanced, that we shall not be able to reach Toboso by day-light; yet thither I am determined to go, before I engage in any other adventure, that I may receive the benediction and good leave of the peerless Dulcinea, by the help of which I shall certainly atchieve, and happily perform, the most perilous exploits; for nothing in this life exalts the valour of knights-errant so much as the favour of their mistresses.’—‘I am of the same way of thinking,’ replied the squire; ‘but I believe your worship will find some difficulty in seeing her in a proper place for courtship, or indeed for receiving her blessing, unless she throws it over the pales of the yard through which I saw her for the first time, when I carried the letter that gave an account of the folly and mad pranks I left your worship committing in the heart of the brown mountain.’—‘Didst thou then actually imagine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that those were the pales of a yard, over or through which thou sawest that paragon of gentleness and beauty? Certainly they could be no other than galleries, arcades, or corridores, such as belong to rich and royal palaces.’—‘It may be so,’ answered Sancho, ‘but either my memory fails me very much, or to me they seemed no better than the pales of a farmer’s yard.’—‘Be that as it will,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘thither we will go, and at any rate get sight of her; for be it through pales, windows, crannies, or the rails of a garden, so the least ray of that sun of beauty reach mine eyes, it will enlighten my understanding, and fortify my heart in such a manner, that I shall remain the unequalled phœnix of valour and discretion.’—‘Truly, Sir,’ said the squire, ‘when I saw that same sun of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not so bright as to send forth any rays at all; but the case was, the wheat that her ladyship was winnowing, as I told you before, raised such a cloud of dust about her, as quite darkened her countenance.’—‘Wilt thou still persist, Sancho,’ replied the errant, ‘in saying, thinking, believing, and affirming, that my mistress Dulcinea was employed in such a mean office, so wide of all that is or ought to be practised by persons of rank, who are created and reserved for other exercises and amusements, that denote their quality at the distance of a bow-shot. Thou seemest to forget, O Sancho! those verses of our poet, in which he paints the labours that in their chrystal bowers engrossed the four nymphs, who, raising their heads above the waves of their beloved Tagus, sat down to work in the verdant meadow those rich and silken webs, which, as the ingenious poet describes, were with gold and pearls adorned and interweaved. In this manner my mistress must have been employed when thou sawest her; but some wicked inchanter, envious of my happiness and fame, converts and perverts every thing that yields me pleasure, into shapes and figures different from its real appearance; and in that history of my atchievements which they say is printed, if the author be some sage who is an enemy to my success, I am afraid he hath confounded one thing with another, and clogged every fact with a thousand falsehoods; straying from his subject, to recount actions quite foreign to the skilful detail of a true history! O envy! thou root of infinite mischief, and canker-worm of virtue! The commission of all other vices, Sancho, is attended with some sort of delight; but envy produces nothing in the heart that harbours it but rage, rancour, and disgust.’—‘So say I, master,’ answered Sancho: ‘and I suppose, in this legend or history of us, which Batchelor Carrasco says he has seen, my reputation goes like a jolting hackney-coach, and is tossed about, as the saying is, like a tennis-ball; though in good faith, I never spoke an ill word of any inchanter whatsoever; nor am I rich enough to stir up envy in any living soul: true it is I am a little waggish, and have a small spice of knavery at bottom; but all this is crowned and covered with the broad cloak of my simplicity, which is always natural and never affected; and if there was nothing else but my believing, as I always do firmly and sincerely, in God, as well as in all that is owned and believed by the holy Roman catholick church; and my being a mortal enemy, as I certainly am, to the Jews, the historians ought to have mercy upon me, and use me tenderly in their writings: but let them say what they will, I naked was born, and naked remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain: though, provided I see myself mentioned in a book, and circulate through the world from hand to hand, I don’t value what they can say of me a fig’s end.’

‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘puts me in mind of what happened to a famous poet of this age, who having composed a severe satire against the court ladies, omitted to insert one in particular, by name, so that it was doubtful whether or not she was implied in any part of the performance. The lady, thus neglected, complained to the poet, asking what he had seen in her character unworthy of being described among the rest, and desiring him to enlarge the satire, that she might be included in the supplement, or look to himself. The author complied with her request, lashing her in terms not fit to be named; and she was perfectly well satisfied with the fame of being infamous. Of a piece with this ambition was that reported of the shepherd, who set fire to the celebrated temple of Diana, reckoned one of the wonders of the world, with no other view than to render his name immortal; and although there was a severe edict, prohibiting all persons whatever from making mention of his name, either by word or writing, that he might not accomplish his aim, it is very well known at this day, that his name was Erostratus. This likewise bears an affinity to that occurrence which passed at Rome, between that great emperor Charles the Fifth, and a certain knight. The emperor went to visit the famous temple of the Rotunda, which was of old called the Pantheon, but is now more happily named the Church of All-Saints, the most entire edifice that remains of heathen Rome, and which most of all evinces the grandeur and magnificence of its founders. It is built in the shape of half an orange, of a vast extent, and very well lighted, though it has but one window, or rather a round lanthorn at its top, from whence the emperor considered the inside of the structure, being attended by a Roman knight, who described the excellence and ingenious contrivance of that vast and memorable work; and, after they had descended, said to him, “Sacred Sir, a thousand times was I seized with an inclination to clasp your majesty in my arms, and throw myself down from the lanthorn, in order to eternize my name.”—“I thank you,” replied the emperor, “for having resisted such a wicked suggestion, and henceforward will never give you an opportunity of repeating such a proof of your loyalty; avoid my presence, and never presume to speak to me again.” But, notwithstanding this severe command, he conferred upon him some extraordinary favour. My meaning, Sancho, is, that the desire of fame is a most active principle in the human breast. What dost thou imagine was the motive that prevailed on Horatius to throw himself from the bridge, armed at all points, into the depth of the river Tyber? what induced Mutius to burn his hand and arm? what impelled Curtius to dart himself into the flaming gulph which opened in the midst of Rome? what prompted Cæsar to pass the Rubicon, in spite of all the unfavourable omens that appeared? and, to give you a more modern instance, what consideration bore the ships, and left on shore, encompassed with enemies, those valiant Spaniards in the new world, under the conduct of the most courteous Cortez? All these, and many other great and various exploits, are, were, and shall be performed, in consequence of that desire of fame, which flatters mortals with a share of that immortality which they deem the merited reward of their renowned atchievements: although we catholick Christian knights-errant ought to pay greater attention to that glory which is to come, and eternally survives within the etherial and celestial mansions, than to the vanity of that same, which is obtained in this present perishable state, and which, considered in its longest duration, must end at length with the world itself, which hath its appointed period. Wherefore, Sancho, our works must not exceed the limits prescribed by the Christian religion which we profess. We must, in slaying giants, extirpate pride; get the better of envy by benevolence and virtue; resist anger with patience and forbearance; conquer gluttony and sloth by temperance and watchfulness; luxury and lewdness by our fidelity to those whom we constitute mistresses of our inclination; and idleness by travelling through all parts of the world in quest of opportunities to evince ourselves not only Christians, but, moreover, renowned knights. Thus, Sancho, thou seest the means of acquiring that superlative praise which produces fame and reputation.’

‘All that your worship hath hitherto said,’ replied the squire, ‘I understand perfectly well; but, for all that, I wish you would dissolve me one doubt, which hath this moment struck me in the noddle.’—‘Thy meaning is resolve, Sancho,’ said the knight: ‘in good time, out with it, and I will give thee satisfaction, as far as my own knowledge extends.’—‘Tell me, then, Signior,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘where now are all those Julys and Augusts, and adventuresome knights who died so long ago?’—‘The Heathens,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘are doubtless in hell; and the Christians, if they were good catholicks, either in purgatory or in heaven.’—‘Right,’ said the squire; ‘let us next enquire, if the tombs that contain the bodies of that sort of gentry are lighted with silver lamps; or the walls of their chapels adorned with crutches, winding sheets, periwigs, legs, and eyes, made of wax; if not, pray in what manner are they adorned?’ To this question Don Quixote answered, that the sepulchres of the heathen heroes were, for the most part, sumptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Cæsar were placed upon the top of a stone pyramid, of vast dimensions, still to be seen at Rome, under the name of St. Peter’s obelisk; the emperor Adrian’s tomb was a building as large as a good village, formerly called Moles Adriani, but at present the Castle of St. Angelo; and Queen Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a monument, that was accounted one of the seven wonders of the world; but none of these sepulchres, nor any other belonging to the heathens, were adorned with shrouds, offerings, or marks, to denote the sanctity of the persons there buried. ‘So I perceive,’ said Sancho; ‘and now tell me, whether it be more meritorious to slay a giant, or raise up the dead to life again?’—‘The answer is plain,’ replied the knight; ‘it is more meritorious to re-animate the dead.’—‘Then I have caught you fairly,’ cried the squire; ‘he who revives the dead, restores sight to the blind, straightens the crooked, heals the sick; before whose tomb the lamps continually burn, whose chapels are filled with devout people who adore his relicks upon their knees; I say, he shall have more fame in this world, and that which is to come, than all the heathen emperors and knights-errant that ever lived have left or will leave behind them.’—‘I am very sensible of the truth of what you alledge,’ answered the knight. ‘Now this same, this grace, this prerogative, or what you call it,’ resumed the squire, ‘is veiled in the bodies and relicks of the saints; and with the approbation and licence of our holy mother church, they have their lamps, tapers, shrouds, crutches, pictures, periwigs, eyes, and legs, whereby the devotion of the people is increased, and their own Christian fame promulgated; the bodies and relicks of saints are carried upon the shoulders of kings, who kiss the very fragments of their bones, with which they enrich and adorn their most precious altars and oratories.’—‘What wouldst thou have me infer from all this?’ said Don Quixote. ‘My meaning,’ replied Sancho, ‘is, that we should turn saints immediately, and so with the greater dispatch acquire that fame which we are in search of; and pray take notice, Signior, it was but yesterday, or t’other day, as one may say in comparison, that they canonized and beatified two bare-footed friars; and people now think it a great happiness to be allowed to touch and kiss the iron chains with which they girded and tormented their poor bodies; and which are in greater esteem than the sword of Orlando, which, as the report goes, is kept in the armoury of our lord the king, whom God in Heaven bless: wherefore, dear master, it is better to be an humble friar of any order whatever, than the most valiant knight that ever breathed; for, with God, two dozen of disciplines will more avail than as many thousand back-strokes, whether they be bestowed on giants, dragons, or hobgoblins.’—‘All this is very true,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we cannot all be friars; and various are the paths by which God conducts the good to Heaven. Chivalry itself is a religious order, and some that were knights are now saints in glory.’—‘True,’ resumed the squire, ‘but I have often heard it observed, that there are more friars than knights in Heaven.’—‘The reason,’ said the knight, ‘is, because there is a greater number of monks than of the other order.’—‘And yet there are many knights-errant,’ replied the squire. ‘There is, indeed, a good number,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but very few that deserve the name.’

In this, and other such discourse, they passed that night and the following day, without encountering any thing worthy of being mentioned; a circumstance that chagrined our knight not a little. Next day, however, in the twilight, they descried the great city of Toboso; at sight of which Don Quixote’s spirits were exhilarated, and Sancho’s depressed, because he did not know where to find the house of Dulcinea, whom he had never seen, neither had his master ever beheld this peerless princess; so that the one suffered perturbation from the desire of seeing her, and the other because he had not seen her; and, indeed, Sancho could not contrive how to manage the affair, when his master should send him to Toboso. In fine, Don Quixote resolved to enter the city in the dark; and with this view they tarried in a grove of oaks, not far from the gate, till the night was advanced; then entered the town, where they met with things which amount to things indeed.

CHAP. IX. WHICH CONTAINS WHAT YOU WILL SEE IN THE PERUSAL OF IT.

It was midnight, or thereabout, when Don Quixote and Sancho, leaving their covert, entered the city of Toboso, which was then in profound silence, all its inhabitants being asleep, and lying with outstretched legs, as the saying is. The night was clear, though Sancho wished it otherwise, that in the darkness he might find an excuse for his imposition; and nothing was heard in the whole town but the barking of dogs, which thundered in Don Quixote’s ears, and very much disturbed the heart of Sancho; yet, from time to time, they were saluted by the braying of asses, the grunting of hogs, and the mewing of cats; which different notes being augmented by the stillness of the night, were considered as ill omens by the enamoured knight, who nevertheless said to his squire, ‘Son Sancho, lead on to the palace of Dulcinea, whom, perhaps, we shall find awake.’—‘Body of the sun!’ cried Sancho, ‘what palace should I lead to? when I saw her highness she was in a very small cottage.’—‘Then she must have been retired,’ answered the knight, ‘to some small apartment of her castle, to divert herself with her damsels, according to the use and custom of princesses and ladies of rank.’—‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘since your worship, in spite of all that I can say, will have my Lady Dulcinea’s house to be a castle, is this an hour to find the gate open? and will it be decent for us to throw the whole family into confusion and uproar, by making a racket, and demanding entrance, at this time of night? Do you think we are going to a bawdy-house, like your fornicators, who rap and knock, and enter at any hour of the four and twenty?’—‘First of all, let us fairly find the castle,’ replied the knight, ‘and then I will tell thee what is to be done; and take notice, Sancho, for either mine eye-sight fails me, or that great shadowy building before us is the palace of Dulcinea.’—‘Advance, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘perhaps it may be so; and yet, though I should see it with mine eyes, and touch it with my hands, I will believe it as much as I believe it is now twelve o’clock at noon.’

Don Quixote, however, proceeded; and having gone about two hundred paces, came up with the building that produced the shadow, and perceiving it an high steeple, found it was no castle, but in reality the principal church in town. ‘We are arrived at the cathedral, Sancho,’ said he. ‘So I perceive,’ replied the squire, ‘and God grant we be not arrived at our graves! for it is no good sign to be strolling about church-yards at these hours: besides, I have already told your worship, (if my memory serves me right) that my lady’s house stands in a blind alley.’—‘The curse of God light on thee, for a blockhead as thou art!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘where didst thou ever hear of castles and royal palaces, built in blind alleys?’—‘Signior,’ answered Sancho, ‘every country has its own customs; and perhaps it is the custom here, in Toboso, to raise palaces and grand edifices in blind alleys; I therefore humbly beseech your worship to let me search all the streets and alleys I shall meet with; and who knows but in some corner I may light on this same castle, which I wish the dogs had devoured, before it had brought us to such perplexity and confusion?’—‘Talk respectfully, Sancho, of those things that appertain to my mistress,’ said the knight; ‘let us spend our holiday in peace, and not throw the helve after the hatchet.’—‘Well, I will be pacified,’ answered the squire; ‘though how can I endure your worship should expect that I who have seen my lady’s house but once, should know it always, and even find it out in the middle of the night, when you yourself are at a loss, though you must have seen it a thousand times?’—‘You distract me, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote; ‘heark ye, heretick, have not I told you a thousand times, that in all the days of my life, I never saw the peerless Dulcinea, nor ever crossed the threshold of her palace, being only enamoured by hearsay, and the great reputation of her beauty and discretion?’—‘I hear your worship say so now,’ replied Sancho; ‘and tell you in my turn, that if you have not seen her, no more have I.’—‘That is impossible,’ resumed the knight; ‘at least, you told me you had seen her winnowing wheat, when you brought back an answer to the letter with which I sent you to her habitation.’—‘Truly, Signior, you must not depend upon that,’ answered Sancho; ‘for you must know, my seeing her, and bringing back the answer, was also upon hearsay; and I am as incapable of giving any account of the Lady Dulcinea, as I am of pulling the moon by the nose.’ ‘Sancho! Sancho!’ said Don Quixote, ‘there is a time for jesting, and a time when jokes are very unseasonable; though I say I have never seen or spoke with the mistress of my soul, there is no reason for thy making the same declaration, which thou knowest is so contrary to the truth.’

While they thus conversed together, they perceived a person passing that way with a couple of mules; and by the noise of a plough-share, which they dragged along, justly concluded that he was a peasant who had risen before day to go to labour: they were not mistaken; it was actually a labourer, who went along singing the ballad of Ronscevalles[149]; which the knight no sooner heard, than he exclaimed, ‘Let me die, Sancho! if any thing lucky will befal us to-night; don’t you hear what that peasant is singing?’—‘Yes,’ said Sancho; ‘but what has the defeat at Ronscevalles to do with our affair? If he had sung the ballad of Calaynos, it would have been the same thing with regard to our good or evil fortune.’

Don Quixote said to the peasant, who was by this time come-up, ‘Can you tell me, honest friend, and the blessing of God attend you, in what part of this city stands the palace of the peerless princess Donna Dulcinea del Toboso?’—‘Signor,’ answered the young man, ‘I am a stranger, and have been but a few days in town, in the service of a rich farmer, whose lands I till; but in that house that fronts you live the curate and sexton of the parish, and either or both can give your worship an account of that same princess, for they keep a register of all the inhabitants of Toboso, though I believe, there is no such thing as a princess in the whole place: there are, indeed, many ladies of fashion, and every one may be a princess in her own house.’—‘She whom I ask for must be one of these,’ said the knight. ‘It may be so,’ answered the peasant; ‘but I shall be overtaken by the morning.’ So saying, he drove on his mules, without waiting for any more questions.

Sancho, seeing his matter in suspence, and over and above dissatisfied, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘day begins to break, and it will not be altogether convenient to let the sun find us here in the street: we had better quit the city, and look out for some wood in the neighbourhood, where your worship may enjoy the cool shade; and I will return by day, and search every hole and cranny in Toboso for this house, castle, or palace of my lady, and it will be very unfortunate, indeed, if I cannot find it; and if I have the good luck, to meet with her ladyship, I will tell her where and how I have left your worship, in expectation of her contriving some means whereby you may visit her, without any prejudice to her honour and reputation.’—‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘thou hast uttered a thousand sentences within the compass of a few words: the counsel thou hast given me I relish, and most willingly receive. Come, my son, let us go in quest of some thicket, where I may embower myself, while thou shalt return to seek, see, and talk with my mistress, from whose courtesy and discretion I hope to receive more than miraculous favours.’

Sancho burned with impatience to see his master fairly out of town, that he might not detect the falshood of the answer which he pretended to bring from Dulcinea, while he remained in the Brown Mountain: he therefore pressed him to depart, and about two miles from the city they found a thicket or wood, where Don Quixote took up his residence, while Sancho went back to commune with Dulcinea; and, in the course of his embassy, met with adventures that demand new credit and fresh attention.

Footnote 149:

Like our Chevy Chase.

CHAP. X. GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRATAGEM WHICH SANCHO PRACTISED, IN ORDER TO INCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA —WITH OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES EQUALLY LUDICROUS AND TRUE.

The author of this stupendous history, when he comes to relate what is contained in this chapter, says, he would have willingly passed it over in silence, because he was afraid that it would not be believed; for here the madness of Don Quixote soars to the highest pitch of extravagance that can be imagined, and even by two bow shots, at least, exceeds all credit and conception: yet, notwithstanding this jealousy and apprehension, he has recounted it in the same manner as it happened, without adding to the history, or detracting one tittle from the truth, undervaluing the risk he runs of being deemed apocryphal: and surely he was in the right; for truth may bend, but will never break, and always surmounts falshood, as oil floats above water. Wherefore he proceeds in the narrative, saying—

Don Quixote having taken his station in the forest, grove, or wood, near to the great city of Toboso, ordered Sancho to go back to town, and not return to his presence before he should have spoken to his mistress, and begged, in his name, that she would be pleased to grant an interview to her captive knight, and deign to bestow upon him her blessing, through which he might expect the most happy issue to all his attempts and enterprizes.

The squire, having undertaken to execute this command, and to bring back as favourable an answer as he had brought the first time; ‘Go, my son,’ said the knight, ‘and be not confounded when you find yourself beamed upon by that resplendent sun of beauty, which is the object of your enquiry: happy thou, above all the squires that ever lived! Be sure to retain in thy memory every circumstance of thy reception; observe if she changes colour, while thou art delivering my message; if she is discomposed, and under confusion at the mention of my name; whether she sinks upon her cushion, or happens at the time to be seated under the rich canopy of her authority; if she be standing, take notice whether or not she sometimes supports herself on one foot, sometimes on the other; and if she repeats her answer more than once, changing it from kind to harsh, from sour to amorous; and if she lifts up her hand to adjust her hair, although it be not disorderd; finally, son, mark all her gestures and emotions; and if thou bringest me an exact detail of them, I shall be able to divine her most abstruse sentiments, touching the concerns of my passion: for know, Sancho, if thou art still to learn, among lovers, the least gesticulation in their external behaviour, while the conversation turns upon their amours, is, as it were, a messenger that brings a most certain account of what passes within the soul. Go, friend, and enjoy thy fate, so much more favourable than thy master’s; and return with much more success than that which I dread and expect in this cruel solitude, where I now remain.’—‘I go,’ replied Sancho, ‘and will return in a twinkling; therefore, good your worship, do encourage that little heart of yours, which, at present, must be no bigger than a hazle-nut; and consider, as the saying is, A stout heart flings misfortune; Where you meet with no hooks, you need expect no bacon; and again, The hare often starts, where the hunter leasts expects her. This I observe, because, though we did not find the palace and castle of my lady in the night; now that it is day, I hope to stumble upon it, when I least expect to see it; and if so be I once catch it, let me alone with her.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘God grant me better fortune in my desires than you have in the application of the proverbs you utter.’

This was no sooner said, than Sancho switching Dapple, quitted the knight, who remained on horseback, resting his legs upon his stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, his imagination being engrossed by the most melancholy suggestions. Here let us leave him, and proceed with Sancho Panza; who, parting from his master, in equal perplexity and confusion, no sooner found himself clear of the wood, than looking back, and perceiving that Don Quixote was not in sight, he alighted from his ass, and sitting down at the root of a tree, began to catechise himself in these words: ‘Brother Sancho, be so good as to let us know, where your worship is going? Are you in search of some stray beast?—No, truly!—What then is your errand?—Why, really, I am going in search of a thing of nought, a princess, God wot! and in her, the sun and the whole heaven of beauty. And, pray, where may you expect to meet with this that you mention, Sancho?—Where, but in the great city of Toboso.—Well, and by whose order are you going upon this enquiry?—By order of the renowned knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, the righter of wrongs, who gives thirst to the hungry, and food to those that are dry.—All this is mighty well; but do you know the house, Sancho?—My master says, it must be some royal palace, or stately castle.—But have you never once seen this same princess?—Neither I nor he ever set eyes on her.—And do you think it will be well bestowed, if the inhabitants of Toboso, getting notice that you are come with an intention to wheedle away their princesses, and disturb their dames, should break every bone of your skin, and grind your ribs to a paste, with pure cudgelling?—Verily they would not be much to blame, unless they considered, that I do nothing but execute my master’s command, and being only a messenger, am not in fault.—Never trust to that, Sancho; for the Manchegans are as cholerick as honourable, and will not suffer themselves to be tickled by any person whatever. Ecod! if you are once smoked, you will come but scurvily off.—Bodikins! since that be the case, why should I plague myself, seeking a cat with three legs, for another man’s pleasure?—Besides, you may as well seek for a magpye in Rabena, or a batchelor in Salamanca, as for Dulcinea in Toboso.—The devil, and none but the devil, has sent me on this fool’s errand!’

The result of this soliloquy was another, that broke out in these words: ‘There is a remedy for every thing but death, under whose yoke we must all pass, will we nill we, when this life is at an end. This master of mine, as I have perceived by a thousand instances, is mad enough to be shackled among straw; and truly I am not much behind him in folly; nay, indeed, I am more mad than he, seeing I serve and follow him, if there be any truth in the proverb that says, Tell me your company, and I will tell you your manners: and the other, Not he with whom you was bred, but he by whom you are fed. Now he being, as he certainly is, a madman; aye, and so mad as for the most part to mistake one thing for another, affirming white to be black, and black to be white; as plainly appeared when he took the windmills for giants, the mules of the friars for dromedaries, the flocks of sheep for opposite armies; and a great many other things in the same stile: I say, it will be no difficult matter to make him believe the first country-wench I shall meet with to be his mistress Dulcinea; and if he boggles at swallowing the cheat, I will swear lustily to the truth of what I affirm; and if he swears also, I will swear again; and if he is positive, I will be more positive; so that come what will, my obstinacy shall always exceed his. Perhaps, by this stubborn behaviour, I shall get rid of all such troublesome messages for the future; when he finds what disagreeable answers I bring; or perhaps, which I rather believe, he will think that one of those inchanters, who, he says, bear him a grudge, hath transmographied her shape, in order to vex and disquiet him.’

Sancho having found out this expedient, was quite calm and satisfied in his mind, and thinking he had brought the business to a good bearing, remained where he was till the evening, that Don Quixote might think he had sufficient time to execute his orders, and return. Everything succeeded so well to his wish, that when he got up to mount Dapple, he descried three country wenches riding from Toboso, towards the place where he stood, upon three young he or she asses, for the author does not declare their sex; though in all likelihood they were of the female gender, as your village maidens commonly ride upon she-asses; but this being a circumstance of small importance, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to ascertain it.

In short, Sancho no sooner perceived the wenches, than he rode back at a round trot to his master, whom he found sighing bitterly, and pouring forth a thousand amorous complaints; the knight seeing him arrive, ‘Well, friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘is this day to be marked with a white or black stone?’—‘Your worship,’ answered the squire, ‘had better mark it with red ochre, like the titles on a professor’s chair, that it may be seen the better by those who look at it.’—‘At that rate,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘thou bringest me good news.’—‘So good,’ answered Sancho, ‘that your worship has nothing to do but to mount Rozinante, and gallop into the plain, where you will see my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso and two of her damsels coming this way to pay you a visit.’—‘Gracious God!’ cried the knight, ‘what is that you say, friend Sancho? Take care how you deceive me! endeavouring, by feigned joy, to enliven my real sadness.’—‘What should I get by deceiving your worship?’ said the squire. ‘Besides, you can easily be satisfied of the truth of what I say. Make haste, Signior, come and see our mistress the princess, arrayed and adorned; in short, as she ought to be; her damsels and she are all one flame of gold; all covered with pearls, diamonds, rubies, and brocade, more than ten hands deep; their hair flowing loose about their shoulders, like so many sun-beams waving with the wind; and moreover they are mounted on three pied belfreys, that it would do one’s heart good to see them.’—‘Palfreys, you mean, Sancho,’ said the knight. ‘There is no great difference,’ answered the squire, ‘between palfreys and belfreys; but, be that as it will, they are the finest creatures one would desire to see, especially my Lady Dulcinea, who is enough to stupify the five senses.’—‘Come, then, my son,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and as a gratuity for bringing this piece of news, equally welcome and unexpected, I bestow upon thee the spoils of the first adventure I shall atchieve; and if thou art not satisfied with that recompence, I will give unto thee the foals that shall this year be brought forth by my three mares, which thou knowest we left with young upon our town common.’—‘I stick to the foals,’ cried the squire, ‘for as to the spoils of our first adventure, I question whether or not they will be worth accepting.’

By this time, they were clear of the wood, and in sight of the three country-maidens; when the knight lifting up his eyes, and surveying the whole road to Toboso, without seeing any thing but them, began to be troubled in mind, and asked Sancho if the ladies had got out of town when he left them. ‘Out of town?’ said Sancho. ‘What! are your worship’s eyes in the nape of your neck, that you don’t see them coming towards us, glittering and shining like the sun at noon?’—‘I see nobody,’ replied the knight, ‘but three country-wenches riding upon asses.’—‘God deliver me from the devil!’ cried the squire, ‘is it possible that three belfreys, or how-d’ye-call-ums, white as the driven snow, should appear no better than asses in your worship’s eyes? By the Lord! I’ll give you leave to pluck off every hair of my beard if that be the case.’—‘Then I tell thee, Sancho,’ said his master, ‘they are as certainly he or she-asses as I am Don Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza; at least, so they seem to me.’—‘Hold your tongue, Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘and never talk in that manner, but snuff your eyes, and go and make your reverence to the mistress of your heart, who is just at hand.’

So saying, he advanced towards the damsels, and alighting from Dapple, seized one of their beasts by the halter; then fell upon his knees before the rider, to whom he addressed himself in this manner: ‘Queen, princess, and duchess of beauty, will your highness and greatness be pleased to receive into grace and favour your captive knight, who sits there stupified to stone, utterly confounded and deprived of pulse, at seeing himself in presence of your magnificence; I am Sancho Panza his squire, and he is the perplexed and down trodden knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, alias the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’

[Illustration: Don Quixote Worships His Lady.]

By this time Don Quixote having placed himself on his knees, by Sancho, gazed with staring eyes and troubled vision, upon the object which the squire called queen and princess; and perceiving nothing but a country-wench’s visage, and that none of the most agreeable, for it was round and flat-nosed, he remained in the utmost confusion and surprize, without daring to open his lips. The other two damsels were equally astonished at seeing a couple of such different figures kneeling before their companion, whom they had detained; but she, breaking silence, pronounced in a most ungracious and resentful manner, ‘Get out of the way, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry.’ To this apostrophe Sancho replied, ‘O princess and universal Lady of Toboso! do not your magnificent bowels yearn, to see upon his marrow-bones before your sublimated presence, the very pillar and prop of knight-errantry?’ One of the other two hearing this pathetick remonstrance, bauled aloud, ‘Would I had the currying that ass’s hide of thine: mind, forsooth, how your small gentry come and pass their gibes upon us country-folks; as if we could not give them as good as they bring. Go about your business, friend, and leave us to mind our’n, and so God b’w’ye.’

Here the knight interposing, said, ‘Rise, Sancho, I can plainly perceive that fortune, not yet tired of persecuting me, hath barred every avenue by which any comfort could arrive at the miserable soul that this carcase contains: and thou! the essence of every thing that is desirable in nature, thou sum of human perfection, and sole remedy of this afflicted heart, by which thou art adored! although that malicious inchanter, my inveterate enemy, hath spread clouds and cataracts before mine eyes, to them and them only changing and transforming thy unequalled beauty into the appearance of a poor country-wench; if he hath not also altered my figure into that of some frightful spectre horrid to thy view, deign to look upon me with complacency and love; because thou mayest perceive by this submissive posture I have assumed, even before thy person thus disguised, the humility with which my soul adores thy charms.’—‘You may go kiss my grannam,’ cried the damsel; ‘I’m a fine Madam, truly, to hear such gibberish; we should be more obliged to you if you would get out of our way, and let us go about our own affairs.’

Sancho accordingly quitted his hold, leaving her free to go whither she would, and highly pleased with the issue of his stratagem. The supposititious Dulcinea no sooner found herself at liberty, than pricking her palfrey with a goad which was in the end of a stick she had in her hand, the creature galloped, across the field with great speed, and feeling the application more severe than usual, began to plunge and kick in such a manner, that my lady fell to the ground. Don Quixote perceiving this accident, ran with great eagerness to raise her up, and Sancho made haste to adjust and gird on the pannel, which had got under the ass’s belly. This affair being set to rights, the knight went to lift his inchanted mistress in his arms, and placed her on her seat again; but she, starting up from the ground, saved him that trouble; for, retreating a few paces backwards, she made a small run, and clapping both hands upon the crupper, leaped upon the pannel as nimble as a falcon, seating herself astride like a man.

‘By St. Roque!’ cried Sancho, ‘my lady mistress is as light as a hawk, and can teach the most dextrous horseman to ride; at one jump she has sprung into the saddle, and, without spurs, made her palfrey fly like any zebra: and truly, her damsels are not a whit behind; for they go scouring along as swift as the wind.’ This was actually true; for Dulcinea was no sooner remounted than the other two trotted after her, and at last disappeared, after having gone more than half a league, at full speed, without once looking behind them.

Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, until they vanished; then turning to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘thou seest how I am persecuted by inchanters, and mayest perceive how far the malice and grudge they bear me extends; seeing they have deprived me of the pleasure I should have enjoyed at the sight of my mistress in her own beauteous form. Surely, I was born to be an example of misery; the very mark and butt for all the arrows of misfortune; nay, thou art also to observe, Sancho, that those traitors were not contented with a simple metamorphosis of my Dulcinea, but have transformed and changed her into the base and homely figure of that country-wench; robbing her, at the same time, of that which is so peculiar to ladies of fashion, I mean, that sweet scent which is the result of their living among flowers and perfume; for know, my friend, when I went to lift Dulcinea upon her palfrey, as thou sayest it was, though to me it seemed neither more nor less than a she-ass, I was almost suffocated and poisoned with a whiff of undigested garlick!’

‘O ye miscreants!’ cried Sancho, ‘O ye malicious and mischievous inchanters! would to God, I could see you all strung by the gills, like so many haddocks! much you know, much you can, and much more will you still be doing. Was it not enough, ye knaves, to change the pearls of my lady’s eyes into a couple of cork-tree galls, and her hair of shining gold into the bristles of a red cow’s tail; and, in short, so transmography every feature of her countenance; without your meddling with the sweetness of her breath, by which they might have discovered what was concealed beneath that bark of homeliness: though, to tell the truth, I saw not her homeliness but beauty, which was exceedingly increased by a mole upon her upper lip, something like a whisker, consisting of seven or eight red hairs, like threads of gold, as long as my hand.’—‘According to the correspondence which the moles of the face have with those of the body,’ said Don Quixote, ‘Dulcinea must have just such another on the brawny part of her thigh, of the same side; but hairs of such a length are, methinks, rather too long for moles.’—‘I do assure your worship,’ answered Sancho, ‘they seemed as if they had come into the world with her.’—‘I very well believe what you say, my friend,’ replied the knight; ‘for nature hath bestowed nothing on Dulcinea but what is perfectly finished; wherefore, if thou hadst seen an hundred such moles, in her would they be so many moons and resplendent stars: but tell me, Sancho, that which you adjusted, and which to me seemed a pannel, was it a plain pad or a side-saddle?’—‘It was a great side-saddle,’ answered the squire, ‘so rich that half the kingdom would not buy it.’—‘And why could not I see all this!’ said the knight. ‘I say again, Sancho, and will repeat it a thousand times, that I am the most unfortunate of men.’

The rogue Sancho, finding his master so dextrously gulled, and hearing him talk in this mad strain, could scarce refrain from laughing in his face: in fine, a good deal more of this sort of conversation having passed between them, they remounted their beasts, and took the road to Saragosa, where they expected to arrive time enough to be present at the solemn festival yearly celebrated in that famous city; but before they accomplished their journey, they met with adventures, which, for their variety, novelty, and greatness, deserve to be read and recorded, as in the sequel.

CHAP. XI. OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFEL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE, WITH THE CART OR WAGGON CONTAINING THE PARLIAMENT OF DEATH.

Don Quixote jogged along exceedingly pensive, his thoughts being engrossed by the scurvy trick which the inchanters had played him, in transforming his mistress Dulcinea into the disagreeable figure of a country-wench; and he could not conceive what remedy he should find for restoring her to her former shape. So much was he absorbed in this reflection, that he insensibly dropped the reins upon the neck of Rozinante, who being sensible of the liberty he enjoyed, at every two steps turned aside to take a pluck at the inviting pasture with which those fields abounded. At length Sancho Panza rouzed him from this fit of musing, saying, ‘Signior, melancholy was not made for beasts, but for men; and yet if men encourage melancholy too much, they become no better than beasts; good your worship, be contented, mind what you’re about, take hold of Rozinante’s reins, rouze up, awake, and shew that gaiety which all knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is the meaning of all this faint-heartedness? Sure you don’t know whether we are here or in France! let Satan rather run away with all the Dulcineas upon earth; for the health of one single knight is of more value than all the inchanted persons or transformations that ever were known.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, with a voice that was none of the faintest, ‘Peace, I say; and utter not such blasphemies against that inchanted lady, of whose disgrace and misfortune I am the sole cause: for, from the envy of my wicked foes, her mischance hath sprung.’—‘So I say,’ answered Sancho; ‘for, He that hath seen her before, let him look at her now, and her fortune deplore.’—‘Well mayest thou make that observation, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘seeing thou sawest her in the full perfection of her beauty; as the inchantment did not extend so far as to disturb thy vision, or conceal her charms from thy view. No! against me alone, and my longing eyes, was the force of its poison directed! Yet, nevertheless, Sancho, I cannot help observing, that you made but an indifferent picture of her beauty; for if I rightly remember, you likened her eyes to pearls; now, eyes resembling pearls, are more peculiar to dead whitings than to living beauties; and, in my conjecture, Dulcinea’s must be rather like green emeralds, arched over with two celestial rainbows: those pearls, therefore, must be compared to her teeth, which, without doubt, you have mistaken for her eyes.’—‘Nothing more likely,’ answered the squire, ‘for I was as much confounded by her beauty as your worship by her ugliness; but let us recommend this whole business to God, who fore-ordains every thing that is to happen in this vale of tears; in this evil world of ours, where scarce any thing is to be had, without a mixture of falshood, knavery, and sin. One thing, dear Sir, of all others, gives me the greatest pain; and that is, to think what method is to be fallen upon, when your worship, after having vanquished some giant or knight, shall command him to go and present himself before the beauty of the Lady Dulcinea, where will this poor giant, or this poor miserable object of a vanquished knight, find out the person to whom he is sent? Methinks I see them strolling up and down, and gaping about thro’ the streets of Toboso, in quest of my Lady Dulcinea; and if they should stumble upon her in their way, they would no more know her than they would know my father.’—‘Sancho,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘perhaps the inchantment will not extend so far as to disguise Dulcinea to the eyes of those vanquished giants and knights who shall present themselves before her; and in one or two of the first whom I shall conquer and send thither, we will make the experiment, commanding them to return and give me an account of what shall happen to them, with regard to that affair.’—‘Truly, Signior,’ said Sancho, ‘I heartily approve of your worship’s scheme; because, by this artifice, we will soon learn what we want to know; and if so be that she is only concealed from your worship, you are the most unfortunate person of the two; for as my Lady Dulcinea enjoys good health and satisfaction, we will comfort ourselves, and make the best of a bad bargain, going about in quest of adventures, and leaving the rest to time, who is the best physician for these and other greater calamities.’

Don Quixote would have replied, but was prevented by the appearance of a sort of waggon that crossed the road, full of the strangest figures that can be imagined, and conducted by a frightful dæmon that drove the mules. The cart being altogether open, without tilt or cover, the first figure that struck the eyes of Don Quixote, was Death itself in human shape; next to which appeared an angel with broad painted wings; on one side, stood an emperor with a crown (seemingly) of gold, upon his head; and hard by Death, was the god Cupid, with his bow, quiver, and arrows, but without the bandage on his eyes; there was likewise a knight armed cap-a-pee, except that he wore neither helmet nor head-piece, but a hat adorned with a plume of variegated feathers. Besides these, there were other personages of different countenance and dress; so that the whole groupe appearing of a sudden, discomposed our hero a little, and filled the heart of Sancho with fear; but Don Quixote soon recollected himself, and rejoiced, because he looked upon it as some new and perilous adventure. On this supposition, and with an effort of courage capable of encountering the greatest danger, he placed himself before the wain, and with a loud and threatening voice, pronounced, ‘Driver, coachman, devil, or whatsoever thou art, tell me straight, whither thou art going, and who those people are whom thou drivest in that carriage, which looks more like Charon’s bark than any modern vehicle.’ The devil stopping his waggon very courteously, replied, ‘Signior, we are players belonging to the company of Angulo el Malo, and have, this morning, which is the octave of Corpus Christi, been representing, in a village on the other side of yon hill, the piece called the Parliament of Death, which we are going to act over again, this very evening, in that other village now in sight; we therefore travel in our habits, to save ourselves the trouble of undressing and dressing anew; this young man plays the part of Death, that other represents an angel; the woman, who is the author’s wife, acts the queen; he with the plume of feathers is our hero; the emperor you may distinguish by his gilded crown; and I am the devil, which is one of the best characters in the performance, for I myself am the chief actor of this company. If your worship is desirous of knowing any thing else concerning our affairs, question me freely, and I will answer with the utmost punctuality, for being a devil I understand every thing.’

‘By the faith of a knight-errant!’ said Don Quixote, ‘when I first descried the waggon, I thought myself on the eve of some great adventure; and now I affirm, that a man ought to examine things with more senses than one, before he can be assured of the truth; proceed, my honest friends, a God’s name, in order to exhibit your entertainment, and if I can serve you in any respect, you may command my endeavours, which shall be heartily and freely exerted for your advantage; for, from my childhood, I have been a great lover of masques and theatrical representations.’

While this conversation passed between them, they chanced to be overtaken by one of the company, dressed in motley, hung round with a number of morrice-bells, with a pole in his hand, to the end of which were tied three blown ox-bladders. This merry-andrew advancing to Don Quixote, began to fence with his pole, beating the ground with his bladders, and skipping about, so that his bells rung continually: till at length Rozinante, being disturbed at the uncommon apparition, took the bridle between his teeth; and the knight being unable to restrain him, began to gallop across the plain with more nimbleness than could have been expected from the bones of his anatomy. Sancho seeing his master in danger of falling, leaped from Dapple, and ran with all dispatch to give him all possible assistance; but before he came up, the knight was overthrown close by Rozinante, who had come to the ground with his lord; and this was the usual end and consequence of all his frolicksome adventures. Scarce had Sancho quitted his beast, to run to the assistance of his master, when the bladder shaking devil jumped upon Dapple, and began to belabour him with his rattle; so that being frightened at the noise, rather than with the smart of the application, he took to his heels, and flew towards the village where they intended to perform. Sancho seeing, at the same time, the career of Dapple, and his master’s fall, scarce knew which of these misfortunes he ought first to remedy; but at length, as became a loyal servant and trusty squire, his love for his master prevailed over his tenderness for the beast; though every time he saw the bladders railed aloft, and discharged upon Dapple’s buttocks, he felt the pangs and tortures of death, and would rather have received every thwack upon the apple of his own eye than have seen it fall upon the least hair of his ass’s tail.

In this state of perplexity and tribulation, he arrived at the place where Don Quixote lay in a very indifferent plight, and helping him to mount Rozinante, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘the devil has run away with Dapple.’—‘Which devil?’ cried the knight. ‘He with the bladders,’ answered the squire. ‘I will retrieve him,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘even if he should conceal him in the darkest and deepest dungeon in hell; follow me, Sancho, the waggon moves slowly, and the mules shall atone for the loss of Dapple.’

‘There is no occasion for putting ourselves to that trouble,’ said the squire: ‘good your worship, be pacified! for I see the devil has quitted my ass, and returned to the rest of his crew.’

This observation was actually true; Dapple and his new rider had come to the ground, in imitation of the knight and Rozinante: upon which the devil trudged on foot to the village, and the ass returned to his right owner. ‘For all that,’ said Don Quixote, ‘it will not be amiss to punish the troop for that devil’s incivility, though it should be in the person of the emperor himself.’—‘I hope your worship’s imagination will harbour no such thoughts,’ answered Sancho; ‘take my advice, and never meddle with players, who are a set of people in such high favour with the publick, that I have known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet ’scape scot-free: your worship must know, that being the ministers of mirth and pleasure, they are favoured, protected, assisted, and esteemed by every body; especially if they belong to the king’s company, or to some grandee; in which case all, or most of them, look like princes in their manners and dress.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied the knight, ‘that farcical devil shall not escape unpunished, or applaud himself for what he has done, though all mankind should appear in his favour.’

So saying, he rode towards the waggon, which was by this time pretty near the village, and called aloud, ‘Stay, my merry men; halt a little, and I will teach you how to treat the asses and cattle belonging to the squires of knights-errant.’ Don Quixote hallooed so loud as to be heard and understood by the people in the waggon, who judging, by his words, the intention of the speaker, Death instantly jumped out of the cart, and was followed by the Emperor, the Devil-driver, and the Angel, with the Queen and Cupid in their train; in short, the whole company armed themselves with stones, and, drawing up in order of battle, stood without flinching, to receive the assailant at point of pebble.

The knight perceiving them arranged in such a formidable squadron, their arms lifted up in a posture that threatened a powerful discharge of stones, checked Rozinante, and began to consider in what manner he should attack them, with least hazard to his person. During this pause, Sancho came up, and seeing him bent upon a assaulting such a well-compacted brigade, ‘It will be the height of madness,’ said he, ‘to attempt any such adventure; consider, dear Sir, that there is no kicking against the pricks; and that there is no armour upon earth sufficient to defend your body from such a shower, unless your worship could creep into a bell of brass; you ought also to remember, that it favours more of rashness than of true valour, for one man to attack a whole army, in which Death and emperors fight in person, being aided and assisted both by good and evil angels; and if that consideration will not prevail upon you to be quiet, you ought to be diverted from your purpose, by knowing certainly, that among all those enemies in the appearances of kings, princes, and emperors, there is not so much as one single knight-errant.’—‘Now, indeed,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘thou hast hit upon the sole reason that can and ought to dissuade me from my determined design; I neither can nor ought to draw my sword (as I have told thee, on many other occasions) against any person who hath not received the honour of knighthood; to thee, Sancho, it belongs, if so thou art inclined, to take vengeance for the injury done to Dapple, while I from hence will assist and encourage thee with salutary advice.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘there is no occasion to take vengeance of any person whatever; for it is not the part of a good Christian to revenge the wrongs he hath suffered: besides, I will prevail upon my ass to leave the affair to my inclination, which is to live peaceably all the days that Heaven shall grant me in this life.’—‘Since that is thy determination,’ replied the knight, ‘honest Sancho, discreet Sancho, christian and sincere Sancho, let us leave these phantoms, and go in quest of adventures more dignified and substantial; for this country seems to promise a great many, and those very extraordinary too.’

He accordingly turned his horse, Sancho went to catch Dapple, while Death, with his whole flying squadron, returned to their waggon, and proceeded on their journey. Thus was the dismal adventure of the waggon of Death happily terminated by the wholesome advice which Sancho Panza gave to his master; who next day met with another equally surprizing, in the person of an enamoured knight-errant.

CHAP. XII. OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE, IN HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRROURS.

The night that followed the rencounter with Death, Don Quixote and his squire passed among some tall and shady trees; the knight, by Sancho’s persuasion, having eaten of what was found in the store that Dapple carried. During this meal, Sancho said to his master, ‘What a fool should I have been, Signior, if I had chosen, by way of gratification, the spoils of your worship’s first adventure, instead of the three foals? Verily, verily, a bird in hand is worth two in the bush.’—‘But, for all that,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘hadst thou suffered me to attack them, as I intended, thou wouldst have enjoyed among the spoils the emperor’s golden crown, with Cupid’s painted wings, which I would have stripped off against the grain, and put into thy possession.’—‘The sceptres and crowns of your stage emperors are never made of pure gold, but of tin or tinsel,’ replied the squire. ‘True,’ said the knight, ‘the ornaments of comedy ought not to be rich and real, but feigned and artificial, like the drama itself, which I would have thee respect, Sancho, and receive into favour, together with those who represent and compose it; for they are all instruments of great benefit to the commonwealth, holding, as it were, a looking-glass always before us, in which we see naturally delineated all the actions of life; and no other companion whatever represents to us more lively what we are, and what we ought to be, than comedy and her attendants; for example, hast thou never seen a play acted, in which kings, emperors, popes, knights, ladies, and many other characters, were introduced? One acts the ruffian, another the sharper, a third the merchant, a fourth the soldier, a fifth the designing fool, and a sixth the simple lover; but the play being ended, and the dresses laid aside, all the actors remain upon an equal footing.’—‘Yes, I have seen all this,’ answered Sancho. ‘Then the very same thing,’ said the knight, ‘happens in the comedy and commerce of this world, where one meets with some people playing the parts of emperors, others in the characters of popes; and, finally, all the different personages that can be introduced in a comedy; but when the play is done, that is, when life is at an end, Death strips them of the robes that distinguished their stations, and they become all equal in the grave.’—‘A brave comparison!’ cried Sancho, ‘though not so new but I have heard it made on divers and sundry occasions as well as that of the game of chess, during which every piece maintains a particular station and character; and when the game is over, they are all mixed, jumbled, and shaken together in a bag, like mortals in the grave.’—‘Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘every day you become less simple and more discreet.’—‘Yes,’ said the squire, ‘some small portion of your worship’s discretion must needs stick to me; as lands which are, in their own nature, sapless and barren, being well dunged and cultivated, come to yield excellent fruit. My meaning is, that your worship’s conversation hath fallen like dung upon the barren desart of my understanding, which being cultivated by the time of my service and communication, will, I hope, produce blessed fruit, such as shall not disgrace, nor stray from the path of that good breeding which your worship hath bestowed on my narrow capacity.’

Don Quixote could not help smiling at the affected terms in which Sancho delivered himself, though what he said of his own improvement was actually true; for at certain times he talked to admiration; and yet when he attempted to argue, or speak in a polite stile, his efforts always, or for the most part, ended in precipitating himself from the pinnacle of simplicity to the depth of ignorance; his chief talent laying in his memory, which never failed to furnish him with proverbs that he lugged into his discourse, whether they were pat to the purpose or not, as may be seen and observed through the whole course of this history.

In this, and other such conversation, the greatest part of the night elapsed, when Sancho began to be inclined to let fall the portcullices of his eyes, as he termed it, when he wanted to go to sleep: he therefore unpannelled Dapple, to let him graze among the rich pasture with which the place abounded; but Rozinante’s saddle he would not remove, in consequence of his master’s express order, which was never to unsaddle his steed while they were in the field, or did not sleep under cover; it being an ancient established custom, observed by all knights errant, in these cases, to take the bridle out of the horse’s mouth, and hang it upon the pummel of the saddle, but to leave the saddle itself untouched. This expedient was accordingly performed by Sancho, who turned Rozinante loose with Dapple; and between these two animals such a strict reciprocal friendship subsisted, that, according to tradition from father to son, the author of this true history wrote particular chapters on this very subject; but, in order to preserve the decency and decorum which belongs to such an heroick composition, omitted them; though sometimes he seems to neglect this precaution, and writes, that these two friends used to approach and scrub each other most lovingly; and after they had rested and refreshed themselves, Rozinante would stretch his head more than half a yard over Dapple’s neck, while the two were wont to stand in this posture, with their eyes fixed upon the ground, three whole days together; at least, till they were parted, or compelled by hunger to go in quest of sustenance; nay, it is confidently reported, that the author had compared their mutual attachment to the friendship of Nisus or Euryalus, or that which subsisted between Pylades and Orestes. If this be the case, we may with admiration conceive how firm the fellowship of those two pacifick animals must have been; to the utter confusion of mankind, who so little regard the laws of friendship and society, according to the common saying, ‘there is no trust in profession; the staff will turn into a spear[150],’ and, as the song goes, ‘the modes of the court so common are grown, that a true friend can hardly be met.’ Let no man imagine the author went out of his road, in comparing the friendship of brutes with that of the human species; for men have received valuable hints, and learned many things of importance from beasts, such as the clyster from storks, gratitude and the use of vomits from dogs, vigilance from the crane, foresight and frugality from the ant, honesty from the elephant, and loyalty from the horse.

In fine, Sancho went to sleep at the root of a cork-tree, and Don Quixote began to slumber under an oak; but being in a very little time awaked by a noise behind him, he started up, and employing both eyes and ears to distinguish whence it proceeded, he perceived two men on horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop, as it were, from the saddle, said to the other, ‘Alight, my friend, and unbit the horses; for this place seems to abound with pasture for them, and with silence and solitude, which are the necessary food of my amorous thoughts.’ He had no sooner pronounced these words, than he threw himself upon the ground, and his armour rattled as he fell, furnishing Don Quixote with a manifest proof of his being a knight-errant: he therefore approached Sancho, who was asleep, and shaking him by the arm, with no small difficulty, brought him to himself; saying, in a low voice, ‘Brother Sancho, here is an adventure.’—‘God grant it may be a good one,’ answered the squire; ‘and pray, Signior, whereabouts may her ladyship be?’—‘Where?’ said Don Quixote, ‘turn thine eyes this way, and behold lying upon the grass a knight-errant, who, by what I have already observed, cannot be over and above easy in his mind? for I saw him throw himself upon the ground, with evident marks of vexation, and heard his armour clatter in his fall.’—‘But how has your worship found that this is an adventure?’ replied the squire. ‘I will not positively say that it is altogether an adventure,’ answered the knight, ‘but rather the beginning of one: for thus they usually commence: but hark! he seems to tune a lute or rebeck, and by his hawking and hemming, I suppose he is going to sing.’—‘In good faith, it is even so,’ said Sancho, ‘and he must be some knight-errant in love.’—‘All knights-errant are so,’ resumed Don Quixote; ‘but let us listen, and by the thread of his song, discover the clue of his thoughts; for, From the abundance of the heart the tongue speaketh.’

Sancho would have made some reply, but was prevented by the voice of the Knight of the Wood, which was neither very sweet nor disagreeable; and, listening with surprize, they heard him sing the following song:

I.

‘Subjected to thy sov’reign will, Ah, cruel maid! my fate decree: The sentence, tho’ inhuman, still Shall never be declin’d by me.

II.

‘Say, that my death thy joy would move, My breath with freedom I’ll resign— Or wouldst thou listen to my love, The God himself shall whisper mine.

III.

‘This heart, thy vassal whilst I live, Like ductile wax, and diamond hard, Thy stamp will yieldingly receive, And keep th’ impression unimpair’d.’

The Knight of the Wood finished this complaint with an ‘Ah!’ that seemed to be heaved from the bottom of his soul, and soon after exclaimed, in a sorrowful tone, ‘O thou most beautiful and ungrateful woman upon earth! is it possible, that the most serene Casildea de Vandalia has doomed this her captive knight to consume and exhaust himself in continual peregrinations, in harsh and rugged toils? Is it not enough that I have established the fame of thy beauty above all comparison, by the extorted confession of all the knights of Navarre, Leon, Tartesia, Castile, and finally of La Mancha?’

‘Not so, neither,’ cried Don Quixote, interposing; ‘for I, who am of La Mancha, never made any such acknowledgment; neither could I, or ought I, to make a confession so prejudicial to the beauty of my own mistress: therefore, Sancho, this knight must certainly be disordered in his judgment; but let us listen, perhaps he will explain himself.’—‘Very like,’ answered the squire, ‘he seems to be in the humour of complaining for a whole month.’

But this was not the case; for the Knight of the Wood, hearing people talk so near him, proceeded no farther in his lamentation, but starting up, called with a courteous and sonorous voice, ‘Who is there? are you of the number of the happy or afflicted?’—‘Of the afflicted,’ replied Don Quixote.—‘Come hither, then,’ resumed the stranger, ‘and depend upon it you will find the very essence of sorrow and affliction.’

Don Quixote hearing him speak in such civil and pathetick terms, went towards him, with Sancho at his back, when the complaining knight took him by the hand, saying, ‘Sit down, Sir knight, for that you are one of those who profess knight-errantry, I am convinced by finding you in this place, accompanied by solitude and the dews of night, which are the peculiar companions of those who belong to our order.’

To this address Don Quixote replied, ‘I am a knight of that order you mention; and though melancholy, mischance, and misfortune, have taken up their habitation in my soul, they have not been able to banish from it that compassion which I feel for the unhappy. From the soliloquy you just now uttered, I gather that your misfortunes are of the amorous kind; I mean, that they proceed from the passion you entertain for that beautiful ingrate whom you named in your complaint.’ While this conversation passed, they sat down together upon the grass, with all the marks of amity and good fellowship, as if at break of day they had not been doomed to break each other’s head. ‘Perchance, Sir Knight,’ said the stranger, ‘you are in love?’—‘By mischance I am so,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘though the vexation that proceeds from well placed affection ought rather to be deemed a benefit than misfortune.’—‘True,’ said the Knight of the Wood, ‘if our judgment and reason are not disturbed by disdain, which, if exerted severely, seems a-kin to revenge.’—‘I never was disdained by my mistress,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘No, indeed,’ (cried Sancho, who stood hard by) ‘my lady is as meek as a lamb, and as soft as butter.’

The stranger knight asked if that was his squire; and the other answering in the affirmative, ‘I never saw a squire,’ said he, ‘that, like him, durst intrude upon his master’s conversation; at least, I can say so much for mine, who, though as tall as his father, was never known to open his lips, when I was engaged in discourse.’—‘In good faith!’ cried Sancho, ‘I have spoke, and will speak again, before as good a man as—but let that rest—the more you stir it, the more it will——.’

Here the other squire took hold on Sancho by the arm, saying, ‘Let you and I go somewhere, and talk our bellies-full, in our own way, and leave our masters at liberty to recount their amours; for sure I am, the night will be spent before they are done.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied Sancho, ‘and I will tell your worship who I am, that you may see whether or not I am qualified to be ranked among your talking squires.’ They accordingly retired together, and between them passed a conversation every bit as merry as that of their masters was grave.

Footnote 150:

As the original quotation is a fragment that will not complete the sense, I have taken the liberty to make the allusion altogether English.

CHAP. XIII. IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD—WITH A SAGE, UNCOMMON, AND AGREEABLE DIALOGUE, THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES.

The knights and their squires being thus parted, the first entertained each other with the story of their loves, while the last indulged themselves with a reciprocal account of their own lives: but the history first of all records the conversation of the domesticks, and then proceeds to relate what passed between the masters. The squires, therefore, having chosen a situation at a convenient distance from the knights, he of the wood accosted Sancho in these words: ‘Signior, this is a troublesome life that we squires to knights-errant lead; in good soothe, we earn our bread with the sweat of our brows, which is one of the curses that God denounced against our first parents.’—‘It may also be said,’ replied Sancho, ‘that we earn it with the frost of our bodies; for no creatures on earth suffer more heat and cold than the miserable squires of knight-errantry; and even that would be more tolerable, if we had any thing good to eat; for, Hearty fare lightens care, as the saying is; but we often pass a whole day, nay sometimes two, without ever breaking our fast, except upon the winds of heaven.’—‘All this,’ said the other, ‘may be endured, with the hope of reward; for if the knight-errant is not extremely unfortunate, his squire must, in a very little time, see himself recompensed with the handsome government of some island, or with the possession of a profitable earldom.’—‘For my own part,’ answered Sancho, ‘I have already told my master, that I shall be satisfied with the government of an island, which he has been so noble and generous as to promise me, divers and sundry times.’—‘And I,’ said the stranger, ‘am contented with a canonship, which my master has already bespoke for me, on account of my faithful services.’—‘It seems, then, your master must be an ecclesiastical knight,’ replied Sancho, ‘seeing he can provide for his squire in the church: but as for mine, he is a mere layman; though I remember, that certain very wise persons (and yet, I believe, not very honest at bottom) advised him to procure for himself an archbishoprick; but he would be nothing but an emperor: and I was then in a grievous quandary, for fear he should take it in his head to be of the church; in which case, I should not have been qualified to hold a benefice; for your worship must know, though I look like a man, I am no better than a beast at church-matters.’—‘Verily,’ said he of the wood, ‘your worship mistakes the matter quite; your governments of islands are not at all desirable; some are vexatious, some are beggarly, others attended with much melancholy and fatigue; in short, the most creditable and orderly brings along with it a load of care and inconvenience, that lies heavy on the shoulders of the unhappy person whose lot it is to bear it: it would be abundantly better for us to undergo this accursed slavery, to return to our own homes, and there amuse ourselves with more agreeable pastime; such, for example, as hunting or fishing; for what squire is there on earth, so poor as to want a horse, a couple of hounds, and a fishing-rod, wherewith to entertain himself at his own habitation?’

‘For my own part,’ answered Sancho, ‘I want none of these conveniencies: true it is I have not a horse, but then I am in possession of an ass, which is worth my master’s steed twice over. God let me never see a joyful Easter, if I would truck with him for four bushels of barley to boot; you may laugh, if you will, at the price I set upon Dapple, (for that is the colour of my beast;) then, I should never be in want of hounds; for there are plenty, and to spare, in our town, and you know nothing is so relishing as to hunt at another’s expence.’—‘Really and truly, Signior Squire,’ resumed the stranger, ‘I am fully resolved and determined to quit these knights-errant, with all their crazy pranks, and betake myself to my own town, where I will bring up my children; for, thank God, I have three, like as many oriental pearls.’—‘And I have a couple,’ said Sancho, ‘that may be presented to the pope in person; especially my daughter, whom I breed up to be a countess, by the blessing of God, though it be contrary to her mother’s inclination.’—‘And of what age may this young lady be, whom you are breeding for a countess?’ said the squire of the wood. ‘Fifteen years, or thereabouts,’ answered Sancho; ‘but she is as tall as a spear, fresh as an April morn, and strong as a porter.’—‘These are qualifications not only for a countess, but even for the nymph of the greenwood-tree,’ said the other: ‘ah, the whoreson baggage! what a buxom jade she must be.’ Sancho, nettled at this epithet, replied, ‘She is no whore, neither was her mother before her; nor shall either of them be so, an please God, whilst I live: so I think you might talk more civilly; for, considering your worship has been bred among knights-errant, who are, as it were, courtesy itself, methinks your words might be better chosen.’—‘How little are you acquainted with the nature of commendation, Signior Squire?’ answered he of the wood. ‘Don’t you know, that when any cavalier, at a bull-feast, wounds the bull dextrously, or when any person behaves remarkably well, the people exclaim, “How cleverly the son of a whore has done it?” and that which looks like reproach, is on such occasions a notable commendation. Take my word, Signior, you ought to renounce all children, if their behaviour does not entitle the parents to such praise.’—‘I do renounce them,’ answered Sancho; ‘at that rate, and for that reason, your worship may call my wife and daughter as many whores as you please; for both in word and deed, they richly deserve the name; and that I may see them again, I beseech God to deliver me from this mortal sin, which will be the case, if he delivers me from this dangerous employment of squire, which I have incurred a second time, being seduced and enticed by a purse of one hundred ducats, which I found one day in the midst of the Brown Mountain; and the devil continually sets before mine eyes, here and there and every where, a bag full of doubloons, which, at every step, methinks I have fast in my clutches, hugging it in my arms, and carrying it home to my own house, where I purchase mortgages and estates, and live like any prince; and while I please myself with these notions, I bear, without murmuring, all the toils and fatigues I undergo, in the service of the wiseacre my master, who, I know, is more of a madman than a knight.’

‘So that, according to the proverb,’ replied the stranger, ‘Covetousness bursts the bag. But if you talk of wiseacres, there is not a greater in the universe than my master, who is one of those concerning whom people say, He is burdened like an ass, with another man’s load; for truly he is turned mad, that another knight may turn wise, and is going about in quest of that which, when he hath found it, may hit him in the teeth.’—‘And pray, is he in love?’ said Sancho. ‘Yes,’ replied the other, ‘he is enamoured of one Casildea de Vandalia, the most fickle dame that ever was seen; but her cruelty is not the foot that he halts upon at present: he has got other crotchets of greater importance grumbling in his gizzard, which ere long will more plainly appear.’—‘There is no road so smooth,’ resumed Sancho, ‘but you’ll meet with rubs and hollows in it. Other people use beans, but I boil whole kettles full. Madness is always more accompanied and followed after, than discretion: but if it be true, as it is commonly alledged, that company in affliction lessens the weight of it, I shall comfort myself by reflecting that your worship serves a master who is as distracted as mine.’—‘Distracted, I grant you,’ said he of the wood, ‘but valiant, and still mere mischievous than valiant or distracted.’—‘That is not the case with my master,’ replied Sancho, ‘he has nothing at all mischievous about him; on the contrary, is as dull as a beetle, and knows not what it is to harm man, woman, or child, or to harbour the least malice, but seeks to do good unto all mankind. A child may persuade him that it is night at noon; and, indeed, for that very simplicity, I love him as my own bowels, and cannot find in my heart to leave him, notwithstanding all the mad pranks he is guilty of.’—‘But for all that, Signior and brother of mine,’ said the stranger, ‘if the blind lead the blind, they are both in danger of falling into the ditch. We had much better retire fair and softly, and return to our own habitations; for they who go in search of adventures do not always find them to their liking.’

About this time Sancho began to hawk a kind of dry spitting; which being observed by the charitable squire of the wood, ‘Methinks,’ said he, ‘we have talked till our tongues cleave to the roofs of our mouths; but I have got something that will agreeably moisten them, at my saddle-bow.’ He accordingly got up, and going aside to his horse, soon returned with a large leathern bottle of wine, and a pye half a yard long: and this is really no exaggeration; for it contained a whole fed rabbit, so large, that when Sancho felt it, he took it for a whole goat or a large kid at least, crying, as soon as he perceived it, ‘How! does your worship usually carry such provision as this about with you?’—‘What d’ye think?’ answered the other; ‘d’ye take me for a hackney squire[151]? I carry a better cupboard on my horse’s crupper than e’er a general on his march.’

Sancho fell to, without staying for intreaty, and swallowed, in the dark, huge mouthfuls, with as much ease as if it had been flummery, saying between whiles, ‘Yes, indeed, your worship is a true and loyal squire, well dammed and gristed, as the saying is, grand and magnificent withal, as plainly appears from this banquet, which, if it did not come hither by the art of inchantment, at least seems so to have done; this is not the case with such an unlucky poor devil as me, who carry nothing in my bags but a piece of cheese hard enough to knock out a giant’s brains, accompanied by three or four dozen of carrobes, and as many hazle-nuts; thanks to the niggardliness and opinion of my master, and the rule he observes, by which knights-errant must maintain and support themselves with nothing but dried fruits, and the herbs of the field.’—‘In good faith, brother!’ resumed he of the wood, ‘my stomach was not made for your sweet thistle, wild pear, and mountain roots; let our masters please themselves with their own opinions and rules of chivalry, and live according to their meagre commands; for my own part, I always carry some cold pasty, happen what will, and this bottle hanging at my saddle-bow, which I love so devoutly, that I kiss and embrace it almost every minute.’ So saying, he handed it to Sancho, who lifting it up to his mouth, stood gazing at the stars a whole quarter of an hour, and when his draught was out, he hung his head on one side, pronouncing with a long sigh, ‘Ah, whoreson! how catholick it is!’—‘You see now,’ said he of the wood, hearing Sancho’s whoreson, ‘how you have praised the wine, by giving it such a title.’—‘I am sensible,’ replied Sancho, ‘and confess that it is no disparagement to any body to be called the son of a whore, when it is understood in the way of commendation; but tell me, Signior, by the life of what you best love, is not this wine from Cividad Real?’

‘You have an excellent taste,’ answered he of the wood, ‘it comes from no other part, I’ll assure you; and has, moreover, some good years over its head.’—‘Let me alone for that,’ said Sancho, ‘you’ll never catch me tripping in the knowledge of wine, let it be never so difficult to distinguish; is it not an extraordinary thing, Signior Squire, that I should have such a sure and natural instinct in the knowledge of wine, that give me but a smell of any kind whatever, and I will tell you exactly its country, growth, and age, together with the changes it will undergo, and all other circumstances appertaining to the mystery? But this is not to be wondered at; for, by my father’s side, I had two kinsmen who were the most excellent tasters that La Mancha hath known for these many years; as a proof of which, I will tell you what once happened to them. A sample of wine was presented to them out of a hogshead, and their opinions asked concerning the condition and quality; that is, the goodness or badness of the liquor to which it belonged; one of them tasted it with the tip of his tongue, the other did no more than clap it to his nose; the first said the wine tasted of iron, the other affirmed it had a twang of goats leather; the owner protested that the pipe was clean, and the contents without any sort of mixture that could give the liquor either the taste of iron, or the smell of goats leather: nevertheless, the two famous tasters stuck to the judgment they had given; time passed on, the wine was sold, and when the pipe came to be cleaned, they found in it a small key, tied to a leathern thong. By this your worship may perceive, whether or not one who is descended from such a race, may venture to give his opinion in cases of this nature.’—‘Therefore, I say,’ replied the stranger, ‘that we ought to quit this trade of going in quest of adventures, and be contented with our loaf, without longing for dainties; let us return to our own cottages, where God will find us, if it be his blessed will.’—‘I will serve my master till he arrives at Saragossa,’ said Sancho, ‘and then we shall come to a right understanding.’

In fine, the two honest squires talked and drank so copiously, that sleep was fain to tie up their tongues, and allay their drought, which it was impossible to remove; each, therefore, grasping the bottle, which by this time was almost empty, fell asleep, with the morsel half chewed in his mouth. In this situation we will leave them for the present, and relate what happened between the knight of the wood, and him of the rueful countenance.

Footnote 151:

Literally, ‘a squire of wool and water,’ an allusion to a custom among the Spaniards, who sometimes have domesticks to attend them to mass, and sprinkle them with holy water: these are generally shabby fellows, who have very poor appointments.

CHAP. XIV. WHEREIN THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD IS CONTINUED.

In the course of the conversation that passed between the two knights, the history relates, that he of the wood said to Don Quixote, ‘Finally, Sir Knight, you must know, my destiny, or rather my choice, led me to place my affection on the peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her peerless, because she has no equal, either in point of stature, quality, fortune, or beauty. Now this lady, in return for all my virtuous inclination and amorous desires, like the stepmother of Hercules, employs me in many various toils and dangers, promising at the conclusion of each, that with the next my cares shall be finished; but thus she goes on, stringing one labour to another, without number, and I know not which will be the last that is to produce the accomplishment of my wishes. At one time she commanded me to go and challenge that famous giantess of Seville, called Giralda[152], who is so valiant and strong, (her body being made of brass) and who, without shifting her station, is the most changeable and fickle female in the whole world. I came, saw, and conquered; fixing her motionless to one point, for during a whole week, the wind blew from the north. Another time, she ordered me to weigh the ancient figures called the Valiant Bulls of Guisando[153]; an enterprize more suitable to porters than to knights; nay, she even commanded me to throw myself headlong into the gulph of Cabra, an adventure equally new and dangerous, and bring to her a particular account of what is contained in that dark and deep abyss. I fixed the inconstant Giralda, weighed the bulls of Guisando, precipitated myself into the gulph, and brought to light the secrets of its abyss; and yet my hopes are dead; ah, how dead! while her cruelty and disdain are still alive; ah, how much alive! In short, to conclude, she ordered me to traverse all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight-errant in the kingdom to confess that she is preferable, in point of beauty, to all the women upon earth; and that I am the most valiant and amorous knight in the world. In consequence of this command, I have travelled over the greatest part of Spain, and vanquished many knights who have presumed to contradict my assertion: but I value and applaud myself chiefly for having conquered in single combat, that so renowned knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea. Now, in that single conquest, I deem myself superior to all the knights in the universe; for that same Don Quixote hath vanquished all his cotemporaries; and I, in conquering him, have transferred and conveyed to my own person all his honour, glory, and reputation; the victor being always honoured in proportion to the fame of his vanquished foe; wherefore, the innumerable atchievements of the said Don Quixote are placed to my credit, as if they were the effects of my own personal prowess.’

Don Quixote was astonished at hearing the knight of the wood talk in this manner, and was a thousand times tempted to give him the lye; nay, ‘You lye,’ was at the very tip of his tongue; but repressing his indignation as well as he could, that he might make the stranger’s own tongue convict him of falshood, he replied very calmly, ‘That your worship, Sir Knight, may have vanquished the greatest part of the knights-errant in Spain, and even in the whole world, I do not pretend to question; but that you have conquered Don Quixote de La Mancha, I doubt very much; perhaps it might be another who resembles him, though there are few such.’—‘How! not conquer him?’ cried he of the wood; ‘now, by yon canopy of Heaven, under which we sit, I engaged, overcame, and subjected that very individual Don Quixote; he is a tall, meagre, long-legged, lanthorn-jawed, stalking figure; his hair inclining to grey, his nose hooked and aquiline, with long, straight, black, mustachios; in his excursions he assumes the name of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; and is attended by a peasant called Sancho Panza, who serves him in quality of squire; he presses the loins, and governs the reins of a famous steed hight Rozinante; and, in fine, he avows, as the mistress of his heart, one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly known by the name of Aldonza Lorenzo; in like manner, my own mistress, whose name is Casildea, being a native of Andalousia, is now distinguished by the appellation of Casildea de Vandalia. If all these proofs are not sufficient to evince my veracity, here is my sword, which shall make a convert of incredulity itself.’

‘Have a little patience, Sir Knight,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and give ear unto what I am going to say. You must know, that same Don Quixote you mention, is the dearest friend I have upon earth; so that I may say, I love him as well as my own individual person; now your description of him is so punctual and exact, that I should never doubt but he is actually the person you have vanquished, did I not see with my eyes, and, as it were, feel with my hands, the impossibility of the fact; and yet, as divers inchanters are his enemies, particularly one who persecutes him incessantly, some one among them may have assumed his figure, and allowed himself to be overcome, in order to defraud the knight of that fame which his gallant exploits had collected and acquired through the whole known world; in confirmation of this conjecture, I must also tell you, that about two days ago, those perverse inchanters transformed the shape and person of the beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso, into that of a mean and plebeian country-wench; so that Don Quixote must have also undergone a transformation. And if all this is not enough to ascertain the truth of what I say, here is Don Quixote himself, who will maintain it by force of arms, on horseback or on foot, or in any shape you please.’

So saying, he started up, and grasping his sword, stood waiting for the resolution of the Knight of the Wood, who with great deliberation replied; ‘A good paymaster needs no pawn, Signior Don Quixote; he who could vanquish you when you was transformed, may well hope to reduce you in _propria persona_; but as it is unseemly for knights to perform their exploits in the dark, like robbers and ruffians, let us wait for day, that the sun may shine upon our works; and let this be the condition of our combat, that the vanquished shall comply with the will of the victor, and do every thing that he shall desire, provided his commands be such as a knight-errant can decently obey.’

Don Quixote assured him, that he was extremely well satisfied with the condition and proviso; upon which they went in quest of their squires, who were found snoring in the very same attitudes in which sleep had surprized them. They wakened, and ordered them to get their horses ready; for by sun-rise they intended to engage in a most unparalleled and bloody single combat. Sancho was astonished and confounded at this piece of news; despairing of his master’s safety, when he recollected what the other squire had told him concerning the valour of the knight of the wood. The two squires, however, without pretending to make any words, went to look for their cattle, and found the three steeds, with Dapple, (for they had smelled each other out) very sociably met together. While they were thus employed, ‘Brother,’ said he of the wood to Sancho, ‘you must know that it is customary with your warriors of Andalousia, when they are godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle, with their arms across, while their godsons are engaged. This I hint, by way of apprising you that, while our masters are at it, we must exchange a few dry blows too.’—‘That custom, Signior squire,’ answered Sancho, ‘may pass current with those ruffians and warriors you mention; but that it prevails among the squires of knights-errant, I can by no means believe; at least, I have never heard such a custom mentioned by my master, who knows all the ordinances of chivalry by rote. Besides, granting it to be fact, and expressly ordained, that the squires must go to loggerheads while their masters are engaged; I will by no means comply with it, but pay the penalty incurred by peaceable squires, which I am sure cannot exceed a couple of pounds of wax; and that will not cost me so much as the pence I should expend in the cure of my head, which I should lay my account with having split and divided into two halves; and moreover, it is impossible that I should fight, because I have got no sword, and never wore one in my born days.’—‘I know a very good remedy for that inconvenience,’ said the stranger: ‘here are a couple of linen bags, of the same size; you shall take one, and I the other, and play away upon each other with equal arms.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Sancho; ‘that sort of exercise will serve to dust our jackets, without hurting our skin.’—‘Not quite so neither,’ resumed the other, ‘for that the bags may not flap in the air, we will clap into each half a dozen clear smooth pebbles, of equal weight and magnitude; so that we may thwack one another without hurt or damage.’—‘Body of my father,’ cried Sancho, ‘mind what sable furrs and flakes of carded cotton he would line the bags withal, to prevent them from grinding our skulls, and making a paste of our bones! Hark ye, master of mine, I’ll have nothing to do with them, though they were fluffed with balls of silk; let our masters fight as they shall think proper, but for our parts, let us drink and live quietly; for old father Time will take care to rid us of our lives, without our seeking occasions to throw them away before the appointed season, at which, being ripe, they drop off of their own accord.’

‘But, for all that,’ replied he of the wood, ‘we must have a bout, if it should not last half an hour.’—‘By no means,’ said Sancho; ‘I shall not be so uncivil and ungrateful as to have any difference, let it be never so small, with a person at whose cost I have both eaten and drank: besides, who the devil do you think can fight in cool blood, without any sort of anger or provocation?’—‘I know how to remove that objection,’ resumed the stranger: ‘before we begin the battle, I will come up fair and softly, and give your worship two or three such hearty boxes on the ear, as will lay you flat at my feet, and awaken your choler, though it should sleep sounder than a dormouse.’—‘Against that expedient,’ answered Sancho, ‘I know another twice as good: for I will lay hold on a good cudgel, and before your worship comes to awaken my choler, give your own such a lullaby of dry beating, that it shall never wake but in the next world, where you’ll have reason to know that I am not a man who will suffer his nose to be handled by any person whatsomever; wherefore, let every one look to his own affairs. Though it would be the wisest course for every man to let his own choler lie still and sleep: for nobody knows the heart of his neighbour, and some who go out for wool, come home quite shorn. God himself bestowed his blessing upon peace, and curse upon contention; for if a cat that is confined, provoked, and persecuted, turns into a lion, the Lord knows what I, who am a man, may turn into: I therefore, Signior Squire, give your worship notice, that all the mischief and damage which shall proceed from our quarrel, must be charged to your account.’—‘Mighty well,’ replied the stranger, ‘we shall see what is to be done, when God sends us morning.’

Now a thousand kinds of painted birds began to warble from the trees, and in their various and sprightly notes seemed to welcome and salute the fresh and joyous morn, which already, through the gates and balconies of the east, disclosed her beauteous visage; while from her hair distilled an infinite number of liquid pearls, in which delicious liquor the herbs being bathed, seemed to sprout and rain a shower of seed-pearl upon the earth. The willows shed savoury manna, the fountains laughed, the brooks murmured, the woods rejoiced, and the meadows adorned themselves at her approach.

But scarce had the light of day rendered objects distinguishable, when the first thing that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the nose of his brother squire, which was so large as almost to over-shadow his whole body. It is actually said to have been of excessive magnitude, crooked in the middle, and studded all over with warts of a mulberry colour, like the fruit called berengena; and it hung down two fingers breadth below his mouth. The size, colour, warts, and curvature of this feature, rendered the face so frightful and deformed, that Sancho no sooner beheld it than he began to shake in every limb, like a child troubled with convulsions; and resolved, in his heart, to endure two hundred buffetings, before his choler should be awaked, so as to fight with such a hobgoblin.

Don Quixote surveying his antagonist, found his vizor already down, and closed in such a manner as effectually concealed his face; but he perceived him to be a muscular man, of a middling stature. Over his arms he wore a loose coat or cassock, to all appearance of the finest cloth of gold, powdered with a number of small moons formed of the brightest looking-glass, which had a most magnificent, gay, and shewy effect. Over his helmet waved a great quantity of green, yellow, and white plumes; and his lance, which leaned against a tree, was excessively long and large, armed with above a hand’s breadth of pointed steel. All these particulars were observed and considered by Don Quixote, who concluded, from what he saw and observed, that the said knight must be a person of Herculean strength. Nevertheless, far from being afraid, like Sancho Panza, he, with the most gallant intrepidity, thus addressed himself to the Knight of the Mirrours: ‘I entreat you, by your courtesy, Sir Knight, if your eager desire of fighting hath not destroyed that quality, to lift up your beaver a little, that I may see whether or not the grace of your countenance corresponds with the gallantry of your demeanour.’—‘Signior cavalier,’ replied he of the looking-glasses, ‘whether you are victor or vanquished in this enterprize, you will have time and opportunity more than sufficient to consider my visage: my reason for not satisfying your desire at present, is, that I should deem it a notable injury to the beautiful Casildea de Vandalia, to spend so much time as it would take to lift up my beaver, before I compel you to confess what you know I pretend to maintain.’—‘Yet, while we mount our steeds,’ said Don Quixote, ‘you may easily tell me if I am that same Don Quixote whom you pretend to have overcome.’—‘To that question I answer,’ said he of the mirrours, ‘that you are as like the knight I overcame, as one egg is like another; but as you say you are persecuted by inchanters, I will not venture to affirm whether or not you are the same person.’—‘That is enough,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘to convince me that you are mistaken: nevertheless, to persuade you beyond all possibility of doubt, let us have recourse to our horses, and in less time than you would have taken to lift your beaver, if God, my mistress, and my arm avail me, I shall see your face; and you will see I am not that conquered Don Quixote whom you suppose me to be.’

Thus breaking off the conversation, they mounted their horses; and Don Quixote turned Rozinante, in order to take a sufficiency of ground for returning to encounter his antagonist, while he of the mirrours took the same precaution. But the first had not proceeded twenty paces when he was called back by the other, and the two meeting again half way, ‘Take notice, Sir Knight,’ said he of the looking glasses, ‘the condition of our combat is, that the conquered, as I have already observed, must be at the discretion of the conqueror.’—‘I know it,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘provided the commands imposed upon the vanquished be such as do not transgress the bounds of chivalry.’—‘So I understand the conditions,’ answered he of the mirrours.

At that instant the strange nose of the squire presented itself to the eyes of Don Quixote, who was no less astonished than Sancho at the sight; insomuch that he took him for some monster, or new-fashioned man, such as are not commonly found in this world. Sancho, seeing his master set out, in order to take his career, would not stay alone with nozzle, being afraid, that one flirt of such a snout in his face would determine the quarrel, and lay him stretched along the ground, either through fear or the severity of the blow, he therefore ran after his master, and laying hold of one of Rozinante’s stirrups, when he saw him ready to turn, ‘I beseech your worship, dear master,’ cried he, ‘before you turn to begin the combat, help me in climbing this cork-tree, from whence I may behold, more to my liking than from the ground, your worship’s gallant encounter with that same knight.’—‘I rather believe, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that thy motive for clambering up is to see the bull-fight from a scaffold, without any danger to thyself.’—‘The truth is,’ answered Panza, ‘the outrageous nose of that squire fills me with such astonishment and affright, that I dare not tarry along with him.’—‘It is such indeed,’ replied the knight, ‘that were I any other than what I am, I should be feared at its appearance: come, therefore, and I will help thee to ascend to the place you mention.’

While Don Quixote stopped until Sancho should get up into the cork-tree, the Knight of the Mirrours took as much ground as he thought necessary, and imagining that Don Quixote had done the same, without waiting for sound of trumpet, or other signal, he turned his horse, which was not a whit superior to Rozinante, either in fleetness or appearance, and at his full speed, which was a middling trot, rode forwards to encounter his antagonist; but seeing him busy in the exaltation of Sancho, he pulled in the reins, and halted in the middle of his career; a circumstance that gave infinite joy to his steed, which was already so tired, that he could not move another step. Don Quixote perceiving his enemy approaching with such speed, drove his spurs stoutly into the meagre flanks of Rozinante, and made him spring forwards in such a manner, that the history says, this was the only occasion on which he was ever known to gallop; for, at all other times, his swiftest pace was no other than a downright trot; and with this hitherto unseen fury he arrived at the spot where the Knight of the Mirrours sat, thrusting his spurs rowel-deep into the sides of his horse, without being able to move him one finger’s breadth from the place where he had made his halt. In this confusion and dilemma Don Quixote found his antagonist embroiled with his horse, and embarrassed with his lance, which, either through want of knowledge or of time, he had not as yet fixed in the rest. Our Manchegan, who never minded these incumbrances, safely, and without the least danger to his own person, encountered him of the mirrours with such vigour, as to bring him, very much against his inclination, to the ground, over the crupper of his horse, with such a fall, that he lay without sense or motion, to all appearance bereft of life.

Sancho no sooner saw him unhorsed, than sliding down from the cork-tree, he ran down to his master, who having alighted from Rozinante, stood over the Knight of the Mirrours, untying his helmet, in order to see, whether or not he was actually dead, and to give him air, in case he should be alive. Then it was he saw—who can relate what he saw, without creating admiration, wonder, and affright in those who hear it! He saw, says the history, the very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the very physiognomy, the very effigies, the very perspective of the batchelor, Sampson Carrasco; and this he no sooner beheld, than raising his voice, he cried, ‘Come hither, Sancho, and behold what thou shalt see, but not believe; quick, my child, and contemplate the power of magick: here thou wilt see what those wizards and inchanters can do.’ Sancho accordingly approached, and seeing the face of batchelor Carrasco, began to cross and bless himself a thousand times.

Mean while, the overthrown knight, giving no signs of life, Sancho said to Don Quixote, ‘In my opinion, master, right or wrong, your worship should thrust your sword through the jaws of this miscreant, who seems to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and in him, perhaps, you may slay one of those inchanters who are your enemies.’—‘That is no bad advice,’ said the knight, ‘for the fewer enemies the better.’ So saying, he drew his sword, in order to put in execution the advice and counsel of Sancho, when the squire belonging to the Knight of the Mirrours, came up without his frightful nose, and cried aloud, ‘Take care what you do, Signior Don Quixote; he who lies at your feet is your friend the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and I am his squire.’

Sancho seeing him without his original deformity, ‘And the nose?’ said he. ‘I have it here,’ replied the other; who putting his hand in his right side-pocket, pulled out a paste-board nose, covered with varnish, such as we have already described. Sancho having considered him more and more attentively, broke out into a loud exclamation of wonder, crying, ‘Blessed virgin watch over me! Sure this is not my neighbour and gossip Tommy Cecial?’—‘The very same,’ answered the unsnouted squire, ‘Thomas Cecial I am, your own friend and gossip, Sancho Panza, and I will presently tell you by what round-about conduits, tricks, and mischievous stories, I have been brought hither: in the mean time, supplicate and beseech your master’s worship not to treat, maltreat, wound, or slay, the Knight of the Looking-glasses, who now lies at his feet; for, without all doubt, he is no other than our townsman, the inconsiderate and ill-advised batchelor Sampson Carrasco.’

About this time, the Knight of the Mirrours came to himself; and Don Quixote perceiving he had recovered the use of his senses, clapped the point of his naked sword to his throat, saying, ‘Knight, you are a dead man, if you do not instantly confess that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia, in beauty; and in the next place, you must promise, (provided you escape with life from this contention and overthrow) to go to the city of Toboso, and present yourself before her, in my name, that she may dispose of you according to her good pleasure; and if she leaves you at your own disposal, you shall return in quest of me; for the tracks of my exploits will serve as a guide to conduct you to the place where I shall be, and give me an account of what hath passed between you; these conditions being conformable to what we agreed upon before the combat, and not deviating from the customs of knight-errantry.’—‘I confess,’ said the vanquished knight, ‘that the clouted dirty shoe of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, excels the dishevelled, though shining locks of Casildea: I promise to go and return from her to your presence, and give you a full and particular detail of what you demand.’—‘You must, in like manner, confess and believe,’ added Don Quixote, ‘that the knight whom you overcame neither was nor could be Don Quixote de La Mancha, but some other who resembled him; as I confess and believe, that although you appear to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, you are not really he, but another cloathed in his appearance, with which my enemies have invested you, in order to arrest my arm, and restrain the impetuosity of my rage, so as that I may bear the glory of my conquest with moderation.’—‘I confess, judge, and perceive, in all respects, as you believe, judge, and perceive,’ answered the discomfited knight; ‘and I beseech you to allow me to rise, if the severity of my fall, which hath put me in a miserable plight, will permit me to get up.’

He was accordingly assisted in rising, by Don Quixote and his own squire Tommy Cecial, from whose person Sancho could not withdraw his eyes, while he asked a thousand questions; the answers to which manifestly shewed, that he was really and truly the individual Tommy Cecial, whom he pretended to be; but the apprehension which Sancho had conceived, from what his master said touching the inchanters, who had metamorphosed the Knight of the Mirrours into the Batchelor Carrasco, hindered him from giving credit to the truth of what he saw with his own eyes. Finally, both master and man remained under the influence of that deception, while he of the mirrours, with his squire, in exceeding bad humour and evil plight, took his leave of Don Quixote and Sancho, to go in quest of some place where he might beplaister and besplinter his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to the prosecution of their journey; in which the history leaves them, to explain the mystery of the knight of the looking-glasses and his snouted squire.

Footnote 152:

A brass statue on a steeple at Seville, serving for a weather-cock.

Footnote 153:

These are stone statues of bulls, erected by the Romans at Guisando, a town in Castile; all the inscriptions are effaced, except the name of A. Quintus Cæcilius, Consul II.

CHAP. XV. WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT AND INFORMATION OF THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRROURS AND HIS SQUIRE.

Don Quixote went on his way rejoicing; he gloried, he triumphed in the importance of his conquest, imagining the knight of the mirrours to be the most redoubtable of all knights that had yet ever appeared; and what afforded him likewise great matter of comfort was, that this knight, having engaged himself by the ties of honour, from which he could not deviate, without forfeiting his title to the order, he conceived hopes of hearing soon from Dulcinea, and of being certainly informed whether the inchantment of that princess still continued; though, indeed, it happened, that he and the knight of the mirrours thought, at that time, differently upon this subject; inasmuch as the latter was solely intent upon thinking how he should repair the damage done to his carcase.

And here the historian informs his readers, that when Sampson Carrasco advised Don Quixote to resume the profession of knight-errantry, it was in consequence of mature consultation between him, the curate, and the barber, when they deliberated upon the means of keeping him in peace and quiet at home, so that his brains, for the future, should not be disturbed in pursuit of those wild extravagances; the result of which was, that the only way to cure the frenzy of this unhappy man, was at present not to check his ungovernable obstinacy, but to humour it, and encourage him to go out again, as they saw it was impossible to prevent him; that Sampson should arm himself, and take an opportunity of meeting and challenging him, as a knight-errant; that he should settle the terms with him, that the vanquished should be at the disposal of the conqueror; that, in consequence of this agreement, Don Quixote, when overcome, (which they looked upon as a matter of little doubt and difficulty) should be ordered to return home, and not to pass the bounds of his own village for the space of two years, without the good-will and permission of the other; that, no doubt, this he would religiously comply with, as not daring to violate the laws of the order; and that there might be hopes, he would either in that space of time be naturally cured of those extravagant follies, or they might find out some method of diverting his mind from the farther pursuit of them. Carrasco undertook the affair very readily; and this Thomas Cecial, an intimate friend and companion of Sancho, and a queer sort of fellow, proffered his service to go upon the expedition, in the quality of squire. Sampson got himself accoutred in the manner you have read, and Cecial appeared in the terrors of that tremendous paste-board nose, to disguise himself from Sancho; and being thus equipped, they followed him so close, that they were very near coming up with him at the adventure of the waggon of Death; they met him however in the wood, where ensued what the attentive reader must already be acquainted with; and where, had it not been for Don Quixote’s heated imagination, which hurried him into the belief that the batchelor was not the batchelor Signior Sampson Carrasco, would have been effectually stopped in the progress of his university degrees, and would not even have found a nest where he expected a flight of sparrows.

Thomas Cecial, finding the unhappy success that attended their undertaking, said, ‘Mr. Carrasco, I cannot in my conscience see why we ought to complain; it is one thing to undertake, but another thing to finish: we looked upon Don Quixote as mad, and ourselves as hugely wise; but, behold the end! we take our march back again, both from a fool’s errand, and you most handsomely drubbed to boot, while he pursues his journey in safety and triumph; and I should really be curious to know which is the greatest fool, he who is made so by nature, or he who makes himself one?’—‘There is this difference,’ replied the batchelor, ‘between a natural and a wilful fool; that the former will always remain so, the latter may cease to be so when he has a mind.’—‘As that is the case,’ said Thomas, ‘I think I have been a monstrous fool in coming here to attend you as your squire; and therefore, that I may be so no longer, I will this instant hie me to my own habitation.’—‘In that particular, you may do what seems good unto you,’ replied Sampson; ‘but as for me, I see not the place of my dwelling, until I shall have taken bodily vengeance upon Don Quixote: ’tis not now from motives of charity or benevolence; no, ’tis revenge, and the anguish of my ribs, that prompt me to persevere in attempting the work of his reformation.’

They entertained one another in this manner, till they came to a village, where they had the good fortune to find a bone-setter, who put the batchelor’s ribs somewhat to rights; and Cecial took the route for his own village, leaving Carrasco deep in his meditations, projecting schemes of revenge. In due time, the history will again mention him; but, at present, let us share with Don Quixote in the transports of his joy.

CHAP. XVI. WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WITH A GRAVE GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA.

Don Quixote, as we have observed, went on his way, glorying in his success. From that day, he dated himself the most renowned and invincible of all knights that had ever yet gone through a course of labours on this our earth: he looked upon all dangers, all difficulties that possibly could come in his way, as already vanquished, already overcome: he now valued not a rush the machinations of the most powerful inchanters. The very traces of former misfortunes, those drubbings out of number he had undergone, in discharging the functions of knighthood, were now quite obliterated from his memory. He thought no more of the shower of stones which had so sorely afflicted his jaw-bones, nor the mortifying ingratitude of the galley-slaves; nor did he think any more of the pack-staves of the Yanguesian carriers, who had the hardiness to make his sides resound like the dusting of a carpet: in short, the idea he conceived of his own felicity was so great, that, ‘Could I,’ said he to himself, ‘but accomplish the great point of delivering my celestial princess from the power of inchantment, I should not envy the glory that ever was or will be purchased by any knight in the universe.’

He was lost in these reveries, when Sancho interrupted him: ‘Signior, you will hardly believe what a fool I am; but it is an actual truth, that I cannot keep myself from thinking on that horrid and unmeasurable nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial.’—‘And dost thou really believe,’ replied the other, ‘that the Knight of the Mirrours was Sampson Carrasco; and that thy old companion, Thomas Cecial, was his squire?’—‘As to that affair, I can say nothing to it,’ answered Sancho; ‘only one thing I am positive in, that no one but himself could have given me such an account of my house, my wife, and my children; and as to his face, when that nose was slipt off, it was the very individual face of Thomas Cecial, just as I have beheld it many a time, when we were next door neighbours in our village: and as for his voice, I will take my oath, it is the same to a tittle.’—‘Come, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘let us reason coolly upon this head: what probability is there, that Sampson Carrasco should come, as a knight-errant, armed cap-a-pee, to offer me combat? Am I his enemy, or did I ever give him occasion to bear resentment against me? Do you imagine I am his rival, or that he has entered into the profession of chivalry, as envying the glory I have acquired by arms?’—‘But then, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘what account can we give of the resemblance of that same knight and his squire to Sampson Carrasco, and my old friend Thomas Cecial? And if it be inchantment, as your worship says, were there no other two in the world but them whose likeness they could assume?’—‘It is all design,’ answered the other; ‘and the contrivance of those cursed inchanters that persecute me, who easily foreseeing I should be victorious in the combat, changed the form of the vanquished knight into that of the batchelor, that the friendship I have for him might check the fury of my sword, and shield him against the effects of my just indignation; and by that means save the life of him who by treachery and artifice had attempted to take away mine. But what farther proof need there be of the power of those inchanters, to change the appearance of human countenances, the fair into the deformed, and the deformed into the fair, than what thou thyself hast lately found by certain experience? Thou, who not two days since beheld the peerless Dulcinea in all the charms and lustre of perfect beauty, while at the same time she appeared to me an ugly rustick wench, with bleared eyes, and stinking breath; and doubtless, if the wicked magician could effect such a diabolical inchantment as that, it is not to be wondered at, if he did the like by Carrasco and Thomas Cecial, to rob me of the glory of my victory: however, this is my consolation, that the prowess of my arm hath prevailed against my enemy, whatever shape he has assumed.’—‘It is God alone who knows the truth of all things,’ answered Sancho: who, well knowing that the transformation of Dulcinea was the effect of his own inchantments, upon that account was not quite convinced by his master’s arguments; but durst not mutter the least word, lest something should have dropped from him, by which he might have betrayed himself.

While they were discoursing in this manner, a gentleman, mounted in the jockey-fashion, on a fine flea-bitten mare, came up with them, dressed in a riding-coat of fine green cloth, faced with murry-coloured velvet, and a hunting-cap of the same; his furniture of a piece, murry-coloured and green; he had a belt of green and gold, at which hung a Moorish scymitar, and his buskins were wrought in the same manner; his spurs were not gilt, but so finely varnished with green, that as they were more of a piece with the rest of his dress, they looked better than if they had been pure gold. When this gentleman overtook them, he saluted them with great politeness, and was spurring on, in order to pass them, when Don Quixote calling to him, said, ‘Signior, if you are not in haste, and are a going this way, I should be exceeding glad to join company with you.’—‘Sir,’ answered the other, ‘I should not have been in such haste to pass you, but was afraid your horse might be unruly, in the company of my mare.’—‘If that be all,’ answered Sancho, ‘you may stop your mare when you please, with great safety; ours is the most sober and most discreet horse in the world, and has more breeding than ever to let his naughtiness get the better of him upon such occasions, and never transgressed in this particular but once, and then my master and I both suffered severely in the flesh for it: I say once more, your worship may stop; for if your mare was served up in a dish, our steed would not so much as smell to her.’ Upon this assurance, the gentleman stopped, and looked with amazement at the air and appearance of Don Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which hung like a wallet before Sancho, at the pummel of his ass’s pannel; and, on the other hand, Don Quixote beheld him with no less attention, conceiving him to be some person of figure and distinction. The traveller seemed to be a man about fifty; he had some, though few, grey hairs; his features were sharp, and in his looks appeared neither levity nor moroseness: in short, his appearance bespoke him a man of consequence. He looked with a kind of astonishment at Don Quixote, as having never beheld such a phænomenon before; the lankness of the horse, and the tall stature of the person that rode him, the sepulchral meagreness of his aspect, his solemn gravity, the strangeness of his armour, all together forming such a composition as perhaps had never before been seen in that country.

Don Quixote observed with what attention the traveller considered him; and, by the surprize he saw him in, guessing what he wanted to know, as he was himself the very flower of civility, and of excessive complaisance, he was resolved to be beforehand with him, and save him the trouble of asking any question: ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not at all surprized to find, that with amazement you contemplate this my appearance, so new to you, and so different from that of other mortals; but your wonder will cease, when I have told you that I am of the fraternity of those knights whom people distinguish by the title of adventure-hunters. I have left my native home, mortgaged my all, bid adieu to ease and pleasure, and cast myself upon fortune, to dispose of me as she shall think proper; my design being to awaken the lost and decayed spirit of knight-errantry: it is now some time since I entered upon the resolution of accomplishing this aim, during which period I have suffered a variety of fortune, tossed about from one adventure to another, sometimes triumphant, at other times not so successful, until I have in a great measure fulfilled my design, having relieved many disconsolate widows, afforded protection to many distressed damsels, and been of aid and assistance to divers married women and fatherless children, the true duty and intent of our order; so that, by numberless exploits becoming a Christian hero, I am now celebrated in print through almost all the nations of the habitable globe. Thirty thousand copies of my renowned history are already in the hands of the publick; and if Heaven does not think proper to put a stop to it, in all likelihood there will be a thousand times as many more. In one word, Sir, I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise stiled the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; and though I own it is illiberal to sound one’s own praises, yet am I sometimes obliged to do it; but then, never unless when no one is by to do it for me; so that, Signior, after what I have told you, neither my lance nor my shield, my horse nor my squire, the wanness of my countenance, nor the lankness of my person, and all my whole composition together, ought any more to affect you with surprize, since you know the profession I am of, and the order I belong to.’

There Don Quixote stopped to give the traveller an opportunity of reply; but he was so long before he opened his mouth, that it seemed as if he could make no answer; however, after a long pause, ‘Sir Knight,’ said he, ‘you was not mistaken, when, by the surprize you saw me in, you guessed the desire I had to be informed; but I am still as much surprized as ever, and though what you say may be right, that my knowing who you are ought to have made my wonder cease, it is yet far from having that effect upon me. Can it be possible, that there are indeed now in the world knights-errant really existing, and that there are published accounts of real adventures? I should never have once dreamed that there was such a thing upon earth as any one who assisted married women and orphans, relieved widows, and protected damsels, if I had not had this opportunity of being convinced by now seeing you; and Heaven be praised, that this noble history of your real and glorious atchievements is in print, as it must efface and discredit those numberless romances about knights-errant, who never had being, and with which the world was so pestered and abused, to the apparent corruption of the mind of the readers, and the discredit of real and true history.’—‘As to that circumstance, Sir, there is much to be said, and you must not be too rash in believing, that the histories of knight errantry are all fable.’—‘Is there any one,’ answered the traveller, ‘who makes a doubt of it?’—‘I do, for one,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we will drop that subject for the present, as I doubt not but, if we continue any time travelling together, I shall be able, by the blessing of God, to convince you of your error, and to shew you that you are prejudiced only by the number of those who have entertained a notion, that such accounts are fictitious.’

These last words of Don Quixote gave the gentleman in green a suspicious idea of his understanding: he had a notion that he must be disordered in his senses, and was expecting some other proof of it; but, without entering into farther discourse, Don Quixote desired his companion to let him know who he was, as he himself had given an account of his life and situation. To which request the gentleman replied, ‘Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I am a gentleman born in a village where, if it pleases God, we shall all dine to-day; my fortune is better than moderate, and my name Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my time chearfully, with my wife, my children, and my friends; my usual diversions are fishing and hunting; but I neither keep hounds nor hawks; all I have are some decoy-partridges and a good ferret. My library consists of about some six dozen of Spanish and Latin books; some are books of history, others of piety; for as to books of chivalry, I have not yet allowed them to come under my roof: I am more inclined to the reading of profane than religious authors, if the subjects they treat of are of an innocent nature, if the stile is engaging, and the incidents affecting and surprizing: but, indeed, Spain produces mighty few performances of this sort. I live in terms of good neighbourhood with all about me; sometimes I go to their houses, sometimes I invite them to mine; my table is neat and clean, and sufficiently affluent, without extravagance. I slander no one, nor do I allow backbiters to come near me; my eyes pry not into the actions of other men, nor have I any impertinent curiosity to know the secrets of their lives. I go to mass every day, and the poor man partakes of my substance; I make no ostentation in the good I do, that I may defend myself against the attacks of hypocrisy and vain-glory, well knowing, that the best fortified heart is hardly proof against these sly deceivers. As far as I have an opportunity, I am a reconciler of differences among my neighbours: I particularly pay my devotions to the blessed Mother, and have an entire dependance on the mercies of God our Saviour.’

Sancho had listened with uncommon attention to what the gentleman in green said; and this discourse seemed to him of such exalted piety and virtue, that he immediately conceived such a man must be endowed with the power of working miracles: fully persuaded of the truth of this supposition, he threw himself off his ass, ran up to the gentleman, seized his right stirrup, and with a heart overflowing with devotion, and eyes full of tears, fell a kissing his feet. Which humility, when the traveller perceived, ‘What is the matter, friend,’ said he; ‘what is the meaning of these embraces?’—‘Pray let me alone,’ said Sancho; ‘for in my life before, excepting your worship, did I never know a saint mounted on horseback.’—‘I have no title to be thought so,’ answered the gentleman; ‘on the contrary, I am a miserable sinner; but the simplicity of your behaviour, my friend, shews, that you yourself must be a very good man.’ Upon this declaration Sancho quitted him, and again remounted Dapple, having by his behaviour unbended the solemn gravity of his master into a smile, and increased the wonder of Don Diego.

Don Quixote then made enquiry into the number of children he had, informing him at the same time, that the ancient sages, who were not enlightened with the knowledge of the true God, reckoned the gifts of fortune and nature, abundance of friends and encrease of dutiful children, as constituting part of the supreme happiness. ‘Sir,’ answered Don Diego, ‘I have one son; and if I had none, should, peradventure, think myself happier than I am; not that he is very bad, but because he does not come up to what I would wish him to be. He is now eighteen years of age, six of which he has spent at Salamanca, studying Greek and Latin; and when I would have had him apply to something else, I found him so dipt in poetry, if that deserves the name of science, that I could not prevail upon him to take to the study of the law, which was what I wanted he should do; nor would he apply to divinity, the first and noblest of all sciences. I was desirous to make him the honour and ornament of his family, as we live in an age, and under a monarch, where useful and virtuous learning is so amply recompensed: for what is learning without virtue; no better than pearls on a dunghill! He will spend whole days in examining whether such a verse in Homer’s Iliad be expressed with propriety, whether such an epigram of Martial is to be construed into a lewd sense or not, and whether such a verse in Virgil will bear this or that meaning. In a word, these authors, with Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus, engross the whole of his time and conversation. As to the modern authors of his own country, he seems to have no great relish for them, though, notwithstanding his seeming disregard, he is now busied in making a kind of commentary upon four verses, which, I believe, are designed as a subject for a prize in the schools.’

To this information, the other answered, ‘Signior, children are to be considered as part of the bowels of the parents, and be they good or bad, we must treat them as such, and cherish them accordingly. It is incumbent upon parents to lead them betimes into the paths of decency and virtue, to instil into them sound principles, and train them up in Christian discipline, that by these means they may be the stay of their declining years, and an honour to their own descendants. I am not against using persuasion to incline them either to the study of this or that science, but look upon using force as altogether unwarrantable; more especially as the young gentleman does not study in view of getting his livelihood, he being so fortunate as to have that secured by inheritance: then I think he should be indulged in pursuing whatever his genius or inclination mostly prompts him to; and though in poetry there is more pleasure than utility, it generally does honour to the person who has a vein for it. I liken poetry to a young, tender, and beautiful virgin, whom many other virgins, that is, all the other sciences, are assiduous to ornament, enrich, and embellish; now as she makes use of them all, so likewise does she reflect a lustre upon them all. But then this tender virgin is not to be handled roughly; she is not to be dragged through the streets, exposed in publick places, or stand as a prostitute at the gates of palaces. She is a kind of alchemy of such rare virtue, that whoever knows the nature of her composition may change her into pure gold of inestimable value: whoever would keep her must narrowly look after her; she must not be indulged in the indecency of obscene satire, nor allowed to run into insipid sonnets; and though she may enjoy the profits arising from heroick poetry, weeping tragedy, or laughing comedy, yet the muse must not be venal; no buffoons must have any thing to do with her, and she must be kept sacred from the unhallowed multitude, who neither know nor esteem those hidden treasures she carries about her. And think not that by the multitude I only mean the common rank of men; no, under that class I number all who are strangers to real knowledge, be they peers or be they princes. But, whoever is possessed of those qualifications I have been mentioning, and with them attempts the study and execution of poetry, I say, his name will be famous and held in veneration wherever politeness extends its influence. As to what you say of your son’s not esteeming the poetry of his own country, I don’t think he is quite right in that opinion, and for this reason: the mighty Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a Greek; nor Virgil in Greek, for the same reason that he was a Roman; and, in general, every one of the ancient poets wrote in the language of his own country, and did not seek for another to clothe the majesty of his ideas. As this is the case, I think it should be a prevailing maxim in all countries; nor should we undervalue the German poet for writing in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his; but, perhaps, your son does not dislike Spanish poetry, but Spanish poets, as being destitute of the knowledge of other languages or sciences, that might contribute to cultivate, assist, and enliven their own natural genius; and even this prejudice might be carried too far; for the maxim that a poet is born with his talent, is certainly just; that is, a real poet comes forth a poet into the world, and with this natural endowment, implanted in him by his Creator, produces, without the help of study or cultivation, such things as verify that of the poets when they say, “_Est Deus in nobis._” One so born a poet, if he cultivates his genius by the assistance of art, must be much better, nay, greatly preferable to him who, without natural fire, attains to the knowledge of the rules only; for it is obvious, that as art does not exceed nature, but serves to polish and bring it to perfection, so art assisting nature, and nature so assisted by art, form the accomplished poet. To conclude, Signior, my advice is, that your son should be allowed to follow the bent of his own inclination; and as he must be already an exceeding good scholar, having mastered the learned languages, which may be looked upon as having mounted the first steps in his progress to the seat of the sciences, by the assistance of that knowledge he will be able, without more help, to climb to the top of human literature, which as much adorns and sets off a gentleman as a mitre does a bishop, or the long robe the counsel learned in the law. If you find him writing satires injurious to private characters, burn his works and rebuke him; but if he composes discourses, that comprehend for their subject of satire vice in general, as Horace did with so much elegance, then commend him: for, though it be unlawful to mark and single out particular persons, it is allowable to write against particular vices; for example, to write against envy, or to lash the envious, and so of others. Here are some poets, indeed, who, rather than baulk their fancy of saying a smart thing, will risk being sent to the isles of Pontus. As the manners, so will the verses be; if the former are chaste, the latter will be so likewise. Writing is the interpreter of the mind, which will always produce what is consonant to its own native conceptions; and when kings, and the great men of the earth, once see this wonderful gift of poetry employed on subjects of wisdom, virtue, and dignity, they bestow marks of honour, esteem, and munificence upon the poet; they crown him from the leaves of that tree, which is proof against the glancing thunderbolt, emblematically denoting, that such as wear that crown ought to be secure against all hurt or offence.’

The traveller wondered so much at Don Quixote’s discourse, that he began to be staggered in his mind, whether he was a madman or not. But as this conversation did not altogether hit Sancho’s taste, he had, in the midst of it, gone out of the road, to beg a little milk of some shepherds who were milking ewes hard by; and the gentleman in green, who seemed very fond of the good sense and ingenious conversation of Don Quixote, was going to renew their dialogue, when the Don, suddenly lifting up his eyes, saw a carriage with the king’s colours meeting them upon the road, and taking this for some new adventure, called to Sancho to bring his helmet. Sancho, hearing the voice of his master, left the shepherd in great hurry, and mounting Dapple, arrived where Don Quixote was, to whom there happened a very terrible and tremendous adventure.

CHAP. XVII. WHICH SETS BEFORE THE READER THAT HIGHEST AND MOST EXALTED PINNACLE, WHICH THE INCREDIBLE MAGNANIMITY OF DON QUIXOTE EVER DID, OR EVER COULD ARRIVE AT—WITH THE HAPPY ISSUE OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS.

The history then proceeds to inform us, that when Don Quixote called upon Sancho to bring him his helmet, he, Sancho, was deep in bargain with the shepherds about some curds; and finding himself summoned in such violent haste by his master, was at a prodigious loss what to do with them, for he had paid for them, and could not bear the thoughts of losing his purchase: in this extremity he had recourse to his master’s helmet, in which he safely stowed them, and hugging himself in this lucky thought, away he trotted to receive the commands of his lord and master, who desired him to deliver his helmet; ‘For,’ said he, ‘if I know aught of adventures, that which I descry yonder will prove such a one as will oblige me to have recourse to arms.’

Don Diego, upon hearing this declaration, looked about him every where, but could discover nothing, except a carriage coming towards them, with two or three flying flags, by which he guessed the carriage might be loaded with some of the king’s money, and mentioned this observation to Don Quixote, who minded not what he said, his brain wandering so upon adventures, that every thing must be one, and nothing but a series of one adventure upon the back of another; he therefore answered the gentleman to this effect; ‘Sir, forewarned and fore-armed is half the day; I am not now to learn that I have enemies of all kinds, visible and invisible, neither know I the time, the place, the hour, nor under what appearance they will attack me.’ With these words, turning about, he demanded his helmet of Sancho; who not having time to disengage the curds from it, was obliged to deliver it, with that lining in the inside, to his master, who took it, and without farther examination, clapped it in a great hurry upon his head, which pressing and squeezing the curds, the whey began to ooze down his beard; and this circumstance so startled him, that he called out to Sancho, ‘What can this mean? Is my skull softening, or my brains melting, or do I sweat from head to foot? Surely, this I can say, that if I do sweat, it is not through fear, though I am fully persuaded this will prove a most terrible adventure. If you have got any thing, let me have it to wipe me; for this deluge of sweat blinds my eyes.’ Sancho replied not, but gave him a cloth, and with it sent up his thanks to the Almighty, that his master had not found out what it was. Don Quixote, after rubbing himself, took off his helmet, to see what it was that sat so cool upon his head, and, perceiving something white and clotted, put it to his nose, and snuffed at it; ‘By the life of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,’ cried he, ‘thou hast put curds into my helmet, thou traitor, thou ill-bred squire!’ To which apostrophe, Sancho answered with great unconcern and tranquillity, ‘If they are curds, let me have them to eat; but the devil ought rather to eat them, for I am sure it must be he who put them there. I offer to defile your worship’s helmet! in good troth, I can perceive, by the help of that understanding God has given me, that I am not without my inchanters too, who are at me, as a sort of member and limb of your worship; and I’ll be sworn, have put that nastiness there, to instigate your worship to wrath against me, and stir up your worship to anoint my ribs in the manner your worship was wont to do. But this time they have missed their aim I trow, as I can depend upon the just sentence of my master, who will easily weigh with himself, that I had neither curds, cream, nor any such stuff; and that, if I had, it was more likely I should have crammed them into my own guts than put them into his worship’s helmet.’—‘All this is possible,’ cried Don Quixote: and all this the other gentleman saw, and saw with astonishment, more especially when our hero, after having cleaned his head, beard, chops, and helmet, clapped the latter upon his skull, and fixing himself in his seat, tried whether or not his sword could be easily drawn; then grasping his spear, ‘Now,’ cried he, ‘happen what will happen, here am I, determined for the combat, should the prince of the evil spirits set himself in battle array against me.’

By this time the carriage with the streamers was come up, attended only by the driver (who rode one of the mules) and a man who sat upon the fore-part of it. Don Quixote wedged himself directly in their way, and called out, ‘Whither, my brethren, are you bound? what carriage is this? what does it contain? what ensigns are those displayed?’ To which interrogations the waggoner replied, ‘The carriage itself belongs to me, and within are two savage lions, which the general of Oran sends to court to his majesty: the streamers are the ensigns of our lord the king, to shew that what is here contained belongs to the crown.’—‘Are these lions large?’ answered Don Quixote.—‘So large,’ replied the man, who sat on the fore-part of the waggon, ‘that lions of a more monstrous size never came from Barbary into this kingdom. I am their keeper, and have had several under my charge before now, but never any so big as they: there is a male and female; the he is in the first cage, and the female in the other; they are now ravenous with hunger, having had no food to-day, and therefore I must entreat you to get out of the way, as we must make haste to the place where they are to be fed.’ To which intreaty, Don Quixote answered with a half smile, ‘What are your lion whelps to me, and at this time of day too! are lion whelps brought against me! I’ll make those who sent them hither—yes, by the holy God! I’ll make them see whether I am a man to be scared by lions. Come, honest friend, get off; and as you are their keeper, open the cages and turn them out; for, in the midst of this plain, will I make the savage beasts of the wilderness know who Don Quixote de La Mancha is, in defiance of the inchanters who have sent them against me.’

‘Aha!’ said Don Diego to himself, ‘I think our Knight of the Rueful Countenance has now given us a pretty incontestable sample of what he is; these curds have certainly soaked his skull, and suppurated his brains.’ Then Sancho came up to Diego, and said, ‘For God’s sake, Signior, take care that my master’s worship does not encounter these lions, or belike we shall all of us be tore to pieces.’—‘What!’ answered he, ‘is your master then really so much out of his wits, that you believe and dread he will engage these savage monsters?’—‘He is not out of his wits,’ replied Sancho, ‘but prodigious bold.’

‘I’ll make him give over,’ answered the other; then going up to Don Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cages, he said, ‘Signior, gentlemen of the order of knights-errant ought to go upon adventures that have a probability of success, not such as are quite desperate; for that courage which is almost temerity, savours rather of madness than true fortitude. Besides, these lions do not come with any hostile design against you; no, they think of nothing less; they are going to be presented to the king, and as they are on their way to court, I think they should not be stopped in their journey.’—‘Pray, good Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you will please to get away from hence, and look after your ferrets and decoy-partridges, do, and leave every one to mind his own business: this is my business, and it behoves me to know whether or not these lions come against me.’ Then turning to the keeper, ‘Sirrah,’ said he, ‘if you do not immediately open the cages, I swear by the living God, I will this instant pin you to the place where you sit.’

The carter seeing the obstinate resolution of this armed phantom, who addressed him, begged for the sake of charity, he would let him take off his mules, and get with them out of danger, before the lions were uncaged, ‘For should my cattle be slain,’ said he, ‘I am undone for ever, having nothing to depend upon for bread but this cart and these mules.’—‘Man of little faith,’ said Don Quixote, ‘alight; take off thy mules, and do what thou wilt; but thou shalt quickly see thou hast laboured in vain, and that thou mightest have spared thyself this unnecessary trouble.’

The carter then got off, and unharnessed in great hurry, and the keeper spoke aloud, ‘I call all present to witness that I am forced against my will, to open the cages, and let loose the lions; and I here declare, that this gentleman is chargeable with, and answerable for, all the harm they shall do, as also for my salary and perquisites over and above. And now, gentlemen, pray take care of yourselves, and get out of the way; for, as to me, I know they will do me no harm.’ Don Diego again urged him to forbear attempting so extravagant an action, alledging it was tempting of God, to think of going about such a desperate undertaking. The other replied, that he knew what he did, and Don Diego once more desired him to think well of what he was about, as he was certain that he deceived himself. ‘Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you do not care to be a spectator of what you think will be a tragical adventure, set spurs to your mare, and provide for your own safety.’ Sancho, upon this intimation, fell a blubbering, and earnestly besought him not to think of entering upon this adventure; ‘For, in companion of this,’ said he, ‘the windmills, the terrible adventure of the fulling-mill hammers, nay, all the exploits your worship has performed during the course of your life, are but custards and puff-paste. Consider, Sir,’ continued he, ‘that there can be no inchantment in this cage; I myself have peeped through the cage, and there I saw the claw of a real living lion; and sure I am, that the beast that owns such a claw must be bigger than a mountain.’—‘Be he large or small,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘thy fear would magnify him to the bigness of one half of the globe. Be gone, leave me: if I die, you know our old agreement; repair to Dulcinea. I say no more!’ He spoke several other things, which shewed he was determined on what he was about, and that all attempts to dissuade him were in vain.

Don Diego would willingly have stopped him; but had neither weapons nor armour equal to the other’s, and, besides, did not think it prudent to engage with a man who was frantick; for, by this time, he was convinced that Don Quixote was so in all respects; who still pressing the keeper, and repeating his threats, Don Diego clapped spurs to his mare, Sancho applied his heels to Dapple, the carter put forward his mules, and all endeavoured to get as fast out of the way as they could, before the beasts were let loose. Sancho deplored the fate of his master, who he believed was just going to be sacrificed by the lions: he bewailed his own hard fortune, and cursed the hour when he thought of serving him again; however, amidst the intenseness of his grief, he ceased not to punch and jog on his ass, that he might get from the cart as fast as possible. The keeper seeing that these runaways were now safe at a sufficient distance, renewed his expostulations with Don Quixote, who said, ‘I hear you, friend; but give yourself no more trouble with arguments or entreaties, it will all signify nothing; and therefore I desire you will make haste.’

While the keeper protracted the time in opening the first grate, Don Quixote considered with himself, whether he had best alight for the combat, or continue on the back of Rozinante; and determined, at last, to fight on foot, lest his steed might take fright at the sight of the lions. Accordingly, he leaped upon the ground, threw away his lance, braced his shield, and drew his sword; in which attitude, approaching with great steadiness, he placed himself just before the cart, recommending himself, with great devotion, first to the protection of the Almighty, and then to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso.

[Illustration: Don Quixote Braves the Lions.]

We must observe, that at this place the author of this history breaks out into pathetick exclamations, expressing himself to this purpose: O Don Quixote de La Mancha! renowned for fortitude, brave beyond human expression; thou mirrour, in which all heroes of the earth may contemplate their own perfections! thou second and other Don Manual de Leon, glory and ornament of Spanish knights! how shall I find words worthy to relate this matchless atchievement: by what power of argument shall I make it gain credit among future generations? for what encomiums ever so exalted, even beyond the hyperbole, can there be but what thou deservest? On foot thou stood’st, collected within thy magnanimous self, with a sword far from being sharp, with a shield far from bright and shining; there, I say, didst thou stand waiting and expecting two of the fiercest lions that were ever yet engendered in the dens of Libya. I want words wherewithal to embellish thy great atchievements: let thy own exploits, then, be the harbinger of thy praises, O heroick Manchegan!

The author here breaks off his exclamation, and proceeds in the recital of the history, saying,—

The keeper seeing Don Quixote fixed in this posture, and finding himself under a necessity of letting loose the he-lion, to avoid the resentment of this enraged and intrepid hero, flung the door of the first cage open, where the lion appeared lying, of a monstrous bigness and terrifying aspect: he immediately turned himself round in the cage, put out one of his paws, and stretching himself at full length yawned and gaped with great composure, and then, with a tongue of about half a yard long, cleaned his face and eyes; after which he thrust his head out of the cage, and stared around him with eyes like firebrands; a sight sufficient to have struck a damp into the most intrepid heart: but Don Quixote only fixed his eyes attentively upon him, wishing for the minute he would leap out of the cart, that he might engage and cut him in pieces; to such an unaccountable degree had his frenzy worked up his disturbed imagination. But the lion, naturally generous, and more inclinable to be gentle than rough, heeded not his bravadoes or flourishing: on the contrary, after having looked around him, as we have observed, turned about, and shewing our hero his backside, with great composure and tranquillity, laid himself down again to rest; which circumstance Don Quixote perceiving, ordered the keeper to rouze him by blows, and oblige him to come forth. ‘Nay, that I wont,’ answered he; ‘for, should I enrage him, he would immediately tear me to pieces: come, Sir Knight, be contented with what you have done, which is all that can be expected from any man’s courage, and give over tempting fortune any more. The door of his cage is open, and he may come forth, or not, as he pleases; but as he has not come out now, he will not all day. The intrepidity of your worship’s valour is sufficiently vouched; I apprehend the bravery of no combatant needs do more than challenge his adversary, and await him in the field; and if the enemy won’t meet him, the imputation of cowardice lies with him, and the crown of victory devolves upon the other.’—‘You say true,’ said Don Quixote; ‘shut the door, my friend, and let me have, under your hand, in the best manner you are able to draw it, a certificate of what you have now seen; for I think it is highly fitting mankind should know that you opened the lion’s cage; that I waited for him, and he came not out; and that I waited for him again, and he came not out, and that again he laid himself down. I am not bound to do any more; so inchantments avaunt, and God prosper truth, justice, and noble chivalry! shut the door therefore, and I will wave a signal for those who have run off to return, and have an account of this action from your own mouth.’

The keeper obeyed; and Don Quixote clapping upon the point of his lance the cloth Sancho had given him to wipe off the curds, called out to them who were still pursuing their flight, and at every step, all in a body, turning about their heads, and Don Diego leading them on; but Sancho chancing to espy the signal of the linen cloth, ‘I’ll be bound to be crucified,’ said he, ‘if my master has not got the better of the lions; for he now calls to us.’ They all stopped, and perceived it was Don Quixote who made the sign; upon which the violence of their terrors somewhat abated, and they approached nearer and nearer by degrees, till they could distinctly hear the voice of Don Quixote calling to them; at last they came back to the cart, and Don Quixote said to the carter, ‘Harness your mules again, my friend, and go on in your journey; and, Sancho, give him and the keeper two crowns of gold, as a recompence for the time I have detained them.’—‘That I will most willingly do; but where are the lions, dead or alive?’ Then the keeper very circumstantially, and dividing his discourse with great propriety, gave an account of the issue of this adventure, exaggerating with all his might, and all the power of rhetorick he could muster up, the courage of Don Quixote: ‘At sight of whom,’ said he, ‘the lion, overawed, would not, or rather durst not, venture out of the cage, though I held the door open a considerable time; and that, upon remonstrating to the great knight, that it was tempting of God to provoke the lion so far as to oblige him to come out by force, as he wanted him to have done, and was going to make him do whether he would or not, his honour had suffered the cage-door to be shut.’—‘Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what dost thou think now; can inchantments avail aught against true courage? they may, indeed, and with ease, stand in the way of my good fortune; but of valour and resolution they never can deprive me.’ Sancho gave the crowns to the people; the carter harnessed his mules, and the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hand for his liberality, and promised, when he arrived at court, he would give an account of this heroick atchievement to his majesty himself. ‘Should the king,’ said Don Quixote, ‘perchance enquire who performed it, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions; for I am determined, that, from this time forward, the title I have been hitherto distinguished by, of Knight of the Rueful Countenance, shall be changed, bartered, and sunk, into that of Knight of the Lions; and in this alteration I imitate the example of knights-errant of old, who, as they pleased, altered their designations as it best suited their purposes.’

The carriage went forward, Don Quixote, Sancho, and the traveller in green, pursued their journey; and during all this time, Don Diego de Miranda was so attentive to remark and observe the actions of Don Quixote, that he had not opened his mouth; but looked upon him as a man whose good sense was blended with a strange sort of madness: the reason was, he knew as yet nothing of the first part of his history; had he read that, his amazement at the knight’s words and actions would have vanished, as it would have cleared up to him the nature of his frenzy; but as he knew not that, he was at times divided in his opinion, sometimes believing him in his senses, and at other times thinking him frantick; because what he spoke was sensible, consistent, and genteelly expressed; but his actions discovered all the symptoms of wildness, folly, and temerity. ‘For what greater sign of disorder,’ said he to himself, ‘can there be, than for a man to clap on a helmet full of curds, and then take it into his head that some magician had liquified his skull; and what more certain proof of foolhardiness and wild frenzy, than for a person, in spite of all that can be said to him, to resolve to engage lions?’

Don Quixote interrupted these reflections and soliloquy of his fellow-traveller, by saying, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, I don’t doubt but that in your judgment I must pass for an extravagant madman; and, indeed, no wonder; for, to be sure, my actions would seem to declare me such: but, at the same time, I must beg leave to say to you, that I am not so disordered, or so bereft of understanding, as to you I may have seemed. The gay cavalier, who in burnished armour, before the ladies, prances over the lists, makes a gallant appearance! the adventurous knight too shews off to great advantage, when in the midst of the spacious square, in view of his prince, he transfixes the furious bull. And a noble appearance make those knights, who, in military exercises, or such like, are the life, spirit, and even honour of their prince’s court. But a much more noble figure than all these makes the knight-errant, who, in the solitudes of the desart, through the almost impervious passages of the forest, and over the craggy mountains, goes in quest of perilous adventures, to bring them to a successful issue, and that only to obtain glory, honour, and an immortal name. A knight-errant, I say, makes a more glorious appearance, when he assists the widow in some solitary plain, than the courtier knight, when he lavishes his gallantry on a town-lady. All cavaliers have their different spheres, in which they act; let the courtier pay his attendance to the ladies, adorn the court of his prince with the splendor of his equipage, entertain gentlemen of inferior fortunes with the hospitality of his sumptuous table; let him propose matches of different exercise, and direct the justs and tournaments; let him shew himself splendid, liberal, and munificent; and, above all, approve himself a good Christian: in acting thus, he will discharge the duties that belong to him. But for the knight-errant, let him explore the most hidden recesses of the universe, plunge into the perplexities of the labyrinths; let him, at all times, not be afraid of even impossibilities; in the barren, wasteful wilderness, let him defy the scorching rays of the solstitial sun, and the piercing chillings of the nipping frost. Lions must not frighten him, phantoms must not terrify him, nor dragons dismay him; for, in searching after such, engaging with and getting the better of all difficulties, consists his true and proper occupation. It being my fortune, then, to be of this last order, I cannot, consistent with that, avoid engaging in whatever I deem to be part of the duty of my calling; and for these reasons, though I knew, that encountering the lions was in itself an act of the greatest temerity, yet it immediately belonged to my profession: I am very sensible that true fortitude is placed between the two extremes of cowardice and fool-hardiness; but then, it is better valour should mount even to an over-daring hardiness, than be debased to pusillanimity; for, as the prodigal is more likely to become truly generous than the miser, so will the over-courageous sooner be brought to true valour, than the coward to be courageous at all; and in undertaking adventures, I assure you, Don Diego, it is much better to overdo than underdo, and much better does it sound in the ear of him to whom it is related, that a knight is daring and presumptuous, than that he is pusillanimous and faint-hearted.’

‘Signior Don Quixote,’ answered Diego, ‘I think all you have said is consonant to the rule of right reason; and I am of opinion, that if the laws and statutes of true chivalry were lost, they would be found deposited and faithfully recorded in your breast: but if you please, we will put on, for it grows late; let us get towards my house and village, that you may have some rest, and taste of some refreshment after your late fatigue, which, if it does not weary the body, must be heavy upon the mind, the labours of which often affect the body likewise.’—‘I accept of your invitation, Don Diego,’ said the other, ‘as a favour and mark of politeness.’ And hastening forward a little quicker than they had done before, they arrived about two in the afternoon at the habitation of Diego, on whom Don Quixote bestowed the appellation of the Knight of the Green Surtout.

END OF BOOK I. PART II.