BOOK II.

CHAP. I. OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE AT THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GREEN SURTOUT—WITH OTHER OUT-OF-THE-WAY MATTERS.

Don Quixote found that Diego’s house, like the houses of most country gentlemen, was large and roomy, with the arms of the family over the great gates, cut out in rough stone; the buttery was in the yard, the cellar was under the porch, and around were placed divers jars, which jars being of the manufactory of Toboso, recalled the memory of the metamorphosed and inchanted Dulcinea; upon which, without reflecting what he said, or before whom he poured out his sighs and tears: ‘O dearest pledges,’ said he, ‘which now I find in bitterness of sorrow, but sweet and ravishing when Heaven’s high will ordained it so. O jars of Toboso, which have recalled into my mind the dear idea of my greatest sorrow!’ This exclamation was overheard by the young poet, Diego’s son; who, along with his mother, had come down to receive Don Quixote. Both mother and son were struck with his uncouth figure, and he, alighting from Rozinante, with great good breeding, begged leave to kiss the lady’s hand. To which intreaty Don Diego added, ‘Madam, receive with your usual politeness, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, knight-errant, whom I here introduce to you as a gentleman of the brightest parts and most intrepid courage of any in the world.’ Donna Christina (for that was the lady’s name) received him with all the marks of respect and esteem, and Don Quixote overpaid them in polite and mannerly acknowledgments; the same kind of intercourse passed between him and the young scholar, whom he took by his conversation to be a gentleman of vivacity and acuteness.

The author here minutely describes Don Diego’s house, gives an inventory of the furniture usually contained in the house of a rich country gentleman: but the translators of this history have thought it adviseable not to mention these and such other particular matters, as being rather foreign from the main scope of this history, in which truth has more energy than needless and languid digressions.

Don Quixote was conducted into a hall, where Sancho disarmed him; after which, he remained in his other accoutrements, a pair of wide walloon breeches, and a shamoy-leather doublet, stained with the rust of his armour; his band was collegian, neither starched nor laced; his buskins of the colour of dates, and his shoes of waxed leather; he girded upon his thigh his trusty sword, which hung at a belt of seal’s skin, for it is believed he had been for some years troubled with an imbecility in his loins; and over all these was a long cloak of good grey cloth; but, before he stirred any farther, he applied to his face five or six pitchers (the precise number not being exactly ascertained) of fair water, which, nevertheless, still ran off exhibiting a whey colour; and it was undoubtedly owing to the irregular appetite of Sancho, and his having made the bargain for these nasty curds, that his master was now scoured so white and so clean. In this equipment, as here described, and with a gallant air and address, Don Quixote walked into another hall, where the young gentleman of the house was waiting to receive and entertain him, till dinner should be got ready; for as to the Lady Donna Christina, she was busy in ordering matters so, upon the arrival of this noble guest, as to let it be seen she knew what reception to give those who came to visit under her roof.

While Don Quixote was unarming, Don Lorenzo (that was the name of Diego’s son) took the opportunity of that leisure time to ask his father, who that knight was he had brought home to them; ‘For,’ said he, ‘his name and his uncouth figure, and your telling us, at the same time, that he is a knight-errant, puzzle both my mother and me prodigiously.’—‘I know not,’ said Don Diego, ‘what answer to make you; all I can say is, I never saw a madman act more frantickly, and have heard him talk so very sensibly, as gave the lye to all his actions: but I would have you enter into conversation with him, and sound the depth of his understanding; you have sense enough, and therefore I would have you form a judgment of him according to your own observation; to say the truth, I myself am more inclined to believe him distracted than otherwise.’

Upon this intimation, Don Lorenzo went to entertain Don Quixote, as we have mentioned; who, among other discourse, said to Lorenzo, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, your father has been pleased to inform me a little of your great genius and good judgment, and particularly that you are a great poet.’—‘A poet, in some sense, I may be,’ said Lorenzo; ‘but a great one did I never so much as dare even in my own imagination to think myself. True it is, I am a little fond of poetry, and of reading the good poets; but don’t at all for that reason merit the title my father is pleased to bestow upon me.’—‘I love your reserve,’ said Don Quixote: ‘for poets are usually far removed from modesty, each thinking himself the greatest in the world.’—‘No rule holds universally,’ answered Lorenzo, ‘and there may be one who is really a great poet, and yet does not think himself so.’—‘There must be very few such,’ answered the other; ‘but pray, Sir,’ continued he, ‘what verses are those you are about, which your father says make you so anxious and studious? for, if it be commenting upon some theme, I know somewhat of the art of paraphrasing, and should be glad to see what your performance is; and if they are designed as a poetical prize, let me advise you to obtain the second, for the first is decreed in view of interest, or in favour of the great quality of some person; but merit carries the second: so that, according to the general practice of our universities, the third becomes the second, and the first the third; but, notwithstanding this acceptation, the name of the first makes a great shew.’—‘So far, surely,’ said Lorenzo to himself, ‘this gentleman shews no signs of a disturbed understanding; but we’ll go on.—Your worship, I presume, has been long at the schools; pray, Sir, what sciences have you addicted yourself to?’—‘That of knight-errantry,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘a science equally sublime as your poetry; and, in my humble opinion, even mounted a few steps above it.’—‘That science,’ answered Lorenzo, ‘I am hitherto a stranger to; it has not yet come within the extent of my knowledge.’—‘It is a science,’ answered the other, ‘that includes in itself virtually, most, if not all the other sciences in the world; for he who professes it must be a civilian, and know the laws both of distributive and communicative justice, to determine, with equity and propriety, what lawfully and properly belongs to every individual: he must be a good divine and casuist, that he may, with clearness and precision, defend the principles of the Christian faith, which he professes, as often as he shall be required so to do: he ought to be a physician, and particularly a botanist, that, in the midst of desarts and wildernesses, he may know those herbs that are of efficacy in curing wounds; for a knight-errant cannot at every turn have recourse to a surgeon. He ought to be an astronomer, to distinguish by the stars the time of the night, together with the climate and part of the globe on which he chances to be: he must be learned in the mathematicks, for which he will frequently have occasion; and besides being adorned with all the theological and cardinal virtues, he ought to descend to other minute branches of science. I say, for example, he must know how to swim like an herring, to shoe an horse, to mend a saddle and bridle; and, returning to what we have observed above, he must preserve his fealty to God and his mistress; he must be chaste in thought, decent in speech, liberal in action, valiant in exploits, patient in toil, charitable with the needy; and finally, an asserter of truth, even though the defence of it should cost him his life. Of all these great and small qualities is a good knight-errant composed; so that Signior Don Lorenzo may judge, whether it be a snivelling science which is learned and professed by a knight-errant: and whether it may not be compared with the sublimest which are taught in colleges and schools.’—‘If that be the case,’ replied Don Lorenzo, ‘I affirm, that it has the advantage over all others.’—‘How!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case!’—‘What I would say,’ resumed Lorenzo, ‘is, that I doubt whether there ever were or are knights-errants adorned with so many virtues.’—‘I have often said what I am now going to repeat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the greatest part of the world believes there never were knights-errant; and, in my opinion, if Heaven does not work a miracle to prove that they both did and do exist, whatever trouble may be taken will fail of success, as I know by repeated experience. I will not, therefore, spend time at present, in refuting and rectifying the error in which you and many others are involved; but my intention is to pray that Heaven will extricate you from your mistake, and give you to understand how advantageous and necessary knights-errant have been to the world in past ages, and how useful they might be to the present, were it the custom to solicit their assistance: but, now, for the sins of mankind, idleness, sloth, gluttony, and extravagance, prevail and triumph.’ Here Don Lorenzo said within himself, ‘Now hath our guest given us the slip; but, nevertheless, he is a whimsical madman, and I should be an idle fool, if I thought otherwise.’

In this place their discourse was interrupted by a call to table; and Don Diego asked his son, what he had fairly extracted from the genius of his guest. To this question he replied, ‘All the best physicians and writers that the world contains, will not extract him fairly from the blotted sheet of his madness; but he is a party-coloured maniack, full of lucid intervals.’ They sat down to eat, and their repast was such as Don Diego had said upon the road he was wont to bestow upon his friends whom he invited, neat, plentiful, and savoury; but what yielded more satisfaction to Don Quixote, was the wonderful silence that prevailed over the whole house, which in this particular resembled a monastery of Carthusians.

The cloth being removed, grace said, and hands washed, Don Quixote earnestly desired that Don Lorenzo would repeat the verses designed for the literary contest; and the young gentleman answered, ‘Rather than appear one of those authors, who when they are requested to rehearse their works, refuse to grant the favour, and on the other hand, disgorge them upon those who have no inclination to hear them; I will repeat my gloss, from which I expect no reward, as I composed it solely with a view to exercise my genius.’—‘It was the opinion of an ingenious friend of mine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that no man ought to fatigue himself in glossing upon verses; because, as he observed, the gloss could never come up to the text; and very often, or indeed almost always, the gloss was foreign to the original proposition; besides, the laws of the gloss were extremely narrow, restricting the paraphraser from the use of interrogations; and, “Said he,” or, “I will say;” as well as from changing verbs into nouns, and altering the sentiment; with other ties and shackles incurred by those who try their fortune in this way, as you yourself undoubtedly know.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ cried Don Lorenzo, ‘I am very desirous of intrapping your worship in false Latin; but it is not in my power, for you slip through my fingers like an eel.’—‘I do not know,’ answered the knight, ‘what you mean by saying I slip through your fingers.’—‘I will explain myself some other time,’ replied Don Lorenzo; ‘mean-while, your worship will be pleased to hear the paraphrase and the text, which run thus—

‘THE TEXT.

‘Could I the moments past renew, Though fate should other joys deny; Or bring the future scenes to view In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie.

‘THE GLOSS.

‘As all things perish and decay; So did that happiness I mourn, On silent pinion fleet away; Ah! never—never to return. At Fortune’s feet forlorn I lie: Would she again propitious strew Her favours, who more blest than I, _Could I the moments past renew_!

‘No pleasure, palm, or wreathe I claim, No wealth or triumph seek to find; For all my wish, and all my aim, Is to retrieve my peace of mind. Ah, Fortune! thy returning smile Would change to bliss my destiny, And ev’ry gloomy thought beguile, _Though fate should other joys deny_.

‘Fond wish! impossible and vain; No pow’r on this terrestrial ball Can Time’s unwearied foot detain, Or his accomplish’d flight recall. He forward flies, nor looks behind; And those miscarriage will pursue, Who hope this fugitive to bind, _Or bring the future scenes to view_.

‘Perplex’d with hopes and fears I live, Tho’ death at once would ease my pain; What folly, then, for me to grieve, Who can that easy cure obtain? No! yet a wiser course I’ll steer, Resolv’d my fortune still to try, Until those happier days appear, _In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie_.’

Don Lorenzo no sooner concluded his paraphrase, than Don Quixote starting up, took the young gentleman by the right-hand, and raising his voice even almost to a halloo, pronounced, ‘Now, by the Heaven of heavens! noble youth, you are the best poet in the world, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, not by Cyprus or Gaeta, as an author said, whom God pardon, but by the academy of Athens, did it now subsist, and by those of Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca, which are still in being. Heaven grant, that those judges who deny you the first prize, may be transfixed by the arrows of Apollo, and that the Muses may never deign to cross the thresholds of their doors. Signior, let me hear, if you please, some of your more majestick verses, that I may be thoroughly acquainted with the pulse of your admirable genius.’ Is it not diverting to observe, that Don Lorenzo was pleased with the applause of Don Quixote, although he considered him as a madman? O influence of flattery, how far dost thou extend! and how unlimited are the limits of thy agreeable jurisdiction! This truth is verified in the behaviour of Lorenzo; who, in compliance with the desire and intreaty of the knight, repeated this sonnet, on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.

SONNET.

Fair Thisbe’s charms what bulwarks could withstand! They pierc’d e’en to her gallant lover’s soul; And Cupid hasten’d from the Cyprian strand, To view the narrow paths by which they stole. Here silence spoke; and through that narrow breach, Which e’en the timid voice durst not essay, Th’ intrepid souls to perfect union stretch: Inspir’d, impower’d, by love’s almighty sway. Th’ ill-fated pair to death untimely came, With flow’ry pleasure’s tempting bait intic’d: By the same poignard, monument, and fame, At once destroy’d, enclos’d, immortaliz’d.

‘Blessed be God!’ cried Don Quixote, when he had heard the sonnet of Don Lorenzo, ‘that amidst the infinite number of consumptive poets that now exist, I have found one consummate, as your worship has plainly evinced yourself, by the art and execution of those stanzas.’

The knight was sumptuously regaled in the house of Don Diego, for the space of four days; at the expiration of which he thanked his entertainer for the noble treatment he had received from his hospitality, and begged leave to depart; for as it did not become knights-errant to devote much time to ease and banquetting, he was desirous of fulfilling the duty of his profession in seeking adventures, with which he understood that country abounded, and in which he hoped to employ the time till the day of the tournament of Saragossa, whither he was bound; but, first of all, he was resolved to enter the cave of Montesinos, about which so many strange stories were recounted all over that neighbourhood, that he might investigate and discover the origin and real springs of the seven lakes of Ruydera. Don Diego and his son applauded the glorious design, and desired he would supply himself with whatever their house or fortune could afford; for they would, with the utmost good-will, perform that service, which they equally owed to his personal valour and honourable profession. At length arrived the day of his departure, as joyful to the knight as dismal and unfortunate to Sancho Panza, who had lived so much at his ease amidst the plenty of Don Diego’s house, that he could not without reluctance return to the hunger that prevails in dreary forests, and to the poverty of his ill provided bags, which, however, he now took care to fill and stuff with what he thought most necessary for his occasions.

At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don Lorenzo, ‘I know not,’ said he, ‘whether I have already told your worship, but if I have, let me now repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to take the shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you have no more to do, but to leave on one side the path of poetry, which is pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry, which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct you to the throne of empire, in the turning of a straw.’ With this advice did the knight, as it were, sum up the process of his madness; which, however, was still more manifest in this addition: ‘Heaven knows what pleasure I should feel in the company and association of Don Lorenzo, whom I would teach, by my own example, to spare the fallen, and trample the haughty under foot; virtues annexed to the order I profess: but as his tender years do not require such tutorage, nor would his laudable exercises permit him to pursue my steps, I shall content myself with assuring his worship, that being a poet, he may certainly acquire renown, if he will conduct himself rather by the opinion of others, than his own; for no parent ever thought his own off-spring ugly, and this prejudice is still more strong towards the children of the understanding.’

Both father and son admired anew the strange medley of Don Quixote’s discourse, in which so much discretion and madness were jumbled together; and were astonished at the wilfulness and obstinacy with which he was so wholly bent upon the search of his misadventurous adventures, that constituted the very aim of all his desires. Nevertheless, they repeated their offers of service and civility, and with the good leave of the lady of the castle, Don Quixote and Sancho set out on Rozinante and Dapple.

CHAP. II. IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD—WITH OTHER TRULY DIVERTING INCIDENTS.

A little way Don Quixote had travelled from the habitation of Don Diego, when he was joined by two persons dressed like ecclesiasticks, or students, and a couple of labouring men mounted upon asses; behind one of the students was a bundle wrapped up in green buckram, seemingly consisting of some linen and two pair of coarse thread stockings; while the other was encumbered with nothing but a couple of new black fencing-foils, with their buttons. The countrymen carried other things, which discovered and gave notice, that they were on their return from some great town, where they had made a purchase, and were bringing it home to their own village; and they, as well as the students, were seized with that admiration which was incident to all those who for the first time beheld Don Quixote; indeed, they burned with curiosity to know what sort of a creature he was, so different in appearance from other men.

The knight saluted them courteously, and understanding their road was the same route that he designed to follow, made a proffer of his company, at the same time begging they would slacken their pace, as the beasts travelled faster than his horse. In order to facilitate their compliance with his request, he briefly told them who he was, made them acquainted with his office and profession, which was chivalry, and observed that he was going in quest of adventures, through all parts of the world; giving them to understand, that his proper name was Don Quixote de La Mancha, and his appellative the Knight of the Lions.

All this information was Greek or gibberish to the countrymen, but not to the students, who immediately discovered the weakness of Don Quixote’s brain; nevertheless, they beheld him with admiration, and one of them, in a respectful manner accosted him thus: ‘If your worship, Sir Knight, follows no determined road, as those who go in quest of adventures seldom do, be so good as to accompany us, and you will be an eye-witness of one of the most splendid and opulent weddings that ever was celebrated in La Mancha, or in many leagues around.’

When Don Quixote asked if it was the marriage of any prince, which he so highly extolled, the other replied, ‘It is no other than the bridal of a farmer and a country maid; he the richest of all this neighbourhood, and she the comeliest that ever man beheld. The preparations are new and extraordinary; for the marriage is to be celebrated in a meadow adjoining to the village of the bride who, by way of excellency, is called Quiteria the Beautiful, and the bridegroom is known by the appellation of Camacho the Rich; she is but eighteen, and he turned of twenty, to that they are extremely well matched; though some curious persons, who remember all the pedigrees in the world, are pleased to say, that her family has in that respect the advantage of Camacho’s: but now-a-days these circumstances are altogether overlooked; for wealth is able to repair a number of flaws. In a word, Camacho is liberal, and has taken it in his head to overshadow and cover the whole meadow in such a manner, that the sun will find some difficulty in penetrating, so as to visit the verdant plants with which the ground is adorned. He has likewise bespoke choice dancers, both with swords and morrice-bells; for there are people in the village who can jingle and snap to perfection; not to mention your shoe-slappers, a power of whom are summoned to the nuptials: but none of those things I have mentioned, or of a great many circumstances I have left untold, are likely to render the marriage so memorable as the behaviour which is on this occasion expected from the rejected Basilius.

‘This Basilius is a neighbouring swain, and townsman of Quiteria, and there is nothing but a partition wall between his house and that of her parents, whence Cupid took occasion to renew the long forgotten loves of Pyramus and Thisbe, for Basilius became enamoured of Quiteria, even from his tender years, and she smiled upon his passion with all manner of honourable indulgence; insomuch that the love of the two children, Basilius and Quiteria, furnished entertainment and discourse for the whole village. As their age increased, Quiteria’s father resolved to forbid Basilius the usual access he had to his house; and, to free himself from all sorts of jealousy and suspicion, proposed a match between his daughter and the rich Camacho, thinking it would not be so well to give her away to Basilius, to whom fortune had not been so kind as nature; though, to tell the truth, without envy or affection, he is the most active young man we know, an expert pitcher of the bar, an excellent wrestler, and great judge of hand-ball: he runs like a deer, leaps nimbler than a goat, plays at nine-pins as if he used inchantment, sings like a sky lark, touches the guittar so as to make it perfectly speak, and handles a foil like the best fencer in the world.’—‘For that sole accomplishment,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘the young man deserves not only to be married to the beautiful Quiteria, but even to Queen Ginebra herself, were she now alive, in spite of Sir Lancelot, and all those who should endeavour to oppose the match.’—‘Let my wife alone for that,’ said Sancho Panza, who had hitherto travelled in silent attention; ‘she, good woman, would have every body match with his equal, sticking to the old proverb, that says, Let every goose a gander chuse. What I would willingly see is the marriage of this worthy Basilius; for he has already got my good-will, with that same lady Quiteria; and God grant them peace and plenty, and rest their souls in heaven—[his meaning was quite the reverse]—who prevent lovers from marrying according to their inclinations.’—‘If that was always the case,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘parents would be deprived of that election and jurisdiction they possess, to marry their children when and how they shall think proper; and if every daughter was at liberty to indulge her own inclination in the choice of an husband, one would perhaps chuse her father’s servant, and another place her affection upon some gaudy coxcomb, whom she might chance to see passing along the street, even though he should be a disorderly ruffian: for love and affection easily blind the eyes of the understanding, which are so necessary towards the settlement of one’s condition in life; and as we are apt to commit very important mistakes in the article of matrimony, it requires great caution, as well as the particular favour of Heaven, to succeed in the choice of a wife. A prudent man, who is resolved to undertake a long journey, will, before he sets out, endeavour to find a safe, quiet, and agreeable fellow-traveller. Then why should not the same pains be taken by the man who is going to travel through the whole journey of life? especially in the choice of a companion for bed, board, and every other purpose for which the wife is subservient to the husband; a man’s own wedded wife is not like a commodity which being once bought may be bartered, exchanged, or returned, but is an inseparable appendage that lasts for life.

‘Marriage is a noose, into which if the neck should happen to slip, it becomes inexplicable as the Gordian knot, and cannot be undone till cut asunder by the scythe of death. Much more could I add upon this subject, if I were not prevented by the desire I have to know whether Mr. Licentiate has any thing farther to entertain us with, relative to the history of Basilius.’ To this hint the other (call him scholar, batchelor, or licentiate) replied, ‘I have not any thing material to add, but that from the time he understood Quiteria was to be married to Camacho the Rich, he was never seen to smile, or heard to speak consistently: he is thoughtful and melancholy, talks to himself; all which are undoubtedly symptoms of a disordered mind. He scarce either eats or sleeps; and what little he does eat is fruit; when he sleeps at all it is upon the bare ground, and in the open air, like the beasts of the field. He every now and then looks up to heaven; at other times, like one stupid, fixes his eyes on the ground, and seems as if he was a cloathed statue, with the drapery flowing to the gales of the wind: in a word, he gives such indications of a fatal passion, that we believe for certain, when Quiteria to-morrow pronounces the Word “Yes,” she will in that seal the sentence of his death.’

‘God will order things better,’ said Sancho, ‘for he inflicts the wound, and will also perform the cure. No one knows what may happen; there are a great many hours between this and to-morrow, and in one hour, even in a moment, down comes the house; I have myself seen sun-shine and rain at the same time; a man goes to bed well at night, but cannot bestir himself next morning. Let me know, the best of ye, if any man can brag of having put a spoke in fortune’s wheel? No one, to be sure; and between the Yes and No of a woman, I would not venture to thrust the point of a pin, and that for a weighty reason, because there would-not be room for it; if you will only allow me one thing, that Quiteria loves Basilius, I’ll yet engage to give him a wallet-full of good-luck; for I have been told, that love wears a pair of spectacles, which spectacles make copper look like gold, and poverty appear to be riches, and specks in the eyes to seem pearls.’—‘A curse on thee!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what is it thou wouldst be at! once thou art set in to stringing thy proverbs, none but Judas, with whom wish thou wert, can have patience to hear thee out! Say, animal, what knowest thou about spokes or wheels, or any other thing whatsoever?’—‘O! since you do not understand me,’ answered the squire, ‘no wonder you think it nonsense what I say; but that signifies nothing: I understand myself, nor have I said many nonsensical things yet, only your worship always plays the cricket upon my words and actions.’—‘God confound thee, thou confounder of all language!’ said Don Quixote. ‘Cricket! I suppose thou meanest critick.’—‘As to that matter, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘be not too severe upon me; you know I was neither bred at court, nor studied at Salamanca, to know when I am right in the letter of a word; and as I hope for mercy from God, I think it unreasonable to expect that, the Sayagues[154] should speak in the same manner as the Toledans; though, for that matter, there are Toledans who are not more nice than other folks at the work of speaking properly.’—‘Very true,’ said the licentiate, ‘for how should a man, whose business is in the tan yards, and in the Zocodover[155], speak so good language as they who do nothing but walk from morning to night in the cloysters of the cathedral? and yet they are all Toledans; on the other hand, purity, propriety, elegance, and perspicuity, are to be found among polite people of sense; though they be natives of Majalahonda; I say people of sense, because so great a number of people are not so, and sense is the foundation of good language, assisted by custom and use. I must tell you, gentlemen, it has pleased God, for my sins, that I have studied the canon-law at Salamanca, and I pique myself a little on being able to converse in clear, easy, and expressive language.’—‘If you had not piqued yourself more upon your dexterity at these good-for-nothing foils you carry about with you, than upon your knowledge in languages, instead of lagging the hindmost, you might have been at the head of your class,’ said the other student. ‘I tell you, Mr. Batchelor, that you are the most prejudiced man in the world, in that respect, for treating dexterity at the sword as a matter of no signification.’—‘It is no prejudice with me, it is a confirmed opinion and truth,’ replied Corchuelo; ‘and if you please to make the experiment, I will convince you. You carry foils now along with you, and an opportunity offers; I’ll shew you that I have nerves and strength, backed with such courage as will prove sufficient to demonstrate to you that my opinion is not the effect of prejudice; get off your ass, and try your measured distances, your wheelings, your longes, and art of defence; and I’ll engage, with only the plain rustick skill I have, to make you see the stars at noon-day; for I trust under God, the man is yet unborn who can make me turn my back; nor have I met with any man whom I will not oblige to give ground.’—‘As to turning your back, or not turning your back, that is none of my business,’ replied the master of the science; ‘though it is not impossible but that the first spot you fix your foot on may prove your burying-ground: I mean, it is possible you may be left dead there, for slighting the noble science of defence.’—‘That we shall see presently,’ replied Corchuelo, jumping hastily upon the ground, and snatching with great fury one of the foils, which the other carried upon his ass.

Here Don Quixote cried out, ‘Not so, by heavens! I will be umpire of this fencing-match, and judge of this long-controverted dispute.’ So saying, he alighted from Rozinante, and grasping his lance, planted himself in the very middle of the road, just as master licentiate, in a masterly posture and regular advances, was making towards Corchuelo, who ran at him with fire, as the saying is, flashing from his eyes; while the two country fellows, without dismounting, sat still as spectators of this most deadly tragedy. Corchuelo assailed him every way with high strokes, low strokes, back-strokes, cuts, thrusts, flashes out of number, and as thick as hail; in short, he fell upon the licentiate like an enraged lion, but was checked a little in the career of his fury by a smart push in the mouth from the licentiate’s foil, who made him kiss the button, though with less devotion than if it had been a relick. In a word, the licentiate, by skilful and well-planted thrusts, counted the buttons of his cassock, and went through it so often, that it hung in rags like the tails of the polypus: twice was Corchuelo’s hat struck off; and so spent was he, that in rage and spite, and furious choler, he flung the foil into the air with so much force, that one of the countrymen, who went to fetch it, being a kind of scrivener, declared upon oath, that it went near three quarters of a league; which affidavit being preserved, has been, and is, a testimony to demonstrate that art prevails over strength.

Corchuelo, quite tired out, sat down; and Sancho going up to him, ‘Mr. Batchelor,’ said he, ‘if you will be ruled by me, from henceforth challenge no one to fence, but dare them to wrestle and pitch the bar, since now you are of a proper age and strength for that exercise; for I have heard say of these fencers, that they can thrust you the point of a sword through the eye of a needle.’—‘I am now convinced,’ answered Corchuelo, ‘and am taught by experience a truth I could not otherwise have believed.’

So getting up, he went and embraced his adversary, and they were now better friends than ever. The company not being willing to wait for the scrivener, who was gone after the foil, imagining he might be too long absent, resolved to put forward as fast as they could, that they might arrive early at Quiteria’s village, whither they were all going. As they travelled on their way, the licentiate demonstrated to them the excellencies of the noble science of defence, by such convincing arguments, drawn from the nature of truth and mathematical certainty, that every one was convinced of the usefulness of the science; and Corchuelo particularly was made a convert, and entirely cured of his obstinacy.

The night was just fallen, and before they came to the village, it seemed as if something like a heaven full of an infinite number of bright stars was between them and it; they likewise heard an harmonious but mixed sound of flutes, tambourines, psalters, cymbals, drums, and bells. As they came nearer, they perceived the boughs of an arbour, which was made on one side of the entrance into the village; and this all flaming with lights, which were not in the least disturbed by the wind; for the evening was so calm, that there was not a breath of air, so much as to move a leaf upon a tree. But the life and spirit of the wedding consisted in the musicians, who in bands ranged up and down that delightful place, some singing, some dancing, and others playing upon the different instruments. In a word, it looked as if joy and delight were sporting and playing through this meadow: a great many were employed in raising scaffolds, that they might view from them more commodiously the plays and dances which were to be in that place, to solemnize the nuptials of Camacho the Rich, and the obsequies of Basilius. Don Quixote refused to enter the village, though both the batchelor and the countryman invited him: but he pleaded what he thought a sufficient excuse, the custom of knights-errant to sleep in fields and forests, rather than in towns, though under gilded roofs; and therefore he turned a little aside, grievously against the will of Sancho, who had not yet forgotten the good lodgings he had enjoyed in the house of Don Diego.

Footnote 154:

Poor people that live about Zamora.

Footnote 155:

Zocodover, a square in Toledo, like Smithfield, where cattle are sold.

CHAP. III. AN ACCOUNT OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, AND WHAT HAPPENED TO BASILIUS THE POOR.

The fair Aurora had hardly allowed Phœbus time to dry up the liquid pearls that hung upon his golden locks, when Don Quixote shaking from his limbs the drowsy fetters of sloth, got upon his legs, and called to Sancho Panza, who lay stretched along, and snoring; which situation his master seeing, before he awaked him, broke out into this soliloquy: ‘Happy thou, and blessed beyond the fate of other mortals, who, neither envying nor envied, sleepest sound, with unconcern of soul! Inchanters neither persecute, nor inchantments terrify thee: sleep on, I say again, and a hundred times more I say, sleep on; no jealousies on account of a mistress torture thee with perpetual watchings, no anxious cares of paying debts awake thee, no solicitude how thou must to-morrow provide for thyself and little ones breaks in upon thy slumbers. Ambitious views create thee no disquiet, nor the vain pomp of this empty world occasions thee any disturbance; thy concern is centered within the bounds of taking care of thy ass; for, as to taking care of thy person, that is laid upon my shoulders, a charge and burden that both nature and custom have laid upon masters; the servant sleeps, while the master is awake, and thinking how he shall maintain him, advance him in life, or do him some service. The uneasiness that arises from seeing the heavens as it were hard as brass, locked up, and refusing rain to cherish the earth, brings no anxiety upon the servant, but upon the master; who, in the days of dearth and famine, is bound to provide for him who served him in the time of abundant and plentiful harvest.’

To all this effusion Sancho answered not one word, for he was fast asleep, nor would have waked when he did, but that his master jogged him with the butt-end of his lance. He waked yawning and drowsy; and turning his face every way, ‘Umph!’ said he, ‘from yonder shady bower, if my nostrils deceive me not, proceeds rather the steam and savour of broiled rashers of bacon, than the fragrance of thyme and jessamine. O’ my conscience! weddings that begin in this savoury manner, must needs, in truth, be magnificent and abundant.’—‘Thou epicure,’ said Don Quixote, ‘have done, and let us go see this wedding, and what will be the fate of the slighted Basilius.’—‘Let his fate be as it pleases,’ quoth Sancho; ‘what, he poor and marry Quiteria! A pretty fancy truly, for one not worth a groat to think of matching so high; ’tis my opinion, a man who is poor ought to bless God for what he finds, and not be diving to find truffles at the bottom of the sea. I’ll lay a limb that Camacho can cover this same Basilius from head to foot with sixpenny pieces; and if this be so, as it certainly is, Quiteria would be a pretty lady of a bride, indeed, to refuse all the fine cloaths and fine things that, I warrant you, Camacho has given her already, and can give her still more; and to prefer, instead of them, a pitch at the bar truly, and a pass at the foils, which, it seems, make up Basilius’s riches. Go into a tavern for a pint of wine, and see if they will take a pitch of the bar, or a clever push of the foils, in lieu of the reckoning; as for your abilities, and your refinements, and graces, that will bring in none of the ready; Count Dirlos may have them for me: but when they happen to take their resting-place on a man who has wherewithal, O then, I wish no better than that my life may shew off as well as they do. Upon a good foundation a good house may be raised, and the very best bottom and best foundation of any is wealth.’—‘Oh!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘have done; have done with this harangue: I do from my soul believe, if one would but suffer thee to go on, thou wouldst lose both thy eating and sleeping in talking.’—‘Was your worship possessed of a good memory,’ replied Sancho, ‘you would remember certain articles stipulated between us, before we sallied forth upon this expedition; one of which was, that I was to talk as much as I pleased, provided it was not scandal against my neighbour, or derogating from your worship’s authority; and I imagine that nothing I have hitherto said is a breach of this agreement.’—‘I remember no such agreement,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but, allowing it to be so, it is my pleasure you should give over, and come attend me; for now the instruments we heard last evening send their chearing sounds through the vallies; and beyond all doubt the nuptials will not be put off to the sultry heat of the noon-day, but be solemnized in the fresh cool of the morning.’

Sancho did as he was commanded, and putting on Rozinante’s saddle and Dapple’s pannel, they both mounted, and gently walked their beasts into the artificial shade. The first object that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho, was an entire bullock spitted whole, upon an elm, roasting by a fire of wood of the size of a middling mountain, and round it six pots, but not such pots as are cast in common moulds, for they were half jars, and each of them contained a whole shamble of meat; whole sheep found room in them, and were stowed as commodiously as if they had been so many pigeons. There was an innumerable quantity of cased hares; and ready-plucked fowls that hung about the branches of the trees, ready to be swallowed up in these receivers; and an infinite number of wild-fowl, with vast quantities of venison, were likewise hanging about the trees, for the air to cool them. Sancho himself told above threescore skins, which, as it was afterwards discovered, were full of rich wines, every skin containing above twenty-four quarts. Loaves of the whitest bread were piled up like heaps of wheat on a threshing-floor; and such a quantity of cheese ranged in the form of bricks, as seemed a wall; two cauldrons of oil, larger than a dyer’s vat, were ready for frying their fritters and pancakes; and when fried, they took them out with strong peels, and dipped them in another pot that stood by full of prepared honey. The cooks, men and women, amounted to above fifty, clean, good-humoured, and all busy; in the belly of the roasting bullock were sewed a dozen sucking pigs, to make it tender and savoury. Spices of all sorts, which seemed to have been bought by wholesale and not by retail, stood in a vast chest. In short, the preparations for the wedding were indeed in a rustick taste, but in such plenty and profusion as might have feasted an army.

Sancho looked at every thing, attentively considered each particular, and was in raptures with the whole. But his whole heart and affections were chiefly captivated by the flesh pots; out of them he would have been glad, with all his heart, to have filled about a moderate barrel. Then the wine-skins made his bowels yearn; and after these the contents of the frying-pans, if vessels of such immoderate size may be so called. He could hold out no longer; it was not in the power of his nature to contain himself; therefore up he went to one of the cooks, who was busy, and addressing himself to him with a humble and hungry air, begged that he might be permitted to sop a luncheon of bread in one of the pots. To which request the cook replied, ‘Hunger does not preside over this day, thanks be to Camacho the Rich; e’en alight, and see if thou canst find any where a ladle, and skim out a fowl or two, and much good may it do thy good heart.’—‘I see no ladle,’ laid Sancho. ‘God forgive me all my sins!’ cried the cook, ‘what a poor helpless thing thou art! stay.’ So saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and dipping it at once into one of the half-jar pots, brought up three pullets, and a couple of geese. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘eat; make a breakfast of this scum, and see if you can stay your stomach with it till dinner-time.’—‘I have nothing to put it in,’ said Sancho. ‘Then take ladle and all,’ replied the cook; ‘for Camacho’s riches and good fortune are sufficient to supply every thing.’

While Sancho Panza passed his time in this manner, Don Quixote was attentive in observing about a dozen of countrymen, who entered in at one side of this spacious arbour, mounted upon beautiful mares, each of them accoutred with rich and gay caparisons, and hung round with little bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and coursed round the meadow in a body, and, in regular careers, several times, with a joyous Moorish shout, flourishing, and crying out, ‘Long live Camacho and Quiteria, he as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of the universe.’ Which exclamation, Don Quixote hearing, said within himself, ‘It is evident they never have beheld the beauty of my Dulcinea del Toboso; had they ever been blessed with a sight of her transcendant charms, they would be more sparing in their praises of this their Quiteria.’

Some time after there entered, at different parts of the arbour, different sets of dancers; one of whom consisted of twenty-four sword dancers, all of them clean, well-made, jolly swains, clad in fine white linen, and white handkerchiefs embroidered with silk of various colours. One of those who were mounted upon the mares asked a youth, who led the band of the sword-dancers, whether any of his companions had received any hurt? ‘As yet,’ replied the other, ‘we are all safe and sound, thanks be to God, no one is wounded!’ and immediately upon that mixed among his companions with so many twistings and windings, and with such dexterity, that though Don Quixote had been used to behold such dances, he never saw any he approved so much. Another dance likewise pleased him prodigiously; that was another chorus of twelve most beautiful damsels, of such an age, that none appeared under fourteen, nor did any seem to be quite eighteen; they were all clad in green stuff of Cuenca, their locks were, some plaited, some flowing loose, and all so fine and flaxen, as to rival those of Phœbus himself, and crowned with garlands of roses, of jessamine, and of woodbine. This beautiful bevy was led up to the dance by a venerable old man and an ancient matron, both more airy and agile than could be expected from their years. A bagpipe of Zamora was their musick, and with modesty in their looks and countenances, and lightness of foot, they danced and tripped it away the prettiest in the world. After these, entered an emblematick dance of eight nymphs divided into two bodies: the God of Love led one, and Interest the other; Cupid with his wings, his bow, his quiver, and arrows; Interest clad in gold, and silk of rich and various colours. The nymphs, attendants on Cupid, had their names displayed in white parchment, and capital letters on their backs: the first was named Poetry, the second Discretion, the third Pedigree, the fourth Bravery. The attendants on Interest were likewise characterised: the first was Liberality, the second Bounty, the third Treasure, the fourth Quiet possession. The whole masque was preceded by a wooden castle, drawn by savages, clad in ivy and hemp dyed green, and so savage they looked, that they had almost frightened Sancho. On the front and on each of the four sides of this machine were inscribed these words, ‘The Castle of Discretion.’ Four able musicians played on the tabor and the pipe. Cupid, who began the dance, after he had made two movements, lifted up his eyes, and bent his bow against a damsel that stood upon the battlements of the castle, to whom he pronounced this address—

‘I am the God whose pow’r extends Thro’ the wide ocean, earth, and sky; To my soft sway all nature bends, Compell’d by beauty to comply. Fearless, I rule, in calm and storm, Indulge my pleasure to the full, Things deem’d impossible perform, Bestow, resume, ordain, annul.’

Having repeated these stanzas, he shot an arrow to the top of the castle, and retired to his station. Then Interest advanced, and performed other two movements; after which the tabors were silent, and the power rehearsed these lines—

‘My pow’r exceeds the might of Love; For Cupid bows to me alone, Of all things fram’d by Heav’n above, The most respected, sought, and known. My name is Interest, mine aid But few obtain, though all desire; Yet shall thy virtue, beauteous maid, My constant services acquire.’

Interest retiring, was succeeded by Poetry; who, after having performed his motions like the rest, fixed his eyes upon the lady of the castle, and said—

‘Let Poetry, whose strain divine The wond’rous pow’r of song displays, His heart to thee, fair nymph, consign, Transported, in melodious lays; If haply, thou wilt not refuse To grant my supplicated boon, Thy fame shall, wafted by the muse, Surmount the circle of the moon.’

Poetry disappearing, Liberality advanced from the side of Interest, and, after several movements, repeated these lines—

‘My name is Liberality, Alike beneficent and wise, To shun wild prodigality, And sordid avarice despise: Yet, for thy favour lavish grown, A prodigal I mean to prove; An honourable vice, I own, But giving is the test of love.’

In this manner, all the figures of the two squadrons advanced and retired, every one performing his movements, and repeating his verses, some of which were elegant, and others foolish enough; but those we have inserted were all that Don Quixote could retain, although his memory was very tenacious: then mixing all together in the dance, they winded and turned with great ease, grace, and agility. Cupid, in passing, shot arrows at the castle, while Interest battered it with round gilded earthen pots: at length, after the dance had continued a good while, this last pulled out a large purse made of Roman cat skin, to all appearance full of money, and throwing it at the castle, the boards seemed to be disjointed by the blow, and immediately fell asunder, leaving the damsel quite discovered and defenceless; then Interest, with the figures of his train, advancing, and throwing a great gold chain about her neck, seemed bent upon taking and dragging her into captivity. This design being perceived by Cupid and his partisans, they made an effort to release her, and all their motions were performed by the sound of the tabors, to which they danced and capered in concert. Then the savages interposing, and effecting an accommodation, refitted and rejoined the boards of the castle with admirable dispatch, the damsel enclosed herself anew; and thus the dance was finished, to the infinite satisfaction of the spectators.

Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs, what author had contrived and composed this entertainment; and being told it was the production of the parson, who had a rare noddle for such conceits, ‘I’ll lay a wager,’ said he, ‘that this same batchelor or curate is more a friend of Camacho than of Basilius; and that he is better acquainted with satire than prayer; for he has very artfully interwoven in this mask the talents of Basilius, and the wealth of his rival.’ Sancho Panza overhearing this observation, ‘My cock is the king,’ said he; ‘and I hold fast by Camacho.’—‘Then am I convinced,’ replied the knight, ‘that Sancho is one of those low-born peasants, who cry, “Long life to the conqueror.”’—‘I know not,’ resumed the squire, ‘what sect I am of; but this I know perfectly well, that I shall never skim from the flesh pots of Basilius, such a delicate scum as this that I have taken from the boilers of Camacho.’ With these words, he produced the kettle full of geese and pullets, and seizing a bird, began to eat with great glee and satisfaction; saying, in defiance of the talents possessed by Basilius, ‘Thou art worth just as much as thou hast, and hast just as much as thou art worth. There are only two families in the world, as my grannum was wont to observe, the Have-somethings and the Have-nothings: though she always stuck to the former; and now-a-days, my good master, we are more apt to feel the pulse of property than of wisdom. An ass with golden trappings, makes a better appearance than a horse with a pack saddle. Therefore, I say again, I hold fast by Camacho, the plentiful scum of whose pots contains geese, hares, and conies; while that of Basilius, if it comes to hand, or even if it should only come to the feet, is no better than dish-washings.’

‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘hast thou finished thy harangue?’—‘It shall be finished,’ replied the squire, ‘as I see your worship is displeased with it; though, if your disgust had not fallen in the way, I had cut out work enough for three days.’—‘Grant Heaven,’ said the knight, ‘that I may see thee dumb before I die!’—‘At the rate we follow,’ answered Panza, ‘before your worship dies, my mouth will be crammed with clay, and then I may chance to be so dumb, that I shall not speak another word to the end of the world, or at least till the day of judgment.’—‘Even should that be the case,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I say unto thee, O Sancho! thy silence will never counterbalance what thou didst, dost, and wilt say, during the course of thy life; moreover, according to the nature of things, the day of my death will happen before thine; so that I have no hope of ever seeing thee silent, even while thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the greatest favour I could expect.’

‘In good sooth, Signior,’ said the squire, ‘there is no trusting to Mrs. Ghostly, (I mean, death) who gobbles up the goslin as well as the goose[156]; and as I have heard our curate observe, tramples down the lofty turrets of the prince, as well as the lowly cottage of the swain. That same lady who is more powerful than coy, knows not what it is to be dainty and squeamish; but eats of every thing, and crams her wallet with people of all nations, degrees, and conditions; she is none of your labourers that take this afternoon’s nap, but mows at all hours, cutting down the dry stubble as well as the green grass; nor does she seem to chew, but rather swallows and devours every thing that falls in her way; for she is gnawed by a dog’s hunger that is never satisfied; and though she has no belly, plainly shews herself dropsical, and so thirsty as to drink up the lives of all the people upon earth, just as one would swallow a draught of cool water.’—‘Enough, friend Sancho,’ cried the knight, interrupting him in this place; ‘keep thyself well, now thou art in order, and beware of stumbling again; for, really, a good preacher could not speak more to the purpose than thou hast spoken upon death, in thy rustick manner of expression; I say unto thee, Sancho, if thy discretion was equal to thy natural parts, thou mightest ascend the pulpit, and go about teaching and preaching to admiration.’—‘He is a good preacher who is a good liver,’ answered Panza; ‘and that is all the divinity I know.’—‘And that is sufficient,’ said the knight; ‘yet I shall never understand or comprehend, as the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, how thou, who art more afraid of a lizard than of thy Maker, should be so wise?’—‘Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘I desire your worship would determine in your own affairs of chivalry, without taking the trouble to judge of other people’s valour or fears; for my own part, I am as pretty a fearer of God as one would desire to see in any neighbour’s child; wherefore, I beseech your worship, let me discuss this same scum; for every thing else is idle chat, of which we shall be able to give a bad account in the other world.’ So saying, he renewed his attack upon his kettle, with such keen appetite as awakened that of his master, who would certainly have joined in the assault, had not he been prevented by that which we must now relate.

Footnote 156:

In the original there is a play upon the words Descarnado, Cordero, and Carnero, which I have endeavoured to imitate, by substituting goose in the room of mutton, which is the literal meaning of the text.

CHAP. IV. WHICH CONTINUES TO TREAT OF CAMACHO’S WEDDING, AND OTHER INCIDENTS.

While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the conversation related in the preceding chapter, they heard a great noise and shouting, raised by a company mounted on mares, galloping in full cry, to meet the young couple; who came surrounded by a thousand kinds of instruments, and accompanied by the curate, the relations, and all the creditable people of the neighbouring villages, in their holiday cloaths. Sancho, seeing the bride, exclaimed with marks of admiration, ‘I ’faith! she looks more like one of your gay court-dames, than a plain country-maid. Now, by the biggest beads of my rosary! instead of a tin brooch[157], her breast is bedizened with rich coral, and her hoyden-grey is turned into thirty-piled velvet; and, body o’me! the trimming is not of white linen, but of silk and sattin: then handle me her hands, set off with what? jewels of jet? No! let me never thrive, if they an’t decked with rings of gold! aye, and of massy gold, paved with pearls as white as a curd, every one of which is worth a Jew’s eye. O the whoreson baggage! and such hair! if it is not false, I never saw any so long, and so fair in my born-days. Do but mind how buxom, straight, and tall she is, and see whether she may not be compared to a moving palm-tree, loaded with clusters of dates; for nothing can be more like the gewgaws and toys that hang from her hair and neck. By my salvation! the damsel is well covered, and might pass through all the banks of Flanders.’ Don Quixote, though he smiled at the rustick praises of his squire, owned that, exclusive of his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, she was the most beautiful female he had ever seen.

Nevertheless, the fair Quiteria was paler than usual; and this change of complexion must have been owing to the bad night which brides always pass in adorning themselves for the approaching day of their nuptials. The company repaired to a theatre erected at one side of the meadow, and ornamented with carpets and boughs, where the ceremony was to be performed, and from whence they were to see the masques and other diversions; and they had just arrived at the place when their ears were saluted with a noise behind them, and a voice that pronounced, ‘Stay a little, hasty and inconsiderate people.’—In consequence of this address, they turned about, and perceived it was uttered by a man cloathed in a loose black coat, interspersed with crimson flames, crowned, as they soon perceived, with a chaplet of funeral cypress, and holding in his hand a truncheon of uncommon size. As he approached, he was known to be the gallant Basilius; at sight of whom they were surprized, and waited in suspence to see the issue of his exclamation, dreading some mischance from such an unseasonable visit. At length, wearied and breathless, he came up to the bride and bridegroom, and thrusting in the ground his staff that was pointed with steel, he fixed his eyes upon Quiteria, and with a pale aspect and hoarse quavering voice, pronounced these words: ‘Thou well knowest, ungrateful Quiteria, that, according to the holy faith we profess, thou canst not espouse another husband while I am alive; nor art thou ignorant, that while I waited until time and diligence should meliorate my fortune, I never sought to deviate from that decorum which thy honour required I should preserve; yet thou, disburdening thyself of all the obligations which thou owest to my honest passion, hast made another person master of what is justly mine; a man whose wealth is not only subservient to his good fortune, but even renders him superlatively happy; which happiness, that he may enjoy to the full (not that I think he deserves it, but because it is the will of Heaven to bestow it) I will, with my own hands, remove the impossibility or inconvenience that may obstruct it, by taking myself out of the way. Long live, long live Camacho the Rich, with Quiteria the Ungrateful, to enjoy many quiet and happy years; and death be the portion of the poor Basilius, whose poverty clipped the wings of his fortune, and laid him in an untimely grave.’

So saying, he laid hold of the staff which he had stuck in the earth, and drew from it a middling tuck, which was concealed in it as in a scabbard; then fixing that which may be called the hilt on the ground, he threw himself, with great activity and resolution, upon the point, which in an instant came out bloody at his shoulder, leaving the unhappy youth weltering in gore, and stretched upon the ground, transfixed with his own weapon. His friends immediately ran to his assistance, pierced with affliction at his misery and lamentable fate; and Don Quixote, dismounting, flew to his relief, held him in his arms, and found that he had not as yet expired. They were inclined to withdraw the tuck; but the curate, who was present, gave his opinion that it should not be withdrawn before he had confessed himself, because his death would be the immediate consequence of pulling out the weapon. Meanwhile, Basilius recovering a little, said, in a faint and piteous tone, ‘Ah, cruel Quiteria! wouldst thou, in this last and fatal agony, bestow upon me thy hand in marriage, I should deem my rashness exculpated, seeing by that I should acquire the happiness of calling thee my own.’ The curate, hearing this address, exhorted him to employ his attention upon the health of his soul, rather than upon such carnal pleasures, and earnestly pray to God to pardon his sins, and in particular this last desperate determination. To this remonstrance Basilius replied, that he would by no means confess, until Quiteria should first grant him her hand, a favour which would set his heart at rest, and give him spirits to undergo his confession.

Don Quixote hearing the petition of the wounded man, declared, in an audible voice, that Basilius requested nothing but what was just and reasonable, and besides very practicable; and that Signior Camacho’s honour would suffer no more, in wedding Signora Quiteria as the widow of Basilius, than in receiving her from her father’s own hands; for here nothing was required but the monosyllable of assent, which could have no other effect than the trouble of pronouncing it, as the bridal bed must also be the tomb of such a marriage. Camacho heard the whole, which kept him in such confusion and suspence, that he knew not what to say or do: but the friends of Basilius were so clamorous in soliciting him to consent to Quiteria’s giving her hand in marriage to the hapless youth, whose soul would otherwise perish in despair, that he was persuaded, and as it were compelled to say, that if his bride would grant that favour, he should be satisfied, as it would only for a moment delay the accomplishment of his desires. Immediately they surrounded Quiteria, whom with tears, intreaties, and other pathetic remonstrances, they pressed to give her hand to poor Basilius; but she, more obdurate than marble, and more inflexible than a statue, neither could, would, or desired to answer one word; nor would she have made the least reply, had not the curate desired her to come to a speedy determination, for the soul of Basilius being already between his teeth, would not afford long time for hesitation.

Then the beautiful Quiteria, without speaking one syllable, but seemingly disordered, sad, and sorrowful, advanced to the place where Basilius lay, with his eyes already fixed, breathing short and thick, murmuring the name of Quiteria, and, to all appearance, dying rather like an heathen than a Christian. The bride at length approaching, and kneeling before him, desired by signs he would hold out his hand: then Basilius unfixing his eyes, and stedfastly gazing upon her, ‘O Quiteria!’ said he, ‘thou art become kind at a time when thy kindness must serve as a sword to finish my unfortunate life; seeing I have not strength enough left to obtain that glory which thou wouldst confer in calling me thine; or to suspend the grief that comes so fast to cover mine eyes with the dismal shades of death. What I request, O fatal star of my destiny! is, that thy consent to this exchange of vows may not be a mere compliment to deceive me anew; but that thou wilt confess and declare there is no restraint upon thy inclination, while thy hand is given and delivered to me as thy lawful husband, for it would be cruel to use deceit and dissimulation with one in such extremity, who has always behaved to thee with such sincerity and truth.’ Having pronounced these words, he fainted away, so that all the bye-standers thought his soul would forsake his body in that swoon: but when he retrieved the use of his faculties, Quiteria, all-blushing with modesty, took hold of his right hand, saying, ‘No force upon earth would be sufficient to biass my will; and therefore, with all the freedom of inclination, I give thee my hand as thy lawful wife, and receive thine on the same terms, if thou bestowest it with the same good will, undisturbed and unconfounded by the calamity into which thou hast been hurried by thy own precipitate conduct.’—‘I do,’ answered Basilius, ‘without either disorder or confusion; but, on the contrary, with all the clearness of understanding with which Heaven hath thought proper to endow me, I give and deliver myself for thy true and faithful husband.’—‘And I take thee for such,’ replied Quiteria, ‘whether thou mayest live many years, or now be hurried from mine arms to the grave.’—‘Considering how desperately this spark is wounded,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘methinks he talks woundily: make him lay aside his courtship, and mind his soul, which seems to be in his tongue rather than between his teeth.’

The hands of Basilius and Quiteria being joined, the tender-hearted curate, with tears in his eyes, pronounced the nuptial benediction, and fervently prayed, that God would grant forgiveness and repose to the soul of the bridegroom; who no sooner perceived the ceremony was performed, than he nimbly sprung upon his legs with incredible activity, withdrew the tuck which was sheathed in his body, to the admiration of the by-standers; some of whom, being more simple than curious, began to cry aloud, ‘A miracle! a miracle!’ But Basilius replied, ‘No miracle! no miracle! but sheer industry! nothing but industry!’ The curate, confounded and astonished, ran up to feel the wound with both his hands, and found that the blade, instead of passing through the body of Basilius, had run through an iron tube fitted to the part, and full of blood, which, as they afterwards understood, was prepared so as to retain its fluidity: in a word, the curate and Camacho, with almost all the company, found themselves fairly out-witted. The bride, however, expressed no mortification at the deceit: on the contrary, hearing somebody observe that such a marriage, obtained by fraud, could not be valid, she said she confirmed it anew. From which circumstance every one concluded that the stratagem had been contrived and executed with her privity and consent. This supposition enraged Camacho and his adherents to such a degree, that they referred their revenge to the prowess of their hands, and, unsheathing a great many swords, assaulted Basilius, in whose favour almost an equal number were instantly produced. Don Quixote taking the lead on horseback, well armed with his lance and shield, made the whole company give ground; while Sancho, who had no delight or comfort in such exploits, retired to the jars from which he had extracted his agreeable scum, looking upon that place as a sacred sanctuary and respected retreat. The knight exclaimed, in an audible voice, ‘Forbear, gentlemen, forbear: it is unjust to revenge the grievances of love; for, in this particular, love and war are the same; and, as in the last, it is lawful and customary to use feints and stratagems against the enemy; so likewise in amorous contests and competitions, all sorts of tricks and contrivances, are allowed in attaining the accomplishment of the lover’s desire, provided they do not tend to the disparagement or dishonour of the beloved object. Quiteria was fated to Basilius, and Basilius to Quiteria, by the just and favourable determination of Heaven. Camacho is rich, and may purchase his pleasure when, where, and how his inclination shall require: whereas Basilius has but this one poor sheep, of which he ought not to be deprived by any person how powerful soever he may be; for those whom God hath joined, no man shall put asunder; and he who attempts it must first pass through the point of this lance.’ So saying, he brandished it with such strength and dexterity, as filled the hearts of those who did not know him with fear and consternation; and the disdain of Quiteria made such a deep impression upon the imagination of Camacho, that he shook her from his heart in an instant; so that the persuasions of the curate, who was a prudent and well-meaning priest, pacified and quieted him and his partizans, who, in token of peace, sheathed their weapons, blaming the inconstancy of Quiteria more than the contrivance of Basilius; and Camacho himself observed, that if she loved Basilius before marriage, the same love would have continued after it; and that he had more reason to thank Heaven for having lost, than he should have had for obtaining such an help-mate.

Camacho, and those of his train, being thus consoled and appeased, the friends of Basilius took no step to disturb their peace; and Camacho the Rich, in order to shew how little he resented or thought of the trick which had been played him, desired that the entertainments might proceed as if he was really to be married: but Basilius with his bride and followers refusing to partake of them, set out in a body for the place of his habitation; for the poor, who are virtuous and discreet, will always find people to honour, attend, and support them, as well as the rich with all their parasites and companions. In consequence of their earnest intreaty, they were accompanied by Don Quixote, whom they esteemed as a prodigy of valour and integrity; and nothing was cloudy but the soul of Sancho, when he found it impossible to enjoy the splendid banquets and diversions of Camacho, that lasted till night: he therefore, in a fretful and melancholy mood, followed his master, who joined the troop of Basilius; leaving behind the flesh-pots of Egypt, although he still retained them in his fancy; and the half-finished scum of his kettle inhanced the glory and abundance of the benefit he had lost; so that, pensive, sullen, and sad, yet without hunger or dismounting from Dapple, he silently trudged after the heels of Rozinante.

Footnote 157:

The patina was a small consecrated plate which the Spanish women, especially those of an inferior rank, wore upon their breasts.

CHAP. V. IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE VAST ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS, IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH WAS HAPPILY ATCHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE.

Great and manifold were the treats and particulars of respect, paid to Don Quixote by the new-married couple, who thought themselves greatly obliged by the readiness he had shewn to defend their cause, and looked upon his discretion to be equal to his valour; indeed, they esteemed him a perfect Cid in arms, and a Cicero in elocution. Honest Sancho regaled himself three days at their expence, during which it was known that the contrivance of the fictitious wound had not been communicated to Quiteria, but was hatched by the ingenuity of Basilius himself, in hope of meeting with that success which, as we have seen, he actually attained; true it is, he confessed he had imparted his design to some of his friends, that they might, in case of necessity, favour his intention, and facilitate the execution of his deceit.

‘Whatsoever hath virtue for its ultimate aim,’ said Don Quixote, ‘neither can or ought to be called deceit; and surely no aim can be more excellent than the union of two lovers in the holy bands of marriage.’ He observed, that the greatest enemy of love is hunger and necessity; for love is altogether sprightly, joyous, and satisfied, especially when the object of desire is in possession of the lover, whose fierce and declared adversaries are want and inconvenience. He made these observations with a view to persuade Signior Basilius to quiet the exercise of those talents he possessed, which, though they acquired reputation, would not earn a farthing of money, and to employ his attention in augmenting his estate by legal and industrious means, that never fail the prudent and the careful. The poor man of honour (if a poor man can deserve that title) possesses, in a beautiful wife, a jewel; and when that is taken away, he is deprived of his honour, which is murdered: a beautiful and chaste woman, whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned with laurel and palms of triumph; for beauty alone attracts the inclinations of those who behold it, just as the royal eagle and soaring hawk stoop to the savoury lure; but if that beauty is incumbered by poverty and want, it is likewise attacked by ravens, kites, and other birds of prey; and if she who possesses it firmly withstands all these assaults, she well deserves to be called the crown of her husband. ‘Take notice, dearest Basilius,’ added the knight, ‘it was the opinion of a certain sage, that there was but one good wife in the whole world; and he advised every husband to believe she had fallen to his share, and accordingly be satisfied with his lot. I myself am not married, nor hitherto have I entertained the least thought of changing my condition; nevertheless, I will venture to advise him who asks my advice, in such a manner, that he may find a woman to his wish: in the first place, I would exhort him to pay more regard to reputation than to fortune; for a virtuous woman does not acquire a good name, merely by being virtuous, she must likewise maintain the exteriors of deportment, for the honour of the sex suffers much more from levity and freedom of behaviour in publick, than from any private misdeeds. If thou bringest a good woman to thy house, it will be an easy task to preserve and even improve her virtue; but, shouldst thou chuse a wife of a different character, it will cost thee abundance of pains to mend her; for it is not very practicable to pass from one extreme to another: I do not say it is altogether impossible, though I hold it for a matter of much difficulty.’

Sancho hearing these remarks, said to himself, ‘This master of mine, whenever I chance to utter any thing pithy or substantial, will say I might take a pulpit in hand, and travel through the world, teaching and preaching to admiration; now, I will say for him, that when he begins to string sentences, and give advice, he might not only take one pulpit in hand, but even a couple on each finger, and stroll about the market-towns. Wit, whither wouldst thou? May the devil fetch him for a knight-errant! he knows but every thing. I thought for certain, he could be acquainted with nothing but what relates to his chivalries; but he pecks at every thing, and throws his spoonful in every man’s dish.’

His master overheard him murmuring in this manner, and asking what he grumbled at, ‘I don’t grumble,’ answered Sancho, ‘I was only saying to myself, I wished I had heard those remarks of your worship before I married; in which case I might now, perhaps, remark in my turn, “The loosened ox is well licked.”’—‘What, is Teresa such a bad wife?’ said the knight. ‘Not very bad,’ answered the squire, ‘but then she is not very good; at least, not so good as I could wish.’—‘You are in the wrong, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to disparage your wife, who in effect is the mother of your children.’—‘As to that matter,’ replied Sancho, ‘we are not at all in one another’s debt; for she can disparage me fast enough, especially when she takes it in her head to be jealous, and then Satan himself could not endure her.’

In a word, they stayed three days with the new-married couple, during which they were treated and served like the king’s own person; and here Don Quixote desired the nimble-wristed licentiate to provide him with a guide to direct his steps to the cave of Montesinos, which he had a longing desire to explore, that he might investigate with his own eyes the truth of those wonderful stories that were reported of it through the whole neighbourhood. The licentiate promised to accommodate him with a first cousin of his own, a famous student deeply read in books of chivalry, who would willingly conduct him to the very mouth of the cave, and point out the lakes of Ruydera, so famous not only in the province of La Mancha, but also through the whole kingdom of Spain; and he likewise observed, that he would find his conversation very entertaining; for he was a lad who knew how to compose books for the press, and even dedicate them to princes. At length this cousin arrived upon an ass big with foal, whose pannel was covered with a piece of tawdry tapestry or carpet: Sancho saddled Rozinante, put Dapple in order, stowed his wallet, which was reinforced by the cousin’s, likewise very well stored; then recommending themselves to God, and taking leave of the company, they set out, chusing the shortest road to the famous cave of Montesinos.

While they travelled along, Don Quixote addressing himself to the student, asked what was the nature and quality of his exercises, studies, and profession? To this question the other answered, that his profession was humanity; and that his exercise and study consisted in composing books for the press, of great emolument, and no less entertainment to the publick; that one of them was intitled, The Book of Liveries, in which he had described seven hundred and three liveries, with their colours, mottos, and cyphers: ‘From these,’ said he, ‘your courtiers may extract and assume such devices as will suit their fancies, in times of festivity and rejoicing, without going about begging from any person whatever, or cudgelling their brains, as the saying is, in order to invent what will suit their several desires and dispositions; for I insert those that will fit the jealous, the disdained, the forgotten, and absent, so exactly, that the just will far exceed the number of the Gentiles, I have likewise finished another book, which I propose to call, The Metamorphoses; or, The Spanish Ovid; of an invention equally new and agreeable; for there, in imitation of Naso, I give a burlesque description and history of the Giralda of Seville, the Angel of La Madalina, the Conduit of Vecinguerra at Cordova, the bulls of Guisanda, the Sierra Morena, the Fountains of Leganitos, and the Levapies of Madrid, not forgetting those of the Piojo, the Golden Pipe, and the Priora, with their allegories, metaphors, and transformations, which at once surprize, instruct, and entertain. I have a third performance, which I denominate, The Supplement to Polydore’s Virgil, which treats of the invention of things, and is a work of great study and erudition; for many things of great importance, which Polydore has omitted, I examine and explain in a most elegant stile: he, for example, has forgot to let us know who was the first person troubled with a defluxion or rheum, and who was first anointed for the cure of the French distemper: now these two questions I resolve in the most accurate manner, upon the authority of above five and twenty authors; so your worship will perceive whether I have laboured to good purpose, and composed a book that will be useful to the world in general.’

Sancho having listened very attentively to this narration, ‘Tell me, Signior,’ said he, ‘so may God lend an helping hand to the printing of your books; tell me, if you know, and surely you know every thing, who was the first man that scratched his own head? for my own part, I firmly believe it must have been our father Adam.’—‘Certainly,’ answered the student; ‘for Adam without doubt had a head, and hair upon it; now that being the case, and he being the first man in the world, he must have scratched it sometimes.’—‘I am of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho; ‘but now, pray tell me who was the first tumbler!’—‘Verily, brother,’ resumed the scholar, ‘I cannot determine that point until I shall have studied it, and study it I will, upon my return to the place where I keep my books; so that I shall satisfy you the next time we meet, for I hope this will not be the last time of our meeting.’—‘Then I desire you will give yourself no trouble about the matter,’ said Sancho; ‘for I have already found out the solution of my question: know, Signior, that the first tumbler must have been Lucifer, who, when he was thrown and rejected from heaven, came tumbling down to the bottomless pit.’—‘Friend,’ cried the student, ‘you are certainly in the right.’—‘That question and answer,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is none of thy own; thou must have learned them from some other person, Sancho.’—‘Hold your tongue, Signior,’ replied the squire: ‘for, in good faith! if I begin to question and answer, I shall not have done till morning: yes, as to the matter of asking like a fool, and answering like a simpleton, I have no occasion to crave the assistance of my neighbours.’—‘Thou hast said more than thou art aware of,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for some people there are who fatigue themselves in learning, and investigating that which, when learned and investigated, is not worth a farthing either to the memory or understanding.’

In this and other such relishing discourse they passed that day, and at night took up their lodging in a small village, from whence, as the scholar told the knight, the distance to the cave of Montesinos did not exceed a couple of leagues; and he observed, that if Don Quixote was really determined to explore the cavern, it would be necessary to provide ropes, by which he might be lowered down to its bottom. The knight said, that although he should descend to the abyss, he would see the bottom, for which purpose he purchased about a hundred fathoms of rope. Next day, about two o’clock in the afternoon, they arrived at the cave, and found the mouth broad and spacious, though overgrown with thorns, weeds, brambles, and brakes, so thick and intricate, that it was almost quite covered and concealed; at sight of the place all three alighted; the student and Sancho immediately began to fasten the rope strongly about the knight, and while they were thus employed in cording and girding him, Sancho addressing himself to the adventurer, ‘Dear master,’ said he, ‘consider what your worship is about; seek not to bury yourself alive, and to be used like a bottle of wine, let down to cool in some well; for it neither concerns nor belongs to your worship to be the surveyor of that pit, which must be worse than a dungeon.’—‘Tie the knot, and hold thy tongue, friend Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘for such an enterprize as this was reserved for me alone.’ Then the guide interposing, ‘I intreat your worship, Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘to consider attentively and examine, as it were, with a hundred eyes, every circumstance within this cave, where, perhaps, there may be things which I shall insert among my transformations.’—‘The cymbal,’ answered Sancho, ‘is in the hands that can play it to the utmost nicety.’

This discourse having passed, and the ligature being made, not over the knight’s armour but his doublet, ‘We have been guilty of an inadvertency,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in coming hither unprovided with a small bell, which, had it been tied to me with the same cord, would, with its sound, have given you notice, as I descended, of my being alive; but, as it is now impossible to be accommodated, I commit myself to the hands of God, who will conduct me.’ Then falling upon his knees, he in a low voice preferred a prayer to Heaven, beseeching God to assist and crown him with success, in this seemingly perilous and new adventure. His ejaculation being finished, he pronounced, in a loud voice, ‘O! thou mistress of my deeds and motions, the most resplendent and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso! if the prayer and petition of this thy adventurous lover can possibly reach thine ears, I conjure thee, by thy unheard-of beauty, to grant my request, which is no other than that thou wouldst not now deny me thy favour and protection, when I stand so much in need of both; for I am just upon the brink of darting, plunging, and ingulphing myself into the profound abyss that opens wide before me, on purpose that the world may know there is nothing so impossible that I will not attempt and execute, under the wings of thy favour.’

So saying, he approached the pit, where he found it would be impracticable to slip down, or make way for entering, without the strength of arms and back-strokes: he therefore, unsheathing his sword, began to lay about him, and mow down the bushes that grew around the mouth of the cave, out of which an infinite number of huge crows and daws, affrighted at the noise and disturbance, sallied forth with such force and velocity, as laid the knight upon his back; and had he been as superstitious as he was a good catholick, he would have looked upon this irruption as a bad omen, and excused himself from visiting the bowels of such a dreary place; at length he rose, and seeing that the flight of crows, and other birds of night, was now over, (for a number of bats had likewise come forth) he put the rope into the hands of Sancho and the scholar, desiring them to lower him down to the bottom of that dreadful cavern, which when he entered, Sancho gave him his benediction, and making a thousand crosses over him, exclaimed, ‘God and the Rock of France, together with the Trinity of Gaeta, be thy guides, thou flower, and cream, and scum of knights-errant: there thou goest, bully of the globe, heart of steel, and arm of brass! I say again, God be thy guide, and bring thee back safe, sound, and without deceit, to the light of this life, which thou art now forsaking to bury thyself in that obscurity.’ Almost the same prayer and deprecation was uttered by the scholar; while Don Quixote called aloud for rope, and afterwards for more rope, which they gave him by little and little. By that time the voice, which ascended through the windings and turnings of the cave, ceased to vibrate on their ears, they had already uncoiled the hundred fathoms, and were inclined to hoist him up again, as they had no more cord to spare: they stayed, however, about half an hour, at the expiration of which they began to pull up the rope, which seemed to have no weight attached to it, and came up with such ease, that they imagined the knight was left below; a supposition, in consequence of which the squire wept most bitterly, while he pulled with great eagerness in order to discover the truth; but when they had coiled up about four-score fathoms they felt the weight again, and were exceedingly rejoiced: finally, at the distance of ten fathoms, they distinctly perceived Don Quixote; to whom Sancho addressed himself, saying, ‘Dear master, I wish your worship an happy return; we began to think you had tarried below to breed.’

To this welcome the knight answered not a word. When they had pulled him up, they perceived his eyes were shut, and that, to all appearance, he was fast asleep; then he was laid upon the ground, and untied, but still he did not awake: however, by dint of turning, jogging, shaking, and moving, they, after some time, brought him to himself, when yawning hideously as if he had awoke from a profound and heavy sleep, he looked around with amazement, and pronounced, ‘God forgive you, friends, for having withdrawn me from the most delightful prospect and agreeable life that ever mortal saw or enjoyed: in effect, I am now fully convinced, that all the pleasures of this life fleet away like a shadow or dream, or fade like the flowers of the field. O unfortunate Montesinos! O deeply wounded Durandarte! O hapless Belerma! O weeping Guadiana! and you forlorn daughters of Ruydera, who by your waters shew the copious floods of tears that fall from your beauteous eyes!’

The scholar and Sancho hearing these words, which Don Quixote seemed to heave with immense pain from his very entrails, begged he would explain the meaning of what he had said, and inform them of what he had seen in that infernal gulph. ‘Infernal, call you it?’ said the knight; ‘pray give it a better epithet, for that it surely does deserve, as you will presently perceive.’ Then he desired they would give him something to eat, for he was excessively hungry; and they, spreading the carpet upon the grass, produced the buttery of their bags, when all three sitting around them, in love and good fellowship, made one meal serve for supper and afternoon’s luncheon, which being finished, and the cloth taken away, ‘My sons,’ said Don Quixote, ‘let no man stir, but listen with your whole attention to that which I am going to rehearse.’

CHAP. VI. OF THE WONDERFUL INCIDENTS RECOUNTED BY THE EXTRAVAGANT DON QUIXOTE, WHO PRETENDED TO HAVE SEEN THEM IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS; FROM THE GREATNESS AND IMPOSSIBILITY OF WHICH THIS ADVENTURE HAS BEEN DEEMED APOCRYPHAL.

It might be about four o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun retiring behind a cloud, so as to emit a scanty light and temperate rays, gave Don Quixote an opportunity of relating coolly and comfortably to his two illustrious hearers the particulars he had seen in the cave of Montesinos; and he accordingly began to recite what follows.

‘About twelve or fourteen fathoms below the mouth of this dungeon, there is a concavity on the right hand, wide enough to contain a large waggon with its cattle, and illuminated by a small stream of light that descends through corresponding cracks and crannies, which open at a distance on the surface of the earth: this spacious cavity I perceived, when I was tired and out of humour at finding myself hanging and descending by a rope, through that dark and dreary dungeon, without knowing any certain and determined way; I therefore resolved to enter it, and repose myself a little, and called to you to leave off lowering the rope, until I should give you farther notice; but I suppose you did not hear me, so that I gathered up the cord you let down, and making it into an heap or coil, sat down upon it in a very pensive mood, to consider how I should descend to the bottom, having no person to support my weight. While I sat musing on this misfortune, I was all of a sudden overpowered by a most profound sleep, and without dreaming of the matter, or knowing how, or wherefore, I awoke, and found myself in the midst of the most beautiful, charming and delightful meadow that nature could create, or the most fertile imagination conceive. I rubbed and wiped my eyes, so as to see that far from sleeping I was broad awake: nevertheless, I felt my head, and fumbled in my bosom, in order to be assured, whether it was really my identical self or some unsubstantial phantom and counterfeit; but the touch, the reflection, and connected discourse I held with myself, concurred to convince me, that I was the same at that time as I find myself at present. Then was my view regaled with a sumptuous palace or castle, with walls and battlements of clear, transparent chrystal, and two large folding gates, which, opening, there came forth, advancing towards me, a venerable old man, clad in a long cloak of purple baize, that trailed upon the ground: his shoulders and breast were girded with a collegiate scarf of green sattin; his head was covered with a black Milan cap; and his beard, white as the drifted snow, descended to his middle. He wore no arms, but held in his hand a rosary of beads as large as walnuts; though the tens were as big as ostrich-eggs; and his deportment, air, gravity, and dignified presence, filled me with surprize and veneration. Coming up to me, the first thing he did was to hug me closely in his arms; then he said, “Long, very long, most valiant knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, have we, who are inchanted in these solitudes, expected thy arrival, that thou mayest inform the world of what is contained and concealed in this profound cavern, which is called the cave of Montesinos; an adventure hitherto reserved on purpose to be atchieved by thy invincible heart and most stupendous courage. Follow me, illustrious Signior, and I will shew thee the wonders that lie hid in this transparent castle, of which I am governor and perpetual warder, as being that identical Montesinos, from whom the cavern takes its name.” No sooner had he told me who he was, than I asked if it was true, what the world above related of him, namely, that he had, with a small dagger, cut out the heart of his great friend Durandarte, and carried it to the Lady Belerma, according to his own desire, while he was in the agonies of death. He answered, every circumstance was true, except that of the dagger; for it was neither a dagger, nor small in its dimensions, but a polished poignard as sharp as an awl.’

Here Sancho interposing, observed, that such a poignard must have been made by Raymond de Hozes of Seville. ‘I do not know who was the maker,’ said the knight, ‘but it could not be that sword-cutler; for Raymond de Hozes was living t’other day; whereas many years are elapsed since the battle of Roncesvalles, where that misfortune happened; but this enquiry is of no importance; nor does it disturb or alter the truth and evidence of the story.’—‘No, surely,’ cried the scholar, ‘pray good your worship Don Quixote proceed; for I listen to your narration with infinite pleasure.’—‘And I feel no less in recounting it,’ answered the knight.

‘Well, then, the venerable Montesinos led me into the chrystalline palace, where, in a low hall, cool beyond conception, and lined with alabaster, stood a monument of marble of exquisite workmanship, upon which I perceived a knight lying at full length, I do not mean a statue of bronze, marble, or jasper, such as we commonly see on other tombs, but a man of real flesh and bones; he held his right-hand, which being muscular and hairy, denoted the great strength of the owner, over the region of the heart; and before I had time to ask any questions, Montesinos seeing me astonished, and gazing attentively at the sepulchre, “This is my friend Durandarte,” said he, “the flower and mirrour of all the valiant and enamoured knights of his time: here he is kept inchanted as well as myself, and many others of both sexes, by Merlin, that French inchanter, who is said to have been begotten by the devil; though, for my own part, I believe he is not really the devil’s son, but that, according to the proverb, He knows one point more than the devil. How, or for what reason he inchanted us, nobody knows, but time will discover the mystery; and, in my opinion, that time is not far off: what surprizes me is, I know as certainly as the sun shines, that Durandarte breathed his last in my arms, and after he was dead, I with my own individual hands took out his heart, which must certainly have weighed a couple of pounds; for, according to the observation of naturalists, the man who has a large heart is endowed with more valour than he whose heart is of smaller dimensions: this being the case, and the knight certainly dead, how comes he, even at this day, to sigh and complain, from time to time, as if he was actually alive?”

‘He had no sooner pronounced these words, than the wretched Durandarte cried, in a loud voice, “O cousin Montesinos! the last favour I requested of you, was, that when my soul should quit my body, you would extract my heart either with poignard or dagger, and carry it to Belerma.” The venerable Montesinos, hearing this apostrophe, kneeled before the piteous knight, and with tears in his eyes, replied, “Already, Signior Durandarte, my dearest cousin! already have I executed what you commanded me to perform, on that unlucky day of our defeat: I extracted your heart as well as I could, without leaving the smallest particle of it in your breast; I wiped it with a laced handkerchief, and set out with it full gallop for France, after having first committed you to the bosom of the earth with such a flood of tears as was sufficient to bathe and wash my hands of the blood they had contracted by raking in your bowels; and as a surer token, dear cousin of my soul! at the first place I reached, in my way from Roncesvalles, I sprinkled your heart with a little salt, that it might not acquire a bad smell, and continue, if not quite fresh, at least tolerably sweet, until it could be presented to the Lady Belerma, who, together with you and me, and your squire Guadiana, the duenna Ruydera, her seven daughters, and two nieces, and many others of your friends and acquaintance, have been long inchanted in this place by the sage Merlin; and although five hundred years are elapsed, not one of us is dead; though we have lost Ruydera with her daughters and nieces, who, by weeping, are, through the compassion of Merlin, converted into so many lakes, which, in the world above, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of Ruydera; the Seven Sisters belong to the king of Spain, and the Two Nieces to the knights of a very holy order, called St. John. Your squire Guadiana bewailing likewise your misfortune, was changed into a river of the same name, which, when it reached the surface of the earth, and saw the sun of the other sky, was so grieved at the thoughts of leaving you, that he sunk down into the bowels of the globe; but, as it was not possible for him to resist his natural current, he from time to time rises up, shewing himself to the sun, and to the nations: he receives a reinforcement from the waters of the forementioned lakes, with which, and many others that join his stream, he enters Portugal in majesty and pomp. Nevertheless, wheresoever he runs, he discovers a sullen melancholy, and does not pique himself upon breeding within his channel fish of dainty relish and esteem; but only such as are coarse and unsavoury, and widely different from those of the golden Tagus. What I now say, my dear cousin, I have often expressed, and as you make no reply, I conclude you either do not hear or do not give credit to my words: a circumstance which, as Heaven doth know, overwhelms me with affliction. I will at present make you acquainted with one piece of news, which, if it does not alleviate your sorrow, can surely, in no shape, tend to its augmentation. Know then, here stands in your presence (open your eyes and behold him) that great knight of whom so many things have been prophesied by the sage Merlin; that Don Quixote de La Mancha, I say, who has renewed, and, with greater advantages than in times past, raised again from oblivion the long forgotten chivalry, by the means and favour of whom, perhaps, we ourselves may be disenchanted; for great men such great achievements are reserved.”—“And if that should not be the case,” replied the afflicted Durandarte, in a faint and languid tone; “and if that should not be the case, cousin, I say, patience, and shuffle the cards.” Then turning himself upon one side, he relapsed into his usual silence, without speaking another word.

‘At that instant, hearing a great noise of shrieks and lamentations, accompanied by doleful sighing and dismal sobbing, I turned about, and saw through the chrystal walls into another apartment, through which a procession passed, consisting of two flies of most beautiful damsels in mourning, with white turbans on their heads, in the Turkish manner; in the rear of these came a lady, for such, by her stately demeanour, she seemed to be, cloathed like the rest in black, with a veil so full and long that it kissed the ground: her turban was twice as large as the largest of the others, her eye brows met above her nose, which was flattish; her mouth was large, but her lips retained the colour of vermillion; her teeth, which she sometimes disclosed, were thin and ill-set, though white as blanched almonds; and in her hand she held a fine linen cloth, in which, as near as I could guess, was an heart so dried and shrivelled, that it seemed to be of perfect mummy. Montesinos gave me to understand, that all those of the procession were domesticks of Durandarte and Belarma, inchanted in that place, together with their lord and lady; and that the last who carried the heart in the napkin, was Belerma herself, who, with her damsels, never failed to appear in that procession four days in the week, and sung, or rather howl, dirges over the body, and the woeful heart of his cousin: and that, if she now seemed a little homely, or not quite so beautiful as fame reported her, the change proceeded from the bad nights and worse days she passed in that state of inchantment, as I might perceive in her large wrinkles and wan complexion; nor did that yellowness and those furrows proceed from any irregularity in the monthly disorder incident to women; for many months and even years had passed since she had the least shew of any such evacuation; but solely from the anguish of her heart, occasioned by that which she holds incessantly in her hand, and which renews and recalls to her memory the misfortune of her ill-fated lover: had it not been for that mischance, scarce would she have been equalled in beauty, sprightliness, and grace, even by the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, celebrated as she is not only in this country, but also through the whole universe.

‘“Softly, Signior Don Montesinos,” said I, interrupting him at the period, “be so good as to tell your story as it ought to be told; for you know all comparisons are odious, and therefore there is no occasion to compare any person with another; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the Lady Donna Belerma is likewise what she is and has been, and there let the matter rest.” To this remonstrance he replied, “Pardon me, Signior Don Quixote; I confess I have been to blame, and egregiously erred, in saying, the Lady Dulcinea would scarce equal the Lady Belerma; seeing, my having known by certain guesses that your worship is the knight of Dulcinea, was sufficient to have induced me to bite off my tongue, rather than compare her with any thing but Heaven itself.” Such satisfaction from the great Montesinos allayed the disgust that my heart received in hearing Belerma compared with my mistress.’

‘I marvel much,’ said Sancho, ‘that your worship did not fall upon the old hunks, and break every bone in his skin; aye, and pull his beard in such a manner as not to leave one single hair.’—‘By no means, friend Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘it would not have become me to behave in that manner; for we are all obliged to respect our seniors, although they are not knights; but more especially those who are really of that quality, and besides in a state of inchantment. This I know full well, that there was nothing left unpaid on either side, in the course of the questions and answers that passed between us.’

Here the scholar, interposing, ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘Signior Don Quixote, how your worship, in such a short time as that you have spent below, could see so many things, and ask and answer such a number of questions.’—‘How long is it since I descended?’ said the knight. ‘Little more than an hour,’ replied the squire. ‘That’s impossible,’ resumed Don Quixote; ‘for night fell, and morning dawned, and darkness and light succeeded each other three times; so that, by my reckoning, I must have remained three days in those sequestered shades, which are hidden from our view.’—‘My master must be in the right,’ said Sancho, ‘for as all those things have happened by inchantment, perhaps what appeared but one hour to us, might seem three days and nights to your worship.’—‘It may be so,’ answered the knight. Then the student asking if his worship had eaten any thing in all that time, ‘I have not tasted one mouthful,’ said he, ‘nor had I the least sensation of hunger.’—‘And do those who are inchanted, eat?’ resumed the scholar, ‘They do not eat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘nor do they void the larger excrements, though, it is supposed, that their nails, beards, and hair, are always growing.’

Here Sancho desired to know, if ever those inchanted gentry enjoyed the benefit of sleep. To which interrogation his master replied, ‘No, surely; at least, in those three days that I passed among them, neither they nor myself once closed an eye.’—‘Here then,’ said the squire, ‘we may conveniently trust in the proverb, Tell me your company, and I’ll tell you your manners. While your worship keeps company with inchanted people, who are always fasting and watching, it is no great wonder if you neither eat nor sleep while you are among them; but really, Signior, your worship must forgive me, if I say, that of all you have told us, God take me, I was going to say the devil, if I believe one circumstance.’—‘How!’ cried the scholar, ‘then Signior Don Quixote must have lyed: who even if we could entertain such a supposition, has not had time to compose and contrive such a number of fables.’—‘I do not believe that my master tells lies,’ answered Sancho. ‘What, then, is thy conception?’ said the knight. ‘I conceive,’ replied Sancho, ‘that Merlin, or those magicians who have inchanted the whole rabble which your worship hath seen and discoursed with below, have likewise stuffed your noddle or memory with all that nonsense which you have already recounted, as well as what you have left untold.’—‘That might be the case,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but I assure you it is not so at present; for what I have recounted I saw with my own eyes, and touched with my own hands. But, what wilt thou say, when I now tell thee, that among an infinite number of other wonderful things, which I shall relate hereafter in the course of our travels, as they do not all belong to this place, Montesinos shewed me three country-wenches, leaping and skipping like so many goats through those delightful plains; and scarce had I set eyes on them, when I recognize them to be the peerless Dulcinea, and those two individual young women, with whom we spoke in the neighbourhood of Toboso. When I asked Montesinos if he knew them, he answered in the negative, but said he took them to be some inchanted ladies of quality; for they had appeared but a few days in that meadow; nor ought I to wonder at that circumstance, forasmuch as in the same place there were many ladies of the past and present age, inchanted in different and strange forms; among whom he recollected Queen Ginebra and her duenna Quintanona, who was skinker to Lancelot, when he came from Britain.’ Sancho, hearing his master talk in this manner, was ready to run distracted, or burst with laughing; for, knowing the truth of the feigned inchantment of Dulcinea, of which indeed he himself had been the author and evidence, he was convinced beyond all doubt, that his master was stark-staring mad; and in that persuasion exclaimed, ‘In evil hour, accursed season, and unlucky day, my dear master, did your worship go down to the other world; and in a mischievous moment did you meet with Signior Montesinos, who has sent you back in such a woeful condition. Well was your worship here above, in your sound judgment, such as God had bestowed upon you, saying sentences, and giving counsel at every turn, and not as at present, venting a heap of the greatest nonsense, that was ever conceived.’—‘I know thee too well, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to mind what thou sayest.’—‘And I, in like manner,’ replied the squire, ‘know you too well to regard what you say: wound me, or confound me, or kill me if you will, for what I have said, and what I mean to say, if your worship does not mend and correct your own speeches; but, now we are at peace, pray tell me how or by what token you came to know our lady mistress, and if you spoke to her, what answer she made?’

‘I knew her again,’ replied the knight, ‘by the same cloaths she wore when thou thyself didst shew her to my astonished eyes; I likewise addressed myself to her, but she answered not a syllable; on the contrary, she turned about, and fled so swiftly, that an arrow would not have overtaken her: nevertheless, I wished to follow, and would certainly have pursued her, had not Montesinos advised me not to fatigue myself; for it would be to no purpose, and besides, it was time for me to return to the light above. He likewise told me, that, in process of time, he would give me notice in what manner he, Durandarte, Belerma, and all the rest, in those sequestered shades, were to be disenchanted. But what of all I saw and observed gave me the greatest pain was this; while I was engaged in this conversation with Montesinos, one of the hapless Dulcinea’s companions came up to me, unperceived, and with tears in her eyes, thus accosted me, in a low and whimpering voice: “My Lady Dulcinea Del Toboso kisses your worship’s hands, and begs your worship will be pleased to let her know how your worship does; moreover, being in great necessity, she supplicates your worship, in the most earnest manner, to be pleased to lend her, upon this her new cotton under petticoat, half a dozen rials, or any small matter your worship can spare, which upon her honest word, shall be restored in a very short time.” This message filled me with surprize and concern; and turning to the sage, “Is it possible, Signior Montesinos,” said I, “that people of condition are exposed to necessity, in a state of inchantment?” To this question he replied, “Take my word for it, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, that which we call necessity is known in all states, extending to all conditions, prevailing among every class of people, and not even sparing those who are inchanted; and since Signora Dulcinea Del Toboso sends to beg these six rials, and the pledge seems to be well worth the money, you had better let her have them; for she must certainly be in great trouble.”—“The pledge I will not touch,” said I, “nor indeed can I comply with her request; for I have not above four rials!” which I gave her; and these were the very individual pieces which I received from thee, Sancho, t’other day, in order to give away in charity to the poor I might meet with on the road, “Sweet-heart,” said I, “tell your lady that her distress affects me to the very soul, and I wish I were as rich as Fouckar[158] to remove it; let her know, that I neither can, nor will enjoy health while deprived of her agreeable presence and improving conversation; and that I fervently and earnestly beg her goodness will be pleased to indulge with her company, this her captive servant and afflicted knight. Tell her also, that, when least she dreams of any such matter, she shall hear that I have made a vow, like that which was sworn by the Marquis of Mantua, to revenge his cousin Valdovinos; when he found him at the last gasp, in the middle of the mountain; namely, that he would not eat from off a table-cloth, together with some whimsical additions, until he should have revenged his death; and, in like manner, I will swear never to be quiet, but traverse the seven divisions of the globe, more punctually than did the infant Don Pedro of Portugal[159], until she be restored to the upper world.”—“All that and much more you owe to my lady,” said the damsel; who, taking the rials instead of curtseying, cut a caper in the air two yards high.’

‘O holy God!’ cried Sancho, with a loud voice, ‘is it possible that those inchanters and enchantments should have such power to change the good sense of my master into such nonsensical madness! O Signior, Signior! for the love of God, look to yourself, have some respect for your own honour, and give no credit to those vanities, which have diminished and disturbed your senses.’—‘Thy regard for me, Sancho, makes thee talk in that manner,’ answered the knight: ‘and as thou art not experienced in the events of this world, every thing that is uncommon, to thee seems impossible; but the time will come, as I have already observed, when I shall recount some circumstances which I saw below, that will compel thee to believe what I have now related, the truth of which neither admits of dispute or reply.’

Footnote 158:

Fouckar was a very rich merchant of Augsburg, and a great favourite of Charles V. who owed him a very considerable sum. It is reported of him, that when the emperor lodged at his house, in his return from Tunis, the fire in his chamber was of cinnamon, and his landlord lighted it with his imperial majesty’s own obligation, thereby cancelling an immense debt. The wealth of these traders, for there were two brothers, became proverbial, and it was usual to say of any very opulent person, ‘He is as rich as a Fouckar.’

Footnote 159:

This was the great patron of the Portuguese discoveries along the coast of Africa to the Cape of Good Hope.

CHAP. VII. IN WHICH ARE RECOUNTED A THOUSAND FOOLERIES, EQUALLY IMPERTINENT, AND NECESSARY TO THE TRUE UNDERSTANDING OF THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

He who translated this sublime history from the original, composed by its first author Cid Hamet Benengeli, says, that coming to the chapter which treats of the adventure of the cave, he found this observation written on the margin in the handwriting of the said Hamet.

‘I cannot conceive or persuade myself that the valiant Don Quixote literally saw and heard all that is recounted in the foregoing chapter, for this reason: all the adventures in which he has hitherto been engaged, are feasible and likely to have happened; but this of the cave I can by no means believe true, in any circumstance, because it is so wide of all reason and probability; then to suppose that Don Quixote would tell lyes, he that was the truest gentleman and most noble knight of his time! it is not possible! He certainly would have suffered himself to be shot to death, rather than deviate one tittle from the truth; besides, I consider that he explained and recounted the adventure so circumstantially, that he could not be supposed to have contrived extempore such a large concatenation of extravagances; but, after all, should the adventure seem apocryphal, the blame cannot be laid to my door, and therefore I give it to the publick without affirming it either to be true or false. Reader, if thou hast discernment, thou mayest judge for thyself; for it is neither my duty, nor is it in my power to do more: though it is held for certain, that the knight, on his death-bed, retracted the whole, saying he had invented the story because it seemed to agree and quadrate with those adventures he had read in his books.’

Then the Arabian proceeds in his history to this effect.

The scholar was equally astonished at the presumption of Sancho Panza and the forbearance of his master, and concluded that the satisfaction he derived from having seen his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, even though inchanted, had produced that milkiness of temper, which was now so remarkable; had not this been the case, Sancho’s freedom and remarks were such as would have brought a wooden shower upon his shoulders; for he was downright impertinent to his master, to whom the student thus addressed himself: ‘For my own part, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, I look upon this as the happiest journey I ever performed; for, in the course of it, I have made four valuable acquisitions. In the first place, I have gained the acquaintance of your worship, which I deem a piece of singular felicity. Secondly, I have been made acquainted with what is locked up and contained in the cave of Montesinos, together with the Metamorphoses of Guadiana, and the Lakes of Ruydera; transmutations that will aptly fill a place in the Spanish Ovid which I have in hand. Thirdly, I have discovered the antiquity of card-playing, which, at least, must be as old as the time of Charlemagne, as may be gathered from the words which your worship heard Durandarte pronounce, when, at the end of that long harangue of Montesinos, he awoke and said, “Patience, and shuffle the cards.” For that phrase and manner of speaking he could not have learned during his inchantment; but certainly, when he was alive and well in France, during the reign of the said Charlemagne: and this investigation comes pat to the purpose, for the other book which I am composing; I mean, the Supplement to Polydore Virgil, on the invention of antiquities; for I take it for granted, he has forgot to insert in his book the discovery of card-playing, which I will now explain, and doubtless it will be a very material circumstance, especially when confirmed by such a grave and authentick evidence as Signior Durandarte. Fourthly and lastly, I have now ascertained the source of the Guadiana, hitherto unknown among the nations.’

‘You have indeed good reason to be satisfied,’ replied the knight; ‘but I should be glad to know, if, by God’s assistance, you should obtain a licence for printing those books, (which is a matter of doubt with me) to what patron you intend they should be dedicated?’—‘There are plenty of lords and grandees in Spain,’ answered the scholar, ‘to whom they may be dedicated.’—‘But a very few,’ said Don Quixote; ‘not but that a great many deserve dedications, but because few will receive them, that they may not lay themselves under the obligation of making such a recompence as may seem due to the labour and courtesy of authors: one prince, indeed, I know, who supplies the defect of the rest with such advantages, that if I durst presume to describe them, I might perhaps excite envy in many noble hearts. But let that circumstance rest till a more convenient season; and, in the mean time, let us endeavour to find some place where we may procure a night’s lodging.’—‘Not far from hence,’ replied the student, ‘is an hermitage where lives an anchorite, who is said to have been a soldier, and bears the character of being a good Christian, and moreover a very discreet and charitable man: adjoining to the hermitage is a little house, built by the labour of his own hands, which, though narrow, is large enough to receive travellers.’—‘Can that same hermitage produce any poultry?’ said Sancho. ‘There are few hermitages destitute of that provision,’ answered the knight; ‘for the anchorites of these days are not like those who dwelt in the desarts of Egypt, cloathing themselves with palm-leaves, and subsisting on the roots of the earth. And here I would not be understood to extol one sort, in order to depreciate another; for the penance now in use does not come up to the rigour and austerity of those times. Nevertheless, they are all good, at least, so I suppose them to be be; and even should the stream run foul, the hypocrite, who cloaks his knavery, is less dangerous to the commonwealth than he who transgresses in the face of day.’

This conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a man coming towards them on foot, walking fast, and switching a mule loaded with lances and halberts: when he came up he saluted them, and passed on at a good pace, and Don Quixote perceiving his hurry, ‘Honest friend,’ said he, ‘pray stop a little, for you seem to go faster than your mule could wish.’—‘Signior,’ answered the man, ‘I cannot tarry at present, because these arms of which I have the charge, are to be used to-morrow morning, so that I cannot possibly stay, therefore adieu: but if you desire to know for what purpose they were procured, at the inn which is beyond the hermitage I have some thoughts of taking my night’s lodging, and if you are travelling the same road, there you will find me, and there you shall hear strange tidings; so, once more I bid you farewel.’ So saying, he whipped up the mule in such a manner, that Don Quixote had not time to ask another question concerning those strange tidings which he promised to relate; but, being extremely curious, and continually fatigued with the desire of learning novelties, he ordered his company to set off that instant, and proceed to the inn, without touching at the hermitage, where the scholar wished to pass the evening. In compliance with the knight’s desire, all three mounted their beasts, and followed the direct road to the inn, which they reached a little before the twilight. The student, however, proposed that they should call and take a draught at the hermitage. Sancho Panza, hearing this proposal, immediately turned Dapple’s head towards it, being followed by Don Quixote and the scholar: but his ill luck seemed to have ordained, that the hermit should not be at home, as they were told by an under-hermit, whom they found in the place. When the squire demanded a flask of his best and dearest, he answered, that his master had no wine, but if he chose a pitcher of his cheapest water, he should have it with all his heart. ‘If I had chosen water,’ said Sancho, ‘there is plenty of wells upon the road, from which I might have quenched my thirst. O the wedding of Camacho! and the abundance of Don Diego’s house! how often shall I lament the loss of you?’

When he had uttered this ejaculation, they quitted the hermitage, and pushed on towards the inn; and having rode forwards a little way, they overtook a lad who travelled the same road at his own leisure: he carried a sword over his shoulder, that supported a bundle of cloaths, which seemed to consist of trousers, a cloak, and shirt; for he wore a velvet jacket with some slips of sattin, and the shirt hanging out; he had silk stockings, and square-toed shoes in the court fashion; his age seemed to be about eighteen or nineteen; he had a sprightly countenance, and an agility in his person; he amused himself in singing couplets to beguile the fatigue of travelling, and when they overtook him, had just finished one, which the student remembered to have run in this strain.

‘To the wars my necessity drags me away, But if I had money at home I would stay.’

The first who accosted him was Don Quixote, saying, ‘You travel very light, young gentleman; pray, good now, whither may you be going?’ To this interrogation the youth replied, ‘I travel so light on account of poverty, and the heat of the weather; and I am going to the wars.’—‘The heat may be a very good reason,’ resumed the knight; ‘but how should poverty be the cause of your travelling in that manner?’—‘Signior,’ answered the youth, ‘I carry in this bundle a pair of velvet trunk-breeches, fellows to this jacket, which if I wear out in the country, they will do me no credit in town, and I have not wherewithal to purchase a reinforcement; for this reason, therefore, and the benefit of the free air, I travel as you see me, until I get up with some companies of foot, which are quartered at a town about twelve leagues from hence; there I shall inlist among them, and there will not be wanting some baggage-waggon, in which I may proceed to the place of embarkation, which they say is to be Carthagena; and I would much rather have the king for my lord and master, and serve him in his wars, than be the lacquey of some scoundrel at court.’—‘And have you obtained any post?’ said the scholar. ‘Had I served a grandee of Spain, or some person of quality,’ replied the youth, ‘I should certainly have got something of that kind; for this is the advantage of being in good service, that a man is frequently preferred from the back of his master’s chair to a pair of colours, a company, or some handsome provision: but it was my unhappy fate to be always in the service of poor idle rascals, or foreigners, who give such a miserable and consumptive allowance of board-wages, that one half was expended in the starching of a ruff; and it would be looked upon as a miracle, if any such page adventurer should obtain a tolerable provision.’—‘And pray, friend,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is is possible, that during all the years you have been in service, you never had a livery?’—‘Yes,’ answered the page, ‘I have had two; but, as he who quits a convent before he professes, is stripped of his habit, and obliged to resume his own cloaths, so was I served by my masters, who, after having transacted the business that brought them to court, returned to their own homes, and took back the liveries, which they had given me out of mere ostentation.’

‘A very scandalous espilocheria[160], indeed, as the Italians call it,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but, notwithstanding, you may think yourself very happy in having left the court with such a laudable intention; for there is nothing upon earth more productive of honour and profit, next to the service of God, than the service of the king, our natural lord and master; especially in the exercise of arms, by which more honour, if not more wealth, is acquired than by learning itself; for, as I have divers and sundry times observed, although a greater number of families has been raised by learning than by arms, yet those founded upon arms rise, I don’t know how, above their fellows, with a kind of natural splendor, by which all others are outshone; and what I am now going to say, I desire you will lay up in your remembrance, for it will be of much comfort and utility to you, in the midst of all your sufferings: never entertain a thought of what adversity may happen, for the worst is death; and provided it comes with honour, it is the greatest happiness to die. Julius Cæsar, that valiant emperor of Rome, being asked which was the most agreeable death, answered, “That which is sudden, unexpected, and unforeseen:” and though this reply savoured of the pagan, ignorant of the knowledge of the true God, nevertheless, with regard to his being freed from the pangs of human infirmity, he said well; for supposing you should be slain in the first action or skirmish, either by a cannon ball, or the explosion of a mine, what does it signify? we must all die, and there is an end to the whole; and, according to Terence, a dead soldier, who falls in battle, makes a much nobler appearance than one who lives by running away: the good soldier acquires reputation in proportion to the obedience he pays to his captain, or those who have a right to command him; and pray, take notice, child, a soldier had much better smell of gunpowder than of civet; and if old age overtake you in that noble employment, though you should be covered over with wounds, paralytick, or lame, it can never overtake you without such honour as poverty cannot diminish; especially now, that provision is to be made for the maintenance and relief of old disabled soldiers; for it is not reasonable that they should be treated like negro slaves, to whom, when they are old and incapable of service, their masters often give their freedom, driving them from their houses, and under the title of liberty, leaving them still slaves to hunger, which nothing but death can dispel. This is all I have to say at present; therefore get up and ride behind me to the inn, where I shall treat you with a supper, and in the morning you may pursue your journey, which I pray God may be as fortunate as your intention is good.’

The page excused himself from riding behind the knight, though he embraced his invitation to supper at the inn; and Sancho said within himself, ‘Lord comfort thee for a master! Is it possible that a man who can utter so many good things, should affirm that he has seen all that impossible nonsense which he has told of the cave of Montesinos! But, time is the trier of all things.’

In such discourse they arrived at the inn, just as it grew dark, and Sancho was not a little rejoiced to find that his master took it to be a real inn, and not a castle, according to his usual whims. They had scarcely entered, when Don Quixote enquired of the landlord about the man with the lances and halberts, and understood he was in the stable, providing for the accommodation of his beast; an example which was followed by the student and Sancho, who preferred Rozinante to the best manger and stall of the whole stable.

Footnote 160:

A knavish trick.

CHAP. VIII. IN WHICH IS SET FORTH THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DIVERTING ATCHIEVEMENT OF THE PUPPETS, WITH THE MEMORABLE RESPONSES OF THE DIVINING APE.

Don Quixote would not stay till his bread was baked, as the saying is, so impatient was he to hear and know the strange tidings that were promised by the arms-carrier, in quest of whom he forthwith went to the place where the landlord said he was; and having found him, desired he would by all means gratify him with a circumstantial account of those things he had mentioned on the road. ‘The account of my strange tidings,’ answered the man, ‘I shall give when I am more at leisure, and not at work as I am at present: if your worship will give me time to take care of my beast, I will tell you such things as you will be surprized to hear.’—‘They shall not be delayed on that account,’ said the knight, ‘for I myself will lend you an helping hand.’ He accordingly winnowed the corn and cleaned the manger; so that the man, induced by his humility, could do no less than grant his request, with good will: sitting down, therefore, in a hollow of the wall, close by Don Quixote, who, with the scholar, page, Sancho Panza, and the inn-keeper, composed his council and audience, he began to relate what follows.

‘You must know, gentlemen, that in a village at the distance of four leagues and a half from this inn, it came to pass, that a certain alderman, through the craft and malice of a servant wench, which I have not time to explain, lost an ass; and though the said alderman used all possible means to find him, he found it impossible to succeed: fifteen days had the ass been missing, according to publick fame and report, when the owner was, in the market-place, accosted by another alderman of the same town, who said, “Hansel me for my good news, neighbour; your beast has appeared.”—“That I will, neighbour, and heartily,” answered the other; “but let us know where he has appeared.”—“Upon the mountain,” replied the finder: “I saw him this morning, without pack-saddle or any sort of furniture; and so lean, that it was piteous to behold him. I would have driven him before me, and brought him home; but he is so wild and shy, that when I went near him, he took to his heels, and ran into the most concealed part of the mountain: if you chuse it, we two will go in quest of him; stay till I house my own beast, and I’ll return presently.”—“I shall be much obliged to you,” said he of the strayed ass; “and I shall endeavour to repay you in the same coin.” With these very circumstances, and in the self-same manner that I relate the affair to you, it is told and related by all those who have entered into the true spirit of the case.

‘In conclusion, the two aldermen walked hand in hand to the mountain, and coming to the place and spot where they expected to find the ass, they found him not; nor could they get one glimpse of him, although they searched all about, over and over. Perceiving that he was not likely to appear, “Heark ye, neighbour,” said the alderman who had seen him, “there is a contrivance come into my head, by which we shall certainly discover this animal, even though he should be concealed in the bowels of the earth, much more if he is in this mountain; and that is this, I have a marvellous knack at braying, and if you have any turn that way, you may conclude the business is done.”—“Any turn, neighbour!” cried the other: “by the Lord! I will not yield in point of braying to the best man alive, not even to an identical ass,”—“We shall see presently,” answered the second alderman; “for my intention is that you should go to one side of the mountain, and I to the other, so as to walk round it quite, and every now and then you shall bray, and I will bray; and it cannot be but that the ass will hear, and answer, if he is on this mountain.” To this proposal the owner replied, “Neighbour, it is an excellent scheme, and worthy your great genius.” So parting, according to agreement, it came to pass that both brayed almost at the same time, and each being deceived by the other’s braying ran forward in hopes of finding the ass; when perceiving their mistake, “Neighbour,” said the loser, “is it possible that was not my ass which brayed just now?”—“No: it was I,” answered the other. “Agad, then,” cried the owner, “there is not the least difference, in point of braying, between you and an ass! for in my life did I never hear or see such a resemblance.”—“That compliment and approbation,” answered the contriver, “would be much better bestowed upon yourself than upon me, neighbour; for by the God that made me, you would give two heats of advantage to the biggest and best brayer in Christendom; for the sound you produce is deep, sonorous, within proper time and compass, and the falls frequent and sharp; in a word, I own myself overcome, and yield you the palm and banner of that rare talent.”—“By the mass!” said the owner, “I will from henceforward have a higher opinion of my own ability, and believe I know something, since I really possess such a gift; for although I always thought I brayed tolerably well, I never imagined I excelled so much as you say I do.”—“I therefore tell you,” replied the other, “that many rare talents are lost in this world; and that they are ill-bestowed on those who cannot turn them to advantage.”—“Ours,” said the owner, “except in such cases as this, that we have now in hand, can be but of little service, and even in this God grant it may turn to account.”

‘After these mutual compliments they parted a second time, and began to bray again; but still they were deceived, and met as before, until, by way of counter-signal, from which they might know one another, they agreed to bray twice in a breath: accordingly they doubled their brayings, and encompassed the whole mountain, without being favoured with the least answer or sign from the strayed ass; and, indeed, no wonder, the poor unfortunate animal did not answer; for they found him in the remotest part of the wood, almost devoured by the wolves. The owner seeing him in this plight, “I marvelled much,” said he, “that he did not answer, for had he been alive and heard you, he must have brayed again, else he had been no ass; but as I have had the pleasure of hearing you bray so melodiously, neighbour, I think my trouble well bestowed, even although I have found him dead.”—“’Tis in good hands, neighbour,” replied the other; “for in chanting the clerk is not a whit inferior to the curate.”

‘Having made these mutual remarks, they returned to the village, equally hoarse and disconsolate, and recounted to their friends, neighbours, and acquaintance, what had happened to them, in their searching for the ass, extolling one another to the skies for the talent of braying; so that every circumstance of the story was related among the neighbouring villages; and the devil, who is never at rest, but always glad of an opportunity to sow discord and scatter quarrels, raising lyes in the wind, and huge chimeras from little or no foundation, so ordered matters, that the people of the other villages, when they saw any person belonging to our town, began to bray, as if to hit him in the teeth with the braying of our aldermen. The story was taken up by the boys, which was all one as if he had fallen into the hands and mouths of all the devils in hell, and the braying was circulated from one town to another in such a manner, that the natives of the village of Braywick are as well known and distinguished as a Blackmore from a Spaniard; and this joke has become so serious, that our townsmen have frequently gone forth in arms and regular order to give battle to the jokers, without any regard to king or rook, or fear or shame; I believe that tomorrow or next day, the men of Braywick will take the field once more against the people of another village within two leagues of us, who are our chief persecutors; and that we may be well provided for the occasion, I have purchased the lances and halberts, you have seen. Now these are the strange tidings which I said I would relate; and if you do not think them so, I have no other worth your hearing.’

Thus the honest man concluded his story; and at that instant came into the house, a man cloathed in a doublet, breeches, and hose of shamoy-leather, who said with a loud voice, ‘So ho, Mr. Landlord! have you got any lodging for the fortune-telling ape, and the puppet-shew of the deliverance of Melisendra?’—‘Odd’s bodikins!’ cried the inn-keeper, ‘Master Peter here! we shall have rare doings i’faith.’ We forgot to observe that the left-eye, and half of the cheek of this Master Peter was covered with a patch of green silk, from whence it was supposed all that side of the face laboured under some infirmity. Be that as it will, the innkeeper proceeded, saying, ‘Welcome, good Master Peter; but where is the ape and the puppet-shew? for I see neither.’—‘They are at hand,’ answered the owner of the shamoy-suit; ‘but I came before to know whether or not we could have lodging.’—‘The Duke D’Alva himself should be turned out to make room for Master Peter,’ said the landlord; ‘bring hither your ape and your shew, for there is company in the house that will pay for a sight of them.’—‘In good time, then,’ replied the wearer of the patch. ‘I will lower the price, and think myself well paid, if they defray the expence of my lodging; meanwhile, I’ll go and lead hither the cart that contains my puppets and my ape.’

So saying, he went out; and Don Quixote enquiring who this Master Peter was, with the puppet-shew and ape, the landlord replied, ‘This is a famous puppet-shew man, who had long travelled through La Mancha and Arragon, representing the story of Melisendra, who was delivered by the famous Don Gayferos, one of the most entertaining and best represented histories which have been for many years seen in this kingdom; he likewise carries along with him an ape of the rarest talent that ever was known among apes, or conceived among men: for if you ask any question, it listens attentively to what you say, then leaping upon his master’s shoulders, and clapping its mouth to his ear, it gives an answer, which Master Peter immediately explains. Of things that are past it says much more than of those that are to come, and though it does not hit the truth exactly in every thing, it errs but seldom; so that we are inclined to believe it is inspired by the devil. Every question costs a couple of rials, provided the ape answers; I mean, supposing the master answers for the ape, after it has whispered in his ear; wherefore, Master Peter is thought to be woundy rich: indeed, he is a gallant man, as they say in Italy, an excellent companion, and lives the pleasantest life in the world; he talks as much as any six, and drinks more than a dozen, and all at the expence of his tongue, his ape, and his puppet-shew.’

Just as he spoke these words, Master Peter returned with the cart that contained the puppets and the ape, which was a very large animal, without a tail; his buttocks were like felt, but not ugly withal; and Don Quixote no sooner beheld him than he asked, ‘Pray, Mr. Fortune-teller, what have we got in the net? what fortune awaits us? Behold, here are my two rials.’ So saying, he ordered Sancho to give them to Mr. Peter; who answered in the name of the ape, ‘Signior, this animal gives no response or intelligence concerning what is to come; he is only acquainted with the past, and knows something of the present.’—‘Rabbit it!’ cried Sancho, ‘I would not give a doit to be told of the past; for who knows that better than myself; and to pay for being informed of what I know, would be downright folly; but since he knows the present, here are my two rials; and tell me, good your apeship, how my wife Teresa Panza is at present employed?’ Master Peter refused to take the money; saying, ‘I will not receive a premium per advance, until it is preceded by service.’ Then clapping his hand twice upon his left shoulder, the ape with one skip, leaped upon it, and laying its mouth to his ear, began to mow and chatter with great eagerness; having made this motion, which continued as long time as one would take in repeating the creed, with another skip he leaped upon the ground. Immediately Master Peter, with infinite hurry, threw himself on his knees before Don Quixote, and hugging his shins, exclaimed, ‘These legs I embrace, as I would embrace the pillars of Hercules, O thou celebrated reviver of the already forgotten order of knight-errantry! thou never enough to be applauded cavalier Don Quixote de La Mancha; the soul of the dejected, the prop of the falling, the shield of those that are fallen, the staff and comfort of all the unhappy!’ Don Quixote was alarmed, Sancho thunderstruck; the scholar surprized, the page confounded, the Braywick carrier amazed, the landlord astonished, and, in a word, admiration prevailed among all those who heard the words of the shewman; while he proceeded, saying, ‘And thou, worthy Sancho Panza, the best squire of the bravest knight in the universe, be merry and rejoice; for thine agreeable helpmate Teresa is in good health, and this very moment employed in dressing a pound of flax; by the same token, there stands at her right-hand a broken mouthed pitcher, containing a good sup of wine, with which she comforts herself while she is at work.’—‘That I can easily believe,’ answered Sancho; ‘for she is a rare one, and if she was not a little given to jealousy, I would not exchange her for the giantess Andandona, who, as my master says, was a very proper and compleat housewife; and truly my Teresa is one of those who will live to their heart’s content, even though their heirs pay for it.’

‘I am now convinced,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that he who reads and travels much, will see and learn a great deal. This observation I make, because no arguments would have been sufficient to persuade me, that there are apes in the world endowed with the gift of divination, as I have this day seen with my own eyes; for I am the very Don Quixote named by that good animal, which, however, has expatiated rather too much in my praise; but be that as it may, I give thanks to God, who bestowed upon me a mild and compassionate disposition, ever inclined to do good to all mankind, and harm to no person whatever.’—‘If I had money,’ said the page, ‘I would ask Signior Ape, what will be the success of my present perigrination?’ To this hint, Master Peter, who had rose from his prostration, replied, ‘I have already told you, that this creature does not answer for what is to come; if he did, your want of money would be no objection; for, in order to to serve Don Quixote here present, I would willingly forfeit all the interested views in the world; and now, as in duty bound, I will, for his amusement, set up my shew, and divert all the people in the house, without fee or reward.’ The landlord, hearing this declaration, was rejoiced beyond measure, and pointed out a proper place for the exhibition of his entertainment, which was prepared in a twinkling.

Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the ape, as he did not think it natural for such an animal to divine, in things either past, present, or to come; and, therefore, while Master Peter was busy in setting up his shew, he retired, with his squire, to a corner of the stable, where they could confer together without being overheard, and spoke to this effect: ‘Hark ye, Sancho, I have considered this wonderful talent of the ape; and, according to my notion, this same Master Peter, its owner, must certainly have made a secret or express pact with the devil.’—‘Nay, if it be the devil’s pack,’ answered Sancho, ‘it must be a very dirty pack; but what signifies such a pack to Master Peter?’—‘Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘you do not understand my meaning; what I would say is, that he must certainly have made some concert with the devil who hath infused this talent into the ape, by which he gains his livelihood; and when he becomes rich, he must yield him his soul, which is the aim of that universal enemy of mankind; and what confirms me in this opinion, is, that the ape answers no questions but such as regard the past and present time: now, the devil’s understanding reaches no farther; what is to come he knows only by conjecture, and that not always; for it is the attribute of God alone to know times and seasons; to him there is neither past nor future, but all things are ever present to his eyes. This being the case, as doubtless it is, the ape certainly speaks from the inspiration of the devil; and I am surprized it hath not been accused and examined by the holy office, which would soon discover by virtue of whom it presumes to divine; for surely this ape is no astrologer, nor did he or his master ever raise, or were capable of raising, those figures called judicial, which are now so common in Spain, that every pitiful little hussy, page, and even cobler, has the impudence to raise an horoscope, as readily as a knave of trumps, from the ground, ruining and disgracing, by their ignorance and falsities, the wonderful truth of that noble science. One lady I myself know, who having enquired of one of those pretenders, whether a little bitch she had would have puppies, how many, and of what colour they would be; Mr. Astrologer, after having raised his figure, replied, that the bitch would bring forth three puppies, one of a green, another of carnation, and a third of a mixed colour, provided the bitch would take the dog between the hours of eleven and twelve at noon or night, on Saturday or Monday. Notwithstanding this prediction, the bitch died in three days of a surfeit; and yet Mr. Figure-caster was still esteemed in the place a most infallible astrologer, as almost all those fellows are.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered Sancho, ‘I wish your worship would desire Master Peter to ask his ape, if what happened to your worship in the cave of Montesinos is really true; as for my own part, begging your worship’s pardon, I cannot for the blood of me help thinking it was all a flam and a lye, or at least no better than a dream.’—‘It may be so,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘But I will take thy advice; for truly, I myself have some sort of scruples about the matter.’

Here he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Peter, who came to tell him that the shew was ready, and invite him to come and see it; for it would be well worth his trouble. Then the knight imparted his sentiments, desiring he would ask the ape whether or not certain incidents that happened in the cave of Montesinos, were dreams or realities, for to him the whole seemed to be a mixture of both, Master Peter, without answering one word, went and brought the ape into the presence of Don Quixote and Sancho, and thus accosted it: ‘Look ye, Mr. Ape, this knight wants to know, whether certain things that happened to him in a place called the cave of Montesinos be true or false.’ Then making the usual signal, the creature leaped upon his left-shoulder, and seemingly whispered something in his ear. In consequence of this communication, ‘The ape,’ said Master Peter, ‘declares, that part of what your worship saw and underwent in that same cave is false, and part is likely to be true; and this, and nothing else, is all he knows touching that interrogation: but if your worship desires to be farther informed he will next Friday answer all the questions you can ask; at present his virtue has left him, and will not return till Friday, as I have already observed.’—‘Signior,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘did not I always affirm your worship should never make me believe that all, or even the half of those accidents you pretended to have met with in the cave was true?’—‘The event will shew,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for there is nothing that time, the discoverer of all things, will not bring to light, even though it should be hidden in the bowels of the earth. Let that suffice for the present; and now we will go and see the puppet-shew of honest Master Peter, which I really believe will be productive of some novelty.’—‘Of some!’ cried master Peter: ‘my shew is productive of sixty thousand. Why, I tell your worship, Signior Don Quixote, there is nothing equal to it in the whole world; but, _Operibus credite & non verbis_: let us begin presently; for it grows late, and we have a great deal to do, to say, and to shew.’

In consequence of this request, Don Quixote and Sancho repaired to the place where the puppet-shew was set up, and set forth with a great number of little wax-lights, which made a most resplendent appearance. Master Peter withdrew within the curtain, in order to play the figures of the piece; and on the outside sat a boy, who was his servant, to interpret and explain the mysteries of the shew, holding a wand, with which he pointed out the puppets as they entered. All the people of the inn being seated, some fronting the stage, and Don Quixote with Sancho, the page and the scholar, accommodated with the best places, the dragoman began to pronounce that which will be heard and seen by those who will take the trouble to read or peruse the following chapter.

CHAP. IX. IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE DIVERTING ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHEW; WITH OTHER MATTERS REALLY ENTERTAINING ENOUGH.

Universal silence prevailed among Tyrians as well as Trojans; that is, all the spectators of the shew sat in silent expectation, suspended as it were on the mouth of him who was appointed to expound the wonders of the piece; when their ears were saluted with the sound of attabals, trumpets, and artillery, that issued from behind the scene; and this noise being soon over, the boy thus began in an audible voice: ‘This true history, which will now be represented before the honourable company, is literally extracted from the French chronicles and Spanish ballads, which may be heard every day repeated in the streets by man, woman, and child. It exhibits the manner in which Signior Don Gayferos accomplished the deliverance of his spouse Melisendra, who was a captive in Spain, detained by the Moors in the city of Sansuenna, which was formerly the name given to what we now call Saragossa; and pray, gentlemen, take notice, Don Gayferos is playing at tables, according to the old song:

‘“Now Gayferos, at tables playing, Of Melisendra thinks no more.”

‘And that personage who next appears, with a crown on his head and a sceptre in his hand, is the emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of Melisendra, who, vexed at the indolence and carelessness of his son-in-law, comes forth to chide him; and observe with what vehemence and keenness he seems to scold; one would imagine he intended to give him half a dozen raps on the pate with his sceptre; nay, some authors say that he actually did bestow them, aye, and that with very good-will: after having said abundance of things concerning the risk his honour would run, if he did not effect the deliverance of his spouse, he is reported to have added these words, “I have said enough, look to it.” Behold, gentlemen, how the emperor turns about and walks off, leaving Don Gayferos in a fume, who, in the impatience of his anger, throws away the tablet and pieces, and calls hastily for his armour, desiring his cousin Orlando to lend him his sword Durindana. Don Orlando will not comply with his request; but offers to attend him in his difficult enterprize: however, the provoked hero will not accept of his offer; on the contrary, he says his own single arm is sufficient to deliver his wife, even though she were concealed in the profoundest centre of the earth. So saying, he goes in to arm, that he may be able to set out with all expedition. Gentlemen, turn your eyes to the tower that appears yonder, and suppose it one of the towers belonging to the castle of Saragossa, now called Aljaferia. That lady who stands in the balcony in the Moorish dress is the peerless Melisendra, who from thence hath often cast her longing eyes towards the road to France, and consoled herself in her captivity, by thinking on the city of Paris and her valiant lord. Observe likewise a new incident, the like of which perhaps you have never seen before: don’t you see that Moor stealing along silently and softly, step by step, with his finger on his mouth, behind Melisendra? Now mind how he prints a kiss in the very middle of her lips, and with what eagerness she spits, and wipes them with the sleeves of her shift, lamenting aloud, and tearing, for anger, her beautiful hair, as if it had been guilty of the transgression. Behold, now, that venerable Moor in yon gallery; he is Marsilius, the king of Sansuenna, who, having perceived the insolence of the Moor, although he was his own relation, and a great favourite, orders him to be apprehended, and carried through the principal streets of the city, with the criers before, and the rods behind, with which he is to receive two hundred stripes; and here you shall see the sentence executed, almost as soon as the crime is committed; for among the Moors there is no copy of a writ, trial, or delay, as in our courts of justice.’

Here Don Quixote interposing, said, with a loud voice, ‘Boy, boy, follow your story in a right line, without falling into curves and crosses; for there is not so much proof and counter-proof required to bring truth to light.’—‘Sirrah,’ cried Mr. Peter, from the curtain, ‘none of your vagaries, but follow that gentleman’s counsel, which is good and wholesome; sing your plain song, without counterpoints; for you may spin your thread so fine as to break it.’—‘I shall obey your orders,’ answered the boy, who proceeded, saying—

‘That there figure a horseback, wrapped up in a cloak of Gascony, is the very individual Don Gayferos, to whom his only lady, by this time revenged of the presumptuous and enamoured Moor, talks with more seeming composure from the battlements of the tower, supposing him to be some traveller, and between the two passeth the whole discourse and conversation, recorded in the ballad, which says,

‘“Sir knight, if you to France do go, For Gayferos enquire:”

‘together with what follows, which I shall not at present repeat, because prolixity engenders disgust. Let it suffice that you see how Gayferos discovers himself, and that we learn from the joyful gestures of Melisendra, that she recognizes her husband; especially as we now see her let herself down from the balcony, in order to get a-horseback behind her loving spouse; but as ill luck would have it, the border of her under petticoat has caught hold of one of the iron spikes of the balcony, and there she hangs dangling, without being able to reach the ground: but you see how compassionate Heaven brings relief in the most pressing emergencies; for Don Gayferos comes to her assistance, and without minding whether or not the rich petticoat may be torn, seizes his lady, and by main force brings her to the ground; then with one jerk, sets her upon the crupper of his horse, astride like a man, bidding her hold fast, and throw her arms around his neck, so as to cross them on his breast, that she may be in no danger of falling; for my Lady Melisendra was not used to ride in that manner: you likewise perceive how the horse, by his neighing, expresses the satisfaction he feels in carrying the valiant and beautiful burden of his lord and mistress. You see how they turn about, and quitting the city, take the road to Paris, with equal eagerness and joy. Go in peace, ye peerless pair of faithful lovers; may you arrive in safety at your desired country, without fortune’s raising any obstruction to your happy journey; and may the eyes of your friends and kindred behold you enjoy in peace all the days of your life, which I hope will exceed the age of Nestor!’ Here Mr. Peter interposing again, called aloud, ‘None of your flourishes, sirrah; seek not to entangle yourself, for all affectation is naught.’ The interpreter, without answering a syllable, went on in this manner. ‘There were not wanting some idle eyes which nothing can escape, and they, perceiving the descent and flight of Melisendra, gave notice of it to king Marsilio, who straight gave orders for sounding to arms: and behold the hurry and commotion of the city, occasioned by the sound of bells that ring in every minaret.’

‘It cannot be,’ cried Don Quixote. ‘In what regards the bells, Mr. Peter is guilty of an impropriety; for the Moors use no bells, but attabals or kettle-drums, and a kind of dulcimers, like those belonging to our waits; so that the circumstance of ringing bells in Sansuenna is a downright absurdity.’ Mr. Peter hearing this observation, left off ringing and answered, ‘Signior Don Quixote, your worship must not mind such trifles, nor seek for that perfection which is not to be found. How many plays do you see every day represented, full of impropriety and absurdities? yet they happily run their career, and are heard, not simply with applause, but even with universal admiration. Proceed, boy, and let people talk; for, provided I fill my pocket, I don’t care if there should be more improprieties than there are atoms in the sun.’—‘You are in the right,’ replied the knight; and thus the boy went on:

‘Behold what a number of resplendent cavalry marches out of the city in pursuit of the two catholick lovers: what a sound of trumpets, tinkling of dulcimers, and rattling of drums and kettle-drums! I am afraid they will overtake and bring them back tied to their horse’s tail, and that would be a most dismal spectacle.’

Don Quixote seeing such a number of Moors, and hearing this uproar, thought it was incumbent upon him to assist the fugitives; and therefore starting up, he pronounced with a loud voice, ‘Never, while I breathe, will I consent that such an injury should be done in my presence to a knight so famous, daring, and enamoured, as is Don Gayferos: desist, ye base-born plebeians; seek not to follow and punish him, but face me in battle, if you dare.’ With these words and actions he unsheathed his sword, and springing up to the puppet shew, began with incredible agility and fury to lay about him among the Moorish puppets, demolishing some, beheading others, maiming this, and hacking that; and in the course of this exercise, he fetched such a back-stroke, that had not Mr. Peter stooped and squatted down with great expedition, he would have sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made of ginger-bread. This unfortunate shew-man exalting his voice, ‘Hold, for the love of God! Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘and take notice, that those whom you overthrow, kill and destroy, are not real Moors, but poor, harmless, little figures of paste; consider, sinner that I am! you are ruining me, by depriving me of my livelihood.’ Notwithstanding this remonstrance, the knight continued to play away in a perfect shower of back-strokes, fore strokes, outside and inside, that fell as thick as hail; so that in less than a couple of credos, he brought the whole shew to the ground, all the tackle and figures being hewed down and dismembered; king Marsilio himself sorely wounded, and the crown, together with the head of the emperor, cleft in twain. The whole audience was involved in confusion; the ape fled to the roof of the house, the scholar trembled, the page was seized with consternation, and Sancho Panza himself overwhelmed with terror and dismay; for, as he swore after the hurricane subsided, he had never before seen his master in such a frantick rage.

The puppet-shew being thus entirely demolished, Don Quixote became a little more composed, saying, ‘I wish I had before me, at this very moment, those who either do not, or will not believe that knights-errant are of any benefit or service to mankind, that they might see what would have become of the worthy Don Gayferos, and the beautiful Melisendra, had not I been present on this occasion; certainly, by this time, they would have been overtaken by these dogs, who would have done them some grievous injury: let knight-errantry, therefore, live and flourish above all things upon the face of the earth.’—‘In a happy hour let it live,’ cried Mr. Peter in a languid tone, ‘and let me die, who am so unfortunate, that I may say with king Rodrigo, “Yesterday I was lord of Spain, and now there is not one battlement I can call my own.” Half an hour, yea not half a minute is elapsed, since I saw myself in possession of kings and emperors; my stables, coffers, and bags, were filled with an infinite number of horses and other gay particulars, and now I find myself quite desolate and abased, poor and beggarly, and, which is worst of all, deprived of my ape, who in good faith will make my teeth sweat, before he returns to me his lawful master; and all this misfortune I have suffered from this here Sir Knight, who is said to protect orphans, rectify wrongs, and perform other charitable actions; but, in me alone, his generous intention has failed; blessed and praised be the highest Heavens above! In a word, the Knight of the Rueful Figure is he by whom I and mine are disfigured and undone.’

Sancho Panza melted at this piteous lamentation: ‘Do not weep, Mr. Peter,’ said he, ‘do not whine so piteously, or thou’lt break my heart, for I’d have thee know, my master Don Quixote is such a catholick and scrupulous Christian, that provided he be convinced of having done thee wrong, he knows how to make amends, and will satisfy and repay thee with double interest.’—‘If Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the shew-man, ‘will make some atonement for the deeds by which he has undone me, I shall rest satisfied, and his worship’s conscience will be at peace; for that man cannot expect salvation who withholds the effects of his neighbour against his will, and refuses to make restitution.’—‘You are in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but as yet I do not know that I withhold any of your effects, Mr. Peter.’—‘How! none of mine?’ cried the shew-man, ‘and these unfortunate remains that lie extended on the hard and barren pavement, were they not thus scattered and annihilated by the invincible force of that redoubted arm? to whom but me did their unhappy bodies belong? and with what but them did I procure a comfortable subsistence?’—‘Now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘I am fully convinced of what I have on divers occasions believed; namely, that those inchanters, by whom I am persecuted, take pleasure in presenting realities to my view, and then changing and metamorphosing them into such figures and forms as they chuse to bestow: believe me, gentlemen, to me every thing that has passed appeared a true and literal concurrence of real facts; and the figures represented seemed to be really and truly the very individual persons of Melisendra, Don Gayferos, Marsilio, and Charlemagne: in consequence of that belief, my wrath was provoked; and, in order to fulfil the function of a knight-errant, I resolved to favour and assist the fair fugitive; in the execution of which resolve, I have done what you see. If the exploit has turned out contrary to my expectation, the blame ought not to lie with me, but with those miscreants, by whom I am persecuted: nevertheless, as I have committed an error, although it did not proceed from malice aforethought, I stand by my own award condemned in costs; let Mr. Peter make out his own bill of the figures that are demolished, and I promise it shall be paid on the spot, in good and lawful current coin of this kingdom.’ The shew-man hearing this declaration, made a profound bow, saying, ‘I expected no less from the unheard-of Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, the unflinching auxiliary and support of the whole tribe of needy and forlorn vagabonds: Mr. Landlord and the great Sancho shall act as moderators and appraisers between your worship and me, with regard to what the injured figures are or might be worth.’

The innkeeper and squire having undertaken this office, Mr. Peter lifted up the headless Marsilio king of Saragossa, saying, ‘You see how impossible it is to reinstate the king in his former situation; and, therefore, with submission to better judgments, I think I must be allowed four rials and an half, on account of his death and final perdition.’ The knight desiring him to proceed, ‘Then,’ said he, ‘for this dreadful gash from top to bottom,’ (taking up the cloven emperor Charlemagne) ‘I cannot be thought exorbitant, if I demand five rials and a quarter.’—‘That’s no small matter,’ said Sancho. ‘Nor a great deal too much,’ replied the landlord. ‘Split the difference, and set him down at five rials.’—‘Let him have the whole five and a quarter,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for in such a notable misfortune, a quarter more or less is a mere trifle. And pray, dispatch, Mr. Peter, for it is now supper-time, and I begin to feel some symptoms of a keen appetite.’—‘For that figure without a nose, and deprived of one eye, which is the beautiful Melisendra,’ proceeded Peter, ‘I demand two rials and twelve maravedis.’—‘The devil’s in’t,’ cried the knight, ‘if Melisendra is not by this time, with her husband, at least upon the frontiers of France; for the horse on which they were mounted, seemed to fly rather than tread the ground; so that there is no reason for your selling me a cat instead of a coney; that is, in presenting me with a noseless Melisendra, when, in all probability, that lady is now enjoying herself at leisure with her husband in France. God give every man joy of his own, Mr. Peter, and let us all endeavour to walk tightly and rightly! and now you may proceed.’ Mr. Peter perceiving Don Quixote beginning to warp and return to his old bias, resolved to be even with him, and with that view said, ‘This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of her waiting-women, for whom I shall think myself very well paid, and rest satisfied with threescore maravedis.’ In the same manner did he set prices on many other maimed figures, so that, after they were moderated by the two arbitrators to the satisfaction of both parties, the whole sum amounted to forty rials and three quarters, which being disbursed by Sancho, Mr. Peter demanded another brace of rials for the trouble he should have in catching the ape. ‘Let him have them, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘not for catching the ape but the juice of the grape[161]; and I would now give two hundred as a reward to any person who would certify that the Lady Donna Melisendra, and her lord Don Gayferos, are now safe among their friends in France.’—‘No person upon earth can resolve that question sooner or better than my ape,’ replied Mr. Peter; ‘but the devil himself cannot catch him at present, though I imagine hunger and affection will compel him to return to me some time to-night; and if God will send us a new day, we shall see what can be done.’ In time, the hurricane of the puppet-shew being quite blown over, the whole company supped together in peace and good fellowship, at the expence of Don Quixote, who was liberal to excess.

Before day-break, the lance and halbert carrier set out for his village, and early in the morning the scholar and the page came to take their leave of Don Quixote, the first intending to return to his own home, and the other to pursue his journey, for the comfort of which the knight made him a present of a dozen rials. Mr. Peter, having no inclination to re-involve himself in any sort of dispute with Don Quixote, to whose disposition he was no stranger, arose before the sun, and packing up the remains of his puppets, together with his ape, sallied forth also in quest of farther adventures. The innkeeper, who knew not Don Quixote, was equally astonished at his madness and liberality. Finally, Sancho paid him handsomely, by his master’s order, and the two bidding him farewel about eight o’clock in the morning, left the inn, and betook themselves to the road, in which we will leave them, having now a proper opportunity to recount other incidents appertaining and necessary to the illustration of this famous history.

Footnote 161:

In the original there is a miserable pun upon the words Mono and Mona, the first of which signifies an ape, and the other drunkenness.

CHAP. X. IN WHICH THE READER WILL DISCOVER WHO MR. PETER AND HIS APE WERE—TOGETHER WITH DON QUIXOTE’S BAD SUCCESS IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH DID NOT AT ALL TURN OUT ACCORDING TO HIS WISH AND EXPECTATION.

Cid Hamet, author of this sublime history, begins this chapter with these words: ‘I swear, as a Catholick Christian:’ and upon this occasion, the translator observes, that Cid Hamet being a Moor, as he certainly was, in swearing as a Catholick Christian, means no more than that, as a Catholick Christian, when he makes oath, swears he will speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, in like manner he would adhere to it, as a Catholick Christian adheres to his oath, in what he intended to write concerning Don Quixote, especially in disclosing the mystery of Mr. Peter and the fortune-telling ape, whose talent attracted the admiration of all that country. He then proceeds to observe, that he who has read the first part of this history, cannot but remember that same Gines de Passamonte, whom, together with his fellow-slaves, Don Quixote set at liberty near the Brown Mountain; a benefit for which he was ill thanked, and worse requited, by that mischievous and immoral crew. This Gines de Passamonte, whom Don Quixote called Ginesillo de Parapilla, was the very thief who stole Sancho’s Dapple; and as, through the fault of the printers, neither the time nor the manner of that conveyance is described, in the first part of the book, many people ascribed this error of the press to want of memory in the author: but, in short, stolen he was, by Gines, even while Sancho was sitting sleeping on his back, by means of the same contrivance and expedient that was used by Brunelo, who, while Sacripante lay at Albraça, withdrew his horse from between his legs; and Sancho afterwards retrieved him, as we have already related. Gines, then, afraid of being overtaken by justice, that was in quest of him, to chastise him for his numberless tricks and transgressions, which were so manifold and remarkable as to fill a large volume of his own composing, resolved to remove himself into the kingdom of Arragon, to cover his left eye with a patch, and profess the occupation of playing puppets, and performing tricks of legerdemain, which he understood to great perfection; he afterwards happened to fall in company with some Christians just delivered from bondage in Barbary, of whom he purchased that ape, which he taught to leap upon his shoulder, at a certain signal, and whisper, or seem to whisper in his ear. Having so far succeeded, before he entered any place with his puppet-shew and ape, he took care to inform himself at the next village, or of any person whom he could conveniently pump, of the particular accidents that had happened at that place, with all their circumstances, which he retained by dint of a tenacious memory. The first thing he did, was to represent his puppet-shew, the subject of which he extracted sometimes from one story, and sometimes from another; but it was always full of mirth and entertainment, and well known; and this being ended, he propounded the talents of his ape; telling the audience that he could disclose the past and present; but with regard to the future, he pretended to no knowledge: for every response he demanded two rials, though sometimes he afforded them cheaper, just as he felt the pulse of his consulters; and as he sometimes came to families, the anecdotes of which he knew, even though they would spend no money upon questions, he would make the signal to the ape, and then say he had communicated this and that circumstance, which tallied exactly with what had really happened. By these means he acquired the credit of infallibility, and drew the whole country after him; at other times, as he had abundance of cunning and penetration, he would answer in such a manner, that the responses agreed perfectly well with the questions; and there being nobody to hamper him, by enquiring and sifting into the bottom of this pretended divination of the monkey, he found means to make monkeys of all his followers, and fill his bags at the same time. As soon as he entered the inn, he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, and this recognition enabled him to excite the admiration of the knight, squire, and all the by-standers: but his art would have cost him dear, had Don Quixote lowered his hand a little, when he decapitated king Marsilio, and destroyed his whole cavalry, as we have related that adventure in the preceding chapter.

[Illustration: Don Quixote Meets the Soldiers.]

So much for Mr. Peter and his ape; and now returning to Don Quixote de La Mancha, we must observe, that after having departed from the inn, he resolved, in the first place, to visit the banks of the river Ebro, and all the circumjacent country, before he should enter the city of Saragossa, as the length of time between this period and the tournaments permitted him to make such an excursion. With this resolution he proceeded in the road, through which he travelled two days, without encountering any thing worth relating, until on the third, as he ascended a rising ground, his ears were saluted with a mighty noise of kettle-drums, trumpets, and muskets, which he at first imagined might proceed from some company of soldiers marching that way; in order, therefore, to view them, he spurred up Rozinante, and when he reached the top of the rising ground, saw below, as near as he could guess, above two hundred men, equipped with different kinds of arms, such as lances, cross-bows, partisans, halberts, pikes, a few muskets, and a great number of targets. He rode down the hill, and drew so near this squadron, that he could distinguish their colours, and observe their devices, particularly a banner or pendant of white sattin, on which was painted to the life, an ass of the small Sardinian breed, with his head raised, his mouth open, and his tongue lolling out as if in the very act and attitude of braying, and surrounded by this motto, in capital letters—

‘It is no children’s play, When brother bailiffs bray.’

From this symbol Don Quixote gathered, that those people belonged to the village of Braywick; and this discovery he communicated to Sancho, whom he likewise made acquainted with the motto of the standard; observing, at the same time, that he, by whom they were informed of the adventure, had committed a mistake, in saying the brayers were aldermen; for, according to this couplet, they must have been bailiffs. To this observation, Sancho replied, ‘Signior, in that circumstance, there is nothing to be mended; for those who were aldermen when they brayed, might very well in time come to be bailiffs of the corporation, consequently they may be mentioned with both titles; especially as it is of small signification to the truth of the story, whether the brayers were aldermen or bailiffs, provided they really conjunctly and severally did bray, for a bailiff is as likely to bray as an alderman.’

Finally, conjecturing and understanding that the people who were ridiculed had come forth to fight those who had ridiculed them, and carried the joke beyond the bounds of reason and good neighbourhood, Don Quixote approached their line of battle, to the no small chagrin of Sancho, who was never fond of interposing on such occasions; and they were immediately received by the whole squadron, who believed the knight was come to espouse their quarrel. Then Don Quixote lifting up his visor, with graceful ease and courteous demeanour, advanced to the standard of the ass, where he was environed by the chiefs of the army, who gazed at him with that admiration incident to all those who beheld him for the first time. The knight perceiving them looking at him so attentively, without speaking or asking any question, resolved to take advantage of their silence, and breaking his own, began in this manner, with an audible voice, ‘Worthy gentlemen, I beg, in the most earnest manner, that you will not interrupt a discourse I intend to make until you perceive it becomes insipid and disgusting; in which case, I will, upon the least sign, put a seal upon my lips, and a gag upon my tongue.’

All the spectators assured him, he might say what he pleased, and they would willingly give him the hearing; so that, thus licensed, he proceeded to this effect: ‘I, gentlemen, am a knight-errant, whose exercise is that of arms, and whose profession is to assist the needy, and favour those who want favour and protection. Some days ago I was informed of your disgrace, and the motives which have induced you to arm at every turn, in order to take vengeance on your enemies: and having once and again revolved your affairs in my mind, I find that, according to the laws of duel, you are in the wrong to suppose yourselves affronted: for no individual can affront a whole community, unless they are accused of treason by the lump, because the person guilty of the said treason is not known, consequently cannot be challenged by himself. Of this practice, we have an instance in Don Diego Ordonnez de Lara, who challenged the whole town of Zamorano, because he did not know that Velido Dolfos alone was the traitor who had slain his king; he therefore defied the whole body of inhabitants, and to the whole body of them did the answer and revenge belong: though, indeed, Signior Don Diego bordered upon extravagance, and exceeded the bounds of defiance; for he had not sufficient reason to challenge the dead, the water and the bread, or those who were yet unborn, as well as other minute matters therein set forth: but let that pass. When choler once is born, the tongue all curb doth scorn[162]; I mean, a bridle to restrain it. This being the case, then, that one single person cannot affront an entire kingdom, province, city, society, or corporation, it plainly appears, that you have no just cause to come forth, in order to take vengeance for that which was not really an affront: for it would be a good joke, indeed, if the inhabitants of a town called Clockwell, should take it in their heads, at every turn, to slay every person that might ask, “What is’t o’clock[163]?” Or if the cheesemongers, fruiterers, whalebone-sellers, soap-boilers, and those of other names and appellations that are in the mouth of every boy, and hacknied among the vulgar; I say, it would surely be a good joke, if all those people, who are distinguished by their different callings, should be ashamed and incensed at such simple provocations, and be always making sacbuts of their swords, in every trifling quarrel: no, no; God neither likes, nor will suffer such unjustifiable revenge. Prudent men, and well-ordered commonwealths, ought to take up arms, unsheathe their swords, and risque their persons, lives, and fortunes, for four causes only: Firstly, to defend the Catholick faith; secondly, in self-defence, which is justified by the laws of God and nature; thirdly, in behalf of one’s honour, family, and fortune; and fourthly, in the service of his majesty, when he is engaged in a just war: and if we should add a fifth cause (which, indeed, ought to be ranked as a second) it is the defence of one’s country. To these principle causes may be annexed some others, both just and reasonable, which may oblige us to have recourse to arms; but to take them up for childish trifles, and things that are rather subjects of laughter and diversion than of serious revenge, seems to denote a total defect of reason and discretion; especially as unjust vengeance (and surely no vengeance can be just) is diametrically opposite to that holy law we profess, by which we are enjoined to do good to our enemies, and love those by whom we are abhorred: a command which, though seemingly difficult, is not really hard to be observed, except by those who have less of God than of this world, and more of the flesh than of the Spirit; for Jesus Christ, the true God and true man, who never lyed, who neither was nor is capable of falshood, as being our eternal Lawgiver, tells us, that his yoke is easy, and his burden is light: therefore, he would not impose a command which we could not possibly fulfil; and consequently, good gentlemen, you are obliged by laws divine and human, to be appeased.’

At his period, Sancho said within himself, ‘The devil run away with me, if this master of mine is not a downright theologister! at least, if he is not, no two eggs were ever more alike.’ Don Quixote having taken breath a little, and finding the audience still attentive, was inclined to prosecute his harangue, and would certainly have pursued the subject, had not he been prevented by the archness of Sancho, who, during his master’s pause, took it in hand, saying, ‘My master, Don Quixote de La Mancha, who, at one time, went by the name of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, but is at present called the Knight of the Lions, is a very learned gentleman, that understands Latin and Castilian like a perfect batchelor of arts. In all his sermons and exhortations, he proceeds like a very able soldier, as having all the laws and ordinances of what you call duel, at his finger’s end; therefore, you have no more to do but let yourselves be guided by his counsel; and if you go wrong, the blame shall lie upon my shoulders; especially, as he hath already told you that it is mere madness to be angry without any cause but that of a man’s braying. I remember, when I was a boy, I brayed whensoever and wheresoever I pleased, without lett or molestation; aye, and so prettily and naturally, that I was always answered by all the asses of the common; yet, for all that, I did not cease to be the son of my parents, who were most worthy people; and though, for this talent, I was envied by more than enow of the gravest folks in the parish, I valued not their envy two farthings: and, that you may see I speak nothing but the truth, wait a little, and give me the hearing; for the art of braying is like that of swimming, which, when once learned, is never forgot.’

So saying, he clapped his fingers to his nostrils, and began to bray so stoutly, that all the neighbouring vallies re-echoed the sound. But one of those who stood next him, supposing the squire made himself merry at their expence, lifted up a pole that was in his hand, and bestowed it upon him with such good will, that Sancho, in spite of his efforts, came to the ground.

Don Quixote, seeing his squire so roughly handled, attacked the aggressor lance in hand; but such a number of people interposed, that he found it impossible to take vengeance: on the contrary, perceiving a cloud of stones ready to pour upon him, and being threatened by a vast number of presented cross-bows and muskets, he wheeled Rozinante about, and galloped off as fast as the steed could carry him; recommending himself heartily to the protection of God, that he might be delivered from that danger; and in the apprehension that some ball would enter at his shoulder, and make its exit through his breast, he held in his breath, at every step, in order to know whether or not he was wounded. But those who composed the squadron, being satisfied with his flight, did not shoot after him; and as for Sancho, they laid him across upon his beast, as soon as he recovered the use of his senses, and allowed him to follow his master; not that he was able to manage the ass; but Dapple followed the footsteps of Rozinante, from whom he could not bear to be parted, though but for a moment. The knight having rode a good way, turned his horse’s head, and seeing Sancho following, waited for his coming up, as he perceived nobody attempted to pursue him.

The warriors of Braywick kept their ground till night, and as their adversaries did not think proper to give them battle, returned to their own town with joy and satisfaction; and had they known the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have erected a trophy on the spot.

Footnote 162:

Literally, ‘When choler quits the mother, the tongue has then no father.’

Footnote 163:

I have ventured to deviate a little from the precise meaning of the original, which the reader will own to be very insipid when he reads the literal translation: ‘For it would be good, if the inhabitants of the town of Reloxa,’ (signifying a watch, or clock) ‘should, at every turn, slay those that call them so.’

CHAP. XI. OF THINGS RELATED BY BENENGELI, WHICH HE WHO READS THEM ATTENTIVELY, WILL KNOW.

When a brave man flies, he must have discovered some odds or foul play; and it is the business of prudent captains, to reserve themselves for better occasions. This maxim was verified in Don Quixote, who, by giving way to popular fury, and the evil intention of that incensed squadron, took to his heels, and without paying the least regard to Sancho, or the danger in which he left him, moved off to such a distance as he judged sufficient for his own security. He was followed by Sancho lying across the ass, as we have already observed, who, by that time he was brought up to his master, had just recovered the use of his senses, and fell from Dapple at the feet of Rozinante, all battered and bruised, and in an agony of pain.

The knight dismounting to search his wounds, no sooner perceived he was sound from head to foot, than he thus accosted him in an angry tone: ‘In evil hour, you must understand braying, sirrah! Where did you learn it was convenient to talk of halters in the house of a man that was hanged? To the tenor of braying what bass could you expect but the basting of a cudgel? You have reason to thank God that, instead of receiving a benediction with a pole, you have not been crossed with a scymitar.’—‘I am at present in no condition to answer,’ said Sancho; ‘for methinks I talk through my shoulders: let us mount and depart from this place, and I shall make an end of my braying; though I shall never be weary of telling as how knights-errant run away, and leave their honest squires, beaten to chaff and pounded to cinders, in the power of their enemies.’—‘There is a wide difference between flying and retreating,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for you must know, Sancho, that valour which is not founded on the base of discretion, is termed temerity or rashness; and the achievements of a rash person ought to be ascribed rather to good fortune than courage. I own, therefore, I have retreated, but not fled; and in so doing have imitated a great number of valiant chiefs, who reserved themselves for more dignified occasions: and of these instances histories are full; but I omit rehearsing them at present, because the recital would be of no advantage to thee, or entertainment to myself.’

By this time, Sancho being set upon his ass again by Don Quixote, who likewise mounted Rozinante, they jogged along softly, in order to shelter themselves in a grove that appeared at the distance of a quarter of a league; and the squire, every now and then heaving up a most profound ‘Ah!’ accompanied with piteous groans, his master desired to know the cause of such bitter ejaculations. To which question the squire replied, that from the extremity of his rump to the nape of his neck, he felt such intolerable pain as was like to deprive him of his senses. ‘The cause of that pain,’ said Don Quixote, ‘must doubtless be this; as the pole or staff by which you have suffered was long and large, it extended over the whole back, comprehending all those parts that now give you pain; and if it had reached still farther, the pain would have been more extensive.’—‘’Fore God,’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship has taken me out of a huge uncertainty, and resolved the doubt in delicate terms. Body o’me! was the cause of my pain so mysterious, that there was a necessity for telling me, I feel pain in those parts that were cudgelled? Had my shins ached, there might have been some reason for guessing at the cause of their aching; but, surely, there is no great witchcraft required to tell me that my back aches, because it was crossed with a quarter staff! In good faith, Sir Master of mine, Our neighbour’s care hangs by a hair. Every day I see more and more how the land lies, and how little I have to expect from keeping your worship’s company; for if you left me to be cudgelled at this time, we shall, upon a hundred different occasions, return to our late blankettings and other such toys; and though this misfortune has fallen upon my shoulders, they next may light upon my eyes. Abundantly better should I have done, but I am such a barbarian, that in all the days of my life, I never did well; I say again, abundantly better should I have done, had I returned to my house, my wife, and my children, and maintained and brought them up with what Providence should please to bestow, rather than fag after your worship in this manner, through roadless roads, and pathless paths, drinking bad liquor and eating worse food; then, when I come to sleep—“Brother squire, measure out seven feet of ground; and if you chuse to be more at your ease, take as much more, for the ladle is in your own hand, and lay yourself out to your heart’s desire.” Would to God I could see the first man who meddled with knight-errantry burnt to a cinder; at least the first booby who chose to be squire to such wiseacres as all former knights-errant must have been! Of the present, I say nothing; as your worship is one of the number, I hold them in respect, because I am sensible, that in speeching and understanding, you know a point more than the devil himself.’

‘I would venture to lay a good wager, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that now, while you are permitted to speak without the least hindrance, you feel no pain in any part of your body. Proceed, child, and out with every thing that comes into your head, or tarries at your tongue’s end; for, provided you are free from pain, I shall convert into pleasure that disgust which proceeds from your folly and impertinence; and if you are so much bent upon returning to your house, your wife and your family, God forbid that I should oppose your resolution. You have some of my money in your hands; recollect how long it is since we set out on this my third sally; then reckon what you might and should have earned monthly, and be your own paymaster.’—‘When I worked for Thomas Carrasco, father of Batchelor Sampson, who is your worship’s acquaintance,’ answered Sancho, ‘I earned two ducats a month, besides my victuals: with your worship I know not what I can earn; though well I know that the squire of a knight-errant has a much more troublesome office than that of a farmer’s servant; for, in fact, we who serve husbandmen, let us work never so hard through the day, and happen what will, have a hot supper out of the pot at night, and lie in a good bed, which I have never enjoyed since I have been in your worship’s service, except for that short space of time that we stayed in the house of Don Diego de Miranda; and bating the good cheer I found among the scum of Camacho’s kettle, and my eating, drinking, and sleeping, at the habitation of Basilius; all the rest of the time I have slept on the hard ground, under the cope of heaven, exposed to what you call the inclemencies of the weather, living upon cheese-pairings and crusts of bread, and drinking cold water, sometimes from the brooks and sometimes from the springs we met with in the publick roads through which we travelled.’

‘Allowing,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that all you have mentioned is true, how much more do you think I ought to give you than that which you received from Thomas Carrasco?’—‘With the addition of two rials a month,’ replied Sancho, ‘I shall think myself well paid, that is, with regard to my wages; but, as to some satisfaction for your worship’s word and promise of making me a governor of an island, methinks it would be but fair and honest to add six rials more; and then, altogether will come to thirty.’—‘Very well reckoned,’ answered the knight; ‘now, according to the tale of wages you have mentioned, calculate fairly and exactly what I am indebted to you, for the five and twenty days that are elapsed since our departure from our own village, and, as I said before, be your own paymaster.’—‘Body o’me!’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship is quite out in your reckoning; for in regard to the promise of the island, we must compute from the day in which your honour made the said promise to this blessed hour.’—‘How long, then, has that same promise been made?’ said Don Quixote. ‘If my memory does not fail me,’ answered the squire, ‘it must be above twenty years, a few days over or under.’ Here, the knight slapping his forehead with his hand, began to laugh heartily, saying, ‘Why, my stay in the Sierra Morena, with the whole course of our peregrinations, has scarce employed two months: and wilt thou say I have promised thee that island these twenty years? Now I perceive thy intention is to keep, in lieu of wages, all my money that is in thy hands; and if that be the case, and thou really lookest upon it with an eye of desire, I give thee the whole sum from this moment, and much good may it do thee; for, provided I find myself rid of such a wretched squire, I shall think myself happy, though poor and pennyless. But, tell me, thou prevaricator of all the squirely ordinances of chivalry! where hast thou seen or read that any squire of a knight-errant ever presumed to bargain with his master touching a certain monthly salary for his service? Launch out, launch out! you ruffian, vagabond, and hobgoblin! for such you are; launch out, I say, into the _mare magnum_ of chivalry; and if you find that any squire ever attempted to say, or even to think, what thou hast here uttered, I will give thee leave to nail the passage on my forehead, and pinch the sign of the four nipples on my face, by way of additional mortification. Turn immediately the reins of the halter of your ass, and return to your house, your wife, and your family; for one step farther thou shalt not travel with me. O bread ill-bestowed! O promise misapplied! O wretch that favoured more of the beast than of the man! At this juncture, when I was on the eve of raising thee to such a station as would have ennobled thee, even in spite of thy wife, thou seekest to leave me! Now thou art going away, when I had firmly and unalterably resolved to make thee lord of the best island in the universe! In a word, as thou thyself hast observed upon other occasions, An ass’s mouth was not made for honey, &c. An ass thou art, an ass wilt thou be; aye, and thou wilt die like an ass, when the course of thy life is finished; for I am convinced that thy days will reach their utmost period, before thou shalt learn and know what a beast thou art!’

Sancho looked woefully at his master, while he poured forth these reproaches, from which the squire felt such compunction, that the tears started in his eyes; and he replied in a faint, whimpering tone, ‘My good master, I confess that, in order to be really and truly an ass, I want nothing but a tail, which, if your worship will furnish me with, I shall think it well bestowed, and serve you as a beast of burden all the days of my life. Good your worship, forgive and look upon my green years with compassion, and consider that I know very little; and if I speak a great deal of nonsense, it does not proceed from malice but infirmity; and Those who sin and kiss the rod, find favour in the sight of God.’—‘I should have been surprized, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘if thou hadst not seasoned thy discourse with some proverbial expression. Well, then, for the present, I forgive thee, in hope of thy amendment, and on condition that thou wilt not henceforward betray such a sordid and selfish disposition, but endeavour to enlarge thy heart, fortify and encourage thy mind, to wait the accomplishment of my promises; which, though it may not speedily happen, is nevertheless far from being impossible?’ Sancho said he would do his endeavour, and follow his advice, even though he should gather strength from feebleness.

Then they betook themselves to the covert of the grove, where the knight accommodated himself at the root of an elm, and the squire retreated to the foot of a beech; for these and other such trees never want feet, though they are always destitute of hands. Sancho passed the night in great trouble; for the cold air augmented the pain of his bruises; whereas, Don Quixote amused himself with his incessant meditations. Nevertheless, both master and man gave way to the operations of sleep, and at the approach of morn, prosecuted their way to the banks of the renowned Ebro, where they were involved in an adventure that will be recounted in the succeeding chapter.

CHAP. XII. OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE INCHANTED BARK.

By dint of travelling at a very deliberate pace for the space of two days after they quitted the grove, Don Quixote and Sancho arrived at the river Ebro, the sight of which afforded infinite pleasure to the knight, who eagerly contemplated the amenity of its banks, the transparency of its water, the tranquillity of its course, and the abundance of its chrystal stream, the joyous prospect of which renewed in his remembrance a thousand amorous thoughts, that chiefly turned upon what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos; for, although Master Peter’s ape had declared, that part of those circumstances was true, and part of them false, he inclined more to the belief that they were altogether real; while Sancho, on the contrary, looked upon the whole detail as one continued lye.

As they jogged on in this manner, their view was saluted by a small boat, without oars, or any other tackle, close to the river-side, and made fast to a tree that grew on the bank. Don Quixote looking around him, without perceiving any living soul, alighted immediately from Rozinante, commanding Sancho to quit the back of Dapple, and tie both beasts securely to the trunk of a poplar or willow that grew upon the spot. When the squire desired to know the cause of this sudden descent and ligation, ‘You must know, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘that this vessel is here on purpose, without a possibility of any other design, to call and invite me to embark, that I may be conveyed to the succour of some knight, or other necessitous personage of high degree, who must certainly be involved in some dire disaster; for this is the very spirit of books of chivalry, and the practice of those inchanters concerning whom they treat, who, when any knight in distress cannot be delivered by their art, but solely by the prowess of another errant, though perhaps at the distance of two or three thousand leagues or more, they snatch him up in a cloud, or provide him with a vessel, in which he embarks, and in the twinkling of an eye he is transported either through the air, or by sea, to the place where his assistance is required: this bark, therefore, O Sancho, is brought hither for the like purpose, as sure as it is now day; and before the day be spent, take and secure Dapple and Rozinante together, and let us commit ourselves to the direction of God; for even the barefooted Carmelites shall not dissuade me from embarking.’—‘Since that is the case,’ answered Sancho, ‘and your worship is resolved at every turn to plunge into these (I know not whether I should call them mad) vagaries, I have nothing to do but bow and obey; according to the proverb, If you obey the commands of your lord, you may sit as a guest at his board. Nevertheless, in order to disburden my confidence, I must give your worship notice, that in my opinion this same bark has nothing to do with inchanted people, but belongs to some fishermen of this river, in which they catch the best shads in the world.’

This remonstrance was made while he tied the cattle, which he could not leave to the protection of inchanters, without being grieved to the very soul. But the knight exhorted him to banish his anxiety on account of the animals, which would be carefully maintained and protected by the same sage destined to transport their riders through roads and regions of such longitude. ‘I do not understand what you mean by logickhood,’ said the squire; ‘for I never heard such a word before in the whole course of my life.’—‘By longitude I mean, length,’ answered the knight, ‘but I do not at all wonder that thou shouldst not understand the word; for thou art not obliged to be acquainted with the Latin tongue, like some arrogant people who pretend to knowledge of which they are entirely ignorant.’—‘The beasts are now secured,’ said Sancho, ‘what is next to be done?’—‘What!’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but to cross ourselves and weigh anchor; I mean to embark, and cut the rope by which the vessel is made fast.’

So saying, he leaped on board, whither he was followed by Sancho, and the fastening being cut, the boat edged gently off from the bank. The squire seeing himself about two fathoms from the shore, began to tremble, in the apprehension of perishing; but nothing gave him more pain than hearing Dapple raise his voice, and seeing Rozinante struggle for his freedom. ‘Now, Dapple,’ said he to his master, ‘brays for grief at our departure; and Rozinante strives to get loose, that he may throw himself into the water and swim after us!—Farewel, my dearly beloved friends, peace be with you, and may the madness that parts us be converted and undeceived, that we may be restored to your agreeable company.’

Then he began to weep so bitterly, that the knight exclaimed, in a tone of rage and vexation, ‘Of what art thou afraid, cowardly miscreant! wherefore dost thou weep, thou heart of butter! who persecutes, who molests thee, thou soul of a garret-mouse! or what wants dost thou suffer, beggarly wretch, rolling as thou art in the very bowels of abundance! art thou, peradventure, travelling, barefoot over the Riphean mountains! No: seated like an archduke upon a convenient bench, thou art softly conveyed by the gentle current of this delicious river, from which in a little time we shall launch into the wide and extended ocean: but, indeed, we must have already entered the open sea; aye, and sailed at least seven or eight hundred leagues; and, if I had here an astrolabe to take the elevation of the pole, I would tell thee exactly what way we have made; though either I have little skill, or we have already passed, or will pass in a very little time, the equinoctial line, that divides the globe into two equal parts.’—‘And how far shall we have gone when we come to that same line your worship mentions?’ said Sancho. ‘A great way,’ replied the knight; ‘for, of three hundred and sixty degrees, comprehending the whole terraqueous globe, according to the computation of Ptolemy, who was the greatest cosmographer ever known, we shall have traversed one half when we reach the equinoctial line.’—‘’Fore God!’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship has brought a set of rare witnesses to prove the truth of what you say, Copulation and Kiss-me-gaffer, with the addition of Tool-i’me, or some such name[164].’ Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s blunders, upon the computation of the cosmographer Ptolemy; adding, ‘You must know, Sancho, that one of the signs by which those who embark at Cadiz for the East Indies, know they have passed the equinoctial, is the total destruction of vermin among the passengers and seamen: so that not one louse remains alive, or can be had in the whole ship, even though you should give its weight in gold; thou mayest therefore slip thy hand along thy thigh, Sancho, and if thou canst catch any thing alive, our doubt will be resolved; but if there is nothing to be found, we must certainly have passed the line.’—‘I can hardly believe it,’ answered the squire; ‘but, however, I will do as your worship desires; though there is no necessity for trying those experiments; for I can see with my own eyes, that we have not moved five yards from the bank, no, nor have we driven two yards below the cattle; for there stand Rozinante and Dapple, in the very spot where they were left; and taking aim as I do now, I vow to God, we do not move or go at the pace of a pismire.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘perform the investigation I have mentioned, and give thyself no trouble about any other circumstance; for thou dost not know the meaning of colours, lines, parallels, zodiacks, eclipticks, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets, constellations, points, and measures, that compose the spheres celestial and terrestrial. Wert thou acquainted with these, or even a part of them, thou wouldst distinctly perceive what parallels we have crossed, what signs we have seen, and what constellations we have left, and are now leaving behind us. I therefore repeat my request, that thou wouldst examine and go afishing upon thyself; for I am persuaded thou art clean and smooth as a sheet of white paper.’

Sancho, in compliance with his desire, slipped down his hand softly, and felt about his left ham; then raising his head, and looking at his master, ‘Either the experiment is false,’ said he; ‘or we have not reached the place your worship mentioned, by many leagues.’—‘What!’ said the knight, ‘hast thou found something?’—‘Aye, more than one something,’ answered the squire: who snapped his fingers, and afterwards washed them in the river, along the current of which the boat glided softly, without the assistance of any secret power, or concealed inchanter, being conveyed by nothing but the stream, which then ran with a smooth and gentle course.

In this manner they proceeded, when they discovered some large mills, built in the middle of the river, which Don Quixote no sooner perceived, than he addressed himself to Sancho, in an exalted voice: ‘Behold, my friend, yonder appears the city, castle, or fortress, that contains some oppressed knight-errant, queen, infanta, or princess in distress, for whose relief I am brought hither.’—‘What the devil does your worship mean by a city, fortress, or castle!’ cried the squire; ‘don’t you see these are mills, built in the river, for grinding wheat?’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘although they appear to be mills, they are in reality edifices of a very different nature: I have already told thee, that all things are transformed and changed by the power of inchantment; I do not mean that they are really changed in any circumstance but appearance, as we have been taught by woeful experience in the transformation of Dulcinea, the sole refuge of my hope.’

By this time, the boat being sucked into the middle of the stream, so as to move considerably faster than at first, was perceived by the millers, who seeing it advancing to the indraught of the wheels, came suddenly out in a body, with long poles, to stop its motion; and as their faces and cloaths were be-powdered with meal, they made a frightful figure, while they exclaimed, with great vociferation, ‘You devils of men! where are you going: are you mad; to come and drown yourselves, or be ground to pieces by the wheels?’

Don Quixote, hearing this address, ‘Did not I tell thee, Sancho,’ said he, ‘that we had arrived at the scene in which I must exert the prowess of mine arm? Behold, what felons and assassins come forth to try my valour; behold what a number of hobgoblins range themselves against me; behold, I say, what horrid physiognomies appear to scare and overawe us; but you shall presently see what will happen. Ye ruffians!’ Then, starting up, he began to threaten and revile them, exclaiming aloud, ‘Ye scum, ye scoundrels, ill-intentioned and worse-advised! release, I charge you, and restore to the full fruition of freedom, the person whom ye keep confined and oppressed in that fortress or gaol, let him be high or low, or of what rank and quality soever he may be; for I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise intitled the Knight of the Lions, destined by the appointment of Heaven above, to bring this adventure to an happy issue.’

So saying, he unsheathed his sword, and brandished it in the air, in defiance of the millers, who hearing this rhapsody without understanding it, began to employ their poles, in order to turn aside the boat, which by this time had entered the current and canal of the wheels. As for Sancho, he fell upon his knees, and prayed devoutly that Heaven would deliver him from such imminent danger; and his deliverance was accordingly effected by the alertness and dexterity of the millers, who pushed back the boat with their poles; yet not without oversetting the vessel; so as that the knight and his squire were soused over head and ears in the water. It was well for Don Quixote that he could swim like a goose; nevertheless, the weight of his armour sunk him twice to the bottom, and had not the millers thrown themselves into the river, and weighed them up by main strength, it might have been said, ‘Here Troy once stood[165].’

They were no sooner dragged ashore, rather drenched than dead of drought, than the squire, humbling himself upon his knees, again clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes to Heaven, uttered a very fervent petition to God, that he might be from thenceforward delivered from the frantick projects and mad attempts of his master. This ejaculation was scarce finished, when they were joined by the fishermen who were owners of the boat, which was crushed to pieces by the mill-wheels; and they perceiving the wreck, began to strip Sancho, and demand indemnification of his master, who, with great tranquillity, as if nothing at all had happened told the millers and fishermen that he would pay for the bark with the utmost chearfulness, on condition that they would release, without ransom or security, the person or persons whom they detained in durance and oppression within the castle.

‘What does the madman mean by persons and castles?’ answered one of the millers; ‘wouldst thou carry off the customers that bring grist to our mills, forsooth?’—‘Enough,’ said Don Quixote within himself, ‘I might as well preach to the desart, as attempt, by intreaties, to prevail upon such miscreants to do any virtuous action. In this adventure there must certainly be two powerful inchanters engaged on opposite sides, one of whom baffles the designs of the other; by one I was provided with a bark, and his antagonist overturned me in the water. Lord mend us! the world is nothing but a continual warfare of opposite machinations and deceit; for my own part, I can do no more.’ Then raising his voice, and fixing his eyes upon the mills, ‘Friends,’ cried he, ‘whosoever you are who lie confined within that prison, forgive me, that for my misfortune, as well as yours, it is not in my power to extricate you from your distress; for some other knight the adventure must be reserved.’ Having pronounced this apostrophe, he compounded with the fishermen, for whose boat he paid fifty rials, which Sancho disbursed with great reluctance, saying, ‘Two such boatfuls will sink our whole stock to the bottom.’

The fishermen and millers gazed with admiration at those two figures, so different in appearance from other men; and as they could by no means understand the meaning and tendency of Don Quixote’s discourse, and the questions he asked, they looked upon them as madmen, and went away. The millers retreated to their mills; the fishermen betook themselves to their cottage; the knight and squire, like beasts, returned to their beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.

Footnote 164:

As it is altogether impossible, in a translation, literally to preserve the low humour arising from blunders upon words or sounds, I have been obliged to substitute an equivalent jingle, in the room of _puto_, _gafo_ and _meon_, which are Spanish words, signifying, a a _whore_, a _catamite_, and a _piss-a-bed_: so that Sancho, deceived by the affinity of these sounds to _computo_, _cosmographa_, and _Ptolemeo_, thought he had reason to say his master had produced a fair set of evidences.

Footnote 165:

In allusion to the speech that Virgil puts in the mouth of Panthus Othryades, who says to Æneas,

——_fuit Ilium, et ingens_ _Gloria Teucrorum!_

CHAP. XIII. OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND A FAIR HUNTRESS.

In a melancholy plight did the knight and squire reach the place where their cattle stood; indeed, they were both sufficiently out of humour, especially Sancho, who was cut to the soul by the incroachment upon their capital, which to him was as precious as the apple of his eye. At length, they mounted, in the most profound silence, and departed from the banks of that famous river; Don Quixote buried as it were amidst the meditations of his love, and Sancho immersed in those of his preferment, which at that time seemed to be at a weary distance; for maugre all his simplicity and folly, he could easily perceive that all, or the greatest part of his master’s actions, proceeded from frenzy and distraction; he therefore resolved to take an opportunity of retreating abruptly to his own house, without expostulation, or the ceremony of taking leave. But fortune ordained that things should fall out quite contrary to his apprehensions.

Next day, at sun-set, as they came out of a wood, Don Quixote extending his view over a delightful green meadow, perceived some people at the farther end of it; and as he proceeded, saw they were hawkers: approaching still nearer, he observed among them a gay lady, mounted upon a palfrey or beautiful pad as white as the driven snow, adorned with green furniture and a saddle of silver; the lady was likewise dressed in a rich habit of the same colour, as fine as finery itself. On her left-hand she carried a hawk, a circumstance from which the knight concluded she was some lady of high rank, and mistress of all the rest; nor was he mistaken. On this supposition, therefore, he said to his squire, ‘Make haste, son Sancho, go and tell that lady of the palfrey and hawk, that I, the Knight of the Lions, send my respects to her exceeding beauty; and that, with her good leave, I will go and pay my compliments in person, and make her a tender of my service to the utmost of my power, in whatever she shall please to command; but keep a guard upon your tongue, Sancho, and beware of thrusting in some of your proverbs, while you deliver my embassy.’—‘To be sure, you have found me a deadly thruster,’ answered the squire, ‘that you give me such warning! as if this were the first time in my life, that I have carried embassies to ladies of high rank and augmentation.’—‘Except that which you carried to the Lady Dulcinea,’ said the knight, ‘I do not know that ever you carried another; at least while in my service.’—‘That’s true,’ replied Sancho, ‘but a good paymaster never wants bail; and a dinner is easily got, where there is plenty of meat for the pot: what I mean is, that there is no occasion to tell me or advertise me of any thing; for I am never out, and have a sort of a smack of every thing.’—‘I believe it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘go in peace, and God be your guide.’

The squire setting out accordingly, at a good rate, and spurring Dapple beyond his natural pace, came up with the fair huntress; then alighting and kneeling before her, ‘Beautiful lady,’ said he, ‘yonder knight, called the Knight of the Lions, is my master, and I am this squire, known at my own home by the name of Sancho Panza; and that same Knight of the Lions, though formerly of the Rueful Countenance, sends me to beg your grandeur would be pleased to allow him purposely, courteously, and consentingly, to come and gratify his desire, which is no other, as he says, and I believe, than to serve your exalted beauty and hawkingship; and in so doing, your excellency will do a thing that will redound to your own advantage, and from which he will receive the most notorious honour and satisfaction.’

‘Worthy squire,’ replied the lady, ‘assuredly you have delivered your embassy with all the circumstances that such embassies require; pray rise, for it is not reasonable, that the squire of such a great knight-errant as he of the Rueful Countenance, whose character is well known in these parts, should remain in that posture; rise, friend, and go tell your master, that he shall be extremely welcome to command the services of me and the duke my husband, at our country-house in the neighbourhood.’ Sancho arose, equally astonished at the beauty, good-breeding, and affability, of this worthy lady: but he was still more surprized at what she said concerning the well-known character of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; for if she did not give him the appellation of the Lions, it was because he had but lately assumed that epithet. ‘Pray, tell me, brother squire,’ said the duchess, whose title is not known, ‘is not your master the person whose history is printed under the name of the sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de La Mancha, who professes himself the admirer of one Dulcinea del Toboso?’—‘The very same, my lady,’ answered Sancho, ‘and I myself am that very squire of his who is mentioned, or ought to be mentioned, in that history, by the name of Sancho Panza, unless they have changed me in the cradle, I mean, in the press.’—‘I am extremely glad to hear it,’ replied the duchess; ‘go, brother Sancho, and tell your master, that he is well met, and welcome to my estate; and that nothing could give me more pleasure than his arrival.’

Sancho, in an excess of joy, occasioned by this agreeable answer, returned, and recounted to his master all that this lady of rank had said, extolling to the skies, in his rustick phrase, her exceeding beauty, good-humour, and politeness. The knight chose one of his genteelest attitudes, fixed himself well in his stirrups, adjusted his vizor, quickened Rozinante, and with an agreeable air, advanced to pay his respects to the duchess; who, while he approached, ordered her husband to be called, and communicated the curious embassy. As they had read the first part of the history, from which they learned the extravagant humour of Don Quixote, they waited with infinite pleasure, and the most eager desire of being acquainted with the original, fully determined to gratify his humour in every thing, and treat him all the time he should stay with them, as a real knight-errant; that is, with all the ceremonies described in those books of chivalry they had read, and to which, indeed, they were greatly attached. Meanwhile, Don Quixote approaching with his beaver up, made a motion to alight, and Sancho made haste to hold the stirrup; but he was so unfortunate, that in dismounting from Dapple, he slipped his foot through the noose of the stirrup rope, in such a manner, that he could not possibly disentangle himself, but continued hanging with his face and part of his body on the ground. The knight, who never alighted without his assistance, imagining that Sancho, as usual, held the stirrup, threw himself off with a swing, and the saddle, which must have been very ill girted, and he, came to the ground together; not without great disgrace, and a thousand curses which he muttered between his teeth against the unfortunate Sancho, whose leg was still in the stocks.

The duke, seeing their distress, ordered his huntsman to assist the knight and squire; and they lifted up Don Quixote, who was very much bruised by the fall; nevertheless, he advanced as well as he could, with a limping pace, and kneeled before this noble pair: but the duke would by no means allow him to remain in that posture; on the contrary, alighting from his horse, he ran to embrace the knight, saying, ‘I am heartily sorry, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that the first time you touch my ground, you should be so unlucky; but the carelessness of squires is often the cause of greater misfortunes.’—‘This accident, valiant prince,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘cannot possibly be deemed a misfortune, though I had been plunged into the profound abyss; for even from thence should I have been raised and extricated by the glory of seeing your grace. My squire, whom God confound! is more ready at untying his tongue, in order to utter malicious insinuations, than at tying and securing the girth of a saddle; but whether fallen or exalted, afoot or on horseback, I shall always be devoted to your service, and that of my Lady Duchess, your grace’s worthy consort, the dignified queen of beauty, and universal princess of politeness’—‘Softly, my good Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha,’ said the duke, ‘where my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso reigns, no other beauty deserves applause.’

By this time Sancho Panza had disentangled himself and come up, and interposing in the discourse, before his master could make any reply, ‘It cannot be denied,’ said he, ‘but must always be affirmed, that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is extremely beautiful: but the hare starts where she is least expected; for I have heard it said, that the power called Nature is like a potter, who, if he can make one beautiful vessel, can in like manner make two, three, aye, and a hundred; this, I observe, because, in good faith, my Lady Duchess comes not a whit behind my Lady Mistress Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’ Don Quixote turning to the duchess, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that no knight-errant upon earth has such a prattling and free-spoken squire as mine; and he will certainly verify my words, if your highness shall be pleased to make use of my service for a few days.’—‘I have the better opinion of honest Sancho, for his being free-spoken,’ answered the duchess: ‘that is a sign of his discretion; for pleasantry and wit, Signior Don Quixote, as your worship very well knows, do not love to dwell in a reserved disposition; and therefore, since honest Sancho is frank and free-spoken, I from henceforth set him down as a man of discretion.’—‘And loquacity,’ added the knight. ‘So much the better,’ said the duke; ‘for a great deal of wit cannot be expressed in a few words; and that we may not spend more time in them, come, renowned Knight of the Rueful Countenance——’ ‘Of the Lions, your highness must call him,’ cried Sancho; ‘the Rueful Countenance is no more.’—‘Of the Lions let it be then,’ continued the duke; ‘I say, come, Sir Knight of the Lions, to a castle I have in this neighbourhood, where you shall meet with that reception which is due to a person of your fame and character, and that respect which I and the duchess always pay to the knights-errant who favour us with their company.’

By this time Sancho having replaced and secured Rozinante’s saddle, Don Quixote bestrode that famous steed; and the duke mounting a beautiful courser, they rode towards the castle, on each side of the duchess, who desired Sancho to keep close to her; for she took infinite pleasure in hearing his conceits. Indeed, the squire did not need intreaty, but mingling among the three, made a fourth in the conversation, to the unspeakable satisfaction of their graces, who thought themselves extremely fortunate in having an opportunity of entertaining, at their castle, such a knight-errant, and such an erring squire.

CHAP. XIV. WHICH TREATS OF MANIFOLD IMPORTANT SUBJECTS.

Sancho rejoiced exceedingly at seeing himself, as he thought, a favourite with the duchess; for being a staunch well-wisher to good cheer, he imagined he should find the same abundance in the castle, which prevailed in the houses of Don Diego and Basilius, and always took by the forelock every occasion of living at his ease. The history then relates, that before they reached the castle or pleasure-house, the duke riding on before, directed his servants how to behave to Don Quixote; who no sooner arrived at the gate with the duchess, than two lacquies or grooms came forth, clad in long trailing morning-gowns of fine crimson sattin, and lifting him off, said, without being heard or perceived, ‘Your highness must go and help my Lady Duchess to dismount.’ The knight took the hint, and a dispute of compliments passed between them on the subject; but, at length, the obstinacy of the duchess prevailed; for she would not quit her palfrey, or alight, except in the arms of the duke, saying, she was not worthy to load such an excellent knight with such an useless burden; at last, the duke came out to perform the office, and when they entered the court-yard, they were met by two beautiful damsels, who threw a mantle of the finest scarlet over Don Quixote’s shoulders, and the corridores were instantly crouded with servants of both sexes, who exclaimed aloud, ‘Welcome, thou flower and cream of knights-errant!’ while all, or the greatest part of them, emptied bottles of sweet water upon him and their graces, to the admiration of Don Quixote, who now, for the first time, was sure and satisfied of his being a real, and not a fantastick knight-errant, because he saw himself treated as the knights of former ages whose histories he had read.

Sancho quitted Dapple, and betaking himself to the duchess, entered the castle; where, however, his confidence upbraiding him for having left his beast alone, he made up to a reverend duenna, who with others had come out to receive the duchess, and accosting her in a soft voice, ‘Signora Gonçalez,’ said he, ‘or what’s your name, Madam?’—‘My name is Duenna Rodrigues de Grijalva,’ answered the gentlewoman; ‘what are your commands, brother?’—‘I wish you would do me the favour, good Madam,’ replied the squire, ‘to go to the castle-gate, where you will find a dapple ass of mine, and be so good as either to send or lead him to the stable; for the poor creature is a little timorous, and cannot bear to be alone, by any manner of means.’—‘If the master be as wise as the man,’ cried the duenna, ‘we have brought our pigs to a fine market; get you gone, brother, with a vengeance to you, and those who brought you hither, and take care of your ass with your own hands; the duennas of this house are not used to such employment.’—‘But, for all that,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard my master, who is a perfect mine of history, tell us how, when Lancelot came from Britain, ladies tended his own person, and duennas took care of his horse; now, with respect to my ass, I declare I would not exchange him for Signior Lancelot’s courser.’—‘Hark ye, friend,’ replied the duenna, ‘if you are a jack-pudding, keep your jokes for a proper place, where they may turn to account; from me you’ll get nothing but a fig for them.’—‘Very well,’ said the squire, ‘I’ll answer for its ripeness; your worship won’t lose your game by a short reckoning.’—‘You whoreson,’ cried the duenna, in a violent rage, ‘whether I am old or not, I must render an account to God, and not to such a garlick-eating rascal as you.’

This address she pronounced in such an audible voice, that she was overheard by the duchess; who, turning about, and seeing her woman in such wrath and trepidation, asked, with whom she was in such passion. ‘With this honest fellow, here,’ answered the duenna; ‘who has earnestly desired me to go and house an ass of his, that stands at the castle-gate, telling me, forsooth, as an example, that the same employment was undertaken by some ladies, who took care of one Lancelot, while the duennas looked after his horse; and to crown the compliment, he tells me I am old.’—‘I, myself,’ said the duchess, ‘would construe that into the greatest affront that could be given.—Take notice, friend Sancho, that Donna Rodriguez is in the prime of her youth; and that the veil she wears is more for authority and custom, than on account of her years.’—‘Accursed be those I have to live,’ cried the squire, ‘if I spoke to her for that reason; but, only for the great affection I bear to my ass, whom I thought I could not recommend to a more charitable person than Signora Donna Rodriguez.’ Don Quixote overhearing all that passed, ‘Is that proper discourse for this place, Sancho?’ said he. ‘Signior,’ replied the squire, ‘every man must speak of his wants where he finds them; here I thought of Dapple, and here I talked of him; and if he had come into my head in the stable, there too he should have been honourably mentioned.’ Here the duke interposing, ‘Sancho is very much in the right,’ said he, ‘and must not be blamed for what he has said; Dapple shall have no more to do but ask and have as much provender as he can eat; for that Sancho may be quite easy in that respect, for his beast shall be treated like his own person.’

This conversation, which was extremely agreeable to all, except Don Quixote, brought them to the top of the stair-case: and the knight being conducted into an apartment, hung with the richest tissue and brocade, was unarmed, and attended by six sprightly damsels, well instructed by the duke and duchess in the particulars of behaviour which they were to observe towards Don Quixote, in order to convince him that he was treated in all respects like a knight-errant. Thus disarmed, he remained in his strait breeches and shamoy doublet, so long, so lank, so lean, with his lanthorn jaws kissing each other, that if the damsels had not been very careful in preserving their gravity, according to the precise orders they had received, they must certainly have burst with laughing at sight of such an uncouth figure. They desired he would allow them to undress and shift him; but he would not assent to this proposal, saying that knights-errant ought to be as remarkable for decency as for valour: he therefore bade them deliver the shirt to Sancho, with whom shutting himself up in a chamber, furnished with a magnificent bed, he was immediately undressed and shifted. Then being alone with his squire, ‘Tell me,’ said he, ‘thou modern buffoon and ancient blockhead! was it thy province to dishonour and affront a venerable duenna, so worthy of reverence and respect! Was that a time to think of Dapple? or couldst thou imagine those noble persons would neglect the cattle belonging to guests whom they treated with such elegance? For the love of God, Sancho; set a guard upon thy tongue, and behave so as that people may not discover, by the thread, the coarse country web of which thou art woven: consider, sinner as thou art, that the matter is respected in proportion to the discretion and good-breeding of his servants; and this is one of the great advantages which noblemen have over people of inferior rank: dost thou not consider, thou plague to thyself, and vexation to me! that if they perceive thee to be a base-bred clown or blundering fool, they will take me for some cheating impostor or knight of the post! No, no, Sancho, shun and avoid those inconveniences; for he who sets up for a merry-andrew, falls at the first stumble into a disgraced buffoon: bridle thy tongue, therefore, consider and ruminate well, before the words issue from thy mouth; and remember that we are now arrived at a place from whence by the favour of God, and the valour of mine arm, we shall depart, bettered three, nay, five-fold, both in fortune and in fame.’ Sancho promised, with repeated assurances, that he would rather stitch up his mouth, or bite off his tongue, than utter one word that should not be pat to the purpose, and well considered, according to his command; and that he might make himself perfectly easy on that score, for by him it should never be discovered who they were.

Don Quixote having dressed himself, girded on his sword, thrown the scarlet mantle over his shoulders, and covered his head with a cap of green velvet, which he received from the damsels, came forth thus equipped, into the great hall, where he found the maidens placed in two equal rows, furnished with the implements for hands-washing, which they administered with profound respect and abundance of ceremony: then came the major-domo, attended by twelve pages, to conduct him to the table where their graces waited for him; he was accordingly surrounded by these domesticks, and led with great pomp and majesty into another hall, in which appeared a table, nobly decorated, with four covers. The duke and duchess came to the door to receive him, attended by one of those grave ecclesiasticks who govern the families of noblemen; who being of no birth themselves, know not how to direct those who are; who seek to measure the grandeur of the great by the narrowness of their own souls; and, in attempting to make their pupils œconomists, convert them into downright misers: such, I say, was the grave clergyman who came out to receive Don Quixote, with the duke and duchess. After a thousand courteous compliments, they walked on each side of him to the table, where the duke complimented him with the upper end; and though he refused that honour, they importuned him so much, that he was obliged to comply; the clergyman sitting opposite to him, and the duke and duchess taking their places at the sides.

Sancho, who was present at all this ceremony, being confounded and astonished at the honours which were paid to his master, and perceiving the formality and entreaties that passed between his grace and Don Quixote, about sitting at the head of the table, intruded himself, as usual, into the discourse, saying, ‘With your honour’s leave, I’ll tell you a story of what happened in our village, with respect to the upper-hand in sitting.’

Scarce had he pronounced these words, when the knight began to tremble with apprehensions that he was going to utter some absurdity; but the squire seeing and understanding the cause of his matter’s trepidation, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘Your worship needs not be afraid that I shall misbehave, or say, something that is not to the matter in hand; for I have not forgot the advice I just now received from your worship, about speaking a little or a great deal, to the purpose, and not to the purpose.’—‘I know nothing at all of the matter,’ answered the knight; ‘say what thou wilt, so thou sayest it quickly.’—‘Well then,’ replied Sancho, ‘what I am going to say, is true, for my master Don Quixote, here present, would not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘As for me,’ said Don Quixote, ‘you may lye as much as you please, without lett or molestation: but I advise you to consider well what you are about to say.’—‘I have it so well considered and reconsidered, that I am as safe as he that has the repique in hand, as will appear in the performance.’—‘Your graces will do well,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to order the servants to turn out this madman, who will commit a thousand blunders.’—‘By the life of the duke!’ cried the duchess, ‘I will not part with my good friend Sancho, for whom I have a very great respect, because I know him to be a person of wit and pleasantry.’—‘Pleasant may all the days of your holiness be, for your good opinion, of my deserts,’ said the squire; ‘though God knows, they are but slender enough: however, my story is this.

‘There was an invitation given by a gentleman of our town, who was both rich and well born, as being come of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married to Donna Mencia de Quinones, daughter of Don Alonzo de Maranon, Knight of the Order of St. Jago, who was drowned in the Herradura, and occasioned a quarrel some years ago in our village, in which, if I am not mistaken, my master Don Quixote was concerned; but this I know, mad Tom, the son of old Balvastro the blacksmith, was hurt on that occasion.—Now, Sir Master of mine, is not this God’s truth; speak upon your worship’s honour, that these noble persons may not look upon me as a chattering lyar?’—‘Hitherto,’ said the clergyman, ‘I take you to be a chatterer rather than a lyar; but I know not what I shall take you for in the sequel.’—‘Thou hast produced so many witnesses and tokens,’ replied the knight, ‘that I cannot but say thy story looks like truth; proceed, however, and shorten thy tale, for thou art in the way of lengthening it out for the space of two whole days.’—‘He shall not shorten it,’ said the duchess, ‘if he consults my entertainment; but, on the contrary, tell it in his own way, though it should not be finished in six days; for should it hold out so long, they will be some of the pleasantest I ever passed.’

‘Well, then, my masters,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same gentleman, whom I know as well as I know these two hands, for it is not above a bow-shot from his house to mine; invited a farmer, who, though not rich, was a very honest man.’—‘Dispatch, brother,’ cried the priest, interposing, ‘for at this rate, your story will reach to the other world.’—‘It will hardly go half so far, an it please God,’ answered the squire; who thus proceeded: ‘So, as I was saying, the farmer going to the house of the gentleman inviter, who is now dead, God rest his soul! by the same token they say he died like an angel; for my own part, I was not present at his death, having gone a reaping to Tembleque.’—‘As you hope to live, son,’ cried the ecclesiastick, ‘return quickly from Tembleque, and finish your story, without staying to inter the gentleman, unless you have a mind to bury us all?’—‘Well, to come to the point,’ replied Sancho; ‘when the two came to be seated at table. Methinks I see them now more than ever.’ The duke and duchess were infinitely pleased with the disgust which the reverend ecclesiastick expressed at the tedious and circumstantial manner in which the squire related his story, while Don Quixote was almost consumed by shame and indignation. ‘I say, moreover,’ resumed Sancho, ‘that the two, as I have already observed, coming to sit down at the table, the farmer obstinately refused to take the upper-end, according to the desire of the entertainer; while the gentleman on the other hand as obstinately insisted upon his compliance, alledging that he ought to be master in his own house; but the farmer, who piqued himself upon his politeness and good-breeding, still persisted in his refusal, until the gentleman, growing angry, took him by the shoulders, and thrust him into the seat, saying, “Know, Mr. Chaff-thresher, that wheresoever I sit, I shall always be at the head of the table.” Now this is my tale, and I really believe it was brought in pretty pat to the purpose.’

Don Quixote’s brown face was speckled with a thousand different colours at this recital: and their graces restrained their laughter, that he might not be quite abashed at the sarcastick insinuation of his squire. To change the discourse, therefore, and prevent Sancho from uttering any other such dangerous contents, the duchess addressing herself to the knight, asked, when he had heard from the Lady Dulcinea; and if he had lately sent her any presents from the great number of giants and robbers whom he must have vanquished. To this interrogation the knight replied, ‘My misfortunes, Madam, though they had a beginning, will never have an end. Giants I have vanquished; felons and robbers I have sent; but where must they find her, inchanted and transformed as she is, into the most homely country wench that can be imagined!’—‘This I know,’ said Sancho Panza: ‘to me she seemed the most beautiful creature in the whole world; at least, in point of nimbleness and leaping, she would get the better of a professed rope-dancer.—In good faith, my Lady Duchess, she skipped from the ground upon her ass, like a perfect cat.’—‘What! have you seen her inchanted, Sancho?’ said the duke. ‘How! I seen her?’ replied the squire: ‘who the devil but I was the first that fell upon the plot of the inchantment: to be sure she was as much inchanted as my father.’

The ecclesiastick hearing them talk of giants, felons, and inchantments, began to imagine that this must be the Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose history the duke took such delight in reading, that he had often reprehended his grace for being so mad as to read such nonsense; and being now confirmed in his suspicion, he said to the duke, in a very cholerick tone, ‘Signior, your excellency is accountable to Heaven for the actions of that poor man. That Don Quixote, or Don Driveller, or what’s his name, would not, I imagine, be such a fool, if your excellency did not administer fuel and encouragement to his madness and folly.’ Then addressing himself to the knight, ‘And pray, Mr. Wiseacre,’ said he, ‘who has stuffed your brain with the ridiculous conceit of your being a knight-errant, conquering giants, and apprehending robbers? Return, in good hour, (for in good hour I advise you) return to your own house, educate your children, if you have any, take care of your own concerns, and leave off strolling about the country, sucking the wind, and exposing yourself to the laughter of those who do, and those who do not, know your infirmity. Where, in evil hour, did you find that there are, or ever were, knights-errant? Where did you ever see giants in Spain, caitiffs in La Mancha, or inchanted Dulcineas, with all that tribe of absurdities that are recounted as your adventures?’

Don Quixote, who listened attentively to the discourse of this venerable person, no sooner perceived he had left off speaking, than forgetting the respect he owed the duke and duchess, he started up, and with ireful aspect and glowing visage, replied——But the reply deserves a chapter for itself.

CHAP. XV. CONTAINING DON QUIXOTE’S REPLY TO HIS REPROVER; WITH OTHER SERIOUS AND DIVERTING INCIDENTS.

Don Quixote starting up, and trembling from head to foot, like quicksilver, thus accosted the ecclesiastick, with an eager, yet faultering tongue: ‘The place and presence in which I am, and the respect which I always had and still have for the function you profess, withold and tie up the hands of my just resentment; for these reasons, as well as because I know what all the world knows, that gownmen and women make use of no weapons but their tongues, I will, with mine, fairly engage your reverence, of whom I might have expected good advice, rather than infamous reproach; as wholesome and well-meant reproof requires far other circumstances, and ought to be conveyed in gentler terms: at least, a rebuke in publick, delivered with such asperity, has exceeded all the bounds of Christian reprehension, the beginning of which ought to be mild rather than severe; nor is it just to call the delinquent in plain terms, a wiseacre and a fool, without knowing the nature of the fault for which he is reprehensible. But, pray tell me, reverend Signior, for which of the absurdities you have noted in my behaviour, do you condemn and reproach me, bidding me return to my own house, to take care of my family, my wife and children, without knowing whether I have either wife or children? What then! is there nothing required but to enter a house at random, in order to lead the master by the nose; and shall a narrow-minded pedant, on the strength of having taught a few pupils to read Latin, though he has seen no more of the world than what may be contained in twenty or thirty leagues of district, presume abruptly, without permission, to give laws to chivalry, and judge of knights-errant? Is it a vain undertaking then, or is the time misspent, which we employ in travelling about the world, not in quest of its delights, but its adversities, by which good men ascend the throne of immortality? Had I been counted a fool by knights, or people of fashion, birth, or generosity, I should have deemed myself irreparably affronted; but my being regarded as a madman by book-worms who never entered or trod the paths of chivalry, I value not a farthing; a knight I am, and a knight I shall die according to the pleasure of the Almighty. Some chuse the spacious field of proud ambition; others take that of base and servile adulation; a third set follow the paths of deceitful hypocrisy; and a fourth proceed in that of true religion; but I, by the influence of my stars, pursue the narrow track of knight-errantry, for the exercise of which, I undervalue fortune in the chace of honour. I have assisted the aggrieved, redressed wrongs, chastised the insolent, overcome giants, and overthrown hobgoblins. I am enamoured, for no other reason but because it is necessary that knights-errant should be in love; and this being the case, I am not a vicious libertine, but a chaste platonick admirer. My intention I always direct to a worthy aim, namely, to do good unto all men, and harm to no creature.—Whether or not he who thinks, acts, and speaks in this manner, deserves to be called a fool, let your graces determine?’

‘Well argued, master!’ cried Sancho: ’‘Fore God! your worship needs say no more in behalf of your own character; for there is no more to be said, thought, or insisted upon; especially as that gentleman denies, and he certainly has denied, that there either are, or ever were, knights-errant in this world; so that he knows nothing at all of the matter!’—‘Brother,’ replied the priest, ‘belike you are that Sancho Panza, to whom they say your master has promised an island?’—‘Yes, I am,’ said the squire, ‘and I hope I deserve it as well as another. I am one of whom you may say, Keep good company, and you’ll learn good manners; and, I ask not where you was hatched, but where you was watched. And again, Well sheltered shall he be, who leans against a sturdy tree. Now I have leaned against a good master, and accompanied him many months, and will learn to be just such another as himself; and if God pleases, and he live and I live, he will not want governments to give, nor I islands to govern.’—‘No, surely, friend Sancho,’ said the duke, ‘for I myself, in the name of Signior Don Quixote, will confer upon you the government of an odd island, and that not inconsiderable, which is in my possession.’—‘Fall upon your knees, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘and kiss his excellency’s feet, for the honour he has done you.’ Sancho did as he was desired: and the ecclesiastick no sooner saw the ceremony performed, than he rose from table in a violent passion, saying, ‘By the habit which I wear, I affirm, that your excellency is as mad as these poor sinners: what wonder that they should be frantick, when people who are in their senses canonize their phrenzy! Your excellency may enjoy their company by yourself; for while they remain in this house, I shall stay in my own, and excuse myself from reproving what I cannot remedy.’ Without farther speech, or eating another mouthful, he went away abruptly, in spite of all their graces could say to detain him. Indeed the duke said not much; for he was hindered by the laughter which the priest’s impertinent indignation had produced; however, as soon as he could resume his gravity, he addressed himself to Don Quixote in these words.

‘Sir Knight of the Lions, your worship has made such an ample reply, that nothing farther remains to be done, by way of satisfaction for that, which though it may seem an affront, falls by no means under that denomination; for neither the female sex nor the clergy, can give affronts, as your worship so very well knows.’—‘Undoubtedly,’ answered the knight; ‘and the reason is, because those persons who cannot receive, are not capable of giving an affront. Women, children, and ecclesiasticks, as they cannot defend themselves when attacked, so neither can they be affronted: for there is this difference between an injury and affront, as your excellency well knows; an affront comes from a person who is capable of giving an affront, and when it is given, maintains it; whereas, an injury may come from any quarter, unattended by an affront. For example, a man walking carelessly in the street, is assaulted and cudgelled by ten armed persons, against whom he draws his sword, and behaves like a man of honour; but he is overpowered by the number of his antagonists, and prevented from executing his intention, which is to revenge the wrong; this man is injured, not affronted. A truth which we will confirm by another example: A man comes and strikes another, whose back is turned, and then betakes himself to his heels; and the other pursues, though he cannot overtake the fugitive. The man so struck received an injury, but no affront, because an affront ought to be maintained. If he who gave the blow, though it was done by stealth, in a cowardly manner, had drawn his sword, and stood facing the enemy, he who received the blow would have been both injured and affronted: injured, because he was surprized; and affronted, because he who gave the blow maintained it by keeping his ground. And therefore, according to the punctilios of honour, I may be injured but not affronted; for women and children do not feel those things; they can neither fly nor stand their ground: and the same rule holds good with those who are consecrated to the service of religion. Now these three classes of mankind are destitute of offensive and defensive weapons; and though nature obliges them to stand in their own defence, yet they can offend nobody: and albeit I just now said I might be injured, I now affirm it cannot be in any shape; for he who cannot receive, much less can he give an affront. For which reasons I ought not to resent, nor do I resent, the reproaches of that honest man; I only wish he had staid a little, until I should have convinced him of his error, in thinking and saying, there never were, nor are, knights-errant upon the face of the earth; an asseveration which might have turned to his prejudice, had it been overheard by Amadis, or any one of his infinite progeny.’—‘I’ll take my corporal oath,’ cried Sancho, ‘that they would have given a back-stroke that would have laid him open from top to toe, like a pomegranate or ripe melon: they were a rare set to endure such tickling. By my holy-dame! I am well assured, that if Reynaldos of Montalvan had heard this manikin’s discourse, he would have given him such a slap in the mouth, that he should not have spoke another word in three long years. No, no! let him meddle with them, and he’ll see how well he’ll escape out of their clutches.’ The duchess had well-nigh died with laughing at this speech of Sancho; who, in her sentiment, was a more diverting madman than his master, and a great many people at that time were of the same way of thinking.

Finally, Don Quixote was appeased, dinner ended, and the cloth being taken away, in came four damsels, one of them with a silver ewer, another with a flask of the same metal, a third with a couple of very fine white towels over her arm, and a fourth with her arms bare up to the elbow, and in her white hands, for doubtless they were white, a wash ball of Neapolitan soap. She who carried the ewer, approaching with a genteel carriage, and modest assurance, thrust it under the beard of Don Quixote, who, without speaking one word, wondered at this ceremony; from which he concluded, that it was the custom of the country to wash beards, instead of hands: he therefore stretched out his chin as far as he could, and immediately the flask began to rain; the damsel with the soap-ball lathered him with great expedition, raising flakes of snow, (for the suds were as white) not only upon the beard, but also over the whole face of the obedient knight, insomuch that he was obliged to shut his eyes in their defence; while the duke and duchess, who were not in the secret, sat impatiently waiting to see the issue of this ablution. The young she-barber having raised the lather as high as her hand, pretended the water was spent, and bade the damsel of the flask go for a fresh supply, and Signior Don Quixote would have patience till her return. He accordingly waited with patience, exhibiting the strangest and most ludicrous figure that ever was conceived, to the view of numerous spectators, who seeing half a yard of neck more than moderately brown, two eyes shut, and his beard covered with lather, had need of great discretion to restrain their laughter, and it was a wonder they could smother it at any rate. As for the damsels concerned in the joke, they kept their eyes fixed on the ground, without daring to look at the duke and duchess, who were at once agitated by mirth and indignation; and did not know, whether they should resolve upon chastising their presumption, or rewarding them for the pleasure they received in seeing the knight in such an attitude. At length the damsel returning with more water, they finished the ablution of Don Quixote; then she who carried the towels having wiped and dried him with great composure, all four at once made a most profound curtsey, and were going away. But the duke, fearing the knight would smell the joke, called to the damsel of the ewer, saying—‘Come hither, and wash me too, and be sure you have water enough.’ The girl being very handy and acute, obeyed without hesitation, placed the ewer under his grace’s chin, and when he was well washed, lathered, wiped, and dried, they dropped their curtsies and retired. It was afterwards known, the duke had sworn within himself, that if they should have refused to serve him in that manner, he would have chastised them for their assurance; but they prudently escaped a scouring, by scouring his grace.

Sancho having attentively considered this ceremony of cleansing—‘God’s mercy!’ said he within himself, ‘is it the custom in this country to wash the squire’s beard as well as the knight’s? For God and my own conscience knows, I have need of such purification; and if they would give me the touch of a razor, the benefit would still be the greater.’—‘What is that you mutter, Sancho?’ said the duchess. ‘I say, my lady,’ answered the squire, ‘I have always heard it said, that in the courts of other princes, when the cloth is taken away, water for the hands is brought in, but not suds for the beard; so that the longer we live, the more we learn: yet it is also observed, that he who lives much time will bear much misfortune; though to undergo such a purification as this may pass for a pleasure rather than a toil.’—‘Give yourself no concern, friend Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘for I will order my maids not only to wash, but also to lay you a-bucking, should it be necessary.’—‘I shall be satisfied with the lathering of my beard,’ replied the squire; ‘at least for the present, and God will ordain what is to happen in the sequel.’ The duchess turning to the major-domo—‘Remember,’ said she, ‘what honest Sancho desires, and gratify his inclination with the utmost punctuality.’ This domestick promised that Signior Sancho should be obeyed in all things; and returning to dinner with the squire, left their graces and Don Quixote sitting at the table, discoursing on many and various subjects, though all of them related to chivalry and the exercise of arms.

The duchess entreated the knight, who seemed to possess such a tenacious memory, to delineate and describe the beauty and deportment of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, she concluded, from what fame had proclaimed of her charms, must be the fairest creature, not only in the whole world, but even in La Mancha. Don Quixote sighing, at her grace’s request—‘If,’ said he, ‘I could take out my heart, and lay it before your highness in a plate, upon this table, I should save my tongue the trouble of saying what is almost inconceivable, for in it your excellency would see her picture at full length: but why should I now attempt to delineate and describe circumstantially the particular charms of the peerless Dulcinea? A burden worthy of other shoulders than mine, and a task which ought to employ the pencils of Parrhasius, Timanthes, and Apelles, together with the chissel of Lysippus, to exhibit her image on canvas, brass, and marble, as well as the Ciceronian and Demosthenian eloquence to sound her praise.’—‘What does Signior Don Quixote mean by Demosthenian,’ said the duchess, ‘which is a word I never heard before in the whole course of my life.’—‘Demosthenian eloquence,’ answered the knight, ‘has the same signification as the eloquence of Demosthenes, and Ciceronian means that of Cicero; for these two were the greatest orators in the whole world.’—‘Certainly,’ said the duke, ‘and you exposed yourself by such an interrogation: nevertheless, Signior Don Quixote would give us infinite pleasure, could he be prevailed upon to describe that beauty which, even in a sketch or rough draught, would certainly appear such as might excite envy in the most beautiful women of the creation.’—‘I would assuredly comply with your grace’s desire,’ replied the knight, ‘were not her idea blotted from my remembrance, by the misfortune which hath lately befallen her; a misfortune which induces me to bewail rather than describe her; for your highness must observe, that when I went some time ago to kiss her hands and receive her benediction, consent, and licence, for this my third sally, I found her quite otherwise than I expected; I found her enchanted and transformed from a princess into a country wench, from beauty into deformity, from an angel into a dæmon, from a delicious perfume into a pestilential vapour, from the pink of compliment into the most clownish dialect, from light into darkness, from a sedate young lady into a rustick romp, and finally, from Dulcinea del Toboso into a Sayago[166] drab.’—‘God protect us!’ cried the duke with a loud voice, ‘who can have done such mischief to the world, in robbing it of that beauty by which it was delighted, that good humour by which it was entertained, and that modesty which did it honour?’—‘Who?’ answered the knight; ‘who could it be, but one of the malignant and envious tribe of enchanters, by whom I am persecuted? That accursed race, brought into the world on purpose to obscure and annihilate the exploits of the good, and to illustrate and extol the deeds of the wicked. Persecuted I have been by enchanters, persecuted I am by enchanters, and enchanters will persecute me, until I and all my lofty feats of chivalry are plunged into the abyss of oblivion: nay, they injure and wound me in that part where they know my feeling is most acute; for to deprive a knight-errant of his mistress, is to rob him of the eyes with which he sees, the sun by which he is enlightened, and the support by which he is maintained. I have many times said, and now I repeat the observation, that a knight-errant without a mistress, is like a tree without leaves, a building without cement, and a shadow without the substance by which it is produced.’

‘There is no more to be said,’ replied the duchess; ‘nevertheless, if we are to believe the history of Signior Don Quixote, which has lately been ushered into the world, with the general applause of the different nations that compose it, we must conclude (if I right remember) that your worship never saw the Lady Dulcinea, and that there is no such person in being; but that it is only a fantastical mistress, begot and born in your imagination, which hath decked her with all the graces and perfection that fancy could conceive.’—‘Much may be said on that subject,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘God knows whether or not there is such a person as Dulcinea in the world, whether she is fantastical or not fantastical; for these things are not to be too nicely investigated: for my own part, I neither begat nor bore my mistress, although I contemplate her with that admiration which is due to a lady, in whom are concentered those qualities that ought to render her renowned throughout the whole world, such as beauty without blemish, gravity without pride, tenderness with chastity, affability from courtesy, courtesy from good-breeding; and, finally, dignity from birth, because nobleness of blood reflects an additional splendor upon beauty, and shews it to greater perfection than that which we find, among the fairest of those who are meanly born.’—‘Your observation is extremely just,’ said the duke: ‘but Signior Don Quixote must give me leave to mention what the history of his adventures, which I have read, obliges me to declare; namely, that though we grant there may be a Dulcinea, either in or out of Toboso, and that she may be beautiful to excess, as your worship has described her, yet, in respect to pedigree, she is by no means on a footing with the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, Madasimas, together with the rest of that class, which occurs so often in those histories that are so familiar to your worship.’

‘To that observation I can answer,’ said the knight, ‘that Dulcinea is the daughter of her own works; that good qualities ennoble the blood, and that a virtuous person of low descent ought to be more esteemed than a vicious man of high degree; especially as Dulcinea possesses qualifications which may raise her to the throne of a crowned and sceptered queen; for the merit of a virtuous and beautiful woman is sufficient to work still greater miracles, and virtually, though not formally, contains within itself still greater advantages.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said the duchess, ‘every thing you say is spoken with deliberation, and, according to the proverb, you proceed with the plummet in your hand: henceforth I shall firmly believe, and make my whole family, even the duke himself, should there be occasion, believe, that Dulcinea is living at this day in Toboso; that she is beautiful, high born, and in all respects worthy to be served and admired by such a knight as Signior Don Quixote; and that is the highest compliment that can be bestowed. But I cannot help forming a scruple, and entertaining a kind of grudge against Sancho Panza: the scruple arises from a particular of the history, importing, that the said Sancho found the Lady Dulcinea winnowing a sack of wheat, when he carried a letter to her from your worship, by the same token it is said to have been red wheat; a circumstance that makes me doubt the nobleness of her pedigree.’

To this remark Don Quixote replied—‘Madam, your highness must know that all or the greatest part of the incidents that happen to me, deviate from the ordinary limits of those adventures which occur to other knights-errant, either conduced by the inscrutable will of destiny, or effected by the malice of some envious enchanter; and it is a circumstance well known of all or the greatest part of renowned knights-errant, that one possessed the virtue of being proof against enchantment, another of being invulnerable, which was the case of the famous Orlando, one of the Twelve Peers of France, who, as it is recorded, could not be wounded in any other place but the sole of his left foot, and even there, with no other weapon than the point of a large pin; so that Bernardo del Carpio, who slew him at the battle of Roncesvalles, perceiving that he could make no impression upon him with steel, lifted him off the ground, and strangled him between his arms, in imitation of the manner in which Hercules destroyed Anteus, that ferocious giant said to be the son of Earth. What I would infer from what I have said, is, that I too may have some of these virtues centered in my person, though not that of being invulnerable, for I have been frequently convinced by experience, that my flesh is very tender, and by no means impenetrable; nor that of being proof against enchantment, for I once found myself cooped up in a cage, in which the whole world would not have had strength enough to inclose me, without the additional power of enchantment; but since I freed myself from that confinement, I am apt to believe that no other will ever interrupt the course of my adventures; and, therefore, those enchanters, seeing that their wicked arts will not take effect upon my own person, revenge themselves on those things to which my affection is chiefly attached, and endeavour to deprive me of life, by persecuting that of Dulcinea, for whom alone I live. I therefore am persuaded, that when my squire delivered my message, they had converted her into a coarse country wench, employed in such a mean exercise as that of winnowing wheat: but I have already said, that it could not be red wheat, nor indeed any sort of wheat, but oriental pearls; and as a proof of this asseveration, I must tell your highnesses, that when I lately went to Toboso, I could by no means find Dulcinea’s palace; and the day following, while my squire Sancho beheld her in her own figure, which is the fairest in the whole world, to me she seemed a rustick and homely country wench, without any thing sensible in her conversation; whereas she is in fact the very pink of discretion and good sense. Now, since I myself neither am, nor, in all probability, can be enchanted, she is the person enchanted, offended, changed, perverted, and transformed, and in her my enemies have taken vengeance upon me; so that, for her, I shall live in perpetual affliction, until I see her restored to her former state; all this I have observed, that nobody may scruple about what Sancho said of her sifting and winnowing; for, since they have transformed her in my view, no wonder they should change her form in his. Dulcinea is a person of birth and fashion, one of the genteel families of Toboso, which are very numerous, ancient and noble; and certainly no small part of these qualifications falls to the share of the peerless Dulcinea, on whose account the place of her nativity will become famous and renowned in future ages, as Troy is become famous by Helen, and Spain by Cava, though with a better title and nobler fame. On the other hand, I must inform your graces, that Sancho Panza is one of the most pleasant squires that ever served a knight-errant: sometimes his simplicity is so arch, that to consider whether he is more fool or wag, yields abundance of pleasure; he hath roguery enough to pass for a knave, and absurdities sufficient to confirm him a fool; he doubts every thing, and believes every thing; and often, when I think, he is going to discharge nonsense, he will utter apophthegms that will raise him to the skies; in a word, I would not exchange him for any other squire, even with a city to boot; and therefore I am in doubt whether or not it will be expedient to send him to that government which your grace has been so good as to bestow upon him; although I can perceive in him a certain aptitude for such an office; so that, when his understanding is a very little polished, he will agree with any government, like the king with his customs; for we know by repeated experience, that great talents and learning are not necessary in a governor, as there are a hundred at least, who govern like _jerfaulcons_, though they can hardly read their mother tongue; provided their intention is righteous, and their desire to do justice, they will never want counsellors to direct them in every transaction, like your military governors, who being illiterate themselves, never decide without the advice of an assessor. I shall advise him corruption to eschew, but never quit his due: and inculcate some other small matters that are in my head, which, in process of time, may redound to his own interest, as well as to the advantage of the island under his command.’

Thus far the conversation had proceeded between their graces and Don Quixote, when they heard a number of people talking, and a great noise in the palace, and presently Sancho entered the hall in a fright, tucked with a dish-clout by way of bib, and followed by several boys, or rather scullions and other small gentry, one of whom brought a tray full of water, which, by its colour and filth, appeared to be dish-washings, pursuing and persecuting the poor squire, and struggling to thrust it under his chin; while another, with the same earnestness, endeavoured to lather his beard. ‘What is the matter, fellows?’ cried the duchess, ‘what is the matter? What designs have you upon that worthy gentleman? Hah! don’t you consider he is governor elect?’ To this apostrophe, the barber scullion replied—‘The gentleman won’t suffer himself to be washed according to the custom and manner practised upon my Lord Duke and his own master.’—‘Yes, I will,’ cried Sancho in a violent passion, ‘but it must be with whiter towels, clearer suds, and cleaner hands; for surely there is not such a difference between me and my master, as that he should be washed with angel water, and I drenched with devil’s lye. The customs of different countries, and the fashions of princely courts, are no farther good than as they are agreeable; but this here custom of lathering is worse than the exercise of disciplinants[167]. My beard is clean enough, and needs no such scrubbing; and if any man pretends to lather me, or touch a hair of my head, (my beard I mean) saving this honourable presence, I’ll drive my fist in his scull; for these ceremonies of soap scouring look rather like making game than making welcome.’ The duchess was ready to burst with laughing at the rage and remonstrance of Sancho: but Don Quixote was not extremely well pleased, to see his squire tucked up with such a dirty cloth, and surrounded with so many sons of the kitchen; he therefore, making a low bow to the duke and duchess, by way of asking their permission to speak, thus addressed himself to the scullions, in a solemn tone—‘So ho, you gentlemen cavaliers! I desire your worships will let the young man alone, and return to the place from whence you came, or go whithersoever you please; my squire is as cleanly as another, and those trays are as unfit for him as a narrow-necked bottle: take my advice, therefore, and let him alone; for neither he nor I understand such impertinent jokes.’ Here Sancho, taking the word out of his master’s mouth, proceeded, saying—‘No, no, let them perform their clumsy joke, which I shall bear as sure as it is now night! let them fetch a comb, or what they will, to curry this beard, and if they catch any thing that should give offence to cleanliness, they shall shear me against the hair.’

At this period, the duchess still laughing—‘Sancho Panza,’ said she, ‘is certainly in the right in all that he has said, and will be in the right in all that he shall say; he is already clean enough, and as he observes, has no occasion to be washed; and if he does not like the custom of the place, he shall follow his own inclination[168]; besides, you ministers of cleanliness have been extremely remiss and negligent, not to say presumptuous, in bringing to such a personage and such a beard, trays, wooden troughs, and dishclouts, instead of ewers and golden basons, and towels of the finest holland: but the case is, you are base-born miscreants, and like caitiffs as you are, cannot forbear shewing the grudge you bear to the squires of knights errant.’ The whole scullion ministry, as well as the major-domo, who came in with them, believed her grace was actually in earnest, and sneaked away in great shame and confusion, after having untied the dishclout from the neck of Sancho, who seeing himself delivered from that imminent danger, went and fell upon his knees before the duchess, saying—‘From great ladies great benefits are expected; and this that I have now received from your grace, I can in no other shape repay, than in wishing I were dubbed a knight-errant, that I might spend all the days of my life in the service of such a noble and exalted lady; a peasant I am, and Sancho Panza by name, with a wife and family, and serve in quality of a squire; and if in any of these respects I can serve your highness, I shall be more speedy in obeying than your grace in laying your commands.’—‘Sancho,’ replied the duchess, ‘it plainly appears that you have learned politeness in the school of courtesy itself; I say, it plainly appears, that you have been bred up at the feet of Don Quixote, who is the cream of compliment, and flower of ceremony, or, as you term it, Sarah-money: long life and prosperity to such a master and such a pupil; one the north-pole of knight-errantry, and the other the very star of squirish fidelity. Rise, friend Sancho, and I will remunerate your politeness, by prevailing upon my Lord Duke to perform his promise of the government with all possible dispatch.’

Here the conversation being broke off, the knight retired to take his afternoon’s nap[169], and the duchess desired Sancho, if he was not very much disposed to sleep, to go and pass the evening with her and her women, in a very cool and pleasant apartment. Sancho told her, that although it was really his custom to sleep for four or five hours every afternoon in the heat of summer, yet, for the satisfaction of her grace’s goodness, he would that day strive, with all his might, to keep himself awake, and obey her commands in all things: he accordingly attended her steps; while the duke gave fresh directions for treating Don Quixote as a real knight-errant, without deviating one tittle from the stile in which the ancient knights are said to have been entertained.

END OF BOOK II. PART II.

Footnote 166:

Sayago is a district in the kingdom of Leon, the inhabitants of which were extremely poor, and very meanly cloathed.

Footnote 167:

In Spain and Italy there is, upon every Holy Thursday, a procession of disciplinants, or people who do penance in sackcloth, carrying a flambeau in one hand, and in the other a scourge, with which they belabour their own shoulders, in such a manner, that the very street is sometimes coloured with their blood: some of these disciplinants, however, are mere hypocrites, who under their sackcloth wear women’s stay’s, buff jackets, and even plates of tin; so that they are often detected from the sound of the stroke: and at Rome nothing is more common than to hear the people who accompany these devotees, call out, according to the report of the application, ‘_Guipponi di Buffalo!—Busti di Donna!_ and _Corrazini di Latta!_’

Footnote 168:

‘_Su alma en su palma._’ The original expression literally signifies, ‘His soul is in his hand,’ i. e. ‘He is at his own discretion.’

Footnote 169:

In Spain the people always retire after dinner, and sleep till six o’clock, whence the afternoon’s nap is called _siesta_.